#did I steal my mothers wedding dress perhaps

[if-you-dont-ask-me-to-stay]

GUYS APPRECIATE MY ERAS FIT PLS LOOOKKKKK AT ITTTTT

[lovelytsunoda]

just like heaven // yuki tsunoda

summary: love is in the air at y/n’s cousins wedding, and it’s got yuki in a loving mood.

pairing: yuki tsunoda x female reader

warnings: 18+ smutty and romantic content :) sex in a library, semi-public sex, two fuckers who are so madly in love I’ve become jealous of my own writing, the library is full of bibles and religious text so does that mean this might be sacrilege? yuki may or may not have some sort of marriage related kink

the air smelled like roses and freshly cut grass, heavy with a feeling of love, and the hazy smoke coming from the fire pit at the head of the tent. a dance floor had been cleared out in the middle of the uneven grassy surface, a portable wooden floor laid out as a makeshift dance floor. it had clearly once been white, but had stained over the years.

yuki tsunoda sat at the groom's table, watching with a lovestruck gaze as his eyes found his girlfriend, who was dancing with her cousin in the middle of the floor. huey lewis and the news played from the bluetooth speaker in the corner, the bride circulating the room and speaking to relatives.

y/n and her cousin had been close once upon a time. they were only a year apart in age, and had both been babysat by their grandmother while their mothers worked. they fell out of touch a little as they got older, only seeing each other at major holidays, but when will had called y/n to announce that he had gotten engaged, y/n was over teh moon for him.

yuki thought she looked beautiful in the soft glow of the fairy lights, her red dress swirling around her thighs as she danced uninhibited, not worrying about how she appeared to the other wedding guests. her hair shone in the light, her smile radiant.

and yuki wondered if one day, perhaps he and y/n would be sharing a similar stage. except she would be wearing white, and they would have matching silver rings on their fingers.

as the song changed, yuki stepped away from teh table and towards the dancefloor, hoping to steal a moment with his lover as will scanned the tent for his wife.

"congratulations, will. give my best to claire as well, just in case i don't see her again before the evening ends." y/n said, giving her cousin a hug before he sauntered off to find claire.

yuki beamed at her, extending a hand. "may i have this dance, my fair maiden?"

"yes, you may." she smiled, wrapping her arms around yuki and tucking her body into his as they began to sway to the music.

in her heels, she was taller than him, in the same way that jason statham's wife towered over the actor. but yuki didn't mind. if anything, it made him swoon even more.

as they danced, his mind began to wander. what song would they have their first dance to? would it be that inxs song she liked? or would it be one direction, a callback to the girl who dreamed of her wedding but never thought it would come? what would they serve? a pasta bar, or a buffet line?

"whatcha' thinking about?" she hummed, forehead against his.

"us. you. forever." yuki sighed. "i want this to be us someday. all of it. the white dress, the speeches, the expensive food. surrounded by the people we love the most."

her heart softened, and she bit back a cry, feeling tears stinging the back of her eyes. weddings always did have a way of making her emotional.

"oh, yuki." she said softly, leaning in for a kiss. "i love you forever. when the time is right, and we can take the proper time to plan and to book a honeymoon. because you're it for me. all i want for the rest of my life. but i'm not in a rush."

"neither am i.” yuki smiled, kissing her knuckles. “I love you forever.”

the song ended, y/n easing back on her heels and wincing as she realized just how sore her feet were in her pale pink stilettos. she had prepared for this and packed a pair of thick-soled sandals in her tote bag, stowed gently underneath the grooms table.

back at the table, yuki helped her ease he sore feet out of their shoes, slipping a jacket around her shoulders as she slipped into her sandals. she kissed him on the cheek, wrapping the jacket tighter around her body as she rested her head on his shoulder.

it was hard not to feel giddy when surrounded by so much love. two years ago, she would have left the celebration feeling melancholia, tainted by the fear that she might never find her person. today, she hoped that she could hold on to the love she had, the feeling of safety and security that yuki brought her.

“you cold, love?” yuki asked, lips pressed against her forehead. “we can pop back inside the church for a moment to warm up if you want.”

“yeah, I need a minute of quiet, I think.” she agreed, kissing the underside of yukis jaw before reaching for her silver clutch purse.

yuki gently pulled her chair away from the table, taking her hand as she got to her feet. tucking his arm around her waist, he pulled her close as they ducked out of the white canvas party tent. she could feel the dewy grass on her feet, one hand holding her skirt away from the damp. her lovers hand dropped down her back, comfortingly running over her bum, and then her hip as they neared the low brick church building.

yn hadn’t been a church-goer in her youth, only attending for family functions, but she appreciated the generous plot of land that the religious institution rested on. it was a stunning view over the hill, peering into the entire valley below.

they slipped inside the church, y/n sighing contentedly as she gradually warmed to the inside temperature. yuki took her free hand, pulling her in for a kiss. she hummed against his lips, sighing against his body.

“come on, I want to show you something.” she laughed, practically dragging yuki behind her as she took off down the hallway. “I used to hide in here to get out of listening to sermons. especially when my cousins got baptized a few years ago, I got restless listening to the pastor talk so I went for a walk and stumbled upon this place.”

she tried the doorknob, delighted to find it unlocked as she pushed the door inwards. the door opened into a small library. the couple were surrounded by tall bookshelves filled with leather bound volumes of religious texts, the far wall filled with ornate stained glass windows, casting the wooden floor in varying colours as she sun started to fade from the sky.

“there are better books up top. there also used to be a rolling ladder in here but pastor frankie had to take it out after a choirboy fell off it and broke his arm trying to find a copy of miss chatterley's lover.”

"no shit." yuki chuckled, helping her out of the jacket draped over her shoulders. "this is quite the place."

"that it is." she laughed softly in return, reaching for the lapels of her lover's shirt. "come here."

still laughing, she pressed her lips to his, relaxing in his arms and letting herself fall into the kiss. she never had to be anything she wasn't with yuki. she trusted him more than she had ever trusted anybody else. he knew her inside and out, in mind and soul and in body. his lips were grounding against hers, pillowy soft and applying just the right amount of pressure against her own.

it was incredible how responsive she was to yuki's touch. she hadn't come in to the library with the intentions of having sex up against shelves of leather bound books, or sprawled out on the vintage wooden desk, yet as she sighed under his touch, she could feel her nerve endings crackling with life. she moaned into the kiss as his hand trailed up the slit in her dress to clutch at her thigh, and she was a goner. his lips trailed across her neck, his tongue darting out to kitten-lick at her pulse point and she felt her knees go weak.

"babe, in a church?"

yuki pulled away to look at her, his eyes soft and full of adoration. "you always said you wanted to be romanced in a library. i'm sure this isn't what you had in mind, but it's good enough for me. if you want it, of course."

she smiled, leaning in to kiss him. "don't stop now."

and he didn't. yuki backed her against the desk, pulling her legs up and around his waist. her sandals fell to the floor as his fingers fumbled clumsily with the zipper on the back of her dress. giggling softly, she pushed his hands away, pulling the stubborn zip down by herself before she guided his hands back towards her exposed breasts.

her thighs tingled with anticipation, and she could feel the wet spot on her lacy panties growing as yuki massaged her tender breasts, rolling her peaked nipples between his fingers, the pendant of her sliver necklace resting just above them.

"you're so beautiful." he whispered, scared that speaking any louder would ruin this magical moment they had created.

"you're not too bad yourself, handsome." she hummed, caressing his face.

she tilted her head up, kissing him again. harder this time, her tongue scraping against his lips, begging desperately for entrance as she pressed up against him, searching for friction to ease the ache between her thighs. it was awkward, given the seating arrangements in the library, but she managed to grind against his dress pants, one hand dropping from his neck to his cock as his lips parted enough to allow their tongues to touch.

she sighed breathily under his touch, yuki's hand gently caressing her bare thighs as he reached for her lacy white panties. gripping the edges of the table, she leveraged her weight to raise her hips, allowing her lover to peel the fabric away from her body. he slipped the panties into the pocket of his slacks before raising her knees and pressing kisses to her thighs.

"tell me what you want, my love. my tongue, my fingers, my cock. all of it is yours, just say the word." he rasped, running his thumb over her clit.

"that thing you do with your fingers." she hummed, canting her hips forward, trying to capture his slender fingers inside her dripping center. "you know the one."

"the one that makes you laugh, or the one that makes you scream?"

"both."

she gasped as his fingers slipped into her with little resistance, the driver scissoring both fingers, pushing up against her velvet-soft walls. she bit back a curse, tilting her head back and exposing her neck for him to kiss and suck at.

his lips were warm and soft as he peppered her skin with delicate, soft kisses, in contrast to the lightning-sharp way that he moved his fingers inside of her.

"fuck, that feels good." she breathed, digging her nails into his shoulders through the fabric of his dress shirt, breathing heavy as pants turned into moans.

the light from the stained glass window reflected over her skin, bathing her in the warm colors and contrasting shades created by the glass artwork. the sight took yuki's breath away, a part of him wondering if there was a way to capture that image and sear it into his brain forever. she looked positvely angelic, lips slightly parted, back arched in pleasure.

“that’s my girl. that’s my sexy fucking girl. are you going to come on my fingers, sweet girl?”

she gripped his arms, nodding furiously as she whined out a ‘yes’, grinding against his fingers as he pressed the heel of his hand against her clit.

“yuki, oh my god, shit.” she whined, burying her head in his neck.

his lips were soft against her hairline as he talked her through it, mumbling sweet nothings and dotting her sweaty skin with kisses as he finger-fucked her towards the edge.

“atta girl. I’ve got you, just breathe. my best girl. my perfect girl, coming so good for me.”

she sighed as she came, a breathy, whiny sound, fingers tightening around his biceps.

“you’re safe, I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.” yuki whispered, running a hand up and down her back. “you did so good, angel.”

she kissed him slowly, relishing in the feeling of his lips against hers. she smiled into the kiss, her hands exploring the expanse of muscle through his shirt.

her french-manicured nails found the buttons on his dress shirt, slowly popping them open. she kissed the warm skin on his chest as she went down, fingers moving towards the button on his pants.

“does my pretty baby want my dick?” yuki crooned, caressing her cheek as he looked down at her adoringly. “anything you want from me, just say the word.”

“babe, I always want your dick.” she smiled, taking him in her palm, stroking up and down his length. bathed in the light from the window, she thought he looked like a greek god.

she lined him up with her entrance, hiking both legs over his hips and allowing him to push himself inside of her. inch by inch, he slipped in slowly, his forehead resting against hers before he leaned in to kiss her, trading moans into each others mouths as he bottomed out.

he could die here and be happy, wrapped up in the woman he loved, her warm walls cushioning him on all sides. this overwhelming feeling of closeness. he started to move, thrusting slowly and interspersing the movements with swivels and grinds of the hips, rubbing against her soft, plushy walls, drawing every little whine and breath and pant from her lungs.

“oh god, baby, that’s incredible.” she tilted her hips forward, head rolling back as she tried to take him deeper.

one of her hands dropped to the table to support her body weight, the other tangling in yukis hair. she pulled gently, watching with pleasure as his eyes rolled back, a soft growl leaving his throat. in response, he thrusted harder, deeper.

“that’s my sweet girl. looking so fucking pretty with my rock-hard dick buried inside you. all fucking mine to worship. you know what I think about when I get off? our future. domestic things. picking out silverware, buying our forever house. you in a white dress, a big fucking diamond on your finger. you’re it for me.”

he was thrusting quicker now, pulling out almost halfway before slamming back in again, his hands gripping her thighs so tightly she worried there might be bruises. his eyes weee trained on her chest, captivated by the way her breasts bounced from the force.

“yes, yes.” she moaned, back arched as she kissed his neck, leaving a series of small hickeys in her wake. “fuck, I want everything with you, too.”

“yeah, you want me to make you my pretty perfect wife?”

“god, yes.” she was certain she was dripping onto the table, the room filled with laboured breathing and the wet sounds of yukis cock splitting her in half. “fuck, baby, I love you so much.”

the coil in her stomach was wound tighter than a wire, and she could feel that she was on the edge. any second now, she’d snap.

“fill me up.” she whined. “fucking make me yours.”

“want you to come first.” he rasped, dropping his hand to her sensitive clit. “love you so much, sweet girl. just let me make you feel so so good, okay?”

she kissed him again, fingers in his hair, then on his shoulders, searching for purchase as she hid her face in his broad chest. she always got shy when her orgasms approached. yuki found it endearing, and soft.

“I’ve got you pretty girl. come for me. just let go, make a pretty little mess on my dick.”

she came with a loud moan, feeling her legs go slack in her lovers grip as she rested all of her weight on him, her head nestled comfortably between shoulder and neck, his soft fingertips trailing up and down her thighs, his gentle voice reminding her to breathe through it.

“fuck, baby, I love you so much. I love you. I love you.” he repeated it like a chant as he reached his own climax, stuttering his words as he spilled inside her. “god, you’re so good to me.”

after a small moment to catch their breaths, yuki gently pulled out. she whined at the loss of contact, reading her whine for a contented sigh when yuki pressed a chaste kiss to her lips, gentle hands helping her readjust her dress.

“babe, I think I’m dripping on the table.” she admitted, red-faced and shy. “what did you do with my underwear?”

yuki grinned roguishly, dramatically producing the offending pair of panties from his pockets. “kept them nice and safe for you.”

“sure you did.” she laughed easing herself off the table, deliberately not looking at the mess she’d left behind.

while she redressed, yuki searched the pockets of his suit jacket for his red pocket square, u folding it and using the thin, expensive fabric to clean all evidence of their tryst off the hardwood.

“yuki, come on! not the pocket square!” she laughed, using her fingers to comb through her hair. “you’re so gross.”

“what else was I supposed to use?” he laughed, putting the square in his pocket and slipping the jacket over his shoulders. he pulled her in for a soft kiss, hands gently caressing her curves. “come on, let’s get back to the party.”

the pair stepped out of the library, linked arm in arm, content and sated as they turned to walk out of the church, and found themselves bumping headfirst into will and claire. judging by the lipstick stain on wills collar, and the flushed red of claire’s face, the happy couple had just snuck away to do the same.

“we never speak of this again.” will groaned, averting his eyes. “ever!”

[themotherofblood]

chapter 5 | RIVER OF FIRE | blood runs thick | d.t x reader x r.t

masterlist | series masterlist | previous chapter

synopsis: the aftermath of Alicent being wed to Viserys.

~ “Did you think it all true, all these things will catch up to you now.” ~

It truly wasn’t much of a bother, was it. Here you were, threading together a bouquet with gold silk threads and next to you paced Rhaenyra, cursing practically anyone that would dare interrupt her maniacal pacing. Five steps she would walk forward, mutter curses under her breath and then she would turn, walk five more. The antechamber almost grew hot, burning along with Nyra’s ire, the dragon flames within her burnt so bright, you feared for the Queen’s life.

She was just next door, being readied for her wedding by her Hightower cousins, you could hear the rambling and muffled giggling and jangles of gold bangles and necklaces. Her wedding to Viserys - by the gods - even now brought bile to the back of your mouth coating it with bitter thickness. It wasn't unheard of but perhaps when the bride bleeds from so close to home, one might truly weep for her virtue. Even if she were to be the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, a girl and a grieving King. What bore far more pain was that she hid it, for months she hid her ongoing relationship with the King, from you, from Rhaenyra. Being unable to aid Rhaenyra through her grief to which Alicent sewed parts of Rhaenyra back together with such ease. She is wise, truly wise, yet she hid this. Rhaenyra believes her a traitor now, for weeks she voiced the fear of Aemma’s memory fading if Viserys were to remarry, Alicent listened and yet said nothing.

You were pulled from your thoughts as the doors to Alicent’s bed chambers opened, ladies poured out one by one, bowing to you and Rhaenyra before heading for the Grand Sept, the bells had begun to ring, marking the King’s arrival to the Sept.

A girl of six and ten turned into a woman, Alicent stood at the door with a stunning ivory gown, her cape sleeves curving around her figure and intricate gold metal work placed on her shoulders to mimic dragon wings, her beautiful brown hair pulled up. She was radiant as always, you couldn't help but smile at her, it was her wedding day after all.

Alicent’s eyes flicker to Rhaeyra, expecting to find some warmth within the purple of her eyes, Nyra gives Alicent a once over, taking in what had seemed like a nightmare come true.

“You look lovely, your grace” the hint of sarcasm coated thick in Rhaenyra’s voice as she bowed to Alicent before taking her leave.

You pitied her, the smile you gave her after screamed so, the Queen loved by all but the one closest to her. You walked her, reaching out to fix an untucked ribbon and then handing her the bouquet.

“Is there no way that I might mend this?” she sighed, sorrowful and guilty.

“Not today.”

She looked defeated as you fussed with pinnings of her wedding dress.

“Not today, because today is about you, our petty problems will be with us tomorrow too, my lady.” you give her a once over before once more smiling at her “today you become Queen.”

This time she matches your smile, a long breath shaking away the sorrow weighing upon her shoulders. You walked behind her, lifting her long train with both arms as she proceeded to walk.

There was this joy, your friend was being wed, a momentous event but you couldn’t breathe past how terrified Alicent looked, and torn over how perturbed Nyra appeared to mask her strong need to sob. Your lover and your companion, both bleeding from the wounds of court and you could help but one, a side that you had to choose. She had ripped through two dolls, sobbing over the one gown she managed to steal from her mother’s chests. She didn’t want a stepmother but most of all she didn't want to have to lose a friend so cruelly. No matter how tightly you held Nyra through the nights and gave her comforting touches, the dark shadow of doom that seemed to follow never left her, it loved her more than you could. More than the sunshine could cast a shadow, it persisted. At supper and at tea, it pained you to watch her so.

So much so, she wrote to Daemon, begging him to return, to stop this madness, speak some sense into his brother but what was done couldn’t be undone by a banished prince, now could it?

You reached for Nyra’s hand as you stood amongst the people, watching the Targaryen cloak draped over Alicent taunt her. All would be well, all must be well, you prayed. A marriage for the stability of the Realm, even with an heir, the lords never truly seemed satiated.

As Alicent and Viserys turned with their heads held high, the crowds cheered, roared in an out pour of joy. A new Queen had blessed the Realm, soon she would bless the Realm with a son.

A son, you looked to Rhaenyra. The whites of her eyes had gone red, moist.

“She is no Queen of mine.” she angrily whispered to you.

In the vast toll of things, one thing you had expected less. Rhaenyra had charged her ladies to be so frigid to the Queen. You sat with her and her ladies, leisurely pushing your needle through the fabric and then back out, every now and then glancing at Alicent and the growing mound of her belly hidden behind the plush blanket she sat under.

A rabid dog with a mustard collar, that’s what you were to her. Shielding her from the bitch-like behaviour many of these courtly ladies had directed towards her. Loud mouthed wenches, snickering behind her back, most of them had expected to be Queen– now they lick their wounds, playing those half cooked political games to gain Alicent’s favour. Most of all, you shielded her from Rhaenyra’s wrath, raging just as hot as Syrax’s fire, burning all those who might to diminish it, though you– immune to the brunt of it all, both figuratively and literally. The Targaryen in you kept you Valyrian-clad, and Rhaenyra’s lover in you kept you protected.

You looked out the window this time, you were sure she was up there– somewhere so high where if she was to let out rageful screams, she would be the only one to hear. Well– her, Syrax and perhaps a vulture or two. You and her had talked about it at length, while Viserys saw the possibility of a spare, all Rhaenyra saw was an heir, to overshadow her, to depose her before her father sold her hand in marriage to the highest bidder. A castle? Gold? Armies or perhaps a foreign political connection, casting her away. Just as Jaehaerys’s daughters suffered, so would she.

Your mother Daenereys was probably the most fortunate of the lot, along with her sister Alyssa. Both women married the men their hearts desired, Alyssa and Baelon producing the purest of Targaryen children and your mother bringing Dorne into the fold by marrying your father Allyrion Martell. You however bleed Martell through and through, unlike your brother that possessed purple eyes, the ravenous features of a true Dornish woman embraced you as you grew, full lips, sun kissed glow, a distinct head of loose curls, leaving but a few streaks of white, just like Princess Rhaenys.

That was besides the point that even with the macabre tradition of the Dornish and the contumacy of Targaryen traditions, you couldn’t fathom admitting that you indeed wanted Alicent’s child to be a boy, for that little child to be heir so you and Rhaenyra could fly east, just like you always dreamed of, marry and live in a quaint little hold with servants purchased from sold jewellery and a farm of your own. Yet once a prey tastes blood, it can only want for more, Rhaenyra’s purpose was this, to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, she found power within the title bestowed upon her and just as demanded flaunted his oddities with immunity so would she, you could do naught but follow her, obey her commands and prepare for the day that she would sit the Iron Throne– with a husband on her back instead of you.

You couldn’t give her heirs of her blood, no blood magic nor prayer could change that you too were born a girl, and the unnatural pairing of the two of you would lead to carnage.

“Princess?” the voice of Enorah standing by the doorway tore your attention, you looked at her, momentarily stunned– returning to the world of the living “The Princess Rhaenyra has demanded your presence in the Godswood.”

Demanded

Rhaenyra knew at the cusp at which she played at, your afternoons were Alicent’s by the King’s “suit,” you turn to Alicent apologetically.

“My Queen if I may…”

“Go on, I have my other ladies to keep me company, perhaps I might return to my chambers for some respite.”

You looked around the ladies scattered across the chamber floors before neatly putting away your embroidery ring, you stood, back straight and shrouded in formality. You bowed to your friend before taking your leave.

You knew how you find Rhaenyra in the Godswood, hair mussed— stinking of dragon on the rage of the fourteen flames in her eyes.

“Why must you be with her?”

Something so sacred but irreparable, such a bind of sisterhood never found again. Squandered yet again by what you knew to be the ugly politics of lords in their ivory towers. What irked you the most was the price paid was you— your companions barely old enough to bleed let alone be pawns to whatever bargains were being struck in the Great Halls of the Red Keep.

You remembered the fight they had so vividly, almost envisioning it as you entered the Godswood.

“Rhaenyra, slow down!” You huffed, hiking your skirts to chase behind her.

Viserys had just announced his proclaimation, you stood there. Among the choices he had, along with Laena. Alicent too was— oddly among the lot. It wasn’t a surety until he said her name.

You were sure Rhaenyra felt it harder than you did, right in your gut. A dagger wound, you should have seen this coming. She looked torn, regrettably so, but why? She would be Queen.

Thus you chased out Rhaenyra, down the stairs and to the Godswood where she wiped at her angry tears.

Dear gods

When the realization set it, your closest friend had lied to you, through her teeth. Under the disguise of consolement and wise words of religion and perhaps comfort. She hid her “affairs” with Viserys.

