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charmandabear · 14 days

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Office Hours - Chapter Ten

Summary:

It's bowling time! You and the gang get a little closer over this highly unsexy game. Definitely no sexy things will happen in this chapter. No, don't look at the tags. Stop, what are you doing.

Pairing: Astarion/f!Reader

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 4.3k

Tags/Warnings: thigh riding, dry humping, rough kisses, fantasies of bondage, cumming in pants, vampire bites/blood drinking, conversations about academic research, semi-public semi-sex

So I didn't actually mean to wait a week and a half between posting chapter 10 on AO3 and posting it here, but as a result, I can tell you that the un-beta'd chapter 11 is now up on my Kofi! You can read it for free, or you can wait until it's fully edited on AO3. Up to you, guy.

As always, @zipzoomzaria is responsible for the devastatingly handsome professor in the banner.

Read on AO3 ~ Masterlist

Admittedly, you kind of delight in the look on Astarion’s face as you cross the threshold into the bowling alley. His nose wrinkles while his eyes dart around the space, cataloging everything from the stained black and neon rainbow carpet, to the bored employee sitting in front of rows and rows of dirty rental shoes, to the group of noisy teengers eating nachos covered with a thick liquid cheese.

He lets out a low growl and you giggle, almost giddy at the evening ahead of you. There is absolutely no chance in hell you’ll be able to do anything even remotely sexual in this environment. You grab his hand and drag him over to the shoe rental.

“Hi, can I get a 7 ½?” you ask the employee, and they languidly pull their chin off their hand and turn around to grab the shoes. Astarion hovers behind you, still uncomfortably taking everything in. You take the shoes from the employee and drop them in front of you, stepping out of your flats and into the bowling shoes.

“Ugh, gods, I don't know why you insist on taking part in this,” he says with a sneer, well within earshot of the employee, whose eyes have already started to glaze back over. “It’s not enough to put your fingers into a grease-coated ball, you choose to play dress up with a hundred other people’s feet?”

“I mean I wouldn’t choose to, I just have to if I want to actually do the bowling part of it,” you tell him as you wiggle your ankle to get the shoe to settle.

“Sorry, what?”

You had been waiting for this moment and you try to hide your glee as you say, “Yeah, you have to rent special shoes so you don’t fuck up the floor.”

His face remains frozen for a moment in a look of utter disgust as he processes what you said. “So you’re telling me,” he drawls, waving his finger like a disgruntled valley girl, “that in order to play this asinine game that you’re making me play, I must pay money to let my feet bask in the foot sweat residue of several hundred strangers?”

“You also have to leave your shoes with them while they’re rented,” you add, handing your flats over to the employee, who slips them in the cubby whence they retrieved your rental shoes. Astarion splutters incoherently.

“That’s it, you’ve lost me, this was a very cute idea but I am absolut–” You grab his hand as he starts storming away and pull him back towards the rental counter.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun, I promise!” You grasp his hand in both of yours, an exaggerated gesture of a pleading child. “Just do it for me, please?”

He scowls at your beaming face for a moment before rolling his eyes and approaching the counter again.

“I’ll take a 9 ½,” he grumbles through gritted teeth. The employee continues to display an almost impressive amount of apathy as they grab the requested size. Astarion makes a show of his disgust as he takes off his patent leather oxfords and puts on the grubby shoes that were presumably red and blue at one point.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he mutters out of the side of his mouth and your grin widens.

“You absolutely will not,” you tease. He stands suddenly, closer than you had realized, and looms over you.

“Would you like to test that theory?” he hums in a low voice, and your breath catches in your throat. He turns away from your reddening face with a smug sense of satisfaction as he hands his shoes to the employee. He starts to walk away when their voice interrupts him.

“Sir, you need to pay for those,” they call out halfheartedly. He turns around to you, just staring back innocently.

“Oh, I’m paying,” he confirms blankly, and you shrug.

“You’re the one with tenure, you make more than me,” you state matter-of-factly. He scowls again but doesn’t protest, and instead just taps his phone on the pin pad.

You scan the lanes to see if you can spot any of your friends. Gale sees you and waves you over to where he and Wyll are sitting together stiffly. Shadowheart and Karlach aren’t here yet.

“Hello, there,” he calls, grateful to see faces he recognizes. A paper boat of fries sits on the table between them, along with two plastic cups of water.

“Any word from Karlach?” you ask Wyll, leaning over the hard plastic bench to grab a fry.

“She apologized, she said they’d be here soon,” he replies, glancing at the text from her.

“Took them longer to get ready than they expected,” you say with a grin, and Wyll clears his throat, cheeks darkening slightly.

“Oh Tav, have you caught up with If Books?” Gale asks you, taking off his glasses to clean them with his knit sweater vest.

“Yes, I couldn’t stop listening to it,” you reply enthusiastically, “some episodes have been very illuminating.” You cast a quick glance at Astarion and he petulantly shoves his hands into his pockets and shuffles his feet. “But it’s so hard waiting for each new one,” you add, and Gale nods.

“Yes, and they’ve switched from a bimonthly schedule to a monthly schedule, so the wait is even longer,” he agrees.

“What’s up, fuckers?” Karlach’s voice booms across the lanes and Astarion mutters, “Oh thank the gods,” under his breath. Shadowheart and Karlach saunter over, Karlach double fisting pitchers of a pale amber beer. She puts them down onto the table, only one of them sloshing beer over the edge. Shadowheart narrows her eyes at Astarion, sizing him up.

“Shade, this is Astarion, Astarion, this is my best friend Shadowheart,” you awkwardly introduce them to try to cut the tension as early as possible.

“Yes, I’m aware,” Shadowheart says with disdain, looking down her nose at Astarion. “I’ve heard plenty about you.”

“Only the best, I’m sure,” he lobs back. “Funny, I don’t think she’s mentioned you.” You shoot Astarion a dirty look as Shadowheart’s eyebrows disappear into her bangs. You can tell that she’s unaccustomed to sparring with someone who has as much snark as her, but the verdict is still out on whether or not it’s a good thing.

Oblivious to the heated standoff behind her, Karlach types away at the console, putting in slightly wrong initials for everyone and giggling maniacally as she does. In order, the names say ASS, TAV, CAR, SAD, GIL, and WIL.

“Soldier over here’s lucky, her name is already three letters,” she laughs and winks at you. Astarion fiddles with the roll of his sleeve and looks at the ball return with apprehension.

“I suppose my ‘ass’ is first?” He hits Karlach with the look over the glasses and she throws her head back, cackling like a hyena.

“Good on ya, Cardigan, there’s a sense of humor under that mop after all.” She kicks the toe of her red and white shoe at him from where she’s sitting, but he dodges out of the way. He walks up to the ball return and shudders before he decides on one, visibly gagging as he picks it up.

“Okay you drama queen, we get it, it’s gross,” you laugh at him, “now just knock as many pins down as you can, okay?”

“That much would seem obvious,” he smirks, and walks up to the edge of the lane. He glances back at you one last time, almost as if he’s assessing if you’re really worth the humiliation, before throwing the ball down the lane. It glides towards the pins in a smooth straight line before crashing into their pyramid, knocking over all but one. He stares at the lone pin in shock as you and Karlach whoop at him.

“Hey, you might actually be good at this game after all!” you shout as he walks back to the bench, looking just a little more pleased with himself. He’s about to sit down when you stop him, saying, “No, you get two frames.” He looks back down at the end of the lane just in time to see the mechanical arm sweep away the fallen pins and leave the remaining one standing. He makes a dramatic show of sighing heavily and picks up the ball again. He approaches the lane, calculates the pathing, and throws the ball. It knocks down the last pin.

“Okay Ancunín, comin’ in hot with the spare!” Karlach laughs and he puffs his chest slightly at the compliment. “I think you might need a better nickname than Cardigan.”

“Gods please, I’ll take anything,” he begs, and you stand up to grab a ball.

“Perhaps Dr. Bowling?” Wyll pipes up, and Gale adds, “A doctorate in Bowling Studies with a concentration in spares and strikes?” Astarion’s scowl is icy, but even you can tell he’s having fun.

“I’ve spoken too quickly,” he says, gritting his teeth.

You find that the six of you get along quite well. The conversation is easy and light as you cycle through your turns, laughs flowing between you as freely as the terrible watery beer.

You take a gulp from your plastic cup, your legs draped over Astarion’s lap as Gale takes his turn. Astarion scoffs at the smell.

“Nine hells, how can you possibly drink that piss?” He turns his face away from the yellowish liquid.

“I don’t know, I have low standards for myself?” you answer with a shrug.

Shadowheart lets out a high pitch giggle. “Clearly, considering you’re dating him,” she snickers, and Astarion fixes her with a playfully snide look.

“Big talk coming from someone who needs aloe vera after a romantic evening,” he retorts with pursed lips. Shadowheart tries to suppress a smile – talking shit is her love language.

“At least she and I agree to it prior,” she says coolly, and Astarion goes even paler than usual. He shoots you a nervous glance, a sort of are we allowed to joke about that? But you laugh and take another sip of your beer, surreptitiously rubbing the back of his hand resting on your knee in assurance.

You’re enjoying watching Shadowheart and Karlach navigate the awkward early stages of the relationship. Shadowheart has her hands clasped around her knee, bent in front of her as her foot rests on the plastic bench. Karlach’s arm is draped across the back of the bench, leaving enough plausible deniability as to whether or not her arm is actually around Shadowheart. You suspect by the end of the evening, it’ll be less ambiguous.

“So tell me, Gale,” Wyll asks as Gale waits by the ball return. “I’ve never met a wizard with a PhD, what was your research in?”

“I’m so glad you asked, because I think you in particular would find use of it,” he responds enthusiastically. “It was in ethical uses of high powered spells. There’s a stigma around mortals chasing too much power, but I feel very strongly that some spells simply have no downside.”

Astarion quirks an eyebrow, his hand absentmindedly playing with the ends of your hair.

“I wouldn’t have pegged you for someone who’s power hungry, Dekarios,” he says with a smirk, and Gale emphatically shakes his head.

“No, the power isn’t for me, it’s for– well, hold on.” He quickly grabs his ball from the return and throws it down the lane. It hits the gutter within seconds.

“Too bad!” Karlach calls, her arm slipping ever so slightly around Shadowheart’s shoulders a bit more.

“It’s fine. Anyway.” Gale is quick to return to the benches, excited to talk about his research. “I strongly feel that Globe of Invulnerability, Heal, and Heroes’ Feast simply have no downside. We should implement systems in which they can be used for the greater good.”

“Fascinating. Do doctors not already use Heal in hospitals?” Wyll muses, then turns to Shadowheart as he stands to take his turn. “Shadowheart, you’re a cleric of Selûne, you must use Heal all the time.”

Shadowheart shakes her head. “We’re not permitted to use anything more powerful than Mass Cure Wounds, and even then it’s only in the most dire situations, like war zones. I don’t even know how to perform it.”

“See, this is precisely what I’m saying! Imagine all the good that we could do if there were more medical professionals who knew Mass Cure Wounds and Heal.” Gale gesticulates wildly with his almost empty cup of beer.

“Heroes’ Feast could end world hunger in a matter of minutes!” Wyll nearly shouts from the lane right before he bowls his second frame, almost as excited as Gale.

“Yes!” Gale returns the excitement and then downs the last sip of his beer. “In fact, I think many of these high level spells are outlawed in some countries without even considering how they might impact our society.”

“Hey Ass, you’re up,” Wyll calls, heading back to the bench.

“Darling, could you move your legs?” he asks you, his tone saccharine. You make a show of deliberating, holding your finger to your chin.

“Hmmm, I’m not sure. Wyll, who’s winning right now?” you call out to him and he speaks through the fry in his mouth.

“Ashtarion,” he mumbles.

“Yeah, I don’t think I will move,” you smirk obstinately, pushing your calves down into his lap. He raises his eyebrows at your challenge, peering at you over his glasses. He grabs your ankles and sharply turns you in your seat, his rough handling sending a subtle jolt through your core.

“Don’t pick a fight you can’t win, love,” he hums, his lips barely brushing against yours. He stands and turns towards the lane, leaving you slightly breathless. Karlach and Shadowheart titter at your dazed expression, the distance between them having all but disappeared.

Astarion gets yet another strike, and you briefly wonder how this English academic got so dexterous before remembering the feel of his long smooth fingers working inside you. You blink several times to banish the needlessly dirty thought as he turns around with an insufferably pompous look on his face, his newly discovered talent feeding his already overinflated ego. You try to play it cool as you stand and walk toward the ball return, but he blocks your body with his. You look up at him and he runs his knuckle up the front of your throat, stopping it right under your chin.

“Don’t choke,” he purrs and you press your lips together tightly to prevent an embarrassing noise from escaping. You shake your hair over your ears to cover how red they’ve become, but you’re certain your cheeks still give you away. You grab a ball and throw it down the lane, hardly aware of how many pins it knocks down. You stare into the ball return with glazed eyes as you watch your pink ball slide out of its mouth. You grab it, barely registering the shouts of encouragement from the others, and throw it down the lane as quickly as you can. You turn around before seeing the outcome of the frame, your mind occupied by one solitary thought.

“Excuse me, I’m going to run to the restroom,” you mumble, wrapping around behind the plastic benches as Karlach stands to take her turn. As discreetly as possible, you run your fingers across Astarion’s shoulders as you pass behind him. If you’re lucky, he’ll get the hint. If not… well, you need to take a breather anyway.

You duck into the hallway branching off the main lanes and settle yourself behind an ancient payphone. You have no idea if it’s meant to be kitschy and retro or simply a relic of a bygone era. You take a deep breath as you try to clear your head.

It didn't take long for Astarion to swing around the corner, grabbing your face in his hands and pushing you up against the wood-paneled wall. His lips are hard on yours and his fingers tangle in your hair – a roughness you’re all too happy to accept. You grasp at his lower waist, pulling his body further into yours. Your lips pop open as a small moan escapes when his knee slides up between your legs, pressing against your already aching mound.

“I thought this was meant to dampen our appetites,” he murmurs through breathless kisses. You clutch the back of his head as you grind down wantonly on his thigh.

“It’s not my fault you get fucking hot when you’re competitive, ah–” you swallow the moan as he slides his chilled hands up the back of your shirt, pressing into the dip just above your ass.

