#London Scoops

[mmvalentine]

Lucky | Feysand

It was a throw away comment and Feyre knows it.

“Stop leaving glasses out!” Rhys had said, half laughing, tugging the end of her ponytail and dropping two cups and a mug into the sink.

Rhys makes her a cup of tea every evening, and it’s one of the hundred little ways that Feyre feels spoiled. She does like to keep a glass of water on the night stand, and where Tamlin hated it when she worked, Rhys has always supported her career. So they both leave early in the morning and more often than not, there’s a small collection of glassware in their bedroom.

It's completely fair that Rhys would prefer that she take them to the kitchen in the morning.

So why is it that the comment unsteadies her?

“I’m sorry,” Feyre says, and rushes to the sink. Her hands shake on the sponge. “My brain doesn’t function in the morning, I’ll remember to wash up before bed.” She goes for casual but it comes out breathless, and the Rhys looks over with a frown.

Maybe it’s because she’s been here for four weeks but doesn’t trust this yet.

Not Rhys- he’s been nothing but gorgeous, and patient, and kind. He’s so completely sure about her and in some ways that’s the most wonderful thing about him. And in some ways, it’s a lot of fucking pressure.

Rhys comes to stand behind her and puts his nose on her neck. Closes his fingers over her wrists until she stops moving, and wraps his arms around her waist.

“That’s fair,” he murmurs. “It’s not a real gripe.”

Some nights, Feyre lies awake in the dark, long after Rhys has fallen asleep, and tries to deep-breathe the fear away. It never works. But how can she tell him? It’s not his fault. The problems are all in her head.

“I’m sorry,” Feyre whispers, and she doesn’t mean the glasses.

She knows it’s not realistic, but it’s hard to fight the urge to be as perfect as possible, because she’s never had it so good, and the fact that it could break any day now is more than enough to keep her guts in permanent knots. She’s been holding her lips closed over the anxiety. She’s been trying so hard. She’s brittle enough that the shallow criticism lands like failure in her stomach.

“It’s okay,” Rhys murmurs. He picks up a tea towel and dries her hands, dragging her waist away from the sink. “You’re safe, honey.”

Sometimes Feyre forgets that Rhys does know. Knows better than most- after all, he’s known Tamlin longer than she has. Still, she’s both embarrassed and relieved that he can read her so easily.

“I didn’t mean it,” Rhys says. “Please leave cups in the room. It means you live here and that is so wonderful, to me.”

Rhys sits down on the couch and pulls her into his lap. Feyre hides her face in his chest and wishes, for the thousandth time, that she was better than this. That her fear of Tamlin’s anger would not be an unwelcome third in her and Rhys’s house.

“Hey,” Rhys whispers. “Don’t be sad, beautiful girl.” He slides his hand under her hair, and touches their foreheads together. “You’re okay.”

And then he kisses her, and it helps.

Feyre takes a deep breath, and kisses him back. It’s difficult to be here, it’s difficult to let herself be loved like this. But touching Rhys is always easy, and soon her fingers find his collar and his jaw and the raven curls at the back of his head. And she can feel him smile against her mouth when she tugs him closer.

“Does this help?” he asks. Feyre just nods, and kisses him again. The rough of Rhys’s palms walk up her back, under her shirt, until his hand rests behind her neck.

“I have less anxiety when you’re touching me,” she admits, and Rhys chuckles softly.

“That’s good,” he says, and in the next moment he’s lifted her up out of his lap and laid her back down on the couch cushions. He settles easily between her legs, and every time it’s a thrill to Feyre that he’s hard because of her. His mouth wanders from her lips to her throat to her collar bone and back up.

“I’m not mad,” he says, because that’s always what she’s afraid of and he knows it. “Of course I’m not, you’re such a good girl, how could I be?”

And like clockwork those two words make her brain slide, and her eyes close as his tongue travels the indent that runs from under her sternum to her navel.

“Please,” Feyre breathes. Rhys just looks up at her from under the ink of his eyelashes, and continues kissing down her stomach. “Please,” she says again, and this time he leans up and kisses her heavy on the mouth.

“That’s such a pretty word on your tongue,” he tells her. Feyre doesn’t respond, she’s concentrating on Rhys’s belt buckle and the button beneath it. He glances down, and then gives her a pitying look. “My poor darling,” he says. His teeth graze the corner of her jaw. “You need this, huh?”

Feyre wins her battle with Rhys’s zipper and slides her hand down the front of his jeans. She’s rewarded with a shudder that rips across his shoulders, and it only makes her melt further into the couch.

“Yes,” she whispers.

“You need it?” Rhys asks again. He grinds against her palm and she loves how even when he’s in control, he comes undone a little under her hands. “You need me to fuck it better?”

“Yes,” Feyre says again, and now she shoves his jeans the rest of the way off him, and Rhys pulls his shirt over his head in one motion. He gets his mouth on her throat and his hand on her breast, and Feyre’s limbs reach up and around him to pull him closer than skin. He drags her tights off, agonizingly slow, and then her shirt, and every inch that’s exposed is immediately pressed up against the warmth of him, searing but sweet.

“Tell me how much,” Rhys says, and it’s only the cotton of her underwear that’s between them when he rolls his hips against hers. Feyre closes her eyes, speaks against the slant of his cheek.

“Too much,” she says. He hooks her leg over his shoulder and Feyre’s back arches up off the couch. “And too often. You have no idea…” she trails off, trying to press up against Rhys as he moves all too slowly.

“Too often?” he asks. His fingers drift down, toying with the waistband of her panties.

“All the time,” she gasps. Her hands scrabble on his shoulders as he drags the elastic down over her hips.

“I wish you’d tell me.” He starts to kiss down over her breasts, but Feyre pulls him back up to her lips and slide her tongue against his. He groans softly in her mouth, and she pulls her knees up the sides of his ribcage, digs her heels into base of his back. “I wish you’d lean over, while we’re watching TV, and tell me how bad…” here Rhys pauses to draw a shaky breath because Feyre is wet against his naked cock, “…you need to be fucked.”

“I’m telling you now,” Feyre argues, and lifts her hips to prove her point.

“You are,” Rhys concedes, and presses up against heat of her. “And you’re doing such a good job.” He pushes inside her, and Feyre’s head drops back against the cushions. She breathes in, and it feels like a long time she’s been holding her breath. “Look at me,” Rhys says, and when she opens her eyes he’s watching her face change when he moves out and back in. His hips punch forward when she meets the violet of his gaze, and Feyre gasps.

“That’s it baby,” Rhys murmurs. “Keep looking at me.”

It’s easier said than done- Rhys’s eyes scald her and every time their hips touch her mind slides.

“Come on honey, you can do it.”

Feyre’s eyes snap open, but somehow there’s five hundred years in that stare and it’s a lot to bear. She tips her head back and throws her arm over her face.

And then Rhys’s fingers close over her throat, and it’s strange that this makes her feel safer, that it always makes her feel safer when he’s holding her down because every other moment she’s on the verge of floating away altogether.

“Is that better?” Rhys asks. His eyes darken above her, and she loves knowing that he likes her like this.

“Yes,” she breathes, and his grip tightens.

“You’re so good,” he tells her. “My good girl.”

Feyre can’t help it, she moans at the praise and the sound pushes Rhys’s pace up. This time when her eyes squeeze shut he lets her. Sits up on his heels to get a deeper angle and puts his teeth on her ankle.

“You want to be good for me, don’t you?” Rhys asks. He slides his thumb against her tongue for a second, before touching it to her clit. She can’t answer, because he keeps his rhythm while he talks to her and it’s knocking the breath from her lungs. “You look so pretty like this, baby.” His eyes rake over her, hooded and muddled, and there’s nothing quite so intoxicating as watching him look at her.

Rhys leans his forearms on either side of her face and leans down over her. Feyre’s hands come up automatically to follow the muscles of his back. She thinks he’ll kiss her, but when she tilts her face up he just flicks his eyes down to her mouth and then back up. He slows down now, moves in long, languid strokes that make Feyre feel like she’s drowning.

“You know,” he murmurs. “You can always tell me if you need this.” This time he does kiss her, and the next time he speaks it’s right next to her ear. “I’d drop everything and bend you over. Empty your head just like you like.”

Feyre‘s nails dig into Rhys’s shoulders and he shifts again, moving fast now and breathing shallow.

“Come on baby,” he says, and she can hear the strain in his voice. “Feel good for me.”

She doesn’t need to be told, he always feels good and today is no exception. Not when the snap of his hips makes a steady undertow that she is fast being dragged in by, not when the smell of him this close is enough to drive her to distraction, not when she can feel him start to chase his own release and knows that she’s the one making him feel like this.

“Give it to me,” she whispers. “I want it, want to feel you…”

But Rhys just laughs and shakes his head. “You first, angel.”

Feyre is tempted to see if she can make him lose control, but the way he moves is too good to ignore. And, she’s never one to pass up an opportunity to show him how good she can be.

“Right now,” Rhys says, under her ear, and honestly it’s so easy with him. Feyre breaks in between one breath and the next, and it’s a thing that wrings her out over and over in the cage of Rhys’s arms. It’s somewhere in the aftershocks that Rhys comes too, and she hasn’t told him but this is the part to Feyre that feels so intense she never quite feels like she’ll survive it. But of course she does, and minutes later the world filters back in and the couch cushions are scratchy against her back and there is sweat in Rhys’s hair and her heart is still beating painfully hard in her chest.