For her sake you wished that she would steer clear of Rhaenyra but such fate was beyond her for she too followed.

“You!” She whipped her head furiously towards Alicent.

“Why? I wept to you, afraid for my mother’s memory and you betrayed me!”

“Rhaenyra truly—“

“You do not speak! You do not breathe near me.”

“Ever again…”

[moonshine999]

Spill your post trailer Helaegon ideas with us please😩

hellooo, I will try my utmost best to articulate them.. sensibly

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as the teaser stands, the performances by Tom and Phia genuinely look phenomenal. It seems stealing the spotlight worthy, especially Phia. Since this is the first season we get to explore her character and also her last season because damn you writers, it looks like she’s really giving it her all and I’m genuinely so excited to see that. details? Love that they grew Aegon’s hair out, the Helaena shot of her looking up might be one most ethereal shots I’ve witnessed, the aegon strut was legit everything. things I am not much a fan of though is the costuming (for them, more so Aegon because we haven’t seen any Helaena dresses in full, at least officially). Because though I love the sunfyre embroidery on his outfit now, it literally looks no different from the coronation costume at first glance. Sure it is dark green instead of black but like cmon. Give aegon pretty costumes 😌. Also sad we didn’t see Sunfyre, Dreamfyre is understandable but come on, we see Syrax and not the most beautiful dragon in the world? Not the dragon who had the strongest dragon-rider bond in history with Aegon? Not the dragon who ends up killing Rhaenyra?? THE FUCK.

but I’ll stop complaining because the teaser is nice and these are just nitpicks about the definite bias. .

. Okay the next things I’m gonna cover are more so ideas for scenes rather than a breakdown or analysis cuz we literally got 2 shots of each of them 🥲

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🕯️Helaena’s visions

I did see quite a few posts saying/implying that we will dive more into Helaena’s visions this season. So I do think it would be interesting to understand that dynamic with her and Aegon when she has them. Like has he matured enough to understand that even though he can’t comprehend his wife, she needs his help OR he still thinks that she is acting idiotic as he did in s1. The leak that said something along the lines that Aegon will first be seen at the council, bored but then is called to attend to his queen could also tie into this. Maybe Helaena isn’t crouching over due to pain of pregnancy ,as some have speculated , but due to the suddenness or pain of one of her visions.

(also I have put a one shot surrounding this in the W.I.P folder along with the thousand others lying there so expect it in about 80 years 😃)

🕯️just them handling being king and queen

this is a pretty vague thing but literally just show them. Just show them getting along, sitting at councils, dragon riding, sleeping in the same room, all before b&c rips everything down. Even one scene of them together handling this can work, in fact just one scene of them being soft with each other would just go to show what it was like and what it could have been like had the war not happened. Just adding more tragedy to their story.

🕯️flashbacks

another pretty vague one. But as I said in this post , I really do think we should have seen them as kids, how they get along and especially their wedding. They could perhaps fit it in, in the episode of the funeral. Aegon or Hela looking back on that day, when things were arguably simpler and their only concerns were stopping Aegon from crying during sex. (IM SORRY, WE ALL KNOW IT HAPPENED)

okay more seriously though, them reminiscing on the past i.e. the day their union was first formed on the day it all broke apart. They as parents should be allowed to feel that grief, with each other and I genuinely hope we don’t get robbed of that. speaking of them as parents though…

🕯️the kids

it is actually so unsettling that half the fans didn’t even realise that they have kids until b&c started being talked about.

Again I beg, SHOW THEM. show them talking to Jaehaerys about becoming heir, how Aegon would go back to his memory of his mother doing the same to him (could also come under flashbacks). Show them trying to stop Maelor to stop crying, show them sitting with their kids at the feast, show them trying to manage their duties as well as their kids.

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but alas it’s just speculation, half of them just wishes. Let’s hope we get some glimpse of their dynamic is season 2 because my god helaegon nation is starving.

[lockpicnic]

something old, something new, something stolen, something blue

It's the dream of so many young women, and yet she can't help but believe she wants it more than anyone else.

Even at a young age her one true dream was to marry a wealthy man. Nobility preferred, but not required as long as he had the cash. She had a lot of mouths to feed after all, and the line of work the Yngvi siblings once found themselves in didn’t always cut it. Marriage was simply for convenience in her mind— something a cute girl could use to get her way. Rarely did she think about whether or not they’d really love each other.

But that didn’t stop her from dreaming of that fairytale wedding, being walked down the aisle by a father she never knew the face of with a wide grin on her face. The man waiting for her at the altar has no discernible features, and yet the way she looks at him is as if he was the only man in the world.

Every morning after that dream she could hardly remember the details, save for the image of a ribbon from her hair dancing in the wind.

———

Even as she fought during the war the idea of getting married never left her mind. A Prince like Shannan or Seliph would have done nicely (she would’ve considered the others too if they weren’t so…preoccupied with women of their own— she was a thief, but that didn’t make her a monster who would steal someone else’s man), but they never seemed to even glance in her direction unless she called for their attention first.

Yet the dreams of marriage persisted. This time her mother (at least, the mother she knew from the tales,) was brushing her hair, telling her just how proud she was of her. It was one of her favourite dreams at the time, always ending with her mother stepping away from the vanity to reveal a beautiful wedding dressed made just for her. It looked straight out of a fairytale!

Perhaps that was why it only belonged in her dreams.

———

Her arrival in Fódlan only made the thought of marriage grow more and more invasive, noble men from continents she’s never heard of finding themselves in the exact same halls as a girl like her. How could resist such a golden opportunity? It didn’t matter if her grades were poor— bagging a rich husband meant there was no need for any sort of formal education!

So when a travelling wedding boutique first arrived in town she knew she had to go and look at it for herself. Even if she didn’t have any suitors yet it was never too early to window shop! While all the dresses were gorgeous, the veils were what truly stood out to the thief. Never did she think they could come in so many different styles!

That night she dreamt of her brother. He teases her as always, but the teasing soon ends in kind words. He’s proud of her for settling down, and those words alone leave her in tears (and with wet cheeks once she woke up). Before she could react a veil is placed on her head, one with flowers adorning the crown, and he wishes her good luck with her new husband.

The next day she returns to the boutique before they close, stashing an exact veil inside of her bag. It’s fine— they probably wouldn’t miss it.

———

Rarely did Patty busy herself with gardening anymore. Out of all the little domestic hobbies she’s picked up it was by far her worst one, but something about the greenhouse felt more calming in the last few months. Blue and white flowers sprout from the earth, shining under the sun’s rays.

“They’d look cute in a vase— ooo, or maybe a bouquet!” She spoke to herself, imagining the arrangement she could make with the patches of flowers. For most brides it would probably be a little too plain…but the longer she stared at them, the more and more perfect her imaginary bouquet grew. “And maybe I could get one of the big blue ones on my dress to spice it up— give it a lil splash of colour!”

It had been awhile since she last thought of her dream wedding. She always thought her wedding would become more of a priority as she grew older…but it turned out that the older you got, the more things you had to worry about. That didn’t mean that she didn’t like to sit and day dream about it still, however.

She could especially envision just how it would look now: it would be held in Yngvi, the courtyard decorated to the nines! Of course the orphans would be there too, all cleaned up and ready to be her flower boys and girls! Febail would be there, just like how he was in her dream…though, maybe it would be him walking her down the aisle? Or would that job have to go to Uncle Andrei instead? It didn’t really matter in the end, so long as they were both attending.

“…Or maybe I’ll end up meetin’ some bad boy and eloping.” She couldn’t help but laugh at the idea. Now that would have Andrei cross…but it didn’t really matter how it happened, right? So long as she was someone’s blushing bride she would be happy!

The thief slowly rises from her spot, eyes trailing from the patches of flowers to where the Lady-of-Mourning once grew.

“It don’t matter how I get it or who I get it with…I know I’m gonna get my happily ever after soon!”

Patty has mastered Bride!

[thesolemnhour]

I was HOPING you'd end up doing this meme--👫 for Agria!!

Cassy!! These are so, so fun for her! This one was really neat to work on, so thank you so much for sending it in!!

I bent the rules a lil: Dalla's not a parent to her yet, but by god, it's the defining relationship of her life, and I will be damned if I don't write about it!

Dalla Faidmeir—soon to be Dalla Istul—has never been more anxious in her life. It has caught her entirely by surprise—she’s never been a nervous person, and she had hardly ever been nervous in the months leading up to this moment. Not after the proposal, not when she embroidered her wedding dress, and not last night when she had gone to sleep at her mother’s house.

But now—the whole of Clan Widowknife is here, and she feels like someone’s lost child. She finds no unease in her heart at the thought of marrying Brann—how could she ever—but she never quite realized before how marrying him mean… all of this. She should have known: such are the consequences of courting the Clanliege’s son.

Paralyzed by the onslaught of attention, Dalla escapes into an abandoned corridor and collapses onto the nearest bench. Dropping her face into her hands, she takes what should be a deep, steadying breath but finds the shuddering result to only be more unnerving. Rubbing at her eyes, she swallows thickly as she fights back tears.

“Hello!” Lifting her head, she registers a girl of perhaps five standing before her. “Are you Dalla Faidmeir?”

Instantly, she recognizes the girl as Agria Lebeda, her fiancé’s niece. If her hair and eyes hadn’t given her away, the Lebeda colors in her dress certainly would have. Smartly, they have styled her in primarily blue and white, avoiding red. Someone, she can tell, has fought valiantly to wrestle her hair into a set of braids twisted elegantly around her head, but Dalla spots more than a few auburn curls flying free. 

The knowledge that this girl—Stars! A Sarkorian Lebeda!—will be her niece in only a few short hours knocks the air from her lungs once more.

“Yes, I am,” Dalla answers, though her voice is fainter than she would like.

“That’s wonderful!” Agria trills. “I thought that you must be—you look ever so beautiful!”

“Thank you,” Dalla says, charmed even through her fear. “Is your mother, Lady Alase, here?”

“Oh, yes! But she’s with my uncle right now, and I wondered if there was anyone around to help you?”

“Me?”

Agria looks scandalized. Plopping down next to Dalla, she exclaims, “Yes, you! You’re the most important part! No one writes songs about the radiance of the groom! That would be silly.”

That’s where Agria is wrong, of course. Dalla’s role is merely to be ushered from one room to the next at the right intervals. “Have they been looking for me?”

Agria hums vaguely, swinging her feet from the bench. “Not yet, I don’t think. You should still have time.” 

Dalla sighs in exhaustion before she can stop herself.

“It is an awful lot of people, isn’t it?” Agria wonders as though realizing it for the first time. Her face contorts in thought, chewing her lip and staring intently at the far wall. At last, she looks back to Dalla with an impish smile. From a hidden pocket in her skirt, Agria produces a handful of sushki and holds them out to her. Saving one bread ring for herself, she explains, “Eating always makes me feel less nervous! These are my favorites.”

For a moment, the crushing weight on Dalla’s chest lifts, and she can’t hold back a peal of laughter. Accepting the snacks, she asks, “Did you steal these from the kitchens?”

“Steal? Heavens no! I’m a guest, so they’re for me. It’s perfectly allowed,” says Agria with a decisive nod.

“Ah,” Dalla replies, “I am corrected.”

Agria small hands grip her shoulders with a firmness she would never expected from a five-year-old. 

“You are a most splendid bride, and you have nothing to be afraid of,” she asserts. Her resolute expression giving way to a more childish cheer, she continues, “I am so very excited to have you for an aunt!”

For the first time today, Dalla’s face relaxes into a true smile. Squeezing the girl’s hands, she says sincerely, “Thank you, Agria.”

“Of course!” Agria says brightly. “We can go back now if you’re ready—or you can stay here! I won’t tell anyone.”

Taking Agria’s hand as she stands, Dalla answers, “I believe we should find the rest of the procession now.”

“Okay!” Agria agrees, leading the way. “My Uncle Brann is nervous, too, I think. It’s sweet!”

“Do you think so?”

“Oh, yes. At least you’re not sweating.” She says gravely.

With another full-bodied laugh, Dalla remarks, “Ah! We may be late, but at least we won’t smell.”

“Precisely my thought, Aunt Dalla!”

And perhaps being just that won’t be so frightening after all.

[ophelia-jones]

May

8, 1880

Isadora was dirty and exhausted from her travels and her heart was laden with a steely grief which people told her time would ease. She knew, though, that these were empty words meant to ease the pain of the early days of loss.  The grief would not go away, rather it would become a burden she was accustomed to carrying. 

Eight months earlier she had returned to El Paso with her beloved Madre' who wanted to die in the town where she was born and be buried beside her parents.  Her father was a surgeon barber and though he wanted to accompany Maria, he had not dared lose his livelihood to make the journey.

Though the idea of Isadora traveling alone terrified him, he had put his faith in God and allowed her to undertake the task of seeing her mother home.

At least she did not need to cross the border, Hank had said, much to Maria's chagrin. El Paso had been a Mexican city when she was a girl, though it had eventually seceded to Texas but Maria's heart had always been with Mexico.

Isadora had been born in Texas after her parents were wed, and they had moved around the southwestern territories most of her youth.  They had finally found a home in New Hope Wyoming when she was a girl of 11. It was the first place she had felt accepted as she was, and not shunned by the Hispanic people for being half-white or called cruel names by whites for the same. She understood how Madre' felt about El Paso because it was the way she felt about New Hope. It was her home . 

At least the majority of the travel had been able to be accomplished by train, the Union Pacific railway had made possible the sort of journey that had once been in a lifetime for many people more accessible. 

Now, however, the train had taken her as far as it could and she would need a stagecoach to complete her trek. She sighed with relief as she settled into the covered carriage, despite knowing it would be a far from comfortable ride home. The carriage shook as the driver loaded her luggage into the boot and strapped it down. 

An immaculately dressed, well-groomed young man with ash brown hair and soulful grey eyes boarded first, offering Isadora a polite but proper nod and smile of greeting. Outside the carriage, there was a commotion between the coach driver and a woman, presumably another passenger for the trip to New Hope.

Soon a woman with flaming red curls climbed into the coach with a dramatic sigh. She wore a suede riding skirt with no bustle and an almost scandalously high hemline that fell just below the knees, and a white linen blouse long duster made of the same buckskin suede as the skirt. She also had a prominent holster on each hip containing a Lemat revolver in each. As soon as the doors were closed the woman began loosening the buttons on the neck of her blouse and fanning herself. 

Isadora averted her eyes at the woman's lack of modesty and tried to focus on the landscape passing outside her window.

"Mary Kate, your immodesty is disconcerting to proper ladies, we've discussed this a great many times," the young man scolded his companion.

"Oh for feck's sake, Aaron just because yer an old niminy-piminy doesn't mean everyone else is. I've got nothing she hasn't seen afore!" the woman declared with a thick Irish accent.

"Allow me to apologize, madam. My cousin has never been one for proper etiquette I'm afraid. I hope it doesn't trouble you too greatly," the young man said. He was soft-spoken and seemed sincerely kind to Isadora and she smiled at him in response.

"It doesn't trouble me, it's one of the better things about being home. Expectations are relaxed when it comes to manners," she said, stealing a glance at the fiery-haired woman. The gentleman's accent said east coast - Philidelphia, perhaps. The pair could not have been more unlike. 

"Aaron Murphy, Ma'am. This is my unruly cousin, Mary Kathleen Byrne," he introduced himself politely and Isadora turned to stare at the woman, her jaw dropping at the name as she put two and two together. 

"Wildfire Kate, the gambler?" She asked, and Kate's blue eyes lit up.

"See, Aaron, she's not such an old sage hen. She reads the papers." Kate nudged her cousin.  Aaron pressed his lips together in distaste; he was not a fan of pulp fiction. 

"Did you really beat Doc Holiday in a shootout?" Isadora asked, the corner of her mouth twitching up in excitement.

"Ach, no. I could, t'be sure, but I've yet to meet the man. He's avoiding me, I say," she said playfully, her steel blue eyes dancing.  Isadora could not help but return her smile, the woman's effervescent personality hard to resist.

"What brings you up to New Hope?" Isadora asked the pair, genuinely curious. New Hope wasn't a particularly large place and not a tourist destination by any means.

"I hear there's a man up that way making a name for himself, has done so well at the tables he went and started buying property up this way, I wanted to test his mettle, if ye will," She replied.

"Are you talking about Negan Smith?" Isadora groaned. The man was a menace. 

"That's the man himself! D'ya know him, then?" Kate asked.

"I do. He was a cowhand that drifted from ranch to ranch when he was younger, did an apprenticeship as a blacksmith, then he tried his hand at mining for gold up in the mountains. He did well with that, and that's when he started gambling. He did even better at that, I suppose. Now he owns a ranch not far from New Hope with more cattle than anyone in the county but Herschel Green. He also owns the dance hall in town, and a lot of folks think he's aiming to run for Mayor next." Isadora informed her.

"A real Jack-of-all-trades, eh? How is he with a pistol?" Kate wanted to know.  Isadora scoffed.

"He considers himself the best there is, from what I understand. He has a Colt Peacemaker he calls 'Lucille' that he terrorizes people with." 

"Sounds like just the sorta fella what needs to be brought down a peg or two. Sounds like fun, time!" Kate winked at Isadora. 

Suddenly, the stagecoach lurched forward, they could hear the reinsman cracking his whip and trying to drive the horses harder. The shotgun guard was calling out, but they could not understand his words amidst the clatter and bang of the carriage as it bounced dangerously fast over rocks and holes. The wheels were term long on their axles and it seemed a sure thing that at least one would soon break or come off.  Then they heard the boom of the guard's shotgun.

"Is it Indians, do you think?" Aaron asked, his eyes nervous. 

"More likely road agents. Relations with the tribes that once resided here are mostly peaceful these days. The Indian wars were awful but things have been quiet since," Isadora said, shocking even herself with her ability to remain collected.

"Highwaymen?" Kate said, arching a ginger eyebrow. "Well they're in for a surprise," she drew both pistols and checked that they were fully loaded. There was another shot, and another, followed by a horrible thump as the shotgun guard fell from his post. 

The driver reined the horses in and they came to an abrupt stop, Isadora thrown forward on top of Kate. She had no time to right herself before the doors were yanked open on each side and two men with bandanas tied around their lower faces pointed pistols at them.

"Hands up! I don't wanna see none o' you reaching for NOTHING, ya hear me? You breathe the wrong way and it'll be the last breath you ever take!" the taller of the two men yelled at them. He was thin and had the darkest, most dangerous blue eyes Isadora had ever seen. She believed the man would follow through with his threats. 

As Isadora managed to sit upright in her seat once more, she caught a glimpse of Kate looking very frustrated with the fact that she had accidentally prevented her from drawing her weapons. Isadora couldn't think about it at the moment, her mind was on trying not to panic.

"Well, what have we here?" The highwayman announced, sounding more than a little pleased at the sight of the pistols. Kate cursed at the man but cooperated as he removed the pistols from their holsters and handed over a was of bills she'd had secured in her boot. While he busied himself with taking everything of value Kate had in her, the other man focused on Aaron and Isadora.

"Hand over your money and your jewelry, any weapons, too," he demanded, his voice a low growl. This man, still taller than average despite being slightly shorter than the other, had the broadest shoulders Isadora had ever seen.  He wore a brown leather hat with a broad brim and shaggy brown hair that covered nearly every bit of his face which wasn't hidden by the bandana. As she slipped the rings off her fingers and untied the purse from her wrist, she caught sight of his silver blue eyes and hesitated. She was struck with the thought that this man was just as frightened as she was. Just as trapped. 

"And the necklace," he said, gesturing to the gold chain around her neck with his gun.

"Oh, no, please sir, this is all I have left of mi madre, my mother. Anything else, but this is a reliquia de familia!" she was ashamed at how quickly the tears sprang to her eyes. She knew it was foolish to beg a robber, it was only delaying the inevitable and might well agitate him enough to get her killed. But there was something about this man, a kindness in his eyes…

"Don't fall for that boohooing bullshit!" the first man yelled across the coach as the long-haired man hesitated. 

"We got what we need, let's go!" the kind-eyed man retorted.

"What the hell is the matter with you?" the other robber demanded. He looked Isadora up and down for a moment, then reached out and rubbed a lock of her long black hair between his fingers.  "Although, she is a prize in and of herself, ain't she? Maybe you should come along with us, sugar. Then you don't need to part with your 'reliquia'." 

Isadora's chest tightened, her heart beating so quickly that she began to tremble. She couldn't even find the strength to speak.  Suddenly, a strong hand reached out and grabbed the locket firmly, and with a sharp tug the chain broke and the hesitant man snatched it away from her.

"You happy? Let's GO!" he yelled at the other man before turning to mount his horse. The leader of the highwaymen, she could see now that there were at least two other riders on horseback keeping watch over their brethren as they robbed the passengers, kept his eyes on Isadora for a long silent moment. When he finally turned and mounted his horse she finally breathed out - and began to sob.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph I coulda stopped 'em if I'd had half a chance to get me guns!" Kate exclaimed angrily. "I fecking hate being outdrawn!"

Aaron opened the door and stepped out quietly.

"And where are you off to?" Kate asked him, sounding annoyed.

"I'm going to see if there is anything I can do for the guard or the driver," he explained calmly.  He was the only one of the three who had kept his head during it all. His concern for the others brought both women out of their selfish reveries.

Isadora hurried from the coach to discover that the driver was uninjured but had been robbed, bound, and gagged in case he had any thoughts of giving chase. The shotgun guard, however, was on the ground with a broken arm and a shotgun wound to his chest. 

"He's still breathing, help me get him into the carriage!" Isadora said, the years of helping her father take over her thoughts. She moved with purpose as the four of them lifted the injured man into the coach. Kate sat up with the driver, taking the shotgun position even though the bandits had taken the shotgun. Aaron sat beside Isadora and they tried to keep the man as comfortable as possible for the rest of the bumpy journey.

"Thank the Lord they didn't steal the horses," Aaron murmured at one point.

"They knew what they could get away with," Isadora replied, "they'd be shot or hanged for stealing horses."

"Right. Of course," Aaron replied. He had only been west of Pennsylvania for a few months and still wasn't entirely familiar with the ways of the wild west.

When they arrived in the town the stagecoach pulled up to the station and Kate disembarked hurriedly, opening the door for the others.

"Aaron, would you go down the street and find my father? He's the barber-surgeon, his shop is just down there on the left!" Isadora asked her new acquaintance, then turned to Kate "And Kate, go to the jail and get the Sheriff." She herself was still applying pressure to the worst of the man's wounds to stem the bleeding.