“I take it you like seeing me win?” You can feel his lips smiling against your earlobe, and you let out a small squeak when he gives it a gentle nip.

“I like seeing you cocky,” you groan, desperately chasing the friction that his thigh provides. He chuckles and pushes his leg up further into you, causing you to grunt through your teeth and pull on his hair as you try to keep the obscene noises that he’s tearing from you under control.

“Tell me how else you like me,” he rasps, and you can feel his erection pressing against your thigh.

“I like it when you’re domineering,” your voice cracks as you continue to roll your hips against him. “I like when you tell me what to do. I like it when you’re just a little mean but even more when you tell me I’m a good girl.”

His hips buck against you and you shift on top of his leg, trying to relieve your own throbbing cunt while rubbing your leg against the bulge in his pants. His lips are still on your ear and he lets out a hissing breath when you lightly brush against his cock.

“You are my good girl, don’t stop.” His breath is cool against your skin and he runs the tip of his tongue along the shell of your ear, pulling a deep shudder from you. You can already feel how wet he’s made you, and if he keeps this up you might just come undone.

“I want you to put your hand around my throat when you fuck me,” you whine, your slick folds sliding against each other as he grinds his thigh into you. “I want you to put me in a collar and hold the leash tight and tell me I’m yours.” The fantasy is pouring out of you at this point. You’re hardly aware of your surroundings, all that matters is you and Astarion.

You can tell your words are affecting him, too. The rutting of his hips grow frantic and you tighten your hand in his hair and you can feel that familiar spiraling heat blooming out from your core.

“Gods, Astarion, I’m–” you mewl, fully riding his leg at this point. “Please bite me, I want you to bite me, I’m begging–” The moment his fangs sink into your flesh you come, your hand pressed tight over your mouth to muffle the sound, your hips stuttering with each rippling wave of pleasure. As he takes long dragging sips of your blood he makes barely audible whimpers into your neck, his hips still thrusting into your thigh. You bring your hands to his ear, gently pinching his velvety lobe between your fingers.

“Fuck, come for me Astarion,” you whisper into his hair, and it’s enough. He inhales sharply through his nose, teeth still latched onto your neck, and the rest of him stills, save a few subtle jerks of his hips as he spills inside his pants. You let out a breathy chuckle as you card your fingers through his hair affectionately. He pulls away from your neck and you’re blessed with one of your favorite sights – his lips slightly bloody, his eyes wild and frenzied, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. You kiss him, lapping up the metallic droplets from his lips, and he lets out a shuddering breath.

“I do so love it when you do that, you know,” he sighs, and you stifle a giggle.

“Make you come in your pants?” you tease.

“No– well, yes, I mean– I mean no!” he stammers, uncharacteristically flustered, and you hum with approval. “No, when you kiss me just after I’ve fed on you. It makes me feel… closer to you, I suppose.”

“Plus I bet it’s, like, really sexy,” you joke, skating over his sincerity, afraid of what you might accidentally say in response. You’re so not ready to write a check that you can’t cash.

“Yes, it is,” he murmurs and kisses you again, unphased by your deflection.

As though an impenetrable barrier had been lifted, someone rounds the corner to head to the bathroom and the two of you straighten up like you didn’t just dry hump like a couple of horny teenagers. You try to tidy your appearances, but there’s no accounting for the noticeable stain on the front of Astarion’s pants. He pinches the bridge of his nose, his glasses sliding up onto his forehead.

“I can’t believe you… ugh. I can’t be seen by the others like this.” He sighs deeply, the consequences of both of your actions finally catching up to him. You bite your lip guiltily, then suddenly gasp, recalling the machine you’ve seen in hundreds of restrooms throughout your life but never had any use for.

“Do you have a quarter?” you ask him frantically, and he stares at you, completely flummoxed.

“No, who carries cash anymore? What, why do–” You’re gone before he can finish his sentence, dashing around the corner to find Shadowheart. Karlach sees you first, and her face lights up as she waves her whole arm at you.

“Hey, we were just about to send out a search party,” she laughs as you round the corner of the benches.

“Itoldthemnotto,” Gale adds quickly, and you appreciate that he learned his lesson from last time. Shadowheart strides up to you and grabs your chin, pulling it to the side to expose your neck.

“Ugh, Tav, you shouldn’t drive when you’re like this,” she groans. “Te absolvo.” She flicks your forehead as she casts the spell and you flinch before a sheepish grin slides onto your face.

“Hey, where’s Astarion?” Karlach asks, making like she’s going to head towards the bathrooms to look for him. You grab her arm before she can get too far.

“No no, don’t worry about that,” you speak frenetically, “Does anyone have a quarter?”

“Who even carries cash anymore?” Karlach asks with a bemused face, but Shadowheart glowers at you.

“Why, what do you need it for?” she asks through gritted teeth.

“Don’t worry about it,” you mumble, and she rolls her eyes. She grabs her purse and pulls out a sleek black leather wallet embossed with a crescent moon. “I only have ones,” she says, and you yank the bill out of her hand.

“That’s fine thanks love you be right back.” You take off with her dollar and make a beeline for the change machine near the arcade. After several attempts to flatten the bill enough for the machine to accept it, you hear four clangs as the quarters drop into the metal tray. You quickly scoop them out and run back to the hallway outside the bathrooms where poor Astarion is pretending to talk on the payphone.

“Where in the sweet hells did you go?” he hisses, and you finally get a good look at his appearance. His hair is still slightly disheveled, and he’s untucked his shirt to let it hang over the wet spot on the front of his trousers. You don’t answer him, but rather grab his wrist and duck into the women’s restroom that is, thankfully, empty.

You turn to the metal machine hanging off the wall that dispenses three invaluable items for a bowling alley bathroom: tampons, condoms, and scrolls of prestidigitation. You drop a quarter into the slot above the third item, crank the knob, and out falls a tightly rolled scroll.

“They’re usually for mothers to clean up after they’re done changing their baby’s diaper,” you say, nodding your head towards the plastic baby changing station. “But clearly they have other uses. Infame.” You recite the spell’s incantation and the scroll vanishes along with the stain on Astarion’s pants. He lets out a sigh of relief.

“Thank the Gods.” He unbuckles his belt and begins to tuck his shirt back into his pants. “You owe me,” he adds wryly.

“Um excuse me, who just traipsed all over just to hunt down a goddamn quarter so you could clean up after yourself?” you pout and he slides his hands around your waist.

“But who’s responsible for getting me into this mess in the first place?” he hums in a low voice, brushing his lips against yours. You’re about to melt into his kiss when suddenly the door to the restroom opens and a bewildered looking halfling walks in. You and Astarion spring apart and he quickly redoes his belt buckle. You embarrassedly shuffle out the door without a word.

The two of you reemerge to see all of your friends waiting impatiently by the shoe rental. Your and Astarion’s shoes have already been removed from their cubbies and the employee is just waiting for you to return the bowling shoes. The two of you jog over, and Shadowheart rolls her eyes as you approach.

“Fucking degenerates,” she mutters under her breath, grabbing Karlach’s hand and storming out the door.

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campingwiththecharmings · 1 year

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Night Moves

AN: There's so little plot here it's astounding lmao. Based on a prompt from this list.

(Un-beta'd)

You’re going to kill your neighbor. It’s 3 a.m. 3 a.m. on a Wednesday and this ass hole is blasting fucking Metallica.

Rated: M+ (this is smut so, i mean, you’ve been warned?)

Words: 5,030

Pairing: Santiago "Pope" Garcia x F!Reader

Warnings: pwp, cursing, kissing, alcohol consumption, p in v, oral sex (brief), fingering (brief), frottage, strangers to lovers/neighbors to lovers

AO3

——————

You’re going to kill your neighbor.

It’s 3 a.m. 3 a.m. on a Wednesday and this ass hole is blasting fucking Metallica.

You can hear every lyric through the thin walls of your apartment, every drumbeat, every guitar riff—everything. It’s so loud, it’s almost as if the band is actually there playing live in your living room.

You’d tried just ignoring it at first, hoping they’d get their rage or whatever out and would turn it off. After an hour, you’d tried banging on the wall, but they were either ignoring you or couldn’t hear over the din in their living room. It’s going on hour two now and you’ve had enough.

With a growl, you roll out of your bed, muttering angrily under your breath as you pad barefoot across the hardwood floors of your living room to your front door. After unlocking it, you wrench it open, slamming it shut behind you as you step out into the hall.

You stop short when you reach your neighbor’s door, trying to hold back your rage and go into this confrontation with at least a semi-level head. This’ll be your first time meeting them after all, and if you’re going to continue sharing a wall, it might be the best idea to not come out swinging right off the bat.

So you take a deep breath, willing your frayed nerves to calm as you lift your hand and knock on the door.

No response.

Your lips twist in annoyance. There is a possibility that they hadn’t heard the knock, just as they couldn’t hear you banging on the wall earlier, so you give them the benefit of the doubt. With a sigh, you lift your hand again, this time knocking with the side of your fist. The sound is louder this time, the bangs echoing down the hallway.

Nothing.

“That’s it,” you mutter, balling both of your hands into fists and bringing them down on the door, alternating your knocks so they’re constant.

It’s loud. So loud you’re likely to wake every neighbor on your floor, not just get the attention of this one, but you don’t care. You’re pissed and this jackass needs to know it. You continue banging, your hands starting to get sore from the constant contact with the hard surface of the door, when suddenly (blessedly) the music stops.

Your fists bang on the door one more time as the music cuts, your body tensing a little as you drop your arms back to your side, bracing yourself for the inevitable confrontation. Just as you’re wondering if this ass hole is even going to have the balls to face you, the door opens and—

Oh. Oh no.

There in front of you stands what has to be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in your life. He’s a literal work of art, standing there framed in the doorway looking like one of those marble sculptures you’ve seen in museums come to life. His brown eyes are warm, but also a little guarded as they meet yours, one thick eyebrow raising in question.

It’s then that you remember to speak, blinking rapidly as if it’ll clear the heavenly image of him that’s likely been forever burned onto your retinas.

“Hi,” you offer finally, your throat suddenly dry.

The corner of his (perfect) mouth twitches a little as he slides his gaze down the length of you. Your skin heats and you’re not sure if it’s him or the embarrassment you’re feeling.

“Hi,” he rasps, eyes meeting yours again as he allows a smile to fully spread across his lips.

You’re staring again and you know he notices, amusement shining in his eyes.

“Something I can help you with?” he prompts, eyebrows raised as he leans his shoulder against the doorframe.

The question snaps your attention back to him and you mentally give yourself a shake. “I’m your neighbor.”

“Oh,” he responds, holding his hand out to you as he continues to gaze at you with amusement. “Nice to meet you, neighbor.”

Your eyes drop to his outstretched hand, gazing at it dumbly for a moment before you take it in yours to give it a shake. A jolt zips through you at the contact, heat flaring in your belly as you will your brain to imagine anything other than having his hands somewhere else on your body.

Jeez. You really need to get a hold of yourself.

“Right, so,” you begin weakly, your hand still loosely clasped in his. “It’s 3 a.m. and, uh, your music. It’s loud.”

His amusement fades instantly at your words and something inside you regrets ever uttering them.

“Oh shit,” he says, reflexively pulling his hand back and glancing at his watch, “I was unpacking and didn’t even realize the time. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine,” you say automatically, even though it really isn’t.

He shakes his head, putting his hands up placatingly. “No, it isn’t. It won’t happen again, I promise.”

“Thanks,” you nod, crossing your arms over your chest as you shift a little awkwardly on your feet. “Well, uh, I’m gonna go then. Nice to meet you—”

“Santiago,” he offers, smile returning to his lips as he holds your gaze.

You give him your name as well, returning his smile with your own as you begin to drift back in the direction of your apartment.

“‘Night,” you mumble, sending him an awkward wave as you open your door and step back inside your apartment.

A soft ‘goodnight’ wafts down the hall in response, reaching your ears just before you close the door and you smile.

—

The next night, you can’t sleep. Why can’t you sleep? You should be exhausted after the day you’ve had, especially after only getting a few hours the night before thanks to your neighbor.

Your gorgeous neighbor.

Santiago, you remind yourself, chewing your lip as your brain immediately conjures up an image of him in that black t-shirt which was just a little too tight, his biceps bulging slightly as he’d crossed his arms over his broad chest. Your breath quickens as your imagination runs rampant with a seemingly endless stream of tantalizing images; Santiago in your living room, in your bedroom, in your bed, his tan skin slick with sweat, chest heaving, his hips snapping against yours as you moan into his neck—

A whine escapes into the darkness of your room and you freeze, eyes wide. You know no one else is there, that he’s not there, but you still can’t help but feel embarrassed. You don’t even know this guy, and here you are fantasizing about him fucking you into oblivion.

“Shit,” you mutter, shaking your head in an effort to clear it.

You swallow thickly, clenching your fingers in your sheets, fingers that itch to slip beneath the waistband of your underwear, to circle your clit, to plunge into your tight, wet channel—

“Fuck,” you groan, jolting up out of the bed.

You walk quickly to your kitchen, grabbing a cup from the cabinet and filling it with water. You chug it, chest heaving as you fill it up again, this time forcing yourself to take sips. As you drink, you lean against the counter, eyes closing as your breathing slows.

When you feel your calm return, you set your cup by the sink and return to your room. You sigh as you slip between the sheets, pulling them up to your chin as you snuggle down into your pillow. Your mind is blessedly quiet as you close your eyes, the heaviness in your limbs now more pronounced than it was a moment ago. Just as you’re about to drift off, he’s there again, this time pressing you against your kitchen counter as he licks into your mouth, his hands on your hips—

“Fuck it,” you grumble tiredly, eyes still closed as you shift, slipping your hand inside your panties.

—

It’s Friday. TGIF, or whatever.

You’re just glad you don’t have to work this weekend; maybe you can catch up on the sleep you’ve missed out on the last two nights. Just as you’re contemplating making it an early night, you hear a knock at your door.

Confused, you shuffle over, lifting the cover over the peephole to look through it.

It’s him.

In your surprise, the cover slips from between your fingers and clatters against the door. You cringe, knowing that you now have no choice but to open the door. You look down at yourself, grumbling when you remember you’re wearing what has to be the most unsexy collection of clothing ever.

“You okay in there?” a muffled voice asks through the door.

