#Bath salts london

[auggieblogs]

Electric Love ‎♡‧₊˚ | LN4

Lando Norris x reader

Author's note: Hiiii everyone, I hope y'all are doing good. This one-shot had me on the floor, sobbing and throwing up. Only a kiss in the rain with Lando can fix me now. Anyways happy reading, muawh!

―୨୧⋆ ˚masterlist

The evening had started with so much promise. Lando had planned the perfect date for you two - stargazing on a quiet hill in London, sharing chicken tenders, lemon iced tea, and a basket of fries. But as fate would have it, the skies opened up and rain began to pour, mercilessly washing away your carefully crafted plans.

Lando glanced over at you, disappointment evident in his eyes as he drove through the rain-soaked streets of London. "I'm so sorry," he muttered, gripping the steering wheel tightly. "I know you were looking forward to this."

You tried to reassure him with a smile. "It's okay, Lan. We can always try it another time."

Just then, the soft strains of "Electric Love" by BØRNS began playing on the car radio. Lando's lips curled into a mischievous grin, and he turned up the volume all the way up. You looked at him, puzzled. "Why are you smiling?" you asked, not understanding his sudden change in demeanour.

Without a word, Lando parked the car by the side of the road and hurriedly got out, leaving you confused inside. He ran around to your side of the car and, in the pouring rain, held out his hand to you. You hesitated for a moment, thinking he must be crazy, but then you took his hand and stepped out of the car.

The rain drenched you both as you stood there, hands entwined. Then, without warning, Lando started to dance. He twirled you gracefully, the raindrops glistening on your skin, and his smile grew wider with every step. The song played louder, and he pulled you closer, his smile never fading. As the chorus of the song filled the air, Lando leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a passionate kiss. Raindrops slid down your face, mixing with the taste of his lips.

Breaking the kiss, Lando whispered, "Jump."

You raised an eyebrow, wondering what he meant. But before you could react, he effortlessly lifted you, and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He held you securely, continuing to kiss you in the pouring rain. It was a scene straight out of a romance movie, and it was perfect, just like he had hoped.

As the rain began to let up, Lando and you finally pulled away from your kiss, both of you breathless and giggling like teenagers. Raindrops still clung to your eyelashes, and your clothes were thoroughly soaked. Reluctantly, you both got back into the car, turning the heating on to chase away the chill that had settled in your wet clothes. Lando glanced at you and reached out to gently tuck a wet strand of hair behind your ear, his smile soft and affectionate. "You're so beautiful." A shy smile tugged at your lips, and you replied, "You're not so bad yourself."

With a contented sigh, Lando started the car, and you drove back home through the wet London streets. The drive was accompanied by a comfortable silence. The raindrops on the car's windshield provided a soothing background as you both savoured the moment. Lando's hand occasionally found its way to yours, fingers intertwining as you held hands.

When you arrived back at your place, you couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of Lando, who looked like a drowned puppy with his wet clothes clinging to him. He was sniffling and sneezing every now and then, clearly having caught a cold from the rain.

You couldn't help but playfully tease him. "Aww, look at you, all cold and sniffly. You're like a big baby, aren't you?"

Lando gave you a mock glare, his voice whiny. "Don't make fun of me, Y/N. I'm a delicate flower when I'm sick."

You couldn't resist the urge to ruffle his hair affectionately. "Of course, you are, Lando."

You got up and prepared a hot bath for him, complete with soothing bath salts. Lando pouted as he soaked, making sure you were well aware of his misery.

Afterward, you handed him a bowl of steaming hot chicken noodle soup and a cup of tea. "Eat up, baby," you cooed, holding out a spoonful of soup for him.

He obediently took a bite, looking at you with a grateful smile. "You're the best," he mumbled between spoonfuls.

[alexusonfire]

Between Her Pages

Jane Murdstone x maid!Reader

Smutember Prompt: Library

A/n: Week three of Smutember with @daydream-cement!! I think this is one of the longer challenges I've been part of and actually stuck to lol. Fluff, smut, cunnilingus, Jane receiving.

You'd been working for the Murdstones for nearly a year now, having transferred in from London last October. The previous Lady you attended had sent you off with a glowing recommendation, one that set you up nicely as you ventured more towards small-town living. The city had become just a bit too much for you, and you were ready to settle into an easier way of life.

The Lady of the house, Miss Jane Murdstone, seemed to have taken a liking to you immediately; though you had only been hired as a cleaning woman originally, within weeks Jane had named you her personal maid. Attending her every need was now your top priority: dressing her, tidying her rooms, making sure her meals were prepared to her liking. Her requests were common at first, if not some days slightly mundane and repetitive. It was everything you'd heard that was required of a lady's maid, and you were content to fill your time with her.

Around June is when things started to take a more... intimate turn. One evening, after a rather long and tedious day of preparations for the arrival of Mr. Murdstone's new fianceè, Jane asked that you draw her a bath so she could soak her aching body. You added a few salts and soaps, hoping to aid in her recovery, and called for her once it was ready. You pat the stool in front of the vanity when she entered, readying to brush out her hair and twist it up for her so it wouldn't grow damp, but she shook her head and stood rooted to the spot.

"I'm afraid today has taken it's toll on me. Perhaps you would be so kind as to help me wash my hair?"

It took a moment for your brain to process what she was asking of you; sure, you'd dressed and undressed her more times than you could count, and had always averted your gaze out of respect, no matter how much you wanted to linger, to appreciate. But this was... different. You'd no choice but to linger. You'd need to touch her, even if it was just her scalp, for longer than it took to slip a nightdress on her.

"It was too forward a question, I apologize." she murmured, moving to the stool your hand was still stretched towards.

"N-no! No milady it wasn't. I would... I would like to help you. If you still wish it."

You could have melted into yourself when her lips quirked up into a small smile.

"I do."

She was softer with you after that night; something about your hands gently scratching at her scalp while you told her stories of your youth had endeared her evermore, and it wasn't two fortnights later that she quietly confessed her growing affections for you.

Now, with the leaves turning their autumn colors and decorating the ground, you were head over heels for eachother, your dalliance having turned into a full blown love affair. Yearning glances and seemingly accidental touches exchanged in the presence of others were nothing compared to the deep, unsatiable need that was quenched in the dark hours of the night, soft candlelight dancing off of your skin as you made a home between Jane's thighs.

Those same leaves fluttered past the Murdstone's library window as you watched from your place on Jane's lap, head pressed to her chest while she read one of her favourites out loud. Mr. Murdstone and his new bride had left that morning, not to return until the following Sunday, and that left you with the rare but cherished opportunity to indulge yourself in your lover outside of her bedroom. She'd managed to get through a few chapters before you began to fidget with her collar, causing her to chuckle as she set the book down on the end table beside her.

"Is something troubling you sweeting?"

Your heart always fluttered when she called you pet names, and you couldn't help but beam up at her. Your gaze fell to her lips and you leaned forward to capture them with your own, kissing and kissing and kissing until you'd both run out of breath. Caught up in the moment, you gently nipped below Jane's earlobe, eliciting a sharp intake of breath and a small moan. Jane playfully swat at your arm as you continued to kiss and nip your way down the column of her neck, and she chuckled at your disgruntled whine.

"Careful my darling... we are not fully alone in the house, remember."

You huffed, thinking for a moment before sliding off of Jane and onto your knees in front of her, her widening eyes spurring you on as you brought your hands beneath her dress to cup at her calves. True, there were still some servants and maids littered about the house, but the library was restricted to only a select few; hidden behind the tall oak shelves and stacks of thick paperbacks, you felt a permeating sense of safety.

"We'll just have to be quiet then, won't we?" you said with a mischevious grin, and you were pleased to see Jane's eyes darken as you pushed her skirts up.

"Darling..."

You shushed her with a kiss to the inside of her knee, her dress bunched in your hands.

"No stockings today, my lady? How improper." you teased. Jane swat at your arm again with a smirk and simply spread her legs wider, allowing you access to her cloth-covered core; it only took a few chaste kisses and flicks of your tongue to have her squirming in her seat.

"We don't have much time sweeting, please..." came Jane's strained voice. Her fingers hooked into her underwear, hastily pulling them off in one swift motion. Once tossed behind you, you finally dove into Jane's sweet cunt, lapping and licking and sucking to your heart's desire, your own core growing wet at the way Jane tried to muffle her sounds. Blindly you reached above you, and you felt Jane grasp your hand with her own as her hips began to grind against your face. You pulled one of her legs to rest on your shoulder, opening her further to you, and Jane let out an unabashed moan as you sucked her clit between your lips. You thought for a moment to remind her of your current whereabouts, but when her free hand came to clench at your hair, you simply lost yourself in her taste and scent, determined to bring her to her peak.

She remembered to cover her mouth when she came, her trembling thighs snapping shut around your head as she rode out the aftershocks. You lapped at her as she eased back into the divan, her breathing beginning to even out once more. After smoothing her dress back over her legs you crawled back up to pull her to you and place soft kisses along her cheeks and hairline, cooing sweet nothings in her ear to settle her.

"I love you." Jane murmured, nuzzling into your shoulder as she clutched at you.

"I love you too, darling," you hummed happily in response, silently hoping that you'd get more opportunities like this one to prove it.

--

@weemssapphic @h-doodles @rosieathena @pro-weems-places @renravens @ness029 @saturnnnnl @aemilia19 @milciak

[hypersonic04]

Call It What You Want

hello everyone!! I’m sorry for the delay with this one shot - I lost the draft, then rewrote it, and I’ve struggled getting it to a point where I actually like it lol. I hope this is okay!! I don’t love it, but I didn’t want to keep you waiting any longer <3 enjoy my darlings!!

word count: 1,222

Your knees are pulled up to your chest, a fluffy hotel robe soft on your cold skin. It's cold, and late, probably around half 1, far too late for your boyfriend to be walking through the streets of London to your hotel room.

Scrolling through Instagram, you can't quite believe tonight is real. Your first BAFTA, pictures of you stood on that stage, tears in your eyes and a hand over the silver chain around your neck, the 'R' pendant clasped between your fingertips. You close your eyes for a second, wanting to pinch yourself. This is all you've ever wanted.

Ross' flight had landed around two hours earlier, and you are his first destination since touching down from a six month tour. He needs to see you, to touch you, to congratulate you.

A bottle of champagne sits on the sideboard, your dress in a crumpled up ball on the floor somewhere. Diamond earrings thrown on the bed like they're only worth pennies, heels kicked off and the smell of your perfume stuck to every bed sheet and curtain. There's a bath in the corner of the room, filled to the brim with suds and salts, the room bathed in a warm glow.

The knock at your door pulls you out of your daydream.

When you open it, it's like every award and every diamond you were laced in about an hour earlier meant nothing. You could have won every BAFTA that night, but nothing comes close to the feeling of his hands on your waist, his lips pressed firmly against yours. It's bliss, and it's six months of waiting and yearning for each other.

Pulling away for a second, he holds your face in his hands, eyes scouring over every inch of your skin. Your make up is smeared, your eyes are tired, but you've never felt more loved than you do in that second. He doesn't say a word, just takes you in, and it's enough.

"Congratulations, my love." He says lowly after a few seconds.

"Thank you." You whisper.

Standing on your tiptoes, you press a kiss to his lips again, raking a hand through his hair. His eyes find the necklace laid gently upon your collar, reaching for it. You watch him as he does so, his eyes lighting up at the sight of his gift still firmly around your neck. You smile, brushing your fingertips across his jaw as he looks at it intently. He finds your eyes again for second, his pupils blown wide and dark.

"I missed you," He sighs, shoulders dropping a little bit, voice strained, "so much."

"I missed you, too." You swallow heavily, feeling him squeeze your waist.

It's like you can't stop looking at each other, like the other might disappear if you do so. You stay in silence for a while, and it's comfortable, needed, after the day you've had.

“Is that a bath?" he says suddenly, looking around you. You look back with a nod and an airy laugh.

"’Wondered whether maybe you'd want a bath after your flight."

He doesn't answer, just peppers kisses across your cheeks and forehead.

You get in the bathtub before him, body covered by bubbles and submerged in the water. He pulls his hoodie and t-shirt over his head, smirking when he feels your eyes on him.

“It's rude to stare, y'know." He mumbles under his breath, making his way over to you. You giggle, submerging yourself even further underwater, eyes still following his every move.

He gets in, water splashing over the side of the bathtub, but neither of you care.

You both look at each other from across the bathtub, your legs intertwined in the water and the faintest smile on your lips as you tilt your head back. He watches you, admiring the way your sleepy eyes flutter shut, your lips pout a little, the way your neck strains. He regrets not being at the awards show with you tonight, but the private nature of your relationship means more to the both of you than some red carpet pictures together.

He nudges your leg with his foot, bringing you out of your sleepy state.

“C’mere.” He cocks his head in his direction, grabbing at your waist when you move over to him, water swishing over the sides again.

You settle in between his legs, your back pressed against his chest and his arms wrapped around you. Your hands rest on his forearms, drawing sleepy shapes on his wet skin.

“I’m so proud of you.” He says, brushing your hair from your neck and pressing a firm kiss there. You lull your head back onto his collar, smiling at the vibrations his voice sends through you.

“And I’m so proud of you.” You hum. “I watched the show in Newcastle on a stream the other night.”

He laughs lightly, deeply, and you can’t help but grin from ear to ear at the comfort it brings you after months of its absence. “Oh, really?” He laughs, and you nod in reply with a giggle.

“Your biggest fan, always.”

You sit up, his hands gently keeping you steady, fingertips pressed into your skin. You move to straddle him, holding onto his shoulders. Looking down at him, his eyes are starry and you inhale deeply, emotional at the realisation that you had really, really missed him. He holds onto your waist, head ticketed upwards and resting back ton the rim of the bathtub, almost in a daze, of sorts. His smile widens for a second.

“What?” You giggle, running your fingertips over his bare collarbones.

“Nothing,” he sighs softly, “I just… I missed you. I missed this.”

You stay in silence for a second, before you lean down and press a kiss to his warm lips. Slipping his tongue into your mouth, you find yourself holding onto him a little tighter. The taste of him, the feeling of his hands so firm on your skin, sends you into a daze, his hair so soft under your fingertips. Pulling away, you feel like you’re looking at a daydream you once had.

