Victorian Era!Jake has a huge mansion house right? And I imagine they both have a separate bedroom, even though they always sleep together. But Jake's is more open, a tiny bit bigger, with bright, light colours, Dearest's is more cozy, more "mysterious", with rich, dark colours. They choose which one to use based on their mood.
No because like yes???
I think more often than not, Dearest ends up in Jake's room, and he just starts referring to it as "our room" when talking with her.
But sometimes he'll be off with his friends late into the night, and he comes home totally NOT drunk (yes he is, you can smell it on him), and he'll go to his room only to pout when he doesn't see you there.
Then you'll hear him stumbling down the hall with a muttered curse as he runs into the end table before appearing in your doorway looking like a lost puppy with those adoring green eyes.
"Why're you'n 'ere?" He mumbles, bracing himself against the door frame and looking at you through his lashes. You set your book down with a soft smile.
"I wasn't sure when you'd be home."
"'m home now," he'd rasp, frown plastered on his lips as he pushes off of the frame and walks forward, collapsing into bed beside you, his lips already covering whatever skin they can reach as you giggle in his hold.
But then there are other times when maybe you two have had an argument and you decide that you are NOT sleeping in bed with him tonight.
He locked himself in his study to cool off, going through some paperwork before looking at the clock sitting above the mantle, cursing at what time it is. He hadn't meant to stay up so late, and he knows he'll have to do some serous groveling in the morning if you aren't asleep already.
He'd open the door quietly so as not to disturb you, only to frown when he sees the bed perfectly untouched. He'd then notice the light filtering out from beneath your door into the hall, letting out a sigh before making his way over.
The knock is soft, but you're not surprised when the irritatingly handsome face of your husband suddenly appears. Your eyes stay pointedly trained on your book as he enters the room, silence passing between the two of you.
"You're not in bed."
You snort, turning the page. "I am in bed."
"You're not in our bed."
You drop the book onto your lap, arching a brow at him in a challenge. He lets out a sigh, stepping into the room before shutting the door behind him. He wordlessly crosses the room to the opposite side of the bed, kneeling on the duvet as he takes your hand gently in his.
"I'm sorry," he whispers, pressing a lingering, gentle kiss to your knuckles, and despite yourself, you feel your anger melting away.
"I'm sorry too," you reply softly. He nuzzles his nose against your palm, his kisses turning headier as he makes his way up your arm. Your heartbeat quickens as he looms over you, his other hand sliding up your leg and pushing your nightgown up.
"How can I make it up to you?" he murmurs into your ear, his lips brushing the shell and sending a shiver up your spine. You can't answer as he smirks against you, cupping one breast in his large palm as he nips at your pulse point. He drags himself down your body, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses until he was planted between your spread thighs.
"I can think of a couple of ways," he teases, smirk growing bigger as leans forward.