********************************* 

Sheriff Rick Grimes was reading over a telegraph for the third time, trying to make sense of the why and how of the message. He had been doing everything within reason to catch the highwaymen who had been robbing the good people of this county for the past few months, and he was confident that he would catch the men in time. So why had Mayor Gregory sent for help from the Pinkerton Agency in Chicago? 

He was more than irritated at the man overstepping his place.  Rick was the Sheriff of the county, and Gregory was responsible only for what happened within the town limits. He was about to call into the man's home to demand some answers when a woman with wild red curly hair burst in.

"What the hell?" Shane cried out, standing up quickly from behind the desk where he had been nearly dozing. Shane was Rick's Deputy, and though other men were also deputies, Shane was the only one who was paid for his work. The others all made their living in other ways but could be called on when there was a need. 

"The stagecoach has been robbed, and a man has been shot, in case you were interested," she announced, her Irish lilt sassy and judgemental to Rick's ears.

He and Shane both hurried to follow the woman, arriving at the stagecoach at the same time as Beau Landry, the local barber-surgeon. Before long, they had the man carried into the jail and placed him on the cot so he could be treated for his injuries. 

Once they had done all there was to do, and Kate, Aaron, and the driver had filled the officers in on everything they could recall about the robbery, Rick watched through the doorway as the woman with the black hair and dark eyes washed the blood from the injured man's face and reassured him.  Her father had gone to the chemist for some laudanum to ease the man's pain and help him to rest.

"Miss Landry?" Rick said from the doorway. "How are you? Were you injured?" 

Isadora sighed and stood to face the sheriff. Her hair had come down from where it had been pinned up neatly on the back of her head when the day had begun. Her black mourning dress was dirty from kneeling on the ground to aid the man and stained with his blood. Her deep brown eyes were weary and filled with sorrow, and Rick's heart ached for her. He felt as if he had failed her by not stopping these robberies sooner. 

She was a striking beauty, even disheveled as she was, and there was a strength in her dark eyes he had rarely seen in most men, let alone a young woman. He found himself staring and yet despite knowing it was bad manners, couldn't quite tear his eyes away.

"I'm uninjured, Sheriff Grimes, gracias. Only tired." she smiled weakly.

"Do you think you can tell me about the men? Anything you noticed, anything at all no matter how small." 

"There were four of them. They were covered from head to toe, except for their eyes. I'm not sure I saw anything that would help," she replied, thinking of those blue eyes. She didn't know why, but she couldn't bring herself to mention them.

"I'll find them, they will pay for doing this to you," he told her earnestly. 

"Where are you from, Sheriff Grimes?" Isadora asked, noting his accent.  There was something about his presence, the way he stood, perhaps, that she found reassuring. A quiet strength in his eyes.

"Georgia, originally," he replied with a slight smile. "Before the war."

"You were a soldier," she said, as if this answered some question she had been asking herself.

"A sergeant with the 1st Battalion of Georgia Infantry," he replied, looking shyly at the floor. 

"You fought for the union?" she remarked, clearly surprised. "No wonder you left Georgia."Rick chuckled slightly, nodding slightly and looking up at her with his head still slightly bowed.

"That, and there was nothing left there for me. While I was fighting, my wife died in childbirth," he informed her.

"I'm sorry," Isadora told Rick sincerely.

"I'm sorry to leave you waiting so long, Izzy, but I'm back with the laudanum. Why don't you go home now and freshen yourself up? You must be exhausted," Beau told his daughter as he returned to the jail.

"Si, Papi. Thank you," she kissed the man on his cheek and moved for the door. 

"I'll walk you home," Rick offered, and Isadora was too weary to refuse.

[animeomegas]

Omega!Itachi Getting Married

Anon:  Helllooo!!! I was wonderin if u could write for omega itachi getting married. I'd really appreciate it :)

(Hello! Hello! This is the oldest request in my inbox, so I hope this ends up being worth the wait! Enjoy~ <3)

Warning: implied sexual activity

General headcanons - Non-massacre AU:

Itachi has always known that he would get married someday.

After all, it was his duty as clan heir.

But he never expected to actually love his mate. He was required to angle for a politically/socially advantageous match and he had made his peace with that.

If he had to marry someone to keep peace between clans, he would. If he had to marry someone his parents chose for him to keep conflict in the family down, he would.

Itachi’s fatal flaw is that he doesn’t see his comfort/happiness as important.

And while he looked forward to his future children, his future spouse was a neutral event. It would happen, whether he wanted it to or not, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Best case scenario, he might have a new friend, or at least someone he respects, to live with him.

Worst case scenario, he ends up in a horrible marriage. He tried not to think too much about this option.

He never expected there to be any love between him and his future spouse.

Until he met you.

He found a person who actually loved him. An alpha who was as dedicated to a future family as he was. A partner who respected him more than he had ever hoped.

And Itachi fell hard and fast.

So, when you proposed, he felt like everything he had never dared to hope for was coming true.

You went to get his parents’ permission first (and the permission of the clan by proxy) and did the proposal in front of them. It wasn’t ideal, you knew Itachi would be happier with a private proposal, but you also knew that Itachi wouldn’t believe that he had their approval unless he saw it first-hand.

Itachi and his family are very traditional, so you weren’t mated before you got married, instead, you mated on your wedding night.

Itachi is very happy to let his family dictate the wedding. He doesn’t care as long as he’s married to you at the end of the day.

(But he does have preferences that you can extract from him, but getting Itachi’s true opinion, can be like pulling teeth.)

Proposal:

You had known Itachi since you were both 18, two years now. You had been courting him officially for a year and a half before you proposed.

As I mentioned, you proposed in front of Itachi’s parents, to make sure that he knew that you had gained their approval.

Sasuke was also there, after years of bribery, finally accepting of you and Itachi’s relationship. You met Sasuke when he had just graduated from the academy, and he was not impressed by this new person stealing his brother from him when he wanted Itachi to train him ☹

For Itachi, it was a normal family dinner.

He definitely noticed that you were behaving nervously, but he knew his family could be stiff, overly traditional and a little intimidating, so he figured that was the cause of your discomfort.

Sasuke was also staring at you suspiciously the whole evening, but to be honest, sometimes Sasuke was just like that, so Itachi thought nothing of it.

You kept a hand on his knee for the entire meal, only letting go of him when you announced that you had brought dessert for everyone and would be happy to serve it.

Itachi smiled his gorgeous smile at you, so pleased to see you making an effort with his family (or perhaps he was smiling about the desert, Itachi’s sweet tooth is legendary after all. It was difficult to tell.)

Nervously clenching your hands, you walked over to the fridge, pulling out the plate of dango you had hidden in there earlier. It was Itachi’s favourite, and if there was anything to convince him to say yes to your proposal, it was a demonstration of how much dango you were willing to buy for him.

‘Don’t mess this up,’ you said to yourself, gingerly sliding the plate of dango out of the fridge. It was an elaborate platter that had cost far too much. There were seven different dango flavours with an assortment of dips and dressings, arranged artfully with fruit and dried flowers to decorate the plate.

You walked to back to the table and presented the plate with a dramatic flourish to hide your nerves.

Itachi’s face lit up. Despite your nerves, his obvious excitement put a smile on your face. He really was perfect.

And that’s why you can’t mess this up.

“There’s anko, green tea, sesame,” you pointed at each flavour as you listed them. “Hanami and…er… some other ones…?”

Sasuke scoffed at your embarrassing failure to recall the flavours, causing a red flush to creep up your neck. You didn’t even know that there was this many dango flavours before yesterday! Thankfully, he didn’t say anything, perhaps due to the sharp look Itachi had shot at him.

“I made sure to get enough for everyone, but there’s something I’d like to ask for in return.”

You could see Itachi trying to catch your eye, probably to ask what an earth you were doing, but you purposefully avoided looking in his direction.

“The only thing I ask,” you continued, nervously. “Is for a minute of your time before we eat dessert.”

Mikoto smiled at you and nodded for you to go ahead with a gentle wave of her hand. Sasuke simply raised an eyebrow at you but didn’t interrupt.

“Great,” you laughed nervously. “Um, so, er, Itachi.”

Itachi straightened under your sudden attention. He looked immensely uncomfortable and confused, he was probably panicking about you doing something in front of his family that you would regret. He always played liaison between you and his family to avoid conflict and was probably not comfortable with you doing this. Unfortunately, he would never believe that you had his parents’ approval if you didn’t propose in front of them.

“I’ve known you for two years now, Itachi,” you started, finally looking at Itachi in the eye. “And it sounds horribly cheesy, but I think that I fall in love with you more every day.”

A barely audible gasp left Itachi. He was a genius, after all, he had probably figured out where this was going. He looked torn between panicked and elated, seeming to settle somewhere around shell-shocked.

“I’ve come to realise recently that, a life without that love, without your love, isn’t a life that I want.”

You can just about see tears gathering in Itachi’s waterline. It doesn’t look like he’s breathing at all.

With one final rush of bravery, you pulled out the diamond ring that had been weighing down your pocket for months and knelt down onto the dining room floor.

“Will you marry me?”

Itachi’s head whips around to face his parents, most likely preparing some serious damage control. But when he sees his mother’s gentle smile and his father’s subtle nod, he slowly moves his gaze back to you. You’ve never seen him look so shocked before. It was almost amusing enough to distract you from your nerves. Almost.

“I-,” Itachi swallowed hard. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Just say what you want to say, Itachi,” his mother replies, trying to encourage him.

His mother’s words seemed to break him out of his stupor and Itachi breathes out a single word.

“Yes.”

You let out a delighted and relieved laugh, taking Itachi’s hand in yours and slipping the ring onto his finger, and even though his family were all watching you, you couldn’t help but pull him into an embrace.

“I love you so much,” you whispered to him. “I’ll read you my real proposal speech this evening.”

Itachi laughed into your shoulder. His laughter had a hysteric edge to it, his mind still clearly reeling at what you had just done.  

“Real speech?”

“You didn’t think I was going read my real proposal out in front of your parents, did you? No way. They still think we’re virgins and I didn’t want to spoil that illusion for them.”

Itachi quickly and efficiently jabbed you in the stomach and hit you with his infamous glare.

“Okay, I deserved that,” you winced, gingerly rubbing the sore spot.

Finally, you pulled away and moved to dish out the dango. And if Itachi got the biggest portion, well, no one mentioned it.

   Planning:

Itachi lets his clan take over the planning.

He doesn’t want to deal with the stress of having to combat his family at every turn and would much rather just let them do it. As long as you’re there with him, nothing else really matters.

But even when his clan leave the smaller decisions up to him, he’s hesitant to voice his opinions, wanting his alpha to make them as an apology for his family commandeering everything.

But if you pay attention to little signs and reactions that Itachi gives, you can figure out some of his wants and desires.

Overall, there isn’t much to say about the wedding planning, because Itachi doesn’t do much of it.

Things he wants (compromise available/no compromise allowed):

Sasuke as his groomsman and Shisui as his best man – Itachi doesn’t have many close friends or relatives. He has you, Sasuke, Shisui… er, he’d probably invite his old captain Kakashi and… well, you get the point. So, every person who is important to him needs to be by his side at his wedding, and who is more important than his best friend and little brother.

A traditional wedding – He isn’t actually that bothered by what type of wedding he has, but he knows his family and clan will insist on a traditional celebration and as I mentioned, he doesn’t want to fight. The elders will push the wedding to be held in the clan compound and Itachi would be told to wear a traditional Uchiha wedding garment.

A sweets cart – This is something that he won’t bring up, and therefore isn’t bolded, but it’s very easy to see his face light up when he sees this in a wedding catalogue. It’s a wooden cart with different jars of sweets with little scoops for people to help themselves to. Itachi loves sweet food, obviously, but he also thinks it would be something the children in the clan would adore. He kind of really wants one, but he won’t bring it up unless someone else does first.

An early wedding – He won’t fight you or his family about this, but ideally, he would like to get married in the morning, maybe around 8 or 9 AM. Itachi is definitely an early bird who prefers the ambience of the early morning which is part of the reason, but mainly he just wants the performative part of the wedding over and done with so he can start his honeymoon. He doesn’t find it appealing to spend all night pretending to tolerate the elders of his clan who will almost certainly spend their time berating him for his choice of partner and then telling him he needs to have as many children as possible because he’s a powerful ninja that will produce powerful children. He just doesn’t want to deal with it. Leaving at 6 PM with you to go on your honeymoon and finally, finally mate? That sounds much more fun.

To try and conceive on his honeymoon – Obviously, he’s not going to force anything if you aren’t ready, but he would really love to start trying to conceive straight away. He’s desperate to have his own children, firstly, but also, he knows this is his only ticket to retiring from being a ninja. He wants to retire so badly, and so if you’re both ready for children, he doesn’t want to wait.

 The wedding:

You don’t see Itachi for a day before the wedding, as is tradition. You see him for the first time that weekend when he’s walking down the hall towards you.

And as Fugaku walks Itachi down the aisle, you are completely breathless.

He looks stunning.

His hair had been intricately platted with flowers, some lose strands of hair left to frame his face.

He’s wearing a deep red, formal kimono just as you expected, but it looked so much more beautiful than you had imagined.

He looked like royalty.

The whole ceremony flew by, and before you knew it, it was time for you and Itachi to say goodbye and leave for your honeymoon.

Your honeymoon was to be had at a cabin held deep in the woods on the Uchiha compound. The rule was that married couples could not be disturbed for anything other than a life-or-death emergency, so you would be completely alone.

It might have been nice to go abroad, but the Uchiha clan didn’t want Itachi to be distracted by his honeymoon outside of Konoha where he might be attacked and his eyes stolen.

You both had already been by to drop off everything you would need for the week, including clothes, food, games and toiletries.

So, now, all that was left was for you two to get there yourself.

You and Itachi had decided to amble your way to the cabin, taking your time to enjoy each other’s company after a day of socialising with everyone but each other. Not to mention that neither of your outfits were particularly well designed for gallivanting through the forest. It would be rather embarrassing to have to end your self-imposed isolation to go to the hospital on day one, so walking slowly was probably a good idea.

You had been walking for about thirty minutes so the cabin should be… There! You were there!

“Wait!” you shot out a hand to stop Itachi from entering, startling him slightly. “Don’t go in yet.”

Itachi furrowed his brows, absently blowing a stray hair from his face that must have fallen down during the walk.

“I… want to carry you inside,” you admitted bashfully.

Itachi chuckled but stepped closer to let you do it. You beamed at him, pressing a kiss against his lips as a thank you. He looked a lot more tired than this morning; his hair was falling out of its elaborate placement and the makeup you were sure he was coerced into using was a little smudged.

He really was the most beautiful person you had ever met.

With his permission now gained, you placed an arm around his shoulders and another arm behind his knees, before gently lifting him off the ground. You nuzzled Itachi’s neck, enjoying his content scent and the way he sighed happily at your attention.

With your husband firmly in your grasp, you nudged open the front door with your foot and stepped safely over the threshold. You carried Itachi all the way to the bedroom and placed him down gently on the bed.

Itachi leant up to steal a kiss.

“Bringing me straight to the bedroom, you are incorrigible,” he teased, kicking off his shoes and making himself comfortable on the bed.

“I-I wasn’t, I didn’t mean that!” you sputtered, flushing under Itachi’s laughter. Silence fell over the room for a moment as the exhaustion from the day swept over you both.

“Would you mind helping me out of this kimono, please? I think it’s time for something a little more comfortable.”

It took a solid ten minutes to get Itachi out of his clothes and into some pyjamas. Ten minutes and a lot of swear words as every layer seemed to be hiding another one underneath.

“This wasn’t how I imagined undressing you on our wedding night, that felt a lot like pass the parcel but somehow more stressful.”

“Oh?” Itachi questioned, pulling you to sit down on the bed with him, finally free from the constraints of his wedding attire. “How did you imagine it?”

Rather than answer with words, you pressed wet kisses over Itachi’s neck, smirking against his skin as you felt his hand come up to grasp at your hair and a gentle moan escape from his lips.

This was definitely going to be the best part of the celebrations.

[extremelyblackandwhite]

more of yn and johnny?

pairing: steve kemp x dark!reader

warnings: 18+ topics (under 18 year olds do NOT interact/reader), mentions of miscarriage

a/n: based on a scene from love life

part of toxic

    - Absolutely not! - Steve followed his heavily pregnant wife as she assembled the belongings of her bag. 

    - Didn’t ask for your permission. - she rolled her eyes.

It appeared the wicked witch of the west, or his mother-in-law as he called her, had finally remembered she had a second child and invited her for an outing. Of course, her mother had a second intention, she’d invited her for an outing to a mattress store. It appeared perfect young son Johnny had finally decided to settle down in a New York flat fully paid by his parents in a neighbourhood posh enough to even make Steve roll his eyes. He’d know, after all most of his clients lived there. 

He hated the idea of being a controlling husband, his wife as as free to do what she wanted as he was; however, she was 7 months pregnant, waddling everywhere and her doctor had told her to avoid stress, something which with the woman she had for a mother surely wouldn’t be easy. Not only that, Steve didn’t want her walking around a department store of mattresses while 7 months pregnant.

    - Y/N, I will steal your car keys. 

    - Please, you’re terrible at hiding things.

    - I won’t help you put your shoes on. - he crossed his arms. 

    - Either you want it or not, Steve, I will be spending time with my mother and brother. 

    - Then I am going. 

There was no complaining by Y/N, she didn’t have time to as Steve could run faster than her and at this point felt more comfortable driving than her. As such, he joined her for what to be the most stupid of meetings. The moment they arrived, she was much more interested in Johnny’s new place than her pregnant daughter giving her the second grandchild. Even his own mother had been more kind. Meanwhile as her mother did was comment that she looked chubby. 

Y/N followed behind both her and Johnny, holding Steve’s hand mostly for support but also because she felt odd. She’d agreed to this yet she barely know how she felt so weird. Johnny and her mother moved along looking at various mattresses as she sat down on the first one nearby. Steve sat next to her as she rubbed the sweat off her neck. She looked to the side, a blur of mattresses until she felt tears run down her face.

   - My love ... - he attempted to hold her hand but she refused.

   - Oh god, Y/N, what now? - her mother walked closer along with Johnny. - If you were this hormonal, you shouldn’t have come. 

   - What’s wrong, Y/N? - Johnny ignored their mother.

   - No one bought me a mattress. - she rubbed the tears under her eyes. - I had to haul an uncomfortable 45 dollar IKEA mattress in a ferry because I couldn’t afford to have it shipped.

   - You can have my mattress, sis. 

   - And you and dad didn’t even help me pay the deposit of my rent flat. - she looked at her mother. - I would’ve loved if you had come with me to pick a mattress or my wedding dress.

   - God, Y/N, pull yourself together. Being pregnant is not an excuse for your hysterics. 

Y/N put her hand over Steve, stopping him from getting up while her mother returned to her path. Johnny gave her a sympathetic look before following their mother, leaving Y/N to think if she was being hysterical. Perhaps she was, after all she was pregnant and yesterday had cried at a cereal commercial. 

   - I’ll buy you a mattress. - Steve kissed her shoulder. - I’ll buy this baby a mattress when she’s out of the house, we’ll hault it together on a ferry. We’ll even buy Daisy a mattress.

   - This is silly. - she shook her head. - It’s so fucking silly.

   - Do you like this mattress? - he laid down on the bed. 

   - Steve, we have a mattress. 

   - We’ll get one for the cabin. You always say the mattress there is uncomfortable. 

   - It is uncomfortable. - she pouted. - We’ll buy the baby a mattress. She won’t need to ask, right?

   - Rose ... - he put his hand over her belly. - Rose will have to wish for nothing at all.

[whoserandomnessisitanyway]

Sigh... For the last time, ADRIEN IS NOT A SENTIMONSTER!

Ok, this is driving me crazy. Adrien is NOT a sentimonster!! I’m kind of frustrated by every one insisting that Risk proved it. I’ve seen a few people who did great breakdowns about why Adrien is not a sentimonster prior to Risk and I don’t want to copy them, so instead I want to focus on some of my observations...

I don’t follow Astruc online, I don’t always want sneak previews and whatnot, but I’ve heard he’s a notorious troll. That said, a lot of people in the “Adrien is a sentimonster” camp are saying that Astruc has said a sentimonster can look and grow just like a normal human hence explaining why Chloe has childhood memories of him. My theory is that Astruc is the ultimate troll. He knew just how to make the “Adrien is a sentimonster” fandom go crazy, meanwhile doing everything in such a way that that is not definitive, nor is it the only possible interpretation. Why? To stir up controversy and get more views. After all, there’s no such thing as bad publicity.

So, what is this alternate interpretation I’m speaking of? Let’s rewind a little bit--

Adrien’s mother Emilie starred in that movie called Isolation. The logo for Graham films, which now seems to be an apparent reference to her maiden name, Graham de Vanily, and the logo is 2 rings (or an infinity symbol depending on how you look at it). The 2 rings logo, just like the twin rings of the Graham de Vanily.... Hmm.... Put a pin in that for later!

 Ok, moving onto Risk. Now, everyone is frothing at the mouth because Gabriel went to touch his ring when Felix (dressed as Adrien) defied him and then Felix began to “obey him” as soon as Natalie adjusted her glasses with the hand she had the ring on. This is being taken as proof that the ring controls Felix and Adrien in some way.

Deep breath. You ready?

Felix isn’t being controlled by the ring. Felix is smart enough to recognize that Gabriel (now Natalie) still have one of the real rings. From her adjusting her glasses, Felix obviously notices that Natalie has the ring and decides to continue to pretend being Adrien in order to seize the chance to steal the ring back. That’s why he doesn’t stand up to Gabriel. Because Adrien can get close to Natalie and earn her trust (just look at how easily he swiped her tablet from her suitcase), but Felix can’t, not as himself, anyway. He’s already made it clear how smart he is and how badly he wants to possess both rings. More on why he wants the rings later...

Ok, you ask, then why does Gabriel spin the ring and seemingly control Adrien all the time? Easy. He isn’t controlling Adrien. We know Gabriel is a controlling person but also that he deeply loves and misses his wife. These rings are their wedding rings. It reminds him of her, and so spinning the ring is an agitated  fidgeting gesture. We see how shocked Gabriel is that Adrien is standing up to him. He’s spinning the ring because he’s nervous and perhaps because subconsciously, he realizes that the expression on “Adrien’s” face reminds him of someone... Someone being Felix. Felix, who’s tried to steal the exact ring that Gabriel always wears on his finger. Spinning the ring is both a sign of his agitation, and, subconsciously, he’s checking that he still has it since he temporarily forgot he gave it to Natalie. That, or perhaps there’s something in that expression that reminds him of Emilie.

