#i love my man with eye bags a shiner and mouth full of blood

[kotyachyaberloga]

Господи, Иллюзионист такой красивый!

Очень красивая музыка, тоскливая, пронзительная, эти скрипки 😩

Этот жёлтый цвет, антураж начала 20 века!

Историю почти не помнила, а она такой красивой оказалась! И Эйзенхайм такой несчастный после смерти Софи. Прям по глазам видно, как ему больно. И он такой счастливый, когда обнимает Софи! И когда он приезжает, и не может не бежать!

Боже мой, мне так хотелось его обнять.

И когда он призывал её «призрака», он так на неё смотрел! И так несчастен был, когда она пропадала! И этот кадр, когда она тянется к нему и их руки почти соприкасаются!

(Единственное, я не представляю, какая должна быть конструкция у медальона, чтобы он так открывался)

Я пришла смотреть фильм, потому что иллюзионист Эйзенхайм красивый, а в итоге весь «Иллюзионист» оказался очень красивым

[sincerelybluevase]

Fanfic Friday: Twin Rooms, Chapter Two

Patrick had managed to secure a bottle of wine, some bread, and some cheese. He was halfway up the stairs when the electricity died.

“Hell’s bells,” he cursed. He slipped the wrapped cheese in his pocket, tucked the bottle and the piece of bread under his arm, and used his free hand to feel for the banister. It was cold as ice, but guided him safely to the right floor.

By that time, his eyes had gotten used to the dark just enough to allow him to walk in a somewhat straight line down the hallway. He touched the patterned wallpaper with his fingertips, trying to count the doors. It was no use; he didn’t remember if their room was five doors down, or three, or maybe four.

I wasn’t paying attention to the scenery, Patrick thought, memory of Shelagh’s well-formed calves flowering in his mind. She’d gone up the stairs ahead of him as he carried his suitcase and their two bags, providing him with a very pretty view as he struggled to carry all their luggage to their room. They hadn’t meant to bring much with them, but they’d stopped at a little town on their way to the hotel, and had strolled through the shopping street after lunch, entering several dress shops as Shelagh looked for a pair of gloves that matched her pale winter coat. He had urged her to try on a lovely dress with a poppy pattern, and then another one with a neckline a little lower than she usually wore. Then, he’d asked her to try on some blouses, and a skirt…

I can’t help it. She just looks so good in everything, Patrick thought a little helplessly. She was a bit of a tight-fisted Scot, but every now and again she allowed him to indulge, and then he’d buy her a nice skirt, or a brooch. Today, he’d bought her a little more than that.

At least she has that pink suitcase. We can stuff most of the shopping bags in there, and minimise the risk of me breaking my neck going down these stairs.

His hand encountered smooth wood that gave way as he pushed. Had Shelagh left the door open for him, so he could find his way back? Or was this someone else’s room? He peeked inside, squinting to make out shapes in the darkness. A bit of moonlight splayed on the floor, illuminating the corner of a suitcase. Its colours were washed out.

Is it pink? It was a light colour at any rate. How many women did have such a suitcase, anyway? Besides, there were no other people sleeping on this floor, apart from the Dockerills.

Shelagh was asleep, curled up and buried underneath the covers. Patrick shut the door as quietly as he could, put the food on the nightstand, and slipped out of his clothes. He threw them on the ground haphazardly, not really caring where they landed. He could sort all of that out in the morning.

Shelagh’s breathing was deep and regular.

So much for a younger wife, he thought, tenderness flooding through him. She worked so hard it was little wonder she was exhausted.

He decided not to wear his pyjamas; if she woke up and decided she wanted more shenanigans, he didn’t want to bother with buttons and fabric; Shelagh loved skin-on-skin contact.

Patrick got into bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He sighed, and pressed his nose against the pillow. It smelled like perfume. How scents can change, he thought, I don’t remember Shelagh’s perfume smelling like this. Maybe she put some of that new perfume on before falling asleep. It smelled faintly familiar, at any rate.

He wanted to reach out and hold her, but she was sleeping so soundly... Besides, if he woke her now, he doubted he’d get any sleep at all, and if he was honest, he was tired as a dog.

Patrick was drifting off when a small scream next door rudely dragged him from slumber. Groggily, he rubbed his eyes, and listened. The creaking of bed springs, a muffled thud.

Trixie and Christopher seem to be enjoying themselves, he thought.

A deep groan, and more creaking of bed springs.

How could he sit at the breakfast table tomorrow and look them straight in the eye if they kept this up?

“My God… can you hear that, Shelagh? Is that Trixie and Christopher?” he murmured, touching his wife’s shoulder.

She spun around to face him, her hair a pale smear against the pillow. At that moment, the electricity came back on again.

Fuck, Patrick thought. The woman next to him was definitely not his wife.

Trixie let out a high-pitched sound reminiscent of someone stepping on a squirrel, and fell out of bed in her haste to get away from him. Patrick stumbled out of bed, bruising his knees.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He put on his clothes in record-time whilst muttering excuse after excuse.

Trixie slipped on a bathrobe and stood in the corner of the room, eyes big. She put her hand near her mouth to tear at her nails, then let her hand flutter down. She tried not to look at him, but Patrick felt her eyes burn holes in his back regardless.

She’s like a startled fawn. What would she have done if I’d tried to kiss her, or touch her? He was not a religious man, but he offered up a tiny prayer to thank whatever power had stopped him from reaching out to the other side of the bed.

“So sorry. The electricity was off. I thought this was my room.” He looked at the pink suitcase near the door. “Shelagh has a pink suitcase.”

“We have the same suitcase,” Trixie said. She sobbed.

Patrick ceased trying to get every button to go through the right hole, and turned to her. “Trixie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

She wasn’t sobbing; she was laughing. Her eyes, though red-rimmed as if she had been crying recently, were full of mirth.

