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Part 7
Content:
Injury and Recovery, Care, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Washing, Self-Blame/Self-Hatred, Codependency
Hell, Nikto thinks, is not punishment for sin. Not a lake of fire or eternal torture for earthly misconduct.
No.
Hell, he’s just discovered, is the absence of god. It’s the black, empty space where the divine used to shine.
It’s your blood soaking his gloves. The scent of your fear creeping past his mask. The single diamond tear that slipped down your scraped cheek when you told him you’d be okay. Your labored breathing and cracked voice. The scream that echoed, echoed, echoed through the stairwell and into his useless skull, rattling against bone walls and too-fresh memories.
Hell has become a hospital room with blank walls and shiny tile. How does that story go — that the deepest layer of hell is frigid? This hospital may not be dusted in frost, but it’s cold enough. You look small and chilly on the thin cot, entangled in wires.
Alive, despite everything.
You don’t feel alive to Nikto.
You’re too still, too washed out. Even when you nap with him, you tend to twitch, eyes flickering beneath your lids. Flushed with warmth in sleep and peaceful-looking. But you don’t move now; barely look better than you did fresh off the helo, unconscious and still bleeding, bleeding, bleeding—
It’s Nikto’s blood in your veins now. His unworthy, corrupted blood turned holy in the chambers of your heart. It wasn’t possession that made him offer his own arm for the transfusion, but rather atonement. The bare minimum he could repent for his utter failure. To offer up even a fraction of his own life in exchange for yours.
He’s been holding vigil by your side ever since, even if he doubts his place there. Waiting for your awakening to decide. Waiting for your judgment. Like a sinner at confessional, though he knows no Hail Mary will cleanse him.
He’s not even sure if you can this time. Not when it’s you he’s wronged.
The change in your breathing is what alerts him.
His eyes have hardly left you since they let him in. Even when his weak body surrendered to sleep, he would face you, so that you would always be the first thing he laid eyes on. Now, though, he searches your face with earnest, searching for any signs of consciousness.
The squeeze of your eyelids. A light furrow in your brow. Your mouth twists as you groan a bit, head drifting before you get control of your neck muscles.
Your eyes blink open slowly, flinchingly. He gives half a mind to breaking one of the overhead bulbs to ease the glare. But he would never risk the shattered glass over your head, or startling you with the noise. So he shifts and waits desperately for you to adjust.
Then you take a deep breath and focus on the ceiling. Seem to take stock for a moment, confusion smoothing into recognition, remembrance.
You tilt your head and meet his eyes.
“Nikto,” you breathe. The long, long hours of unconsciousness have taken a toll though, and even that causes you to cough. You wince a bit at the pain in your side while he reaches for the little plastic cup of water a nurse left. His name alone has brought you pain. It aches through his bones like condemnation.
You make a breathy noise, struggling to sit up. So he eases closer, supports your back to help you sip little doses from the full cup. It’s room temperature, but he knows from experience it’s better that way.
You don’t fuss when he regretfully has to pull it away, mindful of the instructions the nurses left him with. Lays you back as gently as he knows how as you sigh in relief.
He doesn’t feel worthy of touching you and tries to pull away. But you twitch, catch his wrist with the arm attached to an IV. He freezes.
“Nikto.”
There’s voice to the word this time, not just a dry puff of air. It takes Herculean effort to drag his eyes up to yours.
You look tired.
Tired, but all too aware, all too knowing. Sniper he may be, he knows better than to try to wait you out.
“I’m sorry.”
A thousand unspoken apologies crowd on his tongue. All the remorse he never felt compounded onto this one monumental failure.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Your brow furrows but you don’t interrupt. Don’t try to stop him. Just tug him in to huddle against your uninjured side. Let him prostrate himself over your bed, forehead pressed to your hip.
“I’m sorry,” he babbles, “I should have been better. I should have protected you. I almost— I almost…”
The words jam in his throat and then evaporate. No combination of syllables or sounds will be adequate.
Your nails draw gentle circles on his shoulder, then draw in towards his neck. Slip your hand under the collar of his shirt and jacket, just beneath the various trappings that hide his identity. You find skin. The vulnerable, damp nape of his neck. You lay your hand there, cool and dry.
“I forgive you, Nikto.”
“Y-you—”
“I do,” you affirm, giving him a little squeeze. “And it’s my choice to do so.”
He can barely pull himself away, but he has to see your face. Has to know what unconditional forgiveness looks like.
You’re half-lidded, soft. Eyes warm, blinking slow. You’re relaxed, understanding in every curve of your features. For all the world you could be divinity in repose instead of frightfully human, injured and frail.
“Punishing yourself from now on wouldn’t be noble,” you continue, tilting your head knowingly, “it would be martyrdom. And you are not my martyr, Nikto.”
He has not cried in… well. Long before his mind was torn apart and stitched back together wrong. Doubts he even knows how to, now. But his eyes burn as he presses his face into your hip again and shudders hard.
How foolish. To think he had any grasp of what forgiveness is. To think he understood what atonement was. When the only one who could set the bounds for damnation is you.
“I almost left you.”
“‘Almost’ and ‘would have’ are poison. You can’t convict on an almost. An almost is a warning, nothing to hang yourself for.”
You squeeze his neck again, unfailingly gentle. Unfalteringly steady.
“You stayed. I’m alive. Let’s focus on recovery now.”
He nods, hands clenched tight in the once-smooth fabric of the hospital sheets. It comes away wrinkled, but still clean.
—
You’re released from hospital two days later.
The wound, while dangerous in the moment, was a relatively easy fix once you had medical care. A clean shot, only just chipping off a bit of rib and grazing your large intestine. Everything is sewn and medicated and healing now. You’re uncomfortable, but KorTac isn’t as stingy with pain management as a normal military outfit — especially not with Nikto looming over your shoulder.
And you, his precious angel, are an absolute trooper.
You let the medical staff poke and prod and peal your bandages without fuss. Sit up with little more than a grimace and a hiss. In good spirits, all around.
Nikto carves your care instructions into the walls of his mind, a New Testament — temporary though it may be. The nurses send you in a wheelchair down to the ground floor, but after that, you’re allowed to walk.
Nikto doesn’t like it. He’d carry you to the edge of the Earth if necessary. But you just wave away his concern and grab onto his hovering arm for stability as you stand. A bit unsteady, terribly uncomfortable, but determined.
He gets you back to the barracks, you cursing with every movement that’s not a smooth step on even ground. Nikto lets you lean most of your weight into him and tries to keep his aching heart steady.
You sigh when you reach the barracks. Let him lay you down and get you comfortable before giving you another dose of pain meds. He busies himself collecting things and rearranging the room.
Making sure there’s not so much as a sock between you and the restroom. Getting your computer, phone, and respective chargers within easy reach. Filling a cup with water and arranging your soft blankets over your legs.
He’s just finished with that when there’s a knock at the door. Konig, delivering a meal. Not just any meal — takeout from your favorite little restaurant in town. Complete with sweets.
You call a thank you to the Austrian, who expresses his best wishes, and then Nikto shuts out the rest of the world again to let you rest. You don’t seem to mind, beckoning him back to your side.
Sharing the food, the blankets and pillows. Get him to set up your laptop with a movie — the meds kick in halfway through, leave you drooling a bit against his sleeve.
Nikto does not care. You may have forgiven him, and therefore it is not his place to repent for this anymore. But caring for you has never been atonement. It is his reward for putting his loyalty where it belongs.
—
The next day is worse. Your mood has dipped a bit, the soreness catching up. Not that you snap at Nikto or anything of the sort. But he knows you, and can tell from the tension in your body and wincing expressions when you think he isn’t looking.
You brighten a bit when he finally remembers to take his mask off. He even lets you babble when the meds make you fuzzy and overly-complimentary. Nearly falls asleep to you absently mapping the ugly scars that score deep into his hairline.
At some point though, the misery seems to catch up to you.
“It wouldn’t be so bad if I could just… wash up, I guess,” you grumble, looking ready to throw something.
The nurses did what they could, of course, but their focus had been on fixing you and then keeping your wounds clean. Enough hygiene to avoid infection. But you’re still grimy in uncomfortable places and you hate being in bed feeling “icky.”
Nikto instantly sets to work correcting that. He digs out one of his clean shirts, your favorite sweatpants, a soft pair of underwear. You watch him curiously as he takes it all into the restroom. The shower is standing room only, unfortunately — and besides, you can’t get your stitches wet for a while still. But he can at least help you freshen up.
“Come here.”
You take his arm, let him sit you up and then guide you to the restroom. When you see the cloth on the edge of the sink you get a bit misty-eyed. He lets you sniffle for a moment, patient while you wipe your eyes and mumble a “thank you.”
Then he helps you strip to your underwear and sits you on the towel he’s placed on the toilet lid. He kneels and starts from the top, a little dollop of soap on the facecloth and hot water.
You offer up an arm, careful not to overextend, palm up and fingers lax. Nikto works from your shoulder down to your fingertips. Smoothing over bruised muscle, stale sweat, scrubbing away dirt and crusted blood at the nail beds. Rinses the cloth, wipes away the excess soap, and repeats the process on the other arm.
The bathroom is silent save for the falling water and your shared breaths. You tilt your head to let him caress over your neck, down to your chest. He pauses, unsure of his welcome here, but you mumble that it’s fine either way. His touch is perfunctory but careful over your breasts, though he marvels privately at the plushness, the warmth. Politely ignores the way your nipples harden as the water cools in the air. Even if he’s so… so tempted to provide care in other ways.
You don’t so much as twitch; he can feel your gaze upon him from above. Yet he cannot force his eyes away from his work. Each gentle sweep of the cloth feels like restoring a temple, like holy work. Like paying his dues more directly than any church’s offering plate. You are such delicate work, his attention cannot afford to waver.
At your ribs, he starts on your uninjured side. Counts as his fingertips bump along them. You hum when he reaches the soft tissue of your stomach, a little shudder going through you.
“Ticklish,” you explain when his hand jerks back. “I’m alright.”
He feels one side of his mouth tug when he dips the cloth into your navel and you snort a bit. The other side of you is still bandaged, clean and white. No damning spots of red. He avoids the medical tape to get what he can and then continues down.
More bitten off giggles at your hips. He indulges in arching his bare thumb over the bone, just to feel the warmth and silk of your skin. Then continues his work.
He braces your foot on his thigh as he swipes the cloth over yours, minding the pressure on the sensitive inner skin. Over your knee, down to the ankle before switching to the other leg. You lean back and sigh, knock your knee gently into his ribs. When he glances up to see if you need anything, you just smile. Soft and a bit drowsy.
Only then does he scrub your feet, making you twitch and laugh a bit, complaining that he’s doing it on purpose. He’s not, but he likes the sound of your laughter; he thought he’d never hear it again.
