#First mention: unwed mothers

[yaltghoul]

I've seen no one talk about this, so allow me a moment to start the conversation...

When Penelope told Colin they could get an annulment if he wanted, she was so calm, and so sure. Which at first confused me. I thought it a weird acting or directing choice; she loves him so deeply and so much. It must have killed her to think of losing him completely.

Not to mention, we know she's pregnant at that point (there's no way her placing his hands on her belly meant anything less).

Then it hit me.

She may have worded it to make it seem like Colin wanted the annulment, but it was actually her.

Allow me to explain.

Colin told her that he would never forgive her. He has barley spoken to her. He won't sleep in the same room as her. For all she can abduce, he does not love her anymore. Hell, he flat out told her that the only reason he was still marrying her because they were intimate together.

Meanwhile, she still loves Colin. She has loved him since the moment she met him. There is nothing she wants more than to be a Bridgerton. But, she does not want what her marriage has already been. She does not want a cold marriage where her husband can't even stand sleeping in the same room as her.

She saw what a loveless marriage did to her family. She knows how it affected her. She does not want that for her child.

Penelope Featherington became Whistledown because she was alone and unloved. She doesn't want a life where Penelope Bridgerton is the same.

This season we see her bloom with confidence. We see her come into her own, find her voice out of the shadows of Lady Whistledown, and find the inner bravery that has been there all along.

She figures, if she's already going to be ruined now that the Ton knows she's Whistledown, what's adding being an unwed mother going to do?

She knows that even if Colin doesn't love her, he is at least honorable enough to provide for his child. Lord knows she made a pretty enough sum from her column that, between that and what Colin would provide, she could leave town and raise her child quietly in a cottage in the country.

So she makes a choice. If he doesn't love her, she'll tell him to use this as an excuse to get an annulment. That way, even if she's not married to the man she loves, she is also not married to a man that hates her.

The absolute joy, relief, and utter bliss that must of hit her when he declared he was proud of her and loved her unconditionally.

[bumblesimagines]

Headcanon:

Being Oberyn's lover

Request: Yes or No

Pronouns: They/Them/Theirs, GN!Reader

~~~

Oberyn is an infamous man for several reasons, some of which include the rumors of his usage of poison during duels and an interest in the dark arts. Posion-laced swords and dark arts aside, one of the most notable things about him is his multitude of lovers. From men to women, nobles to brothel workers, Oberyn is no stranger to sex and hardly a stranger to love. He may have a wandering eye but his heart remains fiercely loyal to his lovers/paramours and his many daughters whom he deeply cares for despite their bastard status. 

As such, it is no surprise that you catch Oberyn's eye during one of his trips with Ellaria throughout Westeros. He needs little convincing to speak to you and is as smooth as butter when he begins flirting. While he enjoys giggling maidens or blushing lords, his interest spikes when you come off as indifferent to his charm. He is a Dornishman and Dornishmen love a challenge, especially when he notices your eyes linger on him for far too long to be uninterested. 

Of course, Oberyn mentions his interest to Ellaria, for she is essentially his wife and the mother of many of his daughters. Ellaria provides her approval and encouragement, even going as far as befriending you and acting as some sort of wingwoman to her lover. You quickly put together her involvement in Oberyn's plan to woo you and while it's unusual at first, you learn that it's not so odd in Dorne. A cat-and-mouse game ensues and Oberyn's interest becomes all the more clear to others.

Oberyn's main love languages are gift-giving and physical touch, although he'll provide every other love language known to mankind. Since Oberyn's interest extends past sex, you'll be properly courted by him and this will include countless lavish gifts. He is a prince, after all, and his wealth knows little bounds. You can expect a variety of gifts, from clothes to brooches and anything you can think of. You mention wanting something? Expect that very thing sitting in your room the next day. Oberyn is also very handsy with his lovers and always has a hand on them or has them sit on his lap. He's still a prince and gentleman, however, so he will keep his hands to himself until you are comfortable enough with him. Once he has that green light, expect to find his hand resting on your waist or back, and don't be surprised if it wanders.

 You nod along to the lord as he speaks, absentmindedly listening to the conversation about lands and such. None of it really interests you as you're the thirdborn in your family and the likelihood of you ever needing to know much of what he spoke of was slim. The conversation shifts onto his children as he recalls a funny story and then begins the prodding.

"I hear you remain unwed." The Lord hums thoughtfully and strokes his beard. "We've been searching for someone to wed my second eldest-"

"My Lord," A familiar voice greets from behind and sends a welcomed jolt up your spine, unable to contain the smile before it breaks out on your face. Oberyn steps up beside you and his lips curl up in a genuine smile for you, the palm of his hand pressing soothingly against your lower back and slowly creeping to wrap his fingers around your hip. He holds eye contact, even as he speaks to the man. "I'm afraid I'll have to steal this one from you, My Lord." He simply states and without waiting for a response, he sweeps you away from the sputtering lord. 

"Oberyn," You laugh softly and send an apologetic look over your shoulder right before Oberyn leads you fully out of the room. He spins around on his heel and cups your face, his warm skin pressing against yours. His eyes lack their typical sultriness or grumpiness, instead replaced with a fond look that makes you want to look away. He leans forward and kisses you gently. 

"How are you, dearest?" 

Once Oberyn manages to convince the head of your family, you find your belongings packed and ready for Dorne. Oberyn and Ellaria show great excitement and contentment over this, talking about all the things they wish to show you and the people they want you to meet. Dorne is a hot, desert and mountain-covered region but Sunspear is a gorgeous castle surrounded by the ocean and the shadow city. Oberyn's family is welcoming, if not a bit exhausted with him, but they're still warm and kind to you. Though Doran is semi-distant at first, his children are much friendlier and happy to get to know you. After Doran and his children, Ellaria introduces you to the Sand Snakes, Oberyn's countless daughters. Their reactions vary and some are more welcoming than others but all are accepting of their father's decision to take you as a serious lover.

While eager to show you his home, Oberyn first gets you acquainted with your new bedroom and the bed. Oberyn is a versatile lover, although he enjoys being the one in control most times depending on his mood. You can expect to spend a lot of time in bed with Oberyn, and sometimes even with Ellaria. Oberyn is a giver and he'll often have you pinned beneath him until you can take no longer before peppering you with kisses and cooing gentle words in your ear. 

Oberyn is a thoughtful and dutiful lover who ensures you'll never feel left behind or cast away. However, you must be fine with sharing him with others, and even if you find this difficult at times, Ellaria will provide soothing words of advice and comfort. Oberyn will ensure to push away any worries or insecurities and he'll even encourage you to seek out your own lovers, just as long as you always return to him. 

If you are a lady, you can surely expect to fall with child soon after arriving in Dorne. Ellaria, who basically becomes your sister, tends to you and helps you through the process of pregnancy and labor. Oberyn will grow protective during this time and you'll often find him resting his hand over the bump or speaking to it. He'll ensure you are being treated with the utmost care and by the very best. Whether son or daughter, Oberyn will love his child, and the Sand Snakes will be incredibly protective of their newest sibling. 

Oberyn is one of those lovers that still courts you well into the relationship. He continues providing gifts and trying to make you swoon all over just because he feels like it. Getting with Oberyn means having a thoughtful, open-minded lover, a kind sister, and countless deadly stepdaughters willing to fight in your honor if they have to. 

[helaelaemond]

Before The Storm - Aemond x sister!reader

Pairing: Aemond x sister!reader

Word count: 3.6k

this was the second winner in this poll / osferth fic that also won the poll

Summary: Alicent and Otto have decided that Aemond will be used to broker an alliance with House Baratheon. As the only unwed adult child of Viserys, First of His Name, a betrothal with Aemond One-Eye is a commodity bound to secure alliances for the wars to come. Fuck the wars to come, though.

Aegon might be your husband and king, but it is Aemond that belongs to you.

Oral sex (male receiving, female receiving), penetrative sex, elements of possessiveness, jealousy, canon-typical incest, slightly nasty sex, little brother isn't so little anymore

Content warning(s): mentions of child marriage/rape (very brief), brief mentions of Lucerys' death

Rating: E

Tag list: @sylasthegrim / @arcielee / @myfandomprompts / sorry I forget who might want to be included

You keep your head down as the Small Council leaves the meeting chamber. Past you walks Lannister and Wylde and Orwyle. Beesbury is dead. Cole killed him, everyone knows it, but Mother protects him. And he protects you, you know. When Meleys had erupted from the depths of the dragonpit, he had shielded you with his body and had been ready to sacrifice his life for yours. He can be a cruel man, but he loves you. Just like Grandfather.

Just like Aemond.

The men in your life are not good. But they love you. Selfish though it is, that's enough for now.

You enter the chamber and find your brothers there, your mother and grandfather, too. Ser Criston keeps his place behind the queen. The dowager queen, that is.

"My dear, sit down," Grandfather says quietly. You take Orwyle's seat opposite Mother. It's strange to see Aegon at the head of the table now. At least he doesn't wear the crown now - it had looked so strange on him.

Aegon and Mother are talking. "... matter which, so long as it's one of them. Let him choose."

Alicent frowns. "It should be the eldest, as is tradition."

Aegon smirks. "And what if the youngest is prettiest?"

"The youngest is but thirteen-"

"Plenty of girls are ready for marriage at thirteen."

"Don't be obscene."

Aegon laughs, and shrugs. "My own wife was not much older."

Aemond taps his finger slowly on the wood of the table. You look at his long hand, his elegant digits, and it gives you butterflies. He hasn't touched you since the coronation, but he's looked. Gods, he's looked.

You slip into the seat next to Grandfather as he watches them talk. Opposite you, Aemond avoids your gaze.

"It should be the eldest," Grandfather agrees. You don't look at anyone but your younger brother, but you listen closely.

"But what if he doesn't like her face?"

"Her face is of no consequence; it's her father's forces we want, as you well know, Your Grace." The sarcasm with which Otto spoke the last phrase is lost on no one at the table. Aegon's expression sours.

"I suppose he can always fuck her from behind if she's ugly," he says spitefully.

Alicent looks down at her lap in despair. "Gods, Aegon."

You stare at Aemond. Understanding what they're talking about makes you want to shrink into nothing, to disappear between the cracks in the floor. Aemond is to have a wife. A wife.

"When do you wish for me to go?" Aemond speaks at last. He looks at Aegon with his own good eye, his expression blank.

"Tomorrow will do." Some of the bravado leaves the king when he shares a gaze with his little brother. "Take Vhagar, not a ship. She speaks louder than any of us."

Aemond nods stiffly. He looks between Grandfather and Mother. "Aegon will have Storm's End, and I will have this girl."

The smile that your brother gives Aemond is more genuine now. When he is truly happy, Aegon is quite pretty. It's a shame he refuses to find happiness, then, for the most part. Perhaps his Flea Bottom girls get to see that smile more than you. "Thank you, Aemond. Truly."

He's punishing you, you think. Your spiteful, inattentive husband is punishing you for finding your own happiness.

No one in the chamber has paid you any mind yet, but when you stand up and the chair loudly scrapes against the stone, all gazes are on you. The pressure of it makes your cheeks flush. Say something. Anything.

"Congratulations, brother," you say stiffly. Not that. "I wish you luck in the wars to come."

You sweep out of the council chamber as quickly as you arrived. Only Grandfather calls your name, but you ignore him. Panic swells in your chest. Only when you arrive back in your chambers od you allow yourself to cry.

"Sister?"

There is a secret passage that connects your rooms to the maze of corridors hidden in Maegor's Holdfast, and over the years, you and Aemond have learned it well. Through a concealed door behind a bookcase, he peeks now.

You sit cross-legged in your windowseat as you look across the city beyond the castle walls. A hundred thousand lights flicker under the night sky, orange against the ink of night. Atop the Hill of Rhaenys, the dragonpit looms mighty and foreboding. Your dragon is in there with Aegon's. Vhagar makes her lair on the coast, or in the Kingswood. She comes and goes as she pleases without restraint.

Aemond walks closer to you.

You wonder where Vhagar is tonight.

"You cannot ignore me forever."

"Why not?" you ask quietly. Don't look at him. Don't cave. "You're to have a wife soon. She will give you all I cannot."

Aemond's long strides bring him to your side in an instant, and he kneels before you. Taking the patch off his eye, sapphire and purple bear into you, you can feel it. It makes your skin prickle. "You give me everything."

"Not everything. I do not give you my hand. I do not give you children."

"We don't know that," he murmurs. "The babe in the cradle may be mine, we do not know."

You sigh. "That's the first time you've admitted that in so many words."

"Perhaps tonight is a time for firsts."

You snort. "Like proposals?"

"I begged Mother, the day she betrothed you to Aegon, to let it be me." He squeezes your hand. "I begged her, and Father, to let us wait until I was older so that I could marry you. You know this."

"You didn't try hard enough."

He kisses the back of your hand, your fingers. "I know. I know. Forgive me, sister. Please, please."

You pull your hand out of his and stand up, flitting over to another window and out of his grasp. He rises to his feet and watches you. He licks his lips and glances down in shame.

"Everything will change, Aemond."

"No. No, it won't."

You hug your arms around yourself. "It will. You'll have a wife." Anger suddenly boils in you. "A fucking wife! And what will I be then? You'll set me aside for some Westerosi bride who will give you trueborn heirs and her father's army and-"

Long strides bring him back to you and he takes your face into his hands. He forces you to look at him. The sapphire glints in the light of the fire. Shadows make his scar even deeper, rawer. "Look at me, sister."

All air has gone from you. You're powerless under him. Your eyes meet his.

"I'm yours, and you're mine. I will never love another as I love you."

"You don't know that, Aemond."

"Only a Targaryen can love a Targaryen." His voice is rich and warm, heat simmering beneath the surface. "That I know."

"For now."

He wraps his arms around you possessively and pins your body to his. He is tall and lean and strong against the softness of your curves. He has his place against you. "Forever.'

"You will swear yourself to a stranger and you will bed her, too. I will have to share you."

"As I share you now," he practically growls.

"That's not fair," you protest. But then his hand is in your hair and pulling it to turn your head to the side. His lips press against the slope of your neck and you bite back a sigh.

"No, it's not fair. Our brother gets to bed you and hold you and kiss you without worry."

"And I hate him for it."

Aemond gently bites over your pulse. "As do I."

"Perhaps when you bring your bride here, you can give her to him as a distraction while you have me."

He moves his lips to your ear and darts his tongue inside to make your knees weak. "You want that? Your husband to give my wife his bastards while I give you mine?"

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. He won't have you that easily. "Is that all I am to you? Some mare in heat for you to breed?"

When Aemond pushes you against the stone wall, you grip his sharp jaw and press until his lips open. When you spit into his mouth, he swallows gratefully. "You're everything to me," he groans. "Do that again."

"Aemond."

"Yes, sweet sister?"

"When you marry her, and when you fuck her, think of me."

His jaw is slack when your hand moves to his throat. "No."

You tighten your fingers slightly. "No?"

"I won't debase you like that."

A small noise comes from your nose that is close to a moan. You fumble with the buckles on his leather jerkin while he pushes your heavy dressing gown off. Underneath, you wear only a linen shift, thin enough for him to see your nipples peak. Since your children have come, your body has been much softer, wider and suppler, than before. You wondered, once, if he would desire you less now there is more of you. But it was nothing to worry about; as the years have gone by, Aemond's need for you has grown more and more desperate.

An addiction.

Before you can even push the leather off him, his hands are clutching you. He runs them up and down your back as he kisses you. His lips and tongue are wet and needy, coating yours with his taste. The pressure of his tongue against yours always makes you dizzy, and when it fills your mouth, you cling onto his waist.

"No one compares to you," Aemond whispers against your mouth. You swallow his moans gratefully.

"I want you to fuck me even when you're married."

The words are mumbled against his kisses, but he hears enough to understand. Letting you go only for a moment, he turns you to press your front to the stone wall, and he traps you against it with his body. Strong hands find yours, and he covers them as he pins them either side of your head. Trapped, all you can do is drop your head back against his shoulder.

"I'll never stop," he promises against your ear. Sharp teeth bite it, and familiar lips press below it. "I can't."

"Good."

"Keep your hands there," he tells you.

You're tempted to disobey him, but you don't want him to stop. His touches are firm down your sides, and when you lean back against him, he presses his hands between your chest and the wall. Aemond grasps your breasts and squeezes them, rolling them in his hands. Between his fingers, your nipples are caught, and the stimulation sends bolts of pleasure between your thighs.

"This is mine," he whispers. His long nose runs up the side of your neck and into your hair. It's so like his, almost silver. The blood of the dragon runs thick. It's in you, and it's in him.

Baratheon blood will not come between you.

"And what is mine?" you ask breathlessly.

Aemond groans softly. He slips so easily into High Valyrian, and the words roll off his tongue naturally. "Mirre yno, mandia. Qogralbar, mirre yno." All of me, sister. Fucking all of me.

"Pār ivestragī nyke emagon jemome, lēkia." Then let me have all of you, brother.

Hearing you speak the tongue of your ancestors always makes him hard. When you were younger and in the same lessons, it had made him blush, and sometimes he had to excuse himself when you practised - especially when you got fluent. How few things change. Except this time, he doesn't leave. This time, he moans out loud.

You turn around and force him against the wall this time. His jacket hangs open, and you fumble with the laces of his breeches. Inside, you find his familiar warmth. "Issi ao qopsa syt nyke?" Are you hard for me?

Aemond drops his chin, pleasure washing over his face. "You don't have to do that."

"Let me," you plead. "You never let me."

"You're worth more than this."

"Jaelan naejot sylutegon ao, ñuha jorrāelagon. Kostilus?" I want to taste you, my love. Please?

"Qrugh." Shit.

And then Aemond's hand is in your hair, and he's guiding your head closer, and you sink to your knees worshipfully. His cock is so pretty, you think. Pink and flushed, a thick vein running up the underside. You trace it with your tongue, a feather-light touch that has him tilting his head to the side. He doesn't let you suck his cock often. Sometimes, you practice on the wooden cock he gave you on your nineteenth nameday. It has a sapphire buried in the hilt.

"Ah, mandia." Ah, sister.

You wrap your hand around the base of him to hold him steady, and your lips seal around the tip. You swirl your tongue around his head; it's impossible to hold back the moan at the back of your throat when you taste the salt of his skin, smell the musk of his body. Tomorrow, a stranger will have claim to this part of Aemond. But for tonight, he's all yours. You suckle on the head and it earns you praise from your little brother.

Not so little anymore.

The taste of him fills your mouth. Your hand strokes his length and you remove your mouth only to gently pull back his foreskin. The tip of his cock is flushed and shining. Looking up at him, you press the flat of your tongue against his slit. His one good eye rolls back.

"Gods, sister."

"Gaomagon ao hae bona, Aemond?" you ask coyly. Do you like that? You kiss down his length, and press him against your cheek in careful slaps. His cock jumps in your hand, and you smile.

When your mouth takes in his balls, he groans and his head drops back against the wall. You stroke him as you suck him, setting a rhythm that he ends up matching with his hips. It's beautiful, the way Aemond lets go with you, how he trusts you. In his most intimate moments, it's you he needs.

"Sister, stop, stop, I'm-"

You release his balls from your mouth, heavy and wet, and look up at him with shining eyes. Gripping the base of his cock, you watch him as he pants and his face constricts. "Come on my face," you tell him with a heavy gaze. "Show me you own me."

He shakes his head. "I can't."

He thinks it's dirty and debasing, he's told you before. But you want his filth tonight. "Please," you beg shamelessly. "I want it, brother. Please, give me your seed."

His cock twitches in your hand. His body wants it so bad, you can tell. The muscles in his stomach are so tense, and his breathing is laboured. He's fighting it.

"I want it so bad," you whimper. You kiss his flushed head, and you lick the seed that has already leaked there. "Please. Please?"

"Sister," he groans.

You're wet between your legs just from sucking him. It's such a treat to be allowed this that you don't know how to be sensible anymore. Suddenly, you kneel up and pull off your shift. You spit on his cock, and with one hand you hold his base hard to stop him from finishing, and with your other you coat him. He's wet, now, when you press him between your bare breasts. Your fingers catch your nipples as you hold yourself, and you open your mouth to lick his tip.

"Oh, gods," he swears. "Fuck, I'm- I'm-! Sister, I'm-!"

He gives you what you want. As he fucks your breasts, he comes with a strangled cry of your name. Seed shoots from him in hot spurts and it splatters across your chin and nose and chest, some sticking to your hair. He paints you, and it makes you feel drunk on love, on power. This is magic of the old freehold, the blood of the empire. He's your god, and you're his queen.

Aemond is still shaking from his orgasm when he falls to his knees and claims your lips in a deep kiss. His seed is passed between your lips and tongues, rubbed into your noses and cheeks. He tastes slightly sweet under the salt, warm and familiar. You fucking love it.

His trousers are still around his knees when he lies on the flagstone floor and pulls you atop him. Now this is a treat that is often indulged - where he is hesitant to let you use your mouth, he is desperate to use his own. He wastes no time in pulling you to sit astride his face. Your knees are either side of his ears, and your thighs are his crown. Whilst his mouth takes care of your cunt, his hands never remain still. When he kneads your breasts, you lean back and brace your hands back on his thighs. He moans so prettily between your legs. You like it best when he licks and sucks on your wet folds but holds his head still enough for you to find a rhythm on his nose.

His perfect nose.

Aemond can barely breathe under you. It's his heaven. You grind down as his lips carefully pull on your folds and his tongue swipes between them, devouring you. His nose catches your clit with well-practiced movements. Long fingers play with your nipples, and it makes you crash around him. Your whole body shakes as you come, the silence of your open mouth scarcely hiding from Aemond how hard he's had you.

After, you undress him and push him onto the bed you've shared with him countless nights before. He fucks you hard. He starts behind you, pounding into you relentlessly, but it's not enough. Aemond likes to watch your face. So then, he pulls your legs to the end of the bed while he stands and fucks you with a hand around your throat. His seed is still on your face and in your hair. In a moment of depravity, he catches flakes of it dried on your skin between his teeth and lets them dissolve on his tongue.

But tonight is about you, too. About reminding him that his wife be damned, he's yours. Aemond Targaryen is your love, your property. And so you pull him on his back and settle on top of him.

"You belong to me," you tell him in a low voice. His cock is red and pulsing as you grind it between your cunt lips. His fingers dig into your sides. "You'll always be mine."

"I swear it. Yours. Please, sister. Be good to me."

When you grind up his stomach and reach behind to hold him in place, he groans again. You hold each other's gaze as you guide him back inside you.

Your heart leaps every time he slots into you like this. It's the one true place that is home. "I'll always be good to you, Aemond."

And then you fuck him, hard. He pulls on your hair and you slap his face, and he drags his nails down your back and you suck on his neck until bruises flower. Proof of your ownership. Proof he's yours.

His high collar will hide it tomorrow, until he undresses. Then his Baratheon wife will see. Perhaps she won't understand, though, if she's a maiden with her virtue. She'll learn soon enough, though.

Only a Targaryen can love a Targaryen.

Neither of you even think about stopping to let Aemond pull out. When he quietly whines your name and his stomach tightens and his chest turns red, you encourage him and chase him into oblivion. He finishes inside you, and you feel his spend fill you. With his cock in you and his fingers pressing hard against your clit, you follow quickly.

You see stars, you see fire, you see storms. You see him.

You collapse onto his chest and sink into a state of nothingness.

After a while. the feeling of him returns. He's soft inside you now, keeping himself warm in the depths of you. His hands are stroking patterns on your back, and his cheek is against yours. You can feel his spend leaking from you. No, you think. Stay inside me, give me his child.

"Stay," you murmur quietly. "I command it."

"I will stay until dawn, if you'll have me." Aemond kisses your cheek.

You nod. With a wince, you carefully lift your hips and he slips out with a wet noise. When you roll off him, his strong arms stop you from going too far, and he hugs you close to him.

"Nothing will change," he whispers after a moment of peaceful quiet. He rests your foreheads together. This close, it's impossible for you to see him properly. All you can really see is the blurry glitter of the sapphire.

"Everything will change, Aemond."

"No," he insists. Sleep is coming for him "I would sooner have a dead wife than one who stops me from loving you."

"Do not jest."

He kisses you sweetly. "It's no jest. You are my priority, always. I will take a wife, yes, but she will never come close to you."

"That does not mean you should joke about killing her."

"It is no joke, sister. If she tries to come between us, she will die."

When Aemond leaves the next morning, Aegon is proud, and Grandfather is hopeful. Even Mother smiles. Only you watch with a blank stare.

When he returns, it is not news of a dead wife he brings you. No wife at all, actually, but a dead nephew.

You have to hide your smile. It is a fair exchange.

[polinsated]

I’ve seen a theory going around about when Pen tells Colin he doesn’t need to save her, just love her scene that she told him she was pregnant off screen because the way their hands went towards her stomach.

However, I feel like if that were the case, Colin wouldn’t have still acted as distant after that and Pen wouldn’t have mentioned the annulment. I mean she would be an unwed mother and Colin would have an illegitimate baby.

Thoughts on the theory?

okay, at first, i was going to say i didn't agree with the theory. my first response was going to be something like, maybe her bringing his hands that close to her, is just pen's way of really trying to bring him in once again, make them close. but i hopped on over to make some gifs after i looked at the scene because i'm now kind of liking and believing this theory.....

she takes his hands, which, i would like to point out that, is the first time she has been the one to do this. usually, he takes hers. and she squeezes them a little, like she's silently demanding he hear her, grabbing his attention, trying to convey that she needs to tell, nay, show him something important. she pulls his hands to him, slowly, intently, until...

they rest against her stomach!! and you can see her fingers wrap around his hands, fully holding them to her now.

and finally, she looks up, and her expression is so serious. i don't know if i'm seeing shit that isn't there, but to me, there's a tiny, tiny hint of a smile, too.

and then we have the dialogue from this moment!!

Colin: "And as long as you live with this secret… there will always be something between us."

the 'something between us' is lw. the wedge that is keeping them apart at present.

Pen: "I know. Perhaps that is the key."

and if you think of 'the key' as being 'no more secrets', then it all makes some sense.

because later on, pen reveals her identity to everyone. she decides to unveil her big secret. and if she is truly showing him here that she is pregnant, then that is also another secret revealed. am i making sense?

i'm now hearing it as something like this:

colin: as long as you keep lw to hidden, we will always have something keeping us at a distance

pen: i know, so perhaps we should no longer keep secrets

pen: *shows him by bringing his hands to her stomach that she is pregnant* this is her revealing it to him, sharing another secret, and the one that will be their last

and as for colin's distance/annulment/an illegitimate child:

penelope is not going to force colin to stay married for the baby. she loves him too much to use a child as a trap, and that's why she still mentions an annulment. her love for him is too strong - this woman would endure all the disdain and judgement of having a child out of wedlock - she is used to it, anyway, and she'd go through it if it meant colin was happier again.

and as for colin, distance doesn't mean he would abandon the child, and it doesn't mean he hasn't been checking on her. he's a big sulky boy, but he also cares so damn much. and he'd have never agreed to an annulment. once again, he loves her too much, and you bet your ass he already adores their unborn child.

i am never great at making these types of speculative posts, but i hope this makes sense. i hope it's readable. and in conclusion: i am fully a believer in this theory now, haha. and i think it's very clever of them, because now that you've brought it to my attention, anon, this tiny moment between them seems obvious, and screams 'polin baby incoming!!'

[sapphire-writes]

Winter Rose

pairing: Aemond x Stark!Reader

summary: Raised among wolves, and raised among dragons; throughout time Targaryens and Starks seem to find their way to each other.

warnings: mentions of death

word count: 2.3k

note: this is mostly fluff! enjoy my loves 💙

You had been a small child when your father died; when your elder brother Cregan was named Lord of Winterfell, Warden of the North. Though he was just a boy of three and ten at the time. You remembered the funeral of your father, the way Cregan held your small hand in his own.

“You need to be brave, sister,” Cregan had whispered in your ear. 

Your eyes were wide as saucers, gazing upon the still body of your father. You expected his chest to rise and fall, as though he were simply in a deep sleep. He remained motionless. You had only seen one other corpse in your life, that of your mother.

The image of her flashes in your mind. Beautiful, wild, and gone. Petals in the wind. Your father would lay beside her for eternity in the crypts of Winterfell. The thought comforted you, your parents in the earth below you, and your brother. Simply sleeping beneath the mighty fortress of Winterfell.

Cregan squeezes your hand. 

Your uncle, Bennard Stark, was to rule as regent until Cregan came of age. A feat that does not bode well when Cregan reaches adulthood. But Bennard succeeds nonetheless. 

You grow alongside your brother, both of you fierce, both of you spitting images of the First Men. Both are haunted by the ghosts of wolves before you. You and Cregan are one and the same until you come into your maidenhood.

That is when things seem to change between you, suddenly you are thrust into the role of a soon-to-be mother, though still unwed. Lords vie for your hand, present themselves to your brother for the chance to bed, and breed you like a prize mare. You are having none of that. 

“Lord Umber is a fine choice!” Cregan yells, running after you as you flee from the great hall.

“You heathen!” you snap at your brother.

You stop, causing Cregan to nearly run into you, glaring at your brother. 

“You’d ship me off to Last Hearth, is that it?” you accuse, “who’d do your booking then hmm?”

Cregan flushes with embarrassment. 

“I’d make do without you,” he says.

“You’re shit at bookkeeping,” you accuse. 

“You’re a lady, it’s your duty-”

“My duty!” you scoff, “How very convenient to you!”

Cregan frowns, visibly frustrated by your angry disposition.

“You like Lord Umber.”

You look at him incredulously. 

“He is my friend, Cregan, it does not mean I wish to bed him.”

“Sister, you must listen!”

But you are off already, across the yard, angry tears wet on your face. They do not last long as you hastily wipe them, crystalized in the cold air they fly like diamonds to the gravel below. 

The news comes to Winterfell when House Stark is invited to the capital to represent the North at King Viserys nameday. Evidently, all the great houses are to feast in the capital, with tourneys and celebrations to last for several days. 

“Allow me to represent our house, and when I return I shall not fuss about marrying Lord Umber,” you tell him, bile rising in your throat as you panic at the thought.

Cregan senses your hesitation. Brothers are like that, sensing your lies. 

“You shall?” he asks.

You roll your eyes. 

“I shall.”

The journey to King’s Landing is long and tiresome, taking the better part of a month. Layers of clothing are shed the closer you get to the capital, as the air around you warms, snow melts and flowers bloom. It is as though you are blooming as well, pushing through the soil and towards the sun.

You are presented at court, as unwed ladies often are, to the king and the royal family. Though King Viserys is not in attendance, represented by the Hand instead. 

The first of the festivities you attend is a tourney. 

“You do not wish to participate, my prince?” you ask, out of courtesy.

“I do not care for tourneys, my lady,” the one-eyed prince tells you, “I believe them to be a foolish waste of time.”

You smile slightly at his honesty.

“They are said to prepare men for the battlefield,” you tell him, “though I do not know whose enemy would wait for his opponent to pick up his sword.”

Aemond glances at you as you take a sip from your cup. He glances at the tourney field, understanding your jest as he observes two knights waiting to fight. A flicker of a smile appears on his chiseled face.

“Most knights simply wish for the attention of those of court,” Aemonn tells you, “Fame and glory; to be a page in a song.”

“To have the favor of a pretty girl,” you agree.

Aemond looks at you once more. A pretty girl. You meet his eye, smiling. Aemond looks away quickly, clearing his throat.

“Have any of these knights won your favor, my lady?” Aemond asks.

You shake your head.

“No, I am afraid not,” you tell him, “I prefer a real warrior to a pretender.”

Aemond watches as you excuse yourself and walk away, a curious expression on his face. 

The feast later that evening is boisterous and full of merriment and delight. It makes you miss home, an ache appears in your chest that you cannot shake. No matter how many lords you dance with, how many ladies you chat with. Though you wished for an escape, you so miss the walls of Winterfell. Cregan’s hand in yours. Perhaps he is right. Perhaps the North is where you belong. Winterfell, Last Hearth. Did it matter which castle, truly?

“My lady,” the voice of Prince Aemond pulls you gently from your thoughts.

He is kind, you can tell. Though his exterior is cold, reptilian almost. Like the snakes that slither in the greenhouses of Winterfell, searching for warmth and life in the frozen ground. Simply trying to survive. Aemond bows to you, offering his hand, violet eye scanning your face. 

You want to ask him about it. But you bite his tongue. You know all too well how people enjoy poking the bruises of others, teasing out the memories of pain a person holds inside them simply for their own selfish curiosity. You shall not be like them.

You take his hand and allow him to lead you to the dance floor. You cling to the young prince for the rest of the evening, finding calm in his cool presence. It is nice, standing beside him feeling as though there is no silence you need to fill. Feeling as though he simply enjoys that you are there. 

When you return to your chambers, a blue winter rose rests its petals on your pillow. You pick up the flower, inspecting it carefully between your fingers, the cerulean petals catching the moonlight. A reminder of home.

The remainder of your visit to the capital is spent on Prince Aemond’s arm. In the library, on walks through the gardens. He even entertains your passion for hawking, joining you as you travel into the Kingswood. It is nice to have a friend among so many dragons. Someone to talk to, someone who enjoys your company. 

As the days pass, you have collected a bouquet of winter roses; they sit beside your bed in a glass vase, the first flower only just beginning to lose its petals. They scatter across your chambers like freshly fallen snow. 

A raven arrives, confirming your brother’s visit to the capital. Cregan is often impatient and comes to the conclusion that he must join his sweet sister in the capital, bringing Lord Umber with him. A determined pup, your elder brother can be. 

Aemond senses a shift within you as you wait in anticipation, though he cannot quite figure out what the cause is. When your brother arrives, you avoid his presentation at court entirely. Though Cregan is relentless, and spots you as you attempt to escape to the gardens. In your haste, you nearly run into Aemond. You clasp his arm.

“Quickly,” you say nervously, shifting on your feet, “I must go, quickly.”

“It is your brother,” Aemond says, looking over your shoulder, “why do you wish to run from him? Have you not missed him this time apart?”

Aemond knows you have been missing him, missing home. It is why he took such care with the flowers left in your chambers. He had enlisted Helaena for help; winter roses are fickle plants that require delicate care outside of the North. 

“Of course I have,” you tell him, trying but failing to hide behind his tall frame.

Aemond smiles slightly as you grab his arm. Cregan has spotted you, a determined grin on his face. Lord Umber has joined him on his journey to King’s Landing. He has brought the wedding to you. There’s nowhere to run anymore.

“Then why do you hide little wolf?” Aemond asks, chuckling.

“He wishes to marry me off,” you tell the prince, “ship me off to Last Hearth.”

Aemond’s face falls slightly, he glances over his shoulder as your brother comes closer with each passing second. Aemond turns back to you, eye scanning the distressed expression on your face. 

You bring your gaze back to the prince, an idea coming to you. 

“My prince,” you say suddenly, “do you trust me?”

Aemond frowns, not fully understanding what you are asking.

“Of course my lady-”

“Then kiss me.”

Aemond’s jaw slacks as he looks into your eyes. 

“Quickly, please,” you beg, “Aemond.”

His eye flickers from your lips to your eyes.

“Trust me,” you say softly.

The one-eyed dragon prince needs no more convincing. He bows his head to your height, and you stand on the tips of your toes, hand caressing the back of his neck bringing his lips to yours. Aemond is gentle with the kiss, as though he has never kissed someone before. He nearly pulls away after the first peck, but you secure your hand on his neck, opening your mouth against his, deepening the kiss.

Something comes alive in Aemond as you slip your tongue into his mouth. Fire curls in his belly, desire lodges at the base of his spine, and his cock strains against his trousers as your nails scrape his scalp. 

You pull away when the sound of someone clearing their throat pulls you from the prince’s trance. Lips reddened by the hasty kisses, Aemond’s violet eye is wide as it meets yours.

“Sister,” Cregan says awkwardly, “It is good-”

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lord Stark,” Aemond interrupts, nodding to the young wolf.

“Your grace,” Cregan says, bowing slightly.

“Delightful to be surrounded by kin,” Aemond tells him.

“Kin? I do not understand,” Cregan tells him.

“My betrothed has missed her brother for too long now,” Aemond clarifies, much to Cregan’s and your surprise. 

“Betrothed?” Cregan asks, looking between you two. 

“Yes,” you tell him, sliding next to Aemond, pressing your body against him, “Prince Aemond has asked for my hand. And I have accepted.”

Cregan’s eyes narrow, ever so slightly.

“Without informing me?” he asks.

“We wished to surprise you,” Aemond says softly, “your sister was so excited by your arrival, she wanted to tell you in person.”

You nod eagerly as Aemond speaks, and Cregan raises an eyebrow at you in question. You smile widely, showing too many teeth. A she-wolf, daring him to question you aloud. 

“Tis true, brother,” you tell him, “Who am I to deny a dragon prince?”

“I suppose if you did not want to, you would not,” Cregan says, sighing, “A stubborn woman, my sister is.”

“One of the many reasons she is so charming,” Aemond agrees, his words causing your heart to flutter inside your chest.

Warmth pools in your belly as the prince smiles down at you. Cregan raises an eyebrow, nodding in approval. 

“I dare ask, what else has entrapped your attention, my prince?” Cregan asks, “It is my understanding the Queen wished for you to take a wife for some time now, to no avail.”

Aemond nods.

“Your sister is a rare find, much like a winter rose south of the Wall,” Aemond begins. 

Your heart leaps in your throat. Though you had expected it, now it is confirmed. It was he who left you the flowers. He who took such care with them. 

“However, did you do it?” you ask, eyes wide. 

Aemond smiles at you knowingly. 

“Precious flowers take time to bloom, they require special care,” he tells you, “but they are well worth it.”

