How about a shave?
Lord judge Turpin x reader
Tags: arranged marriage, age gap, emotionally distant Turpin, older man/younger woman, facial grooming, intimacy
Looking less than his best, you, as any good wife would, tends to your husband
The cloudy blue of morning settles over your opulent bedroom as you hear the sound of cloth shifting behind you, hazy as you sit up from your bed. Your eyes fall on the back of your husband in front of the full bodied mirror, tying his cravat around his throat. You can see his heavy gaze in the mirror, looking at himself but not really seeing much beyond what he's doing with his hands. You stretch your arms above your head and that dark gaze of his finally registers you in the reflection “ Restless? “ he says, as if he doesn't really expect an answer. You hum softly and tuck a strand of hair back behind your ear, pushing the heavy covers away from your legs, the chill of the air around you making goosebumps rise on your skin. Why he chose to keep the house so drafty was beyond you. You step into your slippers and meet him around the end of the bed, your hand falling to his shoulders. His nose twitches, even after a year of being married he's still so unused to how touchy you were.
His prior ward never wanted to be so close to him, even though he had coddled her and spoiled her like a princess. After he had come to terms that affection wouldn't be reciprocated, he had sent her off to a covenant in the countryside. He would have sulked the rest of his days if not for you, a darling little lady whose family was looking for a husband for you. Your relationship was rocky at first, you demure and anxious and him cold and reserved. Only time and passed glances, fleeting touches and the shared need for a warm body had made you grow fonder for one another.
Still, his possessiveness for you was alarming at times, he had often expressed he would rather keep you at home for all hours of the day and you often shy from his harsh tone, to points where you wouldn't join him in bed until the wee hours of the night, or until his lapdog of a Beadle would bully you back to your quarters.
You supposed you both had quite a bit of learning still to do
“ Seems so…” You say, hushed in the quiet of the early morning. Usually he would already be gone to the courthouse by now, leaving you in the big empty house. He wouldn't leave you long to be restless enough for you to want to leave of course
“ You should rest “ He says, but it sounds more of an order than a friendly suggestion. You huff softly, eyes falling to his reflection. You furrow your brow slightly at the sight of him
“ A moment? “ you ask. He pauses, meeting your reflection in the mirror once again before turning to you, waiting for your question without much patience. You reach hesitantly to his face and feel over the gray and white stubble on his cheek and chin. His eyes grow heavy at that, hearing a heavy breath leave him. Despite his stonewall exterior, he was very fond of your touch. Despite everything, he was an old, heartbroken man and you were his young, sweet wife “ You need a shave “ You say, eyes softening as you brush a bit of powder from off his clothes with a soft click of your tongue. His cheeks warm as you nitpick his appearance, but he surprisingly can't find it in himself this morning to scold you for it.
“ I have an appointment with a barber this afternoon “ He says gruffly but you pause, looking at the clock on the wall. He wouldn't have to leave for another hour. You chewed your lip, resting your hand on his arm
“ Let me? “ He blinks, brows furrowed in confusion before you explain “ My father taught me how to shave him, for my future husband “ You say with a fond little smile as understanding passes over his intense features
“ I see…I…Suppose, if you don't cut me. Be quick about it “ He says with an approving sway of his hand. You nod and you duck into the washroom where his shaving kit sits mostly unused on the side of the sink. You have him sit in the chair in the bedroom by the window where more light is slowly bleeding in as the morning goes on while you gather when you need, a bowl of warm water, a cloth and his kit.
You stand at his side as you put everything out on the window sill, humming to yourself as you froth the soap on his badger hair brush. He follows the movement of your hands as if you've done this hundreds of times before and he doesn't exactly know how to feel about the fondness that settles within him. You reach to once again undo his cravat with delicate hands, wrapping it around your knuckles before setting it to the side, undoing the buttons on his color. His throat bobs at such a simple form of undressing, but you didn't often do so willingly. You drape a dry cloth around his shoulders to keep any of the soap from dripping down onto his fine vest before beginning to layer the soap over his face, tilting his chin this way and that to evenly distribute the soft smelling foam. He can't help but stare down the sloping neckline of your nightgown to avoid the almost tender look in your eyes.