So why does Adrien always seem to obey Gabriel when he spins the ring? Again, easy. By this point in his life, it’s obvious that Adrien has been emotionally abused/ neglected by his father for at least the last year since his mother disappeared, if not longer. This gesture possibly intimidates Adrien or triggers him to feel guilty for going against his father, especially since the ring reminds him of his lost mother. Plus, let’s not forget, he desperately wants his father’s approval. He said so himself, his childhood dream was to be what his parents wanted him to be! What does Gabriel want? An obedient, perfect son! And you can’t be the perfect son if you disappoint or anger your father by standing up to him or defying him.

Ok, so what’s with these rings?? Why does Felix want them? Surely, Felix isn’t a very sentimental person. What’s so special about the rings that he wants them so bad? I think the rings are a hidden miraculous, just like Alix’s pocket watch,  they are both family heirlooms, after all. And Amelie mentions that the family has a long line of twins. I think Felix wants the miraculous either because he wants the power of the miraculous for himself, or he wants them because his mother wants both of the rings back again.

Back to the miraculous again. We know from Master Fu that using more than one miraculous at a time is dangerous and no one but Marinette has been able to handle that for a prolonged period of time (with the current exception of Gabriel). Master Fu said a previous holder went crazy... We know that Duusu acts pretty erratic. Coincidence? Maybe. But we also know that Emilie is the former user of the broken Peacock miraculous... What am I getting at? Emilie used both the Graham de Vanily twin rings in their miraculous form at the same time as the Peacock miraculous, and this is what eventually led to breaking the Peacock miraculous and Emilie’s coma.

To reiterate points from toujoursmiraculous‘s post as to out-of-show reasons it doesn’t make sense:

Would you really be happy if Adrien was a sentimonster? That would mean that the boy that Marinette loves is a construct and “not real”. Would that really make you happy? Wouldn’t that be depressing? Wouldn’t that be too dark for a kid’s show? I certainly think so.

Please see toujoursmiraculous‘s  post for in-show reasons it doesn’t make sense for Adrien to be a sentimonster.

I’m not trying to insult anyone, but I’m really not for the sentimonster theory and I highly doubt that’s the direction the show is going. I think Astruc is just messing with us. After all, like he said in a post, people will twist what he’s saying to suite their theories, and so far, I have not seen anyone talking about Risk that was not saying that it confirms “Adrien is a sentimonster”.

Anyway, that’s my reasoning, and I’m sticking to it. If I do manage to get any comments, please be respectful to me and everyone else in the comments! <3 We’re all here to have fun and because we enjoy Miraculous Ladybug, no reason for bad blood!

[castleoikawa]

‧₊◜ # breath

↳  ❝ i am so incredibly sorry that i fell in love with you, it was never my intention. ❞ 

—description you had never meant to fall in love with the king, his fiery temper and cold demeanor would turn anyone away. yet, the childhood memories seemed to stay with you both.

—pairing king katsuki bakugou x castle stable girl reader

—warnings aged up characters, swearing, angst, fluff

—word count 3k

—authors note my first request! i hope that you enjoy this! :D

masterlist | unedited

Your job was rather boring. You would attend the stables, slaving away to maintain the horses for each of the king and his court. Your day would consist of constant heat, moving, and cleaning up only to start again right after. 

You seemed to always be moving. You would be on a horse, gliding through the acres of land; or you would be feeding them, grooming them, cleaning their hooves and applying new horseshoes. 

Yet, everything seemed to freeze whenever King Katsuki Bakugou would be in your presence. Everything would be in utter standstill. Everything except the beating of your heart that ricocheted against your ribs.

He was an excellent rider; he had to be, being King and all. 

While you were a child, Katsuki would sneak into the stables at dusk and steal them for midnight rides. You lived at a small cottage next to the stables, a small shack made of wood and stone behind the castle. So you always noticed when he would appear in the late morning hours with winded hair and flushed cheeks.

Those were the fleeting moments in which you witnessed the true him.

It continued into the preteen years as well. When his parents would tell him to rest in his bedroom, he would run to the stables and steal his gorgeous black horse named Hades and disappear into the night.

You would watch from your window, eyes gazing at the royalty as if he were a rare bird that you were afraid of scaring off.

“You stare a lot.” He caught you once. He was walking back towards the castle, between the stables and your home. You only blinked in response, pretending that you were invisible.

A small interaction that lead to more.

During the day, Katsuki would pretend to be uninterested and unaware of you.

When he would arrive with his parents, the King and Queen, for their midday rides throughout the week, Katsuki would stand with his back straight and hair brushed. He did not even look like the kid you knew, primed and pampered and perfect for his royal status.

He would ride his horse alongside his parents through the trails and gardens. 

Yet, at night, he was free.

Katsuki indirectly invited you a copious amount of times to ride with him. He would never say it, but he would motion for you to join or say, “Don’t just stare like you normally do, Stable Girl.”

And you joined. Who were you to deny the request of the prince?

Your horse was much slower than his. He slowed down to match your speed, it was an endearing thing that you knew he did. Though he complained nonetheless, strings of “You are so slow!” and “You must be an idiot to enjoy riding like this.”

When you rode your palomino horse alongside Hades, it was as if you were riding next to the night sky itself. The only indicator that he was still with you was his light hair.

That was a routine for a majority of your childhood. Berated and ignored during the day, and free riders at night.

“The sun is rising.” You warned him one particular night.

The two of you were in the stables, just putting the horses in and petting their noses.

“Let it rise.” Katsuki rolled his eyes. “What are my parents going to do? Fire me?”

It was one time that you genuinely thought that he was handsome. At the age of fourteen, he was confident and bright. And as the sun rose, the golden hue reflected off of his skin as if he owned the sun itself.

“Mom, why does that girl have shit on her?” Katsuki once asked the Queen directly in front of you. The two of you were around the age of seven, perhaps eight.

The Queen only rolled her eyes. “Because that’s what her job is, stupid boy. She works in cleaning up the horse shit.”

“That’s fucking disgusting.” Katsuki said. You felt anger boil in your chest. 

“Continue to use words like that and it will be one of your chores.” The Queen threatened. 

He was one of power and authority. Katuski Bakugou was one of strict rules and temper tantrums that left the castle in fear. Because he was to be feared, he could flick his wrist and you would lose your head.

Those moments of childhood were far forgotten. A lost prince replaced by a king.

You should be pissed at the king. For years, you had been a secret. A nightly visitor that shared secrets under the moon. It was as if none of that had happened.

But you knew that he had more responsibilities than some girl who worked in his horse stables. He was to rule his kingdom, marry a wealthy girl from another kingdom to merge powers, and live his life of royalty.

You were to attend to the horses.

“That’s my horse.” Katsuki’s voice echoed through the stables, deep and loud against the near silence.

You realized that it was his horse that you were cleaning. You were too focused on your work to notice.

With the trimmer in your hand, you wiped the mud onto your pants. “If you plan to ride her, it’ll be a couple more minutes. I’m replacing the horseshoes right now.”

“You will make the king wait?” He inquired.

You leaned on the wall from inside of the stable. “I will.”

There was a moment of silence. He stood with his back straight and crown sitting atop his light hair, hands clasped behind his back. His cruel handsomeness peered at you in the afternoon sun.

You knew that you should not talk to him that way, and request instead of demand. You knew that he was debating on whether to hang or burn you for disrespecting him.

But instead, he said, “Carry on then. I will wait.”

You watched him for a couple of extra seconds before returning to your work. He said nothing else as he watched and waited.

He was to be married soon.

There was a three day festival both in the castle and along the streets. The princess is from another kingdom across the lake, and would bring a great deal of trading and business.

The arranged marriage meant that there would be a grand wedding in which everyone may attend, along with a week long festival after. Parties among parties.

And you were still hard at work.

When your parents passed, you were left with the remains with only yourself. An empty house and your single friend was no longer a friend. 

You could not help the feeling in the pit of your stomach. One of jealousy and hope all at once.

“What are you doing here?” You looked outside, as if you were being followed and needed to confirm that no one else was around. 

Katsuki Bakugou stood at your doorstep in casual clothes and a familiar look in his ruby eyes.

“You will come riding with me.”

“I will, will I?” You sighed. “Katsu-- King Bakugou. I suggest you go back to your castle. You have a princess to love.”

“It was not a request.”

He stepped back, expecting you to follow. You did.

“You did not answer my question, My Lord.” You said as you entered the stables. “What are you doing here?”

“Can you not be a complete idiot for just a second?” He barked, turning to you. “We are going for a ride. Like we used to.”

“I did not think you remembered.” You confessed, not fazed by his anger. He was always like that. 

“How would I forget?” Katsuki turned to take his horse. “It was a majority of our childhood, was it not?”

“Didn’t seem like it.” You mumbled, mainly to yourself. 

If he heard, he did not acknowledge it. 

“Get your horse. Let’s go to the trails.”

You treaded slowly behind him, hesitant and nervous. Perhaps he was planning to kill you for your disrespect. He hadn’t said a word.

“King Bakugou...”

“Katsuki.” He stopped. He looked over at you. “You should know better than that.”

“We are not children any longer.” You said. 

“That’s obvious.” His voice was impatient. “But we are in private. You can call me by my name.”

“That is the issue here.” You sat on your horse beside him, glancing at the open field. “We should not be in private.”

When there was no reply, you stole a glance at him. He was absolutely regal despite being in casual clothes. Black shirt and cloth pants almost blending into his horse. His light hair and ruby eyes seem to glow, matching the golden circular crown on his head.

He did not look as he usually did.

“The sun is rising.” His eyes were on the horizon, the darkness being covered in light. 

You smiled. For the first time in a long time, you smiled. You thought that you caught a rise in the corners of his lips as well. 

“Let it rise.” You said. 

And he did smile, a full smile that you hadn’t witnessed since a child. 

You knew at once that you were in love. It crushed into your chest as if it were beaten into you. It had always been love. In love with the king, in love with someone to be married, and in love with faded memories.

He came back at nights again. The saying was correct, history repeats itself.

You would run through the trails and the garden and end at the field, one that overlooked a hill of flowers. It was the same flower field you would end up as children.

“Run with me!” Katsuki would cheer, snatching your hand and bringing you into the flowers. Stubby child legs and chubby cheeks.

You would giggle and follow him as you always did, struggling to catch up to the fiery boy. The flowers would bend beneath your feet but neither of you cared. 

Cold night winds hit your faces, the mixture of that and laughing leaving you both out of breath and with reddened cheeks.

It seemed like lifetimes ago.

You went to one party. One.

You dressed in the one dress you had, your mother’s dress. She wore it to every formal event that you could remember. 

The castle was absolutely stunning, pristine whites and clean floors. Even in your dress and heels, you felt underdressed. You were sure that you smelled of stables and dirt.

“You were not there last night.” A voice said from behind you.

You were talking to one of the cooks, both of you laughing and exchanging jokes about working in the castle. You couldn’t remember the last time you had social interaction this much. It was enlightening.

King Katsuki Bakugou looked more stunning than you could imagine. A red cloak with fur around his shoulders, white and black fitted suit, hair styled to hold his crown in perfection. Rings decorated his fingers and earrings ran along his ears.

He excused the cook from the conversation, leaving the two of you alone in the corner. 

“You will draw attention, talking to me in public.” You told him. 

He scoffed. “It’s my party. I will draw attention if I speak to anyone.” He paused. “You look different, I almost did not recognize you.”

“It’s because you only ever see me in my work clothes or my pajamas.” You semi joked.

When someone walked by, Katsuki’s voice grew louder. “You don’t smell like shit this time, either. I wonder if you made that dress or found it.”

“Hm.” You glared. “Very performative. Must be easy to keep up the scary King act, huh?”

“You’re being rather informal to me today, especially for someone in public.” He said, but his tone was warning.

“Were you not the one who visits me at night and asks me to be informal?” You asked. “That was embarrassing, what you just did.”

“Oh, suck it up. It can’t be worse than what you do on the daily.” Katsuki’s eyes flicked to yours. 

“I would rather clean up horse shit for hours than be berated in front of the castle workers.” You told him, stepping around him to meet with some of the maids.

You ignored the King for days.

It was a rather stupid plan, him being of his position. But you were both petty and angry with him. 

For someone who knew you since you were a child, for someone who met you every day, and for someone who you knew to be warm and not cold... he really did have two faces.

“Open this door.” He ordered, voice casting throughout your house from outside of the door. 

You flung the door open. “Go by yourself.”

“She lives.” Katsuki didn’t even have his crown on this time, just a shirt and clothes pants. “Come. You’re being stubborn.”

“I’d rather not.” You moved to close the door.

“It is as if you want to piss me off and fire you.”

“Go on and fire me then.” You threatened. “Try to find someone else who would take care of your precious horse as I have. Or meet you in the night as I have. Or...”

Something shut you up. A pressure against your lips forced them closed.

It took you a moment to realize that he was kissing you. Katsuki Bakugou, the King, was kissing you. 

You kissed him back. 

Falling into patterns, it would seem, was your specialty.

The nightly rides turned into kisses and smiles. The two of you would ride only to stop and end in the grass. 

You thought of his wife, of his title. You thought of your job, your title. You thought of everything. Yet every thought would cease when he would grab your face and place a kiss to your lips.

You hated it.

Every time you met in public, he would act as if he knew nothing of you. 

One particular morning, he arrived with the newly appointed Queen. His wife.

“It is disgusting here, Katsu.” She complained, lifting her dress to avoid the mud that littered the ground. 

“You said that you wanted to learn to ride.” Katsuki said. “I told you to wear pants.”

He turned to you, not looking you in the eye as you brushed your horse. 

“Is Maple available to ride?”

Maple. His mother’s old horse, a perfect chocolate brown and very calm. 

“She is, and she’s freshly clean.” You said. Your mind flashed with memories of his lips on yours only hours ago. “Maple and Hades, My Lord?”

“Yes.”

You helped them lead the horses out of the stables and watched as he helped his wife onto the horse. She struggled but eventually managed to balance. 

“The girl who works in your stables,” She said, though you were right next to her. Like you weren’t a person. “She’s a bit gross, yes?”

“Eh. I’m sure she’s used to it.” Katsuki shrugged.

“I couldn’t imagine living in such conditions.”

There was no defense, no “I’ve been coming through here every day for so long I hadn’t noticed”, nothing but a simple, “Let’s ride. We don’t want to be here all day.”

“These meetings need to end.” You told him. You were at the field, sitting on your separated horses and taking in the silence. “You are the King. You needn’t visit a girl who works in your castle.”

“You’re different.”

“How so?” You offered. “I work in your castle. It is not my job to kiss you, or...”

“Shut up for—”

“I need to say what I need to say.” Your voice was soft. “And I believe that...”

“ —just a moment.” He cut you off. “You are different. You always have been.”

“Is that why you only ever meet me in the dead of night?” You asked. “Or berate me during the day? I am not stopping these meetings and this friendship just to save your reputation in case we get caught. I am stopping them because I cannot take your constant changes.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” He rose his voice. He jumped off of his horse only to pace in front. “You simply don’t get it. Of course you wouldn’t.”

“You’re the King, Katsuki.” You said from above him. “I get that you have to—”

“Do the years not mean anything to you?”

“Do they mean anything to you?” You asked. “For years, you didn’t speak to me. Didn’t visit or see me as a person. For years I waited around and wondered about our friendship. And you come back and interrupt it now only to repeat the same things.”

“You’re a bitch, you know that?”

“And you’re a coward.” You spit. “You create false memories with me every single day.”

Katsuki went silent, looking up at you before mounting his horse again. 

“I did not mean for this to happen.” He spoke in a single breath. He did not look at you. “I am so incredibly sorry that I fell in love with you, it was never my intention.”

He disappeared back into the trees, as he always did.

​please do not copy, repost, or steal anything created and posted by me © castleoikawa 2021

[ickle-ronniekins]

black & white

request: from nonnie: ASDFGhjkl. Why are your fics so CUTE? 😭 Can I request a cute and cheesy George proposing to the fem!reader—and they’re wedding? 💜

desc: a love story unfolded via a timeline of events and colors. based on the song ‘black and white’ by niall horan

pairing: george x fem!reader

word count: 5.5k

warning(s): lil bit of angst, alcohol, some sexual content if you squint but it stops before things ~heat up~

A/N: this is just pure fluff. may or may not have cried at the cheesiness. idk. i’m a cheesy gal. can’t help it. i’m in love with a fictional character. sorry i went a tad overboard with this. also let’s pretend ~voldy~ doesn’t exist in this k? reminder that my requests are currently closed, i am merely working through the requests already in my inbox. i do not give permission for my work to be posted on any other platform.

Red

Red, hot fury swept through your bones as you watched him laugh hysterically alongside his brother. You balled your fists together, ready to throw a punch, but you knew your mum would lock you in your room until you were forty years of age if you even thought of throwing hands.

George Weasley was a pretentious little git. It was bad enough that he was your neighbour and you had to see him and his equally annoying twin in the village nearly every day, but what made it even worse was that for whatever reason, he’d chosen you to be on the receiving end of all of his pranks. His mother, Molly, was not for it -- she often gave her sons a solid tongue lashing, but it clearly never made an impact, for each and every day they were back to their normal mischief, seeking out ways to make you shake with anger.

“Weasley!” you squeaked as he and his brother ran back across the field toward their home. You loathed the idea of being in the same school as him in just two years time. At least here, at home, you could escape to your own house and your own room, far away from the boy who teasingly threw a red paint balloon all over you and your new dress. But at school, well -- the castle was only so big, wasn’t it? You weren’t sure how far away from him you’d be able to get.

You watched as he and Fred ran away, their giggles echoing through the air on top of the hill. You looked down at your ruined dress and screamed. You reckoned you’d never be able to love the colour red ever again -- not when it had ruined your beautiful purple dress, and especially when it was the colour of his annoying, messy hair.

Yellow

“I’m really sorry.”

He was standing across from you in the field. You thought about telling him that you needed to take four showers in order to get all of the red paint from your hair, and that your dress was permanently stained, but instead you folded your arms across your chest and huffed a bit. Not even magic could salvage it.

“I promise, I mean it,” he squeaked, as if he could read your mind. He seemed sincere, but he was always getting into all types of trouble, wasn’t he? Perhaps he was as good a liar as he was a pranker.

You kicked at the dirt, unsure of what to say. “You ruined my dress.”

“I know, I’m really sorry,” he said again, “it was all Freddie’s doing! I know he normally takes charge of pranks, but blimey, I told him it wasn’t a good idea.”

You arched your eyebrows up in surprise. “You did?”

“Yeah,” George told you. The wind ruffled the leaves on the tree next to you both, and you watched him tentatively as a big smile split his face. He wandered over to the tree trunk and picked at the flowers that were growing at the base. Then he turned around, marched right over to you, and handed them to you.

Yellow dandelions. You peered down at them, and then looked up at him in surprise. This wouldn’t fix your dress, but he was trying, at least. You noticed the dimples that appeared on his cheeks when he smiled. “Pretty flowers for a pretty girl.”

You couldn’t help it; you blushed and looked toward the ground. You picked a bit at the flowers and met George’s gaze once again. “You still owe me, Weasley.”

You both heard Molly calling him for dinner. “Okay, mum!” he called back, his voice echoing against the wind. He turned back toward you. “Promise. I owe you. I also promise to kick Fred’s arse since it was his idea anyway.”

A squeak of a giggle emitted from your lips and you watched as George Weasley skipped all the way home.

Blue

All of Ravenclaw house erupted into cheers as the colours of the Great Hall changed to celebrate the momentous occasion of your house winning the Quidditch Cup. It had been a neck to neck match against Gryffindor, but had you not caught the snitch before Harry, they would have had it in the bag for the third year in a row.

“At the risk of sounding like I’m pro Ravenclaw, I’ve got to say, you guys put up a great match,” you whirled around in the crowd and saw George standing in front of you. He had his hands in his pockets and he shrugged, clearly upset at a Gryffindor loss, but at least they hadn’t lost to Slytherin, right? “You really are a wicked Seeker.”

“Thanks, Weasley,” you said triumphantly, both pleased with yourself for winning but also feeling a little bit guilty for beating Gryffindor.

“When did you get so good anyway?”

“Hmm,” you placed your hand to your chin and pretended to be deep in thought, “do you mean, how did I get to be so incredible? I don’t have an answer for you, truthfully, reckon I was just born with it.”

Students filtered around you both, and you watched him laugh as blue confetti fell around the both of you and the rest of the Great Hall. Personally you thought it was a little much, but the captain had insisted. You met George’s gaze again though, and rolled your eyes.

“Oi, mate,” you heard Fred call. He reached his twin and threw an arm around his shoulders, “what’re you doing over here, conversing with the enemy?” You rolled your eyes yet again, something you found yourself doing quite often with the two of them, and Fred just grinned obnoxiously at you. “Only joking, Y/N. I suppose if anyone had to beat us, we’re glad it’s Ravenclaw. But if you repeat that, we’ll deny it, I swear to Merlin.”

“My lips are sealed, Freddie.”

You bid them both adieu before turning back to your house, celebrating and clinking your goblets of pumpkin juice together, and through the yelps and the cheers, you missed George say to Fred that he actually quite liked the way the Great Hall looked, all decorated in blue.

Orange

“How about you get to work on the ground Unicorn horn, and I’ll try and get this water crystalized?” you offered.

Today’s lesson was to brew the Oculus Potion, in the event any of you ever needed to restore someone’s sight. In an attempt to separate them, Snape had paired George with you and Fred with another Ravenclaw who didn’t look happy at all at the prospect of having him as her partner. You peered over the cauldron at George and said, “No worries. We’ve only got thirteen steps. I reckon if we keep at this without any distractions, we’ll be finished before the rest of class.”

“Better get cracking, then,” George replied.

The two of you worked in comfortable silence; you tensed a few times when Snape meandered by your table, peering down into your cauldron and scoffing, for you were certain that an attempt at any type of potion would never live up to his unrealistic expectations of two sixteen-year-olds.

A little while later, you realized that the heat emitting from all of the cauldrons was making the entire classroom incredibly warm. “Blimey, could he open a bloody window, or something?” you asked, ignoring the fact that there were absolutely no windows in the dungeons. George laughed and continued to add the crystalized water into your cauldron as you pulled your sweater over your head, leaving you in your white button down and blue and grey tie. You pulled your hair back off of your neck and said, “Alright, be sure to only add the water until it turns indigo, George.”

The poor lad hadn’t been paying attention, because your potion was far past indigo at this point. In fact, it looked as though it had turned a deep, navy blue, bordering on black, as George peered at you with soft eyes and continued to pour in the crystalized water, not realizing that he was messing up your carefully brewed potion. A snapping noise pulled him from his thoughts, and a slight explosion erupted from your cauldron and caused black smoke to cover George’s face and hair.