“C’mon, my fingers are going wrinkly.” You giggle after a few seconds.

Wrapped up in the duvet, it’s like the two of you are in a bubble. You talk for what feels like hours - the tour, your respective projects, gossip from your friends.

“I know, can you believe it?” He smiles at you, eyebrows raised. He’s laid on his side, head resting in his palm as he holds himself up with his forearm, hovering over you as you lay flat to the mattress. He brushes a few strands of hair from your forehead.

“Yeah, actually, I can. It’s Matty.” You giggle at the gossip he’d just told you about his friend, his eyes scrunching up as he laughs.

“What time is it?” You ask suddenly, looking to the bedside clock. It read 4am and you gasp, looking back at him with wide eyes.

“Relax, it’s fine,” he brushes your hair away from your forehead, “We don’t have anywhere to be tomorrow.”

“I wish we could stay like this forever.” You sigh, watching him as he lays down next to you. You move so your head is resting on his bare chest, the feeling of his fingertips on your back soothing.

“We could just run away.” He grins, laughing through his nose gently.

“Don’t tempt me.” You smile.

“Would you?”

“What?”

“Run away with me?”

“Always.”

[nnicknnelsonn]

Kit Connor, star of Netflix’s “Heartstopper,” makes a stellar Broadway debut as Romeo.

I can’t believe that being “all the buzz on Broadway” actually still happens irl. That’s our Kit. Alas from the reviews I’ve read it seems he’s the only part of the show with buzz. Full review’s link below.

Romeo + Juliet review: ‘Heartstopper’ star Kit Connor shines…

Source: New York Post (X)

…Without question, Kit Connor’s Romeo is the sole reason to get thee to the theater. What an impressive, heart-stopping Broadway debut from the young British star of Netflix’s “Heartstopper.”

Any staging of this play worth its salt forces the audience, for a time anyway, to buy into the star-crossed lovers’ ill-fated romance.

That they are naive teens, their hormonal friends are killing each other over an ancient family feud and the story is set over a whirlwind five days, always makes the effort an uphill battle.

Connor has an easy way with Shakespeare.

Connor’s soft touch, generosity of spirit and easy facility with the classical language is why we almost rally around the pair.

His YA, good-listener persona is a sublime contrast to the violent world his character inhabits. And he’s one of the only performers onstage who takes full advantage of the relatively intimate, in-the-round space, profoundly connecting with other performers and close-quarters theatergoers.

During one scene, Connor politely — frantically — begs an audience member to borrow their chair. The move would be a capital-G gimmick were he not so endearing and spontaneous while he does it.

Sam Gold’s Broadway staging has the vibe of a high school house party.

…Scored by dance music on a set of teddy bears and Hello Kittys…that’s bathed in…blue and pink light, you feel as though you’re a fly on the wall at a house party in the suburbs while someone’s parents are away.

…Gold’s “R+J” is also leaps and bounds better than director Jamie Lloyd’s recent drear-fest I saw in London, starring Tom Holland of “Spider-Man.”

Juliet’s bedroom dreamily descends from the ceiling above an oasis of colorful flowers.

At points, Gold makes clever use of the lighting grid above our heads to create a sense of upheaval and unease. That’s all well and good. If only the play’s pesky lines got as much TLC as the atmosphere.

Once the audience has become accustomed to the playful, cool mood that extends into the chic lobby, they await the, er, tragedy to unfold. On that end, “Romeo + Juliet” is a let-down.

The tragedy gets short-shrift in the Broadway revival.

Review: By Johnny Oleksinski, Published Oct. 24, 2024

Photos: Matthew Murphy and Evan Zimmerman

[imagines--galore]

Hi<3

I love your writings btw

I just wanted to ask if you could maybe right a reader x dr strange fic where reader and Stephen take a bath together as usual and the reader feels a bit insecure about her body🥹

Pairing: Stephen Strange x Reader Rating || Genres || Warnings: T+. Romance. A little nudity since they are taking a bath, but nothing graphic. A/N: Awwwwww! Thank you so much for your kind words. I hope you like this one! Was the gif necessary? Not really. Did it absolutely have to be added? Yes, of course.

It had been a really really really long day.

You had been up well before dawn to help with a magical emergency at the London Sanctum. Apparently one of the trainees had thought it would be fun to wear a necklace that held the essence of the magic user Morgana herself. Whatever soul was left within that object had taken over the young disciple and then began to plot on taking over the United Kingdom.

Dealing with that problem had taken the better part of your morning, and you had only just managed to stumble through a portal and back into the New York Sanctum when a distress call from the very middle of the Pacific Ocean had you running through another portal within seconds.

Some long lost civilization had worked out a spell to escape their watery prison and were about to unleash havoc to the surface world. Putting all the spells back in place alongside several other magic users took a long while, and by the time you got back to New York, the sun was already setting.

You were beyond exhausted, magically drained, and hadn't had the chance to eat anything the entire day. Not to mention you had managed to gain several new sets of injuries along your entire body from your fights with Morgana and the sea serpent like creatures. Not to mention you smelled like salt water. You had taken more then one dip in the ocean during your battle with the sea creatures.

You were almost stumbling on your feet as you gripped the door to your bedroom and swung it open to reveal the Sorcerer Supreme standing there, as if he had already been waiting for you. He raised an eyebrow at your wet, disheveled, slightly bleeding and bruised appearance.

"Seems you had quite the day." He observed, reaching out to gently grasp your hand and help you further into the room. You gave a small nod. "Well I had to fill in both our roles didn't I? How was the Inter-Dimensional Magic Council?" You asked, knowing he had been away for days now. "Did you just get back?" Slowly you began to remove your shoes and socks, wincing once your feet were finally released from the confines of leather. You wiggled your toes, hoping to get some feeling back in them.

"I did. Only to hear about the emergencies you had to step in and help with during my absence." He looked like he was about to apologize, but you quickly waved your hand, dismissing it. "Yes well, it is our job as magic-users Stephen, and since you were not here and Wong was busy, I had to help wherever I was called."

Slowly standing up, you sent out a small spell towards the bathroom where the faucet opened and the sound of water filling the bathtub could be heard. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a day's worth of grime to wash off." Normally you would opt for a shower, but you were just so tired that you didn't even have it in you to keep standing for long and do that. As you walked past him, you leaned up a press a kiss to his cheek, the act almost absentminded. "Glad to have you back Stephen." So saying you walked into the bathroom.

                                               ————————–

Steam filled the spacious marbled room. The tub was filled to the brim, and yet you were sitting on the floor beside it, allowing your hand to play in the warm water. You had already shed your clothes, and it was then that you were made aware of the exact toll your body had taken during the multiple fights you had had that day.

Almost every inch of your skin was covered in small cuts, large gashes and minor bruises, to bruises that covered entire patches of skin. Thankfully, the blood had clotted and there weren't any injuries that would be life-threatening but you were more then aware of the lasting scars that would serve as a reminder of your battles. There was no medical kit in the bathroom, and you had no desire to call upon Stephen and ask him to help you. You didn't want him to see you like this. Bruised and battered. On normal occasions you would try and heal yourself, but you were just so exhausted that you couldn't bring yourself to lift your hands anymore.

So you sat there, dozing off and enjoying the warmth of the steam. That is until you felt a gentle hand press against the side of your neck. Your eyes snapped open to meet a concerned blue gaze as Stephen hovered over you. He heaved a sigh of relief at seeing you awake. "You've been here for a long time. And when I came in and saw you just lying there I thought..." He trailed off, not wanting to voice his worst thoughts. You shook your head, smiling in reassurance. "I'm alright. I just didn't feel like getting up." You admitted. He crouched in front of you, his eyes flitting from one injury to the next. Normally when he would look at you while you were naked, it would leave you aching and your skin begging to be touched.

But right then? You could only feel a sense of dread and insecurity settle in the pit of your stomach. You probably looked horrible all banged up and bruised like that. Like most women you were no stranger to feeling insecure about your body, and though Stephen had admitted to loving how you looked, and had expressed it by ravishing you on more then one occasion, that fear still lingered. In your current state, it only increased tenfold.

"See something you like Doctor?" You couldn't help but tease, trying to divert your attention from the real problem. A small smile pulled at the corner of his mouth before he shook his head. "Come here." Reaching out, he gently cradled you to his chest, and with surprising strength, lifted you off the floor and slowly lowered you into the warm water of the bathtub. The initial sensation caused a sting to race through every open wound you had, but it subsided and you slowly relaxed into the water, letting out a soft moan of pleasure. Your gaze turned up to meet his and you smiled. "Thank you." He reached down to gently grasp your hand between his, and pressed his lips to the back of it.

"Could you get me a first aid kit?" You asked, to which he nodded. Quickly opening a portal into a pocket dimension, he pulled out a box the two of them kept in there for emergencies. "Getting a little lazy there Stephen?" You said with a roll of your eyes. "I think I can wash and patch myself up now, you can leave." He had already seen you at your worst, you certainly weren't about to have him stay. Stephen gave you a look that had you smiling sheepishly. Slowly rising to his feet, he made quick work of the medical kit, being sure that everything was in order to be used before he started to strip himself.

You blinked. "Stephen? What're you doing?" There was a slight tremble in your voice as you watched him undress. He looked over his shoulder and gave you a small smile. Once he had shed his clothes, he turned to quickly climb into the bathtub behind you. It was big enough to seat more then two people, leaving a lot of room for the two of you to move around if you needed. You quickly tried to shift away from him, but he wrapped a firm arm around your waist and pulled you back.

"To answer your question, I am taking care of you Y/N. How many times have you taken care of me after a particularly exhausting day. I think its time I return the favor." You gave a small shrug. "I suppose, but I.....I don't want you seeing me like this." You finally admitted, unable to come up with a sound argument as to why he shouldn't be there. "Like what?" He asked, genuinely confused as he frowned at her. You turned your head away from him, allowing your back to rest against his strong chest, unable to meet his intense gaze. "Like this." You gestured to your entire body, where everything was visible under the water.

A brief moment of silence followed your words before you felt him shift behind you. Grabbing the detachable shower head, he began to run the water along your head, allowing your hair to soak the water, and run down your face and neck. You sighed softly at the warm water caressing your aching skin. Grabbing your shampoo from the side he began to lather it into your scalp, his long fingers massaging your head as he did. "How many times have I asked you to leave, when I didn't want you to see me at my worst?" He asked, his voice echoing slightly in the otherwise silent bathroom. You hummed, pulling yourself out of whatever state of nirvana his massage had lured you into. "I don't know." You admitted, recalling just how many times you had insisted on staying to take care of him.

"Then why do you think I shall leave you in your hour of need?" He began to run the shower head along your hair once again, washing away the suds. Once done, you pushed your now clean and wet hair away from your face and turned your head to look at him. "I guess you could say I'm nervous about you seeing me like this." You admitted, after a long moment of deliberation.

He raised a hand to run along the bruise forming under your eye where you had caught a punch earlier that day. It was already turning color, and you winced slightly at the ache his brief movement caused. Gently, being very careful of your injuries, he wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pulling you in closer. The water shifted as you moved to sit on his thigh, allowing yourself an inch of height. "Y/n." He said, his voice firm yet gentle. "Do you believe me to be that shallow?" He had barely finished his question when you quickly shook your head. "No! No! Of course not. Not you. Its just what I think." His hands began to stroke along your skin. "You are hurt otherwise, I would take the time to remind you just how beautiful and precious you are to me."

The way he looked at you, and the veiled promise that his voice held, caused your cheeks to flush with pleasure as your lips pulled into a soft smile. "I will simply have to settle by taking care of you. For the time being." He added with a promising smile to which you gave a small laugh and a nod.

"For the time being." You echoed, slowly lowering your head to capture his lips in a sweet kiss. Your eyes closed as you sighed softly against his lips, savoring the feeling that always overcame your very soul when you kissed him. A slight tinging sensation brought you back to reality. Pulling back you lifted a hand to your lower lip, wincing at the spot of blood that appeared there. Stephen looked slightly guilty for a second.

"We can continue once you are well again. Right now lets get you cleaned up and into bed." Between the two of you, you managed to wash away whatever grime and dried blood was left clinging to your skin very quickly. Once done, he stood first, wrapping a towel around his waist before helping you stand as well and wrapping a soft towel around you.

He set you down on a stool he had brought in as he began to inspect every single cut or bruise that you had. He applied the necessary bandages and ointment, and given his skill as a doctor, you were patched up in no time.

                                               ————————–

A half an hour later you were snuggled against Stephen, wearing your most comfiest pajamas, with a full stomach and feeling the effects of the pain killers you had just taken.

"Stephen?" You whispered softly, one arm resting across his chest. He hummed in response, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, while the other rested behind his head. "Thank you for taking care of me." Your lips pressed a sweet kiss to his bare chest, prompting him to drop his own kiss to the top of your head.

"Always my love."

[lizzisimss]

Gonzales Family Home

CC used (list below) Garden Essence in Willow Creek 40 x 30 8 bed, 3 bath $276,606

This build is part of the Lizzisimss Save File.

Aira – https://www.patreon.com/airacc

Birdie lamp

Frog incense

Froggy cushion

Ghibli clay 2

Ghibli painting

Heart night lamp

Mushroom plant

Tablet PC

Toast light

Vanilla flower candle

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[lastbluetardis]

Sacred New Beginnings (21/?)

Summary: James Noble thought he traded away his chance at love and a happy-ever-after when he signed a contract with a record label that turned him into an international celebrity. But a chance meeting in a dive bar may prove him wrong.