And Feyre feels calm, in this moment, which is rare but increasing. She presses her nose against Rhys’s forehead, where he’s half dozing on her chest, and tries to remember the feeling of it, because there will be a next time that she feels anxious and afraid, but if she’s very lucky, and she has been very lucky, there will also be a next time for this part right here, and that makes everything worthwhile.  

****

Well hello there angels! It's been a hot minute, I'm rusty don't laugh at me!

But seriously a lot of things have happened and I still kinda feel a little lost (read: completely out of control)- and not all in bad ways. I've been meaning to post some one shot type things and to talk about my book but man it is HARD. So for now here is a little angsty thing that may or may not be just be T-Swifting it about my current sitch and my book links: UK and international US eBook Australia

And ummm this feels like I am too irrelevant to pull this anymore and I'm sorry if you do not want to be on this but,

MASTERLIST

TAGLIST: @ghostlyrose2 @highladysith @stardelia @feysand-loml @tillyrubes10 @ratabrasileira @live-the-fangirl-life @maybekindasortaace @annejulianneh111 @thebonecarver @rowaelinismyotp @loosingdreams @pitrsattabhaadmeinjao @achernarlight @swankii-art-teacher @sjmships @courtofjurdan @teddytdr @positivewitch @thalia-2-rose @darling-archeron @rapunzel1523 @fairchildjace @hopefulacademia @story-scribbler @fandomstalker27 @realbookloverproblems @dealfea @s-tormwitch @cretaceous-therapod @whenyadoesntcutit @scatterbrainedgirl @whoever-you-choose-to-love @endlessdaydream @elentiya-whitethorn @rarephloxes @timesconvert @mis-lil-red @alerialumina

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

FYI-London Scoop's content read aloud by The Royal Grift YTchannel @skippyv20

[rtwoshetwo]

ROBIN BUCKLEY cosplay from mcm comic con london october 2022

[gloriousmishaps]

been reading a lot of queer books lately (two of them on ACCIDENT) and i just….. my heart is so sore from fullness and happiness and love and i’m so glad i get to live in a world where this sort of out-ness is so accessible

[gorgeously-stupid]

Thanks to johnnycure's instagram post, I am absolutely losing it at this interview. Scroll to 31:55 for the full context or 36:00 for The Prophecy.

It's 2012, a jubilee year, Robert is despairing about the monarchy as always, and he randomly decides to predict the queen's gonna die on September 7th.

It took another jubilee year but he was right gklfkfkkgkglg his hatred of the monarchy is so powerful it endowed him wih the gift of prophecy i love him kfkkflflfl

[a-b-riddle]

Can’t stop thinking about poly141 who get so wrapped up in their own bullshit they begin to neglect reader. So you leave 🤷🏼‍♀️

It wasn’t a big deal at first. You understood that their jobs were intense to say the least. You own a bookshop, which in itself was exhausting, but you understood how they could get carried away with work.

You had excused the many delayed returned texts or missed FaceTime dates when they were deployed. When they came home, they almost always made it up to you. Showering you with attention and quality time.

But the past two returns home have been… different.

Usually at least one of them made a beeline to your shop or your loft if it was too late in the evening. You always held your breath when it was just one of them.

“They’re okay.” Was the usual answer. “Everyone made it back okay.” It was only then that you could melt into whoever’s hands you were in.

After one of their recent returns home you had voice to Price that you didn’t appreciate several days passing after they came back and no one had bothered to tell you. He had snapped. Arguing that a mission doesn’t finish just because they land back on soil. There was paperwork and debriefing to be done. If and when they wanted to see you they would.

He didn’t apologize until later. Crawling into your bed, using one of the keys you had given them. Blaming the stress. How they had almost lost Johnny for the reason of his outburst. What else could you do but forgive him?

So you had given them space after that one. Not holding it against them to decompress before seeing you.

The next time was the final straw. Solidifying how little they cared about you and how much power you had given them.

Johnny had come in around 7 one evening. He was dressed nicely, for civilian standards. You were reading a book on the couch when he had let himself in. You were wearing on of Simon’s sweatshirts and panties. He took you in for a moment before scooping you up.

He fucked you absolutely stupid. Adamant on having you cum on his tongue, his fingers and his cock. You were only able to bask in the afterglow of him filling you up before he started pulling his pants back on.

“What are you doing?” There were times that you would practically need a crow bar to get Johnny detached from you just long enough to relieve yourself. You had gotten many a UTI courtesy of Mr. John MacTavish.

“Dinner with my family tonight.” He explained by the time he was already buttoning his shirt. “The youngest just graduated and ma’ feels the need to go all out.” Now came the tie. Johnny was actually wearing a tie. To go to dinner. “A fancy dinner in London.” He huffed. “Meanwhile I’m out scufflin’ with bloody fuckin’ terrorists and I get a pat on the back.” He gave you a peck on the cheek before heading out the door. Promising to call you later.

You just sat in your bed. Still naked. Almost in shocked. He had fucked you and just… left. You were close to a panic attack as you called Simon.

Simon wasn’t the one to cuddle and coddle. But there was something so soothing at the sound of his voice or even how his heavy body felt perfect laying on top of you. Yes. Simon wasn’t the time to lift you up with words, but he was your own security blanket. Just having him close helped.

“Can you come over?” It wasn't unusal for Simon to be the one to come later in the evening. Insomnia was a bitch to deal with and you could sleep through the sounds of whatever he played on the tv. Most of the times you were content laying your head on his lap as he ran his hand along your head as if he were petting you. It was a bit cringe, but it knocked you out every time.

“What’s wrong?” He asked. The low timber of his voice already calming you.

“Johnny came over.” You sniffled. “He just fucked me and left.”

“Not surprised.” He scoffed. You could almost see him rolling those deep brown eyes of his. “If you wanted to cum, I’m happy to come over and help.”

For whatever reason, that only seemed to make you more upset. “You’re not listening.” You said, trying to spell it out for him. “He left. Like didn’t even stay and cuddle just left. Fucked me and left.”

“That’s why you’re calling me crying about?” He almost seemed… annoyed.

“Yes!” You said, nearly snapping. All of the tension from the last several months coming to the surface. “I’m not just a warm body to keep a bed cozy until you assholes decide you need to get one off.” Assholes. You called them assholes. “This isn’t what we agreed to.”

“Johnny is Johnny.” Simon tried to defend, not really caring to continue the conversation now knowing that you weren't in any sort of physical harm. “He wanted his dick wet and from the sound of it, that’s what he did. Don’t hold it against him because he had other things to do.”

“It’s not just Johnny leaving.” Your throat felt like it was tightening. A telltale sign you were close to crying. Whether from sadness or anger you weren't entirely sure. “The only time any of you want anything to do with me anymore is to fuck.” You missed date nights and lunches. You missed texting any and all of them about your day, about theirs. About new books. You had been trying for months to tell them over dinner one of your books got picked up. Yours was being traditionally published.

None of them had bothered to even try penciling you in.

“You got yours.” You heard the popping of a can top. Simon was settling in for the night. Once he popped a top at home there was no getting him out. He wasn't coming for you. “I don’t understand what you’re bitchin’ to me about. Yeah, in the beginning we indulged ya a bit? Dressed you up, took you out. But you should have known spreadin’ them legs of yours wouldn’t end with one of us puttin’ a ring on your finger.”

You didn’t know what to say. What could you say? These were the men that pursued you. Initially, individually, but when tensions became to much they offered a solution. All of them. Four times the attention, of the affection.

Four times the love.

But also four time the neglect. Four times the amount of heartbreak and disappointment. Loving all of them meant putting yourself in a position to let each of them hurt you in their own way and they had.

John's constant state of snapping at you as if you were one of his men.

Johnny swinging by as if you were just a fuck buddy. Not even bothering to give a peck before leaving.

Kyle essentially ignoring you for weeks now. Ghosting you for hours or having to cancel on date nights last minute or claiming that he really did forget that the two of you had planned to meet for lunch.

And now there was Simon. Telling you that all you meant to them was what was between your thighs.

Spreadin' them legs of yours wouldn't end with one of us puttin' a ring on your finger.

None of them ever intended on making this into something more. That much was clear now.

You didn't know what to say to Simon. You couldn't think of a witty retort. You couldn't find the proper insult to whirl his way. You couldn't convey just how much his words had hurt.

So you did the only thing you could.

You hung up.

[7yearsofdele]

I don’t think Cam gets enough credit for getting to the Wimbledon Semis last year.

[kaaaaaaarf]

So I watched that episode of Our Flag Means Death where Ed finds the bunny and thinks it's a wolf and thought, what if Remus was a wererabbit and Sirius had no idea? Anyways, have a drabble.

Here I Am (a rabbit-hearted boy)

Hogwarts Era. 654 words. Wererabbit Remus. G.

Remus' floppy ears twitch unhappily. He had been so careful—so careful not to let his friends see the monster he becomes every full moon. He thought he was sneaky, when he made his way out of the castle before dinner—after the other boys had already left for the Great Hall, but here is Sirius, standing above him with wide eyes. He'd seen the whole thing, the whole transformation—running into the clearing before Remus could even shout at him to stop. Before his body bent and twisted violently into a monster.  Remus' tiny body shakes in fear. Finally, after an impossibly long moment, Sirius seems to come back to himself. "R—Remus? Are you—you're a werewolf?"  …I'm a what now? 