You flush at his words, believing he means more than just the flowers. 

“A marriage must be treated with such care as well,” you agree, lacing your fingers through his. 

Aemond’s hand is rough from training with the sword, but your hand fits perfectly in his. The warmth of his palm settles the flurry of nerves in your stomach. 

“Are you prepared to give this union such care?” Cregan asks, his voice hardening, “This is my sister you are marrying, and she deserves nothing but the best.”

Aemond smiles, looking down at your intertwined hands. His thumb rubs against the back of your palm. 

“I would gift her the world if I could,” he admits, “I promise you, I shall spend the rest of my days devoted to making her happy.”

Your eyes well with tears and your heart swells with pride at his words. You tug him closer to you, taking his other hand in yours.

“You must excuse us brother,” you tell Cregan, “though I have missed you, I require a moment with my betrothed.”

You lead Aemond away from Cregan, away from the curious eyes of court, until you are in a secluded area of the castle.

“Where are we going?” Aemond asks, a smile playing on his lips.

You tug him closer once more until you are pressed up against him.

“I wish to kiss my betrothed unwatched,” you giggle, bringing his mouth to yours once more. 

This time, you do not stop.

______________________________________________________________

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[funficwriter]

A Wolf And A Snake (Wriothesley x Reader)

A little dark fairy tale I want to write~

A/N: GOOD GOLLY I'M SO EXCITED FOR THIS! First off, let me warn you that this is a multi-chapter story. Each one gets more and more dark, this is just the light stuff (in comparison to what I have planned). I will do my best to have C2 out ASAP, but as I'm a grad student, it might be a while. But be assured that I am very excited for this story, so I'll do my best to write loads for it!

Synopsis: Being a noble meant that marriage was a chess game, not an affair of love. Unfortunately for the pristine Balthazar family of Fontaine, Y/N has long been enamored with love and sought it out before their priorities. After her grey, boring time of courtesy and fake niceness, she meets Duke Wriothesley, who makes her yearn for the first time in her life, and it's the same for him. Threatened by the idea of losing this first, it seems they'll stop at very little to be together...

Warnings for this chapter: Sexist marriage system, yandere Wriothesley, kinda OOC Wriothesley, yandere fem!reader, mention of sexual blackmailing (1)

Chapter 1: A Breakthrough

As a child, you loved reading. Your parents would worry about it, because while being articulate and cultured were good and necessary, you were still a girl of one of Fontaine's royal families. They didn't want you asking questions you should not, but all they could do was limit your selection by a margin you wouldn't doubt.

You liked fairy tales of all sorts. They were so intriguing through several concepts. The one that got the lion's share of your attention was love. So many of your stories ended the same way that made you warm and fuzzy: The girl is reunited with the boy she loves, he declares the same, and they're together forever. How sweet!

When you asked further about love, you'd get one of two answers. The first was: "Look at your mother and father. That's love.". However, it failed to satisfy you; While they were courteous to each other, and even made contact every now and then, they were so... Cold in comparison to your fairy tales. The dissonance could confuse an adult, never mind a child.

The second was: "Love is essentially your marriage! Once you're a little older, you'll have suitors competing for your hand, and one will be your love!".

Marriage. A funny little word that you so desperately wanted to understand beyond the technical definition. Being the daughter of a baron, you were practically raised with the word more than your parents telling you that they loved you. While a baron was among the lower royal titles, it was still a part of Fontainian royalty. Ergo, you had to take marriage seriously. Of course, marrying above your father's rank (cough, cough- A high-ranked Count or Duke-) was a pinnacle of success.

When you came of age, many predicted that you'd fare well. You were quite pretty, and with the elite tutoring you have received, you were poised, graceful... You were ready to socialize not as the baron's cute daughter, but as the lovely young Lady Balthazar, considering suitors.

Only, they missed one thing. That perfect girl I mentioned would care about love, but being a good girl, she'd prioritize standing, finances, power and the like beyond it. While you liked being taken care of, that wasn't enough. You wanted to marry like the girls in fairy tales. For your world being flipped upside down in the most beautiful way. For love.

------------------

"Oh, remember Baron Balthazar's little daughter? She's now a maiden!".

"I saw her! She had truly inherited her grandmother's legendary beauty! I nearly choked when I first saw her-".

"And her mind is just as gorgeous! Earlier, we got to talk about Fontainian literature. I've never met such a cultured girl her age!".

It's not like you hated the praises. The party as a whole was just that: Okay. You met many unwed nobles, each being more shocked with you. With each one, your father beamed a little brighter, your mother squealed a little higher, to the point where you started questioning if there was a time where they were this happy with you.

"The nobles are enamored. Many are Dukes or Counts! This is going better than I imagined!".

Your mother turned to you: "Well, dear? Aren't you happy? Not many maidens have the opportunity to brag about bagging such important persons as you did.".

Again, nothing wrong with the (potential) suitors in particular. Everyone was nice and well-mannered, some even interesting to talk to. You'd love to have such friends, and that was your issue; Your feelings towards them did not go beyond: "I'd like being his friend.". No spark of attraction, no coup de foudre, nothing that could kickstart the feeling of love you wanted to chase, yet seldom had an idea of. With time, this would get boring. Would you really have to marry someone you found boring?

Alas, you knew the answer deep down. Unless the best suitor was also someone you fell for, you'd be lucky to go with someone you kinda liked. As you grew older, you realized that most marriages within your class were business deals, not affairs of love. Your own mother admitted that she married your father to consolidate the union between the two families.

When you were younger, you often asked her if she loved him. She'd say 'yes' without a second thought. Now, as you were heading into this, she'd tell you: "Yes, but what does it matter next to the benefits you enjoy today?".

"Mother, can I please go grab a cupcake? I didn't eat yet.".

"Alright then! Just remember, be sociable and talk as much as you can, and eat gracefully! Just like we said, and-"

"I will, I promise!".

The last thing you felt like was another etiquette lesson. At least you had some luck with food; There was one more chocolate cupcake left, and no one else seemed interested. Perhaps it would cheer you up a bit.

Celestia works in funny ways, though. Just as you reached out for it, another gloved hand landed on its other side, immediately stopping with yours. Despite your hunger, your attention diverted to the silver glove. All the men here were nobles, so he had to be too. You never saw one wearing chains and a wolf as an insignia, of all animals.

"Oh... Forgive me, I-"

Once you heard that baritone, there was no going back. You looked up to see a man quite unlike the preppy nobles you had to entertain all night. His scarred, rough appearance enthralled you more, for it was unlike anything you ever saw. And perhaps it was out of unfamiliarity, but you thought him quite gorgeous in comparison to the others.

"Oh, erm- Good evening, my Lord! Terribly sorry if I interrupted your break...".

"...No, no. It's fine, young lady, you can have it.".

"But... Um..."

The ensuing awkwardness was unbearable, but an idea emerged into your head. You split the cupcake, making sure it didn't crumb too much, then handed him one half: "Here you go, my Lord.".

He revealed a stunned expression, as if seeing something for the first time. Then he smiled and accepted the half. The grin was the most beautiful you saw on a man. It made your heart beat faster, and despite the fall, you felt stuffy and hot in that moment.

Just what the hell was going on?

"Um... May I inquire as to who you might be?".

"Of course, young Lady Balthazar. I am Wriothesley, from the Fortress of Meropide.".

You almost choked upon hearing his name. That's Duke Wriothesley! Is he? When you heard of him, you imagined a scary, much older man who didn't socialize much. On the rare occasion he did, he'd probably be left alone, with no social opportunity. And yet here you were, sharing a cupcake with him, accepting his leaning into you to listen... Among his tousled hair, the wolf ears perked your interest, too.

"I see! Forgive my surprise. It's just that I only ever heard of you."

"Don't worry, I understand.".

He was so... Appealing. You wanted those icy eyes on you. You wanted the excitement, the joy they cause by being posed on you. The only way to do that was have his attention. So you were done with awkwardness for now, and decided to try to chat.

"So, what brings you out on this fine night, Your Grace?".

"As you see, I spend most of my time in the Fortress. I don't socialize much, but I thought I needed a change of scenery.".

"That's good for the soul, I presume. How do you feel about the festivities?".

That grin was going to be the death of you, but better that than boredom. On one hand, you hoped you wouldn't be diagnosed with palpitations by the end of the night. On the other, you'd happily have a heart attack if it meant he smiled at you more.

"I should be asking you that. You're the star of this party, are you not? As soon as I walked in, all I heard was raving about the Balthazars' youngest daughter.".

"But there are many young, pretty girls walking around. Any of them could be the lady in question. How did you know it was me?".

"Accurate descriptions. I also heard the young Lady Balthazar is of the court's most empathetic. One sharing her favorite pastry sounds like that.".

You were having such a good time with him. You couldn't help laughing: "To be fair, I wouldn't want anyone to be deprived of chocolate when it's there.".

It was his turn to chuckle.

Please never stop laughing, or talking, or breathing. Please keep leaning my way. Please keep liking chocolate so we can share. Actually, stay with me for the rest of the night. Oh Focalors, please please please let him send Father a declaration of courting, and let him approve because I don't see a ring and I don't know why I like him so much-

As you carried on friendly conversation, something in you kept the train of thought going. You liked this man a lot... More than many other men you've met. More than any other man, maybe. He was funny, for one. He had no problem eliciting laughter from you. Like all the other nobles, he liked tea and music and engaged in politics. But he asked you lots of questions and heard you out. You even tried detecting a hint of surprise or disgust that you occasionally received, had you talked too much; None was found.

The real sealer was when he liked literature. But unlike the other nobles, he didn't just read the few titles that trended or made a name. He read, and so did you.

"This is the first time I've told someone I like lycanthrope literature and received a kind response.".

"And it's my first time seeing someone be appreciative of lycanthrope artistic culture, especially the books. Have you read Tale of a Toy-Making Werewolf? What did you think of the ending?".

He was amazing. He was awesome and charming and everything good. You were about to voice out your thoughts, until you heard murmurs behind you that maybe were meant to be heard.

"Not to be judgmental, but young Lady Balthazar has spent quite a bit of time with Lord Wriothesley...".

"Earlier she talked with many other fine gentlemen, like Duke Archandelle or Count Evermore... Why is she sticking onto him, of all people? I mean, he's a fine gentleman, but you know how it looks for a maiden...".

"Hehehe! I wonder what Baron Balthazar will think of this arrangement?".

His ears perked up at the gossip, and for the first time throughout your encounter, he scowled. He couldn't do so at them, lest your name gets dragged in worse mud. He liked you a lot, too much to make you get in trouble for him. But by the stars, how he wanted to. After years of stillness, he found someone who just... Understood him. Liked him off the bat, showed promise of the greater bond he's been looking for, for years. Then here comes those stupid 'good, high class girl' rules to halt your interaction.

Celestia, he looks terrifying and gorgeous.

"Listen, if you wish to take some distance, please don't feel ashamed about it. I understand how... Ruthless the rules for socializing are for a blossoming lady.".

"No.".

Your look towards the gossipers barely lasted a minute, as if they were barely worth your gaze. You looked back up at him: "I want to stay with you, but I'm not sure how. Oh. Wait...".

You took off to your mother's, and made it a point to say hi to Count Evermore again, just for good measure. A part of you couldn't believe you were doing this, screaming at you to abort the plan. You could get in trouble if you were found out, but hey, they wanted you to meet men and marry. You wanted to marry someone you loved. Maybe with time, you could find a middle ground, starting with this action.

"Mom, I talked to Count Evermore again.".

"Wonderful, wonderful, dear! Be sure to give some attention to Duke Arya, and-".

"I will, but I might faint from the stuffy air. I just need a minute in the powder room to fix myself up.

She didn't look too pleased, half expecting this: "But you were gone just now.".

"But I socialized, and I will continue once I'm back.".

"Well, alright then. I guess you should take a minute to look nice. Be back sooner than Duke Arya leaves.".

You took off, desperate to find Wriothesley again. You had to entertain a few nobles, but did so meagerly. You didn't want them. You wanted Duke Wriothesley, Lord of the Fortress of Meropide, Keeper of Justice and (not officially but kinda by existing) Advocate for Hybrid Rights.

Speak of the devil, he appeared in your vision again. He immediately lost interest in the art in front of him. You nodded towards the door and took off before anyone else could huddle you up.

Oh. Oh, he got it. You weaseled a way and some time for you. Truly, there's more to you than what meets the eye. He loved how such an angelic-looking, (supposedly) pure noble girl could lie as such to see him. The smirk at the thought did not leave his face.

"I know the roof is pretty private, Your Grace. Let's head there.".

"Actually, there's a stop I wanted to make first. Follow me.".

You both headed off to the kitchen. You were a little confused at the choice. It was still crowded, so you could get caught. He told you to wait outside for a bit.

"Wriothesley! We could get caught here!".

This was far too amusing. Far too much.

"First, you pay more attention to one man over everyone else in the ballroom, during your own coming of age party. Then, you lie to your parents to spend extra unchaperoned time with that man. After that, you call him by his first name in the same night. You haven't ceased to surprise me, little maiden.".

Your first instinct was to be ashamed. He had a point; Your behavior was not that of the pristine lady you had to be. But when you gathered your courage and looked up, he was smiling. Any other noble would either be fuming, ready to snitch on you, or blackmailing you through... Unsavory means. He smiled like troublemakers do when they carry something out successfully.

In retrospect, that's what you were doing right now.

"We will go to the roof, but just wait for me. For a few minutes. Since you got us out, I promise you won't get caught here. I'll be quick.".

He retreated into the kitchen. Your mind barely had the time to entertain scary thoughts of getting caught, because he came back just as quick, carrying a black package. You both took off for the roof.

As soon as you got there, you both sat down. Wriothesley undid the package in front of you. Right before the contents were revealed, he couldn't help his grinning, thinking of your reaction. Just when was the last night someone made him smile this much?

"What is it?".

"Your parents ought to look into better catering for their next party.".

In the box were cupcakes, truffles, cookies and many other chocolate desserts. Dark, white, mild, you name it.

You burst out into laughter, much to his initial confusion. You laughed so hard, you could barely speak, until you caught your breath: "This is the first time I hear of a prison lord stealing sweets!".

He realized the comic element and joined in on your laughter, unsure what surprised him more: The girl underneath the 'fancy' facade, or how much fun he was having. How he missed it. How he wanted to have it everyday. It was clearer and clearer; He could make that happen, if you were his. Once he courted you, (hopefully) got your father's approval and married you, you two could laugh and have chocolate and talk about whatever the hell you wanted everyday. Until you died. Forever.

After you calmed down, you ate and talked more about books. He offered to loan you some from his own library, and you might have just been book buddies. If it weren't for you remembering your mother's 'imposed' countdown, you would have forgotten the very concept of time. What did it matter when you finally felt your heroines' red cheeks, and excitement burgeoning deep within?

"Y/N...".

"Yes?".

Both of you laid down, even if it meant risking your looks. The tiredness that took over your bodies did not stop the bullet-fire chatting between you two. However, his sudden lower tone made you feel special. All through the night, he was your 'partner in crime', and you felt like he was going to let you in on a conspiratorial secret.

"Do you have a private mailbox? Can I have your code, and you can have mine?".

The question. His rough tone. His hair, swept over his face. Above all, the fact that he wanted to talk to you further.

Your little heart burst on the spot.

YES! YES! YES, HAVE IT ALL!

"Sure. But you know, our correspondence would have to be a bit... Er, hidden. Depending on what happens.".

"I'll be forward. I don't think I can carry on without the contact I had tonight. In this one night, I had so much fun, I found what I was looking for for years. I know you found me stealing sweets rather comical, but believe me, I have long renounced petty crime.".

"I noticed. Wouldn't it have been easier to just buy them? Or ask the chef? I mean, you're a Duke, I doubt they can refuse you.".

"Perhaps. Though I'll be honest, I partly did it because you looked so sad when they ran out of chocolate.".

Once again, you laughed. It was such a trivial matter, but it had you thinking; If he cares this much about it, what would he do for greater ones?

He stood up and held out his hand to help you. One more look at the stars prompted his thoughts.

"I'll be sending Baron Balthazar a declaration of courting. While I may be a little different from the other nobles he may be expecting, I am still a Duke, and an important component of Fontaine's justice. I'm sure that will help me. And then... We can meet more. That's a good start.".

"Wriothesley... Please, please do. Tonight was nothing short of magical. If we can make it happen, I'll be the happiest girl in all of Fontaine. And I promise I'll be a good wife, and-".

He chuckled: "Slipping back into your manners, I see."

Only when you made it back and went your separate ways, so as to not cause suspicion, did your heart fill up with your usual boredom and gloom. He was not by your side anymore. Soon enough, Duke Arya gave you his boring talk of how gorgeous you are and his accomplishments. Like all the other men, nothing like Wriothesley. You only saw him once more, where he barely paid attention to you.

If looks could kill, Duke Arya would have been mutilated on the floor. You thought you saw him angry at the gossipers, that was nothing. No, this was all the rage, all the offense that could only be expressed by something beyond human. His hands clenched until a loud 'CLANG!' could be heard across the roof. Wine, glass and a bit of blood fell onto the floor.

"Lord Wriothesley broke a glass!".

"Well, he's not entirely human, is he? I hear... His kind are prone to these things.".

That barely mattered to Duke Arya, and less him. He couldn't have cared less before he started talking to you. Now that he took your eyes, your words, all of you, he was only a bit worse than the criminals at the Fortress. Much later did he calm down and remind himself that one way or another, no man would be crassly taking you away from him.

[inkblot22]

Can You Keep A Little Secret 3

Someone call somebody, because Epel beat my ass while I was writing this chapter. I thought I had it drafted perfectly and then I reread what I had and was like what is this?? So this is maybe the most edited thing on this blog, hooray! Real talk, though, his rabbit suit is the cutest thing ever and I want to put flowers in his hair. Dividers by @/cafekitsune.

This fic is aimed towards sort of everyone, but the reader possesses afab features. This is important in this chapter, but as it is a reincarnation fic, the fic is aimed at anyone who can handle it. Reader is referred to with they/them pronouns!

TW for threatening behavior, mention of death, violence (reader gets tossed around a bit), strangulation, semi-shy reader, AFAB reader, NONCON, DEAD DOVE, DO NOT EAT, pregnancy mention, degrading language used towards reader

Link to previous chapter here!

Epel doesn’t even mention it. You keep your interactions professional, go over your lines at home, and this proceeds for the first week. 

He’s called you a few times, sent a few messages. You changed his name in your phone to “Epel Fucko.” It makes you giggle, at least. That’s about the only funny thing.

Over the week, you ignore every single call and message from Epel. On Thursday, it feels like he’s finally gotten the message, since he stops trying. When he’s at work with you, the two of you are hardly alone, if ever. He’s as sweet as pie as long as there’s at least one pair of outward eyes on your interactions. You sleep alright on Thursday and Friday.

As usual, on the weekend, your new mother comes by, but this time she isn’t alone. She’s got groceries with her, and attached to the groceries is Epel, who she seems absolutely taken with. She’s beaming as she walks in, and when you go to help her with dinner, she shoos you away.

“Go entertain your guest! I can handle myself in here.”

He’s not your guest, but you don’t want to find out what she’s like when she’s annoyed, so you go to the living room, making sure you’re seated within sight of the kitchen. The apartment isn’t big, but you’re not taking any chances.

Epel smiles sweetly at you and shows you his palm, “Lemme see your phone?”

“Why?”

“You ain’t been picking up. Just wanna make sure I don’t gotta get you a new one.”

“It’s not broken.”

Epel’s face twitches, that little microexpression that you notice but can’t observe. He smiles and leans back, resting his ankle on his knee.

“I get it.” You’re certain he doesn’t, but you don’t get the chance to retort when he continues speaking in that overly-innocent tone of voice, “Your mom’s real sweet.”

You have half a mind to think that might be a threat, but surely it couldn’t be. Threats are for fantasy stories, best left in books of espionage and diplomacy and magic. You nod, sighing.

“I think I’d be dead without her, haha.”

“Mmm.” Epel hums, as though he’s disinterested, and changes the subject, “It’s odd to see you not all dolled up.”

“Uh…”

“It’s nothing bad. I think it’s a good change, really. All of this is.”

“Thank… you?” You don’t know how to respond to any of this.

“You’re welcome.” He glances at the wall and squirms in his seat, “You, uh, haven’t replaced your television yet.”

You didn’t know you had a television. It dawns on you, as you shake your head, that Epel could literally have made up anything and is testing you, but you shake that thought off. It’s more ridiculous than the idea of him threatening your mother. 

Speaking of, she exits the kitchen with some amazing looking stir-fry. She hands you your plate and frowns at your proximity to where Epel is sitting.

“You can sit closer. I don’t judge. My, it almost makes me miss your father… and then I remember what he’s like, ahaha!” She jokes, walking back into the kitchen.

Epel smiles, but he’s looking at your plate. He looks confused.

Your mother fills the air with chatter. Since you don’t know much about her, it’s very welcome. At least her talking gives you a distraction from the unwanted guest in your home.

You don’t know why Epel decided to visit you today. Well, slight correction- you do know, you just don’t understand his audacity. What gave him the right to barge in like this, especially after you were very deliberately ignoring him?

Your mother heaves a sigh and gathers the dishes, “Well, let me clean up and then I’ll get out of your hair.”

You stand up and try to help with the dishes, half-hoping to convince the woman to take Epel with her when she leaves, but she shoos you out of the kitchen again. It figures that you’ll have to face your problem head on.

Epel looks about as comfortable as can be, sitting on your couch. He has a tendency to look somewhat stiff in public, but right now he’s leaned back, his legs spread and his toes wiggling in his socks. His eyebrows tick upwards as you stop right in front of him.

You swallow warily, “Uh, it’s getting sort of late.”

“It is.”

You know he understood what you meant. You can’t really trust your mother to be on your side here, however, so you refrain from telling him to stop acting smart, “Yeah, uh… early morning tomorrow?”

As Epel smirks at you as though you’ve just told a very adorable joke, your mother breezes out of the kitchen, “Ta ta, kids! Don’t have too much fun without me!”

About as soon as the door closes, you feel like you need to leave if Epel won’t. Although common sense would tell you not to poke the bear, you don’t have much of a choice, “Epel, it’s time for you to leave.”

Epel doesn’t respond, not immediately. He flexes his hands, cracks his knuckles, and rests his ankle on his knee before his lips quirk into a smile, “You remember the last time we were alone like this?”

The words freak you out more than they have a right to. You can feel your face cycling through various expressions- you’re confused, you’re scared, you’re angry, you’re distressed- and Epel laughs.

“I know you don’t.” He says, standing up. He’s not much taller than you, but he’s somehow looking down the bridge of his nose at you. “If you did, you’d have left with your ma.”

You don’t like that smug, smirky look on his face. You don’t like the way he acts, you don’t like the way he treats you. You don’t like him, point blank period. Your eyes narrow and your lip curls, and you can’t help the scowl, “You know, you’re right. Have fun in my apartment, Epel.”

You take two steps back from him and fight back a shiver when he begins giggling. You walk backwards towards the door and he just watches you, laughter peppering the air. As soon as you have your back against the door and your hand on the knob, his laughter dies down and he sighs.

“‘Course.” He drawls, taking a step forward. “I mean… any pretty thing like you would probably not want to be in a room with me after what I did to you.”

“Wh-what?”

Epel’s eyes narrow in some slight disbelief, “You really don’t remember?”

“I-”

His expression twists a little further, then smooths into neutrality. He hums, thoughtful, “What college did I go to?”

You furrow your eyebrows, twisting the knob a little bit. Epel’s expression grows more and more confused.

“Hmm. Somethin’s off about you. Has been for a little while now.” He mumbles, shapely lavender eyebrows furrowed.

“N-no, I’m me, I just-”

“How long have we known each other?”

You don’t have an answer. You have no answer. You balk and Epel grabs you by your collar and drags you away from the door. You kick and struggle, clawing at his hands, but he’s unfortunately stronger than he looks as he dumps you on the floor of your bathroom then crouches to get in your face.

And then he’s standing and scrubbing a hand down his face, his back to you as he mumbles to himself. He stalks to the mirror and wrenches it open. You didn’t even know it did that.

“You only took one.” His voice is cold, and he turns to pin you with a glare, “But you’re acting a lot better than you was.”

“O-one what? Epel, you’re scaring me. I’m gonna call the cops.”

Epel laughs in your face and stalks towards you. His posture is all wrong, he looks like some kind of feral animal, and then he grips the front of your shirt and yanks, “What would you tell them? I’d love to know.”

“Y-you’re threatening my wellbeing by acting erratic!”

He looks unimpressed, jostling you once, “I’m acting erratic? I used to be the polite one! And now you… you don’t got none of your memories and you’re sweeter’n pie. People don’t change like that, honey, not without a little help. You’re smart enough to know that.”

“What are you talking about? What did you pull out of the medicine cabinet?” Your voice is warbling, like you’re trying to speak to the tune of a theremin.

Epel shoves you back, your back hitting the bathtub, before picking a weekly pill case out of the medicine cabinet. His slender fingers pull out a pearlescent pill from the case and hold it up to the vanity so the light frames it. He’s very picturesque, but this isn’t something sweet or wonderful. You’re absolutely certain he’s going to fuck you up tonight, and you don’t know how you’re going to get out of this yet. You shuffle so you’re standing, and Epel turns to you, an eerie smile on his pretty face. He’s in-between you and the door.

“Do you know what these are?” He shows you the pill.

You shake your head. You don’t know what that is. Epel clucks his tongue and mockingly pouts.

“This,” He takes a step forward and places the pill in his palm, looking down at it, “is what your daily multivitamin looks like. I remember, because you made a big deal about it when you were first put on them. Do you remember?”

You don’t answer. It’s not like you needed to, really, since Epel is once again carrying the conversation.

“Of course you don’t. The self-centered brat I know would never miss an opportunity to make themselves prettier at the cost of actual beauty. And you are not the self-centered brat I knew. You’re someone else.”

“I-”

“Don’t worry. Let me finish, and then I’ll tell you what we’re gonna do.” He shows you the pill again. “This is not your daily multivitamin. If you were the person who lived here, the one I’ve known for five some-odd years, you would also know that I went to NRC.”

“The mage school?” You ask blankly.

“Mmm-hmm. Very good. I was placed in Pomefiore. It’s a dorm there, bunch’a frills and shit, all obsessed with beauty… and poison.”

“Y-you-”

“Ah-ah! I ain’t done, sugar. Now, I knew something fishy was going on when you weren’t wearing a pound of makeup last week, but I figured it was what I intended to be a… soothing powder, of sorts, at work. Now that I know you ain’t been taking them, well…”

“Y-you poisoned them?”

Epel’s eyes narrowed sharply at you. Normally his features are very soft and welcoming, but his piercing blue gaze is nothing but dangerous now. “So you admit it.”

It’s not a question. It’s a blunt statement, the only fluctuation in his voice having been placed there by his accent. You inch along the wall and he turns to watch you. As you reach the door, you think he’s maybe going to lunge at you, but instead he delicately covers his mouth and snickers. His shoulders shake and he begins to giggle, which evolves into full blown hysterical laughter.

You twist the handle and over-estimate, falling a bit backwards as the door swings open. If you survive tonight, your neighbors are going to be pissed. You quickly scramble to your feet and rush for your phone. There is no house phone here, and you wonder why you didn’t bring your cellphone with you when you went to the door.

You don’t make it to the living room, since Epel tackles you to the floor. His laughter echoes in your apartment like some kind of haunting song, the tolling of the bells before a funeral. You shriek, your eyes filling with tears as his arm curls around your neck.

“E-Epel, I’m sorry, I’m sorry that whoever I was acted mean to you, I’m sorry, please don’t hurt me-”

His laughter rises, “Shut the hell up and stay still.”

You do as he says, despite you wanting to keep pleading, because his arm has constricted around your throat and you’re choking. The guttural noises escaping you are a combination of your terrified sobs and broken gasps for air. Epel wrestles you so you’re standing and then drags you into your bedroom, shoving you so you’re splayed out on the rug next to your bed.

“I always dreamed of seeing you… the real you with that cute look on your face, the one that screams, ‘Oh, help me! Anyone, save me!’ Distress. Like your little heart is breaking.” He straddles you and puts his hand over your face, grinning. “I always wanted to see you like this. Too bad you’re just the unfortunate bystander to years of rivalry, huh? Guess it makes sense that you seemed spacey.”

“E-Epel- Epel, p-please don’t do this. I’ll leave you alone, I promise, I-”

“What is ‘this’?” His voice is teasing, a cruel little smirk on his face as he leans so his hands are cuffing your wrists to the floor. “What do you think I’m gonna do?”

“Y-you’re gonna kill me again…?” You sound so small. Like a mouse, or something of the like.

Epel covers his mouth again as he laughs, eyes shutting in mirth and then he leans close to your ear. You can hear him moving, hear the saliva in his throat as he swallows, and the moisture on his breath hits your ear, making your skin prickle, “Do you want me to kill you again?”

You shake your head, desperate for this second chance at life. You already died, and there was nothing until you woke up. You didn’t even realize it, thinking you were just asleep before. You’re stressed out, but you want the chance for things to get better.

“Mmm. Good.” Epel draws back a bit and places his hands on your waist, his thumbs pushing a bit too hard against your skin, “Here’s what we’re gonna do, honey. I am going to fuck you-”

“No! No, no, no, please-”

Epel smacks the rest of your plea out of your mouth. Your cheek stings and he lowers his hand, smiling sweetly, “As I was saying, I am going to fuck you until we both know you’re pregnant. We’re going to announce that we’re together, we’re going to be together. Because you’re not who I knew, I like you more than the person I knew, and you need me anyway.”

You sob, your voice loud as Epel braces a hand around your neck and makes quick work of your shorts. You squirm and wriggle and he uses the other hand to drag up your shirt, pinching your nipple before he pants and starts pulling his slacks open.

“You need me, you know that? I’m the only one who knew the real you, the you before your little accident.” Something burning hot presses against your thigh, and you shudder, “Do you understand? Tell me you love me if you understand.”

“N-no, no, please, Epel, I don’t-”

“You don’t what?” He seethes, angling his hips and pressing against your entrance, “You don’t understand or you think you’re gonna be okay on your own out here? Those other motherfuckers, they don’t give a damn about you. I’m giving you a chance to heal your public image, bitch. You’d best take it.”

You don’t get the chance to hysterically decline, as Epel slams into you with a lusty grunt. He stays still for a moment and you hear your voice before you realize you’re speaking.

“-this to me? Why are you doing this? Why are you doing this to me?” You babble, your tears making your voice thready. Epel flexes the hand around your neck and you stop talking.

“I always thought you was pretty. You know that?” He almost sounds vulnerable, but the wild look in your eyes and the sudden jerk of his hips makes you remember that Epel is not someone to think of in a positive light, in any capacity. Pity counts. 

He moans and lets his arms loose, his entire body still casing you in as he rests his forehead on the plush rug you’re sprawled on, his hips undulating as he snickers meanly, “Always thought your personality was shit, though. Mmm, I like you so much better like this.”

He’s hot, on top of you. His body temperature is making you uncomfortable, and you’re not sure if that’s your sweat or his sweat that’s dampening your skin. His fingers are a shocking cold, however, as they come up to harshly tweak your nipple.

You yelp, coming back to yourself and squirming again. He sits up so he can clamp a hand around your throat again. The lights are all still on, the room is bright and although there’s a shadow clinging to his front, you can see Epel’s features plain as day. His hair is a mess, it must have fallen out of the tie he had it in. The lavender waves spiral over his pretty face like an ornate picture frame. His cheeks are a pink that would maybe be cute if he wasn’t trying to forcefully fuck a baby into you.

Like always, Epel looks like he’s maybe about to cry. His eyebrows are furrowed, his lips clamped unnaturally tight, his eyes glistening. But behind the shine in his eyes, behind the rosy cheeks and the upset expression, there’s an eerie air of disturbia.

He releases your throat for a moment, then clamps it down again, watching your skin ripple with the force of his thrusts, “I don’t want to kill you. I didn’t want to kill you the first time. So you are going to have to do something for me, so I don’t decide to kill you.”

You gasp, choking for air. Epel tilts his head and smiles, looking more worried than conniving.

“You need to stay still. You don’t have to enjoy it. It’s more about my pleasure anyhow.”

You hate him. You thought you disliked him, but as you nod so he’ll stop strangling you, you decide that you hate this man, you loathe every fiber of his being and the very thought of having his child makes you long for death again. This second chance is not worth this.

Epel coos and kisses your tear-streaked cheek, then lets your throat go, bracing his hands around your head. He’s framing your face as he smirks down at you, his hips rutting into yours. His eyes narrow a bit and he reaches down to tilt your hips further up, one of his hands hooking in the crook of your knee, which he presses as far up as he can go. 

And then he bows his head and lets out a whisper of a groan, his hips stuttering to a stop. You shiver and cry, feeling somehow numb despite being overly aware of every single touch on your body. You feel the carpet beneath you, but you don’t. You feel Epel’s weight on you, but you can’t. You can hear yourself crying, you feel Epel’s lips peppering your face, kissing the tears away, but you refuse to live in this moment.

Epel gets off of you and stretches, then starts unbuttoning his shirt and rolls his slacks the rest of the way off, but leaves his socks on. He hums to himself as he walks out into the main area of the apartment, leaving you in a heap and alone in the bedroom.

He returns with a pair of mugs, one of his cold hands rubbing your belly as he smiles down at you and puts the mugs down.

“Don’t tell me you’re all spent, sugar. It hardly ever takes on the first try. We’ve got another few rounds before we can go to bed.”

You can’t respond.

[just-a-repa]

For some reason i have made a modern disaster lineage AU

This is part 1

Next part

First we have Jocasta and Dooku:

They were both born in 1922, (i used the actors birth date as reference, I just de-aged Jo a bit to fit into the norms of those days more) Dooku into a wealthy family, and Jo into a lower middle class one. Dooku is bisexual and Jo is straight

Quick disclaimer: sorry if 1 got anything wrong historically, corrections are welcome!

Dooku's family was pretty abusive and he had some serious problems with his sexuality, but he got a good education and managed to get away from his family

Jo started working as a nurse after school. She dated a man and had Rael at 24. Being pregnant outside of marriage was unacceptable, so the guy fled and Jocasta was sent into a maternity home. If someone is unfamiliar with them, they were horrible places for unwed mothers so they could deliver their baby in secret. They were often very isolating, verbally abusive and made women do chores. Fortunately Jo got out of that place. but got into serious dept while trying to search for a home. Soon after that she met Dooku and 1-2 years later they got married

Dooku's family repudiated him because of the marriage, so they were left with no financial support. When Rael was 6 years old. they had Qui-Gon, and he was a much more peaceful birth for Jo. Dooku was a literature and politics teacher at a university and Jo worked 2 jobs as a librarian and a waitress so they could pay off that dept mentioned. (Ik university teachers have really good paychecks, but let's say Dooku didn't get that much because of discrimination or something similiar)

Because of Jo working 2 jobs, it was Dooku who majorly took care of the kids and made dinner when he got home. Their relationship was really healthy compared to the norm of that time, they both took part in housework and childcare. They weren't perfect parents, and the influence of that time certainly showed on them, but they tried their very best

Also they were both smokers cuz after what they have been through who wouldn't lmao

[whataperfectwasteoftime]

No Net Ensnares Me

**co-written with @littlebirdsbookshelf**

Pairing: Victorian!Marcus Pike x f!reader 

Rating: Explicit (smut, 18+ only)