He washes the cloth out one more time and helps you stand, lathering circles into your back while you press into him.
You take over when he’s finished. This time he does turn away, though he aches to do so. But your hand is still on his back, using him for support while you finish cleaning up intimate areas.
“Done,” you murmur. He unfolds a towel and turns, keeping his eyes above your head as he wraps it around you from behind.
You hold it up while he pats over you, soaking up any droplets that haven’t dried yet.
Warm and clean(er), your mood seems much improved. He kneels again to help you into a new pair of panties, realizes he’s an absolute fool to put himself so close when you smell only faintly like the shared soap. The rest is you, and you smell delicious.
He swallows thickly and eases you into your sweatpants, split between longing and relief when he stands to put you in the shirt. If you notice the bulge in his own lounge pants, you say nothing — though he doubts you do. You’re nearly asleep standing, almost stumbling as he takes you back to bed. You reach for him weakly and urge him in with you.
“Thank you, Nikto,” you murmur into his shoulder. “Love you.”
And you’ve forgiven him, despite everything. So he allows himself just this one thing — and presses his lips to your temple.
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Clothes Make the Man
For my 10 year anniversary/4k giveaway, for @ionlyrunfromshame, who requested "modern au, established relationship, soft, fluffy", and well...you'll just have to wait and see.
“You’re here early,” Courfeyrac said in lieu of a greeting, standing back to let Enjolras into his apartment.
Enjolras managed a weak smile. “I brought coffee,” he said, handing one of the coffees he was holding to Courfeyrac. “And I have a somewhat time-sensitive favor to ask.”
Courfeyrac arched an eyebrow and gestured for Enjolras to sit down. “Well color me intrigued,” he said lightly, plopping down in the armchair as Enjolras perched on the couch. “So what can I do for you?”
Enjolras hesitated for only a moment before sighing and saying, almost as if he couldn’t believe the words he was about to say, “You know how you’ve always wanted to treat me like a life-size Ken doll and dress me up to suit your whims?”
“Barbie.”
Enjolras blinked. “Pardon?”
“I’ve always wanted to dress you up like a Barbie doll,” Courfeyrac said sweetly. “You’re too pretty to be Ken.” His smile sharpened into a smirk, and he leered at Enjolras as he added, “And besides, I know what you’re packing down there and it sure as shit ain’t plastic.”
Enjolras scowled. “If I could go back in time and undo one thing from my past, do you know what it would be?”
Courfeyrac considered it for a moment. “Getting frosted tips in the year of our lord 2006?” he suggested blithely.
“No, sleeping with you,” Enjolras said through gritted teeth.
Courfeyrac just smirked. “Liar.”
Enjolras flushed slightly. “Well, maybe if I could go back in time and undo two things,” he mumbled.
“Mmhmm,” Courfeyrac hummed, in a particularly self-satisfied way., and he leaned back against the chair to give Enjolras a measured look. “So you want me to dress you up, make it tight, you’re my dolly?”
“Under very narrow parameters only,” Enjolras said. “Specifically, I need your help buying one outfit.”
Courfeyrac’s eyes narrowed, and he took a sip of coffee. “Just one? What’s the occasion?”
Enjolras’s flush darkened. “I have a date.”
Courfeyrac gaped at him. “With a human male?” he managed.
Enjolras’s scowl returned in full force. “As opposed to who, your mom?”
“That’s a bit juvenile for you, don’t you think?” Courfeyrac asked with a snicker.
“Fuck off,” Enjolras said, without any real heat. “Are you going to help me or not?”
“Well when you ask so nicely…”
He trailed off and Enjolras rolled his eyes. “Courf,” he said impatiently. “Answer the question.”
For a moment, it looked like Courfeyrac was actually going to, but then he hesitated. “Only if you answer this first: did you tell Grantaire?”
Enjolras just stared at him, confused. “Why would I tell Grantaire?”
Courfeyrac fiddled with the lid of his coffee cup for a moment before setting it down decisively on the end table and standing. “I’m afraid Courfeyrac’s modiste is closed for business, but I would be happy to refer you elsewhere.”
It took a moment for Enjolras to follow suit, scrambling to stand as he frowned at Courfeyrac, his confusion deepening. “You mean you’re not going to help me?” he asked, a little indignantly.
“Not so much, no,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully.
“Why the fuck not?” Enjolras demanded.
Courfeyrac shrugged. “My reasons are many, and complex, and you should ask Jehan.”
If Enjolras looked confused before, now he looked downright baffled. “For your reasons?”
“No,” Courfeyrac said patiently. “To help you.”
Enjolras’s confusion disappeared, but it was quickly replaced by hesitation. “Don’t you think Jehan’s taste in clothes is a little, uh…”
He trailed off, clearly searching for the nicest way to put whatever he was thinking, but Courfeyrac didn’t wait for him to find it. “Quite the contrary,” he said instead, his grin sharp. “I think he’s just what you need.”
— — — — —
Jehan drummed his fingers against the arm of his chair, staring at Enjolras, who had the good sense to look uncomfortable. Not that Jehan was usually intimidating, but he could pull it off when he wanted to.
And at the moment, he very much wanted to.
“So you want my help,” he said, finally breaking the silence, and Enjolras jerked a nod.
“Yes.”
“Picking out an outfit.”
Again Enjolras nodded. “That is correct.”
It was hardly the most bizarre request Jehan had ever received, but the combination of the request and requester that was giving him pause. He was half-wondering if he was on some kind of Les Amis version of Punk’d. “Why do you need a new outfit?”
Enjolras sighed before telling him reluctantly, “I have a date.”
Now Jehan was certain that he was being Punk’d. “You know, I don’t think you’ve ever asked for my help before,” he said with a note of something like warning, which he figured would at least do the job of letting Enjolras know he was on to him.
But Enjolras just made a face. “I’m not exactly known to be the asking for help type.”
That was a true statement if ever there was one. Still, Jehan couldn’t quite resist. “The words ‘toxic masculinity’ are flashing in my mind right now,” he said sweetly.
Enjolras scowled. “Because I’m definitely known for being a paragon of masculinity.”
Jehan’s smile widened. “And now I’m seeing that Garfield meme, only instead of propaganda, it says, ‘You are not immune to toxic masculinity’.”
“Well, something more to discuss with my therapist, I guess,” Enjolras said, with just a touch of impatience. “But in case you missed what I said earlier, this is somewhat time-sensitive, so if you’re willing to help me, I kind of need an answer sooner rather than later.”
Jehan arched an eyebrow. “Never thought you’d find a date more important than dismantling the patriarchy.”
Enjolras just shrugged, looking almost a little embarrassed. “Honestly, neither did I,” he muttered, in a fond but rueful sort of way.
Something about this whole situation wasn’t quite adding up, and while under normal circumstances, Jehan probably would’ve agreed almost immediately to Enjolras’s request for help, he felt like there was a piece of the puzzle he was missing. He narrowed his eyes. “Why exactly do you want my help?” he asked, and Enjolras just raised both eyebrows before looking pointedly down at himself.
“I feel like this really speaks for itself,” he said, deadpan, but Jehan wasn’t deterred.
“No, I mean, why my help specifically.”
Enjolras flushed. “You’re…fashionable,” he said, the pause between his words speaking volumes.
“Uh-huh,” Jehan said skeptically, and Enjolras’s flush deepened.
“You’re more fashionable than I am,” he said defensively, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
Jehan gave him an almost pitying look. “So are most fourth graders.” Enjolras scowled but didn’t refute it, and Jehan decided it was time to rescue him. “So who else did you ask before you asked me?”
Enjolras’s flush had darkened to a somewhat mottled shade of fuschia. “No one,” he mumbled, though he didn’t even wait for Jehan to tell him he didn’t believe him before adding, “Just Bahorel. And Joly. And Courfeyrac.”
Jehan really should’ve guessed as much. “And all of them said no?”
“Bahorel said he’s busy,” Enjolras huffed, clearly put out, “but he oh-so magnanimously offered to pay one thousand dollars to whomever does if they take video. Joly is out of town. And Courfeyrac told me to ask you.”
And there it was – the missing piece of the puzzle. Jehan nodded slowly, knowing that if Courfeyrac had suggested Enjolras ask him, there was a good reason for it. “I see,” he said slowly, cocking his head slightly before asking, “And you didn’t ask Grantaire for his help?”
Enjolras’s scowl came back even darker than before. “Why does everybody keep asking me if I asked Grantaire?” he said, not waiting for an answer before telling Jehan, “No, I didn’t ask him to help me pick out an outfit.”
And there was Courfeyrac’s reason. “So Courfeyrac told you to ask me,” Jehan said, trying and likely failing to tamp down his smile. “Well, I think he made a good call, and I will be more than happy to help you.”
Enjolras blinked, clearly confused by this sudden change of tenor in the conversation. “Really?” he said, somewhat skeptically.
“Of course,” Jehan assured him. “Anything for our fearless leader.”
Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “Why do I not believe you?”
“Probably because you’re paranoid,” Jehan said cheerfully. He stood, brushing a non-existent crumb off of his shirt. “Now if memory serves, you said this is time sensitive, so we might as well get going.”
For one moment, it looked like Enjolras might argue, but then he made the wise choice to just shrug before also standing. “Alright. Let’s go.”
— — — — —
Roughly thirty minutes later, he looked very much like he regretted that decision. “Where are you taking me?” he asked, clutching the handle in Jehan’s car with both hands.
Jehan glanced over at him, amused. “You sound like you’re being kidnapped, not driven to a store.”
“At this point I’m beginning to feel like I’m being kidnapped,” Enjolras muttered.
“Who would have thought the man who has stared down the police in full riot gear would be scared of shopping,” Jehan said with a grin.
Enjolras glowered at him. “I’m not scared of it,” he snapped. “I just hate it and avoid it whenever possible. And you’re not answering my question about where you’re taking me, which is not helping me feel better.”
Jehan rolled his eyes. “I’m taking you to the thrift store,” he informed him.
Enjolras stared at him. “To the – why?”
“Because I wanted to get the Macklemore song stuck in your head all day,” Jehan said dryly. “Because I thought you would appreciate a more sustainable approach to shopping.”
For a moment, Enjolras did in fact look mollified, but then his expression shifted. “As long as it’s not run by the Salvation Army or Goodwill—”
“Locally owned and operated, don’t worry,” Jehan interrupted, having already seen this argument coming from a mile away. “Haven’t you ever shopped at a thrift store?”
Enjolras shook his head. “I honestly couldn’t tell you the last time I set foot in a clothing store,” he admitted, “what with sweatshops and non-union labor and God only knows what else.” He gestured again at his own clothing. “I mean, why do you think I basically wear seven variations of the same outfit each week?”
