Something In The Water

come out

jake lockley x reader

summary: you don’t see Jake very often, he still doesn’t feel confident and comfortable enough to front frequently; his visits are not a regular occurrence but when it’s him, you know it. you couldn’t be mad at him. not when he had been hidden in this body for too long, feelings buried deep as he watched Marc and Steven express them freely from a distance while he had to drown them down and suffer in silence.

warnings: ending fades to implied smut, sexual innuendos

tags: tooth rotting fluff, literally no plot just fluff, soft!jake, seriously this man needs to be held

word count: 0.9k

The back of Jake's knuckles brushed lightly against your cold cheek. You stirred as you rubbed your eyes, still hazy from sleep.

You knew it was Jake from the soft and aching look in his gaze– you don’t see Jake very often, he still doesn’t feel confident and comfortable enough to front frequently; his visits are not a regular occurrence but when it’s him, you know it.

You smiled endearingly at him, brushing back the curls falling over his forehead.

“‘Morning, Jake” you murmured, smoothing your hand along his bicep as his elbow was propped beside you, planted into the mattress.

Jake felt his heart flutter at the demonstration of you recognizing him so easily.

“‘Morning cariño” he whispered as he leaned to leave a kiss at the bridge of your nose. “How’d you know it was me?” he asked, letting his fingertips travel down the side of your face.

“An intuition” you affirmed, leaning into his touch. “I missed you.” you breathed out, heart aching as the words escaped your lips.

“I know” he complied as he shamefully closed his eyes and nodded. “I’m sorry querida” he apologized, looking right back into your eyes, searching for a trace of blame in them.

There was none.

You couldn’t blame him, you couldn’t be mad at him. Not when he had been hidden in this body for too long, feelings buried deep as he watched Marc and Steven express them freely from a distance while he had to drown them down and suffer in silence.

“I know it’s hard for you,” you said, mirroring his actions and bringing your hand to the side of his face. “But I don’t want you to push yourself too much. Take your time, okay honey?”

He nodded, a pained look covering his face, and nuzzled your hand leaving a kiss at your palm.

“Thank you” he mumbled against your skin before leaving another kiss there.

You chuckled and buried your hand into his curls. “What are you thanking me for?”

“For being so considerate. For understanding me.” he affirmed, smiling weakly. “Us.” he corrected himself.

You hooked your hands behind his neck and brought him down to your lips. He kissed them with as much passion and devotion he could give you, cherishing the intimacy and rarity of the moment.

His necklace dangled under your chin and you lightly tugged on it, drawing a sharp gasp from him before he smirked into the kiss and flicked his tongue over your bottom lip in need to feel you even more.

It didn’t take long for him to lick into your mouth, tasting you thoroughly until he ran out of breath.

He pulled away but remained close, nuzzling your neck as you ran your hands along his bare back, nails softly scraping against his warm skin just the way you knew he liked.

“I love you” he mumbled into your neck. He had wanted to say it, but he hadn’t expected the words to escape his mouth so easily. It needed to be said anyways.

He left a kiss in the crook of your neck, punctuating his previous words.

You felt your heart skip a beat, and one of your hands mindlessly traveled to his curls like it was a reflex. You scraped your nails against his scalp, and soothingly swiped your thumb over his shoulder blade with your other hand.

“I love you too Jake” you replied, looking down at the man buried into your neck.

He adored when you held him like that; just you and him, nothing else around, no one else around, no Khonshu, no danger, no blood to shed– just him resting in your arms, cherishing his turn at fronting without it being an emergency to protect his alters; just him living his life with you, taking the time to breathe. He could get used to it.

“I would love to see you come out more often,” you affirmed as he looked back at you. “I know it’s hard and I’m not putting you under pressure but–”

“–Yeah” he nodded, pinching his lips. “I know” he said in a whisper as he dived to kiss your lips again, his fingers holding your chin while he did so. He pulled away, threading his fingers through your hair as he remained leaning over you. “Truth is– I want you all the time” he said with a small grin growing at the corner of his mouth. “All the fucking time.” he added through gritted teeth.

“Well… You can have me all you want now” you whispered with a small chuckle, and you knew from there that the atmosphere had changed. Jake stopped his kisses and stayed still for a moment. Did you break him?

“...Jake?” you called, confused at his silent state. Jake wasn’t very talkative but this was strange.

“...All I want ?” he finally asked back, his dark eyes carefully examining your face.

You chuckled softly. “All you want.” you affirmed, stroking the back of his neck.

A small smirk grew on his lips. “Mmmh okay. Interesting. Very interesting” he hummed as his hands met your hips, gently kneading the skin there before diving right back to your neck, leaving open mouthed, warm kisses there.

You almost choked on air at the sudden feeling of his teeth nipping at your skin– you should have expected it, it’s Jake after all.

“Jake!” you exclaimed, uncontrolled giggles escaping your mouth.

“I better take advantage of that free time then, mh?” he asked before kissing your cheek, tangling his legs with yours.

“Yeah you better” you teased, only hoping all of this will get him to front more often.

It was only a matter of time before Jake finally felt legitimate fronting as much as Marc and Steven did.

—

moon knight taglist:

@apollo-enthusiast @scarabgrant @lockleysgrl @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @missmarmaladeth @alexxavicry @mystinky-butt

Breakfast

gif by @paper-n-ashes

summary: marc interrupts you when you’re trying to make breakfast, and steven finishes up.

pairing: fem!reader x marc spector, fem!reader x steven grant

content: 18+/nsfw/MINORS DNI, pwp, fluff, kissing, unprotected sex, breeding kink, overstimulation if you squint, oral sex (fem receiving) cum eating

an: i just felt like writing something spicy for the moonknight boys <3.

word count: 1.6k

mcu masterlist | requests are open

One of your favorite things to do is get up early and sit on the window sill, watching the streets of London while Marc or Steven sleeps. There's something about the glow of the summer sun peeking out from behind the clouds. You don’t sit for long, wanting to make sure they get the rest. Before the sun can flood the space with its golden light you close the window and draw the curtains, heading into the kitchen.

You preheat the oven to keep his food warm in case he sleeps late, and get coffee brewing—decaf only as they already have enough trouble getting enough rest. It’s been an adjustment for you, but you’d do anything for Marc and Steven. With the soft hum of the coffee machine going, you start getting together the ingredients for french toast and hashbrowns.

You’re moving slowly so as not to wake them up though your room is down the hall. Completely immersed in cutting bread and making the mixture for the french toast you don’t hear when Marc opens your bedroom door and pads down the hallway to you.

His hands are on you as soon as you're in arms' reach. A grunt of pleasure comes out of him as he runs his hands over the curves of your breasts before resting them on your hips.

“Morning,” You lean your head back onto his shoulder as he kisses his way down your neck.

“Mornin’,” He whispers between kisses. “French toast, huh?”

“Mhmm,” You hum lazily, dropping the whisk and planting your hands on the counter so that you can press further into him. You know exactly where this is going and there’s no point in resisting. It’s not like you want to anyway.

“Steven’s gonna be jealous.”

“I make it for him whenever, you both know that,” He continues to kiss your neck, scraping his teeth over your pulse point before he bites gently. “Marc,” You sigh, pressing your ass into his erection.

“Quiet, let me make you feel good, baby.”

“Yes,” You agree easily, breakfast forgotten as his hands make their way up the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing.

“You wanted me to come out here and fuck you didn’t you? Is that why you’re dressed in just this?”

“Yes,” You breathe as one of his hands slips into your panties, his fingers gliding effortlessly through your wet folds.

“Oh, baby, you’re so wet. So easy.”

“Mhmm,”

“Let’s see how easy it is for me to…” He stops talking as his fingers plunge into you. “Only this wet for me and Steven, right?”

“Yes, all yours. All his,” You nod your head feverishly, drunk on the smoothness of his tone and the strength of his touch. Marc always touches you with such weight compared to Steven. He leaves bruises from holding your thighs apart or applying pressure to your throat. His touch is life-affirming, keeping you in a bubble where you only focus on him. Right now he’s all that matters.

“Ours.”

“God, please, Marc? I need you,” You whine as you reach your hand back to run it through his curls.

His hand leaves your breast, turning your head so that you have to look at him. His eyes are uncharacteristically tender as he gazes at you, “I need you, too.”

The admission squeezes your heart but it’s short-lived as he wraps his hand around your throat, and rids you of your panties. He kisses you hungrily as he uses one of his feet to spread your legs further apart, bending you slightly so your spread open for him perfectly. He continues to lick into your mouth, nipping at your bottom lip as he lines himself up with your entrance, snapping his hips forward so that he’s sheathed completely inside you.

“Baby,” He mumbles against your lips, his dark eyes blown full of lust.

“I know, it's so good, you're so good,” You murmur, taking his bottom lip between your teeth before sucking on it.

Your move almost sends him into a frenzy, the innate need to race to his climax flowing through his veins, but he has to get you there first, “You too.”

He starts slow, focusing on pulling himself out to just the tip before slamming into you. You push all of the ingredients to the side so that you can bend over completely, your nipples rubbing against the cold counter through the shirt every time he’s deep inside of you. His grip on your hips is deliciously tight— it almost hurts, and you know that Steven will grill him for the bruises that'll form in the coming days.

Eventually, he starts to pick up his pace but he doesn't sacrifice the depth, fucking you hard and fast and deep. You're incredibly wet and warm, your pussy practically sucking him in, your trembling under his heavy touch. The kitchen is filled with nothing but the wet squelch of his cock entering you over and over and mingled heavy breathing. You start to rock back against him, effectively pushing the tip of him into your cervix. It's the perfect mix of pain and pleasure and you bite down on your arm, hiking your leg back and around his waist so that he can somehow get even deeper.

You wonder what it looks like, him fucking you this harshly, his nails digging into your skin so hard that he might break skin. You know that his eyebrows are drawn together, his mouth agape and turned as he concentrates on how warm and tight your pussy is around his cock. His eyes probably are zeroed in where you connect, his chest heaving and glistening with sweat.

You on the other hand are flush against the cool counter, doing the only thing you can: taking what he's giving you. The pleasure is building in you steadily, as you greedily push your hips back against his.

The softest, filthiest, words of praise leave his lips, “You feel so fucking good, you’re perfect. My perfect little slut, made just for me. I can have you however and whenever I want, can’t I?”

“However and whenever,” You repeat, and he lips turn in a devilish smile.

“You’re everything to me.”

His words take you by surprise, tugging at your heartstrings once more. You open your mouth to say something back but then he bends forward so that his chest is flush with your back, and you clench around him a new threshold of pleasure met from this angle, “Fuck, Marc.”

“You can take it,” He declares, it isn't a question; all you can do is whine beneath him, your words of agreement stuck in your throat as you move closer to your orgasm. “Say it.”

“I can take it,” You murmur, trying your best to keep pushing back against him though there's no space between you.

“Yeah, you can baby,” He praises, planting a kiss on your sweaty forehead.

“Will you cum inside me? Please?”

“You want me to fill you up?”

“Yes, please baby,” If you had the mind to care you would cringe at how desperate you sound.