Most of the class began to laugh, but Snape angrily shushed them and sauntered over to the two of you, clearly giddy beyond belief that he was able to deduct points from both of your houses for causing such a ruckus in his precious dungeons. George wiped a bit of the soot from his forehead as you poured in the antidote and giggled.

“Merlin, I’m sorry -- didn’t mean to get points taken from your house.”

“Eh, it was bound to happen sooner or later.. don’t worry about it. Look! Good as new,” you clapped your hands together as the potion turned to the desired shade of orange before the final two steps. You met George’s look through the orange haze over your cauldron and asked him, “What had you so distracted anyway, Weasley?”

“Oh, erm -- nothing,” he replied a bit quickly. It didn’t go unnoticed how he’d stumbled over his words and immediately went back to looking rather intently at the directions. You bit back a smile and looked back down at yours too, unable to rid yourself of the nerves bubbling up inside of you as George looked up once again, stealing glances at you through the orange mist as nerves overtook him, too.

Green

“You had no right to do that! What the bloody hell were you thinking?”

George was standing across from you on the empty dance floor; the Yule Ball had ended abruptly and each and every student had filtered from the Great Hall and back to their respective dormitories, per the teachers. The two of you had managed to stay somehow, now more than ten feet away; you looked at one another with envy as a dramatic scene unfurled between you both.

The entire night had been nothing but a dream, up until that one dance. You’d waltzed in, your light green dress swaying beautifully near your ankles, your hand wrapped around your date’s arm. You waved to your friends, who stood with their respective dates as well, and promised yourself you’d catch up with them at the end of the night when you’d undoubtedly have stories to tell them of the most magical evening of your life.

Except that wasn’t how it worked out, had it?

“He was all over you!” George called, and you noticed how prominent the veins in his hands were when he threw them up in the air. “You said no, didn’t you? He asked you to come back to his dorm and you’d said no. Did you expect me to stand there and do nothing when he grabbed your wrists and tried to pull you there?”

George was right. You had said no, and truthfully, the way your date had grabbed you and attempted to drag you back to his room had really frightened you. You reckoned it was the firewhisky he’d drunk earlier that evening -- he wasn’t violent or anything, but he seemed desperate to get you there. All George had done was step in and stand up for you, so why on earth should you be angry at him?

You didn’t want to give George the satisfaction of letting him know that he was right. You were mad at him for other reasons, anyway. It should’ve been you that he asked to the ball, not that other disturbingly annoying Beauxbatons girl. It’s like he’d picked her particularly because he knew her annoying, bubbly personality and thick French accent would get right under your skin.

You softened a bit as you took a deep breath. “I appreciate what you did, George, but it wasn’t your place. I can take care of myself. He nearly knocked you right out!”

George winced at your words and brought a hand to his black and blue eye. He hadn’t even had the time to grab some ice and place it to the injury, and it was now rather swollen. “I don’t care if he knocked me to the bloody ground, I wasn’t going to let him do that to you!”

You couldn’t help it; anger took you over and you were saying things you shouldn’t have before you could second guess yourself. “Well you know what, George? Perhaps he wouldn’t have had the chance to try anything with me if you’d just bloody asked me to the ball first instead of that stuffy Beauxbatons girl!”

You knew your words hurt him, but you didn’t care. He looked as though he’d gotten the wind knocked out of him; he stepped backward and faltered a bit. His breathing became heavy and irregular. “You already had your date when I asked her, Y/N -- don’t you dare try and pin this on me.”

He was right, yet again. You couldn’t help it. Big, fat tears were falling down your face now and you reckoned you wouldn’t be able to salvage the rest of the hideousness that was this evening. You wiped your tears with the back of your hand and noticed the smears of black mascara and eyeliner on your skin. He inched forward now and opened his arms, but you backed away, still not ready to show him any affection.

You were being a git, but the truth was, you’d waited until the very last possible second for George to ask you to the ball. So when he didn’t, you begrudgingly agreed to the Hufflepuff who’d stepped forward and asked you himself. And as you walked swiftly passed George and up the steps to your common room, you realized that though you’d said yes, your heart had been with the Weasley boy you so adored the entire evening.

In truth, what he’d done was brave and full of love and passion. But you were still filled with hurt.

The green monster of jealousy that you’d felt when you’d watched him dance with his date was such a vice, but you just couldn’t help how you felt.

You left George alone in the desolate Great Hall as he let his head fall into his hands, pushing down his fury and tears.

Grey

You hadn’t gone back to him, that boy from the Yule Ball. You thought about it, but you figured you’d spare George more anger.

He’d approached you, your date, the day afterwards, apologizing profusely for his behaviour and how embarrassed he was at the whole ordeal. He’d asked you for lunch, only if you were okay, and you politely declined. “Friends,” you’d said, and he smiled pitifully, but gratefully, and took your hand in his to shake it.

It was so stupid, wasn’t it? Fighting with George over this. So he hadn’t asked you to the Yule Ball, so what? It wasn’t the end all, be all, was it? And he’d stood up for you, hadn’t he? When things had gotten a little out of control. He hadn’t been your date, but he had been your saviour.

It had only been a week since the dance and you two hadn’t said a word to one another. Fred had begged you too. “Come on, Y/N, you know he’s real sorry. Can’t you just forgive him? Blimey, it’s a right difficult thing to do, splitting my time between you both.”

You merely pressed your lips together and huffed. “He can come apologize to me himself, Fred. He doesn’t need you to do it for him.”

But later that afternoon, you figured, why wait? This whole thing was so dramatic and stupid. And so after rereading the same page eight times due to your lack of concentration, you jumped up from your chair in the Ravenclaw common room and made way toward the Great Hall, as fast as your legs could carry you. You were just going to tell him exactly that -- that this entire thing was dumb, and that you were thankful for him, and that bloody hell, you missed him. Perhaps it was a bit dramatic -- it had only been six days, right? You couldn’t help it. You missed him. You missed him a lot.

The thought of finally speaking to him after a very dramatic week apart made your heart flutter, and a very wide smile split your face just as you were about to round the last bend before the Great Hall.

And then you saw it. Them. Tucked away in a corner near a deserted classroom -- tangled together, George’s hands on her waist, hers in his long red hair. Her lips nearly on his. Smiling, giggling. Kissing him.

That bloody annoying Beauxbatons girl.

You stopped short and nearly tripped over your own two feet. You opened your mouth to speak but just let your mouth tremble in silence as you watched them snog one another. Her laugh was so painfully sugary sweet, you felt as though you’d like to rip your own hair out.

You were surprised how quickly the sight of them had sent your heart plummeting into your stomach. Somewhere in the few moments when you stood there in shock, your vision had become blurry and your face had become wet. You wiped at it with your sweater sleeve and sniffled quietly so they wouldn’t hear you. You spun on your heel and sped back toward your common room, wondering what the bloody hell had come over you when you thought of apologizing to him. You just wanted to get back to your dorm. Or perhaps back to your house in Ottery St. Catchpole. Stupid, silly girl you were.

If only you knew that George had spotted you before you’d left and froze solid in the spot he was standing, ignoring the forwardness of the Beauxbatons girl attached to his arm, his heart and mind chasing you all the way home.

Purple

The Ravenclaw common room was completely empty except for you. You always did this, though -- each and every year, you were always the last to finish packing. Not because you were a procrastinator, but because you hated admitting to yourself that another year was over, and you were another year closer to impending graduation.

Someone popped through the door and said your name softly. You turned and saw George standing there with a small smile on his face. “Hey,” he said, “train’s here. You almost ready to go?”

You groaned and looked back down at your trunk, now fully packed. “If I’ve got to be.” You felt like an absolute idiot that those few words brought tears to your eyes so easily. “Oi, here I go again.”

George laughed lightly and pulled you into a hug. “We’ll be back in no time, you’ll see again how quickly the summer holidays go.”

“But George, it’s our last year!” you cried. And then you took a deep breath to calm yourself down, because you didn’t fancy the idea of boarding the train with smudged makeup and a red nose. “Anyway, shall we?”

When you grabbed your trunk and headed toward the door, George gently took your hand in his and turned you around. “I’ve got something for you actually.”

You wiggled your eyebrows at him and clapped your hands together. “A present? It’s not even my birthday.”

But then you wondered if it was actually a present he wanted to give you, because he took your other hand in his and squeezed them, a serious look on his face. Your features twisted into that of confusion, and you’d be lying if you said that your heartbeat didn’t increase at the sight of him looking at you so earnestly. “What is it?”

“I’ve been a real git this year. Specifically, the Yule Ball. And a little while after that.”

You laughed and playfully shoved him. Though you still felt the sting of those few weeks, you two had managed to patch things up. He hadn’t lasted that long with that Beauxbatons girl anyway. “George, we’ve been over this, c’mon -- you were only doing what you thought was right. I’ve forgiven you, you know.”

“I know,” he smiled, and you could tell that he was equally as glad as you were that you two had placed that argument behind you. But what you two hadn’t touched on since then was what you’d said to him in a fit of fury: Perhaps he wouldn’t have had the chance to try anything with me if you’d just bloody asked me to the ball first instead of that stuffy Beauxbatons girl!

Of course he’d wanted to ask you. He’d wanted to ask you more than anything in the entire world, but each and every time he’d opened his mouth to say something, he couldn’t. Bloody nerves, and all that. Then he went and acted like a prat, making you cry, and he vowed to himself that he’d never make you cry again, unless it were happy tears.

“I realized I’ve never properly made it up to you -- not asking you to the the Yule Ball in the first place, and that time when we were nine.”

You raised your eyebrows suspiciously. “When we were nine? What the bloody hell happened when we were nine?”

And then he pulled from his pocket the most beautiful lavender pendant you ever did see. The circular stone was outlined in the same silver as the chain, and the sun flooding in from the windows made it sparkle more than anything you’d ever seen in your life. Your breath caught in your throat and you looked back and forth from the necklace to George, and back again.

“I ruined your purple dress, remember?” he asked you. He laughed a bit, probably thinking about the ridiculous way you’d looked with red paint splattered all over you. You couldn’t believe he remembered that. “Now, it’s not a dress, but seeing as we’ve grown up a bit since then, I reckoned you’d prefer something a little nicer.” He swallowed over a lump in his throat before continuing. “I never fancied her, you know. That girl from Beauxbatons. I just...” he trailed off, searching for words he couldn’t seem to muster up. You wondered if he could hear the dramatic thump of your heart, beating loudly in the heavy silence. “It doesn’t matter. It was you I wanted to be with that night, and long after. I still do.”

Then he brushed aside your hair and placed the pendant around your neck. You peered at him through blurry vision, and surprised yourself that you were now crying due to the tenderness of his touch and the emotion in his gift and not that you two were about the board the train and leave school, no longer the same two people you were just a few moments ago.

You did the only thing you could think of and you threw your arms around his neck and kissed him. You felt his shock, but it took him only mere milliseconds before he was kissing you back. In truth, you’d been wondering what it would feel like to kiss him -- the taste of him, the feel of your limbs entangled together, exactly how high your heart would soar. It was exactly the way first kisses were meant to be -- slow, and easy, and warm, the way it’s supposed to feel after having swam all day long -- your body limp and muscles de-tensing. You moulded perfectly with him, and when gravity (or rather, the first signal of the train’s departure) pulled you from one another, he peered at you with such affection that you felt as though you might explode.

You grabbed the pendant and held in gently in between your fingers, already having memorized the outline of the silver and the different shades of purple within it. “I am so bloody happy you threw red paint at me that day, Weasley.”

He laughed haughtily, throwing his head back before swinging an arm around your waist and pulling your trunk toward the exit of the Ravenclaw common room. “Merlin, me too.”

White

You were sitting at your kitchen table, ignoring the massive amount of work in front of you to admire your other hard work. Your cozy little flat looked just as you always imagined it would, with the added bonus of your boyfriend in the corner of the front entrance, fixing a loose coat hanger on the wall.

Never in your life did you imagine that things could be as perfect as this.

You couldn’t help but wonder if it would be a flat you two would share one day.

You got up and brought with you his half empty glass of wine and handed it to him. Gratefully he took it and sipped before pressing a feather light kiss to your forehead. But then you gently traced his jawline with your finger, down his neck, across his collar bone until he followed your move and leaned in to kiss you. It was soft and chaste and everything like your first one had been. But as the alcohol worked its way through your veins, you found yourself pressing yourself harder against him.

A moan of content escaped him as you bit down on his lip and slipped your hands underneath his shirt, hands pressed against his chest. Unashamedly, you pulled him toward your bedroom, and he placed his empty wine glass next to yours on the table as he kicked the door closed.

The two of you fell backwards onto the bed in an entanglement of limbs. He hovered above you, dropping down a bit to press light kisses to your neck, in between your collarbones, behind your ears, against your jawline. You so desperately wanted to feel his weight on top of you, and so you yanked him firmly against you and kissed him in a way that there was no aching way that he wouldn’t be able to tell exactly what you wanted.

He began to undo the buttons on your shirt, taking time to press kisses into your chest at the exposed places before he stopped himself and gently ran his hands across your hips, and then your cheek. His voice was merely a whisper in the deafening silence, “Are you sure?”

He gazed at you with such tenderness and love that you knew he’d stop, if you’d asked him to. He wouldn’t go another inch further if you weren’t ready. And for you, that was more than enough.

“I’m sure.”

He sucked in a breath and dipped down to press lips to yours gently before continuing to make light work of your clothes. He explored every inch of you, and the sensation of his lips gently grazing your skin caused you to arch your back in pleasure. You could feel him smiling against you, wildly in love, handling you with such care as if you were a tiny glass figure he was afraid of breaking. He held you so delicately and worked his way through each and every single one of your wants with slow and gentle hands.

You’d known it was love with him; maybe not consciously, but you’d known it long before now. Love, filled with intensity and desire and longing, in its most vulnerable and fragile form -- pure, and blinding white.

Pink

The summer air wafted in through the open window in the kitchen, and you listened to Mrs. Weasley hum some Muggle song as she set the table for dessert. You placed the finishing touches on the lemon meringue pie you baked, special because it was George’s favourite and Mrs. Weasley had insisted.

You had to admit, he’d always had the outside exterior of a tough guy, but owning a business did absolute wonders for his confidence. You noticed the way he stood up a little straighter, smiled a little bigger, and most of all, just how much he gushed about all the plans you two would be able to act on, now that you were both making income of your own.

“Merlin’s beard, Y/N, you’ve absolutely knocked it out of the park with this pie, if I do say so myself.” Arthur’s praise was nothing short of wonderful; you felt the tips of your ears turn pink at his compliments. By the way Ron slouched back in his chair, looking rather chuffed indeed, you could tell he felt the same exact way. Especially when he reached for the last piece, but Hermione slapped his hand away.

“Oh my!” Molly yelped suddenly. You jumped in surprise in your seat. “Oh, Georgie dear, would you mind wandering into the field before dark? I’d love some wildflowers for the table,”

“Sure thing, mum.” George replied before turning to you and squeezing your hand. “Want to tag along?”

You said, “Of course” at the exact same time Ron said “I’ll come along too, I could use a good walk” and if you hadn’t been so focused on George’s tender gaze, you almost would’ve missed Fred silently hissing at Ron and Hermione slapping his hand yet again. “On second thought,” Ron swallowed thickly, “I’d better stay here and help you clean up, mum.”

“Atta boy, Ronniekins,” Molly said. To you and George, she continued, “You two better get going -- not long now before it turns dark!”

George stood and pulled you to your feet. “You coming, love?”

“I go where you go.”

About twenty minutes later, as the setting sun had blended with the light purples and pinks of the sky, you’d found yourself with a rather beautiful bouquet of wildflowers for Molly. You turned to George, who was leaning against the tree and smiling at you, and asked, “Shall we get going darling? Don’t want to be too late. I reckon your mum will come out here searching for us if we spend an evening among the stars.”

“Doesn’t sound like too bad of an idea, actually.” His grin deepened, and then he said, “you’re lucky I don’t have any pranks up my sleeve right now.”

You look up at the tree and recognized the place where he’d infuriated you all those long years ago. You rolled your eyes and shook your head before twirling in your dress. “I am lucky. I was able to get a new dress after the one you so lovingly ruined. Though I will admit -- I wasn’t all that big of a fan of those puffy sleeves. This one’s much more adult.”

George arched his eyebrow in surprise before wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you close. “Oh yes it is.”

You slapped him playfully and pointed your finger at him. “Alright you prat, calm yourself, you’ll have to wait until we get back to our flat for any funny business.”

But then you realized, as George’s features turned from mischievous to genuine within the matter of seconds, that there was definitely more pressing matters than funny business on his mind.

And then he was telling you how he’d only teased you back then because he’d found you so bloody cute, and how he should’ve asked you to the Yule Ball and regretted every single day that he didn’t, and how he’d never met anyone who could play Quidditch quite as well as you, and how bloody happy he’d been when you’d kissed him that day in the Ravenclaw common room. And then knelt down and he asked it, the words you’d imagined since you were a little girl, strung together with such fondness and emotion and tenderness that you weren’t quite sure how you were standing upright.

You’d already begun to nod quickly through your tears before he finished, but would he really be George Weasley if he didn’t tease you, just a little? “Say yes,” he laughed, “say yes and marry me and be my wife for as long as you’ll have me.”

He slid the ring onto your finger and kissed you and picked you up and whirled you around in the field and held you gently in his arms as though you were a precious glass figurine and he was doing everything in his power to hold you delicately.

“Yes. I say yes.”

Black & White

You asked, When did you first know?

And he answered, I always knew.

You both ran back up the aisle, your white dress fluttering around your ankles, his black suit hugging the curves of his arms, and into the field and away from the party, momentarily, to celebrate your first moments as husband and wife in the place where he’d figured it all out.

He’d known since that afternoon when he’d handed you those yellow dandelions that he would bring you back here one day, to ask you to be his wife. He’d known, in the Ravenclaw common room when he gave you that purple pendant, still dangling from your neck, that one day he’d also give you a ring. He’d known, all those long years ago, that he wanted to marry you, and that you would say yes, when he’d finally ask.

And now, in front of your friends and family, he’d vowed to love you -- love in it’s purest and simplest form, love -- with all it’s sentiment and emotion and vulnerability. He vowed to love you and only you for the rest of his life.

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[mrsgiovanna]

Unhinged - Don Giorno x Fem! Reader

A misunderstanding causes the reader a whole lot of distress. Blame it on the stress of planning your wedding to the Golden dreamboat or his shifty behavioral cues. Needless to say this occurs many years after the events of Vento Aureo. Some mild angst, some fluff, some mild nsfw- a mixed bag that nobody asked for really, unashamedly self indulgent 🥺💭💖

You always judged those unhinged girls. You know the type, the ones who would steal their partners phones and “run into them” at very convenient times. Pathetic, you’d always think, so you could not understand how, in heaven’s name, you found yourself sitting in your car across from your favorite Café, spying on your fiancé. You were thankful for the oversized sunglasses that hid most of your face as you stole a glance at yourself in the rear view mirror. You can’t imagine what your eyes might look like at this point.

It all started a week ago… Giorno was an extremely busy man, you of all people knew that best. He always made time for you though, however, the closer it got to your wedding, the less you saw of him. You were busy yourself, so you didn’t really have much time to yearn for his company, but the coldness of your bed was always a reminder that someone very important was supposed to be occupying that space. It wasn’t just the scarcity of your lover that had set off alarms in your mind, it was more his odd behavior. He was so secretive these days, keeping conversations shorter than they needed to be, hiding his devices from you when he received texts, discarding every scrap of paper from his pockets before properly greeting you when he did manage to come home in the daylight. Each time you questioned his behavior he just sweetly smiled and replied that everything was alright.

And so continued this mistimed waltz on eggshells until that fateful morning. A swirl of emotions bubbled up in your chest suffocating you when you found some kind of broken jewel clinging to Giorno’s suit. You couldn’t really make out what it might have been part of, or what lewd activities managed to dislodge it from its original owner and onto him, but for the first time in the years you have been together, you were suddenly unsure of whether you could spend your life with this man. Did you even know him at all?

The walls of the villa never felt so restrictive before, you needed to get out, clear your mind, perhaps even get another perspective. You could just be overreacting as you know you are inclined to do sometimes. Giorno was still in the shower, you contemplated letting him know that you were going out, but decided to just go. He can stew a little, get a taste of your personal hell for just a few hours. Hurriedly throwing on the outfit you laid out, you grab your keys and headed off to your favorite coffee shop, calling Trish while you were on your way there, asking her to meet you. The two of you had grown closer over the years and right now you needed a friend who would give you sound advice without sugarcoating the facts.

Giorno had sauntered out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, his upper body still glistening from the shower with his wet hair cascading down his back. He expected to find you there just doing your hair or putting on your mascara, he loved watching you get ready. It gave him a chance to fully admire you, making him feel proud, bordering on arrogant, that you were his and only he got to see all the different sides there were to your beauty. He knew he was being distant with you but he had his reasons for being so preoccupied. Walking towards the nightstand to check his phone, he sees the jacket he wore yesterday on the floor with the little jewel still hooked onto the fibers of the expensive fabric. Throwing his head back in resignation, he called Trish, already aware of what you might be thinking, and knowing that she’s usually the first person you’d turn to when you needed to chat.

“Hi Trish, do you have a second to chat? I’ll make it quick,” he starts off, putting the call on speaker so he can get dressed for the day.

“Giorno, what did you do? She already called me in a state, I’m on my way to meet her for coffee as we speak,”

“Okay look, I can explain everything, just know that I’m not being unfaithful,”

“How did this escalate so fast? Why are you giving her reasons to jump to these conclusions so close to the wedding? You better not be messing around,”

Giorno could hear the suspicion that edged Trish’s voice, so he explained everything and begged her to calm you down while he tended to a few issues.

You felt your shoulders relax as the tension melted away after pouring your heart out to Trish. After speaking to her it dawned on you that coming out and asking Giorno would be better than letting this outlandish scenario fester in your mind. After giving you the pep talk you needed Trish left to get on with her day while you stayed to organize yours. Sipping the last bit of your mocha Frappe, you darted towards your car when suddenly your attention was caught by a flash of gold and a flourish of a deep cerulean blue coat entering the Café. Certain that your eyes were playing tricks on you, you blinked a few times, but it was as clear as the blue sky above you, Giorno had arrived there with another woman. Hastily getting into your car, you sank into the soft leather seat and fished out your oversized Chanel sunglasses to conceal your presence as much as possible in the off chance he looked in your direction, although chances of that seemed very slim given how engrossed he was in their conversation.