"I thought maybe you were upset about Snape ruining your Potions final when you didn’t follow us down to dinner, so I came back to find you and saw you sneak out of the castle. I decided to  follow you, but I didn't think...Oh my God. You're so...so...cute."  Remus' nose twitches in a way that he thinks sufficiently expresses his shock and distaste. He’s not cute. He’s fearsome! An abomination! Sirius, unafraid, crouches down and strokes a gentle hand over the tawny fur on his back.  Okay, well Remus doesn't hate that.  Sirius scratches behind one floppy ear, and it makes Remus’ back foot twitch. Sirius smiles. "Are you a friend, wolf? Merlin, wait til I tell James about this! Our Moony—a real bloody werewolf!" and then as quickly as he’d appeared, he's gone, running off back toward the castle. It's just as well, Remus is dangerous like this. As much as he would love some company on the moons, one bite is all it would take and he could turn Sirius, too. He couldn't live with himself. Remus has just finished snacking on some grass, and is just about to hop into the underbrush to play chase with the rabbits of the Forest, when Sirius comes running back, this time with James in tow. Great. "See James! That's Remus, he's a werewolf!"  James, who is bent over trying to catch his breath, looks up at him like he's stupid. "That's a rabbit, Sirius." "No...I saw him transform—that’s Remus. He's a werewolf." "At best that's a wererabbit." He looks down at Remus, his face twisted in thought. "Sorry Remus, just a sec. Sirius—" he looks back up at the other boy, pinching the bridge of his nose. “—have you ever actually seen a rabbit before?" "Well, not precisely...Grimmauld is in the middle of London, not exactly teeming with rabbits and the like." "Babbity Rabbity? Surely you've read Babbity Rabbity at least." "I'm pretty sure Babbity Rabbity would never make it into the Black family library. Not macabre enough." James sighs. "Okay well, I’m telling you that's a rabbit." James points down at him, and Remus twitches his nose, hoping it conveys how tired he is.  Sirius stomps his feet, insistent. “But his last name is Lupin, not Lapin! He's Wolfie McWolf, not Bunny McRabbit!” “I’m pretty sure his name has nothing to do with which were-animal decided to take a chunk out of him, Sirius!” Remus tries to hop away while they’re fighting, but Sirius spots him and scoops him up into his arms. “Oh no you don’t! Come on Remus, I’ll sneak you back into the castle—get you something to munch on. What do rabbits eat, anyway? Hay? Flowers?”  Human flesh.  “They eat grass and, like, carrots. Good call though, better get him inside before an actual wolf spots him. Come on, Remus.” And that’s how Remus finds himself, a few hours later, in a soft bed, snuggled under the covers with Sirius’ hand gently resting on his furry back. He supposes being found out isn’t so bad, and if he wakes up in the morning—human again, Sirius spooning against his back, he thinks that might actually be even better.

[chrisevansonly]

𝐀 𝐊𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: you love your boyfriend really you do, but you also love cats…and a little kitten managed to steal your attention away from you very clingy lando..

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: no warnings just fluffy

𝐚/𝐧: this was self indulgent, i just wanted fluff and idk i feel so shitty and nasty about myself and i needed fluffy lando goodness

Off season was in full swing which meant you and Lando were back in London together for a few weeks before you took off on your travel adventures. It was nice to have some quality time with your favourite boy in the world, and the first thing on your list was groceries.

Lando as usual let you do the shopping as he dotted on you, his hand in yours, on your waist or wrapped around you as you reached for your favourite cereal

“Lan you really aren’t being much help..”

“Mhm I am.”

“So you wrapping yourself around me like a koala is helping?”

He smiled into your neck, leaving a few kisses to your collarbone

“Exactly”

“Can you at least put your arms to use and grab our cereal before you continue to squeeze me into pieces?”

You shook your head, your voice teasing as he unwrapped himself from you, reaching up and grabbing two boxes before dropping them in the kart. Letting you continue your way down the aisle, Lando of course attached back to you as you checked off your list and made your way up to check out.

Once everything was payed for and bagged you made your way to the car, putting everything in trunk of Lando’s range rover, not without a few kisses to your cheek and of course a very Lando like squeeze to your butt.

“There, now we can stop ordering take out”

“I like our takeout nights..”

Turning to see the pout on your boyfriends face you smiled, your arms wrapping around his neck as you leaned up to kiss him

“I know but now we have fresh and healthy things so I can get back to cooking…we can still have takeout on Friday’s how about that?”

Lando thought about it before nodding

“Deal, I love you”

“I love y-kitten!!”

Your arms quickly dropped making the british driver frown, moving to walk slowly towards the little grey kitten just perched next to the car beside you. It’s little eyes watching you carefully as you kneeled down

“Oh hi my love…come here it’s okay..”

The kitten moved towards you at the sound of your voice, of course keeping it soft as to not scare it away

“Hi little one”

Lando watched with a frown as you scooped up the little cat, clearly feeling a little pouty that you ditched him for the cat

“Lan look at it! It’s so small and cute!!”

“No way.”

You looked at him, your puppy dog eyes coming into effect

“Absolutely not angel, no WAY”

“But-but Lan look at him, we can’t just leave him here he’s so little!”

Lando was close to breaking, even you could see it.

“Baby we are always away, we don’t have time for a cat…”

He was right to some degree, but you were often home more than him, and worst case you could find a sitter for the cat. Your brain had begun to find a solution for every possible problem Lando could come to with.

“Please…oh lan please we-I can’t leave him here..I promise i’ll make sure I take the best care of him…”

Lando would admit the grey fluff ball was cute, and that look you had on your face was pretty sweet too, how could he say no to you, especially when you looked so happy

“Alright fine”

“Thank you thank you thank you baby!!!”

Cradling the kitten in your arms you leaned forward to press a kiss to his lips, his arms wrapping around you as he held onto you tightly

“Next thing you know I’ll be the crazy cat dad like Max”

“Max has two cats love..”

“He’s still crazy..”

Shaking your head at Lando’s dramatics you kissed him once more before walking towards your car, your new little family member happy in your arms, sound asleep. A kitten distraction is what Lando would call it, but if you’re happy, he’s happy, even if he’s starting to realize he needs to share your attention.

And he’s just not sure he’s ready to do that…

[terastalungrad]

Sometimes, you’re a comedian with a touring show to promote, so you do an interview with a regional newspaper.

I think that’d be the funniest possible time to reveal a big scoop, wouldn’t it?

Stewart Lee is currently touring, and to promote his Yeovil performance, gave an interview to Blackmore Vale Magazine.  According to Wikipedia, the Blackmore Vale is an area of north Dorset, south Somerset and southwest Wiltshire.  According to the comedian Jake Baker, the magazine would cover his school sports day as he grew up in Dorset.  That’s the level of news you’d expect.

The questions are friendly and easy, from a journalist clearly familiar with Lee’s work and history.

The first question is about the show’s angle.  Lee describes the nature of the show, and here’s an excerpt:

So it looks like stand-up, and sounds like stand-up, but it’s actually a kind of character piece about a desperate person who’s frightened and trying to organise the world in a way that puts them in control. And I guess you could argue that’s what a lot of stand-ups are doing anyway. Ricky Gervais to me looks like a very frightened man. He’s frightened of transgender people coming after him, the act is a defensive wall.

Fun!  This is a Ricky Gervais hate blog, so it’s nice to see a sudden, unexpected attack in an unrelated promotional interview.

Lee mentions Gervais again in response to question four.

Sometimes I become bitter and think ‘I get all this good press, why can’t I get 10 million quid for a TV special like Ricky Gervais?’ But on the other hand, I wouldn’t want that audience, it wouldn’t allow me to be better.

And then again to question eight, where Lee explains why he spends six months running new shows in the relatively small Leicester Square Theatre (as opposed to arena comics who might do 10 warmup shows followed by 60 tour dates).

You can still run it like a club gig, you can interact with people in real time. Also, you wouldn’t get better at the show because you wouldn’t have done it as many times. You can see this with an act like Gervais. Those shows have not been run in, they’re not fluid, they’re a succession of inflexible statements that would snap like twigs if the pressure of an unforeseen event was applied to them.

The journalist finally addresses this head on.  It really is worth reading the entire article - there’s a lot more than I’m quoting, including an interesting story about Sean Lock:

But here are my favourite bits:

[Gervais] still kind of copies me though, which is the weird thing. There’s still a lot of cadences of what I do but they’re used in the service of evil. In Star Wars, he’s Darth Vader and he’s taken the force, which is me, and used it for evil purposes. He was a fanboy, he was actually the booker at University of London and used to book me and Sean Lock all the time. And when he became famous for the Office, he wrote an hour-long act that was so indebted to us it was awkward. [...] If he’d come up through the circuit that would have been rubbed off him because you find your own voice doing club gigs. It took me two years of gigging five nights a week to come through the mesh of things I liked. But he didn’t have that experience in the same way. [...] Funnily enough, in his first show there were bits I’d never recorded that he’d do almost verbatim. He’d clearly remembered them. I went to see him at the Bloomsbury – on his invitation actually – with my then girlfriend and she was very concerned for me. I’d given up at that point due to lack of interest, and she was concerned for what it felt like to see my act being done to hundreds of people, it was quite weird. On the other hand, that sort of did make me think I don’t want it to be consumed into someone else’s vocabulary. And also, I think because he had a residual sense of guilt, he would always credit me in interviews as being an influence – that helped me in 2004 to get the audience back.

This is, to my knowledge, the first time Lee’s ever claimed that Gervais stole his material.  He’s certainly talked about Gervais clearly taking influence from him (though in the past, he downplayed this compared to the account given in this interview).