“Fill you up so much and we can watch it drip out of you,” His voice is low, gravelly in your ear.

The image of him and Steven looking at your pussy while it's messy and full sends a shiver down your spine. “Mhmm,” You whimper, turning your head to give him a sloppy kiss.

“Cum for me first baby, and I’ll fill up this sweet little pussy of yours.”

He continues to pound into you like his life depends on it and before you know it you’re coming undone, your orgasm hitting you like a freight train. As soon as he hears the telltale gasp leave your throat he snakes his hand between you and the counter, rubbing harsh circles into your clit to intensify and prolong your release. If he wasn’t keeping you pinned between him and the counter you would collapse to the ground, your body turned to jelly from the sheer amount of pleasure that radiates through your entire body.

He doesn’t stop as you clench around him, driving himself as deep as he can get. It's all he can think about, reaching the furthest part of you, so he can breed you thoroughly. Standing upright again he brings you with him, one hand wrapped around your throat, the other one getting you steady as he fucks you brutally. He thrusts into you with a deep, guttural groan before stilling, and you feel the warmth of his cum fill you to the brim. His hips pull back before he snaps them forward again, wanting to fuck his cum as deep inside of you as possible.

Abruptly he pulls out of you, and drops to his knees, his hands splaying you open to watch his cum seep out of you. With no warning his mouth is on you, sucking at your clit and lapping at your center to collect his own cum. His groans are constant and filled with a hunger that quickly brings you to your second orgasm. This one is quick and just as powerful as the first, your pussy fluttering around nothing, and he continues to eat you until the moans stop ripping from your throat.

Turning you around, he scoops you up bridal style before carrying you over to the couch. His hands rub up and down your arms as he peppers kisses over your face, waiting for you to recover from your second release.

You’re effectively useless, your breathing still heavy. You feel like you’re spinning, up in the clouds, the only thing grounding you is his warm touch. When you finally feel like you’ve returned to earth, you clear your throat and look up at the man before you with heavy lids, “Steven, I know it’s you.”

A cheeky smile spreads across his face as he leans in to kiss you, “How’d you know it was me, dove?”

“You have that kink, not Marc…at least not yet.”

Steven just laughs before dipping his head to steal more kisses from you. You kiss him back happily for several moments, the kisses wet and slow before you realize that you were doing something before you were interrupted by them.

“Wait, Stevie, I was cooking breakfast,” You pull away, glancing over at the kitchen.

“Don’t worry about it dear, you just lay here and I’ll finish it up.”

“But it’s your favorite, I should make it.”

“I think you’ve done enough for us today, yeah?” His hand raises to caress your face affectionately before cupping your cheek.

You nod softly, a smile pulling at your lips, “Yeah, okay.”

“I love you, always. Marc too,” He says firmly, pressing his forehead to yours.

Steven’s love confessions always lift you out of the misty, but welcome fog that is Marc and the way he carries himself. If Marc is intense, brooding, and drawing you in, then Steven is light and airy— he’s bright and clear. They’re the perfect pair, a balance that you’re extremely grateful for.

In your tiredness from the intense sex, you feel your eyes grow a bit teary, your voice thick with emotion, “I love you too, both of you.”

if you’d like to be on my moonknight taglist, let me know!

moonknight taglist: @laurensprentiss, @angelfxllcm, @in-between-the-cafes, @honeybrowne, @ninebluehearts, @rmoonstoner, @hotchs-bitch

Request: Oscar Isaac talking about how you both embarrassed your son.

French Lessons (Steven Grant x f!Reader)

Summary: You had been in desperate want to learn French, but the absolute droll of learning through a boring app was no fun. Coincidentally, you meet a brilliant gift shop clerk at the museum who can teach you French while you can teach him a thing or two about love.

Rating: Explicit 18+ (By proceeding to read beyond this warning, you agree that you are 18 years or older)

Word Count: 5K

Content: Explicit Smut, pining, masturbation references, dry humping, fingering, handjob, fluff, romance, French, Steven Grant, slight reference to Marc Spector

Notes: My Steven fic has finally arrived!! I'm hoping to turn this into a series because I have quite a few other ideas and I don't want to leave you hanging with just a taste of the two of them. But I hope you like it and share/reblog! Love y'all!

Updated Note: Wow!! Thank you so much for all of your kind words and notes. Part 2 is currently in the works and coming soon.

Bonjour! Je m'appelle Vivienne Rousseau et bienvenue à votre premier cours de français’! 

Hello! My name is Vivienne Rousseau and welcome to your first French lesson! Did you understand my first sentence? If not, not to worry! I will teach you how to learn and with the right dedication you’ll be speaking fluently in the next 6 months! Today’s lesson is all about beginnings…

You whine as you raise your volume on your phone to stay focused. However, the tall statues and figurines in front of you were not helping like you thought it would. You had come to the National Museum to gain some peace and clarity while starting this new venture. French was always a language you had dreamed of learning, so why not start now? Sure, the grating voice of Vivienne Rousseau would drag you along through it, but this was a new adventure. The start of something interesting…

As long as you could pay attention. It wasn’t your fault Vivienne’s voice sounded like a high-pitched foghorn. But the reviews for her app were rave and they wouldn’t take your credit card information for another week, so if it became a bigger drag than it already was, you could cancel your free trial. 

You walked throughout the museum trying to focus on your lesson, but rewound the same phrases over and over. 

Je m’apelle Vivienne. Je suis ravi de vous rencontrer. 

You were thinking it wasn’t the pyramids and statues that weren’t helping you focus, but you figured it was time for you to leave the museum, regardless. Before the trip home, you stopped at the gift shop for a bottle of water. You walked over to the gift shop counter t o grab the attention of a man entirely more focused on his Egyptian mythology book than having to sell stuffed scarabs. He looked slightly disheveled, with black curly tendrils falling all over his head. When you made eye contact with him, he had dark crescents under his eyes and a timid smile. He looked so nervous to a complete stranger, you couldn’t imagine how he was towards his coworkers. 

Reaching for your water, the cord of your earbuds snapped and broke free from your phone. If you hadn’t noticed by the snapping of the cord, you would’ve noticed from Vivienne’s grating voice booming throughout your speaker: 

Bonjour! Comment ça vas?

“Bien, merci. Et vous-même?” You look up and the tired, timid man has spoken, meeting your eyes with a softer smile. 

You smile back and laugh. “Sorry about that. This is what happens when I don’t get earbuds from the last five years.” 

“Well, it’s not about the earbuds, innit? It’s what’s in them that matters. Learning French?” He asks. 

“If you could even call it that. I thought coming to the museum would help me focus up, but this woman I’m listening to sounds well braindead.”

“Je suis désolé. D'après ce que j'ai entendu, elle ressemblait à un bouton absolu.” The crinkles in the corner of his eyes became more prominent and you couldn’t help but laugh. 

“I’m sorry. From what I heard, she sounded like an absolute knob.” He translated. He introduced himself. Steven. With a V. You asked Steven with a V if he’d like to make some extra money on the side and before you knew it, you were meeting at the bistro every Wednesday for an hour of French lessons with Steven with a V.

Steven was not as drab and droning as Vivienne Rousseau, quite the opposite. Before and after your hour was up, you found yourselves talking more and more about your days; him describing the gift shop and his aspirations to be a tour guide despite his awful boss Donna. You couldn’t understand how he wasn’t. It seemed like everything he talked about could circle back to his love for Egyptology and the wonder of the gods and goddesses. How does someone like that know so much about it but he’s stuck behind a desk selling crisps and plushies? 

After your 3rd meeting, you’d plucked up the courage to ask him. The first thing he did was look at you after those compliments with such earnest gratitude you felt your insides melt. The second thing he told you was that he had a sleeping disorder that kept him further back in life than he’d wanted. He aspired to have adventure, and life and zest as much as he could, but for right now… the gift shop was just enough.

That was the first night you had gone to bed thinking of how kind his smile was, chasing the warmth throughout your body it had given you as if you’d just taken a shot. You’d found yourself eager for the next lesson, to hear about his new studies, to watch his hands as he notated on your writing. 

You’d gotten to the bistro thirty minutes early, in your same corner table at the patio, waiting for Steven.

You waited. 

And you waited. 

And you waited. 

Two hours later, he never showed. 

You felt your insides deflate as you traveled home. You’d checked your text messages every ten minutes hoping to see a sign that he was okay or if he was busy or if he just didn’t want to come. Maybe he’d seen the way you looked at him in your last lesson and found it inappropriate? 

You wished Steven standing you up would’ve completely turned you off to him, but unfortunately, it just had him occupying your mind more and more until the sounds of his voice describing tales of the green jewel lulled you to sleep. 

You woke up the next morning to your phone going off, although it wasn’t your alarm. Steven was in the middle of writing you a flurry of text messages with apologies about how he wasn’t able to make it last night and how his sleeping had completely mucked his week up. He asked if you were free that night for your lesson and a free meal to make it up. While you agreed to see him, your worry and apprehension weren’t immediately gone. You weren’t sure if this was just his common excuse he had given women, but, it was worth it to hear him out. 

You had gotten to the restaurant and there at your familiar corner table was Steven Grant, looking like the saddest dog you had ever seen. As soon as you were in eye view, he walked up to you, moving to place his hand on your shoulder but hesitating. He moved it back to clasp his other palm. 

“Y/N. I am so deeply, deeply sorry. I go to bed on Saturday and then I woke up, and it’s Thursday and I feel like I got hit by a double-decker bus and— “

“Je te pardonne. Mangeons.” You had said. I forgive you. Let’s Eat. And he flashed you that damn smile again, and you felt your insides crack like an egg to the stove. 

There wasn’t as much lesson as there was dinner this night as you and Steven had discussed every topic you could. Work, music, books, television. No topic was left off the table as you waited for your food. The server brought out the very vegan Steven’s steaming lentil soup and what was supposed to be your salmon was replaced with a large burger. 

“I’m so sorry miss, it’s a bit of a mess in the kitchen back there tonight. I’ll get this sorted out straight away.” The server said to you. You saw the steam coming out of Steven’s soup and instead of digging in, his hands were placed politely on his lap. 

When the server came back out, he had brought trout, which you were unfortunately allergic to or else you would’ve scarfed it down by then. More than a half hour had gone by and you were still waiting for your dinner. And there was Steven, hands no longer in his lap but marking your French in his thick glasses. You took a mental note of how good he looked in them while cursing yourself for doing so. 

“Steven, if you want to eat, I completely understand. Your food must already be freezing.” You said, eying the way his hands held his pen. 

“Not to worry.” He said cheerfully. “The great thing about lentils is that you can eat them hot or cold and I want to make sure you’re taken care of. Laisse moi prendre soin de toi.” You immediately felt your face redden and were so glad that your food had come back correctly this time so you could bury your head in your salmon and vegetables. 

When you went home that night, you thought of his thick fingers, his kind eyes and the repeat of him saying “Laisse moi prendre soin de toi” in your head as you slowly slipped your fingers under the covers, dreaming of how your French tutor would say that to the heat between your legs. 

Laisse moi prendre soin de toi. Let me take care of you. 