Word count: 20k!!!

Warnings: Arranged marriage AU; strangers to spouses to lovers; period-typical views on women, virginity, marriage, and sex; YEARNING, oh so much yearning; Marcus being a dumbass; smut: fingering, virgin!reader, unprotected PIV sex

Authors Note:  The title comes from, no surprises here, Jane Eyre. The book mentioned in this fic, The Transmission of Life, is a real book published in 1873 and is just as hilarious as it sounds. The full pdf is available online if you ever wish to cringe at what is essentially Victorian era sex-ed for men. **Happiest of birthdays to my co-writer, who spent her birthday spending time getting this amaaaaaaaaazing fic ready to post!**

Penny's Masterlist | Morgan's Masterlist

Splash! 

You wince as water hits your skirts before you have the chance to pull them up and out of the way.

Mother isn't going to want to see another dress with mud stains.

It's not your fault–if you could simply wear short trousers like your younger brother, Edward, does in the summer, you could avoid the problem altogether. If he were just a little bit wider in the hips, you could probably steal some. Next summer, perhaps. 

The water burbling in the small stream on the property is cool and refreshing, and the rush of the current makes such a pleasant, soothing sound as it cascades over the little pebbles. You pick one up–a flat, smooth one. You'd once seen Father teach Edward to skip stones, but when you had asked to learn, he had gently chastised you that it wasn't proper. You toss the stone in the same manner you remember seeing them do, but it simply plunks into the water with a small splash, not even skipping once.

With a little huff of laughter, you sit on one of the large boulders on the side of the stream and wiggle your toes around in the water. This is where you feel most at peace. Not at finishing school, where you were forced to endure hours upon hours of dance, embroidery, sewing, and etiquette lessons. Nor at home, where your mother seems to follow you about looking for faults to critique and your father spends all of his attention on raising Edward to be the next man of the house.

No, despite the relentless and unending teasing you’ve endured for it at the hands of your finishing school peers, you feel most at home when you are running free through the woods or cooling your bare feet in the water.

Most unbecoming! 

The words ring loud and clear in your brain, and in your mother’s voice, no less. You aren’t sure why she’s so ridiculously concerned with raising you up to marry off–not when Edward will surely continue in your father’s footsteps, carrying on the family legacy. Besides, you’re quite a few years past marrying age, now, and if your betrothal was so very important, wouldn’t they have shipped you off to the first man that would have you?

You smile wickedly to yourself. Perhaps the problem is that there is no man that would have you. 

Feral creature, your headmistresses had thrown the accusation like so many embroidery needles through fabric. Unmarriageable. Unmanageable. Horrid and brash, like a boy. 

Well, if the shoe fits… you’re happy to languish as an old maid–why, soon you’ll have aged enough to earn the label of eccentric! You snort. An old maid. At twenty-eight. You’ve hardly even left your county; let alone seen anything of the world. You’ve done nothing, traveled nowhere, not even attended university, because such things were ‘not for ladies of your station.’

No, you are quite fine remaining unwed. Being someone’s wife was just one more way for them to entrap you.

Upon your return to the house, your parents are waiting for you in the sitting room just inside the front hall.

"Excellent news, sweetling," your father says as you enter, brandishing a letter. "We’ve had a letter from The Earl! The Pikes have agreed to the union of our two families in marriage."

"Fifteen seems rather young, does it not?" you comment, shooting a look at Edward, who sticks out his tongue. "Not very husbandly behavior, brother."

"Silly child," your mother scolds, never one to find humor in any situation, "the Pikes have only one child; a son. You are to be married to Lord Marcus Pike in a fortnight."

"A fortnight?" The words are practically shrieked as you whirl around to face your parents. 

"Don't shout so, dearest," your mother adds, a false sweetness in her words. 

"He's a good man by all accounts," your father interjects. "Well bred, and of course dreadfully wealthy. It will be a good match for our families."

"Am I to be a meal ticket?" you ask, your voice quieter as you come to grips with the gravity of the situation.

"Sweetling," your father begins, but you back away, horrified. 

"Don't 'sweetling' me," you snap. "Where was my input in any of this? Don't I deserve to know my… my…"

"Fiancé," your brother finishes, unhelpfully.

"I don't know what he looks like," you say. "I don't even know how old he is."

"He's…" your mother glances at the letter again, "eight and thirty."

"And unmarried? What's wrong with him?" you demand.

"Now, now, sweetling. There's nothing wrong with the man."

"How do you know? Have you met him?"

"I–" Your father searches for an answer, but can't seem to find one. 

"We'll all have met in a fortnight," your mother interjects. "So it hardly matters, discussing such things now."

"It matters to me," you mutter. Gathering your skirts in one hand, you start for the stairs. 

"Dearest," Mother cries. "Your skirts!"

"They'll wash," you snap. "I've got bigger things to worry about now, don't I?"

You tramp up the stairs in a huff, ready to throw yourself onto your bed and scream into your pillow, wallowing in the unfairness of it all, but just before you throw the door shut, your mother is there, having followed you.

"I would like to rest–" you offer weakly.

"I feel the need to warn you," she says, pushing past your protest, "that this kind of unladylike behavior will not be appropriate for a married woman of your status. You cannot run about the woods like a feral animal; you will have responsibilities. Duties. We have not yet spoken, you and I, of what it is to please a husband–"

"And we won't begin now," you interrupt. "Mother, I'm tired. I wish to lie down."

You don’t wait for her to leave before collapsing inelegantly on your bed and burying your face in the covers. Blessedly, she says nothing more, leaving you to sulk in your misery.

Married. To a man you’ve never even met. Realistically, you knew this day would come, eventually. At the age of twenty-eight, being unwed was starting to be an unusual condition. All of your peers have been wives for quite some time; most of them already surrounded by children. You suppose you should be grateful to your parents for waiting this long–although you know that part of their apparent difficulty in finding a match was directly caused by your advancing years. The last prospect had declined your father’s offer and had instead asked for the hand of your neighbor’s daughter–who was not yet even twenty years!

You have to admit, that one stung a little–even if you felt nowhere near ready to be someone’s wife. The weight of that responsibility has always felt so suffocating, when all you ever wanted to do was be yourself. You wonder if any other wives ever have the urge to run through the woods at night, wiggle their toes in the middle of a mud puddle, or lay in the grass and stare at the stars.

You’re sure that your betrothed would not want a wife who behaved in such a way.

You create an image in your mind of the man you’re to marry. He must be objectionable, in some way, to have remained a bachelor for so long. Perhaps he’s disfigured, or his breath is horrid, or… oh God–what if he’s cruel?

You shake the thought away–too horrifying to think of. 

With an anxious mind and heavy heart, you manage to fall asleep.

“Straighten your back.”

“I’ve been sitting in a cramped carriage for over three hours,” you remark, trying not to clench your jaw in irritation at your mother’s reminder.

“Well, you’re not in one now, so do try and act like it, dearest.”

You grit your teeth and put an exaggerated curve in your spine, sticking your chin up and looking haughtily down your nose as you, your parents, and your brother walk up the stairs to the manor house currently occupied by Lord Pike, the only son of the Earl of Tennesley.

Lining either side of the stairs are the home’s staff, each bowing and curtsying as you pass them. At the front door, a large contingency awaits–his parents, you presume, perhaps some relatives, and there, standing at the front of the group, is a man.

At first glance, there’s nothing outwardly objectionable about him, as you had feared. He’s dressed smartly in a black frock coat, a maroon waistcoat, and a tie of damask silk neatly centered under his crisply starched collar. As your eyes dart over his figure a second time, you notice the gold albert chain glinting at the left side of his waist, and an amber tie pin tucked neatly below the knot. He’s tall, but not overly so, with dark brown hair that seems to be doing everything it can to escape its styling. As you warily march up the stairs, your feet seeming heavier with every step, you can make out his features. His lips are soft and plush, his eyes dark as he watches your approach. He might be a decade your senior, but his looks are still boyish and youthful. 

He stands rigidly and formally: his arms ramrod straight at his sides, and his chin lifted. His jaw is tense, but you can see the flicker of nervousness in his eyes–an anxiety that matches your own.

It disappears quickly as you walk the final steps to come face to face with him, so much so that you suddenly wonder if you’d simply imagined it in the first place, projecting your own feelings onto the face of a stranger.

The man steps forward to meet you, stiffly extending his hand and clearing his throat. 

“What a privilege and an honor it is to meet you,” he intones, his tone just as uptight as the rest of him. 

For a moment, you’re frozen to the spot–until your mother elbows you in the ribs, hitting the boning of your too-tight corset and making you inhale sharply; it causes you to remember yourself and your manners.

“I am grateful for your generous hospitality, Lord Pike,” you say, your formal tone barely recognizable to your own ears. You extend a gloved hand for him to take, and he does–clasping it gently and drawing it to his lips for a soft kiss.

You drop your eyes, unable to look directly at the action.

“Marcus, please,” he says, much more quietly this time, and without the unbearable rigidity from before. “We are to be wed, after all.”

You don’t know what to say to the man, so you say nothing. 

The two of you stand in silence, almost daring one another to speak first.

“What lovely grounds,” your mother says cheerfully beside you. “So many delightful flowers.”

Lord Pike–Marcus–awkwardly clears his throat for the second time. When he speaks, his voice is formal again, and a touch too loud.

“I had tea prepared for us in the drawing room,” he announces. “You’ve come a long way, you must be in need of refreshment.”

“How very lovely,” you answer, imitating and even exaggerating the man’s too-formal tone. If Marcus notices your mocking, he doesn’t show it, but your mother shoots you a look of warning.

Flanked by your parents, you follow your betrothed to an ornate sitting room. At first, you head straight for one of the single chairs, but at your mother's stern look, you reluctantly sink down onto a loveseat–one whose other cushion is already occupied by one Lord Pike.

He smiles at you, but something about it seems disingenuous. 

"Lovely weather, is it not?"

"I find it rather disagreeable," you answer stiffly, even though the sun is shining and the temperature mild.

"Dreadful," Marcus amends, seemingly wanting to agree with whatever you say. "It smells of rain."

"According to the almanac, it won't rain for another week at least," you counter. 

"Quite true. Tea?" he asks, holding out a delicate cup that looks comically small in his hand.

You take the proffered teacup but don't drink. 

"What sorts of activities interest you?" he asks, with the air of someone who isn't actually interested in the answer.

"I find the process of setting water to boil quite enthralling," you remark, still using the same artificially formal tone. "I like to trim the hedges in the garden by picking one leaf at a time. And you?" You smile sweetly at your betrothed, who looks entirely confused.

"I… I enjoy reading," he stammers, "taking walks of the evening." He glances over at his own father. "Hunts, of course."

"How exhilarating," you gush. "Snuffing the life out of unsuspecting animals sounds thrilling."

Edward snorts into his tea. You don't dare venture a glance at your own parents, who must surely be wondering if the arrangement was going to end within the first five minutes of meeting.

Your brother, on the other hand, delights in Marcus’ apparent anxiety with a sardonic grin.

“So, Marcus, I hear you have traveled the continent quite extensively?” Edward asks with an air of geniality. Beside him on the settee, you try to force a grin down. You know where his line of questioning is headed, having fallen into the same trap yourself many times over. 

“Yes,” Marcus nods, “In that part of the globe, I’ve traveled quite extensively through much of France, Germany, Italy, and the middle east” 

“Ah, then you must be quite excited to hear we’ve been linked to the continent by telephone!” 

Marcus pales, fidgeting surreptitiously with his shirt-cuff. “I can’t say I was aware of that.” 

“It was in the paper at least this last fortnight!” Edward exclaims, feigning surprise and pointedly ignoring the heavy stare of your father from the other side of the room. 

“Well, I…” Marcus fumbles as that steadfast exterior of his cracks for just a moment, revealing the anxiety beneath. In mere seconds, he recovers his constitution, his expression blank and amiable once again. “I am afraid I haven’t spent as much time as I ought on events as of late, though I will be sure to rectify that.” 

“No matter, no matter,” Edmund smiles, putting on the air of a man much older than his years, as is his talent. “You are a very busy man, I’m sure.” 

“Indeed,” Marcus nods, watching you and your brother briefly lock eyes before quickly returning your gazes to your plates. 

"The church in the village, that shall be the venue of the wedding, correct?" your mother interrupts, attempting to salvage the conversation before the table falls into silence. 

"Indeed," Mrs. Pike responds. "It has been decorated handsomely for the occasion, of course."

The two women start their own conversation regarding tomorrow's ceremony, leaving you and Marcus to fall silent. 

"Does the tea not suit you?”

You frown and look over at your betrothed. “Pardon?”

“You have not taken a single sip.”

You stare down at the liquid in the too-ornate cup. In the comfort of your own home, you enjoy sitting by the window and looking out over the garden, a steaming cup of tea in your lap. Here, however, the thought of drinking anything this rigid man gives you turns your stomach.

“I hate tea,” you lie.

Marcus blinks dumbly, taken off-guard by your blunt statement. After a split second of staring, he recovers; he schools his expression back into aloof disinterest. “I sincerely apologise for the misunderstanding. I can have some coffee brought up, or some hot water with lemon. I can arrange for milk–”

“No.”

At your interruption, he falls silent, and doesn’t attempt to speak to you again for the rest of the afternoon. 

When evening falls, you and your family are shown to the guest wing of the manor. You’ll sleep here tonight, but tomorrow… you shudder. Tomorrow, you’ll be sleeping in the bed of a man you barely know, on the night of your marriage.

You lie awake, staring at the ceiling. Edward is already snoring, and your parents’ breaths are deep and even with sleep as well–all three of them apparently unconcerned and unbothered by the fact that, two days from now, they shall ride away in their carriage, leaving their oldest child in the arms of a stranger.

You do not know how long you drift, prisoner to your own rapidly-swirling thoughts, but when sleep finally claims you, your dreams are likewise disquieting.

Your body doesn’t feel like your own. You’re an outside observer, looking down on the girl–woman–in an ornate white dress. 

Part of your lightheadedness, you suppose, is the fault of the corset underneath–laced perhaps a bit tighter than medically recommended. That, combined with the suffocating silk fabric of the wedding dress and the weight of the veil on your head, and you’re hotter and more uncomfortable than you’ve ever felt in your life.

You stand outside the doors to the church like a statue, your expression as grey and somber as stone, when your mother joins you.

“They’re nearly ready,” she explains. “The organist was late.”

You nod, about to place your hand on the door handle, when she stops you.

“Wait. We didn’t talk about—about your duties, about what you should come to expect tonight.”

“Mother–” you mutter, shaking your head, but she continues.

“Please,” she says, her voice softer than you’ve ever heard, making you frown and look at her face–which is etched with concern. “I want you to be prepared. I want you to understand and expect that there will be pain, so that you do not react unfavorably in the moment.”

“Pain?” you repeat, the nerves you didn’t think could grow any higher reaching a crescendo–and just moments before you’re to walk down the aisle.

“It won’t always be painful,” your mother adds. “It may not be enjoyable, but in time, you will come to appreciate it.”

“If it’s not enjoyable, then why do people do it?” you ask pointedly, arching an eyebrow and glowering in her direction.

“He will find it to be enjoyable,” she explains gently. “And it’s your duty as a wife to please your husband.”

With that, she ushers you–stunned and open-mouthed–through the church doors to meet your fate.

The cacophony of the organ is drowned out by your heart hammering in your ribcage as you slowly walk down the aisle. Your betrothed is already there, of course, and staring intently with those deep brown eyes of his. As you enter the room, his lips part almost of their own accord, and he looks almost stunned to see you. 

His gaze is intolerable–boring into you as you turn and face him at the dias, and you wish you could tell him to look somewhere else. The preacher speaks, but you don’t hear the words over the rushing of blood in your ears. Your chest hurts, the top of your too-tightly fitted corset digging into your ribs and your hips painfully, and above all else, you’re simply angry. 

You recite your vows in a monotone, staring blankly at Marcus’s chest as the ceremony proceeds. You don’t even realize the officiant has said the words “man and wife” until Marcus–your new husband–squeezes your hands to get your attention.

“We’re supposed to kiss,” he announces, as if you didn’t understand how a wedding worked.

“Yes,” you agree flatly, but remaining where you are and not stepping closer at all. In the end, Marcus is the one who moves, stepping forward to press a stiff, chaste kiss on your unpuckered lips. 

And just like that, you’ve become somebody’s wife.

You don’t know how you’re supposed to eat anything, trussed up the way you are. You barely have room for air, let alone any of the mountains of food on the table in front of you. You push some potatoes around your plate with your fork, listening to Marcus make unbearable small-talk with your father. His mother and yours are deep in a discussion about embroidery, and your brother is telling Marcus’s father about his schooling. You’re the only one without a conversation partner.

"Is the food not to your liking?"

It takes you longer than usual to realize someone is speaking to you. You glance up and realize that your new husband is watching you with concern written all over his face. 

"What?"

"The food," he repeats. "You've barely eaten."

"Not hungry, I suppose," you lie. You're starving, but the cursed undergarments your mother forced you into are digging into your stomach uncomfortably already.

"Better eat up," Marcus's father says with a laugh. "You'll both need your energy!"

The men at the table erupt with laughter, alongside a few tittering giggles from the other married ladies in the room, but you and Marcus sit awkwardly silent and unsmiling. 

"Indeed, we've kept these two newlyweds apart for long enough," your mother adds, as though the two of you are deeply in love and not mere strangers until just yesterday.

With your heart in your throat, you allow yourself to be ushered up and away from the table by Marcus’ mother. She leads you through the large manor house, chattering gently at your elbow. If you had any room in your mind to think much about her, you might have thought she was attempting to be kind–removing you for a while from the icy gaze of your mother–but your thoughts are too full of dread to take much notice of her. With a small smile, she takes your hands in hers and bids you a good night, informing you that Marcus would join you in only a moment. 

Then, down another corridor, she disappears. 

Again, anger simmers up inside you at the fact that you’ve been left like a child waiting to be collected from school. However, instead of waiting for your governess, you’ve been left to wait for your husband to collect you, as if you were no more than a piece of chattel to be moved from one location to the next. 

Still, you don’t dare move from in front of the large oak doors. 

At either side of you, the corridor stretches out, funneling all sounds down toward you. You can hear other family members retiring for the night, guests finding their rooms, and the soft, whispering chatter of staff and maids as they receive instruction. 

One voice you recognise out of the rest–the voice of your mother somewhere to your right. You listen, straining to hear her words as she speaks in quiet tones to some other unknown person. 

“Ensure that in the morning you personally collect the linens from the room,” she murmurs, her voice fading as she disappears somewhere into the unfamiliar halls of the house. “Any sheets are to be brought to myself and the countess so it may be proven that she wed her only son to a proper young lady of good morals.” 

With that, your anger boils over. It becomes a growing, frothing thing in your stomach, filling you up until you think you might scream out at the indignity of it all. 

Does the whole house know of the humiliation you are about to suffer? Are they all listening at keyholes and in servant corridors? It seems that even the most intimate moment of your life is to be a public spectacle! 

Before you can stalk after her in a fit rage, heavy steps to your left freeze you in your place. 

Your new husband and his father–who looks a little worse for drink, in your opinion–round the corner of the corridor to your left. 

Something akin to relief passes across Marcus’ expression. 

The Earl, leaning over to his son, whispers something in his ear–something that has your new husband forcing a smile. Without a word to you, he politely bids his father a pleasant evening before gently guiding you into his bedroom with a hand at your lower back. The moment the door closes behind you, however, he immediately moves away, nearly retreating across the room, and his smile falls.

“I would not–” he swallows, looking down at the floor. “I cannot, in good conscience, accept a partner who is unwilling,” he murmurs.

“I am willing, my lord,” you say stiffly, because you know it’s what you’re supposed to say. Inside, however, your heart is racing as you remember your mother’s words from earlier. I want you to understand and expect that there will be pain, so that you do not react unfavorably in the moment. You suppress a shudder of nerves.

Marcus’s eyes shoot up to meet yours, his gaze dark and discerning. 

“No,” he says softly. “No, I do not believe that to be true.”

It’s your turn to swallow and look at the floor. It’s not–of course it isn’t. You’d rather sleep in this corset all night than consummate your marriage, but surely, if like your mother said, he’d find the act enjoyable, he would want to fulfill this expected–and anticipated–duty? You shake your head, not understanding, but Marcus doesn’t budge.

“Listen,” he entreats. “I cannot ask such a thing from you. You can have your own quarters if you like, after everyone leaves. I had a wing of the manor prepared; it can be yours, all yours, if you’d rather not share–well, if you’d like your own space.”

You nod, too stunned to speak at first, but then you remember: “But how will we… the sheet,” you say weakly.

Marcus smiles–and you realise that it looks different than all the other expressions on his face that you’ve witnessed thus far, but you’re not sure why. You watch, confused, as he strides over to a small cabinet and opens it, withdrawing a small vial.

“What on earth–” 

“It’s paint,” he explains. “A bit of crimson pigment. We spill a few drops on the sheet, and no one will know the difference.”

“Why–” you begin, shaking your head in disbelief. “Why would you do such a thing? Lie to our families?”

“I’ve made quite a few vows today already, but I’d like to offer one more to you now,” your husband says quietly. “I vow to never hurt you. I vow that I will never share this bed with you unless you wish it. You are to be my partner in life–equals–and I will not take that which isn’t enthusiastically offered to me. On my life, I swear this to you.”

The man’s sincerity stuns you into silence. He stares at you entreatingly, his eyebrows upturned and his eyes wide with uncertainty.

“Is this… amenable, to you?” he asks awkwardly, holding up the vial of red pigment again.

“Y-Yes,” you answer, nodding quickly. “Yes. I–thank you.”

You watch, fascinated, as Marcus pulls out a little eyedropper and spills a couple of droplets on the sheet. The colour stands out sharply against the white fabric, and you find yourself entranced by the way it bleeds into the fibers of the material. 

“There,” he says simply, replacing the lid and hiding the vial in the cabinet again. 

You take a deep, relieved breath in. Or you try to–it feels as though your lungs can only inflate to half of their capacity. You have to get out of these torturous clothes. 

“Would you ring for a maid to assist me with my outer garments?” you ask, your voice stiff with formality again as you grapple with the prospect of undressing in front of a near stranger. Although you’ll be able to keep your chemise on, shedding your outer layers still brings more vulnerability than you’re comfortable with.

“That would surely give our little game away,” Marcus says with a little half-smile, “and alert the entire manor to what we aren’t doing.”

“Oh.” You stare down at the floor again. He’s right, of course. 

“You’re uncomfortable,” he observes quietly. “You’ve hardly been able to breathe all evening.”

“My mother was a bit ambitious with the laces,” you say dryly. 

“Let me help,” Marcus pleads softly. “I–I’ll be careful, and I won’t… look, or anything but I–you can’t possibly sleep in all of that.” He takes a cautious step toward you, his expression open and unguarded as he approaches. “Simply say the words, and I’ll–”

Rather than speak, you turn your back to him, wordlessly offering the row of tiny buttons on your wedding dress for him to undo. He doesn’t speak either, silently starting at the top of the row and gently working his way down. The quiet is almost companionable as he works, undoing button after button until he’s able to carefully draw the garment down your shoulders.

“Good heavens, this thing weighs a ton,” he muses, letting the ornate white fabric crumple to the floor in an inelegant heap. “How on earth do you stay upright with all these skirts as well?”

Despite your anxious and dour mood, you cannot stop the quiet laugh that escapes your lips at his gentle teasing. 

“We womenfolk are secretly stronger than anyone realises,” you joke as you begin removing your petticoats and your bustle cage, letting them all pool at your feet before stepping out of them. 

“I’m certain that’s the truth,” your husband responds, a small smile colouring the tone of his voice, softening it.

With your underclothes now out of the way–save for your chemise and drawers–you can feel the warmth of Marcus’s hands as they come to the laces of your corset. 

“My God, this is–” he murmurs with a frown. “However do you endure such a thing?”

You shrug, not knowing how to answer. It’s not like you had a choice in the matter.

“I had no idea,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.” He quickly loosens the garment, his hands working far quicker than they had while unbuttoning your dress in his apparent urgency. As you undo the hooks at the front, he helps to draw it away from your body and then casts it aside with a soft tsk. “If you’d like to burn it, I would gladly supply you with a match.”

“It’s my finest corset,” you remark, tipping your head back and taking in your first full breath since that morning, sighing in relief as you stretch at the waist, finally unencumbered by boning meant to keep you upright. 

“An oxymoron,” he says dryly. 

Suddenly remembering himself, Marcus steps back comically fast, turning around and averting his eyes in your state of undress. Cheeks heating with embarrassment, you quickly rid yourself of your shoes and dart over to the bed, pulling the covers up to your chin.

You keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling as you listen to the sound of your new husband undressing. You can only glance out of the corner of your eye as he slips into bed beside you, and you realise he's still wearing his undershirt and trousers just before he extinguishes the lamp.

Marcus’s bed is large enough that a wide gulf of unused mattress spreads out between the two of you, even without hugging the very edge of it–which you do. You curl into yourself, listening to the unfamiliar sound of another person breathing beside you as you attempt to relax your body and mind enough that sleep will claim you.

It's a big undertaking; your mind continues to whirl for what seems like hours before you feel the pull of dreams.

Neither you nor Marcus speak again until morning. 

Come daylight, Marcus calls for the footman to have your things brought to his room, immediately excusing himself to give you privacy as you wait for your lady’s maid–your own having been relieved of her position by your parents despite your protests. She introduces herself as Bridget in a somewhat anxious voice. She’s about the same age as yourself; meek, though she has a warm smile as she shows you to the ladies bath and dressing room. Through the door, you watch another maid enter and begin her duties. Another maid, this one obviously of higher rank, gathers the bedding to be washed, and you watch as the little red stain is carried out of the room. 

"Are you feeling well this morn, Lady Pike?" your lady’s maid asks timidly as she begins setting out your clothing.  

"Quite well," you answer tightly, hoping the waver in your voice doesn't betray you. 

Once dressed in your favorite maroon day-dress, your new husband escorts you to the dining room for a small breakfast before your families depart. The meal is dreadfully awkward; every head in the room is turned toward the two of you as you pick politely at a piece of toast. You know your mother would disapprove if you attacked your food with the hunger you secretly felt–having not eaten a true meal since yesterday morning. You wonder to yourself if the breakfast will still be available when everyone leaves and you can gorge yourself freely.

You sneak a glance at your husband. Would he think you rude, too? 

Perhaps you could steal down to the kitchens later and help yourself. Besides, if there is  anything finishing school has taught you, it is that being on the side of the staff will make your life exponentially easier. 

Again, neither you nor Marcus speak to one another. He’s stiff and formal again, and you suddenly find yourself longing for the way he spoke to you last night when you were finally alone–for the first time since meeting. The upright rigidity with which he holds himself in public was gone, then–replaced with concern, sincerity… and warmth. 

He had looked upon you with kind, understanding eyes. Eyes that are now staring at the food on his plate with vague disinterest.

Finally, after Marcus’ own family has departed, your parents prepare to take their leave. You hug each of them in turn, before wrapping Edward in a tight embrace. 

“Be good,” you whisper to him, your voice filled with emotion. “Don’t neglect your studies. Don’t play pranks on your tutors.” 

“What if they’re very good pranks?” your baby brother whispers back.

You laugh quietly, and a lone tear escapes, rolling down your cheek. “Only if you promise to describe it in detail in your letters.”

“I will if you promise to not turn into an old, boring hag, now that you’re married,” he returns.

“By my life, I shall be just as difficult as before.”

You watch your family depart with shining eyes, willing your tears to hold themselves at bay until you can retreat to your own chamber–wherever it may be–and cry in private. For now, you force a smile on your face and join your new husband in waving farewell as the last of the wedding guests depart, leaving the two of you alone.

“Never have I been more relieved to see the departure of guests,” Marcus remarks beside you. 

Your mirth takes you by surprise, and a watery giggle escapes your lips even as another tear falls.

He turns to look at you, his brow furrowing in concern as he sees your tears. 

“We shall visit often, if you would like,” he says quietly. “And we can have them over anytime you please.”

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. You’ll miss them, of course, but it’s the finality of the situation that’s truly the source of your grief. You’re alone. In an unfamiliar house. With a stranger.

Your husband.

“I should like to show you around,” he says carefully. “If you’re amenable to such a thing? Or if you’d rather I begin and end the tour with your chambers, I’d be more than happy to do so.”

Your first instinct is to immediately lock yourself in your quarters and never come out, but before you can tell him, a moment of clarity causes you to pause. You could certainly spend this day and all your days sulking in your rooms, but in the end, the only one that hurts is you. That’s no way to live in your own house, now is it?

“It is quite a large manor,” you say carefully, “and I’ve yet seen very little of it.”

A wide, toothy smile spreads across your new husband’s face, and you finally realise what’s different about this particular expression: 

It’s completely and utterly genuine.

“Of course.” He seems surprised that you agreed to his request, but he quickly schools his expression into one of practiced formality–although his eyes still twinkle with mirth as he offers you his arm. “My lady.”

Despite yourself, you offer him a small smile and carefully tuck your hand into the crook of his elbow, and, placing his hand over your own, he gently guides you back inside.

Though your new husband’s manor house is quite large, it’s older and far less grand than most country houses you’re used to–houses filled to the brim with highly polished marble, bright rooms, and brightly dyed drapings that hurt your eyes. The main halls and the rooms used most often by guests have obviously been updated quite beautifully to suit current fashions, but as you allow Marcus to lead you slowly through the house, you see that the smaller halls and rooms used only by the sole owner of the home have remained mostly untouched. The tapestry lined rooms are somewhat dim, but at the same time they are cozy and warm–reminding you of the castles and knights that your governess used to tell you stories of to help you fall asleep.

The silent and unmoved man you married disappears once again, and the excited, talkative man that piques your curiosity takes his place. Marcus points out where additions have been made over the centuries, where old stone walls have been rebuilt and repaired, where the original 12th century walls once stood. He tells you stories of boyhood summers here, of the nooks and crannies of this old house that he explored as a youth. 

It isn't until the tour of the home is entirely over that you finally gather up the courage to speak. 

“If it is not too much to ask, why do you live apart from your family? Surely your father has a much larger and grander home than this?”

“That he does,” Marcus says, politely taking your hand as he leads you down the stairs. “Although I cannot call it home. I recall very little of my time there as a young boy. Once I was old enough, I went to Eaton for my schooling, then on to Cambridge.” 

“That I can understand,” you answer. “I never felt much at home in my own house, and most of my girlhood was spent away at school.” 

Your husband nods, falling silent again for a brief moment. He seems to be turning words around in his mind, or perhaps deciding whether or not to speak or to move on.

“This house was my uncle’s–my father’s younger brother,” he begins, quieter and less assured than before. “He was a bachelor all his life, and so he was almost a second father to me, just as I was the son he did not have… and when he died, he left the manor and the land to me. He knew I’d get far more use from it than anyone else–that I would find a home in it, rather than just another house.” 

At the bottom of the stair, your husband stops, his hand still holding onto yours. 

“I want you to feel at home here, just as I do,” Marcus says. “For it is your home too, after all.”

“And yet one door remains closed to me,” you remark, thinking of the one room you had passed by without entering.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “Just my–my study.”

“Oh.” you look down at your hands. “Of course. I–I apologise, I overstepped.”

“No,” Marcus says emphatically. “No, of course not it’s just–”

“–private.”

“–messy.”

The two of you speak at the same time.

“Oh.”

“I–here, let me show you.” Grabbing your hand, Marcus pulls you down a side corridor, back to the large oak doors that had remained closed. 

On opening the door, your husband lets you step into the room first, though you find yourself frozen at the sheer overwhelming number of things to look at. The room is littered all about with papers and open books on every available surface. Workbenches and small tables are scattered about haphazardly, and pressed up against the single window sits a grand desk covered over with test tubes, flasks, bunsen burners, and the like, making the room look more like a chemical laboratory than a gentleman’s study. There’s a comfortable armchair tucked into one corner of the room, and a well-worn sofa in another corner. Each wall is lined with tall bookshelves that reach right up to the ceiling, packed with every sort of books you could imagine, interspersed with artifacts and small sculptures. 

However, what captures your immediate attention is the two large easels stood side by side against one wall, yet another table holding a curious brass instrument between the two of them. 

On each easel stands a painting which, to your eye, looks identical to the other. 

"Why do you have two of the same painting?" you ask.

"Oh!" Marcus looks excited as he stands by your side and joins you in staring at the wall. "It's quite the interesting story. See, one of these artworks is worth hundreds of thousands of pounds. The other is a rather convincing fake someone was trying to sell off to the British Museum."

"Which one is which?"

"Ah, that's the question, isn't it!" Your new husband claps his hands excitedly, looking more animated than you've ever seen him. "And it's a question that stumped even Scotland Yard. But look!" he dashes over to a paint-splattered workbench, which is covered with hundreds of little vials and dishes. 

"At what am I looking?" you ask, eyes raking over the untidy desk with a confused frown. 

"Pigment analysis. If you take samples from each canvas, you'll find that one was made with the most high-quality oils, and the other with a cheap imitation."

"What… what is all of this?" you ask, inspecting the little vials scattered all over the table.

"Paint. It's… my specialty, in a way."

“Your specialty,” you repeat.

“In my travels, the subject that has always interested me the most is art,” Marcus explains. “My uncle left an extensive collection, of course, but what truly fascinates me is the thriving market for forgeries.” He walks over to his desk and retrieves a pile of papers, looking down at them with an eager expression as he talks. “Do you know how many museums around the world have fallen victim to an extraordinarily convincing fake?”

“Quite a lot, I’m guessing?” you answer with a shrug.

“So many!” he exclaims, smiling happily at your response. “It intrigued me. I began to study the techniques of forgery; how to determine the genuine from the counterfeit. I’ve worked with the British Museum, with the Louvre, the Alte Pinakothek in Germany…”

“So you are a detective?” you ask, astounded at this new revelation about the man you’d just married.

“I am… an independent contractor, I suppose you’d say,” Marcus answers, picking up a test tube of old paint and examining it as he talks. “I’ve worked with the police in various countries, but I also take cases from individual collectors across the continent. I’ve invented several different methods of pigment analysis, as you can see.” He pauses, taking in your bewildered expression. “You think me strange,” he chuckles, though you can hear the self-deprecation clear through his geniality. 

“Yes.”

If he’s hurt by your blunt answer, he doesn’t show it. Slowly, ever so slowly, he approaches you–as one would a wild animal. You stare at him as he stops in front of you–closer than he had been at your wedding–and gently takes both of your hands in his.

“I know I’m nobody’s first choice,” he says softly, staring down at your clasped hands. “I know you had little say in the matter. But I hope–” his breath stutters, “–I hope you can eventually see me as a companion. That we could become friends, even. I would only wish for you to be happy here. You will want for nothing–not if I can help it. Anything you desire, anything you wish for, you will have it.” 