It’s a pretty big thing to accuse a comic of stealing material.  That’s a big taboo.  I reckon this is partly because Lee wants to discourage fans of Gervais from coming to the show.

Anyway, let’s finish by quoting the end of the interview:

It must be strange to have that level of financial remuneration and those audience figures but not really a single good review. And I expect what that does for you is create a cognitive dissonance where you have to manufacture a worldview by which the whole world is wrong and you’re right. Which can’t necessarily be very good for your mental health, although I expect the money’s nice.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Quiet Ones 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as dubcon/noncon, and other possible triggers. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You live a quiet life, but your peace is fractured by a chaotic man.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, short!shy!reader

Note: don't ask me why I did this.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me <3

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Asking for more or putting ‘part 2?’ is not feedback.

Love you all. You are appreciated and your are worthy. Treat yourself with care. 💖

You keep to yourself. That’s the safest, the easiest way to live. You keep your head down, your eyes to yourself, your voice bottled up. 

You grip your phone as you approach the coffee shop. You stand on your toes to see through the painted windows and frown at the long queue. You won’t have to worry about that. Like everything else social, you’ve found a work around. 

You look at your phone, the app showing your order as ‘preparing’. It should be done shortly as the progress bar fills close to complete. You can bear the claustrophobia for a minute or so until it’s ready. 

You go to open the door but an arm reaches past you and does that first. You step back, patiently waiting for the other customer to precede you. They don’t move. You stare at their shoes. Dark blue velvet loafers with gold emblems on chains.  

“Go on, baby face, I got it,” the man’s voice makes your skin crawl. 

You shrink down and give a nod, throat clenching as you struggle to find your voice. You’re not much for conversation but you’re but impolite. 

“Thanks,” you force out without raising your head. 

You scurry through quickly, a bit to close to the stranger than you like, and you clasp your phone against your chest as you stand just away from the cluster of people awaiting their orders. You bounce on your feet as the noises join together to form a cacophony; the hissing steam, the clanging metal, the clinking porcelain, the calls of the workers behind the counter, and the buzz of the crowd seated or standing around the cafe. Sweat gathers on the nape of your neck as the chaos swirls a storm around you. 

You pull your phone away from the front of your pullover and check the screen. Should be ready any moment and you’ll be free of the circus. You adjust your grip on the phone, almost jittery as another customer joins the wait at the pick up window. 

You breathe out. It’s not usually this busy at this time. You have a routine. You can handle the expected. You order on your phone so you don’t need to talk to anyone. You wait outside until it’s almost done then come in too quickly claim your prize. But not today, something’s different and it’s throwing everything off. 

It’s only on Wednesday’s that you venture down to the cafe. It’s the halfway point of your week so you mark it with a taste of motivation. The same order every week. A London fog latte. Simple and affordable. Nothing fancy, nothing complicated. 

Your name cuts through the din, “...medium London fog.” 

You drop your arm to your side and set your shoulders. You march forward through the parting bodies ahead of you and reach for the cup. Before you can grasp it, someone else scoops it up. You nearly cry out in horror. Someone’s stealing your order! 

You turn to the tea thief but they make no move to flee. They hold the cup nonchalantly, turning it to read the sticker on the side, reciting the same name that just rose from the barista’s lips seconds ago. You face the stranger but again, your eyes are downward.

The blue loafers! 

“Cute name,” he comments as he holds the cup out. 

You once more try to take the cup but before you can, he has it out of reach again. Your lashes flick and your fingers twiddle helplessly. His large hand is firmly around the cup so even if you did try to wrestle it from him, you doubt you’d have any hope but to spill it all. 

You look around but no one else seems to notice. They’re all staring at their phones or talking with the person next to them. The staff behind the counter are too busy appeasing the rush of orders. 

“I’ve never tried one of these,” he taunts, “I’m more of a ristretto guy. Like my espresso.” 

You shake your head and rescind your hand, balling it against your fist. What does he want? Why is he bothering you? You said thank you. Did he not hear you? 

“Don’t get yourself in a tizzy,” he pushes the tea towards you, “there you are, sweat pea.” 

You hesitate. You slowly unfurl your fingers and reach for the cup. As you wrap your fingers around it, you can’t help but brush his. Thick and strong and unmoving. He clings to it for just a moment before he lets you have it. 

“Thanks,” you squeak again, this time louder so he certainly hears you. 

“You got a sweet voice,” he puts his hand on his hip, a glimpse of a shiny gold watch face peeking out from beneath his sleeve, “I’d love to hear more of it.” 

Your eyes round as you focus on the zipper of his thin jacket. You shake your head and meekly raise your cup awkwardly and dip your chin slightly. No thanks. 

You turn and weave your way back through the crowd. Your heart is thumping in your chest. What an odd encounter. 

More so, you’re dismayed that he saw you. That he noticed you. For years, you’ve done your best to be invisible. You prefer it that way. You don’t even think your neighbours know you exist. But that man, he seemed to see nothing but you. 

You push outside and nearly drop your cup. You try to steady yourself. You’re all knotted up and tense. You tuck your phone into your back pocket and bring the cup before you nose, inhaling the sweet scent of the foam. Something about it isn’t as soothing as usual. 

You turn down the pavement and wince as a sole scuffs close behind you. Suddenly, another set of steps walk next to yours, measured to keep in tandem with your own short legs. Blue velvet.  

You walk faster. Is he following you? Why? What does he want? He’s much taller, you can’t outpace him. 

“You know, when I said I’d like to hear more, I thought maybe over a coffee?” He suggests. 

You don’t say a word as you keep your eyes forward, squeezing your cup tight as you try not to swish it around too much. You’ve never had to deal with this before. Men don’t see you. There was a time you hated that but since, you were grateful for that. 

“I mean, I could do most of the talking, never had much of a trouble with that, jellybean,” he offers. 

You shake your head. Your throat tightens. You can’t speak. You want to scream but you can’t make a noise. 

As you get to the corner, you stop short. He steps past you but just as quickly catches himself and turns to face you. You gulp and look down at your cup. You can’t keep going. If you do, you’ll lead him right to your home. 

“What’s going on, sweetheart? You forget something? How about we head back and I’ll buy you something sugary to go with that?” 

You furrow your brow and step back on your heel. You bring your eyes up, a furtive glance at his face, brief and flickering. You just want to know what he looks like so you never see him again. 

His blue eyes twinkle, his nose is long but proportioned to his chiseled face, his hair is combed back, the sides shaved, and a thick swatch of hair lines his upper lip. He’s older than you, you know that much, but you’ve never good at gauging age. You’ve never seen him before but you can’t be sure. You don’t look at many faces. 

You pivot and cross the street without looking. You narrowly miss a bumper and get a honk in remonstrance. You can’t stop yourself. You’re panicking. You head down the next street as his footsteps follow. It’s all you can hear.  

As you pass a bin, you dump the drink. You don’t pause as it plummets heavily into the trash and you fall into a brisk half-jog. You pump your arms, puffing wildly, dizzy as you search for a saviour.  

You dash into the library. You don’t know what you’re looking for. Just for anyone to get this man to leave you alone. 

You don’t look back as you enter and head straight for the front counter. You’re out of breath as you approach the rounded edge and tap the bell frantically. A woman emerges from behind the window wall and she greets you with a confused chime. 

“Hello, can I help you?” She asks. 

“Yes, I need...” you gulp and glance at the doors. You push away from the counter and spin, searching. You don’t see the man. He’s probably waiting outside. But you never looked back. You never really saw if he was following. “I...” you turn back to the woman, “never mind.” 

You cross your arms and turn away. You cringe as you realise how ridiculous you must have seemed. Worse, you didn’t mean to bother someone just doing their job and over what? You’re own issues. You should go home, back to your reclusion, where you can’t be in anyone’s way. 

👄

When you finally muster the courage to leave the library, your journey home is slowed by your paranoia. You have your phone out, held up so you can see over your shoulder with the front camera. You watch the screen more than the sidewalk ahead of you. 

You get home without a second shadow. As you let yourself through the grated front door of the building, you can’t help but feel stupid. That man must’ve got the idea when you as good as ran in the other direction. You’re being dramatic. 

You close the camera and put your phone away. You waist six dollars in your frantic flight. You mourn the tea latte as the heavy inner door clunks shut behind you. You drag your feet up the stairs as your keys jingle on your finger. 

You apartment is at the very end of the hall. You enter and twist the latch. You slide the chain into place and hang the key ring on the little hook beside the door frame. You untangle your purse and leave it with your phone on the table in the corner. 

You shuffle the few feet to the front room and look around. You find comfort in the familiarity of your little apartment. Your hideaway. 

You go back to your desk and sign back in. You’re back later than usual but you can still make up the time. As long as there’s enough tasks left in the portal. You don’t have to let that man ruin your whole day. You’ll never see him again. In a few days, you won’t even remember him. 

👄

Wednesday. Halfway through the week.  

You scroll and click around your screen as you watch the clock in the corner tick on. Usually around this time, you’d be excited. You’d clock out for your break and go down to the cafe. As much as you looked forward to the treat, the walk alone was relaxing in its own way. 

Not that day. Despite your efforts to shrug off the strange encounter, you haven’t shaken it. So instead, the kettle boils as a bag of earl gray sits in an empty mug. You’re not going. Maybe next week. 

You’re a bit depressed but you’re too nervous to make the venture. Oh well, you’ll save a bit of money. You could find a different place next time. That might be easier. 