He wasn’t late for the next lesson. He was there when you had arrived, 15 minutes before, to counter the overeager 30 minutes versus strolling in right on time. You wanted him to know you care about these lessons, but maybe not too much. 

When you had walked over to the table, Steven had another downtrodden look on his face. His lips were turned down, and he was looking down at the ground. When he heard your footsteps, his face immediately brightened and damn, this was not helping your crush. 

“Bad day at the museum?” You greet him as he sullenly nodded. 

“Donna started taking the piss at me as soon as I got into work. A child — a child!! — came up to me and asked me where the bloody bathroom was and all I hear after I show her where it is—‘Stevie, you’re not a tour guide. It’ll never happen, so stop trying.’” He mocked Donna with a nasally grating voice. 

“I’m sorry. It’s like she doesn’t even give you a chance to prove yourself.” 

“Exactly!!” Steven excitedly exclaims as a few people from other tables looked around. He muttered apologies. “I’m just so tired of her thinking I’m some bumbling git. It’s not like she knows where the Hathor temple is and she could answer someone if they asked her. She wouldn’t even know Hathor if she bit her in the arse.” 

You giggled as he went on. “I’m sorry, I’m rambling. Let’s get on with our lesson soon, but do you mind if I eat here again tonight? She wouldn’t even let me take a lunch today!” 

“Well, since you had an absolutely shit day, I think it’s my turn to get dinner. And I’ll do one extra.” The server came around to your table as Steven looked at you, puzzled. 

“Excuse me, sir, but can you recommend your finest French wine?” 

A couple of hours later and two bottles of wine down, dinner was finished but there yet again wasn’t much of a French lesson. Giddy and bubbly from wine, you and Steven continued your endless back and forth and it felt like you could talk to him about just about anything. You saw him look at his phone screen to look at the time and you felt your heart sink a bit. 

“Oh bugger, it’s already 9 PM.” Steven frowned. “I don’t want to keep you too long. I’m sure you have plenty to do.” 

“No! Wednesdays are always our nights.” You saw his smile widen when you said that, the crinkles in his eyes deepening. “Besides, I wouldn’t just consider tonight a French lesson but me trying to cheer up a friend who seems to have had a bad day.” 

“Not so bad now, innit?” He grinned. You looked into his eyes with no reluctance, the alcohol warming your body giving you courage to keep contact. He had beautiful, dark eyes and his nose was so strong and defined. You knew better than to even look at his lips, though, because once you did, you would stare too long and then goodbye to your friend and French tutor. 

You heard a slight rumble and felt droplets hit your shoulders. First quietly and then pounding as the rain came through like a. Luckily you had already paid for yours and Steven’s food so you ran under the patio’s awning, Steven’s arm was halfway out of his jacket when he ran over to you and then flipped the jacket over your head. 

“What do we do now? I know we’re having a great time, but you’re also not exactly paying me to gossip during a rainstorm.” Steven shouted over the loud rain. 

Liquid courage be damned. You thought of an offer that you didn’t want to come off the wrong way, but it was raining and you did pay him for a lesson you hadn’t exactly completed. You bit your lip in contemplation and you could’ve sworn in the corner of your eye you saw Steven eyeing your swollen bottom lip. 

“My flat isn’t too far, if you don’t mind it.” Steven looked at you for what felt like a long moment and you held your breath. He nodded and kept his jacket above your head the entire way. 

As soon as you had gotten to your flat, you thought the alcohol would wear off, but the last bottle you two had shared was just kicking in. The two of you ran and giggled back to your apartment like a couple of schoolchildren, and you felt so refreshed. You loved that you could be silly with him. 

“This is it! Sorry I haven’t fixed it up much.” You said, tossing your shoes on the floor and your keys on your counter. 

“It’s much better than my place.” Steven looked around. “You wouldn’t be surprised though, loads of books, loads of paperwork, a goldfish named Gus.” 

You snorted. “Come on, my books and my desk are in the bedroom.” 

He followed you into your bedroom as you turned on the desk light, lit enough to illuminate the space needed but not too bright to cause a headache. You fell onto your bed, back first, with your arms stretched out to the back of your head. It felt so good to close your eyes. It felt so good being tipsy. It felt so good being with Steven. Where is Steven? When you opened your eyes, there he was at your desk, eyeing your stack of French books. 

“I have to say this is quite the collection Miss Y/N.” He took his glasses out of his shirt pocket and slipped them on and you had to shut your eyes quickly before the heat between your legs grew to an uncomfortable amount. “Baudelaire, Marceline Desbordes-Valmore and you have my favorite, Victor Hugo.” 

“No way, Victor Hugo is my favorite as well!” You shot up excitedly. He had Hugo’s book in his hand as he skimmed through. 

“Le Roi S’amuse, I love absolutely love this play.” 

“Can I tell you something?” You swung your feet off of your bed to distract your bubbling nerves. “I’ve really wanted to pick up French just so I can read more French literature I can fall in love with. See more plays, get more cultured.” 

“That’s what I like about you, Y/N.” Steven said, bringing the book with him as moved next to you on the bed. “We haven’t exactly gone over this term yet, but when I think about you, I think of your joie de vivre. Your lust for life. You see things and opportunities and you take them.” 

You feel yourself redden. “What exactly do you mean by that?” 

“I just mean, if it was the other way around, I could’ve never walked up to an attractive stranger and asked them to teach me French.” He looks down nervously for a brief moment and then steadies himself, giving you deep eye contact. You’re almost rendered speechless. 

“Are you telling me you find yourself attractive, Steven Grant?” You whisper. Your eyes are locked on each other. You’ve never seen someone with such dark, kind eyes. 

“Can I tell you which verse is my favorite?” You break the silence. “It would probably do me good to have you hear some of my French tonight.” You giggle. Steven doesn’t giggle. He slowly nods as your liquid courage takes over. Your hands are shaking, but you feel the electricity. 

You slip your hands onto his and help guide him to your favorite passage. His eyes don’t leave your face. It’s as if he’s studying you like a new art installation. 

“La vie est une fleur, l’amour en est le miel.” You recite. 

“Life is a flower, love is its honey.” Steven translates. His hands are so, so warm on yours. 

  “C’est la colombe unie à l’aigle dans le ciel,” you continue, briefly daring to look up at his eyes, which are now on your hands. He looks absolutely dazed, as if he can’t believe this is real. 

“It’s the dove united with the eagle in the sky,” You notice Steven's hands are shaking too. 

“C’est la grâce tremblante à la force appuyée,” Do you dare to move your hands? 

“It’s the trembling grace to the leaning force,” He’s looking directly at you again. No wine, no French, no lentil soup could save you now. 

“C’est ta main dans ma main doucement oubliée…” You rub your hands on top of his and his fingers feel exactly how you thought they would, and more. 

“It’s your hand in my gently forgotten hand…” He moves one hand to your shoulder. Your heart feels as if it’s in your throat. 

“Aimons-nous! aimons-nous!” There are exclamation points in the text, but all that comes out of your mouth is a faint whisper. 

“Let’s love each other. Let’s love each other.” Somehow, your faint whisper is louder than Steven’s. 

And then silence. You feel yourself gravitate towards him, the heat of your lips meeting as they finally collide and give you the sweetest satisfaction. 

Steven Grant’s lips are softer than you could have ever fantasized. He’s gentle, slow and leaves you lingering for more. One hand is still on your Victor Hugo book, rubbing the palm of your hand as your fingers are laced together. 

You break apart briefly and lean your foreheads on each other, grinning as he rubbed your shoulder. 

“I feel like I’ve been wanting to do that since I first met you.” Steven confesses. You take your other hand and run it through his tussled black curls as you continue to kiss him. He follows your lead, matching the pace of your kisses and, albeit awkwardly initially, slipped his tongue into your mouth, letting you taste him. 

As the kiss deepened, you heard the book slam onto the ground with a large thud as you lifted yourself onto his lap. You heard Steven gasp, and you broke the kiss. 

“Is everything alright?” You scan his eyes for any discomfort. 

“I’m alright, love.” His hands continue gripping your shoulders tightly. You place your hands on them, moving them slowly from your shoulders to the curve of your hips. 

“You don’t have to worry.” You whisper into his lips. “You can touch me however you want.” He exhaled and gripped your hip with more confidence. His other hand moved to the back of your neck as your lips crashed together, moving at a faster pace. You moan as he slips his tongue into your mouth, which causes him to moan. You pushed against him, slowly rocking on him, your skirt slipping up by the friction. 

He groans before breaking the kiss. “I should let you know something. I’m not like other men.” 

“That’s precisely what I like about you, Steven.” You move your lips to the warmth of his neck, sucking on him as he groans again, shaking his head as if he needs to get out of his trance. 

“No, I’m serious Y/N. I’ve told you about my sleeping disorder… how it causes me to miss certain days and how I feel so knackered afterwards. It’s… caused me to miss quite a bit out of life.”

“And I can help you make it up.” You nibble on his ear. 

“I’m a virgin.” He blurts out so fast you almost miss it. 

You take a moment to settle into his lap, hands still firmly smoothing out his soft curls. He looks down with a tinge of shame and embarrassment that you’re puzzled by, so you reassure him by lifting his chin up and giving him a soft kiss. 

“Hey, come on now. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. It just hasn’t happened yet.” 

“Yeah, at least not with the right person.” He takes his slightly shaky hand to hold the side of your face as you kiss his palm. 

“Well, we can go at whatever pace you like tonight.” 

"I just want to make you feel good Y/N.” Steven whispers. “Show me how to do that and I’ll be satisfied enough tonight.” 

“But I want you to be satisfied too, Steven. And I think I know of a way to do that.” 

You press your lips against his, but this time hungrier, needier. You wanted to show him how much you had been pining for him all of these weeks. Steven could steadily match with your pace, boldly biting your lower lip and smiling as he heard a moan exit your mouth. 

You move his hand from your face, slowly sliding it down your neck, to the curve of your breast. Steven let out a whimper as you guided his hand to knead your breast. He stared at your hands together, mouth agape, eyes hooded, in a trance. 

You moved his hand from your breast to your stomach, to your thighs as you guided his hand up your dress. You planted soft kisses on him while you guided him, but when you stop at the heat between your legs, he’s absolutely speechless. You remove your hand from his, letting him decide his next step. 

He rubs the outline of the wetness of your underwear as you sigh in pleasure. 

“Steven…” You whisper. 

“I could never get tired of hearing my name said like that.” He sighed, still looking at you in absolute unabashed awe. You removed the straps from your sundress, exposing your naked breasts, and instead of the trembling nerves Steven had shown you, he was massaging and rubbing at one nipple while still rubbing the outline of your underwear. 

“That feel good?” Steven murmured. 

“So good Steven.” Your nipples had started to harden under his touch. Steven removed his hand from your crotch so he could steady himself and focus on putting his breasts in your mouth. He took ample time with both of them, switching back and forth and sucking on them with such passion that his eyes were shut and he was moaning, silently praising your chest. 

After a few moments of bliss, you stopped him, lifting his head up as he could watch you get off of his lap and onto your knees. Just the simple action of you kneeling between his raging erection caused him to start quietly panting, not wanting any sudden movements to ruin this moment. 