Oh you hated every painful second of this, all the tension and anger that you’d let go of, found you all at once, marring your otherwise beautiful features.

You watched as he pulled out her chair and sat across from her, smiling that charming smile that could disarm a terrorist. He barely looked away from her, you wished he would see you, wondering what kind of explanation he’d conjure up. You contemplated going back inside to confront them, but you didn’t trust your emotions, tears stinging the corners of your eyes. You wouldn’t dare give them the satisfaction of seeing you cry… and so you watched, preparing yourself for what you may or may not see, however your resolve shattered when you saw Giorno pull out a little black box and slide it across the table towards her. She beamed as she opened it examining the contents without taking it out… was it a replacement for that trinket that you found? He always did have impeccable taste, you had always thought it was reserved for you though. Unable to watch any longer, you started the car and sped off, not wanting to go home, but having no motivation to go anywhere else, you just drove aimlessly for a while.

“Oh Mr Giovanna, these are perfect, they’re exactly what I needed to complete her bracelet, I’m sure your fiancé is going to love it!” exclaimed the lady sitting opposite your lover.

“Please, call me Giorno. I would hope so, it’s more sentimental than anything else, I’m just astounded that you were able to recreate the intricacies of the original design. Your talent knows no bounds,”

“Ah, like any artist, I’m always intrigued by beauty and mystery. How were you able to get a this many dainty gems at this short notice?”

“I have my network, I’m just glad you can complete it now, I can’t wait to give it to her,”

“Well you won’t have to wait too long, I should have this ready by the close of business today,”

“I won’t keep you any longer then, thanks once again for handling my request,” said Giorno with an extended hand as he stood up to leave.

It was a mission to try and recreate your mother’s heirloom bracelet from a faded, wrinkled picture, but he was determined to give you something special, that would make you feel closer to her as well. Your lineage was a mystery, your father unknown, so when your mother arrived in Italy it was one of the few valuables she had had on her person. She did everything she could to provide for you when you were little, but she unfortunately had succumbed to her circumstances leaving you to fend for yourself in an unforgiving world. His heart clenched when you recounted stories of your childhood, which somewhat mirrored his own. You never complained though, he could see your heart ached when you thought of her, and all the things she would have helped you with especially now. Still, the way you concealed your heartache with a trained smile, would always make him wonder how such strength could be contained by something so angelically beautiful. Drawn out of his reverie of you, Giorno had arrived at his destination and continued with his day until it was time to collect your present and head home.

By the time you had finally found yourself at your driveway, you were exhausted and wanted nothing more than to bury yourself in a cave and hibernate until everything was over. How arrogant of you to assume this would last when every good thing in your life came to an end. Dragging your wary body up the stairs, you buried yourself under the soft comforter, shutting your eyes with the hope that it would all have been a dream by the time you resurface.

When Giorno finally made it home, the first thing he did was seek you out. Usually you’d be quietly nestled on the couch reading or working on something, or you’d be tinkering in the kitchen making some sort of delicious treat, both as a means to relax and indulge your shared sweet tooth. But you couldn’t be found in either of those places. He found you huddled on the bed you both shared, looking so fragile as you slept in a fetal position. He didn’t want to disturb you but he couldn’t help gently brushing your hair off your face, which unfortunately resulted in you waking up.

“Gio, I didn’t expect you back this early…” you murmured, still waiting for your eyes to adjust to the light. The events of today came flooding back to you and you resolved to just come straight out and confront him. Noticing the change in your demeanor, Giorno sat next to you on the edge of the bed, while he loosened his top shirt button and took off his tie.

“Giogio, I don’t know how to put this delicately, so I’m just going to say it… you’ve been acting so different lately, always so secretive, hiding things from me, and this morning I found remnants of some jewelry that didn’t belong to me on your clothes… and probably the worst thing of all is that I saw you with someone while I was out this morning. You both looked very comfortable with each other, and… I… who is she?” you rambled on, your voice barely louder than a whisper. This wasn’t playing out how you had imagined it, with most of the fight being forced out of your body by melancholy. Seeing the evidence of your anguish in your eyes, Giorno reached out to cup your cheek, you mentally chastised yourself for automatically melting into his touch.

“Ah my sweet principessa, I love you, only you, I would never do anything to intentionally hurt you or break that trust. The lady you saw me with is a jewelry designer, I commissioned something very special for you, so we just met so I could give her the materials to complete it… I wanted to give it to later at dinner tonight, but you’re in no condition to go out, so let’s stay in, okay?” he explained as he pulled out a box from his breast pocket and settled down next to you. “Go on, open it,”

You gingerly take the box, opening it slowly, curiosity and embarrassment fighting against each other in your mind.

“Gio, how did you manage to find it after all these years? I thought it would have been melted down and broken up completely.”

You simply couldn’t believe your eyes, it broke your heart when you sold off the bracelet to pay off her debts after she passed, it killed your spirit entirely when you were told it wasn’t enough to cover what she’d owed. That’s how you found yourself in Passione, working as one of Bucciarati’s underlings.

“Well, unfortunately I couldn’t find the exact piece bella, trust me, I tried. You’re probably correct in saying that it was taken apart, so I had this recreated to its exact specifications. I hope you like it,”

Giorno’s voice was so tender, as was his expression. Tears clouded your vision, it was the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for you, you were at a complete loss for words.

“Gio… Tesoro, I don’t know what to say, thank you doesn’t seem like nearly enough. And I’m so sorry I ever doubted you, I feel like such an idiot, that’s probably because I am one. How can I make it up to you? I totally understand if you’re too upset to talk to…” your rambling was cut off by Giorno’s lips gently pressing against your own. His hand softly grasped the back of your head, slightly tilting your face upwards to deepen the kiss.

“That was thanks enough amore mio, I love you,”

“Ti amo con tutto il mio cuore,” you reply, while trying to hide your embarrassment by nestling your face in the crook of Giorno’s neck.

“Molto bene, your Italian is improving bella, I’m proud of you.”

Giorno snaps the sparkly trinket onto your wrist and admires how your eyes light up when you look at it. The glimmer of his eyes in the soft lighting of the room awakened a yearning within you. Giving in to the feeling, you kiss Giorno’s collarbone, earning a hum of approval from him, as you softly trailed kisses up his neck and onto his jaw, finally settling on his lips. You felt him smiling into the kiss, he ran his tongue across your bottom lip asking for entry, to which you willingly obliged as your hands toyed with his braid, undoing it completely. His hands ran up and down your body, worshipping the dips and curves he adored so much. Breaking away from the kiss for a moment, he looked down at you, eyes darkened with lust, hands hovering over the buttons of your shirt asking for permission to disrobe you, which you granted with a small nod. He was so gorgeous, so strong and he exuded such charisma that you found yourself submitting to his every request, spoken or otherwise, lapping up every bit of praise he afforded you as you took him in his entirety. Once, twice, you had lost count of how many times you both peaked.

At some point in the night you had woken up ensconced in the warm embrace of your sleeping lover, finally being able to form a coherent thought, you promised yourself to never baselessly doubt his love for you ever again. With that you closed your eyes and allowed yourself to fall asleep again, feeling completely safe, content and loved.

[fandom-puff]

An Unmarried Lady

Pairing: sandor clegane x Lannister! reader

Requested by: anon

Prompts: //

Summary: A Lannister woman with no husband was odd... Cersei and Tywin are determined to marry you off...

AN: ah! I haven’t written for Sandor clegane I’m so long!! This is my first like,,, imagine with him so I hope you enjoy it 💕 also, the reader is younger than Tyrion here ( I know he’s the youngest in the books and TV series but... just go with it okay :p)

Warnings: swearing, mentions of sex, Joffrey Baratheon

Wine flowed freely when your nephew was in a good mood. A rebellion in the city had been quashed and Joffrey was adamant that a party be thrown to honour his victory. You rolled your eyes. Stupid boy. Still, it gave you an excuse to drink and dance without worrying so much about your reputation as the King’s Aunt. You might even be able to sneak away with Sandor...

Unfirtunately, your father and sister spent a lot of their time during these events conspiring about which knight or noble to shove in your direction. You sighed, taking a deep drink from your wine as Tywin walked over to you, a tall, dark haired man in his wake. Your eyes flickered briefly to Sandor before you plastered a sweet smile on your face as your father presented you to one another. “My youngest daughter, YN Lannister,” he said, eyes flicking between you both. You arched your eyebrows at your father as the man grasped your hand and pressed a wet kiss to your knuckles. You were clearly unimpressed.

“Are you not going to introduce yourself, Ser?” You smirked, knowing full well he was a Lord, not a Ser.

“I’m not a Ser!” He said, just as you predicted. Tywin sighed. “I’m Lord-”

“A lord?” You said in a mock-surprise tone. “You certainly don’t act like one, slobbering over my wrist. I’ve had better trained dogs,” you said slyly.

Tywin looked up to the ceiling, composing himself. “Lord Pyne. Go,” he said sharply as you turned to him, your hands on your hips.

“Your standards are slipping, father,” you said coldly, making to walk away but he grabbed your arm.

“It’s very hard to uphold such high standards when you refuse every suitor within two minutes of meeting him,” he said, glaring down at you. You stared back, challenging him. His eyes softened slightly- the perks of being the baby sister in the family.

“When you can find me a good, honest man who isn’t an arrogant bastard, father, then I’ll consider letting him court me,” you said, eyes not leaving his.

He sighed, exhasperated. As far as he knew, you had been single for far too long. “YN. You must understand, an unmarried Lannister woman... you haven’t been courted since your first bleeding,” you flushed slightly. “People talk, YN,”

“People talk about Cersei and Jaime fucking, father,” you hissed, tugging your arm out of his grasp. “People talk about Tyrion frequenting whore houses and burning his way through the people’s taxes in fortified wine. I am the only child of yours who hasn’t got a poor reputation for incest and whoring. Your grandson is King of the seven kingdoms, each of your sons hold a position on the small council. Your oldest daughter was married off for the family’s gain. There are no more positions, no more seats for me to take. Focus on controlling that tyrant up there,” you nodded to the throne, “before you even THINK about marrying me off to some dimwitted lord who can’t tell his arse from his elbow,” you turned on your heel and stormed away from your father. He shook his head and receded back to Cersei as you went to find your favourite brother.

You breezed past Sandor, brushing against him, even though you didn’t really need to. You could just imagine his slight smirk as your skirts fluttered about his ankles and your hair flowed behind you.

Finding Tyrion, you huffed and sat next to him, stealing his goblet and taking a sip.

“Hey now, dear sister, get your own,” he said teasingly, though he grabbed another goblet from a serving girl. “Who has Father tried to pawn you off to now?” He smirked, knowing that was the only thing that could get you so riled up.

“Lord Pyne,” you said, rolling your eyes. Tyrion roared with laughter.

“Him? Ha! I bet he still has his mother’s milk in his belly!” He grinned, causing you to crack a small smile. “Ahhh, there she is, that beautiful smile. You break hearts, you know, YN, keeping that smile to yourself,”

You shook your head slightly. “I want to marry someone I love, Tyrion,” you sighed. “I don’t see the point in marrying me off to some Lord,”

Tyrion smirked. “Do you not want a lord, YN?” He nudged you. “Would you rather we get you a prince? A warlord? A great Dothraki warlord to carry you off on his horse and fuck you amongst the heathens?”

You rolled your eyes. “Don’t you dare suggest that to father,”

“Suggest what to father?” You turned to see your sister standing over you.

“Tyrion’s had the bright idea to whore me out to the Dothraki, seeing as you and father cannot find a suitor who doesn’t wear his arse as a cap,” you said, smirking. Cersei scrunched her nose up.

“He isn’t that desperate,” she said, sitting down with you, fussing over your gown.

“I beg to differ,” you said, batting her hands away. “Honestly, Cersei, I’ve just turned twenty two. Must you fuss over my dress like that?”

“Yes! We must be presentable. And you really ought to start wearing your hair up like mine,”

You snorted. “Cers, I have much better things to do than preening myself for hours on end,” you tucked your hair behind your ear. You did not favour the high hairstyles that your sister so often sported. You preferred to wear it down with simple plaits and discrete jewels for decoration.

“You need a husband, YN. You ought to have been wedded and bedded as soon as you bled,”

“I bled when I was twelve, Cersei,” you growled, sitting a little straighter, eyebrows knitted together in a deep frown.

“Our little sister wants to marry for love, Cersei,” Tyrion said quickly diffusing the situation, draining his cup. Cersei was about to argue when Joffrey spoke up.

“Aunt YN. Come,” you sighed, glaring at Cersei before pushing through the crowd to your nephew. You sunk into a slight curtsey, never going as low as you should.

“Your highness?” You said, looking him in the eye. He may be your king, but you were still his aunt.

“I’m bored. My dog here says he has never danced. I want to see him dance,” you flushed as the room went silent. Sandor stood staring straight ahead, and you swallowed.

“My lord?” You said, standing tall and staring him down.

“No man would allow his wife to dance with such a creature. But you have no man, do you, Aunt YN?” His lips curled into a sadistic smirk as you gritted your teeth.

“No, your highness,” you said stiffly.

“Hound. Dance with my Aunt YN. Perhaps you will scare here into wedding and bedding a lord,”

The room was silent. You flashed your eyes to your father briefly, but he was glaring at the King. Cersei has her lips pursed and Tyrion looked thunderous.

“Yes, my Lord,” you said sweetly, nodding slightly at Sandor.

“Play something!” The king demanded, clapping his hands and lounging in his throne. Sandor took your hand and you guided him into the proper dancing position. “Closer, Hound!” Joffrey snapped. “Show my court what a good little wife she would make,”

“Your majesty,” Tyrion said lowly, warningly.

“Quiet, uncle! Play!”

You took a deep breath as the music started, dancing the steps perfectly, the way you had learned since you were a little girl, while Sandor just stepped along, holding you. If the entire court wasn’t watching and Joffrey wasn’t demanding a circus performance, it would have been quite nice. Sandor’s jaw was tight as you danced, and he squeezed your hand and hip.

Joffrey clapped, laughing at his clever little performance that he had coordinated. The court began to laugh along nervously, and you shut your eyes, looking at your feet, unable to show Sandor how humiliated you felt. “Tell my court, Hound! Tell my court how she feels! Would she make a good wife? A good slut for a lord?”

“Enough!” You suddenly snapped, tugging away from sandor’s strong grip. The room suddenly descended into silence again as you turned to the court. “The King is tired!” You announced. “Ser Trant, Ser Moore, escort the king to his quarters, and ensure he eats his supper,” the king spluttered as the two kingsguards looked frantically to Cersei and Tywin. They nodded, and soon the king was escorted to his room like a spoilt child. “Play on,” you said, clapping your hands and smiling sweetly, gesturing for people to commence dancing. Tywin offered his hand to a highborn lady and soon others followed his lead. You stared up at Sandor with wide eyes.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, but he simply grabbed your hand and took you away from the dancing, sitting with you in an alcove, away from prying eyes.

Well, most of them.

“Father,” Tyrion said, smirking at his father and sister. “The next suitor shouldn’t be a Lord, or even a Ser,” he said, nodding over to the alcove, where you pressed a chaste kiss to the scarred side of sandor’s face. “I think we’ve solved the mystery as to why sweet YN has been impossible to court,”

Tag list : @diksy1112 @zodiyack @soleil-dor

[madpanda75]

“Taking Chances Part 9: Love, Tequila, and Ice Cream”

And we’re back!!!!! So to give you a brief recap, Rafael and the reader left the Carisi house in a huff after the reader gave Sonny “the slap heard around the world.” Find out what happens next in this latest chapter. Words are said, sexy times happen. It’s fluffy, smutty fun....for now 😉💕

NSFW: Sex by the fireplace! Can ya’ dig it??? 😜💥🔥

Rafael adjusted his grip on the steering wheel as he drove across the Verrazano Bridge. Occasionally he would glance over at you sitting in the passenger seat with your head down and your hands gently folded in your lap. 

Rafael cleared his throat. “So should we go to my place or yours?”

You grunted out a monotone syllable in response.

“Ok, your place it is,” he said with a sigh, turning on the blinker and making a right turn towards your apartment.

Once back at your place, you immediately went to the living room and started a fire. Your apartment may have been a shoebox, but the wood burning fireplace was a definite perk. When you first moved in, the notion of a struggling artist pouring her heart and soul onto the canvas beside a roaring fire seemed romantic and bohemian. 

While you stroked the flames to life, Rafael stood there with his hands in his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels. “Cold night, huh?” He inwardly cringed at having been reduced to commenting on the weather.

“Mmhmm,” you replied.

“Two syllables. That’s progress,” he thought. Maybe by the end of the night, you would utter an actual word. After several minutes of deafening silence, he made yet another feeble attempt at conversation. “Your mom is a wonderful cook.”

“Hmmm,” you grunted.

“That’s it. I can’t take it anymore.” Rafael crouched down next to you and took your face in his hands, forcing you to meet his gaze. Your eyes were still shiny with tears, your nose bright red. 

It was the first time since leaving your parents’ house that you had looked at him or even acknowledged his presence apart from the occasional mumble. “I know this afternoon was a complete disaster, but I can’t take this anymore. Please say something. Anything.”

Your bottom lip quivered before blurting out, “He cheated on me!” As soon as the words escaped your lips, you crumbled into a heap on the floor, sobbing. 

Rafael gathered you into his arms, running his hands through your hair, rocking back and forth. You clung to him, wetting his brand new Tom Ford dress shirt. But neither of you could care less. After all, he knew what it was like to be betrayed.  Once you calmed down, he asked, “So tequila or ice cream?” 

“Both,” you replied with a hiccup and a very loud unladylike sniffle.

Rafael got up and walked over to your kitchen to grab the bottle of Tequila Ocho Reposado you had hidden in your cupboard behind the cheap stuff before rummaging in your freezer for the pint of Haagen-Dazs’ Chocolate Chocolate Chip. He smiled when he saw the post-it note you had left on the frozen dessert.

“This ice cream is the personal property of Y/N Carisi. DO NOT TOUCH OR PREPARE TO MEET A VIOLENT SUDDEN DEATH!” 

He handed you a spoon and a glass. “Why do you have a death threat on your ice cream?” 

“Sometimes Teresa or Gina crash here after partying or a bad date. They’re notorious for stealing my secret stash of junk food.” You pulled the cork out of the tequila bottle with your teeth and drank straight from the bottle. 

Several smooth swigs of alcohol and an unfortunate brain freeze later, you and Rafael sat in front of the fire and swapped war stories. Although he had briefly mentioned being cheated on by his childhood ex-girlfriend, Yelina; tonight he shared more with you than he ever had with anyone. How heartbroken he was. The humiliation. How after such a betrayal he wondered if he ever could trust someone ever again. 

Likewise, you felt safe enough to stop skirting around the ex situation and finally tell the truth about Theo. “We were supposed to go to some bakery in Staten Island to sample cakes for our wedding, but Theo told me he wasn’t feeling well and asked if we could reschedule. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.” You snorted a laugh as you scraped the last bit of ice cream out of the container. “How stupid was I?”

“Hey, don’t talk about my girlfriend that way.” Rafael wiped away a spot of chocolate chocolate chip ice cream on the corner of your mouth with his thumb. 

“Later on that day, I came home with some ribollita and tea.”

“Ribollita?” 

“It’s an Italian bread and vegetable soup. My mom would make it for us whenever we’re sick or sad,” you explained. 

“When I walked inside, I saw a trail of clothes and heard a girl’s giggle coming from down the hall. I followed the sound, opened the bedroom door, and saw him with Lacey. The 21 year old bimbo who worked at the dry cleaners down the street,” you said in such a bitter tone that Rafael could feel the acerbic bite in his bones. Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned.

 “It had been going on for months. Apparently, she had been doing way more than spot treatments and pressing his pants. I dumped the soup on his 500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets, threw the ring at his forehead, and left. He never followed me. He never fought for us.” You shook your head and took another shot of tequila when your phone began to buzz and dance across the floor. It was your brother. Since leaving your parents’ house he had called ten times-- a new record for him.

Rafael watched as you shut off your phone and tossed it over to the couch. While Sonny was not his favorite person by any means, he knew how important your brother was to you. The last thing he wanted out of this relationship was to come between you and your family. Not only did he firmly believe they would despise him for it, but above all else he had a gnawing fear that you would resent him for driving that wedge. “You know, you’re going to have to talk to him eventually.”

You scoffed, “I never want to speak to Sonny again. I hate him.”

“That’s not true and you know it.”

You rolled your eyes. As usual Rafael was right, but that didn’t mean you had to give in and be the first person to offer an olive branch. Sonny was a colossal jerk and he needed to learn a lesson. 

“He’s just looking out for you,” Rafael continued. “In his own sick and twisted way.”

You arched a brow at your boyfriend. “So how much did you overhear when Sonny and I were in the kitchen?”

Rafael shrugged and averted his gaze, suddenly incredibly fascinated with the  pattern on your rug. “Not much. Snippets really.”

“So pretty much all of it?”

“Pretty much,” he confirmed. “Did...did you ever love him?” 

There was a pregnant pause before you responded. Rafael stared into the fire, watching the flames dance and flicker, unable to face you. Of course he already knew the answer was yes. You were a hopeless romantic. But the idea of you loving another man, planning a future with them, made his stomach knot up.

 “I thought I did once. But it was different. I can see that now.”

Rafael nodded thoughtfully and grabbed the ice cream carton and bottle of tequila to take back into the kitchen. “How so?” 

“Theo and I grew up together. We were childhood sweethearts. The only reason we got engaged is because that’s what people expected of us. It was the next step. But looking back, I realized I was complacent and complacency does not equal love.” 

You glanced over at a picture on the coffee table of you and Rafael. You had taken it one lazy Sunday morning in bed, Rafael was kissing your cheek, his bed head sticking out in all directions while you were laughing hysterically. What the picture didn’t capture was that he was tickling that one spot right under your ribcage. You smiled fondly at that happy moment frozen in time.  “Love should be scary. It’s taking chances. It’s thrilling. I never felt that with Theo. I feel all those things when I’m with you. I love you.”

Rafael walked back into the living room, completely stunned by your declaration. “What did you say?”

“I love you?” you said with a shrug, feeling a wave of nerves. Perhaps you had jumped the gun.

Rafael plopped down on the rug beside you. He had realized early on in the relationship that he loved you, but always chalked it up to indigestion and brushed his feelings aside. He never believed you would reciprocate so soon. “Are you sure?” He turned towards you and cupped your face. “This isn’t just the tequila and ice cream talking. You’re not drunk or on a raging sugar high?”

You giggled and mimicked his movements, cupping his cheeks. “I promise I am not under any influence of any kind. I love you, Rafael Barba. With every fiber of my being, I love you.” 