“Do you think this is funny?” he asked, hating how crimson his cheeks were.

“Don’t you, Doctor Turner?”

How am I ever going to work with her again without thinking about this?

“I mainly find it mortifying. How am I going to explain this to Shelagh? And to Christopher?”

As if on cue, someone next door emitted a low moan. Patrick locked eyes with Trixie. “If this isn’t my room, and Christopher isn’t here, then who is it we’re hearing?”

Patrick was through the door before making the conscious decision to move. He pushed the handle of room 207 down, but the door was closed. He rapped on the wood with his knuckles. “Shelagh? Shelagh, are you there?’

“Don’t you have a key?” Trixie asked.

Patrick patted his trouser pockets, extracted the key to his room, and tried to get it to fit inside the lock. There was no need; the door opened before he managed to get the key in. Shelagh stood before him, wrapped in a white blanket that was covered with rusty stains. Her eyes were very big, but that may have been because she was not wearing glasses, and had to do her best to focus.

“Why is there blood on you?” Patrick asked. Already he reached for her, trying to assess the damage.

“Because she broke my nose,” a muffled voice said.

“Christopher!” Trixie slipped past Patrick and into the room, to her husband. He sat on the edge of the bed, pressing a wet towel to his nose.

“I didn’t mean to,” Shelagh said, stepping aside so Patrick could come in. She closed the door behind him with a soft snick. “He startled me. It was a reflex…”

“You should teach self-defence classes,” Christopher said, and smiled. His teeth were stained pink. Some blood dripped down his chin. Trixie tutted at him, and pressed the towel against his bruised nose.

“He thought this was room 205,” Shelagh said.

“I saw a pink suitcase. I thought it was Trixie’s.”

“Doctor Turner is familiar with the problem,” Trixie said, grinning at Patrick and giving him a wink.

“Have you set his nose?” Patrick asked Shelagh, doing his best not to blush.

She nodded. Her hair was delightfully mussed. Through the thick wave of shame came soft-padded arousal. I need the Dockerills out of this room, Patrick thought.

“Did you go into the wrong room, too?” she asked, picking up her nightgown with the hand that she wasn’t using to keep the sheet around her closed.

“I thought it was ours.”

Patrick sat down next to Christopher, and turned the other man’s head towards him so he could look at his nose. It had already swollen considerably, and turned blue and lilac. “If you’re unlucky, you might have two black eyes come morning,” he said. He threw Shelagh a glance over his shoulder, unable to keep from looking impressed.

“Be glad they weren’t your teeth,” Trixie said. She used a wet corner of the towel to wipe away some of the blood that had crusted on his chin.

“I’ll still have to tell my patients some kind of story. I can’t very well tell them that I got into bed with the doctor’s wife, and she gave me two shiners as a result,” Christopher said.

“We’ll think of something,” Trixie decided. She looked at the Turners. “I’ll take him back to our room to clean him up.”

“I’m really awfully sorry,” Shelagh said.

“Don’t be,” Christopher said. “I should’ve looked before crawling into bed. Besides, women do love a bit of a rugged look on a man.”

“Better looks are the last thing you need, dearest,” Trixie muttered under her breath. She shook her head, and said, “Men.”

“I’ll come in a bit to get my food,” Patrick decided.

Trixie winked at him again, helped Christopher up, and stepped into the hallway.

Patrick closed the door behind them, and inhaled deeply before turning to face Shelagh. “You broke his nose,” he said.

She sat down on the bed, twisting her hands. “I didn’t mean to,” she repeated, “but he startled me. I wanted to push him away, not smash his face in.”

“You broke his nose,” Patrick repeated, and started to laugh. He couldn’t help it; Shelagh looked so guilty, and so terribly sexy at the same time…

“It’s not funny,” she told him, lips pursed.

“Isn’t it?” He made an effort to stop. He sat down next to his wife and slung his arm around her. Spasms of laughter made his stomach ache. “I’m glad Trixie’s first response is flight over fight.”

Shelagh looked at him, two worry lines between her eyebrows. “Did I gather correctly that you saw a pink suitcase, thought it was mine, and went into Trixie’s room?”

He told her how he went into room 205, thinking it was the right room, how he’d undressed and slipped into bed with someone who turned out to be his colleague and his wife’s friend rather than his actual wife.

Shelagh groaned, and rubbed her eyes. “Remind me next time to make sure that we pick a hotel far away from everyone we know, and to check whether no one we know stays there at the same time.”

“Remind me not to startle you. Ever.” Patrick took her hand in his. Her knuckles were red and raw. He pressed a kiss to the swollen flesh, then fetched another damp towel to wrap her hand in.  

“I had such good plans for us,” Shelagh said, fingers twitching as he pressed the cold fabric to her skin.

“Do you need two hands for them?” Patrick asked, smirking.

“Patrick, really. I’ve just assaulted a friend. I couldn’t possibly…”

“Couldn’t you?”

“Patrick!” She slapped his arm lightly.

Patrick fell from the bed. “Oh no!” he moaned. “I think you’ve broken my arm. My super strong wife…”

Shelagh rolled her eyes, then extended her hand to him to pull him up. “You’re ridiculous. You know that, don’t you?”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” Patrick said. He cupped her face and kissed her. “And also ridiculously needy right now,” he said, touching her collar bones and drawing a gentle line from one end to the other.

Shelagh shivered under his caress. “I remember you saying something about getting us food and drink,” she murmured.

“I did. Are you hungry, my love?” He nipped her ear. Her hand startled open, allowing the sheet to slither down.

“A little bit, yes,” she admitted.

“Let me take care of it,” Patrick said, and kissed her again.

 One more chapter to go, guys!