“I will perfectly honest with you, I don’t normally give that much thought to what you wear,” Jehan muttered, though at Enjolras’s somewhat affronted look, he quickly added, “Up until today, at least.” Thankfully, he was saved by the appearance of the thrift store, and he had never been more relieved to announce, “And here we are.”
He parked and together they walked up to the store, Enjolras eyeing it with increasing trepidation. “I feel like I’m walking to my execution.”
Jehan was deeply tempted to roll his eyes but settled for opening the door for Enjolras. “Be intrepid,” he encouraged. “I have faith in you.”
Enjolras gave him a withering look but didn’t say anything, just staring balefully at the racks of clothing stretched in front of them. “Alright,” he said resignedly, “so where do we start?”
“At the very beginning, a very good place to start,” Jehan quipped.
Enjolras scowled at him. “Getting Macklemore stuck in my head wasn’t enough for you? You had to resort to Rodgers and Hammerstein?”
Jehan just winked. “It got you to relax, right?”
For a moment it looked like Enjolras might deny it, but then he shook his head. “I hate that it worked,” he said sourly. “But seriously, where, uh, where should we start?”
“Why don’t you tell me a little bit about what you were thinking for tonight?” Jehan suggested, eyeing the clothes thoughtfully. “I mean, are you looking for a suit, or just shirt and tie, or…”
“Um,” Enjolras managed, and Jehan arched an eyebrow at him.
“Eloquent.”
Again Enjolras scowled. “How about a button down and pants of some sort?” he said through clenched teeth.
Jehan nodded approvingly. “See, and you were worried,” he teased, grabbing Enjolras’s arm and all but dragging him in the direction of the racks that seemed to boast the most amount of button-down shirts. “If we had time, I’d get your measurements so that we could do this properly, but we’ll have to resort to trial and error.” He nodded towards the far end of the rack. “Why don’t you start at that end, and see if there’s anything that catches your eye.”
Enjolras obediently shuffled to the end, starting to sort through the hangers. Jehan did the same on his end, though he didn’t pay much attention to what he was sorting through since he would know what he was looking for when he saw it. Instead, he decided now was as good a time as any to press for information. “So you didn’t ask Grantaire for help.”
“Is there a question in there?” Enjolras asked, not looking away from the clothes he was rummaging through.
Jehan just shrugged. “I mean, if you wanted someone who’s at least somewhat fashionable, I would have included him in your desperate pleas.”
“It’s not really something I wanted to admit to him,” Enjolras muttered, the tips of his ears burning red. “Admitting it to Courfeyrac and knowing that he will hold it over my head for the rest of my God-given life was bad enough. Grantaire would never let me live it down.”
Jehan nodded slowly. “I thought there might have been another reason.”
He said it casually, but Enjolras glanced at him, frowning. “Like what?”
“Because then you’d have to talk with Grantaire about your date.”
To his surprise, Enjolras just rolled his eyes. “Please,” he scoffed. “As if Grantaire, of all people, would care enough to talk about it.”
Jehan frowned. “He cares a lot more than you give him credit for.”
“I know that, I just meant—”
“What are you doing with that?” Jehan interrupted, and Enjolras jerked his hand back from the rack, startled.
“You told me to grab anything that caught my eye,” he said defensively.
Jehan had, but he also hadn’t thought Enjolras would actually do so. “Yes, but that’s so…”
He trailed off, trying to find the correct words, and Enjolras frowned down at the shirt in his hand. “I thought I’d look good in blue.”
Despite himself, Jehan grinned. “Who told you that?”
Enjolras flushed. “No one.”
“The same no one you’ll be seeing tonight?” Jehan guessed.
Judging by the way Enjolras’s flush darkened, he had guessed correctly. “He said blue brings out my eyes,” he mumbled.
Jehan hummed noncommittally. “Sounds like a man trying to get laid,” he said with a smirk. “Or like someone who’s watched a few too many episodes of Queer Eye.”
“Or both,” Enjolras muttered. He frowned, looking down at the shirt again. “So no blue?”
Jehan hesitated. “Maybe just not that shade of blue,” he hedged. “Besides, that shirt looks like it’s way too small for you.”
“Really?” Enjolras asked doubtfully, holding it up to himself.
“Yeah, you’re probably looking for more of a large, or an extra large,” Jehan told him.
Enjolras brow furrowed. “But I normally wear a small or medium.”
“Vintage clothes run small,” Jehan assured him.
For one long moment, Enjolras just stared at him, and Jehan held his breath. Then he shrugged and put the shirt back on the rack. “Ok,” he said, and Jehan exhaled. “So what do you suggest?”
Timing was on his side, as Jehan spotted the absolute perfect shirt right as Enjolras asked. He tried, and failed, to stop his grin. “You know, prints are really in right now,” he said casually, edging towards the shirt in question.
“Prints?” Enjolras repeated skeptically. “What, like a check? “
“I was thinking more of a polka-dot,” Jehan said, picking the shirt in question up and holding it out to Enjolras. “What do you think of this?”
Enjolras stared doubtfully at it. “I think it’s, um, yellow.”
“I’d describe it more as goldenrod,” Jehan said brightly.
Enjolras wrinkled his nose. “And are the polka dots purple?”
Jehan glanced at the shirt. “I think they’re magenta.”
Despite his clear misgivings, Enjolras took the shirt from Jehan, looking at it without anything remotely approaching enthusiasm. “And you think this will look good on me?”
“I think the only way to truly tell is for you to try it on,” Jehan told him. “But we should find you a pair of pants to accompany them.”
Enjolras looked even less enthused by that prospect. “Can’t I just wear my jeans?”
“You could, but you were the one who said button down and pants,” Jehan reminded him, before really deciding to twist the knife. “And I hate to break it to you, because I know how deeply your love for them runs, but skinny pants are out.”
Enjolras now looked something closer to despondent. “So what are my options, then?”
Jehan tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Well, there’s always khaki cargo shorts.”
Enjolras looked horrified by the prospect. “It’s a little cold for shorts, don’t you think?”
But Jehan was not so easily deterred. “How about cargo pants, then?”
Enjolras made a face. “I don’t think I’ve worn cargo pants since junior high.”
“Fashion is cyclical,” Jehan assured him. “Everything once in fashion comes in again.” Enjolras didn’t look even remotely convinced but Jehan resolutely steered him towards the pants. “C’mon, let’s see if we can find something.”
A few minutes later and they were following the same routine as with the shirt, though with a noted lack of enthusiasm from either party. Jehan cleared his throat. “So…tell me about your date.”
For the first time, Enjolras actually looked something like excited. “He wants it to be a surprise, so he won’t tell me where we’re going,” he told him. “Because clearly he doesn’t care that some of us like to be able to adequately prepare for these things.”
Despite his words, Enjolras’s tone was fond, and Jehan almost felt bad for what he was about to do to him.
Emphasis on the word almost.
“So what made you decide that now was the time?” Jehan asked, and when Enjolras threw him a sharp look, he amended, “For dating, I mean. I just know you’ve never been particularly interested in it, so it seems to have come a little out of left field.”
Enjolras’s expression turned contemplative. “I don’t know,” he admitted, but a small, half-smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he thought about it. “I didn’t go looking for it, obviously, but sometimes something just – you know, clicks. And once you realize it…” He shrugged, still smiling. “I mean, yeah, the world is ending and everything’s falling to shit, so no time like the present, right?”
“Sure,” Jehan agreed, trying to curb his own skepticism since the world had been falling apart since Reagan. “And you like him?”
Enjolras’s smile softened and he nodded. “I do. I really, really do.” He gave Jehan a measured look. “And while I normally loathe prying, I do appreciate you asking.”
Jehan jerked a nod. “Right,” he said, his tone turning brisk. “Well. These looks they’re about your size.”
He grabbed a pair of cargo pants from the rack, which looked like they were straight out of 2001. Enjolras eyed them warily, showing somehow even less enthusiasm than he had for the shirt. “Those are green.”
“I’d call them olive.”
Enjolras stared flatly at him. “You want me to wear green pants with a yellow shirt?”
As a poet, Jehan knew how to finesse a phrase, but this was a whole new level of diplomacy and tact, and for not the first time that day, Jehan wished Combeferre had a better sense of style than he did. He would be perfect to handle this. “Generally speaking, it’s good to keep things in the same section of the color spectrum,” Jehan said carefully. “That way you don’t have to worry about opposite ends of the spectrum clashing.”
This time, Enjolras didn’t bother hesitating, just shrugged in a slightly defeated way before grabbing the pants from Jehan. “Well, I trust you.”
“Great,” Jehan said cheerfully. “So go try it on, and then I want to see.”
Enjolras heaved a sigh before slumping in the direction of the fitting room. Jehan watched him go, holding his breath as if waiting for Enjolras to change his mind, to turn back around and tell him that this was a stupid idea, and these clothes were absolutely horrendous.
But he didn’t, and when the door closed after Enjolras, Jehan let out a relieved breath. He allowed himself a small, triumphant grin, and pulled out his phone to text Courfeyrac. Probably too soon to make this call but I’m gonna pull a George W. Bush and say…Mission Accomplished.
Only a moment later and his phone dinged with a text from Courfeyrac. Hero, Courfeyrac said, followed almost immediately by, Do you think you can get a pic?
Jehan’s grin sharpened. I’ll sure as shit try.
— — — — —
That night, Jehan and Courfeyrac sat together at the bar the Musain, enjoying a well-earned drink. “I still think you should’ve tried to get him to buy the plaid pants,” Courfeyrac said, clinking his beer bottle against Jehan’s.
Jehan laughed. “I think even Enjolras knew those were hideous,” he said. “Besides, the puke yellow shirt and green cargo pant combo is enough to scare off any self-respecting gay.”
Courfeyrac nodded before pausing, something contemplative in his expression. “Of course, that means we’re banking awfully hard on someone both being into Enjolras and having self-respect.”
Jehan snorted into his beer. “That is true,” he said with a chuckle, taking a swig of beer before his smile faded slightly. “I do almost feel a little bad.”
Courfeyrac glanced at him. “For the guy?” he asked. “For making him see that outfit with his own two eyes? Because I know it’s an image I’m not going to get out of my head anytime soon.”
The thought of the picture Jehan had managed to surreptitiously snap of Enjolras in his date night outfit was enough to bring his smile back, even as he told Courfeyrac, “For ruining Enjolras’s date with the world’s ugliest outfit. Obviously I know we all want him and Grantaire to end up together, but he seems to actually like this guy. And we should probably try to support him in that.”
“And not try to sabotage things?” Courfeyrac asked wryly.
“Yeah.”
Courfeyrac sighed. “Well now I feel bad,” he said, though he didn’t particularly sound it. “On the other hand, if it means Enjolras ends things with this guy before Grantaire finds out…”
Jehan shook his head. “The ends justify the means?”
“Something like that,” Courfeyrac said.