Ten x Rose AU

This Chapter: Teen, ~5600 words

AO3 || Ch1 | Ch2 | Ch3 | Ch4 | Ch5 | Ch6 | Ch7 | Ch8 | Ch9 | Ch10 | Ch11 | Ch12 | Ch13 | Ch14 | Ch15 | Ch16 | Ch17 | Ch18 | Ch19 | Ch20 |

johnnylumic: The gig is up! James Noble’s new bedfellow is finally revealed! [read more]

margaretblaineofficial: Breaking! James Noble and Plain Jane romance is outed! [read more]

henryvanstatten: James Noble is back to female companionship! The cad can’t seem to make up his mind.

         dianagoddardeditor: The offices of CelebriTruth would like to acknowledge James Noble has always been forthcoming regarding his sexual identity and we stand tall with the bisexual sector of the LGBTQA+ community.

               iantojonesofficial: He’s pansexual you dolt

                     nerdynardole: He’s attracted to pans??

               danthemanbartock: “Bisexual sector”?? We’re not a bloody stocks group lmao.

               masterharrysaxon: ew he likes women? lame.

                     missyursofine: ur lame

realvictorkennedy: Sources claim that James Noble’s ex-girlfriend Reinette Poisson of the up and coming film The Fireplace (in theatres January 5) is “happy” if ex is happy. Further comment was declined.

annedroidunit: No news from James Noble himself on this blossoming new romance. Should we be taking this with a grain of salt? Is everyone overreacting? [read more]

courtneywoods: Omg that’s Miss Tyler! No way. How’d she manage to snag James Noble??

         yvonnehartmanhost: This is Yvonne Hartman of London’s Hot Radio Hits. I’d love to chat more with you about Miss Tyler. She’s your schoolteacher? Could I private message you and have a chat?

               courtneywoods: Whoa, really? What’s in it for me?

                     yvonnehartmanhost: We adequately compensate all our sources, don’t you worry dear. Message coming soon.

oOoOo

James can’t sleep. No matter how many sheep he counts, or how thoroughly he cocoons himself in his blankets, he remains frustratingly awake. Beside him, Rose is curled up on her side. With how still and quiet she’s been despite his rustling, James presumes she’s happily lost in her own dreamland.

At least one of us is.

It’s nearly two in the morning when he gives up on the idea of sleep and slips out from beneath the sheets. He pulls on a discarded pair of pants and a soft, faded t-shirt before padding out of the bedroom and towards… Well, nowhere. Where is he to go, exactly? On nights like this when he’s too wound up for rest, he usually blasts music through the house and either runs on his treadmill until he’s about to collapse, or he plays his guitar in the music or living room until he lulls himself into a semi-conscious state.

Neither option is available to him though. Not with Rose in his room upstairs and his mother—who had arrived in the early afternoon just in time to see what had to be his and Rose’s thousandth game of Mario Kart—in the guest room downstairs. He sighs and putters down the steps, his footsteps making only the barest whisper of a sound.

The door to where his mum sleeps is shut, and when he presses his ear to the wood, he hears the familiar droning of her white-noise machine. Ever since he was a small child, his mother needed some sort of sound to fall asleep to. She claims her ever-present tinnitus is too loud if there is nothing else for her ears to focus on.

Satisfied, James moves to the kitchen and flicks on the dim light above the stove. It bathes the room in a muted yellow glow that casts long, alien shadows across the floor and cabinets. He’d always had a touch of insomnia, and when he was a boy, he often woke up in the middle of the night, unable to fall back to sleep. When this happened, he would go to the kitchen and turn on the light above the stove to make all sorts of puppet-creatures, entertaining himself until his mother woke up and scolded him for being awake at such an early hour.

With a small, nostalgic smile, James extends his pointer and middle fingers of his right hand and bounces a shadow bunny across the floor as he makes his way to the fridge. Though he isn’t particularly hungry, he nevertheless pulls out an apple and spends the next ten minutes slowly nibbling on the fruit as he leans against the countertop.

What a mess they’re in. Photos of him and Rose are still going viral, and Donna has received dozens upon dozens of interview requests from a variety of magazines and newspapers. She has denied each and every one of them, even those from the more reputable journals that he normally likes to interview with, claiming that he and Rose would like to be left in peace for the time being until this all blows over.

“He’ll make a statement when he’s ready,” Donna had tweeted, but to no avail; his phone is still blowing up with all sorts of notifications. He has half a mind to deactivate all of his social media and chuck his phone in the Thames for good measure.

His record label called him earlier that afternoon to inform him that they are tightening security around the recording studio and stationing more agents and officers around him and his home. They once again implored him to find a place to live that was more easily securable, as they’d been doing for the past two years as he’d grown exponentially more famous.

Maybe he’s being stupid by being so stubborn, but this is his home, the first place he was able to buy with his own money that he’d made with his own skills and talents. After years of renting grubby little flats and having all of two pieces of furniture and five outfits to his name, he finally has somewhere that’s his. A place where every need is met, and more.

But was every need being met? Wasn't basic safety part of a home?

James groans and chucks his apple core into the bin with slightly more force than necessary and rinses the sticky juice from his hands. He then grabs a bottle of expensive whiskey his label gifted him for his birthday from his liquor cabinet and sulks his way upstairs. His skin is crawling with tension, with the need to do something, anything, to keep this dark cloud from completely engulfing him, from screaming at him that he’s worthless and troublesome and a danger to those he loves.

He ends up in his music room and shuts the door behind him. As long as he isn’t banging on piano keys or beating on his guitar strings as though he needs people from the next city over to hear him, it shouldn’t be that loud, should it?

James grabs his guitar and sinks into his couch. He uncaps the whiskey bottle and glugs down a few swallows. It burns on the way down, but then pleasant warmth blooms through his belly and up his chest. He takes another drink, then balances the open bottle precariously on the sofa cushion beside him.

With how he’s slouched, he can’t really hold his guitar properly, but he makes do as best he can and starts to pluck on the strings in no particular sort of melody. He’s just playing random notes, enjoying the reverberating twang that seems to echo in his very bones.

He remembers the first time he’d held a guitar. He was thirteen and had signed up for after-school music lessons because that was the only activity that had been free. His classmates all awkwardly and clumsily held their instruments as though they were venomous vipers, but not him. The moment he held the ratty old second-hand (or third- or fourth-hand) guitar, it had become an extension of his body. Maybe it was because he was already so gangly that it made it easier for him to hold the instrument or for his fingers to fly across the fretboard to make different notes, but he took to it like a fish to water. 

He’d mastered the keys and chords nearly as fast as his teacher taught him, gulping it all down with relish. Hot Cross Buns had nothing on him, and his teacher matched him stride for stride. She gave him new music to practice, and told him that if he signed up for the school’s orchestra, he would be able to rent a guitar to take home. He’d begged his mother to let him do it, and bless her heart, she scavenged up enough money and had worked out a payment plan with the school to afford the required renter’s fees. (Apparently the school didn’t trust a bunch of stupid teenagers with hundreds of dollars’ worth of equipment… shocking.)

It wasn’t long after joining the orchestra that James asked to be taught the piano. His teacher was more than happy to oblige, and the rest was history.

He wishes his teacher could see him now. Miss Brown. Lovely Miss Brown. She’d passed years ago to complications with a health concern. James was in uni at the time. He hopes that if there is an afterlife, she can see what has become of him and know that it was all down to her that he’s made a name for himself.

James is an hour into the whiskey bottle and mindless strumming when a quiet knock sounds on the door. It opens a heartbeat later, and Rose pokes her head in. Her hair is mussed, there are pillow creases across her cheeks, and she’s got small bits of makeup clumped at the corners of her eyes. She’s the most adorable thing he’s ever seen.

But with that wave of affection comes a pang of guilt. He winces and says, “Sorry, did I wake you?”

Rose shakes her head and stays by the door, ringing her hands in front of herself. She’s wearing one of his t-shirts, which makes him smile. She looks great in his clothes, if he does say so himself.

“No, no I wasn’t really sleeping. Not much, anyways. I felt you get up, and you didn’t come back. I wanted to check on you. Are you all right?”

He shrugs. “Are either of us all right?”

A small, ironic smile quirks up her lips. “No, I suppose not. Right. I’ll just… leave you alone then.”

“No, you don’t have to go,” he blurts, because now that he knows she’s up too, he’s desperate for her company. “Please stay. Have a… have a drink with me.”

He stupidly holds up the whiskey bottle and sloshes it in her direction. “It’s vintage.”

She snorts. “I’ve no idea what that means.”

“Nor do I, but it sounded fancy.” He pats the seat next to him. “Come come.”

She does, and plops down beside him, her bare thigh brushing across his and sending his skin tingling. He takes a swig of whiskey before handing it to her. He slouches into her, taking care to rotate the guitar so the neck of it won’t impale her, and rests his head on her shoulder.

“What does m’lady wish to hear?” he asks, strumming a chord from a song he’d recorded last week.

“Anything. Everything,” she sighs, leaning her cheek onto his hair. They’re seated so intimately that a swell of safety overtakes him. Nothing can get to them in this room. The world can’t see them, can’t touch them. He yearns for that to be true.

“Have you ever played guitar?” he asks suddenly. “You fiddled with my piano a while ago, but what about guitar?”

“Once, ages ago in school. Required music class. Teacher spent two weeks teaching us guitar only for us to forget it once the unit was done.”

He laughs. “Sounds about right. Here.”

James takes the whiskey from her and leans forward to set it on the coffee table, then he passes the instrument to Rose. She looks awkward with it, and so he spends the next few minutes coaxing her arms and fingers into the proper positions. She’s still awkward, but much less so.

“You don’t need to strangle the poor thing,” he drawls, seeing how white the tips of her fingers are on the fret strings. “That’s a good way to get a blister in all of five minutes.”

Rose sticks her tongue out at him, but obliges and loosens her grip around the neck of the guitar.

“Good. Let’s learn a few chords, eh?”

Maybe it’s self-centered of him, but he teaches her a simplified version of five chords he used in one of the songs on his upcoming album. He makes sure the chords she needs to play will keep her pinkie and ring finger in one location so she only needs to keep track of two fingers. Beginners’ tutorial, and all that. He slowly helps her move her fingers along the fret to press down on the correct strings for each of the chords.

“Index and middle fingers on these two strings… then move them here… then there…”

Again and again, he works with her until she masters the chords. Rose catches on quickly, only needing slight promptings to readjust her fingers to the proper places.

“See, you’re practically a pro!” he crows when she successfully strums all five chords in succession, albeit quite slowly.

She rolls her eyes. “Come off it, this is nowhere near as complex as the music you make.”

“Not true,” he argues. “I wrote an entire song using these chords. Let me show you.”

Rose watches him curiously as he takes the instrument from her and angles himself in her direction so she has a clear view of the positionings of his fingers. He strums the notes slowly, echoing what she’d played mere seconds ago, and then steadily picks up the tempo and intensity, plucking away in a pattern that has become so familiar to him by now.

Dun, duh-duh dun, duh-duh dun, duh duh, duh-duh-duh-duh.

Down, up up down, up up down, up down, up-down-up-down.

Music fills the room, and he hums along to the lyrics he knows goes with this melody. The music is achingly gentle and soft to match the tone of the song, which is about the night he and Rose talked out their fight and agreed to start genuinely dating. The night he suspected he had fallen head-over-heels in love with her, and dared to hope she might love him, too.

He plays through the entire song, sans lyrics, too lost in the music to realize he’s gone beyond proving his point and is instead just boasting now. But Rose doesn’t seem to mind. She watches him, entranced, her eyes darting from his hands to his face. There’s an inscrutably beautiful expression on her face, awed and delighted and reverent all at once, which makes him feel like he’s created something secret and sacred that belongs to them alone.

When the song ends, she carefully leans over the guitar, cradles his cheeks in her hands, and kisses him. He sighs into her mouth, closing his eyes and letting her surround him. He sets his guitar to the side, wanting his arms to be full of her and not the wood of the instrument.

She notices his lap is empty, and takes it upon herself to fill the newly-vacated space. He groans at the heat of her around him. Her hands slip from his cheeks to tangle in his hair, scratching and tugging in the way he loves best. He’s melting, all of the black emotions from earlier having long since bled away to instead create room for this brilliant, swelling heat building between them.

There’s nowhere else he’d rather be but here, with her hands in his hair, her mouth on his, her body pressed to his. Chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. He can feel every point of contact between, like sparks being set alight across his skin.

His dips his hands beneath her shirt—his shirt—to splay across the expanse of her back. Her skin is warm and smooth, so perfectly touchable, and he can’t help but map out the familiar territory as though it’s their first time again. Her lips and tongue tease and play with his, pulling shuddering groans from him as sensation surges through him. Her scent and her taste and her touch, that’s all he’s aware of. The world could be crumbling around them, and he would be none the wiser, nor would he care.

He holds her tightly, digging his fingertips into the skin overtop her spine as he silently pleads for more. There is an unbearable ache deep inside him, and he gasps when Rose aligns their hips to give him friction, kissing him more deeply. His lips are tingling and his body is throbbing with want, but he doesn’t want this moment to end. He wants this to build up forever, for the next second to feel even better than this current second.

She reaches down and fumbles with the hem of his shirt, tugging up, up, up until she’s able to fling it to the floor. He doesn’t get the chance to reciprocate, as she discards her own top just as quickly as his. She’s perfect, so perfect, and he can’t believe she’s his; his chest tightens, overwhelmed with the depth of this emotion he’s never truly felt before.

But then she puts his hands on her breasts and tenderness slips to the sidelines in favor of his building desire. He leans forward, away from her searching mouth to instead latch his lips onto the jut of her collarbone. She shivers in his lap and tightens her grip on his hair, a silent request for him to stay there for a little while. He obliges, kissing and nipping at her chest and neck until the skin has flared crimson. Not enough to leave any lingering evidence, but enough to mark her for the rest of the night.

When he moves away from her neck, Rose hauls his face towards hers to kiss him desperately, finesse long since gone but it still feels fucking amazing. He’s so hard now that he thinks he’s two seconds away from begging to be inside her, and yet he’s glad to stay like this, kissing her and being kissed by her.

“Want you,” she mumbles into his mouth, writhing down on the hard length of him and hissing at stimulation. “Please.”

As if she had to ask. He wraps an arm around her hips and slips his other hand down the front of her knickers. Wet heat radiates around his fingers as he carefully pushes them inside of her.

“Angle’s weird for more,” he murmurs into the side of her neck. “Fingers okay? Don’t wanna let go.”

“Fingers are fuckin’ great,” she rasps, rocking into his hand. “More. Faster.”

He smiles into her skin and picks up the pace. He anchors his arm around her waist, hugging her tightly as his other hand works between her legs, driving her higher and higher. She’s shaking against him, so close now, and he redoubles his efforts. He licks a line up her neck then kisses her right below her ear, where he knows she’s most sensitive, and grins when she softly cries out.

“James…”

He fucking loves when she says his name like this. Like there’s nothing else in her mind other than him.