“I can’t say I want for many things. Books. A garden I can disappear into whenever I please.” 

“My library is yours. Anything you wish to read.”

Your eyes rake over his cramped shelves hungrily. “Are you certain?” 

“Of course,” Marcus answers, sounding surprised. “What is mine is now also yours, now that we are man and wife.”

“Oh,” you intone quietly. Of course–you didn’t even think of the possibility that these books could be considered yours as well.

“I’d like to show you one more thing,” your husband says softly, interrupting your train of thought.

“Of course.”

He extends his arm, and you take it again, surprised at how natural it feels for your hand to be gently enclosed at the crook of his elbow. You walk together down the stairs of the front hall and outside.

“The grounds are quite extensive,” Marcus explains as you walk. “It would take quite some time to explore them all, but in light of our conversation, I want you to see something.”

You walk for what seems like ages, until you come up to an old and obviously unused garden. Unlike the rest of the immaculate landscaping, this portion has grown over quite a bit with vines and weeds, although the structure is still sturdy, if weathered by age.

“This section was my uncle’s garden. It has fallen into disrepair, obviously,” he remarks. “But with a bit of care, it could be a beautiful little hideaway once again. It’s private, lush, and a perfect place to disappear into any time you wish for an escape.”

Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, touched as you are by the man’s thoughtfulness, and also at the trust he bestowed in you by giving you free roam of something that once belonged to his beloved uncle.

“It can be yours to do as you please,” he continues. “Any type of greenery you wish, any decoration you desire. You can set one of the groundskeepers to toil in it, or you can do the work yourself if you prefer. Anything you want or need–it’s yours.”

“I’d like to do the work myself, if that’s all right,” you tell him quietly. “I’d–I’d like a project. Something to occupy my days.”

“I fully understand,” Marcus says with a smile, and you smile too–thinking of his chaotic study.

He pulls out his pocket watch and examines it. “Would you look at that,” he remarks. “It’s lunchtime.”

Your stomach rumbles loudly–and to your mortification, Marcus hears it.

"Hungry?" he chuckles. 

"By either etiquette or corset, I have not had a proper meal since yesterday morning," you say truthfully. 

Marcus’s mouth falls open. "Surely you jest."

"I'm afraid not."

"And I've had you walking all over the countryside," he mutters to himself. "For goodness' sake, come eat."

You take his arm again–leaning against him somewhat, because you are rather dizzy–and trek back to the manor.

The luncheon is quite meager, not intended to be a proper meal, but Marcus quickly pulls one of the footmen aside.

"If you could, George, have Mrs. Stoker prepare a second course for luncheon? I think we will require quite a bit more than what she prepared," he tells him, eyes flicking anxiously toward you. "The poor thing is famished, please."

As the footman nods and retreats from the room, Marcus guides you to a chair and pulls it out for you to sink down. He immediately hands you a piece of bread and butter, which you accept and start to chew gratefully, no longer caring about proper etiquette. 

You tear through all the food on the table, refilling your plate when the footmen bring more as requested by your husband. He digs in too, and the two of you eat in content silence for quite some time before he speaks again.

"I've neglected you. I'm sorry."

You shrug your shoulders dismissively. "It is quite alright."

"A good husband should see to the needs of his wife," Marcus says seriously, and for some reason, the words cause warmth to course throughout your body.

You don't know what to do with the feeling, so you push it–and him–away. 

"I don't need someone to fuss over me," you remark shortly.

"Of course," he says immediately. "I'm sorry. In truth, I don't know how to be a good husband. I regret the many mistakes I will surely make."

"In this, we may be a good match," you comment. "I know nothing of being a wife, and I fear I may be a lousy one."

"I don't think you possibly could be," Marcus says, so softly that the words are barely audible in the room.

Taken aback by the quiet sincerity in his voice, you suddenly want nothing more than to be by yourself. After all, you haven’t had a single moment alone in days, and you find yourself longing for solitude. 

"I should like to retire to my bedroom for a little while to rest," you announce, standing from your chair abruptly. Marcus stands too, ever clinging rigidly to etiquette. You give the man a curt nod before turning and fleeing from the room.

When the door to your bedroom clicks shut behind you, your chest heaves in relief, and you sink down to the floor where you stand, too emotionally exhausted to go any further.

Looking around the room, you note that your trunks have already been opened, your things put away. The work of the manor's servants, you think with a sigh. This, more than any other of the overwhelming events of the past two days, makes your situation feel real. You live here, now. All your belongings are here. 

With a shaky breath, you stand and begin to look around the room, starting with the little writing desk by the large bay windows. Lifting the lid, you find that all of your stationary and ink has been put away in the little compartments and shelves within. Despite your exhaustion, you smile. Whoever had put your things away had done it in almost exactly the same manner as you would have done yourself.

Even more curious now, you continue walking around the room. What few books your parents had allowed you to own have been put away on the bookshelves. Mostly etiquette manuals, you found their value in making witty annotations and jokes in the margins. Your journals are here also, and you open the oldest one, smiling sadly at the careful cursive of your seventeen year-old self. 

Putting that one aside, you instead pick up the one on the other end with the deep blue cover and only around half of the pages filled. Head over-full of thoughts and worries, you sit down at the little desk to write.

"Your Lady!" a timid voice calls out, interrupting your reverie some time later. 

“Who is it?” 

“It is Bridget, your lady.” 

“Oh, yes, come in!” you call back, quickly trying to wipe away the frustrated tears that have escaped at steady intervals as your pen scraped across the paper of your journal.  

You turn to see the young woman smiling at you expectantly with her hands clasped in front of her body. 

"It is about time to get you dressed for dinner, your lady," Bridget announces, already headed for the smaller bath and dressing room adjoining your bedroom. 

Dinner is a formal affair, just as it was at your parents' home. Your new lady's maid helps you to dress in one of your nicest gowns and pulls your hair back into delicate plaits that cascade down your back.

You meet Marcus in the large banquet hall. Despite having seen each other just a few hours before, he takes your hand in greeting and kisses it gently. 

"My lady."

"My lord," you return stiffly, wanting to remain aloof.

He appears as though he has more to say, but he suddenly shuts his mouth and extends his arm. "Shall we?"

Unlike the lunch parlor, the dinner table is long and foreboding. You sit at one end, and Marcus sits at the other, so far apart that you can’t distinguish his expressions–nor his words. 

"What?" you call out in response to something you didn't understand. 

"The soup is quite good!" Marcus repeats, raising his voice so that it rings out in the large, formal dining room. 

"Yes!" you return at the same volume. "I wanted to thank you, husband, for taking me to see that garden earlier. It truly meant–"

"What?"

"I said—oh for goodness' sake." You abruptly stand, causing Marcus to shoot to his feet as well. He, along with the footman, watches in alarm as you grab your cutlery and march down the endless table and sit down in the seat next to him, instead.

He seems stunned beyond words, at a loss of how to respond to your actions. You help yourself to another serving of ham while he hesitantly sinks back down into his seat.

"This is quite a large table," you comment lightly. "I prefer to be able to hear my dinner-mates."

"I usually eat in the drawing room," Marcus confesses quietly. "This room is too large and formal for one man."

"It is hardly different with two."

"That settles it," he says, smiling. "Tomorrow we shall have dinner there, instead. The sun comes in through the windows at this time of evening; it's quite lovely in there at this hour."

You cast your eyes around the banquet hall. It's an interior room; all the lighting comes from the lamps on the walls. It might be the grandest space in the entire manor, but to you, it’s stuffy and imposing.

"I would like that, my lord."

"Marcus."

"...Marcus."

Your new husband smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with contentment.

"May I ask a question of you, Marcus?"

"Of course."

"I'd like to know more about the pigment analysis you were talking about earlier, and the scientific method. I find it quite fascinating."

Marcus’s eyes widen in surprise and confusion. "Truly?" 

"Why, of course. My father forbade me from learning such things–said science was too complex for a woman's brain to handle."

"Nonsense. I know of quite a few women in the scientific field who could best some of the most learned scholars.” His voice rings out in the room with a conviction that surprises you–and him. Blinking rapidly, he continues, quieter and more cautious. “I could teach you," he offers quietly. "If–if you'd like."

"You would do that?"

"Of course! We can go there after dinner. I can have coffee and a light dessert sent up for us as well."

You find yourself smiling–really, truly smiling–for the first time since coming here. Eating sweets after dinner? Reading books? Discussing science? It's everything your parents used to forbid in one single evening.

"I would like that," you tell Marcus, and he grins back. 

You stay in his study until the last candle burns down to the wick. When the light flickers, the man looks up from his book in alarm and looks at his pocketwatch.

"Good heavens, it's nearly midnight. Come, let me walk you to your rooms," Marcus says quietly. 

"Oh, but I'm still–" you protest, clutching your own book defensively. 

“Take it with you,” he insists. “Take an entire armful, and then come back tomorrow for an armful more. I meant what I said–these books are yours, too.”

In the end, you only leave with the one you’re currently looking through. You tuck it under one arm and slip your other hand into the crook of Marcus’s elbow, allowing him to escort you through manor and back to the rooms he’s designated to be yours. After bidding you good night, he gently takes your hand in his, bringing it to his lips for a soft kiss.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For the book, the–the garden, for… everything, really. I was afraid I would be quite sad today but… I had a nice time.”

Something about your words causes Marcus to stiffen. Gone is the excitement in his smile as he had explained his experiments with pigment. Gone is the fondness in his eyes as he had told you to take every book in his study if you so desired. Gone is the warmth against the back of your hand; he drops your hand and clears his throat awkwardly.

“It is quite late,” he remarks stiffly. “Far too late to be up wandering the halls. Sleep well, my… my wife.” His expression, just before he turns and marches back the way he came, is troubled. 

Confused by the sudden change in his character, you open the doors with a frown and slip inside your chambers.

A strange man, indeed.

The days that follow surprise you in their companionability. You and your new husband fall into a pleasant routine: You have breakfast together before retreating to your separate occupations–you to toil in the garden and he to his study to work on his cases. After a light lunch, he will often accompany you on the grounds, complimenting the rapid metamorphosis from overgrown weeds to flowers and shrubs, neatly planted in a row and perfectly maintained. When you tire of gardening, you join him in his study–sometimes simply reading in his leather armchair while he works at his desk, and sometimes listening curiously as he explains his methods.

As Marcus had promised, you have quickly grown to see him as a companion of sorts. His company is pleasant, his conversation enjoyable. He is, on occasion, dreadfully formal–but you like to hypothesize that this is more a product of his upbringing than a true indicator of his personality. 

It does grate on you, though–especially when the weight of expectation seems to stop his mirth dead in its tracks. He will laugh at something silly you’ve said or done, and then abruptly clear his throat and look away, making you feel as though he finds your joking distasteful. 

You enjoy him most in his study. He seems most at home among the chaos of the room, and it is where he is most likely to forget himself–becoming animated and eager rather than stiff and unsmiling. True to his word, he teaches you; reading introductory tomes on the scientific method and recreating some of the experiments outlined within. Despite your inexperience in this field, Marcus never talks down to you–he seems to delight in having a conversation partner, especially one who takes interest in the same subjects.

In the evenings, you dine in the less-formal parlor rather than the banquet hall you detest so. The sun illuminates the entire room, sending multicoloured prisms across the table wherever a beam hits the crystal glassware. 

Before the sun sets entirely but after the summer heat of midday has abated, you stroll across the grounds on Marcus’s arm. He tells you of his upbringing, of his schooling, and of his travels across the continent, and you cannot help but listen with rapt attention. You study his face in profile, following the line of his aquiline nose and watching the shape of his lips as he speaks. The evening light bathes his skin in golden light and makes his dark eyes appear almost amber.

You cannot deny that your husband is quite a handsome man.

Yet every night, Marcus escorts you back to your quarters, presses a soft, warm kiss on the back of your hand, and quietly–and formally–bids you goodnight. Not once does he ask for your company, nor does he ever seem to touch you anywhere else but your hands. A large part of you is grateful, of course, but a much smaller–and quickly growing–part of you is beginning to wonder if your marriage will remain a chaste, cautious friendship for all of your days. 

It is the same part of you that pretends to feel the warmth of his lips on your hand hours after he’s wished you goodnight.

Approximately a month after your arrival at Pike Manor, your husband announces over breakfast that he has been called to London for a case. 

“When are you to leave?” you ask, looking up in surprise.

“Right away; I should be on the road already, but I did not want to be hungry for the journey.”

“I see.” You nod, choosing to ignore the pang of jealousy in the pit of your stomach at the prospect of seeing the city. “I wish you great success in your sleuthing.”

Marcus grins. “It’s quite an interesting one,” he says, taking a folded letter out of his waistcoat pocket. “Several paintings intended for auction at Sotheby’s have simply disappeared into thin air, only to be mysteriously replaced several days later.”

“Why on earth would the thief bring them back?” you ask, intrigued. “Unless… oh! You don’t believe they were truly returned, do you? They were replaced with forgeries.”

Your husband’s smile widens. “Such an astute observation, indeed. That is why I have been called to investigate.” Stuffing the last of his breakfast into his mouth rather inelegantly, he stands and walks hastily to the front hall.

“I may be back quite late in the evening, so do not feel the need to wait up for my return,” Marcus says, pulling on his ulster coat at the door. “While I am in the city, is there anything you should desire I retrieve for you?” 

“None that comes to my mind,” you answer cordially. “Have a good trip.” 

“I think I am beginning to learn your little expressions. Come, be truthful with me.” A mischievous, teasing look twinkles in his dark eyes, a hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. “Anything you desire shall be yours. That was my promise, was it not?” 

Your face heats. “It was.”  

“Then I shall ask again, is there anything you are wanting of?” 

“If it isn’t much trouble, could you bring back some blank notebooks and…maybe more ink?”

“The ink you use to write your letters?” 

“Yes. If it isn’t any trouble, of course. I could retrieve the empty bottle for you if–” 

“No need, I already know the one you’re speaking of. I’ll return with a new bottle and a spare for you.” 

“Thank you, husband.” 

Hesitatingly, Marcus leans toward you. Then, with the utmost caution, he leans down and presses a single chaste kiss to your cheek. 

The soft press of his lips to your skin sends a little thrill through you, rooting you to the spot where you stand. When he straightens up once more, the softest of expressions washes over his features. 

“I shall send a wire should I be kept in the city any longer than expected,” he says, reaching out to give a gentle squeeze to your hand. “Have a good day, my darling.” 

His affectionate endearment has your heart fluttering in your chest, unsure if you should smile or if you should pull away. 

“I shall. Have a safe journey, Marcus.” 

You watch through the curtains as the carriage pulls away from the manor and eventually disappears from sight. Only when you can see no trace of your husband do you slowly bring your hand to your cheek, pressing lightly against the spot where his lips had touched.

You sit in your chamber and attempt to write, but the open window, with its curtains blowing gently in the breeze, calls to you. A picnic in your garden is what this day calls for, you decide. Grinning, you snap your journal shut and wander down the hallway to Marcus’s study. You shall retrieve a new book to read, then steal down to the kitchens to cajole Mrs. Stoker into giving you a parcel of snacks to bring outside with you. It won’t be a difficult task; Marcus’s cook is already rather sweet on you, and always sends extra treats up to his study for you after dinner.

No, the most difficult undertaking will be to select your reading material for the afternoon. You’ve gone through so many already; you started with his many science books–being eager to read on an as-of-yet forbidden topic, but today, Marcus’s collection of fiction calls to you. 

You walk by the worn leather armchair that your husband often reads in, and the book resting on the side catches your eye. You cock your head to the side to read the words emblazoned on the front: 

The Transmission of Life: Counsels on the Nature and Hygiene of the Masculine Function

What on earth? Frowning at your husband’s choice of reading material, you open to the bookmarked page and read the heading a little more than halfway down the page–Of Marital Relations.

Why is he reading such a thing? Both curious and emboldened, you read on. ‘The best mothers, wives, and managers of households know little or nothing of the sexual pleasure. Love of home, children, and domestic duties are the only passions they feel. As a rule, the modest woman submits to her husband, but only to please him; and, but for the desire of maternity, would far rather be relieved from his attentions.’ 

You can see that the book has quite a lot of notations written in the margins; however next to this passage, there is simply one solitary question mark inscribed in pencil. You understand the sentiment; reading such words causes your heart to pound rapidly in your chest at the implications of the author. Is this true? Are home and children the only thing you are capable of loving? At the present moment, at least, you desire neither.

You flip backwards through the pages with a stormy expression, searching for more answers. A page with a great deal of markings-out catches your eye, and you scan what was, apparently, an offending passage to Marcus: ‘The husband should be aware that while as a rule the first conjugal approaches are painful to the new wife, and therefore that she only submits and cannot enjoy them, this pain should not be excessively severe, nor should it last for any great length of time.

At the mention of marriage consummation, your face heats; you snap the book shut in an instant and back away from the leather armchair as though the tome had burned you.

You don’t know what to make of any of it. First, the fact that Marcus has chosen such a title as reading material; secondly, that the content within the pages should speak about a wife’s role in marriage in such plain and unpleasant-sounding terms. Thirdly, you cannot decipher the meaning of the marginalia. Does it suggest that Marcus is seemingly just as disturbed by the idea of your apparent frigidity as you currently are–backed against his bookshelf, your hand over your mouth as you take in what you’ve just seen? Or do they mean something else entirely?

You cannot come to grips with the words written, in plain ink, on the pages of the book–in direct opposition, it seems, to the feelings that stir within you at times. Are women, as the book suggests, without any passions outside of raising a home and children? In your own experience, sometimes you feel as though you are so overcome with emotion that you may explode–and oftentimes this is what brings you to such ‘unladylike’ ventures as running through the woods, shouting curses at your younger brother when he vexes you, or, most recently, being unable to take your eyes off of your husband as he simply goes about life.

You study his fingers as he turns the pages in his books; you watch his lips move every time he so much as utters a syllable; you analyse his gait out of the corner of your eye when he approaches you. The modest woman submits to her husband, but only to please him. Perhaps this is the issue; you have hardly been considered a ‘modest woman’ at any time in your life, and could not care less about pleasing a husband, especially if it is to your apparent detriment. 

Indeed, if your headmistress at finishing school could see you know, she would attribute your immodest behavior to remaining unmarried for so long. Now that you are somebody’s wife, it is quite possible that you may never be the type of woman the author thinks you must be. Is this what Marcus wants? Does he read the book because he is intent on modeling this image of masculinity? And what, if any, is your place in this picture?

After this puzzling revelation, you wish for an escape more than ever. An adventure. You now know exactly which novel you wish to read. Humming to yourself, you grab the copy of Around the World in Eighty Days and quickly flee the study, leaving Marcus’s book–and hopefully the feelings it stirred within you–far behind you. 

Mrs. Stoker fills a picnic blanket with nearly more food than you can carry before shooing you out of the kitchens, scolding you in her low, scratchy voice about “unbecoming behaviour for a lady”–but delivered with a fond twinkle in her eye. Arms laden with bread, cheese, and fruit, you make your way across the grounds and into the familiar little garden that you’ve made your own. You’ve tried your best to retain the wild, lush feeling of the setting–planting lots of creeping vines and winding morning glories around the lattices. It feels like escaping into a jungle, or into a secret little world that’s yours and yours alone. As you find a place to settle for the afternoon, you wonder idly if this was the very same place Marcus’ uncle came to escape the world–a world he never felt he belonged to. 

Spreading the blanket (and your feast) out around you, you settle on the grass, kick off your shoes, and wiggle your toes contentedly in the sunshine. You pull off a chunk of warm bread and take a bite, humming in satisfaction as you open your book and begin to read.

You lose yourself in Phileas Fogg’s adventures for quite some time, not coming up for air until the shadows have switched places and begun to lengthen in the late afternoon sun. You could stay out here all evening, but your body is beginning to ache, sitting on the ground as you are, and even though nothing remains of your little feast–you threw quite a lot of bread to the birds–you are feeling quite hungry again. 

You don’t bother dressing for dinner, and you tell Bridget so when she arrives at your room, dismissing her and telling her to enjoy her own evening. You have a small supper in the parlor, and you’re taken by surprise at how much the silence unsettles you. In so little time, you’ve become accustomed to Marcus’s presence in your life. Just as you now feel perfectly at home in what was once an unfamiliar and forbidding house, you feel at home with the man who inhabits it, as well. 

It is almost as if… you miss him.

At any rate, being without him in this large house is strangely unsettling. You find yourself retreating to the study, seeking out the familiarity of habit, and; you must admit to yourself, surrounding yourself with things that remind you of your husband. It smells of him, this room–like leather, paint, and old books, and if you close your eyes, you can detect something underneath–something deeper, muskier, and more masculine.

You settle into the soft settee rather than his armchair–not wishing to acknowledge the book you’d snooped through earlier that day–and open Jules Verne again. You read as the night falls and for quite some time after; and still, Marcus has not yet returned. It is so late that you have to retrieve more oil for the lamp, but you continue to keep your silent vigil rather than retreat to bed. You’ve waited this long, after all, and he surely cannot be much longer…

Not a quarter of an hour later, you hear familiar footsteps approaching down the hall. The sound of passers-by is quite common, with all of the manor’s staff, but these are not the light feet of scullery maids. No, they are heavier, confident–striding with purpose as they reach the door to the study. The door opens, and there, looking at you with surprise, is your husband. Lord Pike.

“The hour is late,” he remarks softly. “I quite expected you to be already asleep.”

“I have been absorbed in a book,” you tell him, “and did not realize the time.” It’s not quite a lie.

Marcus glances at the spine and grins. “Have you circumvented the world in the time it took me to go to London and back?”

“I have indeed; your train must have been delayed,” you tease. 

“It was indeed. Twice, in fact,” he laughs. “Next time, perhaps, I shall travel by balloon.”

You snort, rather unladylike, at his playfulness. “I should like to see such a sight.”

His eyes are bright and full of mirth as he responds. “Seeing as you have already done it, I should like you to come along as my navigator.”

“Ha! We shall find ourselves in the middle of the ocean, I’m afraid.”

“Perhaps we will just take the train, then.” Your husband smiles warmly and pulls a small parcel out of his coat. “Your new journals and ink will not last forever, after all.”

You gasp softly as he deposits the package in your lap. The ink is the same–just the type you prefer–but the journals are far more ornate: bound in leather, with thick, cream-coloured paper. You examine each one in turn, carefully holding them in your hands to look at the beautiful cover designs, then flipping through the blank pages. At the bottom of the pile is a magazine–a copy of The Strand–which you hold out to him, expecting it to be something he purchased for himself that was mistakenly wrapped together with your journals, but Marcus simply shakes his head and gently pushes it back in your direction. 

“The new Holmes story has been published. I read it myself on the train, and… well, I thought of you and how you might enjoy it.” He clears his throat awkwardly, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he watches the realisation wash over you.

“This is… for me?” you ask, eyes widening.

“But of course.” He smiles softly, extending his hand to you. “But I’d caution against starting it at this hour; it’s one of those stories that you cannot put down again until finished.”

When he escorts you back to your quarters, he seems hesitant to let go of your hand after he kisses it. His eyes search yours; that strange, unfamiliar fire seems to dance within his pupils. Before you can stop yourself, you suddenly throw your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder and giving into the urge to breathe him in. His arms are so warm; his chest so strong and broad, and for a moment, you simply allow yourself to melt into his embrace. 

Marcus stiffens at first, his sharp intake of breath indicating his surprise at your actions, but after just a moment, you feel his hands press against your back, pulling you closer.

“Good night, Marcus,” you whisper into his suit coat.

“Good night, my darling.”

He releases you and steps back, but his hands still seem to gravitate toward you even as you separate–although they stop short of touching you. You can’t bring yourself to move, even though you’d both already said good-night. Unsure of what to say, you simply stand before him in awkward silence for a few torturous minutes before growing skittish and retreating into your bedroom.

When the door clicks shut, however, you turn and gently place your palm on the wood. Closing your eyes, you imagine the warmth of Marcus’s palm pressing back.

The next day is oppressively hot. Too hot to continue working in the garden, but sitting indoors in the still air seems almost worse. You take your leave of Marcus in his study and retreat to the woods at the back of the property. The shade and the breeze finally makes the heat tolerable, and you smile to yourself as you start to explore. You've always loved wandering through your own woods, and this is your first opportunity to walk through the forest at Pike manor.

As you delve deeper into the trees, you realize that you can hear the faint sound of water. Grinning wider, the sound propels you forward, ducking under branches and stepping around bushes until you find the source: a little stream babbling through the undergrowth. 

Seeing the water, you suddenly feel as though you cannot tolerate your shoes a moment longer; you sit down on the ground–likely getting dirt down the back of your canary-yellow dress, but you hardly mind–and start to unlace your boots. 

The first step into the cool water causes a giddy laugh to escape from your throat. For the first time since coming here, you feel like yourself again, just for a moment–happy, wild, and free.

Your focus is on the little minnows darting around your toes, and you don't hear the sound of footsteps moving toward you through the leaves. 

"What on earth are you doing?"

You startle, turning around at the sound of your husband's voice behind you. 

"M-Marcus! I–I'm cooling my feet in the stream I found."

 "You've wandered quite far away," he comments, his expression slightly wary. 

"Am I not allowed to do so?"

"No! I-I mean yes! Of course you're allowed, I was simply… surprised at how deep in the wilderness you are, Lady wife."

"I won't get lost," you promise. "I used to do this all the time back home."

Marcus is silent for a few moments as he watches you.

"...Is the water quite refreshing?" he asks, looking curious. 

"It feels wonderful," you answer. 

You study him as several conflicting expressions seem to flicker across his face. Uncertainty, curiosity, wariness, and then–longing.

"Could… could I join you?" he asks quietly. 

Your grin must be incandescent as you nod rapidly up and down.

Marcus swings his head around, looking for somewhere to sit. When he finds nothing, to your surprise, he plops down on the ground and starts to untie his shoes. 

You watch giddily as he tucks his socks inside his shoes and sets them aside before carefully climbing down the bank. 

He lets out a rather undignified yelp at the first touch of water to his bare feet. 

"Cold!" 

You laugh outright at the shock on your husband's face. 

"Does it not feel refreshing?" you ask playfully.

"As refreshing as running barefoot into the snow in January."

"That's quite the overreaction; this water must be twenty degrees cooler than snow, at least."

"It must be the difference in temperature between the outside air and the water that makes it so very shocking," Marcus says with a little chuckle. 

"You just need to get used to it," you say with a sly grin. 

"How exactly am I supposed to do that?"

Before you can evaluate the wisdom of the idea, you kick your foot through the water, sending a wave of water to splash against his trousers.

Marcus gasps, staring down at the dark stain in shock. You stand frozen to the spot, suddenly worried that you've gone too far. 

"I cannot believe you did that," he murmurs, but a small smile is spreading across his face as he talks. "You wild creature."

And he bends down, sticks his hand in the current, and sends a cascade of water back in your direction. 

You shriek in surprise and delight, kicking more water at him before taking off, splashing barefoot down the stream with your husband at your heels.

You let out another loud peal of laughter when you feel the cold water hit your bodice from behind. 

"You'll wish you hadn't done that!"

"Is that so?" he teases, just as you turn and cup the water again, sending it as high as you can into the air. 

It hits him squarely in the chest. He gasps in shock as his white shirt is drenched through, the sopping material plastering to his skin. He looks down at it, then back up at you with a glint in his eye that you've never seen before. 

Giggling nervously, you take a few steps backward, but your foot lands on a smooth, flat stone slick with algae, and suddenly your legs are out in front of you as you come down hard into the deepest part of the stream.

For a moment, neither of you move. Your chest heaves from the surprise submersion into the water. You're completely soaked from head to toe; droplets of water drip from your hair, down onto your skin, and into your bodice. 

Marcus's expression has turned from playful to horrified. He surges forward, helping you back up to your feet in a panic.

"Oh my goodness," he mutters over and over again, and you start to giggle.

"Your dress is surely ruined," he says regretfully. "They'll never be able to get the mud stains out."

"I can simply wear it whenever I come down here to the stream," you tell him, but he's shaking his head and frowning. 

"This… my behaviour has been far from appropriate," he murmurs. 

"We were having fun," you say quietly, your face falling as that rigid, formal expression you hate returns.

"It is unbecoming for people of our station," he announces stiffly. "Where are your shoes; I shall bring them to you and help you home."

"But I'm–"

"We've gotten quite wet enough, I believe," Marcus says sternly. "Come along."

You trail after him stormily, feeling more like a scolded dog and less like a wife.

You remember his promise from weeks before, on your wedding night: that the two of you were to be partners–and equals. Right now, you feel nothing but.

"I'm going to bathe before dinner," Marcus announces as he marches through the front doors to the manor. "You should do the same before you catch cold."

"Mar–Husband," you murmur sorrowfully.

"I'm afraid the mud will never come out of this shirt, either," he comments, talking more to himself than to you. 

Heart heavy, you climb the stairs after him and head for your chambers. You don't quite understand your husband. At times, he seems to be a warm and playful person; other times, he's cold and forbidding. 

It's as though he's two different men at once. One of those men scares you somewhat. The other–well, you aren't quite sure what to call the feeling that stirs in your belly when he looks at you with those mischievous, yet kind eyes.

That man–he's a friend, a companion. He reads with you in the evenings and laughs at your silly jokes. He kisses your hand at the end of every day when he bids you good night, and it's becoming your favorite part of the day. His lips are warm and soft on your skin, and every night you go to bed wondering what they'd feel like on your lips.

You wish you could call up how it had felt when he had kissed you at your wedding. You can barely remember the day, much less the brief moment that his lips had been on yours. Even if it was purely for the ceremony, even if it had no feeling or meaning behind it, even if his face had been contorted into that formal mask that you've grown to despise…

You wish you could feel it again. 

"My goodness! What on earth happened to you, my lady?" your maid cries at the sight of you: wet, bedraggled, and covered in mud in your doorway. 

"T'is a hot day; I was playing in the stream."

"I fear your dress is ruined, my lady." 

"Why is everyone so concerned about my clothing?" you snap, exasperated and grief-stricken. "Is this entire household so very preoccupied with what I do and where I go?"

"I'm sorry, my lady."

"Is anyone allowed to have fun, or is that forbidden as well?"

"Pardon?"

"Your lord is the most frustrating, confusing man I have ever had the displeasure of knowing," you mumble as the wet material of your dress is peeled away from your skin and discarded on the floor with a wet plop.

"Lord Pike is your husband," she points out.

"And who is my husband? I'm afraid I do not know the man I married. He's kind, and then he's cold. He laughs, and then suddenly forgets how to smile. I do not know if he finds me to be a worthy companion or if he simply tolerates my presence."

"My lord has been alone for quite some time," Bridget says quietly. "He does not know how to have a friend, much less a wife."

"Does he even want one?"

"Did you wish to become one?" she asks pointedly, and you fall quiet again.

"Pardon my boldness, Lady, but I have not seen him look at anyone the way he looks at you."

"What, with disdain?" you snort.

"Your bath is ready," Bridget says quietly.

You slip into the water–blessedly cool, thank goodness–and close your eyes.

"I hear the weather will break tonight," your maid says conversationally, and you can tell she's desperate to change the subject. "We are long overdue for some rain."

"We are," you agree. "My garden needs it sorely."

"As do the crops, of course."

"Of course."

You’re dressed in deep emerald green velvet. Gold brocade is embroidered into the bodice of the dress and on the hem of your velvet skirts, your shoulders exposed to the cool, still air of the manor. It’s quite stunning, and if you weren’t feeling so affronted by your husband this evening, you’d delight in his gaze, in the way his wide eyes always dart back and forth over your form as he reverently breathes “Beautiful” every time he meets you at the top of the stairs for dinner. 

You meet Marcus there as always, but when he begins to turn away from the parlor, you make a questioning noise in your throat.

"The evening sun is currently streaming into the parlor," Marcus says by way of explanation. "With today’s heat, it is intolerably warm in that wing of the house, and far cooler in the banquet hall."

"I see," you answer tightly. You allow him to escort you into the dark, stuffy room instead.

He’s quiet as he eats, seemingly not willing, or perhaps able, to make conversation as he has on previous evenings. He stares into the middle distance as he chews, and you can’t tell if he’s lost in thought or simply avoiding eye contact.

“Does a case occupy your thoughts tonight?” you ask, putting as much gentleness into your voice as possible to attempt to guide him back to you.

“Nothing you need to be concerned with,” Marcus says tightly, shaking his head and stabbing a piece of chicken with his fork. Looking down at his plate as he is, he can’t see your resulting ire. 

You don’t attempt to engage with him again for the rest of the meal. Afterward, when the footmen start to clear the dishes, you abruptly excuse yourself, walking quickly out of the darkening banquet hall and heading straight for the heavy oak doors at the front entrance to the manor.

It's already beginning to sprinkle as you lift your skirts and run across the lawn toward your garden. It hardly matters; you can tolerate the stuffy house and your equally-stuffy husband not one moment longer.

The droplets cool your forehead and you laugh humorlessly at the notion that you may be scolded for turning up soaking wet twice in one day. It isn't simply the weather making you hot. Anger and some other emotion you cannot begin to name simmers in your blood. 

You cannot stand him. You simply cannot stand him and yet—why does the sight of your husband make your heart ache in your chest? Why can you not seem to erase the image in your mind's eye of Marcus standing in the creek shaking with laughter, the planes of his chest showing through his soaked shirt? 

But no–that behaviour was unbecoming. For him, or for you? Could he, as your mother warned, not abide by your carefree nature? Did he think himself above simple joys such as splashing one’s bare feet in cool water?

A tear mixes with the rain on your face as you run, but you hardly realise it. In no time at all, you're collapsing on your favorite stone bench in your garden, head in your hands. As you sit, the rain begins to pick up, turning from light sprinkles to a veritable downpour. You straighten, watching the droplets pelt the leaves of the vines climbing up the lattice next to you.

The night is already beginning to fall, but in the twilight, you can still make out the figure of Lord Marcus Pike running in your direction carrying an umbrella, and you sigh loudly in consternation.

"Insistent on catching your death today, are we?" he remarks when he reaches the bench, somewhat out of breath. 