Jehan shrugged. “For what it’s worth, I asked Grantaire if he wanted to grab a drink with us tonight but he said he had plans,” he said bracingly. “So maybe he’s moving on, too.”
Courfeyrac didn’t look even remotely convinced. “Yeah, maybe.”
Jehan’s phone buzzed on the bar and he glanced down at it, brightening. “Oh, speak of the devil…Hey Grantaire.”
“What the fuck?” he squawked, borderline hysterical in Jehan’s ear, and Jehan’s smile froze.
“Grantaire, what—”
Grantaire made a sound that Jehan pretty sure was a sob, and Jehan’s heart plummeted to his knees. “Jehan, I cannot – this is – oh my God—”
“Grantaire, are you ok?” Jehan asked worriedly, trying desperately to flag down the bartender. “I don’t understand—”
“Enjolras’s outfit,” Grantaire wailed, and for the first time, Jehan realized that what he had interpreted as sobs were in facts gales of hysterical laughter. “I didn’t think it was possible to make a man this gorgeous look this ugly but holy fucking shit—”
Jehan’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “But how did you…” He trailed off as realization hit him like a ton of bricks, as did Enjolras’s perpetual confusion about why he would ask or tell Grantaire anything about his date.
His date, assumedly, with Grantaire.
“Oh my God, I didn’t even think—”
Courfeyrac looked like he was about to yank the phone out his hand and ask him what was going on, but Jehan waved him away as Grantaire hiccuped, “This is the best thing to ever happen to me,” while in the background, he could just hear Enjolras growl, “Prouvaire, the next time I see you, I swear to fucking God—”
“Leave him alone, it’s hilarious,” Grantaire said with a chortle.
“To you!”
“Grantaire, I had no idea,” Jehan told him, a little weakly, feeling his face flush. “I thought Enjolras was going on a date with some rando, so…”
“So you decided to sabotage it,” Grantaire said, and Jehan could hear the grin in his voice. “I appreciate it, I really do, though we’ll have to revisit at some point the fact than none of you thought I might actually have scored a date with him.” Jehan winced, but Grantaire added, a little softer, “Besides, I was a bit nervous, and now I am emphatically not. In fact, for the first time, I’m beginning to believe this might just work.”
“Then it was almost worth the ass-kicking Enjolras is going to try to give me later,” Jehan said solemnly.
Grantaire just laughed. “Don’t worry, I won’t let him,” he assured him.
“Enjoy your night,” Jehan said, hanging up.
Courfeyrac waved his arms. “So what the actual fuck?” he demanded. “What the fuck is going on?”
Jehan couldn’t help himself – he laughed. “So remember what you said about the end justifying the means?” he asked. “Well, funny story about that…”
#exr#enjolras x grantaire#enjoltaire#enjolras#jehan#jean prouvaire#courfeyrac#grantaire#fanfiction#les miserables#modern au#hijinks and shenanigans#clothes shopping#first dates
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Adam Stanheight x reader domestic fluff?
yes yes yes (✦‿‿✦)♡ I love Adam. I hope you enjoy anon ♡ I don't quite know what domestic bliss is exactly but I hope this is domestic and happy ending for you ♡♡♡
Adam had woken up hours ago, fear causing his limbs to shake as he panted and whined beside you. You felt exhaustion weighing your limbs down as you flicked your bedside light on. Fighting the urge to lay back down, you focused on finding the source of your awakening. Glancing to your side, you blink the sleep out of your eyes as they focus in on his twitching face. You're slow as you show him your hands.
"Adam, baby, wake up. I need you to wake up."
He's slow, but eventually, his eyes make their way to yours.
"Good, just like that. Come on."
Your hands are gentle as you feel around his face. Fingertips press into the curves of his cheeks, a sure sign way to help plant him back into the present. Next, you're shoving a pen messily between his fingers and watch as he slowly clicks and plays with it. Next was a pair of small cold marble figures he gave you as an anniversary present, a couple of cute cats you had your eye on for months. Finally, you allowed him the freedom to grab the next thing. He reaches for you, and you lean toward him. He goes for your hair and plays with the curls and frizz, manifesting as your sleep. You know it's soft, a solid contrast to the other items he was given. Soft and textured enough to pull his attention to now instead of then.
"You hear with me now, button?"
His voice is back because he sounds exhausted as he answers.
"Yeah... yeah. I'm good."
He forces himself to sit up entirely, and you cup his cheeks.
"Want a glass of water? Maybe do a face mask?"
His smile is soft and sad as he nods. You gently kiss him on the forehead and hand him an empty plastic cup.
"Mess with this a bit. I will be right back. I'm just going out to the kitchen."
You make sure your eye contact is firm as you speak. Slipping out of bed, you throw on a pair of baggy sweats hung off the back of your laundry chair. Next was the kitchen, and you wasted no time filling a plastic cup with a lid full of water. Slipping in a straw, you return to your shared bedroom. When you arrive, he looks alive. Turning his head, he smiles and thankfully gulps down the water.
"Adam! Slow down. You're going to make yourself sick."
You frown and fret over him as he heeds your advice and slows down, instead taking a moment to breathe between each gulp. Once he finished, you explained your plan.
"First, I'm thinking I brush your hair. Then a face mask and finally something I saw on one of those ASMR videos that I've been watching."
He's listening even if his eyes are far away and beside you.
"Did you want to come with me? See how I make the face mask?"
He doesn't speak. Instead, he slips out of the covers, the Pennsylvanian winter evident on the frosted windows. You quickly find him a shirt and shorts to change into, and he eagerly takes the articles. He pulls them on as he follows you back into the hallway. The bathroom is dim as you flip the switch.
"We need a new bulb."
He makes a noise in agreement and uses his height to search the bulb for an indication of the type. Leaving him to his own devices, you dig through his side of the sink. Finally, after picking through a layer of trash, you find his simple black hairbrush.
"Sit on the toilet."
He looks back at you, then your hand, before stepping over and onto the toilet lid. Making sure to stay gentle and not pull, you drag the bristles through his soft hair. After each brush stroke came your fingers as you took the chance to feel the silky strands. It only takes 3 minutes, and you're done.
"How was that? Did I pull a lot?"
He smiles back at you and shakes his head, "M' felt good."
He sounds tired again, and you feel triumphant spread throughout your chest. You give the top of his head a small kiss, black hair tickling the bottom of your nose. Removing yourself from him, you return to the sink, where you open the doors at the bottom. Pushing a few random products neither of you uses to the side, you find the small container of matcha. Straightening up, you kick the door closed and pack a few spoonfuls of powder into a small wooden bowl. As you mix the light green powder with a decent amount of water droplets, you check in with Adam.
"We ran out of orange peel powder, so I went with the Matcha tonight."
He gives you a lazy smile, "Awesome."
Turning away from the paste, you grab the fluffy headband off the door handle and gently push it over and onto Adam's head. His hair is sticking back, small spikes of black sticking up against the purple fluff. Satisfied, you start applying the mask onto his cheeks, sliding down; you cover his chin before getting more goop. Bringing it up, you smear it across his forehead and temples. Lastly, a tiny bit, and it's covering the bridge of his nose before slipping down and off the tip.
"All done! Wanna do me next?"
Your enthusiasm rubs off, and he gives you a giddy smile, "Fuck yeah. Love playing with this stuff."
He hops up and repeats your actions, sliding a green headband down your neck before affixing it to your hair. Raising your face towards him, he spends the next few moments smearing the mask across your skin until the bowl is empty.
"You look super hot, babe."
You stick your tongue out at him before hopping up and sliding next to him. Stepping behind you, he hugs your waist as you rinse the bowl and tool clean. Setting a timer, you spend the next ten minutes smearing matcha across each other's face. Once it goes off, you pull away with a sheepish look covering your face.
"Do you wanna rinse first?"
He shakes his head and takes a step back. You bend over, and after making sure the water is warm, you rinse the green covering your face. Halfway through your rinse, you hear Adam whistle and comment on your butt. Waving your hand mindlessly behind you, you connect with him weakly, slapping him across an area with exposed skin. He guffaws, and you finish rinsing your face. Allowing him access to the sink, you spend the time using a fluffy bath towel, bought on impulse only to find out they were hand towels, pats your skin dry. Handing Adam a dry towel akin to your own, you watch him wipe the towel down his face. Once finished, you interlink your fingers and guide him back to your shared room.
"Lay down. I want to try to trace your face."
He seems to light up at the idea and eagerly yanks off his clothes until he's left in his boxers. Sliding into bed, you follow suit opposite him and rest on your knees beside him. Using the tips of your nails, you gently scratch lines across his skin. Shapes and numbers stack atop one another as you move across his face. Tracing the slope of his nose, your finger rises over his dorsal bump before flicking off the tip of his nose. After a few more minutes of repeated actions and you hear a loud snore indicating his sleepiness.
"No way that worked, cute."
Giving his sleeping form a gentle kiss against the cheek, you snuggle beside him and fall asleep with a smile.
#saw#saw franchise#saw movies#adam stanheight#adam faulkner stanheight#adam stanheight x reader#adam x reader#mia writes
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Hotcake Cake (Makes 4 Servings)
We bring you this recipe from our panel, “Anime Foodies: Laid-Back Camp Season 2”.
This layer cake made out of Japanese-style hotcakes serves as the dessert for Aoi and Nadeshiko’s birthday celebration on the second evening of the Izu camping trip in Episode 12. While it serves as a brilliant solution to making a cake without an oven, the need to whip eggs and cream by hand do make this probably the most physically taxing of any “Laid-Back Camp” recipe to date.
6 – Eggs
12 TBSP – Sugar
6 TBSP – Whole Milk
1 1/2 TSP – Vanilla Extract
9 TBSP – Cake Flour (AP Flour)
1 1/2 TSP – Baking Powder
2 Cups – Heavy Whipping Cream
1 – Mango
1 – Kiwi
1/3 Cup – Round Grapes
1 Cup – Strawberries
2 In. x 1 In. Square – Milk Chocolate [Optional]
1 Pack – Cookie Frosting [Optional]
Separate your eggs with the 6 egg whites being set aside for the meringue, 3 yolks being set aside for the yolk mixture, and the other 3 yolks stored in the fridge/cooler for use in another recipe.
Mix the 3 egg yolks and 6 TBSP of sugar until combined and frothy.
Add the milk and vanilla extract and stir together.
Add the flour and baking powder together, stir, and incorporate into the yolk mixture until there are no visible lumps while trying to stir as little as possible.
In as large and as wide of a bowl as is available, whip the egg whites with a whisk until frothy and then add 4 TBSP of sugar in batches until a meringue is formed with medium peaks.
Take roughly 1/3 of the meringue and mix into the yolk mixture to lighten it.
Fold the remaining meringue into the yolk mixture in two or three batches being careful not to knock out too much air.