You stay logged in and claim a new task. Hey, you can be done work earlier if you can power through. You might even make a few extra bucks. 

The kettle clicks and you get up to pour the water. You leave it to steep, forgetting it for the screen before you. Your fingers tap endlessly across the keyboard, filling the silence as you zone in on the words, transcribing messy ink to Times New Roman. 

Your trance is broken by a sudden buzz. You sit up, the kink in your neck pangs. You need to stop hunching. The buzz comes again. Is that... It must be a mistake. It happens now and then, someone buzzes the wrong apartment. 

You get up as it sounds a third time and you shuffle down to the speaker box. You hit the button, “wrong number.” 

“No--” 

You let go of the number before you can hear the response. They buzz again. You sigh. You hit the button. 

“I’m sorry but you have the wrong number,” you repeat. 

“I don--” 

You release the button again and take a step back. Buzz! You’re getting annoyed. You hit the button. “Wrong--” 

“Got a delivery. 212.” The man’s voice drowns out your own, reciting your name after your apartment number. Your finger stays on the button as you frown. A delivery? 

“I’m not expecting a delivery.” 

“Are you...” he says your name again. 

“... yes.” 

Silence, filled with the low hum of the speaker, “so, can I come up or...?” 

“Uh, I guess.” 

You pull your finger away and hover it over the other. Maybe it’s from work? There was the one time they sent a cheap mass production travel mug with their logo on it as some incentive. A poor attempt at employee appreciation. 

You press down and hold until you’re certain they have enough time to get in. You wait by the door, ringing your hands. You hear the door at the end of the hall open on its old hinges and you peek through the peephole. 

You watch the fuzzy figure come into focus with each of his long steps. He doesn’t hold a box nor wear the uniform of a postal worker. No, he wears those blue leather loafers and holds a bright pink paper cup with a white lid. From the cafe.  

As he comes close, you get a pigeon’s eye view of the hair on his upper lip and his bold blue eyes. It feels like he can see you too as he stands smirking on the other side of the door. This can’t be real. 

He knocks and you wince as the door shifts in the frame. 

“Special delivery,” he calls through, “open up, baby face.” 

[scribblesofagoonerr]

— Like Mother, Like Daughter

After that angst, here's something less angsty...

Let me know what you think about this one! Do you guys prefer fluff or angst?

Pairings: katie mccabe x child reader Warnings: a child being a menace to soceity

You were your mam's mini-me in every sense of the world, from your brunette hair to your own determined demeanor, you were the exact replica of your mammy, and even at a young age, just like Katie, you had a fierce spirit that couldn't be contained.

It was a sunny afternoon in London for a change and deciding to make the most of it, your mam and you decided to take a trip down to the local park to try and burn some of your energy off before it was time to settle down for the night.

Arriving at the park, you were quite happy to join in with the other kids' a bit older than you as you raced around with them, being indepenant that Katie was able to just keep a watchful eye on you from the nearby park bench.

However, it wasn't all too long before trouble approached, when a kid just that bit older than you were, started to make rude comments about you that you just weren't going to stand for.

Without missing a beat, you stepped forward with your tiny fists clenched at your side, "You take dat' back!" you demanded, your voice filled with righteous indignation.

The kid kept on goeding you and before Katie could step in and intervene, you had already launched yourself at them, your punch landing with surprising accuracy for someone so small.

"Y/N!" Katie gasped in shock, rushing towards you to scoop you up into her arms and pull you away from the situation.

"Let me ave' him, mammy!" Your small voice demanded, pounding your tiny fists on your mams' back as you weren't ready to back down just yet, "I can fight him, mammy. I can ake' him!" You insisted.

"No, no, kiddo. We don't hit other people" Katie chided, trying to stifle her own amusement and remembering the fact that she was a responsible parent in this moment, "You need to apologise and say sorry now, please" she motioned to the kid, who was just that bit older than you.

"M' not sorry, he made fun of my accent" You whined pitifully, you never liked it when people made fun out of you, but you were strong enough to hold your ground, "Ou' always told me to stick up for myself, mammy!" you insisted.

It was moments' like this when Katie was in sudden realisation that she couldn't very well tell you off when she was known to get into a few scraps herself on the pitch and you'd been witness to some of them.

After profuseley apologising to the little lad and his mum who wasn't best pleased about it, the two of you left the park in silence.

"I beat him! I beat him!" You boasted happily, running through the front door as you burst into a fit of giggles.

Katie shook her head in amusement, she knew she should discorauge the behaviour but she also couldn't help but feel a sense of pride, "You did, kiddo" she chuckled, "You definitely your ma's girl, eh? Like mother, like daughter" she joked.

© scribblesofagoonerr

[norrisleclercf1]

Just for carlando can we get a mini lando blurb with a visit from uncle carlos

A/N: Ughhhh Aiden's favorite Uncle visiting him would make that baby so happy

Mini Lando Series Masterlist

Aiden truly loved one person more than his own parents and that was his Uncle Los. Still unable to say Carlos fully, Aiden has stuck to calling him Uncle Los and he has missed him dearly.

The Mini Norris has been begging to see his Uncle for the longest time. Unable to go to Singapore with his Daddy, he was stuck watching the race with you and his annoying brother Caleb.

Lando was well aware how much Aiden was missing Carlos, even more so when you posted a video of Aiden screaming. The little boy could have cared less about his own father getting a podium. Instead, he was decked out in his 55 merch running around screaming Uncle Los.

Carlos saw the video immediately and right then and there booked a flight to London to see his godson. Lando wasn't even aware Carlos was joining until he walked into his jet seeing Carlos there, trophy in hand.

Waking Aiden, the next morning was hard, the poor baby had tuckered himself out. Running wild for the rest of the day, trying to call Uncle Los but with no answer. Lando picked up, and Aiden asked where Uncle Los was first. Betrayal, betrayed by his own son.

"Carlos, you have to be exhausted. Go catch some sleep, Aiden won't be up for hours." You begged the Spainard while your husband stands there with his hands up. "Hey? What about me? I'm the husband and father. What am I? Chopped liver?" Lando grumbles, while you and Carlos watch him trifle through the pantry.

"Lan, I love you. But," "But what? He's, my son!" Lando was jealous. He knew Aiden loved him but given the chance Aiden would go with Carlos if he could. "Calm down, Aiden sees you all the time. It's not easy for him to see Carlos. Now, want to go get Caleb for me?" Lando's face lights up as he rushes down the hall to get his youngest.

Shaking your head, you grab your hidden stash of candy and rip it open. Looking up you stop seeing Carlos stare at you. "Shut up! I'll tell him later." "Am I getting a niece finally?" Carlos whispers, hope and love filling his eyes. "It feels like a boy again." Carlos grumbles but leans over the counter kissing your cheek.

"You missed me didn't you bubba? Yes, you did, you always miss Daddy." Shoving the rest of the candy in your mouth you hide the stash and smile, seeing Caleb and Lando. "Mama!" Caleb whines, reaching out for you while Lando groans handing Caleb off to you. "Do none of my sons love me? Y/n, we need another one please? A little girl?"

Carlos and you share a look, one that Lando misses as he fixes a sippy cup for Caleb. "Talk to me when you win a race." Carlos snickers but stops when the sound of small feet echo in the quiet house. "Uh oh, I think Aiden is awake." Speaking of the devil the little boy all 5 years of him walks in eyes closed.

"Why is he wearing a Ferrari shirt?" Lando whines, Aiden sticking his arms straight up when he hears his Daddy's voice. "Daddy! Up!" He whines, head thrown back trying to stay awake. "I'm coming." Lando coos, scooping him up as Aiden melts into his arms.

"I missed you," Aiden mumbles, rubbing his face in Lando's neck. "Ha! See, at least my boy missed me." Aiden whines at the loudness of Lando's voice. "Lando, he's your son of course he missed you." Carlos points out. Aiden's head rises, but eyes still closed as he tries to figure out where Uncle Los's voice came from.

"Uncle Los?" Slowly but surely, he pries his eyes open and blinks, then rubs them. Vision, clear he stares at Uncle Los, the adults holding their breath as they watch Aiden's brain catchup with what he was seeing.

Lando chuckles as he feels Aiden's body start to shake as he grows excited seeing his favorite person on earth. "UNCLE LOS!" Aiden screeches, Lando and you cringing but Carlos bursts into this wide smile gladly accepting the vibrating preschooler. "Hi Mini Lando." Aiden and Carlos all but melt into each other as Aiden holds onto Carlos with all his strength.

"You're here," All 3 of you look at each other, hearing the choked words. Carlos pulls Aiden back seeing his godson crying. "I'm here, and not going anywhere for a week." Aiden rubs his eyes as he throws himself back into Carlos holding tight.

"Okay, you're moving in." You whisper, your heightened hormones making you choke up. "What? He's not moving in!" Lando bursts, refusing to lose his son's to Carlos. "Lando, our baby is crying. I refuse to let him cry. Carlos you're moving in." Carlos just nods as you tighten your hold on Caleb who just lays there watching everything around him.

"No, he's not moving in." Lando's skin prickles when you cut him a glare that would send any man screaming. "I'll go make up the guest room." He whispers, as Carlos laughs rubbing Aiden's back. "I'm not really moving in, am I?" Carlos asks, somewhat unsure if you're being serious.

"I'm pregnant, Carlos. If you are what keeps my baby from crying, your sure as hell are." Leaving no room for argument. "Okay."