Sighing, you hurriedly fasten a few of the buttons on your flannel overshirt, attempting to cover the worn tank top and shorts beneath. It’ll have to do.

You shake yourself in an effort to loosen up a little, and quickly unlock the door.

“Santiago, hi,” you say, perhaps a little too cheerfully, as you pull it open.

His smile makes your insides melt, dark eyes boring into yours. You lean against your doorframe, returning his smile as nonchalantly as you can manage.

“This isn’t a bad time, is it?” he asks, gaze flicking briefly behind you, as if looking to see if someone else is there.

You shrug, shaking your head. “No, not at all. What’s up?”

His eyes snap back to yours and he holds up a bottle of whiskey you hadn’t noticed was in his hand. “It’s a ‘welcome to the building’ gift from a guy down the hall. Wanna help me drink it?”

You hesitate, not wanting to embarrass yourself any more than you already have.

“If nothing else, I figured it might kind of help make up for keeping you up the other night,” he adds, his smile sincere.

Panic slices through you at his words before you realize he means the loud music and not…your thoughts about him. Obviously, ugh.

“Sounds great,” you squeak, stepping aside to let him in. “Sorry about the mess.”

He waves you off, stepping over the threshold and waiting as you close and lock the door behind him. When you turn, you find that he’s closer than you anticipated, so close you can smell him, feel the heat of him even through the flannel.

God, you are so fucked.

“Kitchen,” you say, wondering when your voice got so fucking breathy. “That’s—the glasses are in the kitchen.”

His gaze locks with yours, a heat simmering in his eyes as he smiles. “Lead the way.”

You turn away, swallowing thickly as you try to regain your bearings. You guide him in the direction of the kitchen, mentally giving yourself a pep talk with every step.

“You can have a seat if you want,” you offer, gesturing toward your kitchen table.

He shakes his head though, opting to lean against the counter instead. “I’m good, been sitting all day.”

You hum, pulling open the cabinet and grabbing a couple of glasses. “Desk jockey?”

His sniffed laugh makes you smile as you close the cabinet door and turn to face him again.

“More or less,” he says vaguely, a gentle smile on his lips. “How about you?”

You tell him what you do for a living as you make your way back over to him with the glasses. He nods, watching as you pull the bottle to you across the countertop.

“May I?”

“Have at it,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest.

The action causes his lean muscles to strain against the material of his shirt. Your gaze lingers there for longer than it should as you absently work to pull the cork from the bottle. Eventually, it comes out, a satisfying pop echoing through the room. You pour a little in each glass, the amber liquid swirling a little before settling at the bottom.

“Ice?” you ask, holding one of the glasses up.

You hold the glass out to him when he shakes his head, his fingers grazing yours as he takes it.

“Salud,” he says, his eyes locked with yours as he tips back the glass.

You raise your own glass in agreement, bringing it to your lips and taking a sip. It’s warm and rich as it slides down your throat. You hum at the sensation, closing your eyes briefly in contentment, the oaky flavor making your taste buds sing.

“Good?” he rasps, his breath puffing against your cheek.

You open your eyes, lashes fluttering; goddamn it, why was he so pretty?

“Mhmm,” you respond, not confident your mouth would be capable of forming words right now.

He steps in closer, reaching past you and pulling the bottle toward him, his arm brushing against your side.

“Want more?” he asks softly, eyes locked with yours as he holds up the bottle.

You can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s not just talking about the whiskey and it sends a shiver down your spine. You nod, sliding your glass toward him. He looks away to fill it and you force yourself to take a breath.

“Thanks,” you say as he offers the glass back to you

He nods, leaning his hip against the side of the counter. “So, how long have you been in this building?”

Grateful for a benign topic to ease some of the tension, you smile. “About two years.”

“You like it?”

You shrug, swirling the liquid around your glass. “It’s a place to live.”

He chuckles and the sound makes something warm unfurl in your chest.

“How are you liking it so far?” you ask, stealing another sip of your drink.

“It’s a place to live,” he responds, raising a teasing brow at you.

You roll your eyes. “Come on.”

He smiles, shrugging as he drains the rest of his drink. “It’s alright. Most people seem decent so far.”

You sniff, taking another swig from your glass. “Don’t let them fool you.”

Santiago sets his glass down, his arm braced against the counter as he leans toward you. “So who should I steer clear of then?”

“Well,” You sigh, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth in contemplation. “Mrs. Sacks in 5B for one, she’s a gossipy bitch; Jay in 2C for another—”

His eyes flick up to yours from where they’re staring at your mouth. “2C? Really? He’s the one who gave me the whiskey.”

“Yeah well, he’s an ass hole,” you grunt, throwing your head back a bit as you drain your glass.

After studying you quietly for a moment he asks, “Ex?”

“Please,” you scoff, setting your glass on the counter. “Want another?”

He nods, eyes roving your face as you pour more liquid into his waiting glass.

“And what about you?” he asks as you raise your refilled glass to your lips.

Brow furrowed, you ask, “What about me?”

“If I asked Mrs. Sacks about you, what would she say?”

You chuckle, twisting your lips in thought. “Honestly? Probably that I’m too loud.”

His eyes darken a little, a shiver running up your spine. “Yeah? And how would she know?”

“Well, we do share a wall,” you say, swallowing thickly.

Santiago leans in closer, his voice low when he asks, “Which one?”

He knows the answer, he must since you only have two neighbors with whom you share a wall, one of which is him. Nevertheless, you respond.

“That one,” you whisper, pointing toward your bedroom.

His eyes briefly flick in the direction you’re pointing before returning to yours, humming contemplatively.

“Wanna give her something to talk about?” he asks, leaning in close, his breath mixing with yours.

You nod, breath catching as he cages you against the counter between his arms, his body pressing against the length of you. He holds your gaze for a moment, giving you a chance to push him away, breath fanning across your cheek as he hovers. Then he leans in slowly, his nose nudging yours before he tilts his head just enough to meet your lips. They’re warm as they press against yours, stealing the air from your lungs with every soft caress. He licks into your mouth with a hum, one of his hands coming up to cradle your face. He tastes like the whiskey you were just drinking, and something else, something richer, something him. You want more, can’t get enough as you push your tongue between his lips. He groans into your mouth as you taste him, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his t-shirt, holding his body against yours.

When air becomes a necessity, he breaks, trailing his lips down over your chin to mouth at your neck. His hand follows, ghosting over your chest down to the buttons of the overshirt you’d hastily fastened before you’d let him inside. He nips at your collar bone, tongue laving at the base of your neck as he undoes them, his hand slipping inside to settle on your waist. You breathe his name as he sucks a mark into your skin, fingers winding themselves into his hair. You tug at the graying strands, his groan vibrating against your chest before you pull him back up, reattaching your mouth to his.

The kiss is messy and frantic this time, your lips catching on any patch of skin they can reach. You suck on his tongue when he slips it into your mouth again and he groans, his hands reaching up to push the flannel overshirt from your shoulders. His fingers drag lightly over every inch of skin revealed to him, raising goosebumps all over your body. Your hands are everywhere; moving up his arms to his neck, down his back, clutching his plump ass through his jeans—

When your hands snake beneath his shirt, he growls against your lips, lifting you up to sit on the edge of the counter. He fits his body between your legs, hands skating up the outside of your thighs and slipping his fingers beneath the hem of your shorts. You gasp, scooting closer to the edge, to him, encouraging his touch. He groans as you pull him flush against you, wrapping your legs around his torso as you continue to attack each other’s mouths.

You feel hot, like you’re burning up from the inside, like you’re going to explode into a ball of fire any minute now. His fingers tease you, dragging along the seams of your panties, tickling the sensitive skin there, but never slipping underneath. You grind yourself against his abdomen, desperate for relief, and moan into his mouth when he presses his thumb to your clit through your shorts, the fabric of your panties creating a delicious friction. He kisses down your neck again, worrying a mark at the base of your jaw before soothing it with his warm, wet tongue. Your fingers slip back into his hair, holding his face against you as you continue to absently grind against him.

“Bedroom?” he breathes, bringing his mouth back to yours.

“Please,” you plead, locking your feet together at his lower back as he lifts you from the counter.

He grunts as he walks, mumbling something about his knees. You’re not sure if he trips, or if his knees are really just that bad, but the next thing you know, you’re on the couch, your legs on either side of his torso. His hands are on your hips, encouraging you to grind down onto his lap. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans and it makes you shiver with anticipation. The friction is delicious, better than anything you’ve ever felt. You’re not sure if it’s just been a while or if Santiago is just that good, but at the moment, you don’t really care. You feel his hands slip beneath your tank top as you shift, surprising yourself with a moan as the zipper of his pants catches against your clit perfectly.

“That’s it, baby,” he mumbles, pushing your shirt up and pulling it over your head as you continue to undulate in his lap. “Take what you need.”

He leans forward, mouthing at the swell of your breasts, groaning against your chest as you chase your release. You’re so close, can feel the heat pooling in your belly, the fire spreading beneath your skin. When he pulls the cups of your bra down and takes your nipple in his warm, wet mouth, you come with a gasp, hips stuttering against him as you try in vain to prolong the euphoria. Santiago groans as you continue to grind against him, your nipple still between his lips. You cup the back of his head, encouraging him to keep going as you slow your pace, breath shaky as you come down from your high.

“Fuck, you are incredible,” he praises before languidly swirling his tongue around your neglected nipple.

You moan, heat flaring across your skin at his words; you’re already drunk on him and he hasn’t even fucked you yet.

“Look gorgeous when you come,” he continues, his hands cupping your breasts, thumbs teasing their peaks. “Can’t wait to feel you come around my cock.”

You whimper at his words, leaning over to capture his lips again in a slow, sensual kiss.

“You can’t wait either can you, hermosa,” he pants against your lips, unable to keep quiet, it seems, even when you’re kissing him. “Bet you’d let me fuck you right here on this couch, wouldn’t you?”

A moan escapes you at the mental image your brain conjures at his words and he smirks. “Another time, I promise.”

You silence him with your tongue, slipping it into his mouth again with a hum. He groans, his fingers fumbling behind you to unclasp your bra. Once you’re free, he tosses it away, hands roaming unimpeded across the expanse of your back, fingers soothing the indentations left behind by the garment.

He takes you in his arms again, standing to his feet, your legs wrapped around his hips. You make it to the bedroom this time, and he lays you out beneath him, pressing you into the bed as he covers your neck and chest with licks and kisses. You whine when he begins to pull away, your arms wrapping around his neck to keep him on top of you. He chuckles, gently unwinding your arms before leaning in to press a soft, reassuring kiss against your lips.

He crawls back down your body and off the bed, and it’s then that you realize he’s still completely clothed. He pulls his shirt off first, revealing his toned chest to your gaze, then toes off his shoes and unbuckles his belt. You chew your lip as you watch him, eyes devouring every inch that’s revealed to you. He shucks his pants next, letting them drop to the floor unceremoniously and stepping out of them. His boxers are last, but he drags it out, a teasing smile on his lips. Your mouth waters at the sight of him, and suddenly you want nothing more than to take him between your lips and make him come down your throat.

Another time, perhaps.

He crawls back onto the bed, stopping at your torso to place a kiss against your belly. His fingers find the waistbands of your shorts and panties, and you lift your hips as he pulls them down your legs. After tossing the rest of your clothes onto the floor, he pushes open your thighs, settling himself between them. You bite your lip as he drags the pads of his fingers through your soaked slit, gazing at you with a knowing smirk as he circles your clit. You moan when he dips them inside, stretching you, massaging your inner walls. He can’t seem to help it when he leans forward, lightly licking at you with the tip of his tongue. He hums at the taste of you, licking his lips as he pulls away, his fingers soaked from your cunt.

He moves back up your body, his wet fingers settling on your hip as he claims your mouth once more. You moan at the taste of yourself on his tongue, grabbing at him, trying to bring him closer somehow. His cock slips between the lips of your sex and he grinds it against your clit, dragging another moan from you. He keeps kissing you, smiling against your mouth as he continues driving you up the wall with pleasure. But it’s not enough for you to come, and by the time he’s telling you to get on your stomach for him, you’re more than eager to comply.

“You ready for me, querida?” he rasps, breath fanning against your ear as he presses himself against your back.

“Yes,” you moan, pushing your hips up off of the bed, the tip of his cock bumping against your center.

He hums, pulling back a little to situate himself, and when he enters you, he does it slowly, hissing as you engulf him in your tight heat. You press your face into the bedspread, moaning as he pushes his thick cock into you, stretching you, your fingers clenching into fists at the delicious burn; you’re so full, and every inch of him feels exquisite.

He grips your hips, calloused fingers digging into your skin as he pulls back, dragging his length slowly against your sensitive walls. He groans when you flutter around him, your body still acclimating to his girth. You whimper when he snaps his hips back into yours, the tip of his cock just hitting your cervix. He pulls back again, almost all the way out, before slamming into you again, this time adjusting the angle slightly. He does it again, and again, each time hitting a different spot inside you, as if searching for something specific, something special.

When he finds it, you gasp, your back bowing as his cock hits a spot inside you that makes you see stars. You clench around him and he groans, hands gripping your hips like a vice.

“You feel so good,” he groans again, his hips snapping hard against yours. “So good.”

You can’t do much more than moan in agreement, the pleasure coursing through you almost overwhelming. He hunches over you, chest pressed against your back as he speeds up his thrusts, his cock still brushing that special spot.

“You gonna come for me, baby?” he rasps, his breath hot against your ear.

You moan again, your walls fluttering around him as his pace starts to falter.

“So tight, so warm, fuck,” he slurs, slamming into you harder, burying his face in the back of your neck. “Wanna feel you squeeze me.

Callused fingertips brush your clit a moment later and you gasp, a shiver wracking your body.

“Santi,” you plead, grinding yourself against his fingers. “Please, I’m so close.”

“I’ve got you, hermosa,” he whispers, pinching your clit and dragging another moan from you. “Let go for me.”

At his words, you come with a choked moan, relief and pleasure rolling through your body in waves.

“Oh, good girl,” Santiago groans, fucking you through your orgasm, his thrusts sloppy as he nears his own peak. “So fucking good.”