You unfastened his belt, eyes still met with his as you saw the bulge from his boxers. There was a slight wet spot of pre-cum on the fabric and you felt your mouth water with anticipation. You pulled his boxers down so his cock could spring free and you weren’t only surprised but very pleased. 

Steven’s cock was so thick you could barely touch your thumb when wrapping your hand around him. He was already so firm and hard for you, veins slightly protruding out and more liquid glistening at the top of his tip. 

“Oh my God.” Steven chanted as you rubbed him up and down. “Oh my God, Oh my God, Oh my God, I can’t believe this is happening.” 

“I can’t believe you’re so big.” You say, a bit hypnotized yourself. You had fantasized about this moment but couldn’t believe it was actually happening and better than you had ever expected. 

“I’m not gonna lie to you,” Steven strained out. “As much as I would love for you to put your mouth… all… over me… I think our fun would end rather quickly, and that leaves us with a bit of a problem.” 

You slightly turn your mouth, upset you can’t have your mouth take the challenge of swallowing his cock just yet, but then you come up with an even better idea, giving Steven a devilish grin.

You slip his boxers back on, his bulge even more prominent than before, and Steven looks up at you with a puzzled look. You wrapped your legs around his hips and sunk your clothed crotch into his. 

“Oh, fuck Y/N.” Steven moaned. “Fuck, that feels amazing.” He fastened his hands on your hips as you slowly rocked into him. You put your forehead onto his, breathing in each other’s air as Steven quickened the pace, the pressure of his thickness tightening your bundle of nerves. You started to grind onto him, hard and fast, as he held himself steady with the softness of your ass. 

The warm pressure of his cock was about to make you come undone. His head was buried in between your breasts, not sucking at them but just breathing you in, just to make sure you were real. That this was real. 

Steven pushed his crotch up against you at a pace that you knew would unravel you. Your moans together became more rhythmic. 

“Steven, I’m so close, please don’t stop.” You whined. You brought your hand not tangled in his curls to your clit as you began to rub it, this just quickened Steven’s pace as you bounced on his crotch, his hands gripped on your ass so tightly you knew you’d have bruises later. 

As your moans got louder, you felt yourself release, your orgasm throbbing throughout your entire body. Steven came quickly after, abruptly stopping as he released his warmth into his boxers. The two of you panted together, heads still connected through your foreheads. Closer than ever. 

“Wow.” Steven meekly whispered. “That was better than I ever imagined it would be. Tu es exquis."

”Tu es incroyable.” You whispered back, looking at him as he smiled warmly at you. “See, I’ve been paying attention.” 

The two of you laid there for a few moments until Steven went into your bathroom to clean up. You had slowly stripped away your dress and your bra, nestling under your duvet, leaving some space behind you for the wonderful man you were waiting for. 

A few moments passed, and you felt his warm body surrounding you, arms around your waist as he lay there naked, reciting Victor Hugo’s romantic poetry into your ear. 

“I reckon if I can’t give you a full French lesson, this was the best substitute.” Steven’s hands were circling lazily around your arms and you briefly reminisced about the time when he didn’t even know if a hug was appropriate. And now here he is in your bed, wearing no clothes and reciting poetry into your ear. 

Sometimes real life really eclipses fantasy. 

“I’d say this absolutely makes up for it, and then some. But… I think we’re going to have to go into double time next lesson to make up for it.” You grinned. 

“You’re right, maybe an oral exam will have to do.” Steven awkwardly quipped and you both laughed at his awkwardly adorable attempt at double entendre. 

You turned around and opened your arms up towards him. He moved his head towards your chest, arms gripping your waist tightly with the same fervor as earlier, as if you would float away and this was all a dream.

You buried your fingers in his curls, gripping your free hand to the back of his head until you drifted asleep. 

Steven Grant, the shy gift shop clerk that had offered you French lessons. 

Steven Grant, the brilliant, burgeoning Egyptologist that brightened your life with his stories and his warmth. 

Steven Grant. The start of something new. 

Okay buuuuuut can we get that aphrodisiac with Nathan Bateman please 🥺 for science 👀😤

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Minors interacting with this work WILL be blocked.

Notes: From this post

Not beta-read

Length: 3.5K

Warnings: Nathan Bateman's middle name is Hamlet. It's canon. I can't help it, I didn't write the movie. Explicit content - accidental aphrodisiac consumption; praise kink; fingering; breast play; cum play

It's an experiment. It's got nothing to do with the company—well, not really. Blue Book surely isn't about to branch out into Health and Wellness, no matter how much of a fucking money-sucking racket it is.

Nathan doesn't tell you about it. You'd ask too many questions; you'd probably make fun of his childhood obsession, his love of Star Trek: The Original Series—particularly the This Side of Paradise episode.

So Nathan Bateman is concocting an edible aphrodisiac for fun. So what? It's healthy for a guy to have hobbies.

He's never tested them on anyone but himself. You're the only other person at the facility, and without a proper digestion system, he's no way to test it on Kyoko. The last attempt had Nathan certain he was on the verge of success. He'd felt a few stirrings, but without additional stimulation, it had done little.

That hadn't stopped him from getting off, of course.

The cumulative test results have been fairly inconclusive so far. The concoction has gone from a formulated to drops, which were incredibly bitter, into fruit gummies. They mask the taste well enough, but this last attempt still wasn't strong enough. His newest, formulation has tripled the dose, but he has yet to test its effectiveness.

--

"C'mere," You order.

"Busy."

"Nathan Hamlet Bateman, you will get up and walk over here right goddamn now. I have releases for you to sign and I'm at the end of my fucking rope."

Nathan thinks, for a moment, that he wishes he could bottle your attitude and find a way to incorporate it into the gummies. He glances at you over his shoulder, arching a brow when he sees you holding out a tablet. He makes a point of heaving a sigh, pushing himself away from his desk and strolling over to you. He has to fight back a grin as you shift from foot to foot, still holding the tablet out to him.

You're so cute when you're so annoyed.

Nathan takes the tablet from you, eyes skimming the contents and scrolling lazily.

"How's it going down here?" You ask. He lets out a non-committal grunt before signing.

"Done," He says. He holds the tablet out to you, and arches a brow when you don't take it.

"You signed all four?"

Nathan huffs, moving on to the next one.

"Can you learn to forge my signature? It would make this much faster," He grumbles, skimming through the next one. You don't answer; you're already wandering away from him.

"Can I have one?" He hears you ask. And Nathan's got snacks in a few places in his main office—walnuts, crunch bars, Nilla wafers—he doesn't even bother to ask what you're eating. He just grunts in the affirmative as he signs the second release.

"These are kinda bitter, Bateman."

Bitter?

"The hell are you eating?" Nathan asks, moving on to the third release.

"These fruit gummies," You say.

Nathan keeps scrolling, and scrolling, then—stops. Your words play through his ears again, all three spoken through thick, moist chewing sounds.

Nathan lifts his head, turning to look at you as you cram a handful of fruit gummies into your mouth. Nathan drops the tablet, ignoring the clatter of it hitting the floor as he rushes for a trashcan. Before you can ask what's wrong, he's holding it out to you, ordering, "Spit them out!" Like he's scolding a bad puppy. You do as you're told, the lot of them plopping into the trash. Nathan peers into the bin, eyeing the slick glob. He can make out a few bite marks; most of them have significant chucks taken out of them.

Oh...No.

--

"What the hell?" You mumble, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Since when are you so territorial with your snacks?"

"How many did you eat?"

"What?"

"How many did you eat?" He repeats slowly, eyes boring into yours, "Before these, how many did—"

"I don't know—"

"Think!"

"Shit, five, maybe six?"

You watch as Nathan lowers the bin to the floor, taking a few steps away from it.

"Why, what is it?" You ask, looking down at the bowl of innocuous gummies, "What's wrong? Am I gonna die? Oh my god, I'm gonna die—"

"Calm down," Nathan orders, but it's a harsh order. "You're not going to die, you're just gonna..." He trails off, features scrunching.

"What, I'm just gonna what?"

Nathan clears his throat, glancing between the bin, the bowl of gummies, and you.

"If they work, you're gonna get...Really, really horny."

You stare dumbly at Nathan for a moment before you manage, "Bullshit."

"It isn't."

"What the fuck, Bateman!" You screech, "Why the fuck wouldn't you label these 'jerk-off gummies' or—or—'fuck-me-fruit-snacks'?"

"Because I hadn't worked the branding out yet."

"This isn't a joke!"

"You're the one saying fuck-me-fruit-snacks."

"What's happening to me?" You ask shakily, leaning back against the table. Your skin begins to prickle with heat; your head starts to spin. "I'm getting really hot and really dizzy."

"I doubt it's the gummies."

"How can you know that?"

"Because I have you allergies on file and none of your allergens are in there. You're just freaking out," Nathan explains boredly.

"I have every right!"

"I know that."

"...Okay...Okay. Have you finished signing the release forms?"

"Why is that your next question?" Nathan asks, brows raised amusedly.

"Because I need you to sign them and I wanna get out of here!"

"What do you mean, get out of here? I need to keep an eye on you."

You glare at Nathan irritatedly, lips twisting with a frown.

"For what."

"I've only ever tested those on myself, and I haven't tested the latest dosage. I need to see how it effects you."

"...Right," You mutter. "Can't I just write you a report and send it in in the morning?"

"Absolutely not. Besides, if you're dizzy now, that could get worse. I need to monitor your symptoms."

"And if I refuse?"

"I won't sign that last release."

Nathan gives you a shit-eating grin as you squeeze your eyes shut.

"You know," You sigh, "Sometimes, I really hate working with you."

"Pull up a chair, relax," He counsels, "And don't eat any more of those."

"Thanks for that note. Asshole."

You sit on the futon behind Nathan's office chair. Your heart is still pounding in your chest, but it's beginning to slow just a bit. Your skin feels just as hot; it's as if it's prickling, but you're not sure if it's the gummies, your worry, or the irritation of the overall situation.

"Would you stop doing that?" You grumble as you see Nathan twist to look at youu.

"Talk to me," Nathan urges.

"Oh, I do not think you wanna hear what I have to say right now."

"Do you feel any different?"

"No."

Nathan hums, turning back to his computer and typing something.

"What are you working on?"

"Just taking notes."

"On?"

"You."

"Oh, for fuckssake."

"Look," Nathan turns around in his seat. "I formulated those for me. There are differences in our make up—our body types, our metabolism, our chemistry. They might effect you differently."

"Well why don't you eat a few and find out?"

"And have us both effected?"

"Yeah. You can handle it in your own time."

"Aw, honey," Nathan chuckles. "If I'm horny and you're horny, who's gonna fly the plane?"

"And with that comment, my avarice grows."

"Still coherent enough to use a word like avarice," Nathan turns, typing rapidly; you can only guess that he's writing it out to annoy you.

"While you're at your computer, could you uh—do me a favor, look up personal assistant vacancies?" You ply.

"Whereabouts?"

"Meta, Alphabet, Tesla—"

"First of all, you hate Elon—"

"I could work past it."