Heat an 8 or 10-inch non-stick pan over low heat, spray with some oil, and add 3/4 cup of the hotcake batter in an even layer.
Cover and cook for 3 minutes.
Remove the lid, add another 1/2 cup of batter evenly across the top of the already cooking hotcake, cover, and cook for another 4-5 minutes.
To flip the hotcake, slide it out of the pan, cooked side down onto a large paper plate, put the pan over the top, and quickly upend the plate back down into the pan.
Use your spatula to fix any uneven edges from the flip and then cover and cook for another 4-5 minutes.
Once finished, remove the hotcake and set on a plate under a damp paper towel.
Repeat Steps 8 through 13 to create a second large hotcake.
Again, using the largest and widest bowl you have available, whip the heavy cream until slightly thickened, add the final 2 TBSP of sugar, and continue whipping until you have stiff peaks.
Take your mango and cut both thin slices and larger chunks for the top of the cake.
Skin the kiwi and cut into thin slices.
Slice your largest strawberries for the middle of the cake and leave your smallest ones whole for the topping.
Take your square of chocolate and write whatever you want as a message for the top of the cake with the cookie frosting before setting it in the fridge/cooler until ready to place on the cake. [Optional]
To build the cake, set one of the hotcakes on a plate and top with a layer of the whipped cream and the thin-sliced mango, kiwi, and strawberries while leaving some room on the edge of the whipped cream layer.
Add the second cake and another layer of whipped cream on top.
Add some whipped cream to a small resealable plastic and cut off the corner. Use this bag of cream to pipe a border of whipped cream around the top edge of the cake.
Take some of the remaining thin slices of fruit and alternate them in the edge of the layer of cream between the two hotcakes.
Place the whole grapes, whole strawberries, mango chunks, and kiwi slices inside the thicker whipped cream border on the top of the cake and finish with the chocolate message if made.
Slice carefully with a serrated cake knife to serve or merely consume directly from the plate.
Optional/Notes:
This recipe isn’t as exacting as some of the others, so there is a not insignificant chance that there will be additional hotcake batter and fruit leftover. Use any extra batter immediately and store the additional hotcakes in the cooler.
We used the exact fruits the girls used for the sake of the panel, but feel free to use a mix of whatever fruits are in season.
If you’ll be doing the chocolate plaque, a basic chocolate bar from the grocery store is a great way to get a flat chocolate surface to work with.
The additional egg yolks will last for 2-3 days in the fridge.
For whipping the egg whites and the cream, hand power will be the default method when outside, but you can find battery-powered/crank hand mixers which can significantly lighten the workload.
When building the cake, make sure to use whatever of your two cakes is the most perfect and stable for the base to diminish the chances of the cake falling over.
Feel free to use a real piping bag, but the plastic bag method will definitely reduce the need for cleaning.
#anime#anime food#anime foodies#nos anime#camping#food#yuru camp#yurucamp#laid back camp season 2#camping food
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Decoration Distractions {RM X Reader 18+}
Christmas. A special time that comes around once a year, filled with magic stories and warmth. Since I started dating Namjoon two years ago, Christmas has been a regular celebration. With fall nearing its end and the frost nipping at our noses, Christmas wasn't far away. Decorating was one of my favorite things to get ‘festive.’ figured I would start getting things ready for decorations since the weekend was a day away. As well as we would be the ones hosting the party. The seven guys would host a party for themselves when they were new starting out. But when Namjoon and the band mates got big they hosted larger parties in the holiday spirit. Hundreds of idol groups and musicians were invited, sure they wouldn’t all come but it was still a lot of people. Which I was recently added into. Being his partner and all. Helping in any way I can with his busy schedule.
Earlier that day I had gone to get some Christmas supplies. Being sure to stray from anything peppermint and chocolate flavored. Ending up with some hot chocolate ingredients, cookies and candy canes for the tree. While grabbing a few new PLASTIC Christmas ornaments due to the accident last year. Then a few little things to add. Before decorating anything the house needed to be cleaned. Cleaning up the mess around the place, getting rid of fall decorations, laundry, dishes and all that. Finishing up, I cleaned up and changed. Before going into the storage to find the Christmas stuff, I slipped on a cozy white knit sweater, shorts since it was warm in the house and black knee highs. Sliding on bunny slippers with the box of fall themed things in hand, I wandered into the garage to get everything out before Namjoon would be home. Until he pulled up meeting me in front of the garage.
“Hey! What are you up to?” He called from beside the previously slammed car door. Namjoons short sandy hair was pushed back and styled from work. Finished off with a white button up and black decently snug jeans. His long tan coat tossed over his arm, bartender style. A warm smile greeted you as you looked over the box in your hands. He started walking toward me, until I wobbled slightly trying to see him in all his beauty. “Woah hey hey hey! Let me help!”
“Thanks. It’s heavier than I thought..” I whined ruffling my hair out of my face due to the wind. The cold hit me suddenly, my teeth almost chattering. “W-what are you doing home so early?”
“Early? Baby, It’s already seven. Head on inside before you freeze. I'll follow you in.” He chuckled slightly, pumping up the box higher in his grip. Wandering back inside quickly I held the door open for him. Setting the box down in the living room his dark eyes quickly wandered to the sparkly ornaments I just bought, eyes seeming not so dark anymore as he waddled over.“Wow! You picked well. Feeling festive huh?”
“Yeah. I wanted to have things done before you got home, but I guess I was shopping longer than expected.” walking into the living room to greet him properly. He grabbed my waist from behind and snuggled into me. Feeling his body heat the moment we made contact. His head resting on my shoulder. Trying to see this cuteness, but he hid behind me enough so I didn't see. “There's still more boxes I need to get.”
“No it’s ok I'll go grab them. I've got my shoes on still.”
“But you just came home from dance practice all day-”
“Nope! It’s fine. All the more reason for me to get them. I’ve got muscle.” He smiled, kissing me lightly on the cheek before wandering out the door with a little wave. While he was gathering the boxes from the garage I made us some hot coco and got out the cookies. “Here I think this is it?”
“One sec!” I called from the kitchen. Two cups of warm hot chocolate in white mugs with red sweaters. Meeting him in the living room with all the lids off the bins as he looked through everything, pushing back his sandy hair once more. “Here Namjoon! Be careful it's hot.”
“Oh! I thought I smelt something tasty.” He took the mug with a warm smile, making the room just a little bit brighter already. He turned back around to face the boxes. His voice now serious.“You are really in the mood this year huh?”
“W-what?” I stuttered.
“Y know. The festive spirit?” He replied turning to face me, eyebrows furrowed, hot chocolate in hand.
“Yeah! I’m excited to see the guys again! It’s been awhile.” chuckling awkwardly before speaking. Guess I misunderstood his tone. Namjoon and I set up the tree as we sipped our drinks. The silence filled with talk of work and drama throughout the day. The tree was all set up! Just needed the ornaments.
“Let’s play some Christmas music. It’s not exactly a great time to talk about drama huh?” Namjoon chuckled, dragging you toward him and the smart TV. The sweet scent of chocolate and the bitterness of the pine creating a tender feeling. One of those memories from scents alone. “ This isn't what I was expecting when I got home. Which song would you like first?”
“Hmm.. Yours..?” It took only a fake thought and giggle. Namjoon sighed in sarcasm and flicked through the custom christmas playlist we had obtained over the years. The Music began and so did the tree decorating. Snacking on cookies between grabbing ornaments to place delicately and orderly on the tree. Dancing hand in hand around the warm musical Christmas tree. Namjoon knows the words to all my favorite holiday tunes. Honestly his versions were better than any original. Laughs, giggles and singing is what was filling the silent house this evening. Not that it was ever silent in the house, but more noisy than usual. The tree was filled with the new colorful ornaments as other decor was fired everywhere. Now all that was missing was the star. “Namjoon, where's the star at?”
“H-here.” He called out after tripping over a strip of greenery on the floor with a weird noise. A sigh of relief after he met me at the tree. Reaching easily to the top of the tree and placing the star exactly where it was needed. As I Practically jumped over to the plug for the tree lights. Waiting for his signal/“Go ahead.”
“Wow.” The new ornaments looked much better with our display. Making my way over to Namjoon. His eyes lit up and a dimple filled smile was easily seen. We stood next to each other as a slow festive tune played behind us. Namjoon’s warm hand pulled me toward him from beside him, our hips touching. His view was focused on the tree as a warm smile lingered on his face. While I was looking at the warm light beside me. Finally his gaze shifted to me, his dark eyes locked with mine as he turned to face me. I called out his name as the innocents in his gaze faded.“Namjoon..?”
“Ah, the greenery right. We still have a few house decor things. Let's.. set those up?” He switched the conversation topic, letting go of me and toward the Greenery pieces. “Where do we put these? The stairs?”
“Yeah! We wrapped them around there last year. Oh the lights too!” I remembered slowly as the image came back to me. Namjoon made his way up the stairs as he wrapped them on the side rail. I fished out the tangled strings of lights. Testing to make sure they all worked, much not to my surprise some bulbs were out. None the less I dragged them toward Namjoon, as he fumbled with the decorations on the stairs. Setting up the staircase then it was on to the big arch way. Namjoon wouldn't let me do much with the ladder so I just made sure he didn't fall or tangle the greenery. With an empty plate of cookies and two empty stained cups from hot cocoa, we finished decorating. The lights staining my vision. “It looks amazing Namjoon!”
“Oh- It’s pretty much the same as last year.” He chuckled as he double checked the place. Just then remembering the new thing I had gotten. “Doesn't mean I don't like it- where’d you go off to?”
“I forgot something!” Sliding my feet across the cool tiles to my denim bag signed with Hobis stage name, Ripping the zipper open to pull out the mistletoe. While Namjoon was shuffling through the mess from the decor I attempted to put up the mistletoe in the arch. Sure enough I couldn't reach. Seconds later warm hands caught my own, holding the mistletoe above me. Namjoon snaked around to face me as he held my hand. His eyes sharply focused on my next move. As I tried to break the silence. “Surprise..?”
“You know the rules right? Under the mistletoe..” Namjoon teased, smiling down to me smugly. He hung it up and his focus went right back to me. His big hands drew my waist closer to him as he leaned in. The shadow of his eyelashes were visible due to proximity. This teasing was something I couldn't get used to. He knew what power he had over me, honestly I didn't mind. My face flushed as thoughts raced through my mind of what he could possibly be getting at. Knowing any attempt of escape was useless. Namjoon dipping his finger to my chin made me look up to him. His dragon eyes stared deeply yet warmly into mine. “You’re so beautiful..”
(Spicy here mate)
Our lips finally met, breaking the tension. A lingering gentle kiss, as my heart began to flutter. Our eyes meet again as our breath intertwines in the small space between us. Namjoons eyes darted to my lips then back to greet my longful stare. His hands are still gripping my waist, tapping his forehead to mine, eyes closed.