[mountsmase]

a/n: hii 🫶🏻 this is a concept that I love and we’ve always spoken about it so I thought it was about time I turned it into a fic 🤭 i also just wanted to say a quick thank you to all of you on anon who send in these concepts because you gave me so many amazing ideas for this fic and I love doing concept nights with you all 🥹 I’m so proud of this fic so I hope you enjoy it 🩷 feedback is appreciated as always 😚

word count: 4.3k

genre: pure fluff

———————

Coming Home to You - MM7

Relief floods over you as you step into the warmth of your Manchester home, the front door clicking closed behind you as slip off your shoes and drop your bags by the door.

After a busy few days, down in London for work, you’ve never felt more relived to be back home. The 4 hour drive home having done nothing to alleviate the exhaustion taking over your body.

You love your job, it’s so rewarding and comes with some amazing experiences, and honestly, you couldn’t imagine yourself doing anything else. But, that doesn’t mean it comes without downsides and challenges. The long hours and the time away from home can be exhausting, and it’s times like these where you want nothing more than to snuggle up in bed, let your duvet engulf you, and sleep for days.

You let out a tired sigh, willing yourself to relax a little as you shrug off your coat and hang it by the door, making the decision to deal with your bags later.

The water is just starting to boil when Mason hears the front door open and close from where he is in the kitchen. After an earlier than expected finish at training, he headed straight home to tidy the house and get started on dinner. He knew you’d be tired and a little worn out when you got home, so he wanted everything sorted for you to get in and have a nice relaxing evening without having to worry about a thing.

He tuns the hob off and makes his way through to the hallway to great you, stopping in the doorway to watch as you pull off your coat and hang it up on the rack by the door.

A shriek leaves your lips when you turn and notice him standing there and he can’t help but chuckle at the surprised look on your face.

You weren’t expecting him home so soon, he was due to be at training for at least another hour, and in your rush to get inside and out of the rain, you hadn’t even noticed his car parked on the driveway.

You can feel your face light up at the sight of him, dressed all cozy in his dark green hoodie and black joggers and you can’t even give yourself time to wonder why he’s back so soon as he beelines for you, arms wrapping around you in a warm hug.

Your own arms wrap around his waist tightly, your face finding home in his neck and you nuzzle into his skin. You breath him in, the smell of his aftershave mixing with hints of his natural scent calming you instantly.

For a few minuets, you just stand there, basking in his warmth and enjoying the familiarity that he brings you. And, as time passes, you feel your self sinking further and further into his embrace, moving away seeming impossible and extremely unappealing.

You assume he’s feeling the same way as he tightens his grip around you and scoops you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you through to the kitchen and places you down on the counter.

“Hi sweetheart” he says, unwrapping himself from you and placing a kiss to your forehead.

“Hey, Masey” you reply, getting comfy on the counter as you watch him move around the kitchen.

“What’s all this?” You wonder aloud, spotting the pans on the stove and multiple ingredients lining the counters. “And how come you’re home so early?”

“Dinner, and just finished training a little earlier than expected because of the whether” he tells you, motioning to the window where you can see the poring rain through the glass.

You nod absentmindedly, relived to know that he’s not home early due to more issues with his recent injury, and also happy that you don’t have to worry about the cooking tonight.

If you were in charge of dinner tonight, you’d most likely end up ordering a takeaway. But, a home cooked meal definitely sounds more appealing right now.

“How was the drive?” He asks, adding the pasta to the boiling water before coming to stand in front of you.

Spreading your legs apart, he steps in between them, one hand landing on your thigh whilst the other reaches up and tucks a stand of loose hair behind your ear. You send him the softest smile you can manage, knowing just how much he dislikes and worries about you having to do that long drive so frequently.

“It was fine, boring as always but I’m just happy to be home now” leaning forward, you nudge your nose against his in a silent reassurance that you’re in one piece and happy to be home with him.

Your little moment is interrupted when your tummy rumbles loudly, the two of you giggling together as he steps back and continues cooking dinner.

“Sorry, I’m starving”

“Good job chef Mase is nearly finished making dinner then” He says, earning a very unserious eye roll from you as he adds a few more ingredients to the pan and finishes making dinner for the two of you.

You sit and eat together at the kitchen island, chatting about anything and everything and he can’t help but worry as he spots you shuffling around uncomfortably, your hand coming up and holding the side of your neck as you wince quietly.

“You okay?” He asks, the look on his face matching the concern in his voice.

“Yeah, just a little achy from the drive but I’m fine” you reassure him, still trying to get comfy and he just nods, wanting to ask more but reluctantly opting not to.

He knows you’re likely to try and brush it off as nothing, so he wouldn’t get an accurate answer from you, and that’s exactly what you were planning on doing. You wouldn’t want him to worry about something that’s probably just a little tension from the drive and you’re grateful when he doesn’t ask any more questions. But, you forget that he knows you almost as well as you know yourself, sometimes even better, so despite your seemingly reassuring answer, he’s still worrying as you finish up dinner.

You offer to help him tidy up but he doesn’t let you, not wanting to aggravate what ever it is that’s bothering you so you reluctantly sit back and watch as he loads up the dishwasher and tidies up the kitchen.

“C’mere” he whispers, helping you down from the stool once he’s finished putting everything away.

He pulls you into him, body flush against yours as he wraps his arms around your shoulders, your own snaking around his waist as you rest your cheek against his chest and melt into him.

“How about a bath and an early night?” He suggests, resting his head on top of yours.

He places a kiss to your forehead when he feels you nodding, tightening his arms around you when you try and step away, keeping you against his chest.

“Not so fast” he mumbles, tilting your chin up with his index finger and leaning down to claim your lips with his.

You kiss him back, a satisfied hum leaving you at the familiar feeling of his lips back on yours and you can feel the butterflies raging in your tummy.

Kissing him has always been one of your favourite things. His lips are always so soft and gentle and you feel yourself melting into him as he parts yours slightly, his tongue slipping inside and gliding against your own. Your hand moves up to his shoulder and squeezes gently, his arm tightening around your waist. His other comes up, hand framing your jaw and he brushes the pad of his thumb over the apple of your cheek as he continues to work his lips against yours.

He keeps the kiss fairly light, pulling away after a few moments to look at you, and the soft smile he sends you has your heart soaring.

“Come on,” he nudges his head towards the hallway, untangling himself from you and allowing you to walk ahead of him as you head towards the stairs, turning off all the lights as you go.

You stop short, bending down to grab your bags, but you’re brought to a halt when Mason comes up behind you.

“Let me get those” He utters, hand brushing over your hip as he steps past you and scoops the bags up himself.

You mutter a quiet ‘thank you’, sending him a grateful smile before scaling the stairs and heading straight into your shared bedroom.

You begin removing your jewellery whilst he goes into the en-suite, starting the bath and making sure the water is the perfect temperature before adding some of your bubbles and bath salts. He rummages around for some clean towels, laying them over the heated towel rail to warm them up and adds a few finishing touches to the room.

You see him re-enter the bedroom in the reflection of the mirror and he disappears into your walk-in wardrobe, re-emerging with some PJs for the both of you before coming up behind you. He leans around and places a delicate kiss to your cheek, sending you a smile in the reflection before leading you into the en-suite.

The water is still running when you follow him into the bathroom, piles of bubbles foaming on the surface and you can already smell your favourite combination of bubble bath and bath salts. There’s a few candles lit and scattered along the edge of the tub and counter tops, the main lights dimmed, causing the room to become enveloped in a soft, golden hue.

You get to work removing your makeup and he reaches over, checking the temperature of the bath before turning the taps off. Taking the pile of PJs he brought in, he makes some space on the heated towel rails, hanging some of your Christmassy PJ bottoms and one of his shirts on the rack before coming back over to you.

“Ready, bubs?” He asks, hands coming around your waist as he looks at you through the reflection in the mirror.

Sending him a smile, you nod, reaching to lift your t-shirt off and he gives you a hand, pulling the material over your head and discarding it into the laundry bin before helping you remove your leggings and underwear.

You catch him looking at you, his eyes shining with an emotion that you can only describe as adoration as they scan over your body, simply taking a moment to admire you before holding his hand out for you to take.

Helping you climb into the bath, he watches as you lower yourself into the warm water, stepping back and undressing himself so that he can join you.

You can’t help but watch as he pulls his hoodie over his head, his perfectly toned body and the tattoos that you adore so much making it hard for you to look away.

“Like what you see?” He teases, catching your staring, and he smirks when your eyes snap up to his, a deep blush covering your cheeks.

“Shut up” you mumble, voice quiet and he smiles, loving that he can still make you shy after so long together.

“But, for the record, yes. Yes I do” you add, and it’s his turn to blush as he steps into the bath behind you.

You shuffle forward, giving him room to slide in behind you and you settle back against his chest. His arms circle your waist, hands landing on your tummy where he traces random figures against your skin and you let your self sink into his embrace. Relaxing fully for the first time in what feels like weeks.

Your head falls back against his shoulder and you tilt it slightly so that you can look up at him. You meet his warm gaze, a soft smile sweeping over his lips before he leans down and touches them to yours.

He keeps the kiss slow and perfectly soft, only breaking apart when you separate to take a breath, and he takes the opportunity to brush his lips over your cheek, trailing kisses down your neck and along your shoulder. He kisses any inch of skin that he can reach, revelling in the giggles that leave your lips when his stubble tickles your delicate skin. His fingers continue tracing over your tummy as you lay there in complete bliss, all thoughts of work leaving your mind until all that’s left is him.