"Second of all, the recommendation you'd get from me? You're not going anywhere."

"You sadistic bastard."

"Does that do it for you?"

"What, turn me on? No."

"What does?"

"I'm not having this conversation with you."

"Alright," Nathan shrugs, turning away from you again. "Just lie back and think horny thoughts. I'll set the timer for an hour."

--

After the first hour, you think that you might get out of it—that you might get away with getting out of there.

But then the little tingling feeling starts. You know it well—you've felt it before—when you've gone home with someone, when you've felt the anticipation of trying out a new vibrator.

You start fighting the urge to squirm. Nathan's been twisting around to eye you this entire time. He hasn't turned to look at you in a few minutes, but you're sure he will soon. You give yourself a moment, eyeing the back of his head nervously, and then you give in just a little, squeezing your thighs together to try and quell some of the growing ache. Not only does it not work, but Nathan asks, "How are you doing back there?" As if the bastard has eyes in the back of his head.

Well. You wouldn't put it past him, all things considered.

"Fine," You say. And you think that you've done so softly enough, calmly enough, but Nathan whirls around. His eyes narrow minutely, eyes sweeping your form and zeroing in on your thighs. You realize that they're still squeezed together, and you force them to relax. But that one sign has already been enough. He turns, typing something rapidly.

"Delete that," You order.

"What."

"Whatever it is you just wrote!...What the hell did you write?"

"That it's starting to take effect. I'm marking the time."

"Shut up, no it's not."

"Honey," Nathan sighs, "Do me a favor—make it easy on both of us. The sooner you tell me what the hell's going on, the sooner we get out of here."

He has a point.

"So?" He plies.

"I'm horny," You deadpan.

"Great. Symptoms, sensations?"

"...I'm horny."

"I'm gonna need you to get a little more explicit than that."

You groan, tipping your head back. "How do you usually describe it?"

"Honestly?"

"Yeah."

"I keep a video diary." Nathan turns toward you with a sly grin pulling his lips. "Wanna see? It may help you."

You feel your skin prickling with embarrassed heat.

"No," You mutter stiffly. "Thank you."

"So?" Nathan plies. He turns back to his computer, hands poised over the keys.

"So my...Vagina is...Experiencing a...Tingling sensation?"

"I said explicit, sweetheart, not clinical."

"I don't want a scientific account to read like a penthouse letter."

"That makes one of us."

You groan, tipping your head back and stomping your feet a touch on the futon. The action sends your thighs pressed back together again; it makes you tingle just a little.

"Talk to me," Nathan urges.

"I feel hot, like my skin feels—" You swallow thickly, pushing yourself to sit up and peel off your sweater, leaving your tank top on. "The air is like...Too close? Does that make sense?"

"Yes," Nathan nods. "What else?"

"I'm still kind of...Dizzy isn't the right word, I mean, I feel sort of floaty."

"Okay. Like getting the spins when you're drunk?"

"Like right before that."

Every query and response prompts hammer-like typing from Nathan's side of the room.

"Any other notable sensations?" He plies.

"Like what?"

"Elevated heart rate, sensitivity?"

"...Yes, both."

"Sensitivity where?"

"In the nipple...Area."

"The nipple area," Nathan repeats, amused.

"Shut up."

"Feel free to relieve yourself."

"Relieve myself? You make it sound like I'm gonna piss."

"Whatever does it for you."

"Shut up, oh my god, I knew you were gonna say that, shut up."

Nathan's shoulders shake with a slight chuckle.

"I just mean, you know. Go right ahead."

"Go right ahead and what?"

"And do whatever you need to do."

"With you in the room?"

"Yeah."

"No thank you."

"Alright," Nathan shrugs, "But the effects could last between six and eight hours."

"What?!"

"Uh-huh."

"Tell you what," You hedge nervously. "You sign that release...That'd be really sexy."

"Nice try."

"Damnit."

--

"...How you holdin' out back there, pretty girl?"

You lift your head curiously, brow furrowing.

"Did you just call me pretty girl?" You ask. "Am I a fucking parrot?"

"I've noticed in the past that you respond fairly favorably to praise. So?"

Your skin prickles with embarrassment as you grumble, "Not that."

"Alright, not pretty girl. What does it for you?" Nathan turns fully to face you.

"Not being stared down is pretty high up there on the list."

"I'm not staring."

"Yes you are."

"I'm appreciating."

"Appreciating what?"

"The fact that you didn't put a bra on this morning."

You glance down, eyeing where your nipples are hard in your tank. You huff irritatedly, throwing your arm over your chest.

"Dickhead," You mumble.

"They look nice."

"This is not good sexy chat, Hamlet."

"Don't call me that."

"Don't stare at my nipples!"

"Fine, I won't stare." The promise is a relief, but chased with a proposition: "How about suck?"

You loose an involuntary moan at the suggestion, and then feel mortified. It's made worse by the pause, then rapid typing.

"I really do loathe you," You mumble.

"Tell you what," Nathan comments, "Sooner you sort yourself out, sooner the effects will wear off."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I mean...Maybe."

"Your arguments suck."

"Just play with your pussy, honey."

Your breath is punched out of you in shock as your cunt throbs at the suggestion. When Nathan offers a sly glance over his shoulder, you mutter, "Shut up."

"What about this is working for you?" He asks after a moment. "The teasing, the sound of my voice, what is it?"

"I can tell you that the teasing is not doing it for me right now."

"My voice, then? Interesting."

You whimper, squeezing your thighs together and squirming a touch. You vaguely note Nathan standing, and the nearing of footsteps as he crosses the floor. Then you feel the heat of him beside you, his arm brushing yours. You feel his breath against your cheek, and then he murmurs, "How long are you gonna keep torturing yourself, huh?"

You suck in a sharp breath, squeezing your eyes shut to try and shut Nathan out of your mind.

"S'okay," He coos, sliding his hand along your thigh. "Relax. Take a few deep breaths."

"Thanks for that hot tip, Bateman."

"...Alright, we've got two options here."

"Okay."

"Either I stay in here and watch you now, or..."

"Or?"

"Or I leave the room, you take care of it, and I watch the tape back later."

You're not sure which prospect is more mortifying: your boss watching you get off in front of him, or him watching you later on his own. You hesitate, weighing your options. Then you reach down, resting you hand atop Nathan's.

"You sure?" He plies.

"Uh-huh."

"Alright."

You let go of his hand as he leans back just a touch.

"Pretend I'm not here," Nathan adds.

"Oh, please," You laugh. You feel more than hear Nathan huff out a soft chuckle.

"You're right, sorry," Nathan comments. Then—"You obviously like knowing that I'm here."

You don't argue or reply, you just take in a deep breath and trying to relax back into the futon.

"Is that all of the equation or just part of it?" He plies.

"Part," You mumble. "The rest is the result of your fucking gummies, you—shithead."

Nathan chuckles, pressing his hand into your thigh. You tip your leg into the touch.

"I could do more," Nathan offers, "If you'd like me to."

You hesitate before you reach down with both hands. One lifts your shirt; the other draws his hand up and under it, resting it just over one of your breasts. Nathan lets out an interested little hum before he slides his hand over. Then he dips his head, sucking one of your erect nipples through your shirt.

"Shit," You breathe, arching your back up into his touch. You squeeze your thighs together, hips rolling at the pressure as your pussy pulses. Nathan hums against you. You feel him alternating and trying to work you out—how you react to him tugging your nipple with his fingers and teeth, then just one or the other; if you squirm when he gives your breast a squeeze or a suck, then a squeeze and a suck. But you couldn't care about the combination of stimuli just now. You just want to cum.

You slide your hand down, slipping it between your thighs, under your pants and underwear. Your cunt is slick and sticky beneath your fingers. You sigh deeply, tipping your head back and letting your eyes slide closed as you begin to swirl your fingers over your lips and along your clit.

"What are you doing?" Nathan lifts his head just long enough to ask.

"I'm to-ouching myself," You admit, breath hiccuping.

"How."

"Just—touching, Nathan, I don't know."

"Lips?"

"Yes."

"Clit?"

"Yes."

"Fingering?"

"No," You laugh shakily. Nathan lets out a thoughtful hum before he lowers his head to your breast again.

"Why not?" He murmurs.

"I just got down there!"

Nathan actually chuckles, lifting his head to catch your eye.

"Your pupils are dilated," He comments. You just grunt in turn, shifting your hips down against your hand. You feel trapped int he way Nathan is watching you; you couldn't look away if you wanted to. And, most horrifying of all—you're not sure you want to. Your tongue swipes out to wet your drying lips, and Nathan's eyes lower and linger on them.

"...Yours are, too," You accuse after a moment.

"Hm?"

"Your pupils," You clarify. "They're dilated."

You let your head rest back against the futon as your eyes sweep Nathan's face.

"Is this turning you on?" You find it in yourself to tease.

"Yes," Nathan answers earnestly, and when he takes in the stunned look on your face, he chuckles, "Of course. I'd have to be made of stone to not find this hot."

"I wouldn't put it past you."

"What? Being made of stone?"

"Uh-huh."

"How are you this turned on and still this mean?" Nathan reaches down, sliding his hand over the outside of your pants.

"How about now?" He presses. "Out? In?"

You slide your hand from your pants, gripping Nathan's wrist and drawing his hand down against you, under your layers. You see him swallow thickly as you do so, and you're not sure if it's the potential of being a critical stimuli, or how pruney and sticky your fingers feel.

Nathan's thick fingers smooth over your pussy lips. You shiver, letting your head fall back against the futon. The roll of your hips against the heat of his hand is slow and leisurely. Nathan takes it in stride, fingertip slicking over your clit before he teases it lower.

"Yeah," You urge breathlessly, hips shifting a little more harshly. Nathan presses his face into your neck before he begins to suck warm, slick kisses to your neck.

"In," You mumble.

"Mm?"

"In."

Nathan doesn't hesitate to press a finger into your pussy, swiping at your clit still with his palm. The pressure is upped by the confines of your pants. This was a bad idea—you should've taken your pants off. You're so heated up now, but you don't want the pressure—the kisses, the grind—to stop. Nathan slips another finger into you, scissoring and curling his fingers until you're whimpering and arching up off of the futon.

"You gonna cum?" Nathan asks, though by his tone, you're certain that he already knows. You nod hurriedly, curling your fingers around his wrist for leverage and grinding down against him. You're just on the edge—you're nearly there. The sensation is building, and building—

You gasp sharply as Nathan lowers his head, sucking your nipple between his lips and giving it a tug with his teeth. You wail as you cum, hips bounding into his hand as your cunt squeezes around his fingers.

"Fuck, fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck," You gasp, head lifting and falling against the futon. You huff, relaxing a touch as you slouch back down. You draw a deep breath in through your nose, blinking blearily up at the ceiling.

Nathan's fingers stay tucked in your pussy as you clench and spasm around them.

"...Would you say that was faster than your usual session or slower?"

"...Faster," You answer grudgingly.

"More intense?"

"About the same..If you get up and take notes right now, I swear to god," You mumble. Nathan smiles, removing his fingers. He smears them over where your shirt is ruched up before he raises them to his lips. His tongue darts up to taste them, and before you can protest, he sucks them between his lips.

