man I love your writing!! would you do something with Llewyn's clothes getting too snug? teasing and/or humiliation is totally fine. thank you!!
you just revived my ass thank you
He’s clearly not paying Jean any mind, alternating between picking at the pads of his calloused fingers and scratching the occasional word onto a notepad he’s balanced on his thigh. The word ‘MILK,’ squeezed into the bottom left corner, has been traced over so many times that it’s barely legible. Now played through, the needle on the vinyl he’d selected before sinking into the couch jumps with each rotation, but he’s fallen so deep into the rhythm of his non-activities that he fails to notice.
“Llewyn,” she snaps, and he lifts his head to fix her with the dumbfounded puppy-dog look with which she’s developed a love/hate relationship. “Jesus, Llewyn, I said we needed to leave ten fucking minutes ago.”
“Oh.” False innocence or a genuinely blank mind? Either way, it’s bound to upset Jean; he’s as sorry as he is glad to have dragged her into this. The personal fuckin’ hell that is knowing who he is and choosing to carry right the fuck on, anyway.
“Yeah,” he starts again. There’s a beat of silence and stillness between them before he forces himself to his feet, gives his go-to cardigan a downward tug, and lifts his chin and eyebrows in her direction. “How’s’is? I can wear this?”
And there it is: a shift she’ll assume he’s blind to. A microexpression — eyebrows pulled closer together, slight tilt of the head, a twitch to her lips that betrays her having a secret without either of them having spoken.
She crosses the room before Llewyn’s able to place it.
“Huh.” Jean pulls at one of his sweater buttons, and after finding it has no room to stretch, moves the expedition south. Despite it being a thicker fabric, it’s puckered slightly where it fastens. “Look at you.”
“I’ll just — Jesus Christ, I’ll change, if that’s what this is fuckin’ about—”
Without another word, she dips her hands past the softest part of what is now, indubitably, a belly, and tries to get a finger wiggled in between his hip and the waistband of his corduroys. (Not even the pinky works.)
“How have you not noticed?”
“You’re getting fat.” She clucks her tongue and she’s grinning, the insufferable fuckin’ sadist. “You look like a fucking father of four.”
“‘Sorry, kid, daddy’s sleeping on Auntie Jean’s couch tonight’.” She follows the curve of his gut with a knuckle until, at long last, she deems it appropriate to lock eyes. They’re both a little pink, Jean a little pleased, and neither is in any rush to break away. “Fuck the show. I’m making you dinner.”