You shiver a little as your pleasure subsides, brain still buzzing when you feel him pull out of you, moaning as he spills himself on your lower back. His seed is warm and sticky on your skin and you hum, relishing the feel of it. He’s still panting behind you, trying to catch his breath as his fingers brush soothingly over your skin, smearing his cum. After a moment, he leans in, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades, and your chest aches a little at the unexpected sweetness of it.

“You okay?” he asks, breath tickling your ear as he hooks his chin over your shoulder.

“Mhmm,” you hum, stretching a little, your body feeling pleasantly loose.

He mumbles something that sounds like ‘good’ before pressing another kiss into your neck. Then he pulls away, the bed shifting as he stands to his feet. You steal a glance over your shoulder, dread settling in your belly—Where was he going? He wasn’t leaving, was he? A moment later, he returns, washcloth in hand, and you relax, your panic draining away as he meets your gaze with a smile.

An hour or so later, you’re both in the kitchen again, sitting side-by-side on the counter laughing, half-eaten takeout containers strewn around you.

“So then he says, ‘no, it’s European,” Santi says, chuckling as you double-over with laughter.

“No way, he did not,” you laugh, hand covering your mouth.

Santiago nods, an amused smile on his lips as he swallows another mouthful of whiskey. “He did.”

“Shit,” you chuckle, leaning back on your hands as you shake your head. “What an ass hole.”

He hums, eyeing you appreciatively as he sets his glass back on the counter. You’re naked beneath the overshirt currently slipping down your shoulder, only a few buttons and some flannel between you and his hands, his lips, his tongue, and he’s looking at you like you're the dessert table at a buffet. You chew your lip, heat already pooling again in your belly.

Guess once wasn’t enough.

“So…neighbor,” he begins, his eyes teasing as he drags his tongue over his bottom lip. “Have I done enough to earn your forgiveness for the other night?”

You bite back a smile, tapping your chin as you pretend to contemplate his question. “You know, I’m not sure.”

He raises a playful eyebrow before leaning in, pressing a soft kiss against your lips. “How about now?”

You humming, scrunching up your nose in thought. “Still inconclusive.”

He grunts, capturing your lips again, this time in a deep, languid kiss. His hand skates up your bare thigh and you moan, tangling your fingers in his curls. He pulls back after a moment, raising his eyebrows at you expectantly.

“I guess, you’ll just have to keep trying,” you tease, biting back a smile when he growls, leaning back in to claim your mouth once more, the hand on your thigh finally slipping beneath the hem of your shirt.

If you enjoyed this, please let me know! I appreciate every single reblog and/or comment. Thank you. 💖

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margowritesthings · 2 years

Text

Lightning (And Her Thunder)

pairing: Eloise Bridgerton x fem!reader

word count: 2.1k

warnings: fluff, un-beta'd?, discussions of era-accurate sexism and lack of same sex marriage, a bit of making out

a/n: little miss begs for requests then writes random ideas that strike her is back hello! Sorry not sorry. I kinda love this, it's possibly my fave I've written (also can you tell Im reading pride and prej

tagging: @faye-tale @slut4colinbridgerton @musicallisto

My requests are currently open!

Lightning cracked the midnight sky, illuminating a mischievous glint in Eloise’s eye. You both began to count.

One.

Tiny laughter lines creased in the corners of her lips.

Two.

A single curl of hair had escaped her sleeping braid and had landed on her cheek. She didn’t seem to have noticed.

Three.

Thunder boomed and bounced around the walls of Eloise’s bedchamber. Even though you were expecting it, the sheer volume had you digging your fingernails into your palm. Eloise looked positively enthralled, unbothered by the vibrations in the air.

“See? I told you! Without fail, after the lightning there is thunder.” She beamed, satisfied that her hypothesis had been proved. You scrunched your nose, feigning confusion while you tried not to notice how lovely she looked when she was this excited about something. Eloise always was passionate, no matter what the topic.

“I don’t recall disagreeing with you, El, but I fail to see what has gotten you so worked up about it.” You said honestly, fully expecting the eye roll that came your way. Eloise was, as usual, around three steps ahead of you in her thought process.

“My Mama says that thunder is the noise God makes when he is rearranging his furniture, but how should that be true? It is always after lightning and, besides, how often does one need to rearrange furniture? I should think that He has run out of places to put his writing table and pianoforte.”

You laughed hard, throwing your head back slightly. Only El could come up with such an image, with her brilliantly unique perspective on the world. Another crack of lightning lit the room, replacing the warm glow of the candlelight with a harsh brightness for a moment. Thunder followed and Eloise held out her hand in a violently I Told You So manner.

“And if you’re right…” you started, trying your hardest to keep up with your best friend’s somewhat unconventional train of thought. It felt a little like treading deep water, so you held out your arm for support, “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I am struggling to find your point.”

Another eye roll. It was loving, though, as Eloise’s eye rolls sent your way always were.

“My point is… well, that perhaps there is more to the world than what our mamas tell us.” She says it in a hushed tone, as if Violet Bridgerton herself was somehow peeping into Eloise’s rooms, waiting to hand her in for treason to mamas everywhere.

Your features softened as you considered Eloise’s words. You were certain there was more to the world than what your mama told you. You knew it from the scarlet shade your mama’s ears turned when you first asked about babies and where they came from, you knew it from the time you walked into the servants quarters to find your father’s valet and your Governess entangled in each other, completely naked and you knew it from the way your heart fluttered whenever you and Eloise shared that one look that made it difficult to think straight.

“Perhaps you’re right.” You eventually confirmed, leaning back against the foot of Eloise’s bed. You had only intended on visiting your best friend for tea, but when the rain started to hammer on the windows of Number Five, the Dowager Viscountess Bridgerton declared that she paled at the thought of you trying to make your way home that evening and Eloise had been instructed to find you fitting bedclothes. You didn’t mind one bit, of course. Not only did you love spending time with the Bridgertons possibly more than your own family, you were also currently working on a theory that you were irretrievably in love with Eloise Bridgerton.

Another reason you knew for a fact that life was so much more than what your mama has shared with you.

“Take men, for instance,” Eloise started, leaning back into her headboard and straightening her legs so that yours rested beside hers, “We’re told we are not to be alone with a man because we will be compromised, but why? What can a man do that a woman can’t? We are alone together right now, doesn’t that make us compromised?”

“Well, no, of course not. Compromising involves marriage, does it not? And we could never marry.” You attempted to produce a substantial addition to the conversation, still somewhat struggling to keep up with Eloise’s fast tongue and mind.

“Precisely!” Eloise’s excitement in your vague understanding pulled her upright and closer to you, her legs folded neatly beneath her and her knees brushed against yours.

“I think it has something to do with kissing.” The words escaped your lips before you could stop them, though you thought you managed to pass it off quite casually. There was an overwhelming urge to fiddle with your fingers and look down at them, but you managed to fight it, looking Eloise right in the eye. The mischievous glint hadn’t moved. If anything, it had grown brighter. Your theory on your feelings strengthened.

Eloise scrunched her nose just as she did when she was deep in thought or struggling to get through a page of a particularly difficult journal.

“But that does not stand to reason… you and I could kiss and we would not be forced to marry. You and I could kiss right now and yet our Mamas are perfectly fine with leaving us alone together.”

Your heart pounded.

You gulped.

“That is true…”

Luckily, Eloise was on a roll and didn’t require any more response. Good, as you didn’t think you had one. Not an appropriate one, at least.

“So it therefore stands to reason that there is something between kissing and marriage that only men can perform upon women.”

You thought back to the servants you once walked in on, naked and moaning in between passionate kisses they shared. Whatever it was that Eloise was searching for in her monologue, you were almost certain it was something to do with that. How to approach that with your best friend/secret love interest, you hadn’t the faintest idea.

A pause.

“...And you got all that from lightning?” Your tone betrayed you, confirming to Eloise that you weren’t entirely with her.

“Thunder.” She confirmed, as if it were the most obvious mistake in the world. You both sat for a moment, still inches away from each other. The distant roll of thunder and dull hammering of rain on the window were the only saviours from the silence that grew between you both. It wasn’t an awkward silence, more a silent anticipation. Of what, you weren’t sure.

“I suppose it does bring about many questions…” Your voice was much softer now, almost as if the world had shrunk around you and Eloise since this conversation had started. You subconsciously leant forwards, barely enough to be noticeable by El, “About the sexes… marriage… love.”

You could have sworn you saw a gasp get trapped in Eloise’s throat, though you couldn’t be sure.

“Love? What of love?” Her voice was also hushed, which was very unusual for Eloise Bridgerton, and she was leaning in, much like a child as they are told the most engaging of fairy tales or secrets of the world.

“Well, my mama told me that a marriage can be built on a foundation of love. My mama and papa are a love match, as were yours, therefore it should signify that love is a contending factor.”

Eloise paused to think and you inwardly congratulated yourself, as causing Eloise to ponder so was a feat rarely accomplished. You were so excited by that fact that you almost didn’t notice the wistfulness swimming around Eloise’s striking eyes, but when you did, your chest tightened.

“I don’t know how love should signify when women may only marry men.” Even in the intimate, weighted moment, Eloise still managed to huff. “I cannot imagine a single member of the male specimen which I am not related to that I could ever imagine loving.”

You would have laughed at the insult to mankind if the very same thought did not plague you day and night while your mama forever squawked on about marriage. Of course, you had attended balls and partook in the social season, giving you more than enough stories of boring men with bad breath and wandering eyes to put you off the species entirely. In fact, the only part of these balls and house parties were the moments you stole away with Eloise, giggling and shushing each other as you snuck through the hallways owned by various socialites and dignitaries in search of respite. You never cared for the dancing, awkward and embarrassing, but you always came home with a smile on your face and memories of Eloise’s flushed cheeks as you both hid behind statues in the garden.

How, then, could you ever set your cap for one of those men, knowing exactly the laughter and pure joy you were missing out on? You feared more than anything the emptiness in the pit of your stomach you were sure you were destined to feel, begat from an unfulfilled life with a stranger. You could never fall in love. Not again, at least.

“Nor I.” You admitted, all fight for maintaining an impartial disposition disappearing. “I do wonder who decided that women must marry men. I believe I should have a much easier time finding a woman to share my life with…” By the time you had realised what you had said, the words were spoken and there was nothing to be done about it.

Your hopes that Eloise hadn’t caught on were, of course, in vain, being the smart, capable woman she was. Her jaw was looser than normal and you saw Eloise’s lips part just a hair. Her chest was rising and falling harder than you’d noticed all night. You waited for her to say something, anything, when Eloise was irradiated by the harsh white light of the lightning cracking outside. In your mind, you start to count.

One

Your own lips are parted and your breathing is hitched.

Two

The stray hair was back in Eloise’s face.

Three

You reached over to push the curl behind her ear.

Four

Your eyes hadn’t left Eloise’s, swimming in her wide, expectant gaze, waiting for her to stop you as your hand inched ever closer.

Five

Nothing was going to stop you.

That moment lasted an eternity, despite the fact that you counted five seconds between the lightning and the crashing of your lips against Eloise Bridgerton’s. Your fingers dove straight past the curl hanging on her cheek, instead entangling themselves into her thick chestnut hair. It was soft, as were her lips. God, they were soft. You had never kissed anyone before, so had no idea what to do, but instinct on the moment, instinct on what your soul needed at this very moment helped you lead you and Eloise through.

For the first instant, she had stiffened, but quickly relaxed and began to mirror your movements, even taking the lead after a few seconds. Your lips brushed against each other as you pulled at Eloise’s braid to bring her as close to you as possible. The distant thunder still rumbled, but the world around you ceased spinning as you kissed the girl you were destined to love forever.

She tasted sweet, sweeter than you could have possibly imagined from such a headstrong soul. Trust Eloise to be the perfect… well, everything. Sparks fell from your neck down your spine as her hand found its way to the back of your head to hold you closer as you were her. In that moment, you knew. Everything about this moment meant everything to you, but it also did to her. She wanted you just as much as you wanted her, and if the tug of your hair didn’t tell you that, it was the sweet moan that escaped her as you licked at her lip.

Before you could capture the moment and hold onto it forever, it was over. Your eyes were open, falling into each other as your foreheads rested upon the other. Eloise’s fingers ran over the skin of your neck and you fought back the emotional weight of what had just happened.

“I told you…” Eloise breathed, still trying to regain control of her respiration. “There is so much more than our Mamas teach us…”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ: *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

#eloise bridgerton #eloise bridgerton x reader #eloise bridgerton x you #eloise bridgerton fanfic #eloise bridgerton imagine #eloise bridgerton fluff #bridgerton #bridgerton fanfic #bridgerton fluff #bridgerton x reader #margofiore

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madlumqx · 2 years

Text

you'd like it! | f. vincent

synopsis | rare are the days where chamber could fully be with you without work on his mind and this seemed like the perfect pass time activity.

warnings | un-beta'd writing! aside from that, none.

a/n | fluff for our boy chamber ^-^ also this is in bulleted format bcs my brain couldn't write properly ><

word count: 0.6k

chamber was a busy man for the most part; with work stacked up it was rare for him to have a full day with his significant other without the weight of his work on his mind.

so to have him all huddled up with you on the couch while the two of you sit in comfortable silence was the highlight of your week.

that is until you came across a video of someone doing a skincare routine on their boyfriend, you knew you had to do that to him too.

"vin?"

"yes, mon amour?"

"can i do my skin care routine on y—" "no, ma chérie, i do not need it"

"but you'd like it!"

"(y/n), please, i tell you i do—" "please, vin... 🥺"

"sighs alright, alright."

that's how you ended up on his lap, his arms cradling you as you apply your toner to his skin (after shooing him off the couch to wash his face with the cleansing soap you had)

"mhm, what are you doing right now?" "applying toner" "why?" "just... let me do this"

so he shuts up and lets you do your work, eyes observing your focused expression, unable to help himself and shower your lips with kisses

"vin! you're distracting me!" "that was the point, mon amour! to show you i don't need this!"

if vincent fabron was a persistent man, you were him but make it double. (why did he fall for you in the first place??)

"i'm putting this toner on you, it has vitamin e and c in it! it can help fight aging" "so you're telling me i'm old?" "never said that"

after finishing your work with the toner, you moved on to the fancy serums you finally managed to buy (thanks to your boyfriend's persistent spoiling)

his face was in disbelief at how much you spent for a small amount of product (despite being super rich himself, he was puzzled)

"that costs how much?" "doesn't matter, you bought it for me, remember?"

he pulls away lightly and reads the bottle. "what's this for?"