"I’m confident that no one has died from a rainstorm in the middle of July."

"Still, to find you sopping wet on not one, but two occasions in the same day suggests a pattern of behaviour."

"Of unbecoming behaviour?" you mutter, turning away from him to stare at the rain. Silence falls. You make no effort to move from your spot on the middle of the bench, nor do you acknowledge the man again until, finally, he speaks.

"Please, tell me what have I done to upset you so?"

"I'm not upset."

"You are sitting in the dark in the rain," Marcus points out.

"I can do what I wish; it is my garden. You said so yourself."

"I did not imagine this particular situation when I said it."

"You should have considered every possible outcome before making promises like that."

"You are being ridiculous."

"I'm not."

You turn to meet his gaze–glaring at him, allowing all the indignance and fury show through in your expression. He glowers back with pursed lips and a clenched jaw, but his eyes are swimming with… some strange, unidentified emotion that makes them black and shining as coals.

"You vex me, you know that?"

"Oh, I vex you?" you retort.

"I don't know what to do or say around you. You're so… beautiful, and I lose all sense of reason whenever I'm near you."

“That is hardly an excuse for being horrid.”

“You think me horrid? All I ever wish for–all I strive to be–is to be a good husband and a good man.” 

"Yes, and every time I think I get close to knowing the type of man you truly are, you close yourself off to me, and I'm left wondering if I married a ghost."

"I did not want you to think me improper–"

"Propriety be damned!" you shout, standing up to advance on your husband in a fit of fury. "I'd rather spend my days reading science books and running barefoot through the creek then do another cursed thing that everyone else considers to be 'proper'!"

Marcus is silent for a moment–his expression blank as he regards you, standing an arm’s length away and breathing hard from your paroxysm of hostility. You’re afraid your outburst has angered him past repair–that he’s going to tell you to pack your things and go back to your parents’ house to live out the rest of your days–but when he opens his mouth, it’s not an admonition that spills from his lips, nor is it an order to leave. It is a soft plea, barely audible over the cacophony of the rainstorm.

"I should like to kiss you."

No sooner do the words leave his lips than you find yourself stepping into Marcus’ arms. Your mouths collide in a fit of fervency, his lips hot against your own rain-chilled skin. What feels almost like an electric shock courses through your body. Months of restrained passion–whether it be out of pining for the man you’d married, or because he rankles your nerves so profusely–pours out of your body and into the kiss. You clutch at him, your fists balling into the material of his dampened shirt as you drown in the feel of his lips on yours.

A gasp inadvertently draws itself into your lungs as you pull away, looking up into the eyes of your husband and finally seeing the man you’ve grown to admire–to love–staring back at you in astonishment. He says nothing, but simply shakes his head in utter disbelief, cradles your cheeks in his hands, and pulls you back to him. 

When once you’d stiffened at the touch of his lips, you now melt into the feeling of it. After the first tentative kiss, Marcus is emboldened; his hands gently guide your head to one side, and he to the other–slanting your mouths together in a deeper and more tender kiss. Nothing exists outside of this moment–not your families’ arrangement without either of your choosing, nor the expectations thrust upon you as a wife of a high-born aristocrat. Even your husband’s unbearable rigidity is nowhere to be seen as he presses closer and closer still, one of his hands coming to your lower back and bringing your bodies flush together.

No, the only thing you can feel from Marcus is passion. Even the rain pelting on your head is a distant notion–merely a trivial inconvenience–compared to the love and tenderness in his embrace. He holds you as one might a priceless artefact–rare, precious, and utterly cherished.  

Your shiver when the wind picks up has less to do with the rapidly falling temperatures and more with the way Marcus is still holding your cheek in his palm as though you'll break, and yet at the same time kissing you like he'll never need air again.

Even so, the action makes him pull back with a little chuckle. His hair is plastered to his forehead, and you can't help but giggle back.

“Let us go inside before we catch our deaths,” he whispers, still smiling. He extends his hand, and, still looking up at him with wide-eyed disbelief, you take it. The wind whips around you as you both run toward the manor. Marcus tries in vain to keep the umbrella over your head, but after just a few minutes, the whole thing turns inside out in a particularly strong gust of wind. 

“Leave it,” you laugh as he tries to right it again and cover you from the rain. “I can’t get any wetter.”

The wind finally wrenches it from his grasp, and he joins in your laughter as it sails away into the night. Hand in hand, you run through the storm until you’re crashing through the front entrance, laughing hysterically, out of breath, and drenched from head to toe. The moment you’re safe inside, Marcus reaches for you again, winding his arms around your waist and pressing his lips to yours. 

You respond in kind, the fire in your belly igniting despite the chill in the air. You can’t get enough of the feel of them–they’re soft, warm, and pliant, and they move against you with a passion that causes a soft sound of pleasure to escape your throat. It’s a foreign sound to your ears–one you’ve never heard yourself make before, but Marcus groans softly in response. 

“Marcus,” you sigh softly. 

“Darling,” he murmurs against your lips, and you shiver again. “You’re shaking. Should I… should I escort you to your chambers so that you may… get dry, and go to bed–if that’s what you wish?”

“No, please,” you shake your head, looking frantic. “Please, I–I need–”

You can’t give voice to what stirs inside of you, but you know you can’t bear to part from your husband for a moment. Marcus seems to understand somewhat; his eyes soften even further, and he takes your hand again, pulling you forward until you're standing at the doors to his own quarters. Rather than enter, though, he turns and palms your cheek, his eyes raking over you in desperation. 

“On our wedding night, I made you a promise,” he whispers. “I promised that I’d never share my bed with you unless you wish for it. I need you to tell me—is this what you truly wish?”

“I don’t know,” you admit in a small voice. “I simply know I do not wish to be parted from you at this moment.”

“Then come,” Marcus murmurs softly. “Come in, and let us at least get dry and warm again.”

He takes your hands in his and pulls you gently forward–and all the while, his eyes never once leave yours. 

You can't help but think about how different tonight is from the first time you were in this room. He had barely looked at you then; you were terrified and upset and couldn't stand to be near him. Now, you cling to him, seeking the comfort of his lips again as he walks backwards into his bedroom with his arms around you. 

When you finally break apart, you make a soft noise of protest, but Marcus holds out his hand placatingly, disappearing for a brief moment before returning with an armful of large Turkish bath towels that he drops onto the settee next to him. He takes one, and, with a playful smile, gently covers your dripping hair and squeezes the water out of the ends.

"Turn around, if you would like," Marcus murmurs, a little quiver in his voice.

You obey with your heart in your throat. This, too, feels much different than your wedding night. He gently moves your damp hair to the side and slowly begins to unfasten the buttons at the back of your dress. One by one, he gently sheds your clothes, casting aside the wet emerald dress and your undergarments. Each layer brings you closer to being bare in front of him for the first time, and when you're down to just your chemise and your drawers, you can feel yourself trembling slightly. 

"It's all right," Marcus whispers softly in your ear. "I won't look–not yet."

He helps pull your chemise over your head as you kick your drawers away, and then blindly reaches for another large bath towel and wraps it around you, pressing a soft kiss to your bare shoulder as he does.

His kindness and patience makes something swell within you. You turn to face him, eyes wide as you slowly lift your hand to his cheek. His eyes flutter open again at your touch, and his gaze is dark and longing as he turns slightly to kiss your palm. 

Holding your eyes, Marcus's hands come to the buttons of his vest, quickly shedding the outer garment before undoing his shirt. You swallow thickly as each inch of bare skin is revealed to you. 

You want this. Oh, God, do you want this. But why? Each touch, each kiss makes you feel as though you're burning from the inside out, but if your mother was right that it would only bring you pain, why does it feel as though you'll die if you stop?

Marcus hastily towels off his hair, making it stand on end, before drying his chest and unbuttoning the front of his trousers. You tear your gaze away and stare at the floor as your heart hammers loudly in your chest. You focus on breathing until you feel him gently take your hand and lead you forward until you’re standing next to his bed. Rather than guide you to lie down, however, he simply steps closer, slowly encircling you with his arms and bringing your bodies close. The large bath towels cover both of your delicate areas, but the feel of his bare arms and chest still causes heat to work its way up your spine.

You sigh softly–you can’t describe how comforting it is to be in Marcus’s arms. Any latent fear about what’s to come is pushed aside as he slowly guides your mouth to his again. And again. And again. Soon, you’re clutching at him, panting softly into every kiss as he makes fire ignite in your chest. 

As naked as you are to each other, Marcus’s hands remain chaste. One gently clasps the back of your neck, keeping you just as he wants–against his lips. The other palms your jaw, his thumb brushing slowly back and forth against your cheekbone. You gasp ever so slightly into his kiss, and, as you part your lips, his tongue gently slips inside. 

The gasp turns ragged. A surprised noise is trapped in your throat and you all but throw your arms around his shoulders, hardly even realising how your nails are digging into his skin or that your chests are pressed together with the towel trapped between you. You aren’t entirely sure what you’re doing, but you return in kind, parting your lips and cautiously touching your tongue to his. 

Marcus groans softly, the grip on your neck tightening imperceptibly as you open to him. It feels wild–you aren’t in control of your own reactions; you can hardly contain your response to his kisses. You’re barely aware of the little whimpers coming from your own throat, let alone being able to stop them from escaping. Yet Marcus only presses closer.

“Come–” he murmurs–shakily, but smiling–against your lips, “–Please, God, before I fall over.”

You giggle breathlessly and allow him to guide you gently down onto the bed. As soon as you’re horizontal, with your husband hovering over you with awe etched into his expression, however; the fear returns. Your mother’s voice returns. When Marcus ducks his head to kiss you again, you know he feels the change in you; he pulls back quickly, eyes raking over your face in confusion and alarm.

“Darling, what troubles you?” 

“I am fine,” you answer, but the waver in your voice makes the words hardly convincing.

Marcus studies you, two little creases on his brow as he tries to make sense of the change in mood. His gaze softens; his lips part in worry.

“Are you frightened?” His lips barely move as he speaks.

“I was told that it would be painful,” you answer. You feel as though maybe you should have lied to protect him, but the honesty comes to your lips quickly at the open concern in your husband’s eyes.  “And that I will not enjoy it.” 

Understanding and horror washes over Marcus’s face. 

“No. No. I cannot–I could never—” he stammers. “Darling… I will never hurt you.” The words are thick and rasping with heavy emotion. “I would sooner die.”

But your own mother had said—

“Can you even promise such a thing?” you ask skeptically.

Marcus takes your face in his hands and presses a soft, warm kiss to your forehead. “I can, and I will. It does not need to hurt,” he promises. “It shouldn’t. I can–I can bring you pleasure. If you would trust me–?”

You want to be wary, but all you can see in his eyes is honesty and sincerity. Despite the man’s stiff demeanor, despite his rigidity, despite his awkward, stilted small talk–he’s never been anything but kind to you. 

You believe him. Of course you do.

“I trust you,” you answer softly.

Marcus smiles shakily. “I am glad,” he whispers. He kisses you again–urgently, and full of passion. This time, you return his affections.

“I should like to see you,” he confesses quietly. “May I?”

Breathlessly, you nod. Your heart is in your throat as he gently takes hold of the edge of the bath towel and slowly draws it out from where it’s tucked neatly around your chest. He keeps his eyes on yours the entire time instead of looking at the skin that he’s exposing. He doesn’t stop until you’re entirely bare, your nipples pebbling slightly in the cool air of the bedroom. 

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers–and yet, he hasn’t taken his eyes off of yours. Only when you smile back does Marcus finally drop his gaze. His breath catches as the sight of you, and at the utter longing in his expression, you find yourself feeling… beautiful. Enticing. Like a woman.

“I think it is only fair,” you say with a playful formality, “that you render yourself likewise uncovered, my lord.”

Marcus’s grin is cheeky, full of mischief and affection. “I cannot possibly refuse such a polite request,” he teases. 

At your behest, he slowly draws the towel out from around his hips.

You gulp. 

“Shhh,” Marcus urges, winding his arm around your waist and pulling you against him. “I do not want for you to be afraid of me.”

“Oh,” you exhale quietly, overcome by the feel of so much skin. He kisses you again, and his hands wander–skimming down your spine, clutching softly at your waist, and–oh, God–moving down to grasp your hip as your bodies slowly move together. 

True to his word, it does feel… pleasurable, thus far. The warmth and softness of his skin against yours makes you dizzy with need, and when his lips leave yours to trail a path of kisses down to your neck, you find yourself arching your spine to bring him closer. You can feel the stiffness of his length pressing insistently against your thigh, and you find yourself wondering when he will… well, when he will put it inside.

Instead, however, his hand slowly moves inward from its place at your hip, until his fingers are brushing gently at the little bud between your legs. The light touch is at the same time foreign and perfect. You gasp wantonly at the feel of him touching you in a place so very intimate in nature. His breath is hot against your neck as he pants, open mouthed, while his fingers explore the uncharted territory. 

"How I've longed for this–for you," he groans raggedly into your skin. “Oh, my darling wife. Tell me—Tell me that you have desired for this moment.”

“I–oh–” you whimper as his fingers begin to slowly circle around the little bundle of nerves. “I did not know that–M-Marcus–I did not know it could feel–” Sparks of desire–of pleasure–shoot up and down your spine at his touch. “I have… thought of you,” you confess to him. “I have imagined your lips on mine many times, but I did not know–”

“Did not know… what?” Marcus asks gently, pulling back to look into your eyes as… something within you… builds. 

“That this could feel… s-so…” 

“Yes?” Your husband’s eyes are wild, his voice breathless and rough with pleasure, and as he watches you try to form words, that feeling inside of you reaches a crescendo.

“Wh–oh!” you cry out, your lips parting of their own accord. Your core pulses rhythmically, and all the tension seems to leave your body, somehow pulled out of you by the movement of Marcus’s fingers. 

“Oh my,” you gasp, as soon as you regain the ability to speak. “Oh, God.”

Marcus is breathing just as heavily as you are. His eyes are greedy, raking over your face and watching how you writhe on the bed as a result of his actions.

You slump, spent, on the pillows as the strong surge of ecstasy finally abates. “Marcus,” you murmur, staring up at him in utter disbelief.

“I did promise,” he says with a shaky grin. 

“I want—oh,” you sigh. “Can you do that again?”

“I will do it as many times as you ask,” Marcus grins, palming your jaw and giving you a gentle–yet somehow still passionate–kiss. “And perhaps a few more besides.”

Holding your gaze, he sucks a finger into his mouth and then brings the hand back down between your legs. This time, his hand explores deeper, past the little bundle of nerves and down to your centre. His touch is light through your folds at first, then grows bolder as the finger slips gently inside of you. 

You cry out in pleasure again. The feeling is the same as before, yet somehow different. It causes the same thrill to rise inside of you, but with his finger now inside, that feeling is stronger. Deeper. 

“Oh, yes,” Marcus whispers reverently as he pushes the digit even further inside. You can only pant open-mouthed as he buries it to the hilt, sheathed inside your heat. “Oh, my darling, I fear I will never tire of this,” he murmurs, a small smile on his face as he watches your intense reactions. And then… and then… the finger starts to move, thrusting slowly in and out of your channel, and you lose all sense of reason.

“...believe… I… should be the pers–oh! …saying that,” you manage to stammer.

“Yes,” your husband urges, the heel of his hand pressing flush against you as he continues the dizzying movement of his finger inside of you. “Yes, never tire of it either, I beg of you,” he murmurs, kissing your jawline, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead– “Let me have you like this always. In my bed, at my side, just–oh, love, just say you will stay.”

“I will,” you promise, as the coil of heat and tension inside of you tightens, tightens, tightens. “I will, Marcus, I will.”

With a little choked-off gasp, you fall apart around his finger as waves of pleasure crash against you for the second time. Marcus leans forward, his forehead touching yours as your heartbeat gradually begins to slow. 

“Tell me,” he whispers roughly. “Tell me I can–oh, please.”

“Yes,” you agree, nodding rapidly up and down. “Yes, Marcus.”

“I won’t hurt you,” he promises again, desperation and longing in his voice. “On my life, I will not.”

“I know.” You nod again. 

Slowly, keeping his eyes glued to your reaction, Marcus moves between your parted legs and covers your body with his, keeping most of his weight on his elbows so that he doesn’t cause you any discomfort. He kisses you again–softly, slowly–as one hand reaches in between your bodies. 

You feel him notch at your entrance, and you whimper softly–in anticipation or trepidation, you do not know.

“Eyes on me,” Marcus whispers. “Don’t be afraid.”

He pushes forward, and just the tip of him slips inside, but merely that seems already enough to fill you to the brim. He continues until he meets some resistance part of the way in, and stops. His eyes are wide and anxious, those two little creases returning to the center of his brow, and you know, suddenly, what he needs to do. 

“Just do it,” you nod, closing your eyes.

He lowers his head, and you feel his lips, warm and gentle on one closed eyelid, just before he swiftly sheathes himself to the hilt, pushing through any barrier that yet remained.

You cry out softly–although more in shock than in pain–and Marcus makes little soothing noises in your ear as he stills again and waits for you to adjust. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, kissing your face over and over again. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m all right,” you assure him. “I am. You didn’t hurt me.”

“I want all that you feel to be pleasure,” Marcus whispers. “Only that. Never pain.”

“I know.”

He flexes his hips experimentally, and you feel the movement deep inside of you. 

“Oh–” a ragged, wanton noise tears its way out of your throat.

“Yes?”

“Again,” you demand.

Again, your husband moves, and something stirs in your belly, at the base of your spine. Rhythmically, he undulates against you, his skin sliding against yours and his shaft hitting something you’ve never even dreamed of, bringing you an ecstasy you never knew existed.

Your hands scrabble at Marcus’s shoulders as you desperately seek out his mouth, kissing him messily as the pleasure yet again begins to rise within you. It’s like nothing you’ve ever felt before–God, you never knew such a feeling could occur within you, that your body could be so alight with desire.

Your bodies become slick with perspiration as you move, but it only makes the experience even more sensual. Marcus’s hair is falling forward over his forehead, his eyes dark, burning coals as he takes you over and over again. Feeling your enthusiastic response, he speeds up–hitting something deeper and harder as he does.

You keen for him. With no thoughts left in your head, you babble incoherently as your pleasure builds, and it only seems to spur him on. 

“I–oh! I–Marcus, oh, love, it–it feels so—please, never–never stop. Oh, my love, it–ah!” 

Something deep within you snaps, and your entire body convulses with ecstasy as you come undone. Marcus groans in response, a broken, pleasure-soaked sound that sends chills down your spine. 

“Feels so good,” he moans. “Oh, darling, I’m going to–” 

He seems to lose his rhythm; his hips stutter once, twice, and then he stills, burying himself to the hilt and nearly crushing your bodies together in his passion.

Some time passes; although exactly how much, you do not know. All you know is that Marcus is wrapped around you–or you around him, perhaps–and his length is still buried within you. The deep stretch of him abates as you lie there, forgetting all else but the feeling of being held so closely, and so tenderly. After minutes or hours, he stirs–making you groan softly in protest–but he only chuckles deeply and pulls back to look at you with fondness in his eyes. 

“Darling,” he murmurs. “My darling wife.”

“Marcus,” you answer back, voice still full of awe and amazement.

“You are so beautiful like this,” he says reverently. “Please–would you stay here with me tonight?”

“If this is what happens when we are in the same bed, I fear I may never return to my own quarters,” you grin.

Marcus chuckles. “And I fear we may lose a little sleep over the coming days if you allow me such privileges.”

Kissing the tip of your nose, he finally slips from within you, eliciting a little hiss of discomfort from you that causes his eyes to widen in alarm.

“Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “It is not pain, exactly; I am not entirely sure how to describe it. I simply feel… different. As if I’ve just run a great distance, and my legs are burning from overuse, and yet it does not detract from the exhilaration of running in the first place.”

Your husband laughs softly again. “Then I will let you rest for tonight, I think,” he teases. “Let me get these bath towels out of the way, and then I’ll turn out the lights.”

You shift your weight as Marcus draws the towel out from where it’s still resting underneath you and casts it to the side of the room. As you roll to one side, his sharp intake of breath makes you startle slightly, unsure of the cause until you follow his gaze to the sheet below. You exhale softly in surprise at the small smear of blood–barely larger than that which would come from pricking one’s finger–staining the linens just underneath where you had been joined.

“Are you sure you’re all right?” Marcus asks quietly.

“I am,” you promise. 

“I suppose our families got what they wanted after all,” he says, shaking his head with a chuckle. 

“And it serves them right that they’re not here to see it,” you say, your voice clipped and short. “I much prefer these matters to be private and on my own schedule, thank you very much.”

“On this, my lady, we agree completely.” 

Marcus shoots you a smile–that lovely, crooked, mischievous grin that you adore so much–before getting up and extinguishing the lamps, bathing the room in darkness. You feel the mattress dip as he slides back in beside you, but he seems to hesitate before touching you again.

“Marcus?” you whisper.

“Yes?”

“Will you hold me as you were before?”

Arms immediately wind around you and pull you flush against him, your back to his chest. He holds you tightly and tenderly, burying his face in your skin where your neck and shoulder meet.

“Marcus,” you whisper again, even softer than before.

He makes a soft questioning noise against your skin.

“Don’t be distant to me in the morning,” you plead softly, before you can think better of it. “I can’t bear it.”

“Distant?” Marcus sounds confused.

“You are playful one moment and standoffish the next. You look at me with fondness, but then speak to me with a rigidity that doesn’t fit your expression. You laugh, but then you stop yourself as though you’re afraid to do it. I do not know which type of man is the one I am married to, but I must tell you I detest the man who acts cold and aloof.”

Your husband is quiet for a long time–long enough that you aren’t sure if your outburst has angered him, or if, perhaps, he’s fallen asleep. When he speaks, it nearly startles you, despite the low volume of his voice in your ear.

“I am truly sorry,” he begins, and you can hear the regret in his tone. “I did tell you, I–I do not know how to be a good husband to you. I only know what I’ve been told; I was assured repeatedly that no woman would want an eccentric or unserious husband."

“Oh. Oh,” you say softly, as the realization washes over you. Suddenly, all of your husband’s strange and erratic behavior makes sense as the puzzle pieces fall into place. “You know, I was told no man would want a strong-willed and stubborn wife."

Marcus’s grip tightens at your words. You can feel his mouth open and close, but he stops short of speaking, so you continue.

“I like you this way,” you admit quietly.

“Which way is that?” he rumbles.

“Warm. Smiling. Luminous.”

His sharp, stunned intake of breath cools your skin. 

“And I like you wild and barefoot and running through my creek,” Marcus murmurs back. “Although that image does pale in comparison, now that I know how you look in my bed.”

“I quite believed that you didn’t like me at all,” you confess. 

“I believed the same, especially when you disagreed with every word upon our first meeting.”

You giggle softly. “I am sorry–I was rather upset by the entire situation.”

“And now?” Marcus’s voice is careful. Vulnerable.

“I did not know you then,” you tell him. “I did not know the shape of your smile, nor the sound of your laugh. I did not know your desk is splattered with paint or that your shelves are covered with books that you read to me in the softest, sweetest voice. I did not know the mischief in your eyes or… or the warmth of your lips,” you say, dropping your volume to a whisper. “Nor the feel of your bare skin against mine just as it is now. All I knew was the rigid, closed-off man I saw before me, but now I know his secret,” you tease. 

“And what might that be?”

You wiggle your hips playfully as you settle into Marcus’s arms, your eyes finally starting to feel heavy with sleep.

“That you’re just as wild as me.”

*

fin

[fiveraccoonsinatrenchcoat]

Quiet My Fears (With The Touch Of Your Hand) Ch. 3

Steve Harrington x f!reader

Description: Dramatic reveals are revealed, dramatically (or, you and Steve tell the gang about Baby Harrington and it does not go well).

Warnings: language, food mentions, everyone is angry all of the time

Word Count: 7965

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Notes: I'm so sorry this took as long as it did! I've been going through it lately but through the power of boygenius I was actually able to finish this bit the other day! Please enjoy and also no one is allowed to be mad at me lol

Steve Harrington was going to be a dad.

The funny thing that came along with that was that Steve was actually going to have to tell people.

He imagined that there were many couples who would be very excited about this prospect. There were lots of young men out there who had mothers begging them for grandchildren. His hadn’t quite gotten there yet.

You had told him that you wanted to put off telling people for as long as you could. He entirely understood why; times had changed quite a bit since his mother’s day, but still, being an unwed mother in Smalltown, USA was relatively frowned upon. Honestly, considering just how gossipy the population of Hawkins tended to be, Steve was surprised the front desk ladies at your doctor’s office hadn’t already spread the news like wildfire, HIPAA be damned; golden boy Steve Harrington and his childhood best friend, having a baby out of wedlock? That was some front page stuff, right there. 

Married or not, though, it was going to have to happen sooner rather than later. In a few weeks time, it was going to start getting very difficult to hide. You were going to begin showing any moment now, and as Spring started to settle in, it brought its warmer temperatures with it. You could only hide behind your winter coat and thick sweaters for so long. 

And not just your bump; your friends were beginning to pick up on the fact that there was something going on.

“Steve!” Robin barked before tossing a wadded up ball of old receipts at him. It hit him square between the eyebrows. “Stop moping and do your job, please?”

“I’m not moping,” Steve defended (he absolutely was), before turning back to the pile of returns he was supposed to be sorting through.

“Fuck off, yeah you are,” Eddie very helpfully added.

“See, this is why I don’t like it when you hang around here,” Steve said, pointing a pen toward Eddie. “You two always gang up on me!”

“Why do you think I’m here at all?” Eddie quipped back with a smirk. 

“Because you don’t have anywhere better to go?” Robin supplied.

“That, too.”

“Either way, I’m not moping,” Steve assured. “I’m fine.”

“That’s a fucking lie if I’ve ever heard one,” Eddie said over the click of the markdown gun, as he emptied its bright orange stickers down that back of his arm. Steve couldn’t help but notice that he had set the price to ‘WAS $4.20, NOW $0.69’.

“Stop that,” Robin huffed as she whipped the tool out of Eddie’s hands. “Steve, I can practically see the rain cloud floating over your head.”

“Oh, my god!” Steve didn’t really want to snap at his friends, but he did it anyway. “Nothing is wrong! I am fine, everything is fine!”

Eddie and Robin just stared at Steve like a pair of deer in headlights from across the counter. They both knew how easily frustrated Steve could become, and they’d be the first to admit that sometimes they can poke at him a bit too hard, but an outburst this quickly had been unexpected. Neither said anything, and Steve just sighed.

After a moment of awkward silence, Eddie spoke up once again. 

“Lady problems?”

“Get out!” both Steve and Robin exclaimed, in unison.

“I thought you guys liked me.” Eddie feigned offense.

“You do not work here!” Robin said as she grabbed onto his shoulders and shoved him toward the door. “And Keith’ll get pissed if he finds out you were here and didn’t spend any money, so go home.”

“Fine,” Eddie relented from the entryway. “Hey, I’ll see you guys on Saturday, right?”

“Of course!”

“Probably not.”

“You claim nothing is wrong,” Eddie said, pointing to Steve. “And yet, in the same breath, turn down free beer?”

“Leave!”

“I love you both!”

The bell above the door rang as Eddie walked out, and Steve was left in Robin’s concerned gaze. 

“Y’know, Eddie does kind of have a point,” Robin said after a moment. Nine times out of ten, Robin was able to coax Steve out of his quiet and get him to talk about whatever it was that was eating at him, a fact that Steve was highly aware of. 

“No, he doesn’t,” Steve barked back. If this conversation didn’t end in the next two minutes, he would jump off the roof. 

“You haven’t hung out with any of us in weeks!” Robin exclaimed “Weeks, Steve!”

“I’ve been busy,” Steve lied.

“Busy with what?” she inquired. “Do you have another job I don’t know about, or something?”

“I’m allowed to do things without you around. You know that, right?” It was meaner than he needed to be.

“Oh, god, this isn’t about your lover, is it?” Robin drawled with a scowl.

“You know her name, and you don’t have to say it like that,” Steve responded.

“You two got back together, didn’t you?”

She hadn’t quite gotten it head on, but it was probably as close as she was going to get.

“I knew it!” Robin looked like she was going to explode. “I fucking knew it!”

“Please don’t turn this into a thing,” Steve pleaded.

“Me turn it into a thing?!” She was mad now. “You two are the ones turning it into a thing! You cannot keep sneaking around like this, it cannot possibly be healthy!”

“We’re-” Steve huffed out a breath. This tightrope he was walking across seemed to be growing more and more thin. “Working on it.”

“Can you work on it a little bit faster, please?” Robin asked as she punched out. “You two are so fucking weird about each other. Split, or make it official, just do something, because I hate having to keep this secret for you, it’s exhausting!”

“We sort of already did. I think,” Steve confided. Partial truth is better than no truth, right?

“Split?”

“Make it official.”

“Oh, thank god,” Robin sighed, tossing herself across the counter, all dramatics. “I can finally quit having to cover for you.”

“Don’t say anything yet.” Steve was quick with his damage control. “We, uh, we wanna do it. Ourselves. Figure it’ll probably go over a little bit smoother that way, y’know?”

“Fine, but if you don’t tell everyone soon, I’m going to,” Robin said. “Don’t think I’m the only one who’s noticed something off with you lately.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“Everyone is worried about you, Steve,  it’s not just me,” she explained. “Dustin was about two seconds away from showing up at your house after you bailed on us last week.”

Steve didn’t know that. It sent a lightning bolt of regret through his chest.

“The faster you two can get your shit together, the better. I’ve been happily cleaning up this mess for you, but I’m starting to get fucking tired of it, Steve.” Robin looked at her watch. “I was off ten minutes ago.”

She was out the door before Steve could even think up an apology.

Steve and Robin didn’t get into fights often, but he absolutely hated it every time they did. Even silly little arguments left him wracked with guilt sometimes, but proper, go-for-the-throat type fights made feel sick. 

Pair that with the fact that he was making Dustin worry, and Steve felt about ready to hurl. 

God, this was difficult. Stupidly difficult. Maybe, if he asked nicely, you’d agree to just run away with him so he didn’t have to deal with any of it. 

If he could just pluck up the courage to tell his parents, that would at least be a start. They were the difficult ones, the conversation he was dreading more than any of them, and the wild anxiety ate away at him for the rest of his shift. By the time seven o’clock rolled around and he was finally able to go home, it was entirely all-encompassing.

Fuck it. It had to get done either way, right?

The drive from Family Video to his parents house, no longer than ten minutes, felt as though it stretched across half an eternity. The vicious anxiety ate away at his stomach as he drove, and with each turn, each mile crossed, it only increased. Maybe he should just turn around. Maybe he should go home to you, and his parents could just figure it out on their own. He was sure his dad would love that.

Steve pulled into the driveway and was very close to losing what little nerve he had. He turned off the ignition, this is a bad idea. He got out of the car, this is a bad idea. He walked up to the front door and let himself in, this is a bad idea.  

He could hear the commotion of his mother making dinner in the kitchen. Something was sizzling; popping and crackling with the smell of onions and garlic, of bell peppers and roasting meat. 

Steve had lots of reasons to be jealous of other peoples’ parents, but at least his knew how to cook.

“Steve!” his mother exclaimed once he walked into her view. One hand was occupied by a wooden spoon stirring a pan of vegetables, the other holding a frosty glass of white wine. “I didn’t know whether or not to expect you.”

“You barely even live here anymore,” his father chided from where he was sitting at the counter. His suit coat was off and he had a matching wine glass sitting on the table in front of him. Nine times out of ten, Steve’s parents were able to be amicable with one another. At this point, they acted more like roommates than husband and wife, but at least they were roommates that were able to stand being in the same room as one another. Usually. “Didn’t think I’d get to see you before I left.”

“Sit down! Have a drink,” his mother insisted. She pulled another wine glass out of the cabinet and the bottle out of the fridge. 

“Oh, no, I’m alright,” Steve said as he sat down. His mother poured him the glass anyway.

He was about to ruin a perfectly good dinner, Steve thought to himself. His mother probably poured over it all day. The roast that just got pulled out of the oven was probably expensive. 

“So, what’s been going on with Steve these days?” his father asked him. 

Now or never.

“I actually wanted to, uh,” Steve stuttered out. “I wanted to talk to you guys.”

“You didn’t crash your car, did you?” his father said, only half joking.

“No, the car’s fine.”

“Is this about that girl?” his mother asked as she turned the stove down to low, mischief painting her voice.

“Girl? What girl?” His father pointed his gaze over to Meredith. 

“He met a girl,” she responded. She seemed almost giddy with excitement.

“Finally,” his father said. He said it like it was a joke, though it didn’t feel all that well meaning to Steve. 

“Oh, tell me it’s Giada’s daughter from down the street,” his mother said. “Have you seen their kitchen? I’d never have to host another Thanksgiving ever again.”

“No, it’s not- no.” Steve wasn’t even sure he knew who Giada was, let alone her daughter. 

“Well, at least give us a name, Steve,” his mother said. “Is she cute?”

When Steve said your name, he felt almost like he was condemning you. Like just uttering it strapped you to him, so now you’d both be falling from grace. 

“The one who grew up across the street?” his father asked, as if you hadn’t known him your whole life.

“Oh, that’s just too sweet!,” his mother exclaimed. “It’s like a movie, ugh! I’ll have to give her mother a call, she’s going to be thrilled!”

Good luck with that, Steve thought to himself. She won’t even answer the calls from her own daughter.  

“Took you long enough,” his father said, leaning back in his barstool, lackadaisical. 

“What?” Steve responded. He was wildly unimpressed by his father’s haughty attitude.

“You two have been making googly eyes at each other since you were eight,” he explained. “Frankly, I didn’t think you had the balls to do anything about it.”

“Ron,” his mother chastised at the choice of words.

“What? Obviously, I was wrong.” Ron pointed his gaze back to his son. “Y’know, I think she could be a good influence on you. Steady job, good work ethic. She’s a bit of an oddball, though, but I guess with a father like her’s, could you really blame her?”

Leave it to Ronald Harrington to judge other peoples’ parenting skills while simultaneously insulting his son’s girlfriend. 

“Don’t be rude,” Meredith said. Her back was now turned to the two men, arms elbow deep in the sink. “Such a shame her parents moved away, though. I couldn’t imagine going that far without bringing your daughter with you. Is she still living on the south side?”

“Yep.”

“That’s not the safest area in town,” she commented. “Did you hear about that house fire down that way? The woman on the news said that it might have been arson. Arson!” 

“It’s alright,” he placated. “Not as bad as it used to be, at least.” 

“I still don’t know if I like the idea of a girl like her living all by herself in an area like that,” she said. 

“You’ll have to invite her over for dinner once I get back,” his father said, entirely oblivious to the topic of conversation between his wife and son.

There was a moment of silence between the three of them. His mom took a sip of her wine and stuck the meat with a cooking thermometer, his dad refilled his own glass, and Steve felt his stomach do a backflip. This was going poorly.

“If there’s something else you have to tell us, you might as well just rip the bandaid off quick.” His father hit the nail on the head, that was for sure. He paused for a moment before making the kind of poorly timed, borderline insulting joke only someone like his father could. 

“God, she’s not pregnant, is she?”

Steve went rigid, and he kept his gaze trained on the swirls in the marble countertop. He didn’t say anything, he couldn’t bring himself to, so he just left his parents to piece his silence together on their own.

“Steve,” his mother demanded. She had a carving fork gripped tight in her white knuckled fist, planted hard against the edge of the countertop. Steve was pretty sure she was about to stab him with it. He couldn’t look either of them in the eye.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to squeak out. He could feel tears beginning to well up in his eyes. 

“Goddamn it, Steven!” his father exclaimed, slamming his hand onto the counter. It made the glasses rattle. “This has to be some kind of joke!”

“I’m sorry!” Steve said, louder this time. “Fuck, I didn’t-”