You watch, stunned, as he dips his tongue between his fingers, letting out a thoughtful hum.

"...What the actual fuck, Nathan."

"I'll write it down when you're not here."

"How kind of you."

Nathan grunts, glancing at his wristwatch. "Two hours down, four to six to go."

"Please just sign the release."

@mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo ; @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ;  @paintballkid711 ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight; @recklessworry ; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @jedi-mando ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @nolanell ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @bb-skyrunner ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @aellynera ; @writefightandflightclub ; @thedukeofcaladan ; @beepboopyoda ; @foxilayde

Half Of You (Part 1) [Santiago Garcia x Fem!Reader]

PART 2 HERE

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Talk of fertility, pregnancy. Reader's name is "Vin".

Summary: You're ready to be a mother, you enlist the help of your best friend.

A/N: Something that wouldn't leave my head, more parts to come.

Santi’s fork hangs in the air, where once his mouth was jovial and smiling, it is now….  Not that. He’s gaping at you and his wrist bends limply, letting the fingerling potato fall to his plate. 

A tense silence falls between you.

“Well…?” You encourage, smiling and trying to maintain the lightheartedness of the previous ramblings.

“This—you— want me to—?” Santi chokes and drops his fork completely, choosing instead to gulp from his full glass of wine.

Well, his reaction isn’t unexpected. 

You bend your head down and stare up at him through your lashes when he wipes his mouth and attempts to blink himself back into reality. God, maybe this was a bad idea, maybe this is asking way too much of him.

“You… want me to… be the father of your baby? Is that… is that right?’ 

You bite your bottom lip and nod effusively. “Yes.” You reiterate. “Well kinda. I don't want to get hung up on semantics here, but yeah, I want my kid to be…well, half you.” 

Santiago shifts back in his seat and nods, now staring at you dubiously from the corner of one eye. You catch the server’s eye, headed towards your table and you give a vicious shake of the head, causing Maurice to turn heel back to his other tables. At least you won’t be bothered. 

“Like I was saying earlier… I want a baby.”

“O—okay.”

“And I tried going to the fertility clinic…”

“Uh huh?”

“And—were you not listening AT ALL before?”

“No! I was!” Santiago’s defensiveness squeaks out like the halt of rubber on linoleum. 

You blink at him repeatedly across the crisp white linen clothed table. “Because this is all seeming like brand new information to you when I say this.”

“I’m sorry okay, it’s just a lot to take in… go on. I’m re-absorbing.”

“Re-absorbing?”

“Yes. I’m allowed to re-absorb.”

You take a deep breath. “Alright, well, Mr. Brawny, I have come to the decision at this point in my life that I’d like a baby.”

“Uh huh.”

“And I didn’t like the idea of getting the… you know, DNA ‘donation' from a stranger.”

“Sure.” Santiago chugs his chalice of ice water and begins to chew on the dregs of cubes.

“And I want you to be the… DNA donor, so to speak.”

“DNA donor.”

“Well the term ‘father’ holds a ton of implications.”

“Doesn’t it.”

You fix him with a cocked stare.

“Sorry, Vin.”

“Like I said earlier, there’d be all kinds of forms and documents and such to keep this… copacetic.”

“Like you mumbled earlier, more like.” Santi murmers behind his wine glass. 

You sit back in your chair and cross your arms. 

“If you don’t want to do it, I’m not going to make you do it, Santi. We can forget this exchange ever happened as far as I’m concerned and I can just choose someone from the binder at the fertil—“

“No, no, I didn’t say that.” He holds both palms out wide in supplication before lowering them uneasily to the tablecloth.

“Everything alright over here?” Maurice pops in at the wrong fucking moment causing you to shut your eyes completely. What part of the head shake did he not understand?

“Yes, it’s going very well, can you please just give us a few minutes?”

“Certainly. I just wanted to remind you both that the kitchen has a time limit one when we can start your dessert, so if you were thinking about anything on the menu, just give me a wave, alright?”

“That’s fine, Maurice, thank you.” You smile warmly at him. Maurice bows out and you pinch the bridge of your nose. 

“So… you don’t wan’t me involved at all? You just want, what? My DNA?”

You toss the accusation around in your head for a minute before admitting, “Yes.”

Santiago nods and braces his feet against the carpeted floor once again, regaining strength and alertness. He starts and then stops again many times before settling on the classic question of, “why me?”

Its a fair question, a good question. Why? Why out of all the potential candidates, the binders full of Ivy Leage Doctors, professional athletes, men over 6 feet tall without commitment issues, why it is… Santi… Santi that you want to be the father of your child? It is crazy on paper. Something that doesn’t add up in any column, in any statistic. You don’t know why yourself, let alone how you can answer his inquiry… but you try.

“It just felt so… impersonal, you know? You sit down in this doctor’s office and you’re expected to pick out the father of your child from this, this, this… magazine? Without any photos. Like, yes, contestant 565B was captain of the debate team at Yale—“

“Yale?”

“Yeah.”

“Well you should definitely go for that guy.”

You bite the insides of your cheeks and look down.

“But I don’t want that guy.”

Santi grits his teeth and swallows. 

“I just… I don’t know that guy, and he sounds like a real dick on paper, you know… he sounds…. depthless, shallow. Like he’s got nothing underneath or behind him. Does that make sense to you at all? That’s not how I want the father of my child to be… I want him to be real… and the more I flipped through that binder and the further I got through those pages, I realized that I needed someone real. Someone I know, someone I trust…”

“And you thought of me?”

“Who else?”

“Why not Fish?” 

“Fish? Are you serious? Seriously serious? Or are you just fucking with me?” 

“I’m mostly serious.”

You stare at Santi for a long incredulous moment waiting for him to crack that tell-tale smile of his in jest. But he doesn’t. His eyes are wide and bright and his mouth is forced into something placating and neutral. 

“Pope!”

“What?!” He cries out defensively. You only ever call him Pope when you’re angry.

“Decided on dessert, have we?” Maurice pops in, scaring you have to death.

“No!” Both you and Santiago nearly shout at Maurice.

“No, thank you, just… just the bill.” You smooth your blouse down and wipe your eyes with your palms. Fuck, this maybe wasn’t the best place to carry out this conversation. You thought it would be a nice gesture, to take Santi out… for some deluded reason, you had imagined it going much smoother than this. 

Maurice scurries off and you and Santiago are left staring at each other over half-finished meals. 

You take a deep breath. “If I wanted Fish or the Millers or fucking Redfly, I would have asked them out to dinner. Not you.”

“Why me and not them?”

“Are you kidding me? Your’e my best friend. You… you do know that, don’t you?”

Santiago nods softly. 

“Fuck, Santi, I don’t want that to, you know, sway your decision or anything. Just because you’re my best friend doesn’t mean you should be, I don’t know, indebted to me. You don’t owe me this. This is big.”

“Redfly went to Princeton, you know?”

“Shut up.”

“It’s true.”

“He never went to Princeton!”

“That what he says.”

“On a walking tour, maybe!” 

Santi’s eyes crinkle with laughter. 

“You trying to get me to have Redfly’s kid or something? Would that be… would you rather I ask him?”

Santi inhales deeply and drags a palm down his rough stubble and shakes his head silently at you. “You’re right.”

“Pardon?”

Santi’s eyes scan the room, the way he does when he’s nervous. “If you’re determined to have a…”

“A? Baby, say it with me. Bay-bee”

“Shut up. A baby, a little person.”

“Uh huh…?”

“And if it needs to be from someone you know?”

“Yeah, it does, I know, it’s weird that its so important to me, but—“

“It should be me, then. You’re right.” Santi leans forward in his chair, retrieving his fork and takes a bite of his potatoes. 

“Yeah? Are you saying yes?”

Santi nods at you with a full mouth and without thinking you wipe a bit of orange sauce from the corner of his mouth with your thumb. 

“Don’t do that!” He admonishes with a mouth full of potato. 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.” You quip back with a laugh. 

He swallows, “Yes, mom.”

For some reason, it makes your face hot when he says it and luckily Maurice comes at that moment, placing the leather bound check between you and Santi. 

Santiago reaches for the little folder and you swat his hand away. 

“No way! I invited you out, my treat.”

He lifts his hands away in apology, “Just being a gentleman.”

You grab your card from your purse, fitting it into the folder using the item to gesture towards Santi’s lap. “Well, I’m asking for your… DNA, the least I could do was buy you a steak first, huh.”

Santi glides his tongue slowly over his bottom lip. “So, how are we going to do this, exactly… are we starting? tonight?”

“Tonight? It’s almost 9 o’clock. What kind of vampire hours do you think the fertility clinic keeps, Garcia?” You laugh and take a sip of wine. Santi scratches the back of his neck and shakes his head. 

“Yeah, wasn’t thinking.”

“Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Oh my god, Santiago. You thought—!”

“Stop.”

“You really thought—“ You cover your eyes in embarrassment, “I was asking you to, what? Knock me up? Like this whole time you thought I was asking you to fuck me!?” And thats when Maurice comes by to take the folder (“I’ll be right back with this”)

“Jesus, that guy has the worst timing, right?”

“Santi!”

“Well, kinda?” 

You scream softly into your palm and kick his shoe under the table. God this is humiliating. The poor guy, no wonder he had been looking at you like that. Jesus. 

“No, Santi, no.”

He shrugs wildly, “I’m sorry? I just assumed. Sorry.”

“No, you’re fine.” You laugh. “The process is a little more… effective than… that.”

“I dunno, Vin, I think I could knock it out in one try.” Santi leans back in his chair, propping up a hand on his hip. The gesture subtly confident and thoroughly suggestive, causing your face to burn once again.

“Shut up!”

“Oh I’m going to get in all the jokes I can out of this.”

“Do you want to know where the babies come from or not?”

Once agin Maurice swoops in to deposit your check on the table. Christ only knows what he’s made out of the pieces of your conversation he’s overheard throughout the evening, “Here’s your receipt and I hope you two have a lovely evening.”  

“Thank you.” You mutter, opening up the receipt to sign. 

“Thank you, Maurice. Everything was great. I think I’ve seen something like it in movies? I go to the clinic, jerk off in a cup?”

“You couldn’t have waited to say that till he was out of earshot?”

“Oh please, give the poor guy something to talk with the back of house about.”

You laugh wholeheartedly. “Yeah, you jerk off in a cup. And then you sign away the parental rights to the cup.”

Santi scratches his chin and nods. “And they just… “

“Just? What?”

“Turkey baster it into you or—?” 

“Turkey baster it into me?? Huh, you know, I wonder if that Yale guy’s sperm is still available…” 

“Okay so what do they do? Tell me.”

For all his teasing, his moments of sincerity bowl you like a strike down a lane, and in this moment where his eyes are so earnest on yours, you’re reminded of why you chose this person to be the father of your future child. 

“There are a couple of ways to do it. The first attempt would be something called IUI where I take a medication that makes me ovulate and then they’d take your sperm and sort of inject it into my uterus.”

“How is that different than a turkey baster?”

“I guess you’re kind of right?” You laugh, “It’s pretty similar.”