“Let me see you,” he whispers.

He curls his fingers into her once, twice, three more times before she breaks. She arches, writhing herself into his hand as she trembles around him. She moans through clenched teeth, making every effort to be quiet as she rides out her high.

Expertly, he brings her down, slowing the motions of his fingers and not touching her where he knows she’s too sensitive. She lets out low groans of pleasure as she slumps into him, breathing erratically. She tucks her forehead into his neck.

A moment passes, then two, and he extricates his hand from her pants, surreptitiously wiping it on his own. He’s still achingly hard, but knows his turn will come soon. Right now, he’s happy to have his arms full of Rose.

She’s not, though. When he goes to rest his cheek in her hair, she straightens and gives him a searing, toe-curling kiss. All his patience is suddenly gone. He lets out the most undignified whine as he grabs her arse and grinds up into her. She grins into his mouth, and slowly, so fucking slowly, rubs herself up… and down… and up… until he thinks he’s going to combust right here on the couch.

“Rose,” he rasps. “I need… please… touch me…”

She keeps that infuriatingly steady pace, and part of him is annoyed, but a greater part of him is so fucking aroused and wants her to keep going as she is. She tilts his head back, using her slight height advantage from being in his lap to press him fully into the couch. He’s helpless to do anything but follow her lead, and trust her to take care of him.

“Close your eyes,” she whispers into his ear, blowing softly and sending a violent shudder through him.

He does, letting the blackness envelop him. His pulse is pounding so furiously through his body that he can see it beating behind his eyes. He rubs himself into her again, chasing that delicious friction, desperate for more.

Rose dances her fingers down his chest, scratching through the light dusting of hair on his pecs then down his belly. His muscles jump and quiver at her touch while he ruts up into her. He’s sure he could finish like this, and would be happy to, if not for wondering what Rose wanted to do to him.

Bless her, she doesn’t make him wait any longer. For a moment he’s confused as her weight shifts off his thighs, but then it settles on the cushion beside him. Her hands are at the waistband of his pants, and he wriggles to help her get them halfway down his arse, just enough to free him from the stuffy confines of the fabric.

And then she’s got her mouth on him.

James shudders out a groan and digs his nails into his palms to keep himself from thrusting up into her hot, wet mouth. He’s throbbing in time with his racing heart, and he can’t see anything through his shut eyes, but God he can feel everything. The tease of her tongue, the oh-so careful scrape of her teeth, the pressure as she sucks…

“Oh, fuck,” he croaks, his voice cracking around the word.

She covers his clenched fist, coaxing his fingers to relax, to open. He thinks she wants to hold his hand, but then she takes him by the wrist and moves his hand up until he brushes the silky locks of her hair. He opens his eyes for just a moment, and Christ the sight of her kneeling beside him, her mouth on his cock, her eyes closed in her own enjoyment… it nearly makes him come on the spot.

He holds on though, not really wanting this to end. Once he has his fingers tangled in her hair, he lets his eyes flutter shut again, happy to let his other senses surge into overdrive. He doesn’t guide her movements, knowing she doesn’t like it when men do that; instead, he relishes being able to touch her like this while she gives him the best goddamned blowjob of his goddamned life.

She gets one of her hands into the fray, playing with the base of his cock where her mouth can’t quite reach, then lower to his balls. She rolls them and squeezes them, whiting out his vision and stealing his breath. The pressure in his cock mounts, throbbing and aching in warning.

“Rose,” he gasps. “I’m gonna come.”

“‘Kay,” she mumbles around him, sucking him even harder, and Jesus fucking Christ he’s done.

Heat and electricity sizzles down his spine as he releases into her mouth, moaning and cursing and hissing wordless sounds. Rose strokes him through it, seemingly able to time her upstrokes with each pulse of his cock, heightening this pleasure into something otherworldly. It’s a good thing he’s sitting, because he can’t quite feel his legs and he thinks his knees have been replaced with jelly as he trembles and shudders through his orgasm.

When he’s done, he comes to to the sensation of Rose kissing his shoulder, her arms wrapped loosely around his hips while one of her hands idly strokes his softening cock. He shivers, sated and sleepy and so, so satisfied.

Rose tilts her head up to give him a pleased smile. “Good?”

He doesn’t deign to reply to that, and instead kisses the grin right off her face.

oOoOo

James can’t concentrate, can’t focus as he watches the clock. He and his driver dropped Rose off at her school an hour ago, where police had to set up a barricade to keep reporters away from the building. Rose’s cheeks were scarlet as she saw all of the attention around her place of employment.

“Why do they care this much about me?” she’d murmured, covering her face with her hands.

“Because they care that much about me, and I care about you,” he replied grimly, thunking his head into the back of his seat. “I’m so sorry. This is madness.”

They’d had to slowly inch through the school traffic, showing identification multiple times before Idris made it to the front of the school. Several other teachers were making their way into the building, looking both frustrated and curious about all the ruckus.

“Good luck,” he whispered, not knowing what else to say as Rose braced herself to slip out of the car. “Idris can pick you up again after work. I… I don’t think you should go home yet. You can stay with me again. If you want.”

Rose nodded silently, then drew in a deep breath. Before she opened her car door, she leaned over and kissed him. When they pulled apart, she gave him a heartbreakingly feeble smile and said, “Have a good day, dear.”

He forced his own smile for her sake, but his stomach was in knots. She had a meeting with her superiors that morning, likely demanding to know what the hell was going on. He offered to be there with her, but conceded that she was right in saying he would probably just make it worse.

That’s how he finds himself in the recording studio, sipping at a strong coffee that he doesn’t really taste and watching the clock tick aimlessly by. He asked her to let him know how her meeting went, and surely by now it should be over. It’s almost eight in the morning; the meeting can’t still be going on, can it?

But there’s no word from Rose for another hour. By now, he’s going mental, convinced she came to her senses and realized she needs to break up with him. This theory eventually evolves into some mad lunatic having broken into her school and murdered her like in one of those American crime dramas. He’d sent her a little “Hope you’re okay 💜” text a half hour ago, but the lack of response only cements these insane thoughts into his head.

Finally, at quarter-past nine, his phone lights up with a call from Rose. He answers it immediately.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

There’s nothing but a small sniffle on the other end of the line, and his stomach drops.

“Rose?” he asks, forcing his voice to remain gentle. “What happened?”

Sniffle. “M’on leave. ‘Til after the holidays. Security concern with me bein’ here right now. Can… can someone come get me? I don’t know where to go.”

“We’re on our way,” he promises, taking his phone away from his ear for a few seconds to fire off a text to his driver. “We’ll come pick you up. Are you at the school?”

“Yeah. I started for the bus stop. Wasn’t thinkin’. More photographers saw me. I ran back inside. Everyone’s lookin’ at me like… like I’m an alien.”

“Oh, Rose,” he whispers, his stomach aching for her. Idris pops her head into the office, and he mimes driving as he rushes toward her. “We’ll be there soon, all right? Stay inside. We’ll be there soon.”

He ends the call, and together, he and Idris make for the car.

“Rose?” she asks. “The school?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

Bless her, Idris doesn’t ask for more details. He’s always liked that about her: she’s willing to listen to him whenever he wants to talk, but will never force him to speak when he’d prefer to stay silent. He’s had other drivers who make small talk, or ask him about whatever latest story about him went viral, but not her. He prays she never decides to quit her job.

Traffic is manageable and they make good time to the school. There are still officers posted around the school, but not quite as many. He can see reporters and photographers lingering at the café across the street, and he finds himself itching to throw hot coffee on all of them.

He takes a deep breath, forcing those awful emotions away. He’s better than that. He’s better than them. Rose doesn’t need him being angry and vengeful right now, she needs him to be steady and comforting. He can do that. He’s the steadiest person in the world…

When they get to the front door, he nearly vaults out of the car to rush into the school, but a pointedly-cleared throat and the clack of the door locks activating stops him.

“Low profile,” Idris reminds him, and he sulks for a moment, but sends Rose a text that he’s here.

She emerges a moment later, pale-faced, with nothing but a laptop bag slung over one shoulder. James opens the door for her, and slides across the empty seat to give her room. The moment she settles herself, Idris takes off again, and he unbuckles his seatbelt to take Rose into his arms. She slumps, defeated, into him, and somehow that’s even worse than tears.

She takes a few minutes to tell him about her meeting, and how ultimately the school couldn’t justify putting their students in danger while she’s facing such sudden and viral recognition.

“How could I argue with that?” Rose sighs, rubbing at her temples as though warding off a headache. “’Cos it’s true. There’re so many unauthorized strangers near the school ’cos of me.”

“Because of stupid journalists,” he corrects, but it falls flat.

“They said they’ll reevaluate over the coming weeks. I might be able to return to work in January, if things have died down a bit.”

James desperately hopes it will, for her sake. He couldn’t bear it if he’s the reason Rose loses her job.

“Surely it’s illegal to sack you because of who you’re dating,” he says.

“I’m not sacked,” she reminds him. “I’m on leave. Really, I should be happy. Gettin’ paid to stay at home…” She looks far from happy, though. “I was about to start some of my favorite books with my kids. Frankenstein. Never Let Me Go. To Kill a Mockingbird. Now someone else gets to do it with them, and all I’ve got to look forward to when I get back is bloody Shakespeare.”

“Not a fan of Shakespeare?” he quips weakly.

“Shakespeare’s fine, but not the way they make us teach it in schools, all boring and textual, when it’s supposed to be a performance to be experienced. I’ve been trying to get the school to sponsor an annual theatre trip for the kids, but of course no one wants to invest in the languages and arts anymore.”

James makes a mental note to change that going forward. Yes, he’s sure his donations to various medical research charities are being put to good use, but how much money can he say he’s donated to music and art and literature? He’s ashamed to admit to himself he doesn’t know. How awful is that, given the arts are how he makes his living.

“I’m sorry.” The words feel hollow, but what more can he say? They’re so weak compared to the ache of sorrow buffeting him. It’s because of him that Rose can’t do the job she likes. Because of him that everyone wants to get a look at her. Because of him that her life has been turned upside down.

So it surprises him when Rose immediately says, “I’m not.” She threads her fingers through his and gives them a squeeze. “This… us… what we have together, I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Wouldn’t trade you for the world.”

His throat swells shut, and all he can do is offer a weak smile and kiss her knuckles. It’s only then that he realizes Idris is absently driving through the streets of London, taking the routes she always takes whenever he asks if she can just drive him around for a while to nowhere in particular. Well, he supposes that’s right; he didn’t exactly tell Idris where to take them.

Before he makes an executive decision about their destination, he turns to Rose. “D’you wanna come see the studio?”

“Oh, I don’t want to distract you from your work.”

He waves a hand. “Nonsense. Album’s mostly recorded by now. Just a few more songs to tidy up, then it’s off to production. C’mon. Please? I think it’s “take your girlfriend to work” week.”

He shamelessly pouts, happy to see it trigger a laugh. Then she’s nodding, and they’re off.

He’s like a giddy little boy as he guides Rose into the studio. He gets her all checked in as a Very Important Guest, and apologizes when she has to sign multiple nondisclosure agreements before she’s permitted any farther.

“No unauthorized photos, videos, recordings, et cetera et cetera,” he explains, grimacing. “I’m not the only artist here. But you’ve been pretty social-media-phobic throughout our relationship, so I don’t think we have anything to worry about, eh?”

Rose is unbothered, and soon enough, she’s an official guest of James Noble. He guides her straight into his workspace, where his now-cold coffee and untouched guitar waits for him. Rose takes in the room with awe. He remembers feeling like that when he was first shown this place. It’s a large lounge space with cushy sofas and spacious desks, and half a dozen guitars resting on stands while a glossy grand piano stands proud in a corner by a window that looks out over the city. Adjacent is the recording booth, with well-insulated sound-proofed walls and a variety of microphones hanging from the ceiling. The recording booth alone is about the size his old studio flat had been.

“This is incredible,” Rose gasps, spinning slowly to take it all in.

“I’m very lucky.”

And really, he is. This office building is one of the best in the city. He and other major recording artists have their own dedicated rooms, while most other artists need to schedule appointments to use the other joint spaces. It was only after the major success of his third album that he was promoted to this room. If he ever falls from grace, he’ll be back to the shared studios.

“Have you had breakfast yet?” he asks, opening his phone to the app tied to the lovely little café in the basement of the building. “I’m a bit peckish and want a new coffee.”

“No, I haven’t. Bit too wound up to eat this morning.”

James places an order for a coffee for him and a tea for her, as well as two breakfast sandwiches to be delivered to his office. Within ten minutes, he and Rose are lounging on the couch, enjoying their breakfast in a peaceful silence.

He doesn’t know why he’s so nervous to have Rose here in the studio. It’s not like he hasn’t played for her before. But somehow it’s much more… official.

He licks his fingers of lingering bacon grease then wipes them absently on his jeans before heading to his piano. “I told you about the holiday concert I’m part of in a few weeks. I planned to start rehearsing. Just sort of… putzing around with different carols I might have to sing.”

“Might have to sing?” she asks curiously.

“Yeah, I dunno what I’ll be singing ‘til the time of the show. An online auction will go out in the week leading up to the concert. People can donate a quid to vote on a holiday song for me to perform. They can donate another quid to vote on one of my own songs for me to perform intermittently throughout the show. It’s a charity concert, remember. Gotta get the public involved somehow.”

“Bet you’ll make a killin’ after this weekend’s drama,” she drawls, a small but genuine smirk on her face.

He rolls his eyes. One of the well-meaning higher-ups of his record label told him the same thing. All of his music has been streamed more frequently this past weekend, too. Really, this bit of viral recognition has been great for him professionally; usually that thrills him, but this time it just makes him sick.

“Part of my charm is my near-perfect memory,” he continues. “For my hour of the show, we won’t know the results of the poll ‘til I get on stage and the MC dramatically reveals them. This week I was gonna work on the new album and start practicing Christmas tunes so I don’t make a complete arse of myself on stage. So lay it on me, Rose Tyler—give me something to sing.”

Time flies. No, it soars. For the first time in over forty-eight hours, neither of them is sulky or maudlin; they’re carrying on, goofing around, and singing Christmas carols. James is delighted when Rose joins in, watching in awe as she duets perfectly with him. Her voice is beautiful.