"this is a serum to help your skin stay healthy! you're exposed to the dirt and sun all the time with missions, you know."

"so you're really telling me i'm aging?" "once again, never said that. just taking care of my lovely boyfriend's skin ^-^"

after the serum, you finally take out the highlight of your skincare (at least for you).

"ah yes, the things that make you look like michael myers, mon coeur!" [ insert reader's unamused expression here ] "aha, i was only... kidding mon amour." and multiple kisses to appease you

placing his sheet mask carefully, you teach him how to do it so he can place it on your face as well

chamber finds you absolutely adorable with your face mask on and takes photos of you (and refusing any sort of pictures with him though you did manage to persuade him to take one)

"is it really necessary to put it as your lockscreen?" "yes! look at how cute you are!" "but what if phoeni— okay nevermind im shutting up" after seeing your expression

after removing the facemasks, the both of you are now huddled once again in the sofa with you settled on top of chamber with your head against his chest.

"you know, i think i might like to do that again." "i... really?!"

"my skin feels like a baby's bum! it's so soft!"

"haha! i told you, you'd like it!"

"yeah yeah, whatever you're right"

and that's how you and him have a scheduled skincare night

and the reason why he spends so much on skincare products now.

#haha domestic chamber #idk if i did him justice though xd #but here you go #valorant x reader #chamber x reader #valorant chamber x reader #valorant headcanons #valorant x you #chamber fluff #chamber x reader insert #chamber x y/n

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hisaacswrites · 10 months

Text

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Chapter 3

【 Fandom: Call of Duty 【 Main Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x John "Soap" MacTavish 【 Rating: M for Mature 【 Trigger Warnings: -

Summary:

When Simon first interviewed for The Great British Baking Show, he hadn’t expected anything to come of it. He certainly didn’t expect to win. Despite the chaos it brought to his life, he couldn’t really complain. It landed him the best job he could ask for and a close circle of friends who actually seemed to enjoy his company. It also led him to his biggest fan, one John MacTavish, who’s determined to win him over one baked good at a time. — Or, The baking AU that no one asked for

← Chapter 2 】 ⦿ Chapter 3 ⦿ 【 Chapter 4 →

☆ Read on AO3

【 Chapter Specific Warnings: - 【 Notes: Un-beta'd, as always! Did brainstorm this fic and it's now fully outlined. Have a total of 12 chapters planned, though I may go for 13 for that sweet baker's dozen. No set update schedule in mind yet; will hopefully nail down something consistent once I get into the swing of things.

Bake Room in Your Heart for Me? Masterlist ⦿ CoD Library ⦿ Hayden Isaacs Library

🍰 Chapter 3

"And then he says, 'Do you knead a baking partner? Because I promise I could fire up your oven like no other!'"

Alejandro choked on a breath at Rudy's delivery, his shoulders shaking as he quaked with laughter.

"I swear, Ale, I've never seen Soap so red or Ghost run away so quickly!"

His back to his two gossiping assistants, Simon scowled to himself and forcefully ignored them as he finished the base layer of frosting for the cake he was working on. Relegating Rudy and Alejandro's conversation to background noise, he gave the cake one last spin on the turntable to make sure the sides were perfectly smooth. As he reached for one of his prepared piping bags, a bolt of pain rocketed through his arm, branching from his inner elbow up to his shoulder and down to his fingertips. The sudden pain had his fingers seizing up, and the bag slipped from his hold to land back onto the countertop with a muted flop.

Gritting his teeth against the pain and frustration, Simon pretended that he couldn't hear the pause in his coworkers’ conversation or feel their eyes on his back. It had been nearly three years since the injury that had resulted in his medical discharge from the service, but the damage was done - and permanent. Some days were better than others: he could go a month without any flair-ups from the nerve damage, only then to be in debilitating pain and have a persistent tremor for an entire week.

As he picked up the piping bag again and ignored the faint tingling in his fingertips, Simon tried to put the anger and resentment out of his mind. He had dedicated his life to the SAS. For the longest time, his military career kept him going and to have it cut brutally short by some stupid FUBAR’d mission had been (and still was) a hard pill to swallow. Baking had become his saving grace. His injury had fucked up his already questionable life; having it affect the one thing that he had found to keep him sane was devastating.

Rudy and Alejandro were still laughing about Soap and his "Lack of rizz", whatever that meant, when Simon raised the piping bag to his cake. His hands trembled as he spun the stand and piped his swags but his eyes resumed laser-focused until he completed a full circuit. Putting the bag down and pretending he couldn’t feel his hands shake, Simon took a mental step back to look over his handiwork.

His pulse thrummed in his ears as he stared at the crooked and broken swags of frosting he had just piped and he struggled to not completely shut down. He felt like a precariously stacked Jenga tower, one already filled with gaping holes and leaning bricks. He was teetering on the edge, struggling to remain balanced but helpless in the face of one more piece getting removed. He had no idea if he would be able to stay standing or if he, and everything he had struggled to build and rebuild and fight for, would come crashing down on top of him.

Simon clenched his jaw as he reached for his straight-edged scraper and angrily dragged it across the sides of the cake. The tremble in his hand persisted, causing the edge of the scraper to gauge erratic trenches into the cake, some so deep that they reached through the layer of dirty icing to the cake layers themselves. Setting the scraper down next to the cake with a clatter, Simon gripped the edge of the counter with white knuckles. Shoulders hunched to his ears, he could see his entire arm shaking even as he forcefully tried to keep it steady. His nerves were on fire, and he knew that trying to force his muscles to work the way he wanted to like this was doing more harm than good, but he just wanted to bake, dammit, and-

Tanned knuckles rapped on the counter next to him and Simon blinked, jolted out of his thoughts mid-spiral. Unclenching his stiff fingers from around the counter, he straightened up and glanced over to see Rudy looking at him with a concerned expression.

"All good, hermano?"

Simon could hear Alejandro mixing something behind him, but he could also feel the furtive glances he was no doubt sending their way.

"Fine," Simon grunted in response, reaching for his frosting spatula and ignoring the way Rudy’s eyes darted to the butchered cake.

Rudy watched Simon load up the spatula with frosting, rhythmically tapping his fingers on the counter while his superior started slathering on frosting to fix the gauged cake. The process required little finesse, but Rudy’s sharp eyes could still spot the way Ghost’s hand was shaking and causing the spatula to dig into the sides of the cake.

"You’ve been at these display cakes for hours, Ghost." Rudy said suddenly, "Why don’t you let me finish this one up so you can take a break?"

Simon stiffened, ready to refute the need for a break, when Alejandro chimed in as if they had planned the conversation. "Rudy’s right, Ghost! You’ve been working all morning; let Rudy and I take over for a bit. We’re your assistants. We have to earn our keep, no?"

Simon's brow furrowed as he looked from Rudy to Alejandro, and then back down to his last cake. He wanted to argue, to insist that he was fine and that he would finish out his shift according to schedule, but his eyes couldn't help but catch on the jagged marks and remnants of crooked frosting on the cake. His arm ached, and he knew that even if he took his time, his work would be unacceptably sloppy compared to Rudy's in his current state. He could feel something in his chest crack at the realization, but he refused to let it show, especially with both Rudy and Alejandro still staring at him.

"Alright," Simon agreed roughly, his gruff tone clearly reluctant. "But remember—"

"To pipe the mini carrots on the border, I've got it!" Rudy interrupted, lightly hip-checking Simon out of the way and taking the frosting spatula from him. Simon huffed. Usually, he'd have a witty retort ready to fire off, but he just didn't have the energy today. The pain, both physical and mental, had taken it from him.

Alejandro had clearly noticed, as he was quick to add, "Why don't you just call it a day, amigo? There's not much else to do and we're ahead of schedule for the rest of the week."

Simon thought about arguing, about insisting on finishing out his shift, but... Alejandro was technically right. It was later in the afternoon, and if he just took a break, there wouldn't be much left of his shift to finish out anyways. The cafe had had a huge influx of custom orders this week, so he, Rudy, and Alejandro had been pushing to finish everything ahead of time just in case something else came up. And, honestly, licking his wounds in private over a cup of hot tea sounded perfect. (It wasn't brooding, okay? It was self-reflection.)

Simon sighed, knowing that Rudy and Alejandro had won and hating having to admit defeat. Sensing their manager's resignation, the two assistant bakers shared a grin but chose not to rub any further salt into the wound. Instead, they waved Simon out of the kitchen, barely hearing his grumbled goodbyes as they chatted lightheartedly in Spanish.

Simon let the door swing quietly behind him as he entered the dark hallway that connected the kitchen to the other back rooms, only allowing his shoulders to slump when he was sure he was alone. His whole body had started to ache, his arm most of all, and he could feel the exhaustion settling in over his mind. It was a struggle untying his apron and hanging it from its hook, and, not for the first time, he lamented over his uselessness. He had been one of the best operatives the SAS had ever seen, one of the most renowned snipers in the world, and now he couldn't even pipe a cake properly. His self-deprecating chuckle was dry and bitter as he pulled on his hoodie and settled his backpack on his shoulders, soldiering through the resulting ache that shot through his bad arm. The raised hood and facemask made him feel a bit more secure, a bit more normal, but Simon knew he wouldn't truly be comfortable until he was locked safely in his flat.

Resting his arm in the front pocket of his hoodie as a sort of makeshift sling, Simon walked through the back hallway of the cafe. Price was in today, so Simon figured he'd tell him he'd be leaving early on his way out. Price's office was empty, though, as was the break room, and the bathroom was dark. As he approached the door connecting the back of the cafe to the public area, Simon could hear Price's distinctive rough baritone amongst the rest of the cafe chatter.

Nudging the door open with his boot, Simon entered Cafe 141 proper. It was busy but not packed, the mellow music and muted conversation creating an ambiance that would have been soothing on any other day. Gaz manned the counter with his customary cheeky grin and Simon could see Price seated at the windows at the front of the cafe. It looked like he was having a drink with someone, but it wasn't until Simon was halfway across the cafe that he realized it was Soap.

He paused.

Simon had seen Soap a few times since their first interaction but hadn't actually spoken to him since then. He wasn't sure how to act around the Scot, in all honesty, so it was perfect that so far he was able to stay back in the kitchen and bake while Gaz amused his long-time friend when he showed up in the cafe's front. Simon's luck seemed to have run out, though, as Price was chatting with Soap and looked to be quite enthralled in the conversation.

He weighed his options. Simon really didn't want to interrupt Price while he was in the middle of something, and he especially didn't want to navigate the awkwardness that would be speaking to Soap. Neither Simon nor Price were especially fond of phones, preferring to discuss things face to face, but beggars couldn't be choosers; he'd just head out and text Price that he was leaving a bit early while on his way home.

Mind made up, he wove his way through the tables and patrons towards the front door. He was in the home stretch when a young man, too enthralled with his phone to pay attention to where he was going, shoulder-checked Simon with a muted curse. Simon was able to dodge the sloshing of the coffee mug in the other man's hand, but the owner of the cup wasn't so lucky and he spun to berate the person he had run into. Once he looked up and saw just who (and how tall, broad, and gloomy Simon appeared) it was, the patron seemed much more apologetic and hurried off without another word.

Unfortunately, the damage had already been done.

"Simon!" Price called out, having paused his conversation with Soap at the commotion. "C'mere and meet someone!"

Simon glanced at the door, debating whether he could pretend he hadn't heard Price and make it out of the cafe in one piece. When Price met his eyes and waved, however, he resigned himself to his fate and detoured towards the window table. Looming over Price like a dark shadow, Simon refused to look over at Soap, unsure of what he'd find — or if he even wanted to know.

If Price could sense the tension between the two men, he skillfully ignored it. "Soap, this dreary bastard is Simon, the head baker of Cafe 141 'nd our baking genius. Simon, this is Soap, a long-term pain in my arse but my favorite brilliant pyromaniac."

Simon cringed at his introduction and could see Soap's cheeks flushing a bright red out of the corner of his eye at his own. He cleared his throat awkwardly.

"We've, uh... Met before. Gaz introduced us the other day." Simon nodded in Soap's direction, finally meeting his gaze. The other man was staring at him again, but Simon couldn't decipher his expression. Price spoke up before he could try to read his face, regaining his attention.

"Did ya, now? Tha' would explain some of Gaz's cackling, I'd imagine. Thought his cap might've been on too tight with the way he was carrying on." Price looked over to Soap, taking in how the Scot's blush was intensifying and spreading. The poor man looked to be at a loss for words and Simon decided to cut him some slack, if only to save himself from the conversation as well.

"I'm actually about to head out now, Price," he murmured. "Rudy and Alejandro are wrappin' up for the rest of the day and we're ahead of schedule for this week's orders."

Price's heavy brows lowered, the thin line of his mouth disappearing behind his beard as he considered Simon. It was clear that he knew that there was something else going on–Simon rarely left before the official end of his shift without being dragged out–but he kept his questions to himself with Soap present.

"Alrigh'," He said, tipping his bucket hat at Simon. "Won't be in tomorrow, so have a good night, 'nd see you next week."

Another sharp jolt of pain sparked up his elbow, reminding him to hurry things along, but Simon grit his teeth and managed a gruff "Aye, you as well," in response. He turned to Soap to offer a perfunctory goodbye but was beaten to the punch.

"'Twas good seeing ye again, Simon." Soap said. Quick, easy, and polite. The perfect send-off. Or, it would have been if he had stopped there.

"Yer cake looked delicious today, am glad I got a taste."

There was a pause, Soap looking increasingly mortified and Simon unsure if Soap had meant the double entendre.

"Thanks? I'm, uh, glad you liked them?"

The lackluster response from Simon seemed to make Soap realize exactly what he had said, and he rushed to correct himself. "Ah meant yer cake! Nae like yer cake, cake, but the cake that ye bake! In the oven! Nae tae say that yer personal cake isnae stoatin, tis top tier, pure, 'n ye must work out fer a bum like that, but–" Soap forcibly shut his mouth with a choked noise, the beet red color of his face clashing with the spattering of freckles across his nose. His accent seemed to only get stronger as he wound himself up. Simon thought, in bemusement, that it would have been cute if wasn't taken aback by the word vomit and could actually understand what the Scot was trying to say.