“So they do that once and boom you’re pregnant?”

“Uh, no, they do that for 3-5 sessions and if that doesn’t work then I’d do IVF.”

“That one sounds familiar… what is it?”

“They take your sperm and my eggs and make viable embryos and implant them into my uterus.”

“Multiple?” 

“Well some don’t take, most don’t take, so they do a few at a time.”

“Okay.”

“And it might not work on the first few tries on that one either, so there is the possibility you’d need to do more than one self-love session at the clinic before all is said and done.”

“Uh huh.”

“Yep.”

“Or…” Santi lilts off suggestively, wiggling his eyebrows with exaggerated seduction.

“Don’t even—”

“I’ve got a more cost effective option for you to consider.”

You cross your arms and shake your head, but you can’t help your goofy grin.

“A bottle of wine and some Barry White.”

“Pope!” You laugh and toss your napkin at his chest. It’s exactly his sense of humor and you’re so relieved that he’s taken this well, that he’s agreed to do this and most importantly, that you’re friendship has emerged from this request of yours intact. 

Santi wipes his mouth and stands, offering you an arm. “You ready?” 

“Yeah.”

“Ice cream?”

“Absolutely.”

“Handels?”

“Duh.”

You make your way out of the restaurant, arm in arm with Santiago.

“Goodnight, Maurice!” Santi calls over his shoulder. You punch him softly on the chest.

“You loved torturing him!”

“I wouldn’t say that… but the opportunity to say the phrase ‘jerk off in a cup’ rarely presents itself in a fine dining setting and I enjoyed the experience.”

“You watch your mouth or you won’t be getting any ice cream.”

“You’re scary good at that already.”

“Gotta practice the mom voice, it’s one of the most important parts of the job.”

“You’re going to be great at it, you know.”

You let the compliment hang there, still arm in arm, stepping in unison to Handel’s Creamery.

“Yeah. I know… And thank you.”

Santi squeezes your arm tighter in his, warmly, reassuringly. He’d make a good dad too, you think. But you don’t tell him that, instead you debate over ice cream flavors all the way down 3rd street. 

Shooting Stars and Pseudoscience [part 1]

Pairing: Nathan Bateman x Gianna (fem!OC) (poc!oc)

Rating: Mature 

Word Count: 6,222

Warnings: Sexual innuendos and curse words

Genre: Mostly fluff, some angst, eventual smut

Summary: Soulmate! AU Each person is born with a soul mark that is identical with their soulmate’s. Nathan Bateman thinks it’s all nonsense, but his soulmate doesn’t. As if the whole idea wasn’t ridiculous enough already, his soulmate is none other than the popstar who is currently Blue Book’s brand ambassador.

Notes: Click here to see how this idea came to be

Playlist

—

‘Former Blue Book Employee Calls Nathan Bateman an Insensitive Lunatic’

‘How a Week With Blue Book’s Owner Led a Computer Coder to Quit’

‘Blue Book’s Fall From Grace?’

“Have you seen these headlines?” Thomas, Nathan Bateman’s publicist, questioned. 

Nathan rolled his eyes at the image on his monitor. “Of course I have, but since when did we give a shit about gossip?”

“This isn’t just some gossip, this is a fucking PR disaster, Nathan!” Thomas exclaimed, flailing his hands in the air for emphasis. “These are statements from somebody who actually lived with you for a week! Somebody you handpicked but couldn’t even afford to be nice to. Do you understand how bad this is?

The scientist sighed in disinterest. “Not really, but you seem to think it’s pretty bad.”

“Would it kill you to give a fuck about public opinion for once in your life? Daily Mail, Yahoo News, People.com, they’re everywhere! If this bad publicity goes on, your company is gonna take the blow. There will be a decrease in sales.”

“Fine, what do you propose?”

“We get another celebrity brand ambassador to help promote the products Blue Book is about to launch.”

Nathan nodded noncommittally. “Who did you have in mind?”

“This was actually Monica’s idea, so she’ll take it from here.”

Monica, Nathan’s social media manager and Thomas’s wife, moved her seat closer to the computer and screen shared a PowerPoint presentation of news articles and social media accounts. 

 “Gianna? A popstar? That shit barely counts as real music,” Blue Book’s CEO complained. “Are we really that desperate?” 

Keep reading

Half of You (Chapter 3) [Santiago Garcia x fem!Reader]

CH. 1 CH. 2

Summary: What's a romcom without a little tragic backstory, huh? Tragic backstory and muffins.

Word Count: 3.7k

Warnings: Mentions of death, mourning, talk of pregnancy.

A/N: I want to thank you guys so much for all the lovely comments and tags on the previous chapters of this story, it means the world to me 💚 This is going to be kind of a slow burn, mmmkay? I want Vin and Santi to simmer good and long before we add the spice because we want that payoff to be delicious. Enjoy!

You don’t knock when entering Santiago’s home anymore, not in the mornings, at least. You know you’d never catch him in a compromising position in his kitchen or living room, especially not at 9am. He is military clockwork. The ISS could set its time to Santiago’s morning routine. He’s up at 6 every day for a weighted vest run. Sometimes, when you’re up at that hour and just laying in bed, you see him jog past your window at 6:04 and always back at his front porch again by 7:00. 

For the past two years, with almost no exceptions, you’ve been getting up every morning, making some kind of breakfast, and bringing it over at 9, or around nine. You’re not as punctual as Santi and sometimes the muffins or breakfast bars or whatever you make aren’t ready on the dot like his routine, but he never complains.

It wasn’t really like you were doing this for Santi, this was a structure for you. This routine of taking care of someone, being expected at someone’s home at a certain time to feed them. Not that Santi needed to be fed, the man could subsist on protein powder and supplements if needed. It was the promise you made to him….

 How worried he’d been for you in the early weeks following Jay's death. When he wouldn’t see the lights of your home turn on all evening despite knowing you were inside. How he’d knock and sometimes you couldn’t find it within yourself to even tell him to go away; instead silently crying into the pillow that your head couldn’t leave.

Santi had been at a loss. He was grieving too and could only turn his pain into work. Toughing out the emotions through tasks.

It had been an odd morning about two weeks after the funeral that you saw a pair of legs sticking out from under Jay’s car in the front driveway. You were so pissed that someone was fucking with Jay’s things that you went outside for the first time in over a week, in your pajamas (a pair of Jay’s sweats and one of his giant cotton t-shirts) no shoes, and kicked the intruder in the thigh, hard enough to hurt your own toes.

“Get the fuck away from that car! I’m calling the cops!” You screamed, not caring that Mrs. Rosenthall was walking her little dog across the street, slowing her pace to watch the domestic scene play out. 

“Fuck!” The hidden man shouted grabbing his thigh and in the process of reacting to the leg kick, he audibly hit his head on the underside of the car, giving another prolonged “Fuuuck.” Before scrambling out from under Jay’s vintage Mustang. 

“Santi? What—What are you doing?” You cross your arms over your chest and wait for him to get to his knees, wiping off the oil from his hands onto what are clearly work pants. 

“I’m changing the oil and then, if you’d be so kind as to not club me in the head with a wrench, I was going to replace the spark plugs.”

“Replace the spark plugs?” 

“Yes. After the oil. Jesus, you kick like a horse.” He groans, rubbing his definitely bruised thigh over his dark blue pants.

“Sorry.” You mutter, meaning it but not really projecting culpability. How were you supposed to know it was him? Santi dives back under the car and you gasp affronted. “You can’t have his car you know. Just because he’s— you can’t, it’s not yours.”  You sound like a child, unable to even express basic sentiments and the ones that you can express are stubborn and selfish. It’s the way you’ve come used to talking in the past few weeks. 

Santi makes a frustrated sound under the vehicle and you don’t know if it’s because of your words, or if its a particularly stubborn nut he’s prying. 

He emerges from under the car again after a few silent moments of you shifting your weight from foot to foot. Santi brings out a pan of dirty oil with him and wipes his brow with the back of his dirty forearm.

“I’m not angling for the car, Vin. It’s not my style. The fucking color alone, dios. But if you just let these things sit here, unused and unserviced, they have a tendency rot, ok?”

The metaphor feels like a personal attack, an attack on your inability to honor Jay’s memory by letting his car go to shit, an attack on your own inability to take care of yourself down to the routine maintenance of tooth brushing.

The tears come again and you let them fall pathetically. “Jesus, will I ever stop crying? I didn’t know this many tears could exist in a person.” You laugh in woe at the hard understanding on Santiago’s face. 

Santiago brings you into his arms. He holds you and lets you ugly cry into the dirty fabric of his shirt. The oil and armorall smell reminds you of Jay and all his Saturday mornings spent under that fucking car. 

Jay would come in after an hour or two, depending on what needed to be done, or how distracted he’d get on the maintenance if Santiago showed up to help. Tack on an extra hour if they decided it needed a ‘test drive’.

You always had breakfast waiting for him when Jay came in; oily and sweaty. Sometimes he’d come in and grab you from behind with dirty hands to which you’d shriek and demand that he needed to take a shower before he ate. You regret that now. You miss his big strong arms and you you’d give anything for the stains of his embrace. So you shift tighter into Santiago’s hug.

“I’m filthy.” He says apologetically. Probably realizing you’re in One of Jay’s nicer cotton shirts, definitely not something he’d wear to work on the ‘Stang, and he doesn’t want to ruin it. 

“I don’t care.” You insist through tears, clutching his torso like a port in a storm. Santiago rubs your back, up and down like soothing an infant. You even hiccup like one. 

“Do you wan’t to come in for breakfast?” You sniff. “Please.”

“You don’t need to make me breakfast, Vin. You should probably rest.”

“No. No, I don’t need to sleep. Please?” 

Santiago hesitates. You can feel his head turn to look at the car. 

“Spark plugs first, then I’ll go home to shower, then I’ll come back for breakfast. You need me to bring anything?”

“You don’t need to shower.” God, it comes out so starved. Your emotional regulation has gone to absolute shit and you realize for the first time that the feeling that has been eating you up is a little thing called loneliness. 

“Vin, it’s okay, I’ll come back.” He pats your back and you pull out of the hug, wiping your tears and snot on the back of your forearm, looking down at your barefeet on the gravel.

“Eggs.” You nearly whisper.

“Eggs?”

“Eggs. Bring eggs. I don’t think ours are— mine are any good.”

Santiago showered and came back with eggs and you made food in your kitchen for the first time in weeks, fresh food, a meal that wasn’t a condolence casserole. 

 It lifted your sprits up so much that you begged Santiago to come over the next morning and then it quietly evolved to you bringing the baked goods over to his house. The responsibility did so much to haul you out of bed on days that threatened to swallow you into the folds of your comforter, on days where all you’d want to do was watch the day grow bright and fall dim without performing a solitary meaningful action. 

Two years had passed. There were hardly any mornings nowadays where you felt the pull to sink into sleep and waste the day in unconsciousness. You were excited to get up every morning to see your friend. And on days when he would be gone due to the nature of his work, you’d braved up and made other friends in the neighborhood, bringing them freshly baked scones or a pitaya bowl if it it was too hot to bake. Just something. A reason to get up, to greet someone. 