She seems to realize what she’s done, and while her cheeks flare scarlet, she doesn’t stop. He makes an effort not to stare at her, to not make her uncomfortable, but he steals glances at every possible moment. He tries to make her laugh as often as he can too, embellishing his voice to near operatic proportions or giving himself silly little accents as he sings. The one that makes her laugh the hardest is a Southern American twang, and he falls back to it a few times.

Lunchtime comes and goes without them realizing it. They’re left alone for the day, to his relief. Professional courtesy, and all that. God, what an awful world it would be if all of his fellow celebrities were as nosey and gossipy as the paparazzi.

It’s mid-afternoon when he suggests they pack it in for the day. Rose gets up from where she’s sitting cross-legged on the couch, bounds over to him, and throws her arms around him. He catches her, confused but very accepting of this affection, and he holds her tightly.

“Thank you. This morning was… well, kind of awful. But this afternoon was perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

He melts, and buries his nose into the side of her neck, breathing her in. “One day at a time. Baby steps.”

“Baby steps,” she agrees, squeezing him harder and making no move to let go.

He doesn’t mind in the slightest. He rocks them slowly from side to side, rubbing long, slow strokes down her back and enjoying this perfect moment of peace. Everything is quiet. Everything is good.

And James thinks, dreams, dares to hope that maybe, just maybe, they can make this work.

[sgiandubh]

Sunday sounds: Third Advent Gaudete Sunday - Joy

This severely traffic jammed Sunday may be plagued with hustle, bustle and the final scramble to Christmas, but it is time to light the pink Shepherds' Candle.

These Most Humble of Them All were also the first to be told something that forever changed our hearts and minds, and immediately sent them on the road to Bethlehem:

'And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.' (Luke,  2:10-12).

Despite and sometimes even against anything else, this Sunday is about an overwhelming, definitive feeling of Joy:

We do not need complicated words to describe what we think or feel on this particular day. This is why, and rather uncharacteristically, I have chosen John Rutter's deceptively simple and modern tune. It closely resonates with John Betjeman's Christmas poem - and I could never resist Betjeman:

The bells of waiting Advent ring, The Tortoise stove is lit again And lamp-oil light across the night Has caught the streaks of winter rain In many a stained-glass window sheen From Crimson Lake to Hookers Green.

The holly in the windy hedge And round the Manor House the yew Will soon be stripped to deck the ledge, The altar, font and arch and pew, So that the villagers can say 'The church looks nice' on Christmas Day.

Provincial Public Houses blaze, Corporation tramcars clang, On lighted tenements I gaze, Where paper decorations hang, And bunting in the red Town Hall Says 'Merry Christmas to you all'.

And London shops on Christmas Eve Are strung with silver bells and flowers As hurrying clerks the City leave To pigeon-haunted classic towers, And marbled clouds go scudding by The many-steepled London sky.

And girls in slacks remember Dad, And oafish louts remember Mum, And sleepless children's hearts are glad. And Christmas-morning bells say 'Come!' Even to shining ones who dwell Safe in the Dorchester Hotel.

And is it true?  And is it true, This most tremendous tale of all, Seen in a stained-glass window's hue, A Baby in an ox's stall ? The Maker of the stars and sea Become a Child on earth for me ?

And is it true ?  For if it is, No loving fingers tying strings Around those tissued fripperies, The sweet and silly Christmas things, Bath salts and inexpensive scent And hideous tie so kindly meant,

No love that in a family dwells, No carolling in frosty air, Nor all the steeple-shaking bells Can with this single Truth compare - That God was man in Palestine And lives today in Bread and Wine.

[five-miles-over]

Your Remedy

Pairing: Jaguar Villain!Thomas x Reader

Summary: He may be one of the most powerful and feared man in London, a terrifying villain to the outside world, but when you're sick with a cold, your paramour Thomas spends the entire evening by your side taking care of you.

Word Count: 1,827

Warning: Implied criminal activity, talk about mucus and coughing, mostly fluff

"Hi, love." You blew your nose into a tissue and sat up in bed, wrapped in blankets. "You look like you've had a long day." Offering him a tired smile, you threw the tissue into a small waste bin. You ran your hand through your hair, smoothing any flyaways. You hoped that even while you were dealing with an irritating cold, you could still look nice enough for Thomas when he came home. 

Home. Yes, it felt strange sometimes, calling the two-bedroom flat that your paramour had bought for you four months ago your home. But Thomas was never one to take things slowly. Merely a month after meeting you, he asked you to be his lover, his sweetheart, his closest companion. Yes, those were the words he used. Thomas considered himself - and you - to be above plain terms like 'girlfriend'. And a week after you agreed to be his, he began sending a chauffeured town car to pick you up every day, though that was mainly because Thomas wanted to keep you safe from any of his enemies that could try to harm you. Also, it was his way of secretly learning what groceries you liked to buy, so he could keep your flat stocked with them. Most recently, Thomas brought you as his date to a production of A Midsummer Night's Dream in the West End. He had your gown selected in your favorite color and your favorite style, and proudly introduced you to all of his associates and employees during the intermission. He regaled them with little anecdotes about how he personally selected each and every gift he gave you while you were courting, thinking about which one would bring him a step closer to winning your heart. It made you all the more stunned when one of his associates tapped you on the shoulder when you were alone just to inform you that you were involved with one of the most feared men in the United Kingdom. But to you, those words were as hollow as…as a politician's promises on election night. Thomas, no matter how angry he seemed to get with his professional life, never gave you a reason to be terrified of him. 

Thomas closed the door, removed his black blazer, and sat on the edge of your bed. He pushed your hair back, giving you a gentle kiss on the forehead. "Far too long. All day, you were the only thing on my mind, my love." Then, he pressed the back of his hand against your cheek. "Not too feverish," he remarked. "That's good." Thomas rose from the bed and walked into the bathroom.

He turned on the hot water. "Have you been drinking your fluids and resting? I hope you haven't been outside, it's a bit nippy in the air." "I made some tea, and read." You chuckled before coughing. His caring, almost protective, nature bugged you at times, but it was one of the reasons you loved him. And also one of the reasons you found it hard to believe that he was one of the most feared men in the United kingdom "And no, I haven't gone outside today." You blew your nose into a new tissue.

Thomas nodded, turning off the faucet and poured some scented bath salts in to the hot water, causing them to fizz. As the bubbles rose to the surface of the bath, Thomas offered his hand to help you out of the bed. "Good."

"Thomas, you don't have to draw me a bath…" You innocently protested between coughs, him lovingly dragging by your arm towards the tub. 

He merely untied your robe with a grin. "Get in the tub. I'll be right back, darling."

You removed the rest of your clothes and climbed into the bathtub, letting the bubbles and the steam surround you along with the scents of eucalyptus and menthol. You could almost feel your sinus clear up a little bit more, causing you to smile with relief. While you relaxed and coughed, a few of Thomas's words from the other room caught your ear.

"Shelby," you could hear Thomas harshly talk, "I don't want to talk about it now…I'm quite busy, if you must know. Just make sure no one sees you enter, and dispose of the weapon when you finish. I politely insist that you don't make me repeat myself."

You heard Thomas end the phone call with the push of a single button. Then, the room was filled with the dulcet sounds of a soft guitar melody, possibly a vinyl on the record player in the corner of the living room. 

Thomas breathily sang under his breath as he waltzed back into the bathroom. Sitting on the edge of the tub, he stole a kiss and rubbed your bare shoulders. "When the night," he crooned just for your ears only, "has come, and the land is dark, and the moon is the only light we'll see." You giggled, wiping a stream of mucus from your nostril. "No, I won't be afraid…no, I won't be afraid…Just as long as you stand by me. Stand by me." 

He tucked a lock of wet hair behind your ear, gazing at you like you were the most precious thing in the world. You cleared your throat as more mucus accumulated, and laughed as Thomas continued singing.

"So darlin', darlin', stand by me." Thomas lost himself in his performance for a moment, emphasizing the 'darling' lyric.  "Oh, stand by me. Oh, stand…Stand by me, stand by me." 

You coughed while continuing to laugh, exchanging a smile with Thomas. He always loved how you brought out the fun side of him, getting him to do simple things like enjoying the small moment of life. Out in the world, Thomas wore an emotionless, almost cutthroat facade of ruthlessness. But between the two of you, inside the little haven you called home, Thomas was free to spoil you and love you in any way that he could. There was no trade deal to be negotiated, no enemy to watch out for, and no government red tape to cut through. Even though he was the one constantly hiring chauffeurs, installing security cameras inside your flat, and keeping a check on almost every move of yours, there was something about being with you that made Thomas feel safe. And if he could have it his way, Thomas would spend the rest of his life making sure that you knew how secure you made him feel.

He finished rest of the song with the vinyl record, lathering your arms with bubbles and washing them. You tried to join him, but couldn't sing too much because of the coughing and mucus. 

"Let's get you out of the tub, darling." Thomas gently took you by the arm and helped you out. He draped a clean towel over you, peppering your cheek with kisses while he dried you. Normally this would have turned into a more sensual moment between you, but Thomas was perfectly content with comforting you right now.

You coughed, putting the towel aside and getting into a set of silk pajamas Thomas bought for you from Paris. Thomas flipped a small lever on the bathtub and drained the water. Much to his dismay, his phone rang.

"Answer it, Thomas. I can make us some tea-"

"Ah, ah." Thomas corrected. "You are not to lift a finger when I'm around, darling." Thomas urged you to rest on the couch with some blankets, encouraging you to turn on the television. 

You promptly snuggled in front of a rerun of "Strictly Come Dancing", continuing to smile in Thomas's direction. Meanwhile, Thomas held the phone to his ear and made his way to the kitchen. Barking orders regarding a large sum of money, a warehouse location, and a passcode. 

You never wanted to pry into his work life, even though you were in a perfect position to do so. Shortly after you met Thomas for the first time, you learned that it was futile to ask him about what he truly did for a living that required so many phone calls and late night meetings. So, you held the blankets close to your chest, blew your nose several times, and tried to invest yourself in the dance reality show. 

Despite his tone being full of anger, Thomas appeared to be in control of himself enough to boil some spaghetti in a pot of salted water, open a can of tomatoes, and smash a few cloves of garlic. He discussed a business matter while putting the simple ingredients together in a careful manner, adding a mix of dried basil and parmesan at the right moment. "All taken care of? Good." Thomas spoke on the phone while the garlic and tomatoes cooked in olive oil. "I'll meet with you tomorrow and we can talk about the next steps. In the mean time, not a word of this too Richard. Or Shelby. Yes, take care of yourself." When the dish was assembled, Thomas ended the call, turned off the stove, and brought the plate of hot spaghetti to the living room for you.

"Enjoying the show, darling?" Thomas teased, siting next to you on the couch with a silver fork in his right hand. "I know it's not what most doctors would prescribe for your illness, but…" Thomas moved closer to you as he twirled the fork, "it's what I used to have when I was a little boy." He brought the fork to your mouth and fed you. 

You held your hand in front of your mouth, your clogged sinus making it hard to chew without pausing to breathe. "Really?" You swallowed, taking a moment before Thomas could give you another bite.

"It was one of the things I learned to make." He twirled the fork again and brought it to your chapped lips. "You pick up a few unexpected skills living in the Italian enclave during your formative years."

"This is the first time you talked about your life, Thomas." You remarked between bites of spaghetti. Innocently, you took the fork from his fingers and fed him too. Thomas knew it was a risky game sharing food with someone who was clearly under the weather, but he'd eat if it meant seeing you happy. "How did you end up in an Italian community? I heard you were part Scottish."

Thomas chewed, taking a moment to contemplate his next words. "Why don't we deal with that naughty little cold of yours first, and then…" he pecked your cheek, "I'll tell you anything you want to know about me. No question will be off the table." Thomas put his arm around you, letting you rest on his shoulder while a new episode of "Strictly Come Dancing" played on the television. 

"Okay." You shyly smiled, piqued with an interested you never thought you could feel before. "I'd like that."

Tagging: @lokischambermaid @mischievoushiddleston @smolvenger @thatdummy-girl @holdmytesseract @icytrickster17 @winterfrostlovetriangle @cakesandtom @mischievoushiddleston @lady-rose-moon @turniptitaness @jennyggggrrr @the-haven-of-fiction @fantasyfan4life @hellomadamebutterfly @sallymagnoliaposts @gigglingtigger @marveloushiddleston @lokisgoodgirl

[turnupswritessometimes]

Butterflies - Ch3 - Lies of P/Alice Madness Returns

Relationship: P/Alice Liddell

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/53898544/chapters/136426825

Previous | Next | First

Summary: “But why go looking for other realities, when there’s no guarantee you’ll pass through to them?” “Because it’s an experiment, and I jolly well won’t learn anything more about all this unless I try,” Alice replied.

Having figured out how to slip in and out of Wonderland entirely, Alice Liddell sets off on a journey to find more realities around her own. When she follows a blue butterfly to Hotel Krat, she meets P. The more time they spend together, the more they feel as though there’s someone else out there, just like them.

Chapter Three: In Which Alice Explores Hotel Krat, and P Teases a Cat

Alice had half-expected to wake up in her usual reality. In an unfamiliar city, along the coast that France and Italy shared. A small part of her almost hoped it, so she wouldn't have to face P again. It was awful enough to embarrass oneself once, but truly dreadful to do it twice – and no doubt, she would do it twice. Most of her, though, wanted to stay. Krat was mysterious and beautiful. It was like Wonderland. She felt more at home here than she did in London.

After she woke, Polendina appeared at her door, as if by magic, and asked if he might run her a bath. As her hair was still crusted with sea salt, Alice accepted gracefully. She was really starting to warm to the puppet.

She sunk into the hot water, and revelled in the feeling. It wasn't often, even in her new position, that she came by a hot bath. It was truly a heavenly thing. As she lay in the bubbles, her mind wandered. She hoped the ship was alright. Hopefully it had weathered the storm, and they'd been able to find port, somewhere. She truly hoped Peter was alright. Was he worrying about her?

If only it was possible to send letters through different realities, then she could let him know she was alive. Hopefully, he wouldn’t worry too much. After all, Alice was like a cat – she had nine lives.

By the time Alice washed and towelled her hair, she found her dress also clean and dried. Perhaps Polendina truly was magic.