“Fuck..” He growled under his breath. My heart jumped at just a single word. He pulled away and went in for another kiss. Since he had gotten home I knew something like this was bound to happen. Giving up I flung my arms over his built shoulders and clung to his back. Our bodies locking into each other as he pulled me as close to him as I could get. Playing with the back of his hair while his lips locked with mine. “I know this was supposed to be wholesome and fun but.. That outfit. Is umm. Nice.”
“W-what. Oh uhm.. Sorry?” I was taken aback at his sudden cuteness after his intense kisses. He chuckled at my reply.
“You might just be..” he breathed into my neck before sucking and licking purple and pink little marks. Leaving butterfly kisses along my neck and face. A prominent bulge was left against my stomach as Namjoon rested his head on the nape of my neck, warm breath trickling down my neck. My chest tightening at the feeling of warmth and tension arising. “Who knew one tradition would get so.. Intimate.. You better finish what you started…”
“We still have to clean up.” My hands moved down his chest in an attempt to push him away, even if I knew it was useless. He squeezed my hips slightly, making a small moan escape my lips. whining.“N-namjoon.”
“Yes baby..?~” He growled softly in response to my sudden sound. “Let’s go then.”
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6 Best Food Delivery Containers for a Safe Food Delivery
Poorly designed food containers can let down customers to the point that they might never want to order from your restaurant ever again. Imagine someone gets their morning coffee from your cafe and it leaks from the bottom into the cup holder of their car before they even reach their place of work. Or they get takeaway from your restaurant, and it goes cold before they reach home. Or cupcakes move around in the container and all the frosting sticks to the inside of the container. The right food containers can ensure customers do not have such poor experiences.
One crucial aspect of ensuring a successful delivery experience for your customers is choosing the right food delivery containers. In this blog, we will explore 6 best food delivery containers and provide insights into avoiding the wrong food packaging.
6 Best Food Delivery Containers
Food delivery containers come in a variety of types, each designed to serve specific purposes and maintain the quality of the food being transported. Here are six types of food delivery containers:
Hot Case & Cold Case
Hot Case: Hot Cases are insulated containers designed to keep hot food items at the desired temperature during delivery. These containers often come with secure latching mechanisms to prevent heat from escaping, ensuring that your customers receive their meals piping hot.
Cold Case: On the flip side, Cold Cases are designed to maintain the temperature of cold dishes, such as salads, desserts, or beverages, keeping them refreshingly chilled throughout the delivery process.
Premium Hinged Containers
Premium hinged containers are versatile and convenient for a wide range of food items. These containers are typically made of sturdy plastic and come with hinged lids that seal tightly to prevent leaks and maintain food quality. They are perfect for a variety of dishes, from sandwiches and wraps to pasta and salads.
Deli Cups with Lids
Deli Cups are perfect for storing and delivering small portions of food items. These containers, often made of clear, lightweight plastic, are equipped with secure-fitting lids that create a seal to keep food fresh and prevent spillage. They are commonly used by food packaging companies for soups, sauces, condiments, and side dishes.
Reusable Containers
These containers are eco-friendly and designed for repeated use. Made from durable materials like glass or high-quality plastics, reusable containers are ideal for restaurants that want to reduce their environmental footprint. They come in various sizes and are excellent for packing a wide range of meals for delivery.
Tamper Evident Hinged Containers
Tamper-evident containers are crucial for ensuring the safety and integrity of food during delivery. These containers feature a secure, tamper-resistant seal that breaks upon opening, providing clear evidence if the food has been tampered with. They are commonly used for items like takeout salads, pre-packaged meals, and more.
Molded Fiber Clamshells
Molded fiber clamshells are a sustainable and eco-friendly option for food delivery. They are made from recycled materials, and their unique design resembles a clamshell, making them perfect for items like burgers, sandwiches, or even hot entrees. These containers offer decent insulation and help keep food fresh.
Selecting the right type of food delivery container is essential for ensuring that your customers receive their meals in the best possible condition. Depending on your menu and the types of food you offer, choosing from these various container options by food container suppliers will help you maintain the quality and presentation of your dishes during the delivery process.
3 types of food packaging you should avoid
Food packaging plays a crucial role in preserving the freshness and safety of our food products. However, not all types of food packaging are created equal. Some packaging materials can have negative impacts on customer’s health and the environment. Here are three types of food packaging you should avoid:
Polystyrene (Styrofoam) Containers: Styrofoam is not biodegradable and can take hundreds of years to break down in the environment. When heated, it can release toxic chemicals, including styrene, which is a potential carcinogen. To minimize people’s exposure to these harmful substances, it's best not to tie up with food service packaging manufacturers who use Styrofoam containers.
Plastic Containers with BPA: Bisphenol A (BPA) is a synthetic chemical used in some types of plastic food containers, especially those marked with recycling codes 3 and 7. BPA can leach into food and beverages, especially when the containers are exposed to heat or acidic substances. To reduce your customer’s exposure to BPA, choose food packaging labeled as BPA-free or opt for alternative materials like glass or stainless steel.
Single-Use Plastics: Single-use plastics, including plastic bags, straws, and utensils, contribute to environmental pollution and harm wildlife. To reduce your reliance on single-use plastics, consider using reusable alternatives such as cloth bags, metal straws, and bamboo utensils. When looking for sustainable takeout packaging, opt for businesses that offer eco-friendly packaging options.
By making informed choices and reducing your consumption of harmful food packaging materials, you can contribute to a healthier planet and a safer food supply.
Conclusion
Choosing the best food delivery containers for your business is a critical decision that directly impacts the quality of your food and the satisfaction of your customers. By choosing the best food delivery containers, you can make informed choices that enhance your takeout and delivery service.
Anchor Packaging stands out as the top choice for food delivery containers in the industry. Their innovative designs and commitment to quality ensure that your business can deliver meals with confidence, keeping food fresh and customers satisfied. With Anchor Packaging, you can elevate your food delivery services to the next level, making it the perfect partner for your business's success.
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Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Aladin reusable to-go cups.
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here are some fun num nom ideas i thought of:
categories
gelatin nums: they can have a variety of shape patterns like real life gelatin molds. they'd probably just be one solid color.
valentines chocolate nums: various valentine's day style chocolates. colors include brown, dark brown, light brown, light pink, rose pink. two are heart shaped. they might have swirls or hearts on them. in their starter pack, the dish is a heart shaped chocolate box (no lid).
fruit sandwich nums: some are upright like crème filled nums. others are like regular sandwich nums.
smoothie bowl nums: the bowl looks similar to the cups that berries n' crème and mocha frappe have but without that rim and the smoothies themselves are similar-looking, but different from the ones smoothies and fro-yo have. there are little additions (like nuts or fruit) in all of them.
mochi nums!!: they are literally shaped like num noms in real life they are so perfect! they have a little flour on them and are kind of pudgy (not perfectly round like the cupcakes). the dish in the starter pack could be like a single segment of the plastic packaging in mochi ice cream! the utensil is a translucent spoon. :3
fruit pieces noms: they would pair up nicely with the gelatin nums. i'm actually not sure what they would look like...
"secret charm" noms: you open them up and there's a little thing inside. i haven't decided on what.
more num noms for existing categories
cher e. stems is a fruit num. she visually resembles cherubi from pokemon.
azalea pinks is a layer cake num. the cake layers are butter yellow and the frosting is warm light pink. no sprinkles or anything. she is a cat!
s. b. shortie is another layer cake. cake is yellow. frosting is white and there are strawberries on top.
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links from my recent amazon haul!
watch my haul here :)
YouCopia StoraLid Lid Organizer, Medium, White
Madesmart 2-Tier Plastic Multipurpose Organizer with Divided Slide-Out Storage Bins, Under Sink and Cabinet Organizer Rack, Frost
Madesmart 2-Tier Plastic Mini Multipurpose Organizer with Divided Slide-Out Storage Bins, Compact Under Sink and Cabinet Organizer Rack, Frost
SOLEJAZZ 2-Tier Under Sink Organizer, Under Bathroom Sink Cabinet Organizers Sliding Under Sink Storage Organization, Multi-purpose Kitchen Cabinet Organizer Shelf with Hooks, Hanging Cup, White
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280ML Plastic Water Cup With Lid Frosted Drinking Bottle For Girls Boys Portable Leak-proof Unbreakable Sport Kettle with Rope
280ML Plastic Water Cup With Lid Frosted Drinking Bottle For Girls Boys Portable Leak-proof Unbreakable Sport Kettle with Rope
Applicable People: Adults
Anti-corrosion Coating: Equipped
Thermal Insulation Performance: None
Style: Brief
Supply Type: In-Stock Items
Boiling Water: Not Applicable
Certification: CE / EU,CIQ
Bottle Mouth: —
Material: Plastic
Plastic Type: PP
Drinkware Type: Water Bottles
Model Number: Plastic Frosted Cup
Water Flowing Method: Direct Drinking
Outdoor Activity: TOUR
Shape: With Lid
H2O frosted…
View On WordPress
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How To Choose Customized Party Cups
You may want to know why to use personalized cups. There is one reason that the personalized cups create the perfect style for your event and celebration. It is quite inexpensive too. It also makes the process of cleaning easy. It gets used as a party favor. Plus, it is surprising that it does not break. Some styles are also usable as they can be washed. It all depends on how you want to use the cup. For quotes on cheap party favors in bulk Auckland, contact us today.
Can I order personalized cups for a party?
The best tip for selecting personalized cups is to order the style of the cup appropriate to hold the hot or cold difference that you plan to serve.
You need to order the crop that fits into the style of your event and desired use.
Think about how much before it you want to provide to determine the size of the cup to order.
You need to select the color of the monogram and imprint it so that it fits your celebration style.
You can surprise and delight your guests by using them. Besides, there is no cleanup needed.
Regardless of the type of beverage you want to serve, We have the cup for your needs. Do you want to order wholesale party bags Auckland? You can order from the following.
Shatterproof personalized frosted plastic cup
Personalized foam cups
Personalized plastic cups
Colored shatterproof frosted cup
Personalized stadium cups
Some party cups and foam cups also come with lids.
How can you pick the best party cup?
You need to select a cup at least 4 Oz larger than the amount of liquid that you want to fill in the cup.
The ounce size of the cup will have absolute volume.
If it is a 9-ounce cup, it will hold approximately 9 ounces of liquid to the brim. Hence, you need to order a car that has a larger ounce size that you want to pour.
If you're planning a party or celebration, it's better to use personalized wholesale party cups Auckland to create the perfect style. Choose one such store that offers fun and unique designs that you can easily create and instantly view online.