A tear slipped down your cheek which he brushed away. “I love you too.” He leaned forward and captured your lips with a kiss. Parting your mouth with his tongue, his touch was gentle yet commanding. Your toes were beginning to curl.

A heat crept up your body and you started to undo the top few buttons of your dress. Out of the corner of his eye, Rafael spied a flash of emerald green against your skin and stopped his ministrations.

“What’s the matter?” you asked out of breath.

He ignored your question and tugged your dress aside a little more, revealing the silk emerald green corset. The corset that you had taunted him with when you invited him to lunch on Sunday. The corset that he had envisioned ripping to shreds with his teeth.

You giggled and blushed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “With all the drama, I forgot I had this on.”

“You mean...you wore this to church?” 

You slowly nodded your head. “And to my parents’ house.”

Rafael was already rock hard, but now he was on the brink of coming in his pants at the mere thought of you wearing this sinful lingerie underneath your demure dress all day-- piously praying at St. Thomas; helping your mother with her marinara sauce in the kitchen. “Stand up so I can see you better,” he gruffly commanded.

You obeyed and slowly went back to the task of removing your dress. “Stop,” he said and replaced your hands with his. “Let me.”

Your heart was hammering in your chest at his request. A tiny whimper escaped your throat as he peeled your dress off. Rafael’s hands were trembling with each button. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen you naked before, but this time felt different. He was nervous. Locking eyes with you, he could see you were nervous too.

Once your clothes were shed, he drank you in from head to toe--from how that particular shade of green complimented your skin, to your hard nipples poking through the silk and lace, all the way down to the black thigh high stockings connected to your garters. “Eres perfecta,” he whispered, his eyes half-hooded with lust as he began to take off his clothes.

You grabbed his hands, effectively stopping him. “Allow me.” You arched your brow and began shedding layer after layer. You took your time, running your hands over his exposed flesh, feeling his firm muscles beneath your palms. 

Completely lost in the sensation of your fingertips against his skin, the clanging of his belt against the floor brought Rafael back to reality. His boxer briefs were the last to go. With a flirty snap of the elastic, you rid him of his underwear, his hardened cock springing free. He toed out of his socks and stepped towards you, nudging his clothes out of the way.

You stared at each other for a long moment-- your chests heaving, bodies pulsating. The tension between you both was electric. Not wanting to wait another second, you pressed yourself against Rafael, kissing him hard, nibbling on his bottom lip. He returned the kiss with vigor. You could feel his throbbing erection weeping onto your inner thigh, brushing against your lace-covered pussy.

In awe of this beautiful man in your arms, you began to work your way down his body, laying wet wanton kisses across his skin. “Oh Y/N, please,” he whimpered. Hearing him beg, you raked your teeth against his nipple, a particular sensitive spot for Rafael. He gasped in response. 

You smirked, reveling in the fact that you had reduced him to a begging, quivering mess. Kneeling before him, you took his cock in your hand and teasingly flicked your tongue against his slit.  

Rafael groaned at the sight of you looking up at him with big innocent eyes and a wide welcoming mouth. From this angle, he could see the way your garters rested on the luscious curve of your ass. 

You wrapped your lips around him, swirling around his crown as if you were sucking a lollipop, tracing every vein. 

Rafael threw his head back and groaned, “Ay Dios mío.”

His cock felt hot and heavy in your mouth, you relaxed your throat as you slowly swallowed him down, pushing his head past your tight ring of muscle. Your nose was tickled by his trimmed pubic hair. He held your head there for a moment, relishing in the sensation.

You smacked his ass and grabbed a handful of his flesh before pulling off him with a pop. “Fuck my mouth, mi amor,” you purred while stroking his length. “Don’t hold back. I want all of it.”

He wrapped his hand around your long locks and fed you his cock. “You naughty little girl,” he growled before thrusting. “Going to put that mouth of yours to good use.”

“Mmmhmm,” you moaned. Tears were running down your cheeks as you gagged around him, taking everything he had to give. You loved when Rafael got rough. You craved it. Giving him pleasure brought you pleasure.

One of your hands reached up to massage his balls while the other reached in between his legs, pressing down on that strip of skin between his cock and his ass. That was all it took for Rafael to come undone. His cock swelled and released. His warm seed splashing against your tongue. Rafael came so hard, he was practically bent in half, clutching the mantle, grunting over and over again. You sucked him dry, not stopping until he gently pulled you off his sensitive cock.

“Jesus Christ,” he chuckled. “You have a mouth like a vacuum cleaner.”

“Should I take that as a compliment?” you asked, wiping away some of your smudged lipstick.

“I nearly had a heart attack just now, what do you think?” He had an evil glint in his eye and took several steps towards causing you to scoot back. “I think I need to repay the favor. Don’t you?”

“Only if you insist.” You laid back down on the floor in your most seductive pose.

Rafael knelt down. “Oh believe me”-- he grabbed your legs and pulled you towards him causing you to squeal in surprise--“I insist.”

He ran his hands across your body, pressing against your form through the silk. Wanting to repay you for your earlier torment, Rafael took his time disrobing you--tugging at the laces of your corset, unsnapping your garters, peeling your stockings off. There wasn’t an inch of skin left unattended from the crown of your head down to the arches of your feet. 

You couldn’t catch your breath. “Payback is a bitch,” you thought as he sucked a mark onto your right hip. Rafael saved your thong for last, opting to tear it off you with his teeth. 

He parted your folds, revealing your glistening pink pearl, stroking your soft, wet, sex. You spread your legs wider, feeling his hot breath on your pussy, arching your hips toward him. He clucked in disapproval. “So impatient.” 

“Please,” you whimpered. “I need you.”

Unable to resist any longer (after all, he was only human), he began to worship your core. Offering his tongue as a prayer as he swirled around your lower lips and traced patterns on your clit.  

You grinded against him. “More,” you pleaded.

With a loud squelch, Rafael stopped and lifted his head. “You have such a perfect little pussy. I love it so much”--he playfully bit down on your inner thighs-- “and it’s all mine. Isn’t it?” With an intense, heated stare, he spit on your pussy. The sensation of his saliva on your swollen clit caused you to jump.

“Yes, it’s yours,” you wailed.

“That’s right,” he cooed while slowly making concentric circles on your bundle of nerves, watching how his spit mingled with your dripping juices. “And you’re gonna come all over my face, aren’t you?”

You arched your back and gasped. “Oh God, yes! Yes!

“Shhh, that’s my good girl,” he said with a smirk before devouring you once more. Your moans of “More” and “Don’t stop” spurred him on. 

With his mouth wrapped around your clit, he penetrated you with his fingers, stroking that spot deep within you that drove you insane. One crook of his finger had you coming with a shriek. 

Feeling your core pulse against his tongue as he fucked you through your orgasm unleashed something savage within him. He buried his face against you, groaning, his lips and chin completely coated in your arousal. Already hard from eating you out, he rutted against the rug, desperate for some relief.

His tongue was relentless while he fucked you with his fingers until he ripped another orgasm from you. By the third time you had come, you melted onto the floor. And yet you wanted more. With Rafael, it was never enough. 

You pushed him off you and straddled him, kissing him with such fierce passion he toppled back to the floor. “I want to show you how much I love your cock.” You nuzzled your nose with his before sitting up and dragging your center against his length. Hovering over his cock for a moment, you lowered yourself onto him. 

Rafael grabbed your hips to keep you in place as he rotated his pelvis, wanting you to feel every inch of his cock. Your whole body shuddered. Digging your nails into his chest, you began to rock against him. 

Rafael groaned, watching you fuck him. “Look down, querida. Look at how fucking sexy you look riding me.”

You followed his gaze down to where you were being impaled by him. Biting back a whimper, you experimentally flexed your muscles, squeezing against his cock. Rafael choked out a sob which only encouraged you to speed up your movements.

You lifted almost completely off him before slamming back down. 

Flames licked at your flesh as you continued to bounce on his cock. Rivulets of sweat dripped off of you, one drop running down your chest. Rafael sat up and caught it with his tongue, holding you close as he latched on to your nipple, suckling against the hardened bud before repeating his actions on your other breast.

Your bodies worked in tandem, pushing and pulling. You were reduced to a wild animal, clawing at Rafael. Red streaks covered his sweaty skin. He loved it, wanting nothing more than to be claimed by you, his own ethereal goddess.

“Rafael!” you cried out in a hoarse voice. He cut you off with a searing kiss.

“I love you,” he moaned against your lips.

“I love you too.” Tears began to run down your cheeks. Your heart was beating fast, blood pounding in your ears, pressure mounting. You were too far gone by this point. Can you die from pleasure? Oh...but what a way to go. 

He pulled back, forcing you to lock eyes with him. His eyebrows furrowed, mouth slack, panting and whimpering with every thrust. You pressed your forehead against his, your breaths mingling. This was beyond the physical. Your souls were melding, transforming one another. 

You simultaneously erupted, swallowing each other’s moans and grunts, stroking each other through your respective releases. When you finally floated back down to earth, you collapsed on the floor, your bodies still connected. 

“Holy shit,” you sighed.

“I know,” Rafael panted.

“If I knew saying ‘I love you’ would lead to mind blowing sex, I would’ve said it a whole lot earlier,” you teased. 

“I knew you were only after me for my body.” Rafael let out a breathless laugh and tickled that one spot on your side. Exhausted and not in any hurry to move, you both laid there as the fire weakened until only a few dull embers glowed.

You nestled against his chest, having never felt so happy. As cheesy and cliché as it sounded, you wish you could stay that way forever. That is until the events from earlier in the day came floating back into your mind. You had no idea what you were going to do with your family, especially Sonny. 

But that wasn’t a question for tonight. Right now you were perfectly content being wrapped up in your own little world. Just you and Rafael.

Tag List: @glimmerglittergirl​ @southern-magnolia​ @sweetcannolicarisi @delia26 @obfuscateyummy @sass-and-suspenders @eclecticminded @thatesqcrush @katmstanton @amirightcounsellor @beltzboys2015-blog @letty-o @sonnysdoll @lyssa1385 @sweetsummertime99 @burningsorr0ws @gibbs274 @izzythefanfreak @babypink224221 @livxrafa @esparza-army @obsessionprofessional @ottosuricato @mgarner1227 @dreila03 @tropes-and-tales @thecraziestcrayon @goodluckfindingone @scarletsoldierrr @youreverycolor @yeah-boiiiiiiiiiii @imagine-all-the-imagines @imjustreallynosy @graniairish @ashley-chi @lolacolaempath @cocomel0613 @imagine-all-the-imagines @mysterioustrashadventures @that-girl-named-alex @scapricciatello @mrsrafaelbarba @zizzlekwum @katierpblogg @crowleysqueenofhell @caked-crusader @garturbo

[pedros-mustache-main]

if you leave before the start (i)

summary: he’s your husband, but that doesn’t mean you have to be his wife.

word count: 7.7k+

series masterlist

chapter warnings: arranged marriage ceremony, unlikeable reader (y’all she is a straight up meanie!), alcohol, language, innuendo

glastonbury, somerset, england. 1840.

according to your father, it is a good match, a very good one indeed. 

he has wealth, status, a sizable estate. you have a healthy dowry and connections to parliament by virtue of your father. he will give you a safe life in the countryside, and you will provide him access to the inner-workings of government and an heir to carry on his family name. together, you will live in wedded bliss—no troubles, no worries to turn your hair gray, but perhaps the odd village scandal to keep things interesting.

really, you should be happy. dozens of your friends have gone to the marriage bed and found themselves sated by romance and fripperies. you are no different from say, sally, who met her intended the day of her wedding and wrote to you a week later that her husband proved to be a delightful man with amiable qualities. in all truth, you are merely one in a long line of women who have been pawned off to the highest bidder. you are not the first to meet such a fate, and you certainly won’t be the last. there is nothing unique about your situation. your father reminds you of such when you smash a chinoiserie vase to the floor at his pronouncement that yes, you are to be married to gwilym lee on the first of the month and you will be quiet about your rage.

god, you hate them both.

you’ve seen this gwilym lee only once, on the day of his meeting your father. you’d crouched at the top of the stairs, peering over the railing into the vestibule below where your father stood with mr. lee, shaking hands over the arrangement. from your vantage point, you could see mr. lee was tall and well-built, that he had a soft, genial face, and a well-trimmed beard peppering his jaw. when he’d laughed at your father’s joke—the timbre of his voice filling the hall—you’d risen to your feet, rushed to your room, and slammed the door behind you with enough force to ensure everyone in the house knew of your distaste for the matter.

insufferable prat. where did he find the nerve? entering your home, passing pleasantries with your father, all the while intending to steal you from the nest like a common viper? it makes your blood boil.

so much so that on your wedding day, stood before the mirror in your room, a cream gown pinching your waist and pearl-pins digging into your scalp, you want nothing more than to take ahold of the mirror and ram your knee into the glass, shattering the pane. you hate it; you hate every bit of this. and your father is sorely mistaken if he thinks you will go quietly.

you look magnificent, this you will concede. the gown your mother bought suits you well, though it is a tad demure for your taste. it’s silky to the touch, the short sleeves capped by an inch of lace. your back is held straight by the tightness of your corset, and the neckline exposes the crest of your shoulders. it’s simple—nothing compared to the gown rebecca wore on her wedding day—yet it should leave those in attendance breathless. you smirk as you glance over your shoulder, your eyes running over the cloth buttons decorating your spine and the swath of garment circling your feet. yes, though plain, it will do; you are the diamond which sparkles within the box, the true gift.

a knock sounds on the door of your bedroom, and you shoo your maidservant to answer the call.

“your mother, miss,” abby whispers.

you huff, twisting side to side as you smooth a hand over your stomach. is that a wrinkle? you frown as you pick at the fabric. “let her in.”

the door creaks as abby widens the opening, and your mother, with all her self-important and put on airs, sweeps into the room. she’s dressed in her statement color of purple, and a heavy necklace rests around her slender neck, the diamonds glittering in the light pouring through your bedroom window. she stands behind you, her delicate hands on your shoulders, her gaze shimmering with unshed tears.

“oh, my dear,” she says. “you look marvelous.”

you arch a brow in a silent challenge. “i know.”

if your mother sees the bait dangling before her, she does not rise to the occasion. she merely tightens her grip on your shoulders, the edges of her smile stiffening. “i’ve brought you something. an early wedding gift.” removing her hands from your shoulders, she motions to abby, who brings forward a square, velvet box. “this was my mother’s before me and her mother’s before her. now it is yours.”

abby opens the box to reveal a gold necklace within. the necklace chain is thin, the heart shaped locket at the end trimmed with yellow garnet stones. four small birthstones, each no bigger than the width of the nail on your pinky, rest in the center of the heart. 

“the birth stones of your family tree,” your mother says, noting the way your eyes linger on the colored stones. “i’ve added yours—sapphire—next to mine.”

emerald, aquamarine, ruby, sapphire. four women, four lives, four marriages arranged by money, position, and power. 

you wave your fingers in dismissal. “it’s gaudy, mother.”

in the reflection of the mirror, there is no mistaking your mother’s disappointment. it swallows her face like a shadow and erases the single spark of joy dancing around her irises. she looks down, fiddles with her fingers, and you are struck by her frailty in that moment. she’s haughty on her good days, a tyrant on her worst, but she’s never frail. you open your mouth, unsure of what will come out, but then you see her wedding ring and you look away.

“tell me, mother, since i am to be married in much the same fashion as you: will this gwilym insist on sleeping with the maid staff as your husband does?” her head lifts, fire lurking beneath her gaze. you narrow your stare. “when was the last time father laid his hand on you outside of the public eye?”

there’s a long pause as your mother considers you with her fire-laced eyes. you can feel the heat of her glower on the back of your neck, and you stand straighter. 

“i’m sorry i ever birthed you.” her voice is low, gravelly. 

you snort in amusement. “at least on this we can agree.”

she shakes her head, and a curl tightly wound against her scalp breaks free of its pin. “you will be a curse upon your husband. i am sorry for him.”

“i take that as a compliment. any man willing to all but purchase his bride deserves nothing but a wretched wife.”

turning, you lift a veil from the end of your bed. you hand it to abby and lower your knees to aid her in the process of pinning the veil to the crown of your head. once your veil is attached, abby slides a stem of baby’s breath behind each ear. you apply the finishing touches—pearl drop earrings, elbow-length gloves, a pair of silk heeled boots, a pale pink bow over the laces—then face your mother.

“well?” you spread your arms. “how do i look?”

your mother reaches out and brushes her fingers along the edge of your gloves. “like a dream.”

you tilt your head as you gather the train of your veil from the floor and shove it in abby’s waiting hands. “funny,” you say. “this feels a lot more like a nightmare.”

sidestepping your mother, you glance over your bedroom one last time then hurry down the stairs to the overcrowded foyer. as per your father’s request, the household staff have arranged themselves in two formations on either side of the room. it is unlikely you will return to this house after the marriage ceremony. you parents will come and visit you at mr. lee’s manor home, and you will never have the pleasure of darkening the halls of your childhood home again. thus, it is time to say goodbye and, loathe as you are to admit it, you feel a lump of emotion rise in your throat as you survey the faces you’ve seen slip from room to room or wait behind every corner your entire life.

your father stands before the door, already cloaked and ready with his top hat. he nods to the staff and then meets your gaze. he beams with pride, with pleasure, and you feel sick to your stomach.

“well, i dare say it is about time we made our way to the church.” his shoes clip against the marble floor as he crosses to your side. “you look a picture of a blushing bride, m’dear.” he offers is elbow, and you fit your hand in the curve of his arm.

with all the air of queen victoria on her way to marry prince albert, your father parades you down the foyer, his steps slow and regal. the servants on either side bow or curtsey in deference, the tops of their heads the last thing you shall ever see of the people who have been your confidants in moments of crisis and your playfriends in childhood. the air in your lungs feels hot, and something wet pricks the corners of your eyes.

it’s all slipping away before your very eyes—anything you once held dear—and you are powerless to stop it.

two footmen pull open the double doors, and sunlight streams into the hall, sparkling in its intensity. for a moment, you are blinded. you lift your hand to block out the sun, blinking against the pain lingering between your brows. 

“[y/n]?” your father must mistake the moment as sentimentality rather than pain. “do not cry, m’dear. you are on the threshold of a new life.”

you lower your hand and turn your face to him. he’s smiling, truly convinced of his goodness to you. he looks older than you remember. his beard is peppered with gray, his forehead wrinkled. when did he age so? when did you stop paying attention?

the weight of the universe presses in on your shoulders, and you wish for all the world that you could turn back time and be his little girl again, content to worship at his feet. but you are his jaded daughter now, on the precipice of ruin, and he is your condemner, not your savior.

“father, i—”

he cuts you off with a finger. “mr. lee is a good man, [y/n]. he will take care of you, of that i am sure.”

“but i—”

“no buts, daughter. what’s done is done.”

at his gentle prodding, you leave your childhood home and any girlish notions of love behind.

your walk down the center aisle of saint peter’s church feels much the same as your walk down the foyer of your once-beloved home. guests stand on either side, wide skirts and tailored suits smooshed in the narrow pews. your footfalls echo in the cold chamber. it’s a steady beat, unlike the rapid tempo of your heart. beside you, your father radiates all the joy you should be feeling as the bride, so you feel no compunction to paste a smile on your face. he’s happy enough for the both of you. 

the only difference between your walk down the aisle and your walk down the foyer is what lies at the end. 

at home, there had been sunlight. it blinded you, yes, but it was warm and comforting against your frozen skin. it reminded you for the briefest of moments that the sun continues to rise on the darkest days. perhaps, you’d thought, at the end of the tunnel, there is hope for you yet...

here, between the gray stone walls of the church, there is a man waiting for you at the end of your journey. the sight of him��tall and effortlessly handsome—grinds that sliver of hope to a pulp. you’ve never hated anyone more, and your future stretches out before you in a chasm of disappointment.

it’s hard to focus when your father kisses your cheek and hands you off to gwilym. the blood rushing to your ears is loud, and it clogs the rest of your senses. you can barely breathe, so stunned by the turn of events that has brought your existence to this. the hatbox of girlhood fripperies that is shoved beneath your bed—full of ribbons and wedding announcements and dried flowers from the garden, each an image of the life you thought you would lead—withers to dust in the back of your mind. it is replaced by a steel trap, and when gwilym places his warm palm in yours, you lock your heart deep within the trap’s depths. you resolve then and there that no man shall move you—not one.

you cannot seem to tear your eyes from gwilym’s profile as the priest begins his droning. you knew gwilym to be handsome in the brief glance you’d stolen from the top of the stairs, but he is unnervingly good looking up close. from the vantage point of any of the wedding guests, you’re sure you look like a besotted fiancé, but your scrutiny runs deeper than mere appreciation. it confounds you. how could a man such as this one, with his grecian face and soft eyes and curved mouth, resort to a bride package? surely he has a handful of paramours eager to be in your position. he could have his pick of the litter.

but then you remember: you are more than a bride. you are an open invitation to a seat in parliament and an untainted womb and pretty piece to hang off his arm. disgust roils in your stomach, and you finally look away.

a low bench digs against the flesh of your knees when you kneel to take the lord’s supper. you open your mouth, accept the thin wafer and the wine, and snap your jaw closed. gwilym has the audacity to reach for your hand and squeeze your fingers while the priest recites a blessing. without sparing him a glance, you pull your hand away, thankful for the layer of fabric that kept his skin from touching yours.

during the vows, you meet his gaze. you’ve never seen eyes so blue. they look like the english sea, pale and dark and churning with foam and still all at once. you move your stare to the center of his forehead and repeat the vows when you hear your mother roughly clear her throat after you hesitate too long. you trip over the word obey and sneer at the idea of life with gwilym until death.

it’s the pronouncement of a kiss that hurtles your attention forward. the blood pumping in your ears drains; the buzz of frustration at the back of your head fades; and all is silent. 