"I just meant," Soap rushed on to say, "That yer special cake, wait, nae, yer cake special fer t'day, the lemon blueberry, was delicious, those layers were sae light 'n fluffy, 'n that ye must be an expert at beating it."

Simon stared at Soap. He could see Price struggling to contain himself in his peripheral vision, but Soap looked so earnest, if a bit embarrassed. Still, he had no idea how to respond to all... that without just piling on the awkwardness.

"Thanks," Simon grunted, backing up slowly before jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "I'm just going to. Head out. Uh, now. Bye." He spun on his heel and made it out of the door in a few long strides, quickly disappearing down the sidewalk. (He wasn't running away, dammit! He had places to be.)

Silence stretched between Price and Soap at their table, the men silent as the cafe chatter continued around them. It was only when Simon was out of eyesight that Price spoke up, leveling Soap with a judgmental stare.

"I've been shot before, lad, and that was the most painful thing I've ever had to endure."

"Absolutely rizz-less," Gaz agreed, appearing from nowhere to nod sagely.

"I dinnae ken what's wrong with me," Soap groaned, tugging at his mohawk with both hands as he slumped in his seat.

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the-little-ewok · 2 years

Text

Tilt

Steven Grant X F/Reader (Marc is around a bit)

Word count: 4500 (ish)

Rating : T

Warnings : Angst, Softness, fluff, (not really a warning but Marc and Steven are aware of each other).

Summary: Steven Grant wants to tell you the truth about why he missed your date, but it isn't Steven you meet...

A/N: I am not a system, nor do I know anyone who is a system. This is based purely on my research, the show, and the information contained within the comics. Please forgive any offence.

I am planning on doing a part 2 much further into their relationship (and very nsfw) if ya'll like this so feedback is appreciated.

Un-beta'd so forgive any errors. That's on me.

Gif by Salome-c. Used just because I adore it.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

Steven Grant had tilted your world. Well, not tilted exactly, more like entirely thrown it upside down and left it there, the wrong way up. Off-kilter, unstable. You hated the feeling of it, it made your stomach lurch.

And that's why you didn't ever expect to find yourself here, at his apartment, his note scrunched in your hand as you stare at the door, willing yourself to knock. You didn't expect to ever want to speak to him again if you were honest. Not after he stood you up on your date. You'd waited for well over an hour in the pouring rain, knowing that sometimes he lost track of time, but he hadn't shown up, not a phone call, a text, nothing.

Nothing until almost a week later. A voicemail full of apologies, a text message with far too many sad faces tagged on the end. You'd ignored it. You'd cradled your broken heart and avoided him at all costs.

But then the note turned up. Hastily shoved into the door of your work locker. A page ripped out of a notebook from the gift shop, screwed up and torn, covered in ink splats. Written no doubt with the quills and ink the gift shop also sold. You imagine Donna would murder Steven if she found out he’d used them. You shouldn’t care about that given the circumstances, but you do, and no matter how you try, you can't seem to stop caring. And Steven can't seem to stop making your head spin, even when he wasn't around.

Smoothing out the paper in your hand you flick your eyes over the words, reading once more the plea to come over, the half explanation that seemed to make no sense, an apology so sincere in its wording that you'd felt tears sting your eyes upon reading it, a story stranger than fiction.

But everything was jumbled up, like the story had been given in the wrong order, none of the pieces seemed to fit. Even the handwriting seemed to change, from quick scratched notes to soft looped letters. Nothing about the note had made sense and part of you worried it was some kind of joke.

The truth was you knew better than that though. Or at the very least, you hoped after all these months you knew Steven better than that. Sweet Steven with a V from the gift shop. Steven who made you tea every morning and left it on the side in the break room, who stuck hieroglyph doodles on post-it notes to your locker for you to learn. Steven who made you snort your drink out of your nose when he rolled his eyes behind Donna, pulling a face at some sarcastic comment she made. Steven, who got so nervous when you asked him out that he’d dropped an entire box of pens, and promptly had to spend ten minutes digging them back out from under the shelves.

Steven whose note told you he was someone else entirely.

Taking a deep breath you raise your hand and knock softly, still unsure if you want an answer to the thousand questions rolling around your mind.

The sound of multiple locks clicking open does nothing to settle the unease twisting in your stomach. You should leave. You should leave now and never look back. This all seems like such a terrible idea as the door slowly creaks open a slither.

But the moment you glimpse a head of dark messy curls, soft brown eyes wide with surprise to find you there, you're rooted to the spot.

"H-Hi," he stutters, fully opening the door, "You actually-you actually came? To let me explain?” The hopeful look that brightens his tired eyes fades to nothing the moment you open your mouth to answer his question.

"Is it some kinda joke?" You hadn’t meant it to come out quite so accusatory as it does but once it's out it's too late to take it back, although the guilt at his frown twists hard in your stomach.

“N-No. I know it seems mental but I promise, it's not a joke. I promise,” he repeats, sincerely swallowing hard. It's difficult to look at him, to see him looking at you with a mixture of sadness and concern.

“You can’t really expect me to believe you went to sleep and woke up in another country, Steven,” you shake your head, dropping your eyes to your shoes, paper crunching in your hand as you tighten your fingers. If he hadn't wanted to go on your date all he had to do was say so. He hardly needed to go to such elaborate lengths for your sake. "I'm a big girl. You could have just said you didn't want to go out."

“It's the truth."

Your head snaps up at his sudden change of accent. It's harsher, deeper, American. You've heard it before on the odd occasion. You've always assumed it's some kind of joke that you've never quite understood. It's on the tip of your tongue to yell at him for treating this like a joke, for dragging you here with some bullshit story just to make fun of you, but the moment you meet his eyes you realise it's no joke.

His gaze is darker, harder. He's broader, more confident, less awkward. He might still have Stevens messy curls and busy shirts, but the man in front of you is not Steven. Not even close.

“Do you want to come inside? I think I can explain better than that,” the man gestures to the note now crumpled into a ball in your fist. You've a good mind to turn around and leave right now, the anxiety gnawing at your belly. "We had a bit of a hard time deciding on the words."

You stare at him silently, willing your feet to turn around, to walk out of the building and never come back. This was no joke, but there's a creeping feeling of danger tingling across your skin instead. Steven hadn't given you a name in his scribbled out explanation. He just told you there was someone else involved, that he wasn't always Steven, that you needed to know the truth. Faced with this man now, you aren't sure you want to know.

"You don't have to be scared. Steven would tear the building down before he let someone hurt you and trust me, that's impressive for him." he grins, easily, confidently. It makes you miss Stevens' sweet shy smiles.

“Steven, I swear if this is some kinda fucked up joke, it’s not funny,”

“No, it's not funny at all is it? And my name is Marc,” he folds his arms and tilts his head as he regards you. Marc. Your fingers involuntarily tighten against the ball of paper, feeling it dig into your skin as it offers resistance against your crushing. Marc. Steven was Marc? Marc was Steven? Your head spins again and the world seems to tilt a little more unevenly.

"Come in, I'll leave the door open. You can leave anytime you want but I owe you an explanation. It's my fault Steven missed your date, and it's me who has to live with his miserable ass now. Honestly, you should be glad you don't have to listen to his complaints," Marc continues, not waiting for you to answer before he wanders back into the apartment.

You should leave.

Except your feet are following him into the apartment, the man who's not Steven. The man who calls himself Marc, and wears your friend's face.

"Tea, coffee? Something harder?" Marc leans against the kitchen counter, watching you as your eyes flitter around the loft apartment. Steven would never have asked you that. Steven would have known the answer.

"Tea, please.” The answer is automatic, given without much thought. It's not like you intend to stay for drinks, to discuss anything with this man, to entertain the idea that your friend is more than one person, to even try to consider that he's in service to an Egyption god that doesn't even exist.

Maybe you're on some hidden camera show? Maybe there's people watching at home, laughing at you as you stand awkwardly halfway through the door of an apartment that should be Stevens, but instead appears to belong to some American who may or may not be someone you know, who's asking for instructions on how you like your tea.

You don't take off your shoes, or your coat as you step further in, distracted by the stacks of books, papers, cute little gift shop replicas, scattered around the haphazard apartment. Everything is so very Steven. It's warm and cosy, it's messy and lived in. It's exactly how you had imagined it.

Your eyes catch the fish tank, and the goldfish swimming inside, that looks nothing like the one Steven had excitedly showed you photographs of, while you’d hidden from Donna in the dusty stock rooms.

“I thought Gus only had one fin?”

Marc sighs from the kitchen, which has you frowning as you follow the goldfishes movements.

"Sore topic. Gus died, sort of my fault too."

The sound of mugs on the table draws your attention away from Stevens' beloved fish, or perhaps not his fish.

Watching from your place between the sitting room and the door, Marc sits down on the sofa, looking out of place surrounded by books that seem dwarfed by his presence. You don't move to sit down next to him, instead you choose to lean against a desk piled high with Egyptology books as you regard the man you've only just met, and yet known for months.

"Before I start, if you don't trust my explanation, trust Steven. We wouldn't be explaining this to you if it wasn't for him insisting. He cares about you and he wants you to know the truth,” Marc takes a deep breath, glancing across the apartment. Following his eyes you frown all the more as you take in the leg restraint tied to his bed, but that's not what he's looking at. He’s looking at the reflection of himself in one of the mirrors.

Ok, you should absolutely leave and for once your feet listen, taking half a step back towards the door. Only you don't leave, because even as you consider it, Marc starts talking, and once he starts the pieces slowly slide into place. Steven’s sleeping disorder, the way in the early weeks he looked at you as though you’d never met, his sudden changes in humour, the strange changes in his accent, his disappearances, his lack of appearance at your date. The puzzle pieces lock together and suddenly you’re seeing a whole picture, albeit a fractured blurry one that gives you a headache.

By the time he stops talking your untouched tea has gone cold, your legs have given up standing and instead you sit cross legged on the floor, your coat thrown over the table, your shoes kicked off, the apartment door closed.

"So, you're like what? Part of Steven?"

"It's not quite that simple. Yes and no. We sort of have our own lives but I take care of Steven and he…well he takes care of me in a way too. We are a system," Marc explains gently.

"And why are you telling me not Steven?" You narrow your eyes at him, knowing there are parts to this story that he's been leaving out. Some things still don't fit quite right and it only makes you suspicious.

"Steven is still adjusting to things. He was worried he'd stutter over it and you might not understand." That at least seems genuine. Stevens' way of seeing the world was often different to most people. Different, but not bad.

"And then there's kon-something?" The Egyptian god of the Moon that Marc was in service to. You really knew how to pick them.

"Yes, Khonshu,"

Marc's seriousness alone is terrifying to you. He genuinely believes all of this and his certainty almost drags you down into it with him. It's one thing for someone to be two people, but two people and an ancient Egyptian god, that was just a little too much to believe. Your head spins and throbs with too many thoughts all at once.

After a moment of silence Marc stands up, disappearing around the side of the bookshelves to go into the kitchen.

"Do you want something to drink? It's a lot to take in,"

You shake your head, stumbling to your feet, your chest starting to constrict with panic. This was all far too much. How on earth could you believe any of it? How on earth could you let yourself sit here and entertain the fact that he was telling the truth?

"Do you want to talk to Steven?" Marc asks, leaning on the counter to study you, the same way he had when you first arrived, like you were an interesting puzzle to be worked out.

"No, no I just need some air," you shake your head, shoving your shoes back on and grabbing your jacket. "I'll…just give me a minute."

You step out into the hallway, not waiting for Marc to have much chance to stop you. As the door swings shut behind you, you catch Marc's dejected voice from inside, and your heart shatters.

"Steven, I warned you that she might not like the truth."

🌙

The tea has still appeared on the side each morning, but gone are the cute little hieroglyph doodles on post-its. It's been this way for weeks now. You see Steven occasionally but he barely acknowledges you, scurrying off into the back or distracting himself with anything but you, when you walk past.

You know it's your own fault. You had truly meant to go back and talk to him, but when you stepped outside onto the street, the stark normalcy of everything else had made the whole thing seem like total madness. You didn't know how to handle the situation, how to understand what he was telling you, or even who he was anymore. So you hadn't returned. Your feet had started walking and by the time you stopped, you were already home, and the deep guilt set in.

Once you had calmed down you had stayed up night after night, researching, trying to understand as much as you could, allowing the guilt in your belly to make you feel sicker with every passing day as you learnt more. You allowed the knowledge you gained, the things he had told you, to settle in your mind. You allowed yourself to believe him, even though it scared you half to death.

You should have stayed. You know that now better than anything else. You should have stayed and been the friend you were supposed to be. Instead you'd betrayed the trust he'd put in you and thrown it back in his face out of fear.

You desperately want to fix it. You miss Steven in your life. He was smart, sweet, funny and probably one of the only people you truly felt you could be yourself around. You missed his brightness in your world.

The guilt had kept you up at night for far too long now. You had let this drag out for too long. Even if he hated you forever, even if he could never forgive you, even if he didn't want you to at least still be friends, you were going to apologise. Today. Right now.

Taking a deep breath you walk over to the counter, standing silently on the other side. Stevens hands pause rearranging the bookmarks, his throat bobs as he swallows hard, but he doesn't look up at you.

"Stev-"

"Stevie, how many times do I gotta tell you to take that bloody stock downstairs?"

You're quite sure you've never wanted to punch Donna more than in that moment.

"It's Steven, with a V," he reminds her, tapping his name tag for what you're sure is the 100th time. With a sigh he picks up the box, giving you a passing glance. Your heart aches for him. He looks tired, and part of you wants nothing more than to bundle him up in your arms and let him sleep.

"Did you need something or just making my staff waste time?" Donna turns her eyes on you, while you press down the urge to tape her jaw shut with the novelty pyramid tape on the counter. Anything to stop the incessant chewing that grated on every nerve you have.

"Leave her alone, Donna. She's not doing anything wrong," Steven sighs, heading to the back room door before he turns to look at you. "You need something from the back right?"

"Wh-yeah… yeah sorry Donna I just need to grab some stock. I haven't got my access pass. I was just asking Steven to let me in real quick," you purposely emphasize his name, which only makes her narrow her eyes at you, and you're sure you'll pay for it in some way later down the line. Donna hates you purely for your friendship with Steven.