“Didn’t what?” his father asked. “You didn’t mean to? You didn’t think it would actually happen?”

“I don’t know,” Steve responded. He suddenly felt very small, confronted by his father’s booming voice.

His mother stood silent in her spot on the opposite side of the kitchen island, but there were definitely tears running down her cheeks, and anger radiating off of her in horrible waves that Steve wasn’t used to. 

“No, you don’t, because you weren’t thinking at all, were you?” His father fumed. He was standing now, towering over Steve despite the fact that the two of them were almost the same in height. “For Christ’s sake, Steven!”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ll have to marry her-”

“We already talked about that. She said she wants to wait,” Steve explained quickly.

“No. No, this is not a question of want, Steven. I don’t care about what you want, you’ve forfeited that right! You both have!” his father spat back. 

“I’m not gonna force her to marry me against her will, dad, I’m not evil!” He shouldn’t have said it that way, he knew that. But god, he was mad, and a low blow like that was just as satisfying as he thought it would be. 

At least this hadn’t happened when he was 16. He would have been well and truly fucked if this had happened when he was 16. 

“You know what? Maybe this is just the thing you need,” his father snapped.

“What?” Steve asked, confused.

“A big mistake for you to finally learn a thing or two.”

Steve wasn’t particularly fond of his father’s use of the word ‘mistake’.

“I leave for Santa Monica tomorrow morning. I’ll be back in a week,” his father stated. “I want you out of my house before then.”

“Ronald,” Meredith broke her silence, exclaiming from behind the tears. Steve knew she wouldn’t explode the way his father was doing, but she really looked like she wanted to.

“No! We have been defending him and making excuses for years, Meredith. Years! If he wants to go play house with his little girlfriend, that’s fine by me, but he’s not gonna do it under my roof.” He doubled down and turned his gaze back to where Steve was sitting. “I think it's a damn good time for him to learn that his actions come with consequences.”

The older man turned away at that and pulled his keys off of the hook on the wall.

“Where are you going?” Meredith called after him. He didn’t bother with an answer, only walked out and slammed the door behind him. 

Steve was left alone with his mother, which was simultaneously much better and far worse. 

“We were already planning for me to move in with her,” Steve said. If his father had stuck around for a minute longer, he would have been able to explain that to him, too. “She needed a roommate anyway.”

His mother scoffed and shook her head.

“Look, I know that-”

“You make it incredibly difficult for me to be on your side sometimes, Steven,” his mother interrupted.

“I know,” Steve agreed. He did know. 

“I wish I could say that I thought your father was being irrational, but I don’t know if I can,” she sighed. “For once, I think he and I might be on the same page.”

“You are?” Steve asked. His father’s vitriolic anger hadn’t come as a surprise, he’d been expecting it, but he thought his mother would be at least a little bit understanding. She always had been before. Steve guessed that this was different, though. 

“You’re not going to be able to live in that apartment forever, Steven,” she said.

“I know that.”

“And you’ll definitely need a better job. I highly doubt your father’s previous offer still stands, by the way.”

“I know.”

“Do you?” she asked him. Her voice had a bite to it that he had never been on the receiving end of before. “You’ve been saying ‘I know’ for years now, Steve. You know you need to grow up, you know you’ll have to move out someday, you know you have to do something with your life, yet you have never made any actual effort to do anything about it!”

“Mom, that’s not true-”

“If you want to start making big, adult choices like this, you’re going to have to start acting like one. Clearly, you’re not a child anymore.” 

His mother untied her apron and tossed it onto the counter before leaving the kitchen, heels clicking on the tile.

Steve’s whole family had been waiting for that thing; that final, fatal event that would break the Hawkins Harringtons for good. Aunts, uncles, cousins, all piecing together whatever bits of gossip they could, knew that the string that tied Steve to his parents was being pulled thinner and thinner and thinner. His mother could only do so much mending for him, and everyone had spent the last few years waiting with bated breath for that string to snap, for Steve to lose his footing. Once it did, he would plummet.

Steve was now standing alone in his childhood home, scissors in hand. 

Steve didn’t know what to do, so he stood up and turned off the stove. He pulled out a tupperware container and boxed up the vegetables. He wrapped the meat in foil and left it out on the counter, because it needed to cool before it could be put away, or else it would screw with the temperature inside the refrigerator. He found a stopper and closed the bottle of wine, placing it in the fridge before gathering the three glasses. His was still full, and he wanted to chug it, but thought better of it and poured it down the drain. He cleaned all of the dishes, dried them, and put them away. He turned off the oven, and wiped down all of the countertops, and neatly hung the towel to dry. He turned off the lights, making sure to leave the one above the stove on as a nightlight. 

Truly, there wasn’t much left of his personal belongings that he really cared about that he hadn’t already taken to your apartment. Most of what he needed was already there. He could grab the rest of it when his mother wasn’t home; the rest of his clothes, important documents, that kind of thing. What all do you even need to bring with you when you're being forced out of your childhood home, anyway? 

Later. This was something he could deal with later.

So he left. Unsurprisingly, his father’s car was nowhere to be seen. He wanted to keep talking to his mom, to explain himself, to apologize, to say anything, but he knew it would just make it worse than it already was, so he just got into his car and pulled away instead.

He did need a better job. He’d been needing a better job for a while now, actually, but he definitely needed a better job now. And his mother was right, there was no way he would be able to work for his dad after that. 

He wished he was able to explain to his parents that hey, funny story, due to atrocities he won’t be explaining right now, the government actually gave him a frankly absurd amount of money a few years ago, and he’d be alright for a while. It wouldn’t last forever, but it was enough to keep the pair of you afloat, especially with yours, too. You had used a bit of it on rent right after your parents had left, but Steve’s money sat mostly untouched in a bank account his family didn’t know he had. 

See, the thing about government hush money is that you can’t just go out and spend it on something wild, because then people are going to ask where it came from. Believe him, if he had been able to go out and buy some fancy sports car or a bunch of designer clothes, he would have. His father would have told him to buy a nice watch and invest the rest of it (Steve wasn’t entirely sure what that actually meant, or how to even go about doing it). He was just grateful to have it right now.

He could put a down payment on a house for you and him. That seemed like something a responsible adult would do with it, right?

Steve pulled up to your building and was shocked with how well he’d held it together up until this point, because he felt like he was going to explode. When he got to your floor and walked into your apartment, you were sitting on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table, textbooks and paper spread before you. The sound of him walking in pulled you away from your schoolwork and when you turned to look at Steve, you were clearly upset.

“You told me you were off more than an hour ago!” you said as you wiggled out from behind the table and stood up. “I was starting to get really worried, Steve, where were you?”

“I, uhm,” Steve started. He felt his voice crack, the sting of tears beginning to well in his eyes. He had to keep his shit together, for your sake.

“Did something happen?” you asked him. You brought your hands up to the sides of his face, and there went any chance of him keeping it together. 

“I told my parents,” he confessed. He was not going to cry in front of you. He wasn’t.

“What?” you questioned. You sounded a little bit hurt that he did it without asking you, but mostly just horribly concerned. “I thought we agreed to wait.”

“We did, but it was eating away at me, and I just couldn’t sit on it anymore, and-” The floodgates broke and Steve’s words were cut off by a strained sob. 

“Oh, Stevie.” You pulled him into a hug and Steve wanted nothing more than for these stupid tears to just dry up, but it felt like weeks and weeks of pent up worry and fear were being pulled to the surface, and he didn’t have it in him to try and stop any of it. He was supposed to be the strong one for you, but Jesus Christ, that was difficult. “It was bad?”

“Well, they kicked me out,” Steve said.

“What?”

“Which, I mean, my dad’s right. I barely even live there anymore, so I guess it doesn’t really even matter,” he rambled out, wiping his nose on his sleeve like a child.

“Yes, it does,” you assured him.

“And I’m pretty sure that this is my mother's worst nightmare, so I don’t know why I didn’t expect her to be pissed.”

“I’m sorry,” you said. You pulled Steve towards the couch and carefully lowered onto the cushions, your grasp on his wrists bringing him down to your side. 

“And Robin and I got into a fight, too.”

“You didn’t tell her, did you?” you questioned.

“No, but I think if I don’t do it soon, she might disown me,” he admits. 

“She’s not going to disown you,” you protested. “She’d never do that.”

“My parents just did,” Steve lamented. “My mother just did. Who’s to say Robin isn’t next, huh?”

Steve would never, ever be able to make his father proud, because his father would never, ever let him even get close. He had known that for a long time, and maybe there was a part of him that was relieved by that. He knew that it was an entirely unattainable goal, so he never really bothered to reach for it. His mother, oh so cruelly, always made sure Steve knew that he could do great things. Why did she have to go and do that? Steve knew his mother held him to a high bar, he just hadn’t ever considered the possibility that he wouldn’t be able to jump high enough.

So maybe that’s why it hurt so badly when you curled into him that night when he finally crawled into bed. Maybe that’s why he called into work the next day, even though he knew it would probably make Robin totally freak out. Maybe that’s why he waited until he saw his mother’s car leave the driveway before going into his - what used to be his- house to box up the last of his things.

Maybe that’s why he missed the Hawkins Police Department truck parked outside of your apartment building when he was bringing groceries inside a handful of days later. 

“I’m back!” he called into your apartment after releasing the wildly heavy grocery bags onto the kitchen counter. Making more than one trip is for suckers. “They didn’t have any pineapple juice, so I just got a pineapple, figured it can’t be too hard to just-”

Steve cut himself off when he looked up from the paper bags to see more than just you sitting in the living room; Joyce was sitting on your left with an arm wrapped protectively over your shoulders, Robin on your right with her legs pulled up underneath her and a tissue box in her lap, and Hopper was propped up on the arm of the couch. You were in the middle of the array, in tears. 

“Hello,” Steve nervously greeted, eyes wide as frisbees and blood running cold.

There was absolutely no universe in which this went well.

Robin’s expression, which had clearly been soft and sympathetic before Steve had interrupted them, quickly changed into anger. She shot up from the couch, earning her a disapproving tut from Joyce and making you wince away from her. It took her three wide stomps to cross the small space and grab onto Steve’s wrist with more strength than he knew she had in her.

“Ow, Robin!” Steve complained as she dragged him out into the hallway. She slammed the door hard behind her and it made Steve jump.

“What the fuck, Steve!” she demanded.

“Robin-”

“I mean, seriously, what the fuck!” Steve could already hear the noise complaints from the neighbors as she chastised him. “You lied to me!”

“I-” didn’t, is what he wanted to say, but he knew better than that. “I’m sorry.”

“How long have you two been back together then?” she questioned. Steve really didn’t want to admit it. “How long?”

“Six months,” he replied, sheepishly.

“Six months?!” Robin shrieked in disbelief. “Jesus Christ, you really did lie to me!”

“Robin,” Steve said, hushed and ashamed and really fucking mad at himself.

“For half a year! You lied to me for half a year!”

“I’m sorry!”

“She had to turn down her job offer from the school,” Robin barked. 

“I know that.”

“The job that she’s been talking about for, oh I don’t know, six months? Probably more than that, actually!”

“I know, Robin, alright?” Steve assured her and crossed his arms across his chest. “You think I don’t? I am highly aware of that!”

“And, I’m sorry, but you’re far from the King of Responsibility!” Robin said. 

“What does that mean?!” Steve questioned, a tint of frustration layered over his words. 

“I’m just saying, you aren’t exactly known for your maturity,” she spat.

“You think we wouldn’t be able to take care of-”

“She can. I know she can.  She’s more than capable of doing whatever the hell she puts her mind to, but you?” Anger and resentment dripped from her mouth with each word. “You, I’m honestly not sure. If you were more willing to lie to my face for six months than you were to just tell me the fucking truth, I’m sorry, but that’s really winning you any responsible adult points, is it?”

Tears pricked behind Steve’s eyes. He wanted to yell, to scream at the top of his lungs that, no, Robin, you’re wrong, I can do this!, but he really wasn’t sure if it was true. If his closest friend, one of the people he trusted most in the whole world, really thought that he wouldn’t be able to do this, then maybe she’s right, right?

The apartment door next to Steve slowly creeped open.

“Everything alright out here?” Hopper asked, carefully planting himself just slightly between Steve and Robin. 

Robin lost her vitriol like a tea kettle after the burner got turned off, leaving her with no more steam to fuel what she needed to say. 

“I’m waiting out in the car,” she muttered as she whizzed past Steve and turned down the stairwell. The two men in the hall listened to her descending footsteps. Once they heard the front door open and slam back shut, Jim broke through the quiet.

“Robin wanted me to check up on you after you called out,” Jim explained. “She was worried you were mad at her, after your fight.”

“Right,” Steve said.

“So, imagine my surprise when your mom answers the door, only to tell me that you don’t live there anymore,” the older man said. “She wouldn’t tell me why, just gave me an address and shut the door.”

“Look, if you’re here to give me another angry dad talk, then you don’t have to bother. Mine did a pretty damn good job all on his own,” Steve asserted. 

“I’m not here to be angry.” Steve could tell that Hopper was choosing his words very, very carefully.

“Oh, that’s unlike you,” Steve commented, arms still crossed and eyes on the floor.

“Don’t be shitty!” Jim snapped. Steve withered.

“Sorry,” he muttered, still not able to look the man in the eyes. Jim just sighed.

“Do you have a plan, Steve?” he asked. 

“Yes. No,” Steve replied. “I don’t know. She seems to have one.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I’m just not sure if I fit in it,” Steve confessed.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Jim huffed. “Maybe you do need another angry dad talk!”

“What do you want me to say?” Steve interrogated. “That everything is under control and totally normal? I have no idea what’s going to happen! None! And, honestly? I’m fucking terrified, Hopper!” 

“Steve-”

“I have to be good at this. I have to! Because I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if I’m not, but I am so terrified that I won’t be able to, and I’m going to let her down, and I can’t do that!” It all came out as some sort of paranoia fueled stream of consciousness. “I’d rather die than be anything like my dad, but what if it’s just in my blood? Like, I’m just predestined to turn out just as shitty as him!”

“You definitely won’t,” Jim said, as if it were just a simple fact. “I can assure you, there are very few people on this earth as shitty as your father, and you are not one of them.”

Jim wasn’t overly fond of Ronald Harrington; he was an all-around asshole to most people he met.

“Look, as much as I hate to admit it, you two aren’t kids anymore,” Hop said. “You’re grownups, you two are smart. You can make your own choices. If this is the choice you two wanna make, then make it.”

“You’re making it sound so simple,” Steve snarked.  

“It kind of is,” the chief replied. 

“Really? Because this feels like the least simple thing that’s ever happened to me,” Steve said. “You’re really not mad?”

“Well, I’m not thrilled,” Hopper grumbled. “But, like I said. You two are grownups. You can do whatever the hell you want.”

The pair stood in silence for a moment. Steve knew that Hop was more than likely lying about how mad he was, though he had been preparing himself for Jim to completely lose it on him. He probably would have deserved it. 

“Does it ever get less terrifying?” Steve asked, genuinely wanting to know.

“Nope.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“And it’s not just the fun parts,” Jim added.

“I know,” Steve responded.

“It’s more than just tiny socks and decorating the nursery.”

“I know that.” 

“Just makin’ sure.” Jim was far from happy, but he gave Steve a nod and a pat on the back, which was as close to congratulations as he was going to get. “I know the kids give you a hard time, but you’re smart, and so is she. You two know what you’re doing.”

“Thank you.”

“She’s really, really scared, Steve,” Hopper said. There was something in his voice; a silent question of  ‘do you really know what it is you’re getting yourself into?’

“I know,” Steve replied.

“You don’t get to panic now, alright?” Jim told him. “And you don’t get to change your mind.”

“I won’t. I promise,” Steve said; ‘I do know, and I want all of it.’ “I would never do that to her. Never.”

The pair went back inside, and you seemed to be in slightly better spirits now, even if you still had a sea of tears in your eyes. Both you and Joyce turned to face the two men with questions in your eyes, and Jim’s small nod seemed to be enough of an answer for Joyce to shoot off of the couch to envelop Steve in a tight hug. 

“I have lots of baby things I can bring by for you two,” she gushed after pulling away.

“You don’t have to do that,” you said to her, but she was having none of it.

“Don’t worry about it,” Joyce assured. “It’s all just collecting dust anyway.”

Which left Dustin, who in a lot of ways, Steve was the most worried about. He could take the anger from the grownups. Hell, he could take it from Robin, but Dustin, he was less sure about. 

In true Henderson fashion, he found out about Baby Harrington a few days later, entirely by mistake.

“I still don’t understand why they kicked you out in the first place,” Dustin stated from his spot on the living room floor of your (Steve’s!) apartment. He was digging through a pile of old clothes Steve decided he no longer needed. He had a lot of things, he’d realized while moving in, and he really only wanted a few of them, needed even less. He would donate whatever went unclaimed, but Dustin wanted first dibs for himself. 

“Because they’re assholes,” Steve responded. 

“Okay, yeah, fair, but hasn’t Robin been begging you to get a place with her for, like, a year?” 

“It’s not like I was able to really take my time apartment hunting.”

“I still feel like crashing on Robin’s couch for a while would’ve made more sense than moving in here,” Dustin supplied. Steve rolled his eyes.

“I needed an apartment, she needed a roommate, that’s it. Alright?” Steve loved Dustin like a little brother, but good lord, he could be obnoxious sometimes. “Now pick out what you want so I can clean this shit up.”

Dustin finished his haul, though he grumbled about how Steve was rushing him the whole time, and gathered the previously neatly folded clothes into a messy pile.

“I didn’t think of how I was gonna get any of this stuff out to the car.” Dustin, at not- quite- eighteen years old, had finally gotten his drivers license. ‘Thank god,’ Steve had remarked, ‘that I don’t have to be your fucking chauffeur anymore.’ That sentiment only lasted a little while, though, as it quickly became clear that a drivers license meant that Dustin could come and bother Steve whenever he wanted to. And he wanted to all the time. “Will you help me carry it all out?”

“No, I won’t, because there are more trash bags in the cabinet under the sink.” Steve pointed towards the small kitchen. Dustin got up off the floor, going into the kitchen and checking in seemingly every cupboard you had.

“I said under the sink, dude!” Steve heard the squeaky cabinet hinges open and shut, the rustle of the plastic trash bag.

“Steve?” Dustin called after a moment. The apartment was small, and the only real thing separating the kitchen and living room was a few feet of counter and the floor switching from tile to carpet.

“What?” Steve responded, not bothering to look up from the clothes he was shoveling back into their own trash bag. 

“What’s this?” Dustin asked him. When Steve finally looked up at him, he was pointing towards something on the fridge, and it took Steve a second to realize that what Dustin was referring to was the ultrasound pictures that he’d forgotten to take down.

Well, shit.

Steve rocketed towards the fridge to put them away, but Dustin was faster and grabbed them before he could. The damage was already done.

“Dustin, please give me that,” Steve asked. 

“This has her last name on it,” the younger boy observed. 

“Put it down, alright? You weren’t supposed to see it in the first place, so just-”

“Is she fucking pregnant?” Dustin demanded. 

“Dustin, please.” 

“I didn’t think she was dating anyone, though?” the boy thought out loud. “Oh, my god, I wonder if it’s someone we know!”

Oh, it definitely is.

“Dude, c’mon, please just give me the picture.” Remember what Steve said about Dustin being obnoxious?

“Wait, why are you moving in with her if she’s pregnant?” Dustin inquired. “I’m pretty sure that extra bedroom is gonna be pretty occupied in nine months.”

“It’s closer to six, actually,” Steve clarified, and Dustin’s eyes widened. “But that isn’t the point, can you please just-”

“Steve?” the boy asked, tone shifting away from curiosity into something Steve found much more concerning.

“Yeah?” Steve sighed.

“Why did you move in with her?” he asked again, although the way he spoke the words made Steve think Dustin probably already had it figured out. 

“Why do you think?” was all Steve could come up with to say.

“Oh, my god.”

“Dustin-”

“Oh, my god!”

“You cannot tell anyone, okay? This is totally top secret,” Steve begged.

“Did you-? You two-!” Dustin stuttered out. “Oh, my god!”

Dustin was about to start hyperventilating and Steve was doing his best to keep that from happening, pulling the glossy image out of Dustin’s hand as if it were made of precious porcelain, when the sound of keys jingling in the door distracted them. Both boys fell into bitter silence as you opened the door and took in the sight in front of you; a very frazzled Steve and a very distressed Dustin.

“Hi?” you greeted. “What’s going-”

“You’re fucking pregant?” Dustin exclaimed.

“What?” you spat out in response. Steve could tell that your mind was working a mile a minute to come up with a way to cover for yourself. “I-I don’t, uhm-”

“I left the sonogram on the fridge by mistake,” Steve confessed. He felt awful. “I’m sorry, it didn’t even cross my mind.”

“Oh,” you replied. You hadn’t moved from your spot in the entryway, hadn’t put down your bag or taken off your coat. You just stayed frozen.

“Oh, I have so many feelings!” Dustin wheezed, leaning forward. “Oh, my god!”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned him.”

“You’re having a fucking baby?” Dustin asked you.

“Yes,” you timidly responded, slowly placing your work bag onto the side of the couch.

“With Steve?!”

“Yes,” you said again.

“That Steve?” Dustin pointed a thumb over his shoulder to where Steve was hovering behind him. “Steve Harrington? Our Steve?”

You nodded. “That Steve.”

“Holy shit,” the boy breathed out.

“Please don’t be mad,” Steve requested.

“What? Mad, why would I be mad?” he asked. “Who’s mad?”

“Well, so far, everyone,” Steve explained.

“Wait, is this why Robin’s not talking to you?” Dustin asked.

“Robin’s not talking to you?” you piped up, concern dripping from your words. 

Steve hadn’t mentioned that part to you yet. 

Robin had been giving Steve total radio silence ever since she had found out. Even at work, she was refusing to say a single word to him. She went and hid in the bathroom anytime Steve tried to say anything at all, and she had even recruited Keith to be her disinterested, detached middle man and relay VHS-related messages if she really needed to. 

To say the least, she really hadn’t taken it all that well.

“Later?” he said to you, silently begging you to table this conversation for a time when you didn’t have a very upset teenager in your kitchen.

Sticky silence fell over the three of you, sealing to Steve’s skin and filling his lungs up in a way he hated. Dustin was the one who peeled through it first. 

“Are you actually having a baby?” The question was directed to Steve this time. Dustin was wildly expressive, he always had been, and he looked very, very overwhelmed. Steve felt about the same. He just nodded, and it took a second for Dustin to properly process the news.

“Gimme the picture again!” Dustin insisted. 

“No, dude! We only have a few and-”

“Excuse me, it’s my nephew, I think I get to see the picture if I want to!”

The tension dissolved as soon as the words came out of Dustin’s mouth. Steve had been so, so worried that he’d be mad, madder than Robin was. 

“Hah! See, Dustin thinks it’s a boy, too!” Steve exclaimed to you. Reservation made way for excitement. Like Dustin said, it’s his nephew.

“Oh, god, please don’t start with this again,” you said, smiling despite the faux exasperation in your voice.

“You think it’s a girl?” Dustin asked.

“I think,” you say as you shuck off your coat and lean against the counter, across from the boys, “that Steve is going to get his hopes up about it being a boy, and then be disappointed if it isn’t.”

“Not possible,” Steve clarified with a smile. “Besides, you don’t have to worry about it because I’m right, and it’s gonna be a boy.”

Dustin didn’t end up leaving until a good few hours later, when Steve noticed how your eyes kept fluttering shut as you leaned against his shoulder. He had to manhandle the boy out the door; he had a seemingly unending vault of questions (“you guys have been sleeping together this whole time?!”), but you were totally wiped. 

You really just wanted to just go to bed, but Steve insisted you ate something first, and a mug of soup later, you were practically dead on your feet. He cleaned up any dinner mess (canned soup doesn’t really result in any mess, but he’d be damned if you had to put your own dishes into the dishwasher), and sent you off to get ready for an early turn in. 

He’d just put the pot away when you summoned him into the bathroom.

“You alright?” Steve asked, leaning against the doorframe. You were standing in front of the sink in your pajamas. He could smell your mouthwash.

“Come look.”

Steve took a step into the bathroom to sidle up next to you as you pulled the bottom edge of your too-big t-shirt up. Your fingers ever so gently ghosted over your stomach.

“That wasn’t there before,” you asked, tilting your head back against the crook of Steve’s arm to look up at him. “Was it?”

Steve was entranced by your reflection in the mirror, by the way the swell of your tummy absolutely gave you away. 

“I don’t know.” Steve spoke just barely above a whisper, the way he would have if he was standing in a church. You felt like an angel beneath his arm. “I don’t think so.”

“I feel like I would have noticed it if it was,” you said, eyes glued to the mirror just as Steve’s were. 

“Definitely would’ve noticed,” Steve quietly gushed. “You officially have a baby bump.”

Realistically, you still had a couple more weeks before anyone else would actually be able to see it. Still small enough to hide behind your clothes, but absolutely, undoubtedly there. 

You hummed, and Steve noticed the way you were trying to hide your smile.

“You’re allowed to be happy about it, you know,” Steve reminded you. Your eyes caught his again, and your small, shy smile grew just a little bit bigger as you pulled his hand away from your hip and placed it firmly against the slope of your tummy. He felt his breath hitch, like the action of touching you was breaking some sort of cardinal law, but he stroked his thumb up and down, up and down across your skin, and you flattened yourself as deeply into his chest as you possibly could. He pressed a kiss to your temple, lingering in the scent of you for as long as he could allow himself to.

His hand stayed glued to you for the remainder of the evening.

Tiny Little Taglist: @sheisjoeschateau @hazydespair @damon-loves-pie @pariahsparadise @anislabonis-love @e509 @alexa4040 @starsforviolet @hoesbloated @luvlexi-darling

[misunhye]

THE KANG-AHN FAMILY TREE

as of january 23, 2024

LEFT TO RIGHT Kang Misun, Kang Sumin, Ahn Jaesun, Ahn Jiho, Ahn Jaesuk, Kim Moonsun, Kang Wonhae, and Shin Yejin.

tw grooming, infidelity, power imbalance, illegal relationship, age gap, brief mention of miscarriage

In 1992, Kang Sumin was a freshly debuted idol when she met Ahn Jaesun. She was sixteen and he was twenty-three. He was one of YG’s music producers. In 1994, she was eighteen and pregnant with Ahn Jaesun’s first child. Shortly after, her pregnancy was announced and netizens were appalled that she was unwed and a teen mother.

This did not deter her. She wanted to continue her career as an idol, and she wouldn’t stop until she was able to. She went to far as to sending her newborn son, Ahn Jiho, to Texas with her parents. When YG dismissed her, putting her on an indefinite hiatus, she went back to Jaesun, leaving Jiho in Texas.

Sumin’s second son, Ahn Jaesuk, was born in 1997, and he, too, was sent to Texas.

Two years after Jaesuk’s birth in 1999, it was announced she’d be making a comeback. In a drunken high, she had an affair with one of her backup dancers.

One year later in 2000, she gave birth to her first daughter and final child, Kang Sunhye.

In 2009, it was widely accused across South Korea that Sumin’s daughter was the result of her affair and that her biological father being one of Sumin’s backup dancers. Anything she had left of a career was killed. Sumin and Jaesun battled in court over custody over their children, Jaesun even having Sunhye take a DNA test. The media was right, Sumin had an affair and it resulted in Sunhye. The court would rule in Sumin’s favor, saying a child should never be without their mother.

In 2011, Sumin and Jaesun divorced and their three children lived with Sumin, having visits to Jaesun ever so often until they all turned nineteen.

It is noted that Sumin and her children, especially her daughter, do not have the best relationship.

The rest of Sumin’s future is incomplete.

BIRTH NAME Kang Sumin

BIRTHDAY November 29, 1976

OCCUPATION Idol formerly Unemployed currently

FACECLAIM Yunjin Kim

Ahn Jaesun married eighteen-year-old pregnant Kang Sumin when he was twenty-five. As he worked at YG as one of their music producers, he met sweet Kang Sumin when she debuted. While he was overjoyed at their children’s birth, he noticed she wasn’t. He wanted their children to live with them, but her word was final.

Jaesun filed for divorce in 2009 and fought for custody over all three of his children— DNA be damned. The cases took two years to come to a ruling. When the court ruled in Sumin’s favor in 2011, giving him only a few visits per year, he was devastated and dived headfirst into his work. This in turn slightly damaged his relationships with his children but constantly tries to make up for it ever since 2019.

He is one of YG’s best producers, his most prominent works being for 2NE1, Big Bang, and Epik High. When his sons individually turned nineteen, they lived with him until they got settled on their feet. Misun was an idol by the time she turned nineteen.

In October 2019, he met model and crowned Miss Korea 2015 Shin Yejin, who was twenty-seven at the time. A month later in November, they were dating. They have been dating ever since, and many question when he will propose to her.

It is noted that even though he is constantly trying to be a better father, his children and him have a strained relationship.

The rest of Jaesun’s future is incomplete.

BIRTH NAME Ahn Jaesun

BIRTHDAY March 7, 1969

OCCUPATION Music producer currently

FACECLAIM Choi Wonyoung

Ahn Jiho is an actor and got his popularity from Reply 1988 in 2015. As a child, it was very obvious to him that he was the odd man out in the family. He was the only one to not go into music, his name wasn’t close to either of his parents’ like Sunhye and Jaesuk’s were. He felt rather ignored in the family, and that’s what he was. His father loved him, but he loved work and Sumin more.

Jiho was closed off from his siblings, preferring to be in his room alone. If he had the choice of riding home in the car with his family or walking home in the rain, he’d choose walking in the rain. He had a warped impression of them, thinking they thought he was strange for not liking the same things they all did.

Jiho was always interested in film and literature, finding the universes people could create fascinating. He found that while he couldn’t write a story for anything, he was rather strangely good at lying. The thought unsettled him, but he was determined to be apart of people’s versions of their favorite character. He put the lying to use, being in theater in school and begging his grandparents to put him in acting classes.

When his mother’s affair was revealed, he was relieved but then distraught. His mother had made a mistake, she wasn’t one of them. But Misun wasn’t one of them, either— not completely, anyway. Yet she also was one of them. And he wasn’t.

His first major acting role was in Reply 1988 as Jang Minki. His popularity and fans quickly grew, earning him more offered roles. He has won Best New Actor and Best Supporting Actor for his role in Reply 1988.

He has since starred in notable shows like While You Were Sleeping, Squid Games, Sweet Home, and recently known for his role as the main male lead in My Demon. He is currently filming for the American horror movie, The Name Game.

It is noted that Jiho is not as close to Misun as Jaesuk is, but he’s also not close to Jaesuk. Jiho thinks of himself as the black sheep in the family and avoids them.

BIRTH NAME Ahn Jiho

BIRTHDAY September 2, 1995

OCCUPATION Actor currently

FACECLAIM Yoon Dowoon

Ahn Jaesuk is a songwriter and has most likely taken part in writing the lyrics to your favorite song. He has notable achievements for both Korean and American music, such as multiple SHINee and The Weeknd and Harry Styles songs.

As the middle child, he’s always tried to maintain a balance with his siblings and parents and grandparents. He hated conflict, and always tried to avoid it. He tried protecting Misun as best as he could, until he could no longer bare Misun hurt at the hands of Sumin. He was rather relieved when Sumin’s affair was revealed and their parents were divorced, but never once thought differently of Misun.

Long before their divorce, he was twelve when he realized his parents weren’t the parents you see in movies. He was hurt, and angry, but soon that turned into emptiness. It was more of an expectation than anything. He felt nothing when they divorced.

Jaesuk started his career in 2018 with his father at YG Entertainment, his relationship to his father being a helping hand. He has since wrote songs for BLACKPINK, Big Bang, Winner, and TREASURE. He has also wrote songs for other groups such as SHINee, NCT, aespa, TXT, IVE, and more.

It is noted that Jaesuk and Misun are the closest within the family, as their other family are all estranged to one another.

BIRTH NAME Ahn Jaesuk

BIRTHDAY April 9, 1997

OCCUPATION Songwriter currently

FACECLAIM Yoo Taeyang

Kim Sunhee, better known as Moonsun, is a retired South Korean soprano opera actress. When she was twenty-one, she met Kang Wonhae and would later marry him in 1973. Three years later, after multiple attempts to have a child and having two miscarriages, she had her daughter, Sumin.

After having not slept for six days with various attempts to hurt herself or Sumin with Wonhae stopping her, she checked herself into a mental hospital where she was soon diagnosed with postpartum depression. She went on a three year hiatus with her career in order to get better and take care of her daughter. However, as she got back into her career, her relationship with her daughter worsened as she was always busy.

Sunhee is part of the reason Sumin was able to debut and have a comeback after her hiatus, as she knows ‘important people’. She was disappointed when she got pregnant the first time, swearing to cut her off but never did. She never understood why Sumin kept doing it to herself.

It feels like Sumin’s children are more of her own, especially considering she was the one who raised them. She has a strange, polite relationship with Jiho, a relationship where she knows she can trust Jaesuk, and Misun is the baby of the family. She’s much more coddled than the other two as she’s the youngest and only girl.

Besides a three year long hiatus, Sunhee is well known to older citizens for her voice and variety personality.

It is noted that Sunhee and Misun had a good relationship, but lately Misun’s backed away due to some realizations.

BIRTH NAME Kim Sunhee

BIRTHDAY November 1, 1950

OCCUPATION Opera Singer formerly

FACECLAIM Nam Giae

Kang Wonhae is a retired piano and music teacher. He met Kim Sunhee while teaching her youngest sister how to play the piano, and they would soon marry and have a daughter, Sumin.

Wonhae was disappointed Sumin had a child early, but he was the reason Sunhee never kicked her out or cut her off financially. He was the one who took care of his grandchildren first, he was the second person to hold Misun. He was polite with Ahn Jaesun, took him in like a son.

Wonhae always tried to involve Jiho, but he would always refuse. He’d always calm Sunhee down when she got too angry, but sometimes things were so damning, he’d lose his mind. Wonhae willingly took Jaesuk to his ball games, and was always there for each one. He encouraged Misun to audition for entertainment companies.

In 2002, he would retire early from his job as a teacher to focus taking care of his grandchildren. When they would move in with their mother after the divorce, he would soon pick up piano again and play the piano for their church.

It is noted that there is no dislike between Wonhae and Misun. She knows he is there for her.

BIRTH NAME Kang Wonhae

BIRTHDAY July 19, 1950

OCCUPATION Piano teacher formerly Music teacher formerly

FACECLAIM Kim Sunhee

Shin Yejin is a model and was crowned Miss Korea 2015. In 2019, she was twenty-seven when she met fifty-year-old Ahn Jaesun. He would ask her out and by the next month, they were dating.

Not much is known about Shin Yejin. She has been on the cover of Vogue Korea, W Korea, and more. She was one of the female love interest in Big Bang’s Let’s Not Fall In Love music video.

It is noted that Misun and Yejin don’t have much of a relationship, due to her busy schedule. Yejin tries to have a relationship, though.

BIRTH NAME Shin Yejin

BIRTHDAY February 26, 1992

OCCUPATION Model currently

FACECLAIM Jo Jihyun

[gojoscalico]

Turn Back Time || s i x

Summary: You were never sure when it started to fall apart but it did. 10 Years later and now you're facing him again. Will it reignite the feelings you both once had for one another? Or will you both end up walking away from each other once again? Word Count: 2228 A/N: WARNING!! MENTIONS OF CHILD ABUSE. Her story past is finally revealed.

Tag List: @coffee-on-a-rainyautumn @thefictionalcharacterssimp @picievi @tqd4455 @lenasvoid @gojosatorubrainrot @yozora7154 @luciiferian

<- Previous Next ->

“So who’s going to go first?” You were anxious. You were about to reveal everything that had happened ten years ago and you were scared that Satoru would hate his clan. Or worse maybe even hate you for lying and running away. “I’ll go first.” You looked up at Riko who took a sip of her drink before speaking, “Satoru and I are not actually in love or engaged. The only way that we could stop my sacrifice to Tengen-sama was if the Gojo clan was supporting my decision. Also I am actually dating Suguru.” Riko let out a sigh of relief, cheeks tinted red as she said the last part of her statement. Suguru placed his hand on hers with a smile that made you so sure he was  absolutely enamored with her, “You did good, baby.” You felt a rush of relief. It took everything in you to not smile. He hadn’t moved on. It was fucked up but you were happy because that would just mean that maybe after you tell him everything you can be by his side again. You looked around the table to find only Hime was shocked. Typical. Of course all three of them knew their deepest darkest secrets but left everyone else out. “Wait What?!” You slightly giggled at her slightly exaggerated reaction. Satoru watched you giggle. There it was. Your sweet innocent smile he had missed. A smile he hadn’t seen since the day you vanished. 