“gwilym, you may kiss your bride.”

gwilym looks between your eyes as if he’s considering. you narrow your stare on a challenge, and something flickers across his face. frustration? disappointment? you cannot tell.

when he leans forward, you stiffen and move your chin a fraction to the right out of impulse. he hesitates, then, and you can feel his breath fan the side of your face. your eyes flutter shut; you grit your teeth.

his mouth lands on the corner of yours, nothing but a brief touch to signal two souls becoming one. to you, it feels like a slap to the face. unbidden tears rise to your eyes. you choke them back when gwilym turns you to face the wedding guests. you know less than half the people in attendance, your family being smaller than his, and the unfamiliar faces smiling back at you needles the anger simmering below the surface.

how dare they all turn out in their most resplendent gowns and pressed suits and grin and clap as if this wedding were more than a sham! how dare they congratulate gwilym when he ushers you down the aisle as if you were no more than a prized hog won at the county bazar!

you hate him. you hate him. you hate him.

there is no time to make your hatred known as your mother comes to sweep you along to the wedding breakfast. she tears you from gwilym’s side before you can share a single word with your new spouse, and she tucks you close in the carriage bound for hiraeth manor. 

her breath is warm against the side of your face, and her fingers adjust a loose strand of hair slipped from the chignon at the base of your head. her motherly doting, so out of character, threatens to break you entirely, fraught with emotion as you are, so you turn your head to face the window. the somserset landscape hurtles by, the rolling hills and towering trees, and you bite hard on your lower lip to keep the tears at bay.

“you shall be ever so pleased with life at hiraeth, [y/n],” your mother says. “your father is not without his wealth and position, but the lee family? goodness, they put us to shame.” she reaches for your hand and curls it between both of her palms. “you will have hiraeth to run, of course, and then the townhome in bath and forty-five thousand a year? you will want for nothing, daughter.”

you say nothing. you keep your gaze trained on the countryside, your stomach weak with the jostling of the carriage.

“i do wonder if i have trained you well enough for the job of running a household. hiraeth is larger than whitemarsh, to be sure, but—”

“mother.” you blink and remove your hand from her grasp. “stop talking.”

she is quiet a moment before whispering, her voice edged with thinly-veiled anger, “[y/n], I know we shared our own disagreements this morning but you are my daughter and i am pleased for you. you would do well to recognize what an opportunity your father has given you in this match.”

you do not hesitate in a biting retort. “the moment you allowed father to barter me off in exchange for a bump in position i ceased being your daughter. i am my husband’s wife now.”

“continue with an attitude like that and you will be a cuckolded wife, left alone to wither while the world continues to turn.” your mother’s nostrils flare. “you are lucky mr. lee is of a forgiving nature. any other man would have your tongue snipped after hearing such insolence.”

“i wouldn’t know about mr. lee’s character, mother. I have yet to exchange pleasantries with my husband.”

your mother falls silent, and her skirts rustle as she scoots away on the padded bench. the movement, small as it is in the cramped interior of the carriage, sends a sharp pain through your heart. you clear your throat to swallow a sob. 

you will not cry—not now, not ever.

but truly you want to cry. you want to curl your head in her lap and release the tears you’ve been tamping down since your father told you of the match. you want her to stroke your hair and tell you it will be alright, that you’ll be alright. you want her to tell you that she’s sorry.

she’s not sorry, and she would never cradle you. she did not swaddle you in her arms as a babe; she won’t start now.

the carriage takes a sharp turn, sending you lurching against your mother’s side. you grunt with the effort it takes to reposition and disentangle yourself from your mother. she fusses with her now-wrinkled skirts and tuts under her tongue about proper decorum, but you’re not listening. you’re too busy leaning forward, your head knocking against the window pane as hiraeth manor comes into view.

“fuck me,” you breathe, throat gone dry in surprise.

your mother give an unladylike snort of derision. “yes, i’m sure he will—eventually.”

hiraeth makes whitemarsh, an altogether stately and proud manor home, look like a factory worker’s hovel. it is large, sprawling over the hilltop on which it overlooks rolling meadows on all sides. the tan facade glitters in the reflecting pool at the base of the hill, and an ancient willow’s dangling limbs skim the water’s surface. you shrink back against the bench as the manor draws closer. it seems to grow with each moment, new wings and additions sprouting before your very eyes. all this—yours to manage. the task is a formidable one, and your mother must know she has not prepared you for something like this.

the carriage rumbles over a cobblestone drive edged with flowering shrubs and rolls to stop in a circular receiving area. a nondescript footman unlatches the carriage door, and you tumble into the fresh air. you try not to gape, really you do, but it’s hard when such an estate looms before you. if your husband will not swallow you, make you insignificant in your own right, then this house surely will.

an arched door tucked in the corner of the courtyard opens on a heavy creak. you turn to see a short girl exit the home, followed by a wiry woman. the girl drops to a curtsey, her pale cheeks flushed.

“welcome to hiraeth, miss,” she says, a heavy lisp on her tongue.

“mrs. lee, how wonderful it is to finally welcome you to hiraerth!” the wiry woman stretches out her arms to take your hands. her sculpted face pulls into an eager smile, and you resist the urge to lower your defenses. “my name is mrs. brown and i’m the housekeeper here. this is angelica, your personal maid. we thought we’d be the first to greet you before escorting you to the breakfast. everyone is already here and waiting in great anticipation of your arrival.”

you look between mrs. brown and angelica, gauging their sincerity, before motioning to your mother. “we were held up briefly. my mother gets ever so sick on these winding roads.”

“[y/n],” your mother hisses.

mrs. brown gives an uncomfortable sort of chuckle as she looks over your mother’s pinched face then takes your elbow in hand. “no matter, no matter. you can follow me to the breakfast hall. there’s no time to freshen up now, but angelica will show you to your rooms as soon as she has the chance.”

you bristle at the idea of a room set aside solely for eating breakfast, but as mrs. brown guides you through the winding halls of hiraeth, the idea make more sense with each hallway and room you pass. it’s clear mr. lee has more space than with which he knows what to do. a breakfast room indeed.

the room in question is not far off from the entryway of hiraeth. there’s little chance to take in your new surroundings, so you set your jaw and square your shoulders as mrs. brown opens the door of the breakfast room. you step across the threshold, your mother close behind, and hold your breath.

you meet his eyes—gwilym’s—before anyone else’s. he sits in the middle of the arrangement of tables, an empty seat by his side. you glance at the chair to his right then at the other empty space at the far end of the room. the four tables are arranged in a sort of a square and, if you look the empty spot furthest away from gwilym, you’d be fortunate enough to neither hear his voice or see his face. a towering bouquet of flowers sits in the center of the table, and that spot has a particularly nice view of the white roses. you make to take the spot with the view of the flowers, intent on letting everyone in attendance know your feelings on the matter, but your mother beats you to it.

the bitch.

with a huff, you curl your hands to fists and all but stomp to the only remaining seat. the room is quiet, heavy with anticipation as you drop to the chair. your arms itch to fold themselves over your chest, but you are wise enough to resist. though you will not mask your anger, you will tamp it down to a degree. it wouldn’t do to wake up tomorrow and see your name in the gossip columns. that would be a dreadful start to a life in a higher societal position.

beside you, gwilym openly runs his eyes over your profile. you can feel him study you, but you do not flinch beneath his inspection. you keep your eyes on the centerpiece and drum your fingers on the tablecloth.

rising to his feet, gwilym picks up a glass chalice and lifts it. “my friends, i am very glad to be sharing this morning with you all. since the passing of my mother, hiraeth has been without a mistress, and it brings me great happiness to finally have a wife of my own who can fill this house with as much joy as my mother once did.” he twists to look down at you and settles his hand on your shoulder.

you look up, frozen under his touch. his palm envelopes the entirety of your shoulder. his gaze is soft, much to your surprise. as it was for those brief moments in the church, he looks at you only with tenderness; perhaps even pity. there is nothing angry about his eyes; it seems it might be impossible for his face to be anything but mellow. you harden your stare.

“[y/n]”—your name in his mouth. you want him to wipe his tongue and promise never to speak it again.—“welcome to hiraeth. from all of us to you, i truly hope you will be happy here.”

you blink, your mouth parting when he sits and motions for the covered platters around the table to be uncovered. leaning forward, you lower your voice and speak to him for the first time without the aid of a wedding script.

“i’m sorry,” you whisper. “all of us to you?”

gwilym thanks the man sitting to this left when he is passed a tray of eggs. he scoops some onto his plate then offers the platter to you. “would you like some?”

“uh—yes, yes—i suppose.” he drops of pile of fluffy eggs onto the cream china then passes the platter to the woman on your right, who you belatedly realize is none other than mrs. brown. you scoff and whirl to face your husband. “mr. lee, are we eating with the hired help?”

the fork that’s halfway to his mouth pauses, and his brow pinches in a confused frown. out of the corner of his eye, he looks at you. “is it wrong to celebrate nuptials with one’s staff?”

you sputter. the linen napkin in your hand bunches in your fist. “yes!” your voice is too loud for the gentle and amiable air of the room, but no one makes a move to correct you. they wouldn’t dare. “wedding breakfasts are for family and friends, mr. lee, not servants and scullery maids!”

gwilym swallows the food in his mouth and shrugs. “this is my family, [y/n]. i am celebrating—forgive me, we are celebrating with our family.”

you must look ridiculous, your forehead wrinkled with a frown and eyes narrowed in disbelief and mouth agape, because gwilym laughs and points to your plate with his utensil. 

“eat your food, wife, before it gets cold. you will come to understand how hiraeth runs in due time. if it eases your anxiety,” he adds, “we will celebrate with my friends in the coming week in bath. that is the celebration you are anticipating, i’m sure.”

he returns to his conversation with the man—the butler or valet or hallboy—at his side, effectively dismissing both your outrage and your petty insolence with nothing but a gentle reprimand. 

you hate him.

you do not eat your breakfast. you sit with your hands fisted in your lap and your jaw set hard. across the table your mother purses her lips and looks pointedly at your plate. you turn your gaze away.

gwilym must truly be a nincompoop if he believes you will simper and bat your eyelashes and allow him to treat the staff as family simply because he is your husband. never have you heard of such a foolish sentiment. there is a clear boundary between staff and family never to be blurred. 

your skin itches, and you long for a hot bath.

as breakfast continues around you, you survey the room. the eggshell blue walls stretch to meet a high ceiling, the trim around the border a bright white. you catch a glimpse of yourself in one of the gilded mirrors hanging between a pair of large windows. you look sour, like an over-ripe lemon on child’s tongue. 

the breakfast concludes some time later when the kitchen maids rise from their places to return to their duties. a skinny girl with glittering eyes takes your plate still laden with food. her voice is airy when she speaks.

“did you not like the breakfast, ma’am?” she balances your plate on her forearm, another stacked along the inside of her elbow. her cheeks flush when she moves to take gwilym’s empty plate and he smiles at her.

gwilym answers for you. “of course she did, gildy. what’s not to like when you and mrs. cliff are at the helm? mrs. lee is simply overwhelmed by the talent you possess. she confessed that all your sweets were nearly too delectable, she could hardly take another.”

sucking in her lower lip, gildy beams at the scuffed toes of her boots. “thank you, sir.” she bops a curtsey before scurrying through a side door.

you flash gwilym a harsh look. “i can answer for myself, sir.”

“i would prefer you answer with a modicum of kindness.” he nods his head to the side in consideration. “i’m not altogether sure that’s possible, so i thought i would save gildy the heartache.” he drops his napkin to the table and stands, offering you his hand. “come—would you like to see your rooms?”

spare gildy the heartache? he did no such thing for you when he agreed to taking—no, stealing—your hand in marriage.

you leave his hand hanging midair when you stand, adjusting the bustle of skirts around your legs. “i would, yes,” you say. “it’s been a trying morning, and i’d enjoy some silence and a bath so i can rid myself of the filth eking through my body.”

the jab does not land where you intended as gwilym merely laughs at your discontent. his laugh is loud, startling in the now-quiet breakfast room. he reaches for your arm and fits your hand in the curve of his elbow, patting your still-gloved fingers with his.

“your father said you were a spitfire,” he says, shaking his head in his amusement. “i see now he was not mistaken.”

at the arched doorway through which you entered, you bid your parents a hasty farewell. it is not an overdone affair—no tears, no final embraces. the days where you held your mother’s hand or clung to your father’s leg have long since passed. you merely wave them off with an upward tilt of your chin and a half-hearted promise to write before the yuletide. gwilym makes no comment on the stilted air between yourself and your parents. perhaps he knows you would stamp on his foot the moment a question slipped beyond his pretty mouth. you’re not entirely above stamping on his foot just for the sake of it. you resist the urge, however, knowing there’s bound to be a maidservant or hallboy lurking around the corner, waiting for a drip of juicy gossip to bring back to the servant’s quarters. you’ve already given them enough fodder for one day with your behavior at breakfast.

once your parents are securely in their carriage and enroute home, gwilym tugs you further into the manor. “come, your rooms are this way.”

you say nothing, question nothing, about separate bedrooms. it is a relief, in all truth, though you wonder if he will darken your doorway come the evening. your throat clenches. you pray to all the saints he will keep his grimy hands to himself or you’ll do more damage than a crushed foot.

you pull your hand from the crook of his arm as he guides you, preferring to keep your hands clasped behind your back as you walk. gwilym pauses in his explanation of the home’s original construction. he goes so far as to stop walking, and you pass him before realizing he is not by your side. in the wide hallway—one side boasting an array of polished windows, the other decorated with marble busts of his family tree—he blinks at you.

“you don’t like me very much, do you?”

you have to laugh. the sound resounds in the empty hallway, and you toss your head back in a fit of amusement. “goodness, you’re slow, aren’t you?”

he frowns, the first inkling he may possess anything other than an easy-going nature if pushed. “what is it i’ve done to offend you?”

you gawp and try to keep yourself from falling to the floor in surprise. “you must be joking, surely.”

shaking his head, a line forms between his brow. “no. i don’t understand why you are so cross.”

you turn your face away for a moment, inhaling slowly. you cross to the wall of windows and count to ten. the grounds of hiraeth are lovely—forest green grass, neatly-trimmed hedges. far as the eye can see is yours. in the span of one morning, you have gone from moderately wealthy to blessed beyond your wildest imaginations. your husband is handsome and thus far been nothing but considerate of you. it could be worse. and yet, somehow you feel as if you are the only woman who has been made to suffer a fate such as this.

you turn slowly on your foot and meet his gaze. he’s patient, you’ll give him that. he simply stares at you, waiting for some sort of explanation.

you decide to give him one.

your jaw tightens as long-neglected rage begins to boil in your stomach, and you draw in a deep breath before unleashing your indignation in a measured, even tone that fills the hall with its power.

“i am cross, sir, because i believe you to be a viper. you have stolen me from my comfort of my mother’s nest, and i fully anticipate you swallowing me whole. you are no better than the scottish barbarians who kidnap their brides and hide them away in the countryside. you are a thief and a coward, evidently unwilling—or perhaps unable—to woo his own choice of woman. i did not even have the pleasure of seeing your backside before being made your wife, and for that offense, i will never forgive you. marriage is meant to join two people who at least have been made somewhat acquainted before the ordeal. our marriage is a sham and an offense before god. so, you’re right—i don’t like you very much.”

it pleases you to see him so pale, so undone by your words. his chiseled jaw scrapes the floor, and a flush breaks out on his cheeks. you smirk in triumph.

at the sight of a maid inching along the wall at the far end of the hall, you hold up your arm and snap for her attention. “oh! girl!”

you hasten away from your husband, leaving him in the wake of your outburst. your skirts swish along the waxed, hardwood floor, and you meet the maid halfway down the hall. she stares at you with wide eyes, fear lurking beneath the surface. she must have heard. you’ve never felt more powerful.

linking your arm tightly around hers, you cast a look over your shoulder. gwilym’s hands have turned to fists. “my husband and i are finished speaking,” you say, your voice loud enough for him to hear every inflection. “show me to my rooms, won’t you?”

the following week is a rush of gown fittings, growing accustomed to the running of hiraeth, and attempting to make your husband’s life miserable.

the gowns are meant to fill your wardrobe for the social season. you arrived with a handful of dresses, yes, but with a home in bath, it is likely that you will spend a significant amount of time at dinner parties or galas. so tuesday afternoon, the day after the wedding, you are presented with an array of fabric and fashion sketches. from your place on the fitting stool, you glance over the options and pick your favorites: the teal blue which will come with an embroidered bodice; the scarlet red with lace-fringed sleeves; the dark green which will host tiered-layers cascading to the floor. it’s a hefty bill, but your husband has money enough to spend on four separate wardrobes if you so choose.

wednesday morning, mrs. brown insists you take a tour of the lower floors and accustom yourself with directing the maid and kitchen staff. you begrudgingly follow her and offer tight-lipped smiles to the flushed and nervous faces staring back at you. you truly could care less about the goings-on downstairs; that was always your mother’s job. but your mother isn’t here, and it’s up to you to preside over the well-being of the household staff. there’s so many of them, you wonder if gwilym will have annulled your marriage before you have the chance to commit all their names to memory. you can certainly pray that will be the case.

throughout the week, you revel in spurning gwilym’s kindness. you avoid him, mostly, choosing to take your breakfast in bed and your afternoon tea in the garden. you suffer through dinner with him, sat across from him at the end of a long table. you ignore his polite comments and questions and simply focus on eating your food. when he leaves a gift outside your bedroom door—a single white rose and a newly printed copy of a novel he thinks you might enjoy—you simply turn up your brow and send it back to his office. he invites you to ride about the grounds with him, and you scoff at the idea, turning on your heel and waltzing down the hall without a fare-thee-well.

to his credit, he does not shout, does not so much as grit his teeth. he bears it all with grace and composure, and that’s what frustrates you the most. you wish he would shout. you wish he would tell you to grow up and act your age. something—anything—other than the saccharine care with which he treats you. a snake with manners, it seems.

on friday morning he catches you in the breakfast room. you openly sigh when he enters, setting down your knife and reaching for your cup of tea.

“i thought you had gone,” you say, your gaze trained on your reflection in the mirror across the room. your skin is clear, your hair piled atop your head in a mess of artfully arranged curls and pins. you tilt your head to the side. hm, you really are a sight to behold when done up well. your husband is blessed.

the husband in question drops to a seat opposite you, and, for a brief moment, you note the way his waistcoat fits snug against his broad chest. you look away. “no, actually. i was hoping to steal a moment of your time this morning.”

“you’ve done a lot of stealing from me already, mr. lee.” you slide your gaze to him, challenging. “are you sure you want to continue down this path of thievery?”

as you anticipated, he does not rise to the occasion. he actually smiles and shakes his head in amusement, the knob. you roll your eyes. “your tongue does not quit. it truly amazes me.”

“i’ll have to increase my efforts to anger you, then.”

he smirks, continuing to spread butter across his piece of bread. “there is a party this evening,” he says, catching you off guard with his change of topic. “i don’t know if you recall me mentioning it, but my friends in bath are throwing the two of us a wedding party. we’ll be leaving late this morning in order to arrive before nightfall.”

“oh, that’s a shame.” you place your teacup on its saucer, pat the corner of your mouth with your napkin, then meet his eyes, yours round with innocence. “i’m afraid i can’t attend.”

he pulls an incredulous face. “it’s not an option, [y/n]. my friends are most eager to meet you, and they’ve worked very hard at making this party something you and i will both enjoy.”

a heavy moment of silence passes. you smooth your hand across the tablecloth and smile sweetly, lifting your gaze from beneath your lashes.

“i understand that, mr. lee, and i am sure your friends are lovely people. however, i simply cannot attend.”

his knife hits his plate with a bit more effort than is necessary. you bite your lower lip to keep from smiling in triumph.

“why ever not?” he asks. there is an edge to his voice; it’s slight, but it’s there. your heart lifts with glee.

you shrug, and your earrings sway against your neck with the movement. “well, i just don’t want to.”

gwilym sputters, and his hands clench on the table. inhaling deeply, he holds your gaze, and a muscle ticks on the side of his jaw. if you weren’t so intent on hating the man, you might find his anger thrilling.

instead of shouting, gwilym rises from the table and gently pushes his chair in. he clears his throat and drums a finger along the chair back before saying, “we leave at eleven o’clock, [y/n]. please be ready.”

you bat your eyelashes and take a bite of a pastry, grinning, giving him no promises.

at ten-forty-five you are dressed, but have no intention of joining gwilym on the trip to bath. instead, you study yourself in the floor-length mirror in your dressing room. much to your surprise, one of the gowns recently drawn up had arrived the night before, and after taking breakfast, you’d grabbed angel and had her help you into the dress.

you sway back and forth before the mirror. a wine red, the light catches in the folds of the skirt and the ruching over your chest. a pearl pendant rests in the middle of your breastbone, a teardrop pearl dangling from the pendant itself.

“don’t you like it, angel?” you ask.

from behind you, hands clasped before her waist, angel nods in earnest. “oh yes, mum! you look like a goddess.”

“i do, don’t i?” you pout and turn to face her. “shame about not going to the party. who will see me look so splendid?”

before angel can answer, your dressing room door bursts open. you gasp, whirling to face the storm cloud of a man in the doorway.

“gwilym!” you hold a hand against your heaving chest. “you mustn’t scare me like that!”

he looks well, dressed in a crisp suit complete with black tailcoat and trousers and deep green waistcoat. he wears no tie of any sort, though a gold pocket watch chain hangs from his waistcoat pocket. despite his arranged clothing, his demeanor is decidedly less put together. his face is splotchy with an angry flush, his eyes boring holes into yours.

“goodness, what has gotten you into a tiff, husband?”

his nostrils flare. “i told you to be ready by eleven.”

“and i told you i am not going. did you not hear me?”

“i told you it wasn’t an option.”

you sigh and level him an unamused stare. “i am ever so tired of people making decisions for me.”

“we are going—together—to bath.”

you glance down at yourself and lift your arms in defeat. “i’m not dressed for the occasion, so i shan’t keep you and make you late.”

gwilym’s eyes dart to angel then back to you. he seems to be weighing his options, whether or not giving in is worth it. he runs his hands around the brim of his hat, his eyes narrowing in thought. finally, he seems to make up his mind. he pops his hat on and just when you’re ready to wave at his retreating back, he stalks into the room and loops his arms around your waist. you screech when he lifts you, throwing you over his shoulder as if you weigh no more than a feather.

mortification and seething anger crashes over you in rush. the feeling is hot, like boiling water beneath your skin. “unhand me, you villain!” you beat your fists against his muscular back.

he says nothing.

“i swear to you, gwilym lee, if you do not put me down this instance, i will scream!”

again, he says nothing. he walks toward the waiting carriage, the hallways and rooms in which you could seek shelter whizzing past you with the speed of his gait. you kick your legs out like a donkey, attempting to connect with something which might impede his progress.

nothing helps.

the outside air is cool against your hot skin, and you fight him all the way—all arms and legs and nails against whatever flesh you can find—until he deposits you in the plush interior of the carriage. he slams the door in your face, adjusts his crumbled waistcoat, and rounds the carriage to the other side. once seated beside you, his breathing labored and jaw tight, he taps the roof of the vehicle.

“onward, smith!” unlike his breathing, his voice is steady, and you want nothing more than to reach across and tear his windpipe out of his throat.

powerless to stop it, the carriage begins its journey toward bath.

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