Donna mutters something about you both being worthless time wasters but allows you to follow Steven off the floor and down the stairs to the stockroom.

🌙

The stockroom has always felt uncomfortably small to you. Each shelf is filled to the brim with trinkets and toys, making the walls seem much closer than they really are. But now it seems worse than ever as you stand in silence, the room only filled by the noise of Steven moving boxes around to fit the latest one on the shelf. You can barely look at him as the silence suffocates you, staring down at your shoes awkwardly.

"Catch."

You look up just in time to get hit in the face by something soft that glints with gold. It bounces off your nose with a sad squeak before it drops to the floor. You look down at it confused for a moment before you look back up at Steven, wearing an expression of absolute horror.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry I thought you might have caught it,"

"Why'd you throw Taweret at me?" You bite down the urge to laugh as he flounders, still looking in horror at his own hands, his eyes comically wide.

"Sorry I don't know why I did that! I thought maybe it'd make you feel better? Sorry that was a stupid idea. Are you alright?"

Laughing you pick up the plushy hippo, putting it down safely on the side.

"Well, that's one way to break the ice I suppose,"

"Yeah, guess so. Not great hitting the girl you like in the face with a goddess though is it?" he mumbles with an awkward laugh.

"Present tense? Sort of thought you might never want to see me again?" You admit quietly, rearranging the hippos limbs in order to distract yourself from looking at him. To your surprise Steven rests his hand gently on yours, stopping your nervous actions.

"Not want to see you?" he exclaims with a frown as you finally look at him properly. "Marc suggested we should give you some space for a little bit. Honestly, been a bit scared you'd never want to talk to me again after…well, you know. I didn't want to talk to you in case you thought I was…I'm not broken," he states firmly and you nod.

"No Steven, you're not. I know that. I never thought that," you sigh, immediately missing the warmth of his hand against yours as he lets you go. "I panicked. I didn't know what was going on and honestly I was scared. I turn up at your apartment and suddenly you're someone else entirely, and there's this whole thing, and some ancient Egyptian god and I just," you let out a long breath, trying to stop the torrent of words tumbling out of your mouth.

"I just panicked. And then I felt so bad, terrible actually. I didn't know how to apologise for being so horrible. I'm so sorry Steven. I can't apologise enough."

To your surprise he wraps his arms around you and squeezes you tightly. In all the time you'd known Steven, no matter how much you'd laughed together, eaten lunch together, brushed hands while reaching for the same thing, he'd never tried to hug you. You're surprised by how sturdy he is, the feel of his muscles under his shirt as you hug him back. And your face is notably hotter when he pulls away.

"Sorry I scared you,"

"You didn't," you reassure him, shaking your head. "I scared me. You didn't do anything wrong."

You lapse into quiet silence for a moment, very much aware that he's still standing far too close to you, and that he hadn't seemed to notice that, or he just didn't want to move.

"Can we -" he starts.

"Do you -" you whisper.

You both stop with a laugh as you try to talk at the same time. Steven grins at you, gesturing for you to speak.

"Ladies first right?"

"Do you want to get dinner? It's fine if you changed your mind. I'll totally understand." You wish you still had the plushy hippo as you fidget nervously, unsure what to do with your hands.

"You still want… you still want to go on a date? With me?" Steven sounds as though you've just told him Tutankhamun was just resurrected and is walking around giving facts about ancient Egypt.

"Well, yeah," you shove your hands in your pockets as he stares dumbfoundead at you. "I mean, you're still Steven, right?" You eye him suspiciously for a second for any traces of Marc, but there's no way he could be anyone but Steven with his disheveled curls, far too busy shirt and wide eyed look of surprise.

"Steven with a V, that's me!" He sings before he seems to catch sight of himself in the metal shelving unit and gives a cough, "I mean, I would very much like to have dinner with you. I promise I'll be there this time."

You glance with a frown at the shelving unit, but all you see is the warped reflection of you and Steven staring back. You decide it's probably best not to think too hard about his reaction.

"Ok then, so i guess if I hang about we can go straight after work? Less chance of you going missing then?" You joke and immediately regret it. Hardly something you should be joking about and you almost physically kick yourself at it having left your mouth, let alone entered your thoughts.

"Yes," he answers quickly enough to make you grin, ignoring your terrible joke. But then he groans and lets out a soft curse. "Actually, Donna has me doing inventory tonight."

"Just tell Donna to shove her inventory up her-" you shut up as the door swings open.

"Why are you still 'ere?" She frowns at you before turning to Steven with a glare, "And you, are paid to sell crap to children, and guess what you're not doing?"

"Yeah, sorry Donna we were just -"

"Wasting time. I know!" She snaps back. "Now would you mind doing some actual work today? Go on, off you go, Stevie."

"It's Steven," both of you sigh in unison, which does nothing to help the situation and only seems to anger Donna even more.

"I don't care if his name is the bloody queen of Sheba. If the both of you don't get back to work in the next 30 seconds, I'll fire you both,"

"I don't actually work for you, Donna," you start but at Stevens' raise of an eyebrow, you decide perhaps now isn't the time for a fight. "Right, work." You scoop up a box of pens to help Stevens story that you needed some stock, and follow him back up the stairs, listening to Donna grumble behind you.

Pausing to put the pens down on the gift shop counter, you turn back to Steven.

"You know, I could just bring food here? Give you a hand with inventory? Donna won't be helping right?"

He snorts with laughter at your suggestion of Donna helping with anything.

"Not a very exciting date though is it?"

You don't tell him that any time you spend with him would be exciting, for a whole host of different reasons, worried you wouldn't be able to phrase it in a way that wouldn't make you seem half in love with him already.

"Well, how about after we're done, you take me on a tour of ancient Egypt? I've always wanted a personal tour and you can test my hieroglyph learning?"

Stevens' eyes light up at your suggestion and his answer comes out in breathless excitement, "Yeah? Ok, ok sure!"

Grinning, you adjust your bag on your shoulder before you gesture to the main door.

"I should go before Donna comes back and shoves me inside a sarcophagus. Don't think I'd come out looking very pretty if that happened. I'll see you in a couple of hours out the front?"

It happens so quickly in a blink of an eye you could almost miss the change between them, but even so, you know the moment Steven stops looking at you, and someone else takes over.

"He'd probably think you're pretty whatever happened."

You automatically take a step back as Marc frowns at you. You knew where you stood with Steven, but Marc, you hardly knew at all, and given your last encounter, you had no idea how he was about to react. "Thank you. For giving him a chance."

His genuine gratefulness gives you pause, and allows you to relax a little.

"I guess I owe an apology to you too," you admit and Marc smiles, tilting his head.

"Maybe I'll let you buy me dinner sometime to say sorry." Even as you open your mouth to tell him where to go he's already gone, and Steven is watching you anxiously.

"Sorry, I didn't mean for that to happen," he apologies awkwardly.

Stepping forward to him again, you bite your lip before you press a soft kiss to his cheek, feeling him freeze.

"I know, Steven. It's alright," you smile reassuringly, amused at the blush spreading across his cheeks. "I gotta go. Laters gators!"

"In a while crocodile," Steven beams in response.

Whatever happened, whoever Steven was, you promised yourself you could handle it, as long as he still smiled at you like that.

🌙

-----

Tag list reblog to follow

#steven grant x reader #steven grant x f!reader #steven grant x female reader #moon knight x reader #moon knight x fem reader #moon knight imagine #steven grant imagine #moon knight #moon knight fanfiction #steven grant #marc spector

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shina913 · 2 years

Text

Gradation (V-Day drabble) | JJK

✮ ✮ ✮ Gradation Masterlist ✮ ✮ ✮

Pairing: JJK x Fem!reader

Rating: M (🔞); NSFW

Genre: marriage!AU; established-relationship!AU; mature content; fluff; angst; smut; NSFW

Word count: 4.3K+ words (okay--a little over to be a drabble but whatevs)

Warnings: marriage; long-term relationship; jealous JK; unprotected sex in a committed, monogamous relationship; soft-dom OC; soft-dom/sub JK; oral (m-rcv); light bondage; switch!; minor degradation (sorry); pregnancy symptoms; pregnancy test; pregnancy announcement; excessive cussing; some angst; tooth-rotting fluff in the end

Summary: It's your first Valentine's Day as a married couple and you get into a little tiff the night before. You figured that a little makeup-sex was warranted.

A/N: Okay so...I didn't plan on this so this is completely un-beta'd and not fully proofed--if you see typos, pretend you didn't see them!

It was a random idea and I just decided to straight-shot it this evening. I missed these two so much and in honor of breaking 400 notes on the series, I thought I'd write a dirty drabble for them for Valentine's Day (well--technically after Vday since it's past midnight as I'm posting this LOL). Enjoy!

You and Jungkook are having a quiet Sunday movie night in. You typically went over to your parents’ for dinner but since you both just got back from your own work-related trips this week that you just wanted to spend some quality time together.

You also hadn’t been feeling well since returning from your trip. You thought that maybe you had caught a bug or something. It was that time of year, you thought–and being on a plane with a bunch of strangers–it was inevitable that their germs would get to you.

You sat on the couch–your feet resting on his lap while a bowl of popcorn sat on your belly as you both munched. You were scrolling through your social media right when Jimin forwards a meme to you that instantly had you in stitches.

“Kookie, look at this meme,” you giggled as you showed your phone to him.

He leans over to look then laughs at it until he sees a little notification pop on top of your screen.

worldwidejin liked your post.

His smile quickly falters and turns into irritation. “Uh–looks like somebody just liked your post,” he mumbles as he slumps into the couch and pouts, shoving popcorn angrily into his mouth.

“Hm?” You were curious as you pulled your phone back towards you to view who it was.

“Oh.” You forgot that you and Jin still followed each other on Instagram. It’s not like you communicated or anything. Just the occasional ‘like’ or ‘cry-laughing’ emoji comment.’

“‘Oh’?” He echoed mockingly. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

“What’s the big deal?”

“What’s the big deal? He’s your ex,” Jungkook says pointedly.

“Okay, and? I’m married to you.”

“But he still gets to ‘like’ your social media posts,” he retorts.

“Kook–I don’t see what the big deal is. You’re clearly all over my posts…“ you said as you showed your phone screen to him and scrolled through your posts. ”And our wedding photos are on there. I don’t get why you’re all butt-hurt about it.”

“I just…you guys used to have sex.”

“You and Lisa also used to have sex and yet she was our wedding guest while Jin was not so–what are we arguing about here?”

“But you and Lisa are friends–”

You scoffed, “So? It doesn’t change the fact that you used to be in love with her and chased her around Paris!”

Jungkook sighs deeply.

“What is this about, really?”

“I just–I just don’t like how he can still look in on you every now and then.”

You shrugged. “It’s not like he and I split up on bad terms. It’s not like we actually talk or anything–”

Jungkook groans. “Ugghh—I don’t know. I just don’t like it.”

“You and Lisa still talk?”

“It’s not the same though,” he almost says with a childish whine.

“How is it ‘not the same?’” You deadpanned.

He shook his head. “It’s just not!” He gets up abruptly, your ankles landing on the floor with a thud before he heads into the bedroom in a huff.

You scrunched your face in utter confusion. You turned the TV off before getting up to follow him in.

As you stopped by the threshold to your room, you found that he was already under the sheets, in the dark, and laying on his side. You lifted the sheets and got into your side of the bed. Jungkook always slept without a shirt on so you immediately raked your hands up his bare back.

“Babe, what’s wrong? Talk to me,” you coaxed softly while kissing the base of his neck.

“I’m just tired and I want to go to sleep,” he mutters without facing you before he crawls up into a ball, pulling farther away from your touch.

You rolled your eyes. You’ve had little fights before and some of them didn’t get resolved before bedtime. You sighed, thinking that this would be one of those nights, needing to sleep this off instead.

******

The next morning, you woke up to find that he was already gone. No goodbye kiss, no text, or note…whatsoever. It was also Valentine’s Day which was unusual for him. On your last Valentine’s Day, he took you to a fancy revolving restaurant. You were not much for ‘thrill rides’ but it seemed like a unique enough experience to intrigue you.

But this was your first Valentine’s Day as a married couple and you were disappointed that he chose to act childish over something that wasn’t even really a big deal to begin with.

With a huff, you sat up then suddenly gasped from the pounding headache that just came over you. You didn’t drink last night–thankfully–but it sure felt like you did.

You gingerly got up from your bed then padded over to the bathroom to wash your face. After finishing up your morning routine, you suddenly had a hankering for kimchi and rice.

During weekdays, you typically skipped breakfast at home in favor of coffee and maybe picking up a pastry on the way to the office.

You dug into your fridge, remembering that Jungkook’s mom dropped off some homemade kimchi last week. You found the container and set it on the counter. You grabbed a bowl then checked on the rice to make sure that there was still enough. You scooped some into your bowl then doubled back to where you set the kimchi. You opened the container and as soon as you got a whiff of the pickled scent, you started to gag.

Maybe it had gone bad? That seemed weird, you thought. It’s only been a week and you kept it sealed in the fridge. You smelled it again and it made you dry-heave.

It was strange, really. A moment ago, you were just craving it–and now it made you want to–

Bleeecchhhh…

You barely made it to the kitchen sink before you threw up chunks of your dinner from last night. You turned the faucet on and ran the garbage disposal, hoping your vomit wouldn’t clog your plumbing.

After you gargle and wash your mouth, you take a deep breath. You thought that maybe the incubation period of whatever this bug was was short and that you were already feeling the symptoms. You decided to call out of work for the day, not wanting to get anybody else sick.

You walked over to the medicine cabinet in your bathroom, checking for any antacids–it seemed like you were fresh out.

Luckily, there was a grocery store around the corner from your building that doubled as a pharmacy as well.

Although your head was pounding, you managed to make the trek out to the end of the block. You didn’t want to linger in case your stomach decided to do somersaults again. You didn’t want to embarrass yourself in public.

You walked straight to the pharmaceutical aisle and picked up a bottle of the gross, pink, bismuth liquid to help settle your stomach. That was all that you needed so you turn on your heel to make your way down to the checkout line. Halfway down, you spotted some tampons, suddenly remembering that you needed to pick up some since you ran out last month…or was it–You suddenly pulled your phone out to check your calendar.

Shit. What day was it?

Then you realized…change of plans–this wasn’t going to be a short shopping trip after all.