It all made her feel much more herself. And when she felt more herself, she had the courage to go downstairs, and face the other hotel guests. It was just as scary as facing a slew of monsters.

Polendina led her to Lady Antonia, the owner, first. She was delighted when Alice curtseyed to her. (Her only frame of reference was meeting a queen.) She called her a charming young lady.

"So, where do you come from, and where are you going?" she asked, and sounded genuinely curious.

"I come from London," Alice replied. "I don't truly have a destination. It was a happy accident I found myself in Krat. But if it's alright, I'd like to stay a while, and help the city."

Lady Antonia looked less jolly, then. She nodded, thoughtfully, and took a long breath. She was sick. Alice could see that. It wasn't the wheelchair, but the drip behind her. It was the healing scars she was hiding behind her hat.

"A very noble goal, my dear." She rested her cheek on her frail fingers. "Though, if I'm truthful, I'm not sure if there's any way to truly save this city. It’s much too far gone."

"I've heard that before," Alice replied. She thought about Wonderland, and that infernal train ruining everything it touched. "I believe there's always hope."

It earnt her a smile. Lady Antonia called her a good girl, again, before she began coughing. Alice thought it wise to withdraw – the exchange had clearly exhausted her.

She met Lorenzini Venigni next, who flirted with her like a doting uncle. She could tell he was just flattering her, that he wasn't truly interested in her romantically. It made it easy to raise her eyebrows and seem unaffected. It wasn't like P calling her beautiful, with his earnestness and too-blue eyes.

Besides, Venigni seemed most interested in talking about himself. He was a very rich entrepaneur, he was glad to tell her, and made it sound like he'd built the city from scratch, with his own two hands. He spoke about the trams, and his factory - and how rich it had made him. Alice realised, then, how tired she was. Her mind wandered as Venigni's lilting voice continued, and she was sure she was falling asleep standing up.

She caught Sophia's eye, from where she stood at the stargazer. Sophia smiled, softly, and looked amused. It was strange, Alice thought, that no one else seemed to see her. No one else seemed to know her.

Alice was about to ask if Venigni knew, but then, of course, she met Geppetto. He steamrolled into Venigni's workstation, rattling off a list of parts that he required. For P, she realised, and it was still strange to think of him as a puppet.

When Geppetto spotted Alice, he stopped short.

It woke her up. This was the man P called Father – though the truth was, this was his creator. He'd explained the rules of the Grand Covenant, and the first was to obey the creator. And P wasn't bound to any of it, but when he spoke about his father, his voice had softened even more. Alice wondered if he’d needed to be bound.

This man was not particularly impressive, she thought. He was taller than Alice, but not P. Had flyaway grey hair and a tidy beard. Had a monocle pressed under one brow, and clever, grey eyes.

"This ravishing beauty is Alice." Venigni gestured to her. "Our midnight visitor."

"I really am sorry to intrude," Alice said. She held out her hand. "Alice Liddell. P mentioned you, last night."

"P?" Geppetto did take her hand, and shook it in the ordinary way. "Yes, of course, my son."

P, who'd said that no one actually called him P. That seemed to include his father. Was it better or worse he only knew him as his son? He said it with a certain warmth that Alice wanted to believe it was good. Though she wondered where the name P came – had he chosen it himself?

"Though, I must confess—” Geppetto’s voice was light, but she heard the tenseness under it. “I told him to be careful who he invites here."

"He didn't invite me," Alice said. She'd learnt enough not to explain about blue butterflies leading her here. "I found myself shipwrecked, and I made it here myself."

She'd tucked her blade into the waistband of her dress, and she noticed his eyes glance to it. Noticed the look of surprise on his face, that a girl had made it through his city of puppets, and couldn’t help smiling a little.

Geppetto smiled. "I see you can handle yourself."

He was smiling, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. In fact, there was something familiar about him. The kind of familiar that Alice did not want to think about.

"I assure you I mean no harm," Alice continued.

"Of course not. You seem a nice girl."

"A lovely girl," Venigni added, grinning at her. She raised an eyebrow back. "But it's not just puppets you have to watch out for, out there."

"That's right. Forgive my being suspicious. There are still stalkers on the streets, and half of them are ready to stab each other for a meal."

"Stalkers?"

Geppetto blinked at her. Alice pressed her hands together, behind her back, and tried to look innocent. She knew that the more she showed she didn't know, the stranger she seemed. P understood that she'd arrived here by magic. No one else would believe it.

"You have travelled far to Krat, haven't you?"

"You could say that," Alice replied. Geppetto expected more. He wanted more. He watched her with the air of a man who usually got his way on these things.

She wouldn't give it to him. That was her answer. She'd said it confidently and she watched him back. Polite, but not offering anything any explanation.

"You were saying about stalkers?"

It irritated him. She saw his eye twitch, but Geppetto was too polite a man to argue with her. He, and Venigni, explained the roving gangs who were the leftover guards of the city. Just as bad as the real gangs. None of them could be trusted.

"And yet, my son seems to trust anyone he comes across."

He'd invited one of them back, and he hadn't yet taken off his dog mask. Nothing inherently wrong with that, but nothing trustworthy, either. P had talked to more survivors, and said that they seemed good people, though they'd sold him a ripped guidebook at a ridiculous price. He hadn’t even been angry.

Alice thought it was a wonderful thing, to be able to trust like that. She didn't trust anyone. And the more she spoke to Geppetto, with his even, calculated words and his probing gaze, the less she trusted him, as well.

"I'll make sure to be careful," Alice said.

"Forgive me. A father worries."

Alice wouldn't know, she realised. She had not seen her father for more than a decade. There were fond memories, of course, but there were so old they might as well have been a fairytale. She nodded, clenching her fingers more tightly behind her back.

Venigni found the parts Geppetto wanted, presumably to fix up P. A worried father, and yet he wanted to make sure P was an effective weapon, Alice mused.

She hoped she was wrong about him.

She really hoped.

*

P hadn't known what on earth to do with Alice.

He was used to people, puppets, monsters, trying to kill him first. It was rarer that they didn't. Even rarer that he could see their face. It was easier when they were wearing a mask; they were foxes or cats and he could focus on their words instead of their faces. There was just a voice to read, instead of a voice and an expression.

Of course, no one wore a mask at the hotel. But he knew them, knew them well now, and - it was different. None of them had mentioned Sophia, or the butterflies. He adored Sophia, but it was easy to be around her. She was soft, and quiet, and explained things gently to him. He was happy to sit and listen to records next to her.

It was different, with this girl. Not least because he'd been expecting to spend the night roaming the streets, fighting puppets. He hadn't expected to be sitting across from a girl his own age and thinking - feeling - that he’d met someone like himself. Even though she was human, and he was a puppet. Even though she came from somewhere far away from Krat. But there was - something. Something he knew. It had been that something that made him struggle to talk to her, and he couldn’t place why. 

P sat in one of the many spare hotel rooms to pass the rest of the night. The dawn painted the sky outside like a painting. He teased Spring with a scraggly ribbon he'd found between the sofa cushions – the only other one awake.

Everyone was asleep, including Alice. She'd excused herself not long after he'd called her beautiful. She'd stayed just long enough to finish the second half of her scone.

P didn't sleep. He rested, but he couldn't dream, like humans.

Spring pounced on the ribbon, batting it with her tiny paws.

"Do you think I upset her?" he asked.

Gemini chirped, and his light glowed brighter. "You're still thinking about Alice, are you?"

He frowned. It sounded like Gemini was teasing him. But, he admitted to himself, it was better than thinking about the alternative; better than thinking about monsters, and the king of puppets, and his father. His father, who he had the sneaking suspicion was harbouring secrets from him. He trusted his father. He wanted to keep trusting his father.

P sat back, tugging the ribbon from Spring's grip. She miaowed at him.

"You were no help," he said to Gemini.

"Excuse you, I was plenty help!"

"You kept - interrupting." P flicked the ribbon decidedly. "With those rules."

"Look, pal, those rules are called manners. They're meant to tell you what to say and do to keep a polite conversation. Especially when you're too blinded by beauty to be sensible."

P's frown turned into a scowl. He flicked the ribbon close to Gemini's lantern dangling the end. Spring darted after it. The cat came dangerously close to knocking Gemini askew. He cried out, and fell silent.

For a few seconds.

"It's true," he said, sulkily.

P didn't reply. He let the ribbon slip from his fingers. Spring immediately latched onto it, chasing it under the sofa. She rolled on her back, her mouth very pink as she bit at the ribbon. He watched - pretended to be completely absorbed.

Alice Liddell was very pretty. Different to Sophia - Sophia was graceful and ephemeral and beautiful - where Alice was sharp and decided. She'd looked like a doll; her skin pale, and smooth, and her hair a dark wave over her shoulders. But it was her eyes: those green eyes that were as bright as a cat's. They were outlined with black, so they stood out all the more. The black was slightly smudged, from her trip in the sea. Actually, her hair was quite ruffled and there were shingles sticking to the bright fabric of her dress. But that made her more pretty. It made her look human.

Yet, she'd looked horrified when she'd realised what he was. Only for a moment, but he saw it. And she'd looked just as horrified when he'd called her beautiful. She was scared of him, because he was a puppet.

But - then she'd said he was handsome, and wasn't teasing or cloying. It had been genuine.

It had made something inside him tick in a way it hadn't before, leaving the whole thing complicated, and confusing. He didn't like confusing. And he definitely didn't know how to behave like a ‘gentleman.’

The morning, very slowly, arrived. He heard the distant thudding of footsteps through the corridors, and the faint flutter of Vegnini's voice. The hotel was waking up.

Gemini told him to help Alice make her introductions. P was sure she'd want to be with humans, her own kind, and that she wouldn’t really want to see him again. But Gemini was persistent, and hard to ignore for long. So he pulled himself up, and stepped into the hallway. He listened. There were voices. Eugenie laughed.

"You're not scared of a girl, are you, pal?" Gemini asked.

P sighed. He knew switching the lantern off wouldn't keep Gemini quiet. The best way was to prove him wrong. So, he set off in the direction of the voices.

Alice stood in Eugenie's workshop. She looked so much more at ease than she had the previous night. She leant on the counter, listening to Eugenie explaining about daggers.

She was smiling. Not the wry smile she'd given P the previous night, but a real smile.

Eugenie spotted him first. She broke off from her rattle about balancing blades.

"Oh, have you already met?" She pushed up her glasses, waving at P in greeting.

P nodded. He glanced at Alice, and saw her bite her lip as she looked back. Her arms were behind her back.

"This, here, is our greatest hope," Eugenie continued, gesturing to P. "And my bedtime customer. I've produced some of my best work for him. Why don't you show Miss Liddell your arm?"

P paused. He felt very aware of his legion arm – a gift from his father – and how it was decidedly not as human as the rest of him. How it was dangerous, especially for humans.

But Eugenie gestured for him to come over, grinning.

"I'd like to." Alice stepped forward. "If that's alright."

P nodded. He met them at the desk, and lay the hand of his legion arm on the surface. Eugenie explained it all to Alice, speaking quickly and excitedly, and she nodded like she was listening, but she looked distant. A strand of dark hair fell forward from behind her ear. P wondered what it would be like to brush it back. Wondered how she would look at him, if he did.

Then her fingers grazed his. Very lightly. Just touching the delicate, fragile joints. He couldn't feel touch on that side, but he saw it. His metal fingers twitched of their own accord, in response to the touch.

Her green eyes looked up at him. "And you like it, too?"

"It's serviceable," he replied. Then realised that wasn't what she asked. In truth, he hadn't thought much about it. It was his arm, and it served a purpose. It didn’t matter if he liked it – he needed it.

He caught the look Eugenie gave Alice, as though she had said something interesting. Something she also hasn't thought of. But then she continued, "And you should see Miss Liddell's blade!"

It rested on the desk too. A large knife. The same knife she’d been carrying the night before.

"May I?" His hand hovered over it. He heard Gemini give an approving chirp at his manners. Were there manners, for looking at a lady’s dagger?

"Be my guest."

So, P lifted it. The handle was wooden, and intricately carved. There were more engravings on the silver blade itself. When he shifted the blade, the light caught them. Vines and flowers. It was a wonder they hadn't been chipped away in battle.

He swiped it through the air. It was light; so light that the blade practically sung.

Alice watched.

He met her green gaze. Said, steadily, "It's not beautiful."

Eugenie gave an outraged squeak, but a slow smile spread across Alice's face.

"You're lying," she said.

P nodded. He fought against his own smile, and suspected he was losing the battle. (That was happening more and more often, these days. He didn't understand how it could be possible – how he could feel anything at all, when he was a puppet.)

"You're too good at lying," Eugenie half-scolded him. "I can never tell when you're telling the truth."

That was good, P thought. He tried to tell good lies – lies that didn't hurt. That only worked if the person he was lying to couldn’t tell. He ducked his head, like he was ashamed, and offered the handle of the knife to Alice.

She took it, and slipped it into the sash at her waist. The blade suited her. A pretty blade for a pretty girl, though he didn’t want to embarrass her again by saying it.

"And what about yours?" She gestured to the sword at his side.

He was aware of Eugenie watching the both of them intently, and it made him self-conscious. Why was she smiling, like this was particularly amusing? P drew his sword; his fencing blade; and offered it to her.

Alice rested it on her palms, before slipping a hand into the hilt. She didn't swing it; there wasn't room too, but she did take its weight for a moment. She made it catch the light, so it seemed like a ribbon of silver.

“It’s beautiful.”

"Perhaps you two should spar!" Eugenie said. There was a glint in her eye, and she had a hand on her hip. P wasn’t sure what all that meant. He expected Alice to protest – like she did about the chair at dinner – but instead she tilted her head to one side. It made her hair fall from her shoulder. The movement was beautiful. Just as beautiful, he thought, as his own blade.

"Would you like to?" she asked. "Before you go back onto the streets?"

She was smiling at him. Properly. He liked her smiling at him, like that.

P nodded.