Santi’s home is immaculate, like always. He’s the type of single man who takes pride in a cleanly appearance, wether that’s a learned behavior from the military or if he’s always been tidy from childhood, you don’t know. The granite countertops are spotless and he’s perched at the barstool with the morning paper. His hair is still slightly damp from his morning shower and he scowls over the sports page, shaking his head at some news or other from the top fold. 

“I hope you like crasins… and walnuts.”

“Jesus, Vin!” Santi startles from his stool and tosses the paper down.

“That’d be a no on the crasins then?” You laugh and ruffle the back of his curls as he settles back down into his seat. You grab a couple plates and napkins, setting a crasin muffin down on each one before pouring yourself a cup of coffee from the pot into your designated yellow mug (a trinket Santiago had made at a Color Me Mine double date from 3 or so years ago).

“You ever think about knocking when you come over?” He takes a bite from the muffin and hums pleased. 

“Knocking? I’m hurt. So all that mi casa su casa talk was just for show, Garcia?”

Santi closes his eyes and slaps the counter. “Mmmm, this.” He points at the muffin and gives you a thumbs up.

“You like it more than the cinnamon rasin bread from yesterday?”

He wipes his mouth off on a napkin and gulps from his coffee mug. “That was good too.”

You take a bite of your own muffin and hum in agreement. “Oh yeah, that shit’s delicious. Adding this one to the roster for sure.”

“Uh, roster, don’t remind me.”

“Why?” You gesture to the paper “was there a tragic drafting in the world of fantasy football? Should I fly the flag at half mast?”

“Pretty dismal. Do you want to hear about it?”

“I mean, you can tell me anything, Santiago, but I’m not going to understand a word you’re saying.”

“Uh huh, I figured. I’ll spare you the tragic details and sum it up with ‘I think I’m going to lose a big chunk of change to the boys this week’ but, hey, at least I’ve got these muffins.”

“You can’t have them all, I was going to bring the rest over to Mrs. Rosenthal.”

Santi makes a quiet noise of indignation and pulls the plate of muffins closer to himself. 

“Not to Gertie! You know her little fur ball was barking till past midnight? Right outside my window. Again. She doesn’t deserve muffins.” There’s a twinkle of teasing in his eyes and you sigh and relent, squeezing between your fingers the bit of tum that sits above his belt.

“You’re starting to turn into a muffin. I spoil you too much.”

With a full mouth, Santi shoves the plate back in your direction and frictions his fingers clean of crumbs.

“Take em!” He shouts dramatically with a mouth full of muffin, pushing his stool back and taking his plate to the sink to wash it by hand. 

“I like the tum by the way, it’s very becoming… and the dad bod is fitting, you know, considering…” 

You trail off and Santi turns around wide eyed, drying his hands on a dark grey tea towel. “Do you mean…?”

“I don’t know! I don’t know, not yet, not for a couple weeks… I mean I could be right now, and I— I wouldn’t know.” You’re beaming, eyes alight with excitement. “I’m nervous!” You clap your hands quietly together. “That’s why I made so many muffins this morning, I’m just ugh, bouncing with the anticipation— HEY what are you doing with my coffee, Garcia?!” Santi dumps your full cup of coffee down the sink and starts on hand washing your yellow mug. The barstool scrapes as you get up to retrieve your mug from his soapy hands.

“You can’t be having caffeine! It’s bad for the baby!” His upper arms are strong as he blocks you from getting your hands on the mug with his back turned to you.

“Bad for the baby? How do you know that?” Santi dries your mug with a clean towel and sets it by the electric tea kettle, flipping the blue switch on. When he abandons the mug to grab some tea from the cupboard, you snatch it and hide it behind your back, making your way sneakily over to the coffee pot as he rummages for something on the shelf.

“I’ve been reading up about it.”

“Reading up about it?” You’re not really listening to him, simply parroting his words as you quietly pour yourself a new cup of delicious dark roast coffee. 

“Aha! Got it!” He holds up a box of celestial seasonings tea, eyes getting wide as he sees you taking a sip from the piping hot mug.

“Vin!” He cocks his head and holds out a hand, and the way his eyes narrow on yours, glinting with resoluteness makes you sigh with defeat and hand him the steaming hot mug.

He rinses it out once again without complaint and you examine the box of “ugh, herbal tea?”

“Yep.” He pops the ‘p’ of the word. There’s no arguing with Santi. 

“I might not even be pregnant, you know.” But the proffered information is pointless. You know what he’s about to say before he even says it.

“Yeah, but you might be.” It’s exactly what you knew he was going to say. 

“I never read anything like that.” But it’s a lie. You have read things like that, but of all the things? Coffee? How are you supposed to live without coffee?

“Well maybe you should read harder. I have a book you can borrow.”

“You have a book?”

“I’m not done with it yet, I’ll let you read it when I’ve finished.” Santi pours the boiling water over the teabag and you almost cry when he places the mug into your hands. In a last ditch effort to get your way, you pout your lips out and fix him with a defeated stare.

“After all the muffins I’ve made for you. Now this.”

“Nuh uh, Vin. Just try it.” He ruffles your hair in a very ‘you’ move and chuckles when you stomp your foot in a petulant show. 

You sit back at the stool and blow on your tea before taking an exploratory sip. It’s not bad, but you scrunch your face in disgust anyway. 

Santi shakes his head at you and takes a big gulp of his own coffee. “Mmmm, that arabica roast. Delicious.”

“You shit.” You mutter taking another gulp from the chickory tea. It’s really not too bad. You’ll have to take a picture of the box so you can get some more from the store later. 

“I don’t mind playing the villain, as long as our baby won’t have a third arm from the bio hazard levels of caffeine you consume on a daily basis.”

Our baby. Our baby. Our baby. Your eyes go wide and Santiago backtracks. “I didn’t mean ‘our’ baby like that, I meant your baby… of course.”

A few beats of silence fall between the two of you.

“I’m sorry, I shouln’t—“

“I’ve been meaning to—“

You both speak at the same time and laugh awkwardly. Santiago gestures to you gently. “Please, go ahead.”

“I… I was just… well you signed all the papers Renatta gave you, and I’m sure that you, being Mr. ‘I’ve been doing my own research’, you read the whole release contract?”

“I did.”

“So… how involved did you… how involved are you intending to be with the baby?” The baby. Neutral. Not “my”, not “our”, “the”. Safe.

Santi scratches his smooth jaw and licks his lips deliberately. 

“I guess I’ll be.. I wan’t to be…”

Your heart stops for a second with the intensity of his pause, your head swims and flicks through future images at a thousand miles a minute. Santiago holding a little baby’s hands as it takes its first wobbly steps, shushing a wailing baby to sleep in a nursery that doesn’t exist, singing lullabies, scrunching his nose at a dirty diaper, hiking trips with a toddler on his shoulders, tee ball practice. You shake your head to clear the whole little lifetime that unfolds rapidly in fantasy form.

“I want to be as involved as you let me.” His eyes meet yours then. And you nod unthinking at the brilliant umber depths. “If you want me to be their uncle, their neighbor, their… whatever. I’m,” he takes in a breath that fills his whole chest, “I’m okay to be whatever you need me to be.”

“Okay.”

“Well how involved do you want me to be?”

“I don’t know.”

“At all?”

“No.” Your voice sounds small and all of a sudden you feel like you’re being interrogated. 

“Haven’t thought about it one bit?” He presses.

“No.” But the no feels like a lie. Because of course you’ve thought about it. You’re thinking about it right now, seated next to him in his immaculate kitchen.

“That tracks.” He scoffs and goes back to his paper, flicking the pages open with agitation. 

“Hey!” You push his fist down and hold his clenching fingers lightly with your own. His face looks hurt. “I don’t really know right now. It’s— this is all new to me, Santiago.”

Santi nods in understanding but still looks as though there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s trying to reign in. “I’m sorry Vin. You…” he unclenches his fist and takes your fingers into his warm palm, holding them with reassurance. You stare down at your joined hands, unable to meet his understanding eyes. You don’t deserve how kind and patient he is with you. How giving he’s always been with you. His nature makes you feel fucking guilty at times. “You take all the time you need, Vin. I’m not going anywhere.”

“No?”

“No. I live right next door.”

You smile at him. “Thanks, Santi.”

He lets go of your hand and pats it. “Plus the real estate market is a nightmare right now,” he takes another sip of his coffee which sloshes slightly when you shove his shoulder. “I’d be insane to sell in this economy.”

“You shit!”

Santi smiles and goes back to his paper with a smile and genuine interest. 

“What are your plans for today, officer.”

Santi scratches his eyebrow, “I need to hit up Home Depot to get some fresh wire for the weed whacker. How about you?’

“Oh my god, thats perfect!”

“Glad you think so, seeing as how I’ll be treating your lawn too.”

“Are you taking your truck?”

“Uhhh, yeah?”

“Becasuse… if you could, if you’d be so kind…”

Santi rolls his eyes, “What do you need?”

“There’s this little outdoor plant shelf from their weekly ad that I want to get. Plus this osmosis water filtration thingy, but what I really need your truck for is the plant shelf.” You temple your fingers at your lips in hopefulness. 

“Thought you said it was ‘little’?”

“Uhhh…. Comparatively.”

“Compared to what?”

“Compared to my car.”

“Vin…”

“And I know what you’re thinking. You think that I’m going to force you to build the plant shelf for me.”

“Bingo.”

“But its pretty simple, I think I can do it myself!”

“Uh huh.”

“I will need to borrow your zzzz zzzzzz gun, though.”

“My what??” 

“Don’t play dumb. Your bzzzz bzzzz gun! The think that can drill stuff?”

“My drill, you mean?”

“Yeah. Probably.”

Santi scrunches up his face and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“And the osmosis filter?”

“What about it?”

“Is it an internal or external component?”

“Uhhh? Elaborate?”

“Is the system under the sink or to the side of the sink?”

“Oh! Under.”

Santi blinks at you. “And where will the filtered water come out of?”

“A little spigot with a lever on the side of the main faucet.”

“You know you’ll need a drill for that one too? Plus you’ll need to shut off the water main? I…. Vin, did you know this?”

“No… but I did taste the reverse osmosis water and Renatta’s the other day and ugghhh I need it! She said it wasn’t hard to install.”

“Really? Did she install it herself?”

“No. She hired someone.”

“You’re insane.”

“I can figure it out, Santi! I don’t need your help! I just need your truck to fit the planter desk thingy.”

“Fine.” 

You clap your hands and Santi sighs, grabbing his keys and sunglasses. You push past him out the door with the plate of remaining muffins

“I just gotta drop these off at Gertie’s and grab my purse, I’ll meet you at your truck!” 

“Careful!” Santiago barks at you as you jump over the low hedge toward Mrs.Rosenthal’s house. You nearly stumble and spill the plate of muffins on her driveway. You turn to see Santiago standing on his porch with his sunglasses on his head, both hands on his hips and shaking his head at you with a slight smile. He really would make a great dad.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Recreating this iconic pic of Oscar Isaac eating hot cheetos with chopsticks, but with a moonknight twist 😭🤚