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Exotic Rare Timor Black Bamboo Seeds Privacy Seed Garden Clumping Exotic Shade Screen Tropical Seeds, Organic B5 Bambusa lako, known as Timor black bamboo, is a large species of bamboo originating from the island of Timor; its black culms may reach 21 m in height. FUN AND EASY: 300+ Seeds of the rare and exotic Black Bamboo to Plant and Grow FAST GROWING: The fastest-growing Bamboo, get privacy or windbreak fast! GROW TIPS: Run your sink hot water and get it as warm as possible. Fill a cup halfway up. Place the seeds in the hot water and then let them soak for 24 hours. After that plant in a good soil. Bamboo loves heat to germinate. Over 80 degrees is optimal for germination. Count: ~ 5 Sun Exposure Full sun from an early age Light shade when young Frost Tolerance Severe Water Requirements Moderate Drought Tolerance Yes Wind Tolerance High Tolerance of Coastal Conditions Yes Botanical Name: Bambusa Lako Timor Bamboo Common Name: Black Bamboo Plants Maximum Height: 70' Maximum Diameter: 4" Minimum Temperature: 30F (VERY cold sensitive, VERY tropical. Timor Black is slower growing then the majority of bamboo, but can still be fully grown in 3-4 years if established well. Or achieve quicker growth if you purchase more established sizes! Growing Bamboo from Seed Place the bamboo seeds in a strainer and rinse them with cool water to remove any dust or debris that may be clinging to the seeds. Pour the seeds into a bowl. Make a 10 percent salt solution and pour it over the seeds. Let the seeds soak in this solution for five minutes. Pour the seeds back into the strainer and rinse off the salt solution. Soak the seeds in clear water for 15 minutes, and drain them to dry. Make a half-and-half mixture of perlite and peat moss. Moisten the mixture until you can grab a handful and just barely squeeze out a drop. Place the soil mixture in a flat planter box with a lid. A plastic sweater box with holes poked in the bottom is the ideal size and shape for this project. Draw rows in the soil mix about 1 inch deep and plant a sprinkling of seeds along each row. Alternately, dig a round hole 2 inches across and 1 inch deep. Sprinkle about 10 seeds in the bottom of the hole. Cover the surface of the mix with these holes. Cover the seeds with very fine soil mix. Place the lid on the box and move the box to a spot where it won't be disturbed. Remove the lid every three days to give the plants fresh air. Moisten the soil mix during this time if it has begun to dry out. Replace the lid after you have watered the mix. Remove the lid permanently after the seedlings reach the lid inside. The first seedlings will sprout after two to three weeks, and the seeds will continue to sprout until they have all emerged. Mix an all-purpose houseplant fertilizer according to the package directions. Pour the fertilizer into a clean spray bottle and mist the plants once they are four weeks old. Transplant the seedlings into individual pots after they have been growing for a month. Use the same soilless mix for growing the seedlings indoors. Tags: giant bamboo seeds, clumping bamboo seeds, bamboo plant, Moso bamboo seeds, running bamboo seeds, black bamboo seeds, phyllostachys edulis, bamboo tree seeds, rare plant seeds, rare plant seeds, Tropical Fruit Seeds, Organic Seeds, Timor Black Bamboo, Black Bamboo, bamboo seed, Bambusa Lako Phyllostachys Nigra, giant bamboo seeds, bamboo plant http://springsofeden.myshopify.com/products/exotic-rare-timor-black-bamboo-seeds-privacy-seed-garden-clumping-exotic-shade-screen-tropical-seeds-organic-b5
#organic seeds#fruit seeds#rare seeds#ornamental#palms#palm tree seeds#Tropical Fruit Seeds#Bambusa lako#Timor black bamboo#bamboo#bamboo plant#Moso bamboo seeds#running bamboo seeds
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In order to increase your brand's popularity, you can use custom frosted cups with logo and your chosen design or your brand message. They will help you grow your business.
#wholesale frosted plastic cups#frosted plastic cups with lids and straws in usa#frosted cups with logo#custom printed 16 oz frosted plastic cups#frosted cups blank
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And Eat It Too
jean kirstein x reader
18+ (minors do not interact)
warnings: food play, finger sucking, 69
wc: 1.5k
happy birthday, jeanbo
You should have known that Jean would find a way to get home early from work today. While he takes off his jacket and shoes at the door, you try to hurry and finish the last details on the surprise, to no avail. He sweeps into the kitchen and wraps his arms around you from behind, tucking his chin over your ear to look at the fruits of your labor. The literal fruits.
For the past hour, you’ve been baking and assembling a masterpiece, layers of strawberries and buttercream over shortcake. All that was left to do was decorate the top, but it’s harder to fill a piping bag with only two hands than you thought it would be.
“Is that for me?” Jean teases, squeezing you around the middle.
“No, it’s for the other person with a birthday today in this house.”
Jean gives you a wet, noisy kiss on the cheek. “Lucky them.”
You swat at him with your frosting-covered hand, but he dodges with a chuckle. “Of course it’s for you. Now help me fill up the bag.”
Jean washes his hands and then grabs the rubber spatula, eager to help even though it’s supposed to be part of his gift. You hold the plastic piping bag open, large swirl tip already inserted into the point. While Jean is a decent chef, he’s messy in the kitchen, so you can’t say you’re surprised when he scoops up big globs of frosting, getting about ¾ in the bowl and the rest on your hands and his.
When the bag is full, you twist up the end and squeeze the frosting to the bottom, dolloping pretty drops of frosting around the circumference of the little cake, just the perfect size for two.
Jean slides up behind you again, wrapping his arms around you and covering your hands with his own. He guides you as you finish the last few drops, sticky frosting smooshing between your fingers and only making more of a mess. The cake looks perfect, though. A few cut strawberries for a garnish and it’ll be complete.
“You like it?”
“Looks amazing, thank you. I could actually go for a taste right about now.”
Gently, he pulls one of your hands off the piping bag and to his mouth. One digit at a time, he sucks your fingers clean, tongue wrapping around each one until it’s clean of the creamy, white icing. Your face heats instantly, and you’d be ashamed of the fact that it makes you moan softly if Jean wasn’t doing the same each time he dips one of your fingers in his mouth.
“Gonna spoil your dinner,” you tease breathlessly.
Jean hums around your pinkie before you let him pull it from his mouth with a wet pop. His eyes are dark and heavy-lidded as he looks you up and down. “In the mood for something a little sweeter than dinner.”
His lips are saccharine when he kisses you, sugary from the homemade buttercream, too delicious not to lick and taste. He lifts a hand to cup your cheek, making you laugh into his mouth as he smears icing on your face. Almost reflexively, you turn your head to the side, breaking the kiss to wrap your lips around his thumb.
You taste vanilla and his skin as you suckle on his fingers, causing a moan to crackle in Jean’s throat. He pulls his thumb out of your mouth and replaces it with his pointer finger. He lets you lavish him, sucking the sweet cream from his knuckles before swinging to the next finger. Holding him by the wrist, you urge his middle finger a little deeper, almost enough to gag on but not quite. Jean’s eyes flutter closed, and he moans louder.
He pushes his last two fingers in faster, forces you to lick them off quickly before pulling his hand away to kiss you again. He’s still breathless when he says, “Come with me. And bring that.” He points at the still full piping bag, and you grab it with a second thought.
Steady hands strip you down quickly when you reach the bedroom, the evening light dim with the curtains drawn. Your bed is made, thank goodness, you think, as Jean strips his work clothes and reaches for the piping bag. It’ll be less to wash that way, less to worry about while you indulge him.
“Just lie down, baby.” Jean waits for you to get comfortable before situating himself between your legs. With both hands, he pipes a long line of frosting down your body, starting between your collarbones, tracing between your breasts and down your stomach, and ending below your navel, not too close to your intimate parts but close enough to make you tingle thinking about his tongue laving over the skin there.
He starts at the top, bending over you to slurp at the icing on your chest, licking upwards in little strokes that make your skin prickle with goosebumps. Each time he dips his head for another taste, the sharp slope of his nose drags against your skin, and the frosting on your stomach smears against his chest and abs.
You can’t help but thread your fingers through his hair and pull, just a little, as he pauses between your breasts. He grunts, lifting long enough to wrap his lips around one of your nipples. “You like that, baby?” you tease, but he only groans again and scrapes over the hard little bud with his teeth, making you inhale sharply.
He’s focused as he works his way down your body, licking up the cream like it’s the best thing he’s ever had. You shiver, despite the heat of his mouth, as the long stripe of saliva he left on your skin cools in the air. His hands tighten around your waist as he reaches your core, opening wide to take a huge mouthful of the soft skin just above your pussy.
You writhe for him when he sits up, long strings of spit connecting his chin to your lower tummy before he wipes his mouth on the back of his arm. His chest and stomach are covered with the frosting that rubbed off on him. “Wanna taste you now,” he mumbles. Your knees squeeze together around his hips, stopping him before he settles onto his stomach.
“Wait, it’s your birthday. At least let me suck you off while you do.” It doesn’t seem right to neglect the erection straining against his stomach; this should be all about him.
Jean tilts his head to the side and grins. “God, I fucking love you.”
He’s tall, meaning he has to scrunch up a little bit, but with his legs spread on either side of your head, you don’t have to work hard to guide his cock into your mouth with your hand. You can’t swallow all of him, especially not from this angle, but hums and groans as you tease his tip in your mouth while you wrap your fist around the rest.
“Fuck.” It’s the last thing he says before he licks a long stripe down your cunt, one that makes your knees knock against the sides of his head. His tongue teases between your folds, tasting and spreading your slick until he can plunge into your hole. The wet heat from his mouth makes your abdominals and your legs shake, sweet sounds from your mouth vibrating around the sensitive head of his cock.
The pleasure is almost blinding, the give and take all at once overwhelming every sense. You urge him deeper in your mouth, hollowing your cheeks and sucking hard. With both hands free, you can tug on his shaft and play with his balls at the same time, making his hips twitch with shallow thrusts into your mouth.
Jean moans around your cunt, slurping as you begin to drip with arousal. The stubble on his chin rubs against your clit as he pokes his tongue into you, until finally he can’t stand it. He pulls back to suck your clit while two fingers plunge inside you, and you spasm within seconds.
He licks up what you spill before pushing up onto his hands. Hips come down, burying his length deeper in your throat as you whine, and he starts to beg. “Make me cum, baby. Please, I wanna finish for you. Your mouth feels so good, oh god.”
Jean thrusts softly into your mouth, and this time you do sob and gag. The warm tightness of your throat pushes him closer, panting and begging, “Please, please, fuck, please,” until his cock throbs and releases more than you can take. His seed trickles out of the corners of your mouth, but you swallow as much as you can, milking his spent cock before he pulls out and climbs up to settle on the mattress beside you.
You’re sweaty and sticky, lingering traces of sugar and butter plastering Jean’s chest to yours when he settles his head against your breast. “You were so good, baby,” he sighs as your breaths begin to slow beneath him.
You pet his hair softly, satisfied and dreamy. “Happy birthday.”