You cleared your throat, “Okay I guess it’s my turn.” You felt everyone’s eyes suddenly focus on you. ”For my story it goes back before I had even met the three of you…As you all know my past wasn’t exactly the easiest, I have never told anyone about it. Not even Satoru, I never had the chance.” You paused as you started to feel your heart beat faster. Here you were about to talk about a part of you that you had never once told anyone or spoke to anyone about unless they already knew about it. You took a deep breath. “My mother hated me. That much you all knew when you saw the bruises and the cuts on me when we had all first met.” You paused. You never realized how painful those memories were for you until you mentioned it. Satoru watched as you bit the inside of your cheek. He knew you were stopping the tears, a habit that he knew you picked up from the abuse. “The reason she hated me so much was behind the secret of my birth. My mother’s family is a very affluent family. They had political pulls, so when they found out that their youngest daughter had gotten pregnant, unwed, they had tried their best to hide the scandalous affairs. They were quick to find her a husband to hide the fact that she was pregnant from some unknown man. Except to my mother that man wasn’t unknown. It was just someone that had been born with no status or money. Something my grandparents had required from her. She tried to run from her family but they had been one step ahead and murdered him. Losing the love of her life she took it out on me. At first she was just negligent of my needs, she never cared to pick me up or hold me as a child. Everything really just escalated when she had a child with her husband. She cared for and loved her in a way she never was able to with me.” You choked on your words. For once you realized that you were jealous. Jealous that you never received that warmth from her but it was all too late now. So why were you hurt by it? 

 “Her husband was never home because he just wanted to be connected to my mother’s family,for their influence on his political career, since being married to my mother he was able to become more successful. He did care for me and my sister. He would buy us toys and he would read us stories, he would give me the parental love I lacked from my mother. And he loved me because to him I was his first-born…But my mother was jealous of the attention he was giving me so in a drunken state, one night, she told everyone…including myself the truth behind my birth. Then just as she wanted all that had stopped. My father would push me away or completely ignore me when he was home. At this point I was alone, even the maids had treated me like trash since they knew my parents didn’t give a damn about me…Just like how she wanted.” 

Satoru watched as you weren’t able to stop the tears any longer. “Then the abuse escalated as I got older. She would hit me,starve me, burn me,or cut me. But only in places no one would ever find, I always wore baggy clothes or long sleeves. The dresses I wore were always past my ankles. Like a doll on display they made sure I looked picture perfect. To keep their little illusion that our family was perfect, alive. I mean after all I am still a politician’s adored daughter. I mastered smiling at a crowd and waving when I had two broken ribs from a beating I received the night before. At school, my sister’s friend’s would make my life a living hell. Of course no one did anything. But all the reasons for my resentment towards her to grow. Because why was I receiving this treatment but she was always clothed in the best brands, given the best food,and was protected from harm. Wasn’t I their daughter too?” You wiped your eyes as the tears started to blur your vision. Remembering the times when she would make friends you made somehow hate you or move away. “Then I started to see things, curses. Created from my mother’s hatred towards me,  my father and sister’s indifference to my treatment and the way everyone around me treated me. It manifested into something that was killing those around us. I was able to see them and I tried to protect them…but instead they blamed me and wanted me gone. Dead.”

Satoru’s heart sank. He can only imagine how you felt knowing that the people who earned a God-given right to love someone as precious as you wanted you dead. He clenched his fist, he thought how right you were not to tell him about this when he was younger because he knew he would’ve killed them for even thinking about killing you. He didn’t understand why they were unable to find the need to protect your sweet innocent smile he fell for. “So they heard of the sorcerers, called them to come and exorcize me, I suppose. That’s when I met Principal Yaga. Everyone around me had harbored such great hatred for me that the curse they had manifested was a special-grade.” You laughed, pain being so apparent in it. You began to sob as you remembered the fear you felt that night. At sixteen you were sitting on the floor of your childhood home’s basement. Looking up at the man towering over you as his gaze softened realizing that you weren’t the threat. You remembered trembling but quietly accepting your fate. To die in his hands. You remembered just as clearly as Principal Yaga did, the look of defeat on your face. You had already gone through so much, so as an act of kindness he brought you to his world. You had always remembered to thank him for his decision that day. You recalled that for the first time in the past ten years you endured your abuse, you cried. You sobbed uncontrollably as he picked you up and coddled you like you were his own child. You remembered asking yourself that maybe if your father had lived you would know the warm embrace of a parent’s unconditional love. You held your hands to your mouth to muffle the whimpers you let out between your sobs. Too busy muffling your sobs you hadn’t realized that Satoru was now sitting next to you.

“I…I remembered how he looked at me that day. But I also thought that was it. I was going to die finally. I did think about how I can fight it. But why? Next thing I knew the curse started to attack the Principal and I didn’t want anyone else to die so with the little energy I had left I activated my curse and saved him. That  was when he decided to protect me. To save me. For my family they aren’t dead but they did hand me over to Principal Yaga...willingly. They told everyone they knew that I had died from an illness and so now I live in the shadows as a long-lost relative of the Yamaguchi clan.” 

You paused as you looked up at Satoru who is now where Suguru had been. He had a pained expression painted on his face. You were embarrassed now that he knew your pathetic past. “I was born as a curse.” Satoru’s face cringed as he felt the pain of you calling yourself a curse. Because to him you were a blessing, a blessing bestowed to him by the gods. Because he alone was the honored one and he strongly believes you are his greatest gift. “Something who reminded my mother of the love she lost. I never thought I deserved love until I met you. But the Gojo clan…they heard about us. Our ‘great’ love story they called it. So they looked into my birth and looked into my past. They were able to find out about the history behind my birth father. And they told me that for you I wasn’t good enough. They said that if you were to become the strongest I would have to let you go.That my past would only hold you back…that the same way I held back my mother, who was now thriving now that I was gone.” You sniffled, looking back on the pain of seeing your family happily on tv. Smiles that reached their ears. Something they had never been able to do when you were in their life. Recollecting your thoughts about their lives being better off if you hadn’t been born. “Seeing that they were right, my family had been better since I had left. Because I was their curse. I thought about how I was affecting you all. Both of you almost dying and Shoko almost losing Haibara…all those would never have happened if I hadn’t showed up. That’s what I thought…so they forced me to make a decision. That I leave while you were unconscious or I stay and you no longer become part of the clan.” You bit your lip as you remembered looking to Principal Yaga for help. You looked at him to defend you, to protect you as he did when he saved you from your family. Your heart shattered as he averted your gaze and agreed with the elders. And once again you remembered that you were alone. In this world there is just Y/N, everyone’s adoration will fade in time even if they state how much you mean the world to them because if they found out about your history they will hate you just as much or maybe even more than your mother did. And that was something you wouldn’t be able to handle. To watch Satoru lose interest in you. To find him resenting you for making him choose between being a Gojo or being with you. 

“I didn’t want you to resent me for taking what you thought made you so great. So I left for Kyoto, where I made sure there was a wall between where I stood and where everyone else stood. All I wanted was the best for you. For all of you.” You said while flailing your arms as you sobbed harder. You felt Satoru pull you gently into his arms. A warmth you have always craved and missed. “I’m sorry…”  Satoru heard how defeated you were. He can only imagine the agony you had felt when you decided to carry the burden of leaving him. He patted your head and you sobbed into his arms as if you were a child again. “I’m sorry…Y/N…all this time I resented you when I should’ve been there to protect you.”

“Those fuck-ass geezers. They picked at her weakness. Played her trauma so that she would leave you willingly. I should’ve known something was off…I’m going to kill those fuckers.” Suguru stated as he watched his two best friends torn apart by a generation that cared nothing more than who was gonna stay on top. Cared more about the past that they completely neglected the youth with their dumb ambitions.  “And I knew everything…I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t my place but if I had stepped in and told you…” You shook your head as you walked up to Shoko hugging her. “No…I know now that we weren’t at fault. It was the adults who exploited our feelings and emotions. So don’t apologize!” Shoko cried harder as she saw you plaster that smile that always felt like home to her.

[tarithenurse]

A suitable arrangement - 4

Fandom: MCU AU. Pairing/starring: Loki Laufeyson x fem!reader. Word count: 1511. Content: Just some rituals and fretting and foreplay. A/N: Invented a bit of a family situation for Loki that isn’t Frigga etc. Also the next chapter is the last. Send ASK if you want a tag and please reblog. Also using my old tag list so if you’ve been tagged but don’t want to be on the list, just let me know.

4.

During the next months you are introduced to a whole host of people from Loki’s life not to mention the time you have to spend on the preparations for the wedding.

Having looked in the calendar, it seemed to you as too much of a coincidence that the proposed wedding day is the same date as when ball when he first startled you was. When you asked Loki about it, he just smiled and winked, claiming that it was the day he found his dream which made you feel all sorts of flustered.

But no matter how much there is to see to, the days pass and soon it’s your last night as unwed. Lying restless in your bed, you can see the gown for the next day hanging, pale as a ghost in the darkness. It is beautiful and much finer than anything you could have dreamed of.

If only it mattered.

Now what truly is on your mind and in your heart is the fact that by this time tomorrow you will be Lady [Y/N] Laufeyson and you will supposedly be lying in your husband’s arms. As much as it thrills you, it terrifies you too.

Loki’s mother died when he was young. You have that in common. As such you have had no mother figure to speak to even now and while Maude has always been there to help you and guide you as you grew up, you hadn’t found it in your heart to go to her with the qualms and questions about your first night with a man. Now you regret it. But it’s late at night and you know the poor maid has been working hard to prepare everything for the day to come. Almost all of your belongings are packed, waiting to be moved to your new home in the morning.

The wedding ceremony is at noon in a church in the city while the party will be at the summer estate out in the countryside.

---

You must have fallen asleep eventually, because you are woken by Maude’s insistent voice that it is time you bathe and prepare. She is the only one to help you and she does so with her usual quiet concentration, making sure that every detail is just right.

Everything happens in a haze around you and before you know it, you’re sitting in the coach with your father, having said goodbye to Maude, and well on the way to the church.

You know you will be the last to arrive. You know everyone that can possibly scrounge up any sort of connection to you or Loki has been invited. Still it’s overwhelming to see how many coaches are waiting for their owners to return in the area as you near the church. The drivers are gathered in small groups, talking and smoking. They are in no rush as they too know that this will take a while.

Your cousin Elena is the only one waiting outside the doors of the guests. Together with an altar boy, she and your father help you out and into the narthex from where you can hear the exited droning of the guests. There Elena and your father arrange the train and veil to spread out behind you. Then the alter boy runs off and moment later the organ strikes up, causing a rush tho go through the other room as people presumably stand.

As the doors open, Elena strides in first, head held high and spreading rose petals from a basket she carries. You and your father follow moments later.

You ought to pay attention to the decor or the guests who nod at you in awe. But all you can see it Loki at the end of a tunnel. You want to run to him, but you’re held back easily by your father who is differently content with the attention.

It feels like a long walk before father hands you to the groom and the song the choir is singing reaches its pompous peak before tapering out with a “hallelujah” just as Loki lifts the veil so he can see you.

There is a tear in his eyes as he beams at you, making your heart soar.

Standing before the pastor, sometimes kneeling when required for the blessings and sermons, you do your best to partake accordingly, your hand shivering in your betrothed’s and soon-to-be husband’s. You know what is coming: the room is big and everyone has to hear as you promise yourself to Loki.

And indeed: before you know it, the pastor asks first Loki and then you...and you manage to force your voice out because you are looking into Loki’s eyes and you see his trust in you that you can do it.

Next moment he steps close to you and kisses you chastely on the lips before you turn as man and wife to face the crowd.

---

You had, thanks to a detour by the graves of your mothers, been the last to arrive at the estate in the late afternoon. There you had been greeted by everyone and more petals had been strewn before your feet (some of the smaller children also chucking them straight at you until the nannies ushered them away.

A plethora of people came to congratulate you and Loki but eventually you had been saved by the literal bell announcing the start of the dinner. Loki had led you to the table, insisted on helping with the dress and the train and only when you were comfortably seated did he take his own seat next to you.

The dinner was lavish and you did manage to partake a bit despite your ever growing nerves. More often than not, the dining was interrupted by speeches and congratulatory toasts but you welcomed them all and found yourself smiling until your cheeks hurt.

Then there was the waltz and ball was opened, so to speak. A few of Loki’s friends took their opportunity to dance with you to despite your husband’s scowls, and they often used the opportunity to tell you funny anecdotes of his childhood or youth which you knew you would have to ask him later if they were true or not.

By the time your husband manages to win you back, your feet are sore and for a moment you have forgotten how nervous you were before until he announces that while the party may continue, the two of you are retiring.

Leading you upstairs to your shared bedroom, Loki excuses the waiting maid who should help you with your dress and hair.

“My apologies, sweet wife,” her murmurs as he embraces you freely, “today has been overwhelming and I just want you for myself now.”

“You are quite forgiven,” you whisper.

Still holding your hands, he steps back to look at you one more time. “You look like an angel descended from the heavens.” He kisses your hand, then the inside of your wrist, causing goosebumps to race up your arm. “Allow me?”

You nod, fearfully though something in you also is excited. Curious.

With your guiding, he slowly undresses you. Sometimes he pauses to remove parts of his own outfit too, keeping a sort of balance to the situation so it isn’t only you being bared for him. You’re grateful for it but it also makes it much harder as you don’t know where to look – regarding him in his growing nakedness still feels...wrong. Especially when you reach the point where you both are completely bare with the exception of your shift.

That is until you lightly lifts your chin to meet his eyes. “It is alright, my dear,” he promises, “we are husband and wife. Your trepidation is only natural but...you have nothing to fear.”

You nod. Swallow. Then allow your gaze to move down his body.

He is shapely. Tall and lean. A thin smattering of hairs covers his chest and from his belly button and down it forms a delicate trail until – your eyes snap up again.

“Am I that frightening to look at?” he asks with both playfulness and sorrow in his eyes.

You shake your head. “No it is just...” you thin voice trails off. You don’t know what you had expected.

“Come,” he takes your hands, “lie on the bed.”

He guides you over and tosses aside the covers before scooping you into his arms as if you weighed nothing.

This is the closest you have ever been. You feel the hard panes of his muscles against your body. Feel his heat. It’s impossible not to let a palm slide across his chest and up to his neck that softly bends to bring his lips to yours. Then you’re lost in his kiss and barely sense how he places you upon the mattress and comes to rest, between your legs. Nothing matters as long as you can continue kissing him. Taste him. Soft lips and now the firmness of his tongue as it delves deeper. And something stirs in you. In your core.

[verdemoun]

how is darragh to maeve!! is he confused on who is and isnt her parent?

Darragh loves Maeve: really, truly, obsessively loves Maeve. He would scorch a thousand miles of farmland before he let someone touch a single curly ginger hair on her head. And she similarly loves her grandda from a very young age. He (only due to having been through it with Sean) knew exactly how to get her to behave and when to let mischief run rampant and play along with her need to make anything and everything a game.

Walking with Maeve to the park for anyone else? Nightmare. Walking along the curb like a balance beam as they watch through their fingers just waiting for her fall into traffic and die and god forbid you try to talk her out of doing it. Holding grandda's hand? Amazing. Impeccable. Angelic little girl who no one could ever imagine causing anyone strife ever. Only because she knows when she decided to climb the highest, flimsiest tree in the whole park, grandda will give her a foot up and catch her without a single reaction when she jumps out of it.

He insists she is easier than Sean was. This is a lie. Maeve is at least Sean x2 but he has that toddler Macguire experience.

Darragh was definitely a little confused by the parenting situation. He met Maeve as Lenny and Sean's daughter and immediately accepted that two men could have and raise a child through modern means, and Maeve obviously was Sean's biological child because the only thing brighter than her hair is the Macguire spirit. He has understandable whiplash when Karen suddenly pulled up and Maeve ran up to her squealing 'Mama look it's grandda macguire!! da's da. granddada'.

Once he understood Maeve was biologically Karen and Sean's daughter, but Sean and Lenny were married and Karen (and Jenny) live there too because 'eeh we were kinda more than friends in the past and we understand each other on a level not many people get to experience in their lives but I love my husband and Karen nor Jenny is interested in a monogamous relationship also modern era is expensive also Maeve needs four adults at all times because she's - her' Darragh kinda loved the concept.

Probably bias because he wishes Sean could have had a more nuclear life (actually loads of internalized bias). He wasn't in a relationship with Sean's mother when she wrote he was pregnant. As much as he would have done the 'right thing' in his mind and married her the second he found out she was pregnant, her family would have disowned her before letting her marry The Darragh Macguire, catholic, fenian outlaw and nationalist. Not that she wanted to marry him - she was the daughter of a wealthy half-English protestant landowner! A political rival! She liked her life of niceties and expensive things and the knowledge she would marry wealthy and be in leisure all her days.

Literally - he technically kidnapped Sean at 2 days old from an unwed mother's home to stop him being sold in an adoption scheme. If not for how strong the Macguire genes are (they are all copy and pastes, especially the facial features) he might've thought he stole the wrong baby when Sean grew into his erratic, goofy, happy-go-lucky childhood self. It was him and Sean forever.

Finding out Maeve not only has two dads who obviously love and spoil her, but two mums who also adore her, not to mention an entire gang/network of aunts and uncles and cousins who would all run to her side faster than a penny drops if she needed something, he really found an affinity with the idea

because in his mind, that's what a family is meant to be!! he had 5 siblings and granted only him and one sister made it to adulthood but he remembers playing with loads of siblings and how fun it was and everyone at church being like part of his family too. first time he hears the saying it takes a village to raise a child his brain explodes in agreement.

[dearweirdme]

"Hi Rain, can you tell me the top five reasons why you think Tae might be queer? To be honest, I used to be one of those people who thought, "Tae is as straight as an arrow. Can’t you fucking see?" My reasoning was, “He wants several kids and a family!” Even though I noticed him repeatedly supporting gay artists and art, giving off generally queer vibes, and having "Stigma" as his first solo song, I still held onto my belief."

I get where you're coming from, anon, and there's actually a Weverse comment from Tae in 2022 that imo backs up your point:

Army: Oh, no, I'm against Kim Taehyung's marriage ㅠㅠㅠ I hope you'll walk along the path of living alone [being single]. Taehyung: …? ㅋㅋㅋ everyone, my dream is becoming a father.

In South Korea, marriage and kids usually go hand-in-hand. There's a lot of stigma around unwed pregnancies, and same-sex marriage isn't recognized by law. So, it's not surprising if Taehyung was leaning towards a traditional family model at that time (220406). That's why I don't think Taennie can be ruled out (I should mention, though, that I'm working on a blog that blends both Taennie and Taekook into one theory, so I might be seeing Taehyung's comment through a different lens).

BUT: at the same time, it's a bit odd that Tae didn't mention a wife/ mother in BTS LAND Ep.11:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uRhY1yAmXRA&ab_channel=Kstar

Taehyung: This bear is my future son. Jungkook: Hm, I see. Taehyung: It's called father and me.

Tae is usually pretty upfront, so why would he leave out the mother from his terrarium? Plus, he hasn't mentioned a wife since 2014. It's a bit odd for someone who says they want a family, don't you think?

You are being offensive to queer couples in South Korea. Words like ‘odd’ should not have a place in discourse about queerness.

If these are your thoughts you are not seriously considering Tae as queer. If you were you would understand that to him thoughts of marriage wouldn’t automatically lead to a female.

[dontforgetoctober3rd]

He Is

(A timeskip Bridgerton/HOTDish fanfic)

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen X Philomena Finch (faceclaim for Philomena will be the amazing Taylor Richardson, who plays Bridget in The Gilded Age!)

Word Count: 2800ish

Cheesiness: Off the charts, cheesier than the state of Wisconsin

Summary: Just as her mother Philippa predicted: Philomena Finch is a writer.

But Philomena is disappointed that none of the men in real life live up to the fictional ones she reads and writes about. None of them until Aemond Targaryen, that is.

Author's Note: This fic is a somewhat convoluted, three-way crossover (kinda???) because it obviously has elements of the Bridgerton universe but also the HOTD/GOT universe, with mentions of the Skyrim video game lore! Basically, Philomena writes what we know in this world as Skyrim but in a book form and Aemond is the author of what we know as Game of Thrones in this fic. Get it? Alrighty. Also, yes, the fic title is yet another Ghost song big whoop I love them ok?!

Dividers: @cafekitsune

GIF Credits: In the gifs themselves, I used the gif search function

The first time Philomena Finch knew she didn’t fit in with The Ton of London high society was in boarding school at age 12, when the teacher asked each girl to come to the front of the class and share what their goals in life were.

“I want to start a charity for orphans,” came one of the replies.

“My goal is to throw the most glamorous balls anyone has ever seen!” another girl said.

“I will tutor respectable young ladies on how to speak French,” yet another said.

On and on the answers came, but they all had one thing in common: before telling what their goals were, they all prefaced their statements with “After I marry-”

Philomena knew she wasn’t going to marry then and she knew it still now, at age 19.  It's not that she didn’t want a husband, she just had always known that the type of man she desired to be with was not to be found outside the books she read or little stories she would write. The kind of husband she wanted had to be amazing and handsome and approve without question whatever she wanted to do in life.  The years had taught her she would not find him in the real world and she accepted as her fate that she was to remain unwed, as if it were a commonly given fact like any other.  Her parents’ and aunts’ marriages were simply lovely anomalies in the humdrum, rigid world of the english Ton.  The way of things would not change.

The sky was blue, grass was green, taxes were to be paid and Philomena Finch was destined to die alone.

That being the case, she preferred to fully throw herself into writing, which her parents wholeheartedly supported. 

 “The world is changing!” her father had informed her, contrary to what she herself believed. “Women hardly have a need for husbands like they did before and besides, how else could we survive the monotony of life without stories to read?.” 

Her mother agreed as well and for that Philomena was so grateful, as her own grandmother constantly moaned about having a spinster in the family and her well-meaning Aunt Prudence put the famous Violet Bridgerton to shame with the amount of gentlemen she sent her way at balls. 

It was relentless, so the minute Philomena would get home and dress for bed,  she went straight to her writing desk instead to create worlds she could escape to. Every time she sat to write she thanked her lucky stars that she had a mother and father who bought her all the quills, ink and paper she wanted.

 In fact, she was working on a story she hoped to publish soon but it was rather gruesome…and violent. Recent inspiration had hit her about two years ago after the country of Valyria had ceased its war with England and everyone had seen the new, foreign aristocracy trickling into London to break bread with new allies.  

Before the war, stories had floated around of beautiful white-haired men and women, but to see them in person?  Everyone in society clamored to be near them, to win their favor and possibly their love in some cases.  Philomena thought they were otherworldly. It was as if there existed a version of the Bridgertons that was fifty times as popular and a hundred times as good-looking.  Being near them felt practically magical. 

Certainly too magical for an ordinary, plain English girl like herself.  She knew this because only last season the one time Aunt Prudence had managed to snag a Valyrian Lord at a ball to bring to her, practically elbowing away other girls from him (a Daemon Targaryen, she remembered) the conversation had remained one sided.

  Lord Targaryen seemed incredibly disinterested and practically fled as he excused himself after hardly saying more than ten words the entire time.  “I must find my brother, pardon me.” Daemon had told her as he walked away. 

  The only type of men in reality that seemed to interest her…had zero interest in return. 

So Philomena dealt with her increasing feelings of inadequacy with writing, as always, and got to work.  A world of dragons and magic, of elves and warriors. Not at all what a typical lady would read, let alone write! 

The Elder Scrolls: Skyrim, she called it and she finally had about two thirds of the story written to show her parents before the new season got going. She had anticipated horror from them both, but they had been utterly enthralled by the story and wanted to know more. 

“Oh, please tell me Ulfric Stormcloak wins!! I need to know!” her father had begged.

Her mother was of a different opinion. “I do hope he gets executed by the Dragonborn! Preferably while Elisif The Fair watches! It's what he deserves after killing her husband! Hmph!”

Aunt Prudence was a fan of the character Maven Blackbriar, and positively preened when Philomena told her she had based the character off of her. “I do have a knack for finances and running my family well,” she had said with a smile at tea one day.

“Like no other, my love.” Uncle Harry was quick to put in. 

The most help had come from, surprisingly, her uptight grandmother Portia. She had dropped by for luncheon one day and insisted on seeing this story her daughters had been ‘blathering about’.

“I do wish you would concentrate on finding a husband instead of that scribbling…,” she had began, after receiving the hefty manuscript from Philomena in the parlor and having read through it for a few minutes. “-but if you must insist on continuing with it, then you might see about getting some assistance in trying to publish from your uncle Colin and Aunt Penelope, after their return from Germany.  No doubt they’ll go straight to the Viscount Bridgerton, who will then reach out to his contacts and ensure you have a chance at this little story of yours getting printed into an actual book. Maybe.”

Philomena was ecstatic.  Writing was her greatest passion, it was what brought her the most joy, and now there was a chance that hundreds (possibly thousands!) of people would read her work and feel that same joy. Who needed a husband?

The latest season started as the last few had: everyone shamelessly fighting to get a hold of a Valyrian lord or lady.  Or one of their lesser family members, but the objective remained the same for the Ton, which was to align themselves with a wealthy Valyrian family.

Philomena mostly avoided the season these days, as she was busy trying to publish her novel (which had turned into a several novel series, as her publisher had suggested because the story was so long).

A few weeks in, all of London high society received quite a shock: Daemon Targaryen had brought his nephew Aemond.  He was badly scarred on one side of his face, a patch covering the missing eye.  Rumor had it the Targaryens were  so rich, a sapphire was put in.  

What would have spelled doom for the prospects of a normal Englishman, however,  did nothing to cause Aemond to be seen as lesser by the Ton.  The loss of an eye didn’t deter daughters and their mamas in the least.  Aemond Targaryen was rich, beautiful and available.  

All were determined to secure the position of being his wife but that determination was soon snuffed out. 

 To the dismay of every marriage-minded mama, Daemon proclaimed to the queen herself that Aemond had already selected his future wife when she asked why he had brought his nephew along this time.  The surprises didn’t stop there, for soon after Prudence Dankworth and her husband arrived, Daemon and Aemond were witnessed by all approaching them and engaging in what seemed like a long and animated conversation. 

Lady Danbury gleefully suggested to Lady Kate Bridgerton that the gossip rags would soon be printing headlines about a very lucky match indeed, for no Valyrian had yet married anyone of English descent. 

Philomena could hardly believe it.  Aemond Targaryen was sitting across from her in the Finch  family parlor.

She had been in her father’s office minutes ago (which he had generously surrendered to her for the duration of however long it took to get Skyrim published) when she had heard a huge commotion near their front door and someone rapidly running (stomping, more like) to the office.

It had been Aunt Prudence, out of breath and slightly disheveled.  The maids didn’t even bother to try to announce her as they caught up and turned to leave just as quick. “Wash that ink off your hands and let down that bloody hair!” Aunt Prudence hissed. “And put on your best dress.  You are to have a special caller today!”

"In the evening?!" Philomena had said in disbelief. "The sun is about to set! I have candles already lit, for goodness' sake. Who calls at this hour?!"

"NEVER YOU MIND!" Prudence had all but shrieked. "Ready yourself!"

So Philomena had.  She was not really expecting anything to come of this visit but no sooner had she sat at the couch adjusting her hair than the maids were announcing the arrival of one Aemond Targaryen.  

Now here they both were.  Philomena’s parents were out but Aunt Prudence remained to chaperone. She tucked herself as far away as possible near a window with a large lamp lit nearby, pretending to read so as to try to give them some privacy.

  Courteous introductions were made, stiff small talk attempted.  Aunt Prudence made a show of loudly flipping pages to fill the silence, so that the young couple might feel like they were being thoroughly ignored and perhaps open up to each other more.

Philomena did not know what she was supposed to do.  

She felt clumsy and ugly next to Aemond, whose hair seemed to sparkle in the candlelight and whose face looked like it was carved by the most expert of artisans.  His magnificently sculpted jaw tempted her so, she struggled to keep her eyes from simply staring at it the entire time.  

Her own hair was slightly frizzy from having been rapidly combed, wisps of it escaping in front of her ears. It was a rusty, orange color.  Not the beautiful, brilliant red that her mother had.  Certainly nowhere near the gorgeous silver of Aemond’s hair.  How she longed to touch it! To smell it! God must be mocking her, because she had also heard he was an avid writer. Simply put, he was perfect for her.  Too perfect.

Desperate to take her mind off of gawking at him so that he wouldn’t think her a lunatic, she hurriedly offered him some biscuits, which he politely refused. 

“The last thing I wish to be is overzealous, but,” Aemond began. “My uncle has told me about you.  His contacts in publishing say that you are working on…quite a story.”

Philomena frantically looked to her Aunt, who quickly mimed what looked like…writing on paper? 

Show him your book!  What you have been working on! Show him Skyrim!

The scene in the parlor was quite comical.  

Aemond could clearly see Prudence Dankworth furiously miming to her niece and yet she continued with it as though he wasn’t present.  It almost made him laugh but he did not wish to ruin his chances.

Philomena Finch was not everything his uncle had said.  She was so much more.

She had the most alluring, fire-colored hair.  Her face was the perfect shape, with full cheeks and deep brown eyes.  Keeping his one functioning eye on her face was a monumental task, as he longed to slowly drag it over her seductive body. 

Best of all…he had clearly just caught her as she was working on her writing.  Aemond could still see a few spots of ink she hadn’t managed to wash off.  

Aemond let himself think for a moment, gazing at Philomena as she “communicated” with her aunt.  

Writing was his passion.  It soothed him and gave him strength, especially when he had lost his eye.  It was everything to him.  To find a woman who shared his dreams…it was too good to pass up. 

“With writing, you can create anything from nothing, like a god.” his Uncle Daemon had told him once, when he had spiraled into doubting himself again.  “It is your gift, nephew.  Don’t throw it away.  For anyone.  If your future wife truly loves you, she will love all of you.  Do not stop your writing.” 

So Aemond hadn’t.  

He had cultivated it and was on the cusp of publishing his first work, A Game of Thrones. A great deal of people had been disgusted with it…but an equal number had loved it, likening it to a Shakespearean work. His uncle had friends who worked in the book writing world and he told him there was a somewhat similarly violent story in England, also with dragons, about to be published.  It was written by a lady. 

Aemond had begged for a copy of at least a few chapters to read it.  Obtaining it wasn’t difficult for him, being already an author about to release his own book.  

He loved everything about the story. 

Everything the characters felt, he felt.  Really, the similarities stopped at the dragons.  

He longed to walk in the world of Skyrim. To see the babbling brooks of Whiterun.  To wander through caves, fighting his way against hordes of Falmer. Everytime he reread his copy of Philomena’s beginning chapters, he lost track of time.

To have created such a universe…if she could only feel a fraction of that passion for him, as a husband, he would be the happiest man alive.  He knew it. 

His heart was already hers.  It was just a matter of letting her know it. 

“Marry me.” Aemond said, coming out of his thoughts.  Zero hesitation.  Matter of factly. 

Philomena felt like her heart was sliding into her throat as her head snapped to look at him.  Aunt Prudence audibly gasped. 

“Marry me.” Aemond repeated. “We belong together.”

He would be miserable married to her, she just knew it.  If they married, she knew she would love him…how she could possibly love a man that wouldn’t love her back she didn’t know but that was what she felt.  

He would grow to eventually hate her and still she would love him, like a fool. He would try to change her and when she refused, loving him the entire time,  he would hate her.  And it would break her heart.  So that was not going to happen.  It could not happen, because she would not let it. “I don’t know you!” Philomena cried.

“We will get to know each other over the years.” Aemond said, taking her hand. She did not remove it but continued to protest.

“I detest going to balls.” 

“I do as well. I prefer to write.”

“My aunts are a lot to deal with.”

“As is my uncle Daemon.”

“My family is nowhere near as wealthy as yours.”

“No matter.  I stand to inherit more than enough money for the both of us.”

“Well, I often argue.  It’s not my intention but it happens a great deal.” Philomena persisted.

“Husbands and wives will argue.  It's the way of things.” he shrugged, still holding onto her hand.

“I often write very depraved scenes.  I have a few more horrid bits to add to Skyrim.” 

“Did you know incest is featured prominently as a storyline in my own book?”

Undeterred, Philomena barreled on, Aunt Prudence watching in shock from her corner.

“I do not want to have children right away.”

“We have various useful contraceptive methods I can get for you.”

“I often get up at night to write.”

“One cannot control when the muse calls upon you. It’s good to work when you get the inspiration for it.”

“I want to travel.”

“I want the same.  We can go wherever you like first.”

“If any of your family were to insult me, I will not just take it.”

“Understandable.  I love them with all my heart but family can be quite insufferable at times.”

Out of options, Philomena didn't care how pathetic she sounded when she said it but it had to be said. “I am not…as beautiful as you.”

“I do not know what to say to ...that.” Aemond said, rubbing her hand gently.  “Other than youre wrong.  So very wrong.”

Philomena was silent. For once, she did not have words, either on paper or to speak.  What Aemond asked next felt like a dream. Prudence had long since dropped all pretense of reading her book and was watching, jaw dropped.

“May I touch your hair?” he asked.

“I- we are not even betrothed!”

“Aren’t we?”

“Yes…? I suppose...?” she whispered, her own eyes boring into his one.

“Excellent! I’ve been dying to to touch your hair since my uncle told me the color. No one has such a color in Valyria.”

“Very well.” Philomena said with a smile.  “I am right, though.”

Aemond looked puzzled. “Right about what?”

“You are more beautiful than me!” 

He fiddled with her hair, blushing.  “Lies.”

“I would not lie to you!” 

“Arguing with me already?

Prudence Dankworth could contain herself no longer. 

Loudly declaring her congratulations, she ran to hug her niece while Aemond Targaryen finally burst out laughing.