******

Your headache all but forgotten, you came back home with a few additional items including three dozen roses, a bagful of candles, and three small boxes.

You left the rest of your things on the counter, taking those three boxes with you to the bathroom.

After fifteen minutes of waiting on the toilet, you look over at the three sticks that you set flat on your bathroom counter.

You fought the urge to call Jungkook and decided to set a plan in motion.

After scattering rose petals all over the floor, you laid down across the foot of the bed–noting the full-length sliding mirrors right in front of it. You had switched out your normal barn-door style closet doors soon after you and Jungkook moved in together. It certainly added more interest to your bedroom antics.

You picked out a lacy, fire-engine red lingerie set–very festive, you thought. You took those nude, lace-up sandals that he loved to fuck you in and put them on as well.

You then took your position–bending your knee up slightly so your lace-up heels would come to view. You had one arm held up above your head while you allowed your hair to cascade down the sheets. Your other hand held your phone, aiming at the mirror to take a few sexy shots for your husband.

You switched positions and took a few more shots. Once you decided on the sexiest photos, you attached two of your best shots–one where you laid down and the second where you knelt on the bed with your thighs parted–your lingerie in full view with a caption to him–”Only for you,” before you hit ‘send.’

******

Jungkook busied himself all day. He was pissed last night. He knew that he was being unreasonable and childish but he’s made it clear before that Jin has been a bit of a sore spot for him even though it’s been ages since you broke up.

He was fully aware that it was Valentine’s Day and yet here he was at the office, pouting and trying to avoid picking up his phone most of the day.

“Jungkook-nim?”

He looked up from his computer screen to find his assistant Melanie leaning against his doorframe.

“Hey, Mel. What’s up?”

“Uhm–I was wondering if I could dip a couple hours early? I’m sorry it’s kind of a last-minute ask but…it turns out that Jimin surprised me with some dinner reservations at Pirouette. It’s incredibly difficult to get a reservation and–”

“Of course,” he chuckled at her unnecessary babbling. “And yes, I know what the waitlist is like.” He had brought you there for your first Valentine’s Day–it was a rooftop restaurant with a revolving floor, offering 360-degree views of the city. It seemed like an odd concept and you thought that the spinning restaurant concept would make you feel sick. But you hardly felt the revolutions and itt ended up being such a fun date-night for both of you.

“You go on ahead, Mel. Have a great Valentine’s Day.”

“Thank you. I hope you and YN have a good one, too,” she says with a quick bow before she walks back to her desk.

Suddenly, he felt bad for the way he acted last night and this morning. He goes to retrieve his phone, which he hid in his drawer to stop it from distracting him. As soon as he turns the “do not disturb” function off, he sees your text come through.

“Holy fuck,” he gasps.

******

It took all of Jungkook’s energy not to speed through every red light on the way home from the office.

The elevator dings up to the 8th floor and he jogs down the hallway. He slows to a halt, his shoes squeaking against the tiled floor as he stands right in front of your door. He stood there with a single red rose in one hand–reminiscent of your first date over a year ago–that he bought from a flower cart that he spotted close to his office.

He tried calming his heartbeat–pushing his hair back, wiping away the beads of sweat that had formed on his hairline–not just from rushing over but in anticipation of what he was about to see behind this door.

He retrieved his house key and pushed it into the slot to unlock your door.

The blinds were drawn so the room was kept dim and illuminated by at least 30 pillar candles around the kitchen and living room. You went a little crazy at the store, not gonna lie.

Rose petals adorned the floor beginning from your front doorway leading down to your bedroom. He could hear soft music playing coming from the room–in which the door was ajar.

He took a few steps and found you laying on your back across the bed.

“I didn’t think you’d show,” you said with a little hint of disappointment.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, baby” he said sheepishly as he stood by your feet.

“A minute longer and I would have dusted off the vibrator,” you said lowly.

You didn’t really mean it. You haven’t used the vibrator for solo-play in a long time. If you whipped it out, it was only to enhance your playtime with him.

You sighed, before turning over onto your belly–your ass in full view, barely covered by the lace material of your thong.

He hissed before taking his suit jacket to set it down the corner armchair in the room. He loosened his tie before sinking his knee into the bed and slowly crawling up to you. He touches the rose on the backs of your thigh, to the swell of your cheek, up your back until he reaches the top of your shoulder where you feel his breath on you.

“I said I was sorry,” he says before kissing your shoulder.

You crane your neck to take a look at him and are greeted by the rose that he held up to you.

“Happy Valentine’s Day. I was a complete idiot last night,” he says softly.

You turned your body over slightly to get a better look at him then hold up your left hand to his face. “You know what this is, right?” You asked him, referring to the rings on your finger. “In case you forgot–this means that I am yours and only yours–for life, Jeon Jungkook.”

He gives you a half smile. “Sorry. I was just–”

“You’re lucky I think you’re sexier when you’re all possessive and jealous,” you said, cutting him off.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Is that right?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“So you’re saying,” he slowly reaches down to palm your ass cheek, “You like when I get territorial?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I was really pissed off, you know.” His eyes turned dark with lust. His hand shifts to your hip, turning you over, flat on your back.

“I know you were.” Your breath started to get ragged in anticipation of his next move.

“I’ve been thinking of ways to make you pay for it.” His voice was dangerously low now as he hovered over you.

You bit your lip as your heart started to race. “Show me,” you breathed out, heat already pooling between your thighs.

He gives you a smirk before he takes his tie off his neck. You eyed it carefully–it wasn’t the first time he’s bound you.

You weren’t deep into BDSM kink but every now and then, you dabbled in sensory deprivation since Jungkook loved to surprise you so much by blindfolding you, you eventually tried it in the bedroom. Unsurprisingly, it brought a whole new dimension to your sex life.

You presented your wrists to him but he shook his head ‘no.’ You furrowed your brows in confusion.

“Don’t you want to make me pay for it?”

“No. I was bad–so I want you to punish me,” he says as he hands you his tie.

You could have orgasmed after hearing him say that right then but you bit the inside of your cheek to contain your excitement.

“O-okay,” you said with a hint of hesitation. You didn’t really know how to top from the bottom but you were game to try it. You glanced at the tie in your hand then back at him and your expression turns serious. You realized he was still fully-clothed.

“Stand up,” you ordered.

“Yes, ma’am,” he complies and gets up from your bed, awaiting further instruction.

You got up slowly and sat on your heels. “Strip for me.”

“As you wish,” he says, never taking his eyes off you. His button-down shirt comes off first. You drank him in, eyeing his chiseled torso–with that tattooed sleeve in full display. He unbuckles his belt then undoes the top button of his trousers and unzips them–achingly slowly–until he pulls his boxers’ waistband down to tease you further. Your mouth has already started to water, embarrassingly enough but you didn’t care.

He was all yours.

“All the way off,” you commanded.

He complies, pulling his bottoms all the way off. His cock standing at attention right in front of you. You fought every instinct to take him deep into your mouth.

So you cleared your throat in an attempt to stay focused–you were not good at this at all but you kept up the ruse. “Good. Now get on the bed–back against the headboard.”

He obeys, crawling back to the bed, just as you ordered.

You take his tie and gesture at his hands. He presents his wrists to you and you thread his hands through the loop and tighten the knot.

Since moving into your place, you had switched out your queen-sized mattress into a king–you liked to cuddle but let’s face it–you also liked your space. But it also gave you more room to play.

With the new mattress came a new headboard purchase. This new one conveniently had a bar over the tufted cushion.

You pulled his bound wrists over his head then fed the loose end of the tie around the bar and knotted it there.

“You’ll tell me if it’s too much?” You asked him.

He nodded.

“I want to hear you say it, Jungkook.”

“Yes, YN,” he rasped.

“Good boy,” you grinned slyly. “Hmm…so what should we do with you,” you wondered out loud as you caressed his chin with your finger.

“So…you were mad because some guy that I don’t even think about anymore liked some pictures on my phone?”

He nodded his head.

“What was that? I can’t hear you.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Did you–like the pictures that I sent to you this afternoon?”

“Yes,” he said tenderly this time.

“Do you think–maybe…I should have sent him some pictures, too?”

“No,” he said with a clipped tone, followed by a low rumble within his chest.

“Well, I wouldn’t have done that.” Your hand rested on his torso and slowly slid down his abdomen. “I told you–” his cock twitches as you lift your hand right before landing on his crotch.

You move your hands up your waist until they rest on your breasts. “I’m all yours, Jungkook.” You moaned softly as you gave them a squeeze.

He gives a soft grunt and you feel him buck his hips slightly against you.

You reached around your back to unclasp the hook of your bra, slowly shook it off and tossed it to the side.

You palmed them with your hands, pinching and pulling on your hardened nipples. “You like what you see?”

“Yes,” he says as he licks his lips. It absolutely gutted him that he couldn’t touch you right now.

You started to roll your clothed crotch against his.

“Is that good,” you asked.

He moaned softly. “Hmm…yes.”

You stilled your hips then took the base of his cock with your hand and began to stroke. He hisses with the contact. God, he was so hard for you.

“Does that feel good?”

“Fuck…yes,” he hissed through clenched teeth.

You wrapped your lips around the tip, sucking on the pre-cum that was already beading there.

He groaned while his eyes rolled to the back of his head in pleasure. You then ran the flat of your tongue from the base up to the tip before taking him into your mouth.

You took him in deeper until the tip hit the back of your throat.

“Aahh–what the fuhh–”

You bobbed your head up and down his length, his hips slowly thrusting into your mouth. He moans in between ragged breaths as you hollow your cheeks and sucked him in deeper. It turned you on so much, you were already soaking wet.

You decided that you weren’t strong enough for this. You were losing control and happily wanted to relinquish control back to him. You were aching to feel him in you. You wanted him to handle you.

You released his cock from your mouth with a pop before sitting up to lean over and reach up to the headboard. You loosened his restraints and freed himself from his tie. He watched you intently as you leaned back slightly to strip your soaked underwear off you before turning over the bed on all fours.

“I need you to fuck me hard, Jungkook,” you practically begged him.

“Yes, ma’am,” he obeys as he moves swiftly behind you to pull your ass up higher and pushes back into you. You were so slick for him that it didn’t take much effort at all.

He started to pump his hips–thrusting in and out of you, teasing you with shallow plunges.

“Harder,” you said.

You felt him dig his fingers into your hips before pulling out, stopping right at the tip. “Like this,” he asks before slamming hard into you.

“Fuck…yesss…” He repeated this twice until he got into this torturous rhythm. My god, you loved it when he was so deep like this.

He continued to rail into you…over and over, stroking your trembling walls relentlessly–claiming you as his and his alone. You were firmly pinned to the mattress by his grip, and his weight–completely at his mercy.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking wet–is that all for me, hm?”

“Yes, yes–” you rasped.

“You like being a dirty slut just for me, huh?”

“Hmmmfuucck,” you whined.

“I can’t hear you, baby. Are you a dirty slut for me,” he says as he fisted your hair into his fingers while he continues to drill his length into you.

“Yes, fuck!” You snapped as your orgasm neared. Your fingers found your aching bud and you rubbed it with perfect pressure–just enough to bring you closer to the edge.

“Fuck, you’re getting so tight…are you gonna cum hard for me?”

“Gooood, yes,” you groaned. A few more swipes of your fingers and hard thrusting of his hips, you were writing in pleasure underneath him.

He continues to slam his cock into you a few more times until his hips still and he lets out a long, drawn out moan as his climax rippled through his body.

He pulls out of you slowly then collapses on the bed next to you while you slowly roll over to your side, facing him.

As you both came down from your highs, you smiled at him even though you were completely spent.

His eyes fluttered, suddenly filled with concern. “A-are you okay? Was that too rough?”

“No,” you said simply. “That was great!” You both chuckled.

After a beat, you attempted to get up to go to the bathroom when he stopped you.

“No, stay–I’ll grab a towel for you,” he says as he gets off the bed to make his way there instead.

You had fully intended to go back in there to retrieve something for him but he was already ahead of you. Oh well–he’d see it anyway.

“YN,” he yells out.

“Yes?” He seems to have found them.

“What the fuck is this?”

“What is what,” you asked, acting stupid while trying to stifle a giggle.

He walks out of the bathroom with three sticks in his hand. “What is–what is this,” he asks softly.

You sat up, leaning against your elbows to see what he was referring to. “Uhm…” you bit your lip.

“Are we–are you–”

You grinned before you nodded. “Yes,” you mouthed.

His hand flies to his mouth with a gasp. “Oh, shit,” he laughs. “Are you serious?”

“I mean–there’s three different tests. One of them is digital and actually says the word on the screen,” you laughed.

“Holy shit–we’re going to be parents…I’m going to be a dad. Oh shit,” he babbles. He was clearly in shock.

“A-are you excited?” you asked apprehensively.

“Am I excited? I’m fucking over the moon!” he cups your chin to kiss you. “Oh my god–oh my god, I love you so much,” he says in between kisses then freezes all of a sudden with a look of terror in his face.

“Fuck! And you just let me fuck you like that and cum in you after you already knew? What if I hurt it? Oh shit…and I called you names–fuck!” He rakes his fingers through his hair in a panic.

You fell in absolute stitches.

“Fuck, YN–this is serious! What if I damaged the baby?”

You rolled your eyes. “Jungkook–I’m telling you, lots of people have sex while they’re pregnant.”

“Not like that,” he shrieks.

You giggled. “Don’t worry–the baby didn’t hear it, I promise.” You weren’t sure if that was true but you wanted to calm your husband down and not alarm him further.

You grab his face in your hands and look into his eyes. “The baby will be fine, okay? I called my OB this morning to confirm–she said that we can still have sex like we usually do–based on comfort level.”

You figured you might have to adjust your positions once your belly started to swell but you were a ways away from that.

You gave him a soft, lingering kiss. “Are you calm now?”

He nods then sighs. “Yeah. Sorry for panicking, bub. And…I’m sorry again for the way I acted last night.”

You wave him off. “It’s all in the past, Kook. I’m having your baby now,” you beamed.

He smiles back at you then looks down at your belly. He reaches out to rest his hand on it while you put your hands over his.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, baby.”

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Jungkook. I love you,” you smiled.

He plants a kiss on your abdomen and smiles before looking up at you. “I love you both.”

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