“I should have birthdays more often.” You both laugh and squeeze each other a little tighter. “Now what?”
“We should probably shower first. I’m covered in frosting. Then there’s dinner, and then there’s cake.”
Jean tips his chin up to kiss under your jaw. “And then dessert?”
It doesn’t take a genius to decipher that he’s not talking about the cake.
#jean kirstein x reader#jean kirschtein x reader#aot x reader#snk x reader#attack on titan fanfiction#snk#my writing#happy birthday hubby
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Under Pastel Skies - 2
Sugar daddy!Bucky Barnes x Reader
Summary: Modern!AU Bucky doesn’t need anyone, especially not a sugar baby. He isn’t that desperate… but she smiles so sweetly and she’s endearingly awkward, and he’s so lonely. She’s an artist, a painter, the type of person who always puts others before herself. Throwing caution to the wind Bucky offers her a place to live, a place where she can finally paint whatever her heart desires. He doesn’t need much in return; a friend, a muse.
Word Count: 2,024
Warnings: none
A/N: I’m just going to remind you that this sugar daddy fic isn’t about smut. I love smut but it’s not what I’m focusing on here.
Bucky stood under the glass awning in front of the hotel, the neon green light illuminating the path to the automatic doors. He forced his eyes closed and listened to the sound of rain hitting the glass shelter.
It was just after 6:30 in the morning and he had been standing there for over ten minutes, trying to work up the courage to enter the building. He was sweating, trembling, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. Every sound around him seemed amplified; cars honking, people talking or listening to music. It was hell.
He desperately wanted to take a cab ride back to Brooklyn and hide in his apartment. Bucky had a strict routine -get up at six, eat, shave, shower, go for a walk, etc- and he needed it to keep his mind focused and his body healthy. Though lately, his therapist had encouraged him to stray from his routine if he felt like it. And he wanted to, but his body wasn’t cooperating.
Instead he just stood here, stuck between two choices that terrified him. He could go back home and hate himself for taking the ‘easy way out’, or he could take the plunge and enter the building. He had come here on a whim, but now that he was here he felt as if he really needed to see you. He didn’t even know if you were working.
He looked over his shoulder, he could almost see the metaphorical pack of wolves waiting for him. It would be easy to give in and let them take him. He could go back to his old life, his old habits, or he could jump off that metaphorical cliff and hope for the best.
Your chances are infinite. Anything can happen.
“Can I help you, sir?”
Bucky greeted the receptionist with a smile. He asked if he could have breakfast at the hotel restaurant and she agreed before leading him to the Bar Lounge.
The room was large, with row after row of square tables perfectly aligned. There were a few more private seats close to the bar and an oval buffet in the middle of the room. A woman in a dark grey suit scooped a small portion of scrambled eggs onto her plate next to two slices of toasted white bread. She raised her gaze to his and nodded in greeting.
The swing door that led to the kitchen burst open and Bucky turned his attention to the sound. You were carrying a large tank of orange juice to the buffet table, a pen tucked behind your ear and a piece of paper between your lips. There was a slight furrow between your brows as you set the tank on the table.
Your scuffed boots were gone, replaced by black ballet flats. Your pencil skirt rose up as you stretched to reach the highest part of the buffet. Bucky hastily looked away from your bare legs, not wanting to look like a total creep. Once you were done, you smoothed down your skirt and tucked your white shirt into your skirt.
Your hair was brushed away from your face and your lips were painted red, something dark and empowering, and it contrasted beautifully with your strict, uninspiring uniform, which only intended to erase any sense of individuality.
“Hi, how can I h- Hey, I know you,” you said, approaching him. “You’re Bucky.”
He bashfully looked at his shoes. “Yeah, hi.” He cleared his throat and raised his gaze to yours. “I was hoping to run into you. I, uh, I can’t stop thinking about our talk.” He ran his hand through his hair. “I was rude and brusque, and you were incredibly nice. I really feel like an ass.”
You chuckled. “It’s fine. Honestly, I was nervous, too. You should have seen me –I was a complete mess.”
“Could have fooled me,” he replied with a grin. “Though you did say that meeting me was like choosing between a pack of wolves or jumping off a cliff.”
“Gosh!” You facepalmed. “See? A complete mess!” You gestured to the table behind you. “Have you eaten yet? Sit down, it’s on me.” He opened his mouth to protest but you cut him off. “You paid for the taxi. It’s only fair.”
Amused, he shook his head and followed you to the buffet table. Everything looked and smelled delicious. He spotted several glass cereal dispensers filled with frosted flakes, Cap'n Crunch, Lucky Charms and good old Fruit Loops.
“We also have French toasts, pancakes, croissants, turnovers, omelettes, eggs, four different types of bread with margarine, butter, jam, Nutella, or marmalade,” you said without pausing for a breath, “freshly sliced fruits, a variety of yogurts, granola, oatmeal, orange juice, apple juice, Danish pastries, muffins and a great selection of teas.”
“And that’s it?” Bucky asked, his face breaking into a teasing smile. You liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners right before he smiled.
You pouted your lips while you thought. “Actually no, we also have scrambled eggs –which, frankly, I don’t recommend. They come in a plastic bag and we have to heat them up in the microwave. It’s a little gross. You can try the sausage and bacon though, unless you don’t eat meat.”
“And coffee?” He found your flustered reaction to his teasing absolutely adorable.
“Yes, of course,” you said, biting your bottom lip. “Sorry, I get a little excited sometimes.”
“I understand,” he nodded. “That’s a pretty great buffet, though I’ll stay clear of the scrambled eggs.”
You took a few steps toward the kitchen and turned back to him, a little apologetic cringe on your face. “Um, how do you take your coffee? Expresso, Americano, latte, cappuccino, macchiato, mocha, ristretto-” you paused to take a breath “-or iced coffee?”
A laugh bubbled out of him. He couldn’t help it, you were just too endearing. “Black,” he said, grinning. “I know I’m boring.”
“Oh, no! You’re not boring,” you rushed to say, then realized what he was doing. “Ugh, you’re messing with me, aren’t you?”
“A little.” His nose scrunched up as he said it.
You went to the kitchen to make his cup of coffee and Bucky began to browse the length of the buffet table. Scooping food onto his plate with only one hand proved more challenging than he expected, and he was glad that the lounge was mostly empty.
He could feel the lady in the grey suit’s eyes on him as he moved around. He set his plate on the bar, removed the glass lid, scooped up two hefty pancakes and stacked them on his plate. They looked pretty fluffy, it wouldn’t be hard to cut them with the edge of a fork. Then he replaced the lid and moved his plate closer to the maple syrup bottle.
He glanced at the woman who hastily looked away as if she hadn’t been staring at him the whole time. Annoyed, he kept looking at her while he poured maple syrup over his pancakes. He hated when people stared at him as if he were a freak. He narrowed his eyes menacingly and grinned to himself when she started fidgeting in her seat.
“You must really love maple syrup.”
Bucky paused at the sound of your voice, his features immediately softened. He looked down at his plate and realised he had drowned his pancakes in a gooey river of maple syrup. He must have spaced out during his staring contest with the business woman.
He had a strange look in his eyes, his expression a mix of confusion and anguish. Finally his eyes found yours and you smiled warmly at him, making him fight back a blink. You pried the bottle out of his rigid hand, and he let you take it.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice weak.
You weren’t sure what he was apologizing for but it wasn’t something you were going to analyse right now. “There’s a cup of coffee waiting for you. Best cup in Manhattan.”
He laughed, the crinkles were back. “You’re an angel.”
Bucky returned to his table and loaded his coffee with three teaspoons of sugar before he took a sip. He had always preferred sweet to savoury, and coffee was way too bitter for him.
There wasn’t much to do in the lounge. The television was behind him, the sound kept to a minimum. The lady in the grey suit left soon after and Bucky watched you clean her table.
You moved back and forth between the main room and the kitchen, going about your work and occasionally shooting him a smile. The food was good, not spectacular, but still better than his usual breakfast –two slices of toasted white bread with butter and a cup of coffee.
“Do you need anything else?” you asked, standing next to his table.
“Company?” he said with a hopeful look. “Please.”
You offered him a pained grimace when he gestured at the seat across from him. “I’m not allowed to sit. Sorry.”
It was hard to resist his puppy dog eyes but you needed to keep your job if you wanted to be able to afford your own place.
“Do you like working here?”
“It’s okay,” you shrugged. “I’m glad I have a job.”
“Sam mentioned you’re an artist.”
You shyly looked around you, you were the only two people in the room now. “I haven’t painted since I got this job,” you revealed. “I’m pretty sure my artist membership card has been cancelled.”
“Nope, those are for life.”
You laughed. “I hope so.”
You looked at each other before he asked, “Do you have any pictures of your work?”
You were genuinely surprised that someone wanted to see your work. Usually people offered a half-hearted ‘oh, that nice. I paint, too, occasionally” and changed the subject. You patted your pockets, searching for your phone, and groaned when you remembered that it was in your locker.
“I don’t have my phone with me but wait-” You took a napkin from the table and started writing. “This is my Instagram. I do a bit of everything, mostly landscapes and portraits.”
Bucky took the piece of paper and, before he could comment, a family of four walked into the lounge area. You apologized to him and walked over to the family, greeting them with a smile and asking them if they had a good night’s sleep.
The children looked like walking zombies until they spotted the cereal bar, and then chaos ensued. More people went down to breakfast and you didn’t have time to chat with him anymore.
He stayed a little longer, watching you help the kids pour cereal and milk into their bowls. A man who didn’t speak English very well asked you a question and you froze, trying to make him understand since you didn’t speak his language. Bucky smiled when you mimed the answer. The man laughed and gave you a thumb’s up.
There was something about you, something soft and caring, that made people at ease. Even when people started complaining that the platter of scrambled eggs was empty, you defused the situation so smoothly that they left with a smile on their face. It was the kind of person you were, kind-hearted and willing to help.
An angel.
When you looked in his direction again, Bucky was gone. You felt a pang of disappointment that he hadn’t said goodbye, but you had been so busy that even if he had been trying to get your attention, chances are you wouldn’t have noticed him.
Pouting exaggeratedly to yourself, you went to his table with your tray and a clean rag to collect the dirty dishes. You moved the unfolded napkin and what you saw underneath made you stop. You blinked, once, twice, three times, certain that you were hallucinating. You scooped up the bills and counted them.
$300
Your eyes were the size of saucers as you ran back to the lobby. You checked outside for Bucky but he was gone. You stood there, under the glass awning, with a bewildered look on your face, still clutching the bills.
Part 3
#bucky barnes#bucky x reader#marvel#bucky barnes x reader#marvel imagine#bucky barnes imagines#bucky barnes fanfiction#marvel imagines#bucky barnes imagine#redgillan#redgillanwrites
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