He sighs once you finally pull away, shifting anxiously in his chair as you flip open his blade. You sharpen it on the leather strip along with it. Your technique is practiced, familiar in his own movements. You clean the blade off with warm water before approaching him once again, the blade glinting in the light. For a moment he thinks of all the times he was cruel to you, everytime he would see your eyes water and maybe, he thinks, this wasn't such a good idea. But instead of driving the blade across his throat, you curve your hand upwards over his jaw where the gray hairs are sliced away like a warm knife through butter and he finally relaxes. From the shift in your shoulders you have too. He sits there patiently as you slide the blade over his neck, dip it in the water, dry it off and then back to him, tilting his head only when you guide him to, your fingers warm against his cool cheek. He lets his eyes close and his head tilt back as you trim just under his chin. He can feel your eyes on him when you hesitate between cuts, wondering what you must be thinking.
He can smell your perfume from the day before just barely clinging to your skin and for the first time he feels a pang of want. The want to stay home in the morning, to watch how you get ready for the day, to see your brushes gliding through your hair, how you cream your skin and slide your stockings over your legs. Watching something you take the time to do everyday that nobody else has ever had the pleasure to witness. Something private. Call him a selfish man, but even the need for your own privacy makes him jealous, needy in a way he scorns. He wonders, foolishly, if he’ll ever visit a professional barber again if he gets the chance to see how you put each other together in the morning.
He can feel the blade just under his earlobe on the other side of his neck, eyes opening to meet your gaze. Your eyes fall to where he's looking at you and your hand stops, slowly gliding down the side of his neck. He feels your hand tremble and-
He hisses as the blade bites into his skin and you quickly pull away, a horrified expression on your face “ Oh, I-Im so sorry! “ You sputter fear washing over your face makes his stomach sick. He clasps a hand over your wrist and you're terribly confused not to find his grip bruising, nor his voice rising to scold you
“ Stop blubbering and fix it “ He says simply and releases your hand. You tremble slightly as you take the warm cloth and drag it over the small cut. It's barely even bleeding. You blot it carefully, suddenly tense like a frightened animal, perplexed to find him so calm “ Finish. I won't walk into my courthouse half shaven like some fool “ He says with a huff in his voice, but it doesn't bite. You sigh shakily and nod, steeling yourself to finish. You glide the now clean blade over the last patches of hair on his face, careful not to cut him again before wiping him down with the warm towel, cupping under his chin to meet his gaze again
“ I'm sorry I cut you “ You breathe out like it had been hurriedly pushed from your lungs and he clicks his tongue
“ I didn't expect you to be perfect… “ He mumbles and the words sound strange from his mouth. You nod and dry him before he stands, adjusting his vest to go and look at himself in the mirror. He surveys your work and nods with approval that sends your heart thumping. You take his cravat in hand and return to him so you could tie it, but not before making sure his wound wouldn't bleed onto his collar. It's already clotted, leaving only a thin stripe of red. You inhale before leaning in to press a delicate kiss to the wound. You feel him take a sharp breath and before you can raise yourself back to standing he clasps a hand over the back of your neck, keeping you close. He leans in, breath warm against your ear “ You’ll have plenty of time to learn. I expect you to be up early again tomorrow morning to do it again “ He demands, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek. You melt into it, equally as desperate to lap up the small tokens of affection Judge Turpin does manage to dish out for you before reaching to tie his cravat and fetch the matching jacket on the back of the chair. You smooth your hands down his shoulders before he turns to the bedroom door, cupping the back of your neck in his hand with a deep, unreadable look in his eyes before pulling away, leaving you to your own morning routine as you wait the long hours of the day for him to return home.