[penguicorns-are-cool]

There's something to be said about how much more violent heaven execution is compared to hell

Like they both have the same effect. But heaven has no trial just like put you into a plume of hellfire and watch you burn and hell has a trial even if it's not necessarily very fair then you take a bath. And sure the result of that bath is pretty gory, but it's still a bath where you dissolve vs fire where you get burned alive.

then also in the things that heaven and hell do. From the Demons we see they've done stuff like: tempt adam and eve into eating an apple (morality of which is up to interpretation), tempt a priest and politician with pretty girls and a bribe, make the highway the ancient symbol of an old demon, shut down all london mobile phone networks, make some zombies, and take credit for some wars. And setting a nunnery on fire and attacking a bookshop of course

Meanwhile from the angels we have stuff like: kill all of Job's animals and kids and take all his other stuff too then have her wife give birth to 7 more kids as a reward, wipe out all life in a local area, smiting and turning people into salt in sodom and Gomorrah, executing Jesus

and it's mostly cause the angels are just blindly following god without taking any effort to understand what that really means for the humans. As a result, the angels end up doing extremely violent things with huge consequences just cause they're treating mortal humans like immortal angels while the Demons are just a bit more aware of how humans work because the humans end up in hell usually and they aren't blindly following the orders of anyone, except Satan at what they believe is the end of the world. Neither group really cares for humans too much, but at least most demons have interacted with humans at some point or another.

In the end, both heaven and hell want to end the world, but I find it interesting how the things we hear heaven doing are just a tad bit more violent and jarring than a lot of the things we hear of hell doing

[plumplom]

Current mood: Self care at 2AM because my son went to sleep at midnight 😆😵‍💫

Took an epsom salt bath, made a london fog, put on a nice piano playlist, ate some chocolate covered blueberries, and am now scrolling under a blanket :3

[whenlovebeckons]

gratitude for this cold tuesday evening: cafe lights on / thirty minutes of yoga done (for the third day in a row!) / a giant london fog latte with added lavender to celebrate / in a handmade mug from a local artist that I bought to celebrate a milestone this time last year / using up good skincare while excited to try something new / reading the art of living for the first time / an epsom salt bath / feeling more like myself every day ✨

[grahamfolgersdeliciousnotebooks]

The trip to the safehouse took over seven hours – four and a half hours spent on a train from London to Edinburgh, twenty minutes spent in Waverly waiting for the next train, forty-five minutes spent traveling from Edinburgh to Stirling, nearly an hour huddling under a cold and drippy bus stop in Stirling, then a final forty-five minute bus ride to the small and unassuming town where Basira thought they might be safe – and Jon did not sleep for a single minute of it.

He couldn’t, even if he’d wanted to. His nerves were utterly frayed. It felt as though his body had been stuck in fight-or-flight mode from the moment he’d found Martin’s tape, and nothing – not the gentle rocking of the train, not the soothing silence of the late-night air, not the fact that Martin was curled into the seat beside him, hand still loosely wrapped around Jon’s even while he slept – could convince his body that the danger had passed.

And, well, it wasn’t as though his mind was fully convinced of that fact, either. Lukas was dead, but there was no reason to believe the Lonely would release its grip on Martin so easily. He hadn’t dissolved into a wisp of fog, like Jon’s nervous system remained convinced he would if Jon let him out of his sight for even a moment, but he still seemed… off. Like he’d been thawed in a microwave – still frozen to the touch in some places, burning hot in others. He’d flinched the first Jon tried to touch him, but by the time they got settled on the train he was all but clinging to him, grabbing Jon’s hand and pressing it to his chest like a security blanket. 

When they stopped by a convenience store in Waverly – buying milk, tea, instant noodles, frozen vegetables, whatever they could find that might hold them over until they could have a proper grocery run, plus a few sandwiches for the trip – he seemed normal. He’d loosened his grip on Jon’s hand but hadn’t let it go altogether, and he’d had strong opinions on what kinds of tea they ought to buy, and he even managed a quiet snort when Jon suggested they get one of every variety just in case. But by the time they’d found a bench to sit on while they ate, he was gone again. His expression had fallen back into that awful, blank, dissociative haze, and only after repeated prompting did it occur to him to eat. When Jon asked him if he was alright, all he would say was “Fine.”

Mostly, though, he’d been asleep. Jon was glad. Much as he might want to talk things out, the fact was that Martin had earned a bit of a rest. He spent the majority of the seven-plus hour trip snoring gently into Jon’s shoulder while Jon held his sleepless, restless vigil beside him. When Martin shifted in his sleep, Jon turned his head to bury his nose in Martin’s hair. He smelled like sea salt, and like rain, and like whatever cheap shampoo he used – a sharp, overtly-synthetic scent that probably got marketed with some nondescriptive, performatively masculine name like Ice Shard, or Ocean Blast, or Power Sport.  

“Stay with me,” he whispered into Martin’s hair. “Please, Martin. I can’t lose you.”

By the time they reached the safehouse, he was well and truly exhausted. He barely had time to take in the room that the front door opened up into – a dusty little kitchen that might optimistically be referred to as “cozy” but more realistically would be described as “cramped” – before he stumbled into one of the chairs at the kitchen table.

Martin flicked on the lightswitch, bathing the room in the butter-yellow glow of an ancient incandescent filament.

“Should I put the kettle on?” he asked.

Jon nodded. He meant to say something affirmative, but he found he was having trouble opening his mouth. He set his head down on the table, and told himself he was only going to rest his eyes for a second.

Jon didn’t think he was asleep for very long. When he woke up, he woke in stages. For a few minutes, he was “awake” by only the broadest definition of the term. His eyes were open, he was vaguely aware of his surroundings, but his brain was not processing anything. Instead he just floated on a warm, sleepy bubble of contentment, lulled by the familiar sounds of tea being brewed.

Then his memories returned to him with all the urgency of a shot of adrenaline to the heart. He sat bolt upright and whipped his head around in a muddled, desperate search for Martin, where was Martin, Martin was gone–

A hand came to rest on his shoulder, and he relaxed. Martin was here. He hadn’t been pulled back into the Lonely, or killed by the NotThem, or arrested for Peter’s murder. He was standing beside Jon’s chair with a cup of tea in hand, whole and unharmed.

“Bad dream?”

“No,” Jon shook his head, and he really mustn't have been asleep that long, if his regular selection of nightmares hadn’t had a chance to get started. “Jus’ worried.”

“About what?”

“You.”

“Oh.” Martin blinked. “I’m sorry,” he said, but he said it exactly the same way he had in the Lonely. His voice was detached and distant, like he was observing his own emotions at an arm’s length and was faintly surprised at what they turned out to be.

“Don’t be sorry,” Jon replied. “Only fair, really, given how many times you had to worry about me.”

“I did, didn’t I?” Martin mused in that same dispassionate tone. “I don’t miss that. Thought I would, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“When Peter offered me that deal, I think he thought that was a selling point. He never did really understand people. He’d talk about giving me an ‘escape from my grief’ as though I wanted that–” There was still an upsettingly clinical edge to Martin’s voice, relaying his memories as though they had happened to someone else, but a bit of emotion was beginning to creep in. “–but honestly, that was the worst part. You were… gone, and my grief was all I had left of you. The idea of not even being able to miss you anymore… God. It felt like I was betraying you, it felt– it felt worse than if he’d just asked me to kill you.” At some point, Martin had started crying. He lifted his hand to his cheek and looked surprised when it came back wet. “God, talking about this is bringing it all back up.”

Jon steered him into a chair and grabbed his hand. “I’m so sorry, Martin–”

“No, this is good,” Martin said. “Jon, I feel awful!” Jon started to point out that that didn’t seem good, actually, but Martin cut him off. “I didn’t think I’d feel anything this strongly ever again.”

And Jon could see how that was a good thing. “I’m… glad,” he said, squeezing Martin’s hand. “But if you’re going to remember how to feel emotions, perhaps we could start with some better ones? You must have some good memories you could talk about? Granted, with how the past few years have gone…”

Martin cocked his head, considering. Jon found himself painfully aware that Martin was running his thumb in absentminded circles around Jon’s knuckle while he thought.

“Do you remember when I first moved into Document Storage?” Jon nodded. “We’d never really talked before outside of work, and– and it wasn’t like we talked all that much then, but it was– it was nice. It was the first time I ever really understood why Tim and Sasha liked you. I remember I told some dumb joke, and– and I don’t even remember what the joke was but you laughed, and all of a sudden I thought, ‘Oh, okay. I get it now.’”

“I, um.” Jon cleared his throat. “I don’t remember the exact verbiage but I think it was a play on the phrase ‘the early bird gets the worm.’”

“That sounds… terrible.”

“It was,” Jon agreed. It had stuck with him precisely because it was terrible. For weeks afterward, he would think back to that moment, and curse himself for laughing at something so trite, and said by Martin of all people, and he didn’t stop to consider any other reasons why he kept returning to the memory of Martin making him laugh. “You could barely finish the joke because you started laughing halfway through.”

“Oh, God. I didn’t.”

“You did.”

“Oh, God,” Martin repeated.

It all seemed so close all of a sudden. Like the gulf of three years and a thousand traumas had all disappeared, and if Jon simply willed it hard enough, he could go back to that moment – sit with Martin in a Document Storage that had never known infestation, reach out to him with hands that had never been scarred, speak with a voice that had never reached into the depths of a stranger’s mind and pulled out their darkest traumas. Be a person who might, in a thousand years, be worthy of Martin’s affection, instead of the person he was now.

“Did I miss my chance?”

The words slipped out before Jon could think better of them.

“What?”

“I–” Jon gathered his words. “I thought, before the coma, that you might have been… interested in me. And maybe, if I’d worked up the nerve to say something back then, we could have had something. Is it too late for that now?”

Martin drew back, pulling his hand out of Jon’s grip. “I’m not the same person I was.”

“Neither am I.”

“Whatever it was you liked about me back then, I’m not sure I… have it, anymore.”

That was an answer, certainly. One that Jon could accept – should accept, probably. But he couldn’t bring himself to give up just yet, not without a clear and unambiguous answer.

“Is that a yes?” he asked, feeling needy and more than a little pathetic. “I missed my chance?”

Martin hesitated. “You missed your chance with the person you knew.”

“And if…” Jon swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “If I’m still in love with the person you are now? What then?”

Martin responded to that with a very quiet, “Oh.” And then, to Jon’s horror, he started to cry.

Jon stumbled out of his chair and knelt beside him, driven by an anxious but unfocused need to fix this. “Oh, God, Martin, I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed–”

“You’re an idiot,” Martin whispered.

“I am.” Jon wasn’t going to argue with that, not now of all times, when he’d just made Martin cry. What was he thinking? “I’m sorry, you don’t have to–”

Martin cut him off once again. “Of course you still have a chance,” he said, and Jon’s heart stopped. “God knows why you’d want one, but you do.”

Jon reached up to cradle Martin’s wet cheeks. “Because I love you.” Saying it once had loosened his tongue, and it was all too easy to say it again. “Martin, you’re incredible–”

Martin sniffed. “Don’t push it,” he said with a wet laugh. “I’m still getting used to this whole ‘emotions’ thing, remember?”

“I’m–”

“Don’t say you’re sorry,” Martin said before Jon could finish the thought. “You don’t have to be.” He pulled Jon off the floor and into a hug.

Martin’s arms were a firm and solid weight around Jon’s shoulders, and his sweater was soft against Jon’s cheeks. It had the same sea salt smell as his hair had done, but with something warmer and more Martin-y underneath. He let his eyes slip closed.

“Jon?”

Jon stirred awake.

“Did you just fall asleep?”

“No,” Jon lied, badly.

“Alright, let’s figure out where the bedroom is in this place. We can talk more in the morning.”

Jon didn’t argue. He lifted himself up on tired legs and followed Martin through the hallway and into a sparsely-furnished bedroom at the back of the house. As he shrugged out of his jacket and his shoes and took off his belt – the closest thing to changing he had the energy to do – he expected Martin to turn around and explore the rest of the house, get himself situated, put away the groceries. He’d already gotten plenty of sleep. Instead, Martin took off his own shoes and slid into bed beside him.

Jon shifted closer, and Martin wrapped his arms around him once more. As Jon’s eyes drooped shut once again, he heard Martin whisper to him. 

“I love you, too, you know. That never changed.”

And then Jon was asleep, secure in the knowledge that Martin would be there when he woke up.

(View this work on AO3)

[the-fiction-witch]

Bath beside The Fire

Media IRL

Character Thomas Brodie Sangster

Couple Thomas X Reader

Rating Smut

Concept Bath

Smut nudity/ stroking/ hj/ fingering/ breast play/ little bird/ 

I peered inside the misted green bathroom at the utter state of luxury within, the green tiles sweetly compliment the room keeping the light low the window as usual impossible to see from the outside and yet the sweet light was allowed to cascade across the room. The sweet orange glow from the two wall sconces that sat either side of the round mirror above the sink. The shower was not in use as it often wasn't the back wall lit so beautifully but the Victorian fireplace, shapes and shadows moving in the golden mirror above it. The claw foot bathtub in the corner sat with its golden taps still on, flooding the tub with warm steamy water. Bubbles almost reached the brim of the tub even if the water had a ways to go yet, the bubbles still in that strange mountainous shape from the liquid being added to the water and thus the bubbles mostly being created by the taps shifting of the water. The sounds of the water rushing through the pipes of the old London house and filling the porcelain tub perfectly complemented either cracking and roaring of the fire to create such peacefulness. That and the Addition of the speaker on the shelf above the bath hidden by the plant pot that plaid…. I believe it was 'smooth jazz' or some other type of relaxational playlist. The scent of sweet lavender filled the room from the small cat shaped wax burner that sat on the windowsill. Stood in the bathroom on the grey tiles stood the barefeet of Thomas as he loomed over his bath excitedly wrapped up only in his thin grey cotton robe that he had tightly wrapped around his skinny body and was holding onto tightly given his clear lack of clothing below it. He tested the water with his hand seeming happy, opening up the small draw beside the bathtub it filled to the brim with various bath bombs and shower steamers and all sorts of other items he picked out a large purple bath bomb with a few blue shimmers within unwrapping it from its paper and setting it into the tub with a plop. Immediately a rush of purple colour and shimmer began to explode from the water along with a refreshing fresh English lavender scent. Next he picked out a small mason jar of purple and pink crystals unscrewing the top revealing a small plastic blue shovel which he used to scoop a large amount of the salt crystals and sprinkle them into the water them hitting the bottom with a sweet tinkling sound before returning it to the draw and pulling out a small bottle of a very watery purple liquid that he poured inside like a witch crafting a brewing potion before too returning the bottle to the draw. He waited a few seconds checking his towel on the heated towel rail was fresh and fluffy before he checked the water again and twisted the Taps off silencing the loud sounds of the water now all the other sounds much clearer and the added sound of the bubbles slightly crackling as they popped and shifted in the tub. He slipped his robe off his shoulders the thin fabric pooling at his feet leaving him completely naked without anything to conceal him, his bare feet kicked the robe across the floor towards the laundry hamper, his thin legs slightly flexing as he moved, his his squarely facing the warm tub even if his half hard erection was obvious stood to attention, he ran his hand through the fluffy forest that was his blonde hair before looking down at himself for a moment frowning at his stomach stroking his hand across it seeming upset as he squeezed the tiniest but of tummy that was there so much so his whole hand didn't even get enough to fill his hand but he looked so sad about it. Yet seemed to have no sadness for the various small cuts and bruises across his skinny body.