“Sit forward, my love” he requests, speaking softly as to not break the peaceful atmosphere. You do as he asks, sitting up and shuffling forward to allow him more space behind you.

He reaches over and grabs your body wash from the edge of the tub, squeezing a generous amount into his palm before lathering it up. His hands find your shoulders, massaging the soapy suds over your back and down your arms before rinsing them off. You think he’s finished, wanting to grab the bottle and return the favour but he takes it from your hand, placing it back down before finding your shoulders again.

His thumbs work over your skin in firm circles, fingers working to ease the tension in your back and he pays special attention to the spots that gain the most reaction from you. Soft hums leave your lips and you have to stop yourself from melting into him, the feeling of his hands working over your skin relaxing you and making you feel like you’re in heaven.

He doesn’t stop until he’s content he’s gotten rid of all the knots and tension, double checking with you that you’re no longer feeling any discomfort before scattering kisses along your skin and pulling you back to lay against his chest again.

You stay in the bath for quite a while longer, relaxing together in a comfortable silence until the water begins going cold and you decide it’s time to get out and start getting ready for bed.

Climbing out of the bath before you, he wraps a towel around his waist and takes yours off the heated towel rail, holding it open for you as you step out of the tub. The warm fabric engulfs you as you step towards him, his hands working to wrap the towel around you as he pulls you into his chest.

“How’s your back feeling, angel?” He asks, placing a kiss to the top of your head.

“So much better, thank you.” You lean up, placing a quick kiss to his his lips.

“You’re welcome, baby. Just let me know if it starts hurting again, yeah?” He says, more telling you to than asking, and as much as you don’t want him worrying about it, your heart warms at how attentive and caring he’s being towards you.

“I will, Mase. Seriously though, it does feel so much better already, thank you.” You roll your shoulders, still feeling a tiny bit of discomfort but it’s miles better than the pain you were in earlier.

Stepping back, he takes your towel from you, helping you dry off and change into your candy cane printed PJ bottoms and one of his t-shirts before getting himself dry and into a pair of boxers and his matching bottoms.

“Do some skin care with me?” You give him your best puppy dog eyes as you hop onto the counter next to the sink, knowing it’s impossible for him to say no to them.

“Sure, bubs” he says, sounding defeated, but you know deep down that he loves doing your skincare with you. He most likely would of ended up doing it with you even if you hadn’t asked.

You push his hair back with one of your headbands, unable to hold in your giggles at the sight of him with his hair pushed back, all messy and sticking in every direction.

“Oi, don’t laugh at me, I don’t have to do this with you, you know?” He teases, threatening to take the band of and you scramble to stop him, pulling his hands down and turning serious.

“No! No, sorry. You just look so adorable, it’s cute” A blush covers his cheeks at your words, his skin that’s already reddened from the heat of the bath turning even more flushed and it spreads over the bridge of his nose. You can’t help but lean in and brush a kiss to the patch of skin there.

Leaning over, you pull all of your different products out of the drawer - ‘potions’ as Mase likes to call them - and line them up on the counter ready to use. You run through your routine, using cleansers and moisturising before moving on to serums.

“What are we going for today? Hydrating? Brightening maybe? Or what about anti-aging?” You ponder out loud, adding the last part on as a joke and his reaction has you giggling, just not in the way you anticipated.

“Anti-aging?” He asks, a faux look of offence on his face but it quickly changes to one of amusement. His hands find your waist, sliding under the t-shirt as his fingers tickle over your skin and he quickly has you thrashing around, trying to escape his hold.

“S-sorry! It was a joke! Mase!” you say through giggles, aimlessly trying to grab at his hands.

“You think I need to use anti-aging stuff?” He stops his actions and you take a moment to catch your breath, worried that he actually took offence to what you were joking about, but the cheeky smile on his face tells you that he’s still messing around.

“Of course not, I mean, it’s always good to use it but you’ve got better skin than I have most of the time anyway” you reassure him, twisting the cap off of one of your serums before squeezing a few drops into your hand and massaging it into his skin.

He takes a moment to admire you as you do so. Watching the look of pure concentration on your face as you work whatever product you’re using into his skin.

He loves these little moments with you. Moments where you feel like the only two people in the world, moments where he gets to have you all to himself without any distractions or worries.

His eyes scan over your face, taking in your bare skin and all of your what you like to call ‘imperfections’. Little things that you always seem to complain about, but he loves. They make you, you, and you’re perfect to him. In his eyes, you’re the most beautiful girl in the whole damn world, and he wouldn’t ever want to change a single part of you.

“You’re so beautiful, angel” he whispers, speaking his mind, and you shy away from his gaze, bringing your hands up to cover your flaming cheeks.

Compliments are something you rarely received in your past relationships, but that’s something that quickly changed when you met Mason. He always wants you to know just how much he appreciates and admires you, and even after a couple of years together, you don’t think you’ll ever be used to how often he says those types of things to you. His words making you feel special and wanted in a way you never felt before meeting him.

His hands land on your hips, squeezing gently through the material of your PJ bottoms and you sneak a glance at him through your fingers, finding him already looking at you with the softest of smiles grazing his lips.

“Don’t hide from me, bubba” he gently wraps his hands around your wrists, tugging them away before nudging your chin up with the tip of his finger.

His eyes lock onto yours once again and you swear you can see every emotion thats swirling through them, the deep shades of chocolatey brown shining with so much love and adoration that you can’t quite believe it’s for you.

Warmth rushes through you when he steps forward, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. His thumb brushes over the skin of your cheek and you sink in to his touch, eyes fluttering closed when he rests his forehead against yours and, for a few minuets, you just enjoy his touch and the peaceful moment together.

You’ve always heard people saying that home isn’t a place, but a person. And, until you met Mason, you didn’t think that could ever be true. But they’re right. He is your home, your safe space, someone you know you can always count on and trust. From the minuet he walked into your life he’s brought you so much happiness and light and honestly, you can’t even remember what life was like before him. He’s your rock, your person, and after a week of work like the one you’ve just had, there is no one else you’d rather come home to. You thank your lucky stars every single day for bringing him into your life.

You reluctantly pull away, suddenly filled with an overwhelming amount of love for him. Your lips place a kiss to the reddened skin on the bridge of his nose before trailing across his cheek and landing on his own. His hand moves around to the back of your neck, holding you to him as his lips move against yours.

The kiss is kept gentle, your lips working against each others slowly as neither of you really having the energy to go any further, but it’s filled with so much emotion and conveys your feelings perfectly.

“I love you so much, you know that?” you whisper against his lips, giggling to yourself as you pull away to catch your breath.

“You might of mentioned it a couple of times,” he responds, chuckling when he catches you rolling your eyes.

“But, I love you too, more than you’ll ever know” he turns serious, catching your gaze, wanting you to understand just how much he means it.

You nod, sending him a tired smile before taking his outstretched hand and jumping down off the counter so that you can brush your teeth.

He holds your shoulders carefully and turns you around so that you’re facing the mirror. Reaching around you, he takes your hair brush and a scrunchie from the draw before working to untie your hair from the bun it’s currently in. He brushes through your tangled ends, being careful not to tug too much and cause you any pain before separating your hair into three sections and doing his best to plait it for you.

“You’re becoming a pro at that” You say absentmindedly, watching through the mirror as he ties the scrunchie around the end of the neat braid.

“I know, I learn from the best” his eyes are twinkling when he sends you a cheeky smile through the reflection, “Summer is the best teacher” he adds, emphasising the fact that he didn’t say you and you jab him with your elbow, the two of you laughing together but you’re stopped short when you begin yawning.

“C’mon, let’s get you into bed, bubba” he chuckles, placing a quick kiss to the top of your head before guiding you out of the en-suit.

He helps you climb under the duvet, tucking you into the warm sheets and making sure you’re comfy before he stands again. He goes to leave the room, but he doesn’t get far, your hand reaching for his as soon as you realise he’s leaving.

“Where’re you going?” you pout, already battling against sleep.

“Just getting some waters from downstairs, I’ll be as quick as I can”, he tells you, but your grip on his hand doesn’t budge.

“Promise?” You whisper, his heart soaring at your tired eyes and pouty lips and he smiles to himself, loving how clingy you become when you’re sleepy.

“Promise, bubba” He squeezes your hand when he feels you loosen your grip, letting you know that he’ll be as quick as he can before heading out of the room.

You’re almost asleep when he re-enters the bedroom and climbs straight under the covers next to you. He leans over to grab the remote from the bedside table and turns the TV on, flicking through a few channels before deciding on Disney+ and you giggle when he selects Ratatouille. The familiar Pixar lamp bounces across the screen as he turns the volume down a little and puts the remote to the side.

He switches off the lamp off and gets himself comfy, laying on his back and opening his arms for you. Shuffling into them without hesitation, you snuggle up to his side and rest your head against his bare chest, the calming beat of his heart right underneath your cheek.

His hand finds its way under your (his) t-shirt, fingers tickling over your back and you snuggle even closer, tilting your head up so that you can look at him.

“Thanks for tonight, Mase” you hum, looking up at him through your lashes.

“You don’t need to thank me, bubs. You’d do the same thing for me and it’s only right my girl gets princess treatment after kicking butt at work all week” he grins, leaning down to kiss you and it’s calm and soft when his lips touch yours.

“I get princess treatment from you everyday” you say, head dropping into the same place as before and you sleepily nestle into him.

“As you should” he mumbles, fingers continuing their patterns on the skin of your back.

You lay there for a while, eyes growing heavy as you try and focus on the TV but the beat of his heart combined with his soft touches makes it hard for you to stay awake any longer.

“I miss this when I’m away” you stifle a yawn, snuggling even further into him as you finally give in and let your eyes fall closed.

“Me too” he leaves a lingering kiss to your forehead, “Now, get some sleep pretty girl. I love you”

“I love you too, Mase. Night.” You manage to get out before he feels your body go heavy against his, sleep finally taking over you as you snooze in his arms.

———————

a/n: I hoped you enjoyed! feedback would be really appreciated 🫶🏻🩷

[universe-on-her-shoulders]

Prompt: Martha Jones spots The Fourteenth Doctor around London doing a mundane thing like food shopping. Thank you :)

At first, Martha wasn’t sure. It wasn’t that she didn’t recognise him; she’d know that hair and that side profile anywhere, even if he was now clad in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt instead of the long coat she’d been so used to. He was holding a jar of jam, reading the ingredients with bright interest, as though it were the most normal thing in the world to be in Tesco Express at ten o’clock on a Thursday night shopping for preserves; the basket beside him contained further mundanities like bread and milk, and she was so baffled by all of this that she tried to tell herself that it wasn’t him. It couldn’t possibly be him. He was a Time Lord, for god’s sake; he didn’t do dull things like buy pints of semi-skimmed milk or reduced Kingsmill white loaves.

But then he turned away from the shelf, sticking the jar in his basket, and the look on his face took her breath away. For several seconds she surveyed him as he continued to be unaware of her presence, and she tried to put her finger on what had changed. It was the eyes, she thought; there had been so many ghosts behind them when she’d first known him, and now he looked almost… well, serene. Calm. There were no spectres weighing heavily on his shoulders; there was no lingering pain in the easy, contented expression on his face as he scooped up his basket from his feet – still clad in Converse, because some things could never change – and then finally caught sight of her.

“Oh,” he said, the syllable hanging in the air between them for a moment, and she couldn’t read it; was he pleased to see her? Angry? Sad? Guilty? Was he about to cut and run? Then he beamed from ear to ear, really sincerely beamed, and held out his arms to her for – no, that couldn’t be right. He wanted a hug? Since when had he been a hugger? “Martha Jones!”

“Doctor,” she said reservedly, looking him up and down; he was older than he’d been since she last saw him, but all of the tension and impatient anxiety that he’d held within him seemed to have dissipated in the interceding years. Questions crowded her mind; questions about time and space and clothes and the air of contentment and – “Why are you in Tesco in Richmond?”

“Oh,” he said again, with dawning comprehension. “We’re out of bread.”

“Who’s ‘we’?” she asked, unable to stop herself.

“Oh,” he repeated for a third time, then ran a hand through his hair before chancing a glance at the checkouts, and for one awful moment she thought he might be about to bolt. “It’s sort of a long story, actually. Why don’t we pay and find a pub, or something? Unless you’ve got somewhere to be… is Mickey expecting you?”

“He can wait,” she said with amusement, irrationally touched that he’d remembered. “Yeah, alright. Let’s pay.”

“Why are you in Tesco in Richmond?” he enquired, flipping the question back on her with some of the old cheekiness that she was used to. “That’s the real question.”

“Staying with mum for a few weeks while we have the kitchen redone,” she told him as they headed towards the self-checkouts; she started scanning her items while he did the same at an adjacent terminal, and she half expected him to sonic it, or in some way cheat it – space cubes, or god knows what else – but instead he took out an honest-to-god wallet and tapped a perfectly normal credit card on the reader. Her surprise must have shown, because he shot her a sidelong grin as he bundled up his groceries in a canvas tote bag and hefted it onto his shoulder as she swiped her Clubcard and did the same.

“Bit different to the old days, isn’t it?” he said ruefully, and she laughed.

“Yeah, never had you down as a wallet sort of man.”

“It was a present. I lost my last four credit cards.”

“That sounds more like you.”

[harrietvane]

So, in Busman’s Homeymoon, Lord Peter buys Harriet Vane a mink cloak worth 950 pounds (according to the Dowager Duchess’ journal entry), but he buys Tallboys for “only” 650 pounds.

Even bearing in mind that real estate really did used to be cheaper, do you understand how that is possible? Or how to find out more about relative purchasing power? I used an online calculator website which gave me some figures, but it still seems insane that one could buy an entire Elizabethan farmhouse for 2/3 the price of a garment! Very curious to learn from others who understand this better than I do.

Ah, I see my esteemed colleague @oldshrewsburyian has also had some interesting thoughts on this, so I'll link that here as well before I begin.

So, it's a legitmate question, and there's no catch-all simple answer (in the gotcha sense of 'why didn't i know that bit of cultural Truth'), but there are mitigating factors that take it from a ridiculous price comparison, to merely outlandish. Even taking into account that the coat is quoted in guineas, not pounds, and that PW says the bank valued Talboys at £800 via a mortgage (the paid price was a discount, for paying in cash quickly, which is Plot Relevant), it gets us to roughly the same place, value-wise. Or shall we say PRICE-wise, rather than value, as I'll get into below. There's several factors at play here - they mainly relate to class, and spending power:

-The house is Not That Great, in terms of the kind of property that PW would usually be buying. I mean it is still a large-ish house, big enough to have 2 adults and small children in, but it's not what would be on his radar normally. The only reason they know about it, it that it's near a place where HARRIET grew up as a child. It's not getting any high marks in particular Beauty, Convenience, or Quality - the main reason HV's drawn to it is sentiment, rather than anything else. They both know that they will have to significantly add to it, and alter it, in order for it to be a comfortable home. That would usually be out-of-budget for someone in Harriet's position, who would expect to buy something that meets her needs 'as-is'. Most people looking at buying that house would be Harriets not Peters, so it might be a tough sell.

-The house has no power, and limited plumbing: There's dark references to DRAINS by the dowager duchess, it's entirely possible that this house has no modern plumbing at all - they make the comparison that the huge palace the Wimseys grew up in wasn't plumbed until recently, but then again they do have about 800 servants, whereas Talboys is just a regular house: they will have Bunter alone (at first), with an assist from Mrs Ruddle. There's mention of "a cistern" with some basic valves, but the scullery is mentioned as having a copper, from which hot water is "scooped into a large bath-can" - a copper being, simply, a large metal basin over a fire, in effect. No running hot water, maybe no flushable loos - it's a factor. They also talk specifially about having to electrify Talboys themselves - it's candles and lamps until then. It's fancy camping. By the mid-1930s, a lot of middle-class buyers would expect a little more convenience in both water and wiring, unless they had significant support staff, which Talboys would not be expected to house.

-There's probably no farm! It's a farm house - not a wider land purchase. People like PW's brother the Duke are wealthy primarily because they own land, not because of the big palace they have (which eats money, rather than generates it). The land is what gives them spending power, because other people are paying them rent to live on it, farm on it, or both. PW's own personal 'younger sibling' wealth is also mentioned somewhere to be primarily in real estate (assumed to be in London) - sad to say: he's a landlord, and that's why he's rich. Talboys, on the other hand, as a purchase, would not, in almost any way, be expected to generate revenue through either farming, agriculture, or charging rent. Until they invent house flipping in 80 years, or until the motorway goes through in 40 years, there's not much expectation that Talboys would increase all that much in value.

-Lastly, there's a massive disparity in what The Market Will Bear when we compare a basic residence vs a luxury item (like a mink coat) in the mid-1930s. This is not particular to that time, though. Like any first-year economics student will tell you, the price of something is not it's intrinsic value, it's what someone is WILLING to pay for it. If someone is willing to pay such a price, that's the price it will be. So, we're not comapring Objects, we're comparing Buyers: the the main purchasers of a slightly run-down farmhouse located nowhere special are Harriets, and main purchasers of mink coats are Peters. Talboys is priced for Harriets. The mink coat is priced for Peters.

Compare for example, a contemporary parallel: the Hermes Birkin bag. It's a leather handbag with a starting retail price of about USD 11,400. Just for the bag. Then, you have fancier versions of the fancy bag, eg wikipedia tells me one version sold at auction for USD 380,000 in Hong Kong in 2017. Now, the Harriets of today are not buying a Hermes Birkin handbag, but they are probably trying to buy slightly run-down houses outside urban centers for (one hopes) slightly less than 380k. The Wimseys of the worlds are clearly buying Birkin bags. In that way, it's actually pretty easy to get to a place where Person A might buy a single luxury item for X pounds, and Person B might buy a whole residence for X pounds, and neither feel like they'd done something insane. The key here is in a Wimsey/Vane marriage, they run up against this concept immediately, and repeatedly.

There's a good reason the first epistolary section of the novel is almost entirely taken up with money chat - the ring, the purchase of shirts from Burlington Arcade, the marriage settlement, the gift from the bride to the groom, the mink coat, the bitchy exchange between Helen and Harriet about HV being allowed "six free copies of her book" to distribute. These people come from 2 fundamentally different experiences of the world. They might have gotten engaged using the word 'Magistra', specifically to emphasise their fundamental equality (in the context of learning and the mind, to begin with), but it can't be denied: there's gaps that need to be bridged. They both know parts of their married life will be spent in attempting to do that, hopefully to their mutual satisfaction. Mention of a mink coat for 950 guineas is a nice, neat shorthand for illustrating what's still at play between them here.