He slowly climbed into the tub one foot at a time settling himself among the bubbles letting out a sigh as his body hit the warm water.

"Ummmmm" he groans, leaning his head against the tubs rim with his eyes closed

I giggled at him a little which made him speak

"You are interrupting my peaceful time y/n" he warns

"Ohh I am so sorry my lord, a thousand apologies for disturbing the bath" I giggled poking my head fully thought the bathroom door rather than peering through the crack

"Out" he says kicking his foot at me sending water across the room almost hitting me

"I just wanted to come visit"

"Out! This is my time to be luxurious"

"But i-"

"What do you want, little bird?"

"I brought you a present"

"Ummm?"

"Wine" I smiled exposing the glass of wine I got from downstairs for him

"You may stay" he nods happily taking it and having a sip setting it on the windowsill where he could still reach it

I smiled and sat on the closed toilet seat watching him in his bath

"hi"

"Hello y/n"

"What are you doing?"

"Having my nice relaxing bath. Why what are you doing?"

"Watching you"

"Ummm creepy" he says making me pout "don't pout little bird. You snuck up on me in the bath you have to admit that's a little creepy"

"You do it to me"

"Because your beautiful and you have very sexy little bubble baths that I enjoy watching"

"Creepy"

"It's not creepy when you put a show on for me" he smirked making me blush a little "how am I meant to not watch when my little bird does a cute little show for me" he smirked moving down to be close enough to me he could kiss my cheek

"Well then what's wrong with me being here to watch you?"

"Fine." He sighed setting the wine down and sinking down under the water reemerging a few seconds later his hair now dark and flat I couldn't help but watch him as he moved the bubbles, washed his hair and rubbed a little on his bruises "yes?" He asks as I had been sat silently watching him the last few minutes I just smiled as sweetly as I could standing and tugging at the ties of my dress for a moment he didn't know what I was doing but quickly figured it out shifting in the water "humm my little bird wanna climb in with me?" He smirked as my dress dropped leaving me naked too which made him bite his lip hard slightly growling at me

"May I?" I asked

"You may" he smirked

So I went to step in at the other end of the tub but he stopped me taking my hand and pulling me so I sat on his lap

"There was go, cosy?"

"Ummm humm" I nodded nuzzling into his bare chest stroking my fingers down his wet skin he cups water in his hands rinsing it over my exposed shoulder before stroking down my body both above and below the water "how are your bruises?"

"Fine, they don't hurt"

"You should be more careful"

"I know little bird. I know. I didn't mean to fall off my bike"

"You still scared me"

"Shhhhh I know I did. It's okay I'm fine" he says giving me a kiss "and it was very nice having my little bird to take care of me"

"I like taking care of you"

"Ummm I know you do, and I enjoy it very much" he smirked tugging me closer "Fuck- your beautiful little bird" he Cooes "I should have you in my bath with me every week" he smirked

"I thought the point was to relax'

"Yeah?"

"Well somewhere isn't very relaxed" I smirked stroking my hand down to gently stroke his hard erection

"No it isn't, maybe my little bird can help me with that" he smirked pulling my hips so I sat over him the lips of my pussy perfectly cradling his erection "ummm fuck-" he gasps leaning his head against the tub

"We should get washed"

"Should we now? How's about I do you and you do me?"

"Don't you do me enough?"

"Not nearly enough pet" he smirked grabbing my usual lavender body wash "come on little bird," he smirked

"Alright" I smiled giving him a kiss taking the soap in my hand making it bubble up alot rubbing my hand across his neck and shoulders then down his arms making sure I left no spot untouched, then going down his chest being gentle around his bruises before I even reached his hips he was biting his lip eagerly I went to stop as I reached his stomach but he held my arm

"You're not done yet pet. Go on" he demanded

I blushed hard moving my hands down stroking his hips making sure I squeezed his butt a little

"Hey- bad girl" he smirked slapping my ass hard I continued scrubbing his v and his erection "uhhh! Yes- uuummmm either keep going or let me inside you already"

"But I'm not clean yet" I pouted

"Humm no, you're not. And you are a very very dirty little bird" he smirked taking the soap in his hands staring much as I did on my neck and shoulders I was nervous but excited as his hands moved down covering my breasts with the soapy bubbles his hands working hard to cover and clean them leaving no inch untouched often playing with my breasts in his hands as he did he chuckled slyly before starting to use his thumbs to rub on my now hard nipples sending the waves of pleasure across me "a very dirty little bird. However did my pet get so dirty?"

"Living with you"

"Don't you blame me for this pet you were just as dirty when I met you" he smirked "turn around" he demanded so I did as he asked moving to face away from him and he grabbed my hips pulling me into his lap hard he chuckled again slapping my ass hard as he now had it Infront of him he took a firm grip of my ass making sure to pull it apart as he did slipping his hard cock between my cheeks before he ran his hands across making sure to cover it with soapy bubbles

"Thomas" I giggled but he smirked and grabbed my breasts again gently rubbing my nipples as he groped my breasts hard grinding himself against my ass

"umm, you like that little bird?"

" Yes-"

"Good girl" He smirked moving his hands away to scrub down my stomach until he reached my pussy scrubbing it softly leaving a trail of bubbles as he rubbed on my clit "There my little birds all clean now"

"Almost" I cooed

"yeah?" he smirked moving his fingers inside me "That feel good?"

"Uhh thomas please-"

"Out"

"But-"

"Now" He demanded I sheepishly climbed out grabbing a towel as I got so chilly, he climbed out too wrapping a towel around himself too he sat himself on the floor beside the fire and he tugged me down with him into his lap ...

[serenailith]

fulfilled (i)

for @dreamlingbingo​

Square: a4, bdsm Rating: e Word Count: 1536 Ship(s): dream of the endless/hob gadling Warnings: none Additional Tags: alternate universe - canon divergence, bdsm, spanking, bottom!hob gadling, top!dream of the endless | morpheus, aftercare, established relationship, pre-determined kink negotiations Summary:

Hob has a long day. Dream makes it better.

Link: on ao3 chapter 1/2 masterlist

The sun is beginning to set by the time Hob Gadling leaves Eloise and Martin Gladstone’s townhouse. He’s spent all day helping them move into their new home, and all he wants to do is go home, soak in a hot bath, and then go to bed. His body aches in a way it hasn’t in a long time—being a professor has made him soft.

Making a note to find a physical hobby, Hob hurries to his car and slides in behind the wheel. The drive home is filled with only the sound of the engine; Hob is too exhausted to even listen to music. So he forces himself to focus on the road, to ignore the fatigue settling in behind his eyes, and hopes he doesn’t get into an accident in the twenty minutes it’ll take to reach his flat.

He succeeds in arriving out front without so much as a single traffic violation, and Hob considers it a win as he slumps up the stairs. The sounds of the New Inn filter through the floor, but it sounds like home. It is home. It has been since he moved back to London six years ago. It may not be his village from the 1300s—God, does he miss that village and the people in it—but it’s enough until he has to move on again.

With a heavy sigh, he steps out of his trainers and stumbles toward the bathroom. It takes less than five minutes for the tub to fill with steaming water; he adds Epsom salts and scented oils before stripping out of his sweat-tacky clothes. He throws him off to the side and steps into the bathtub, groaning aloud as the heat bleeds into his skin.

He must doze off as he relaxes further in the water, for the next thing he knows, he’s jerking awake at the sound of a very familiar voice only inches from him. His eyes fly open, and his fists come up only to fall back to the water with a splash at the contrition on the pale face.

“I startled you.”

Hob blows out a breath and scrubs a wet hand over his face. “It’s okay, love. Just… Long day, ‘s’all.”

“I know,” Dream says, lowering himself to sit on the closed toilet lid. He looks out of place in Hob’s bathroom, all dark clothes against pale blue walls. Hob loves it. “Your dreams are… bare-boned. Half-formed. I was concerned.”

“No worries necessary. I’ll be okay.”

Dream frowns and leans forward to run his fingers through the oiled water. It’s long gone cool, and Hob shivers at the realisation that his skin is no longer blissfully hot.

“If you will be ‘okay’ is not the matter at hand. You need rest. Proper rest.”

“And I’ll get it,” Hob bites out, sighing at the imperious rise of an eyebrow. Leave it to his lover to make him feel guilty without a word. “Sorry. I’m just tired.”

Dream only nods, rising to his feet, and Hob watches him exit the bathroom. The sight of bare feet disappearing around the frame is far more amusing than it has any right to be, and Hob chuckles to himself as he quickly scrubs himself clean. Once finished, he pulls the plug, stands, and grabs the towel hanging on the rod.

Dream sits on the bed by the time Hob enters his bedroom, towel wrapped around his waist. Hob smiles, chest still tight with remorse for having gotten short with Dream, and moves toward his closet. A sharp ‘No’ stops him cold in his tracks. He turns slowly to face Dream who raises a hand, beckons Hob closer.

“You snapped at me.”

“I did.” Hob swallows thickly as the towel is tugged from around his waist. Cool air whisks across his skin, and his skin prickles under the weight of Dream’s scrutiny. “I’m sorry. Like I said, I’m just tired. And sore. Helped some mates move into their new home.”

“You are such a kind, giving soul,” Dream murmurs before pressing his lips to the hair on Hob’s abdomen. “But you behaved poorly toward me.”

He glances up at Hob through thick dark lashes, lips twisting into a humourless smile. Hob’s breathing grows unsteady as he waits for the order, the one he knows is coming. The second it does, the instant Dream leans back just enough, Hob is positioning himself across Dream’s thighs, his head hanging low in anticipation. Dream’s cool hand runs along the dip in his lower back.

“You will count. If you lose track, we begin again. If you need to stop, what do you do?”

“S—say ‘red’.”

“Very good.”

The first smack is gentle, frustratingly so, and Hob just barely manages to bite back a sound of disappointment. He counts out ‘One’. Dream chuckles, low and rough, as if he knows what Hob is thinking. The next impact is just as soft and teasing. Hob’s head falls even further down, only to snap back up at the third smack.

This one smarts, landing solidly across his buttocks, and he keens as he counts out the number. His cock twitches, interested in the proceedings, and he wonders how long it will take before he’s leaking, rutting against Dream as he always ends up doing.

Four, five, six… All too tender, moving from upper thigh to buttocks and back again. Seven brings tears to Hob’s eyes, and he relishes in the pain it brings. Eight and nine are given in quick succession; he gasps when long fingers hold his arsecheeks apart, Dream’s other hand slapping lightly at his hole. Ten.

“Good boy,” Dream croons as he slides a soothing hand along the abused flesh. “You took your punishment so well, my heart. I believe you have learnt your lesson.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hob chokes out. His body aches, tense as a bowstring pulled taut, and he yearns for relief.

Dream murmurs an order, and Hob hastens to obey on weak knees. He lies on his belly on the bed, swearing quietly as he holds his hips still so he doesn’t seek out the friction of the blankets on his cock. The mattress dips between his thighs, and he closes his eyes. Blunt nails drag up the back of his legs, from calf to the junction of arse to thigh, the hair moving with the motion. Tiny little tugs that send jolts through Hob.

“What is your colour, my love?”

“Green, Sir.” So fucking green.

Slender hands rest on his arse, carefully separate his cheeks, and he barely registers the chill in the air before a hot mouth is pressing against him. Hob’s head grows fuzzy almost immediately, and he lets himself drift in the sensations of Dream’s tongue fucking into him. He doesn’t know when, but slowly the tears slip from the corners of his eyes until his vision blurs and he’s gasping aloud. Dream pulls away slowly, leaving a lingering kiss to Hob’s lower back.

“You can come like this,” he whispers, though his voice echoes in Hob’s ears, “or you can come on my cock. Either way, I will take what I know you willingly give.”

They’ve done this ever since Dream came back into his life four years ago. It had been a drunken blunder on Hob’s part—he’d kissed Dream as if the being was little more than a figment of his imagination. Dream had disappeared in a swirl of sand only to reappear weeks later with an apology and a kiss of his own.

Hob had waited until he was nearly bursting before admitting that he needed more. More as in, punishments. Spanking, orgasm denial, being dominated so he no longer had to think beyond what he wanted and needed. Dream had learnt quickly.

They both knew then, and know now, that there is very little that Hob would deny Dream.

“Take what you want, myn herte,” Hob babbles, moaning wantonly when Dream resumes his ministrations.

Hob fights to last, to be good for Dream. He may have permission, but he wants to come with Dream buried in him. Maybe Dream will do that thing again, the one where he fills Hob in more ways than one. Simultaneously.

He comes at the thought alone.

True to his word, Dream takes everything Hob has to give, everything Hob will always give to the being he loves. Dream fucks into him slow and deep until Hob knows not where he ends and Dream begins. It’s almost too much—it is too much—but Hob’s colour stays green as his body is used almost reverently. That’s one thing about Dream: He treats Hob as if he’s to be cherished, even when he’s playing the role of fuck-toy.

Dream’s lips brush the curve of Hob’s neck where it meets his shoulder, and Hob shivers as Dream comes, fills him with spend. Hob can almost taste it, the brisk winter nights and exploding supernovas and every pleasant dream wrapped into one.

Hob’s home is pulled away from him when Dream slips free, but then there’s a weight beside him, over his waist, and he lets himself sink into the feeling of being cared for. Of being loved.