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bluebellhairpin · 3 months

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Katsuki Bakugou X Secretary!Reader

Summary: Working as the secretary to the famous designer Katsuki Bakugou hasn't been easy - however you find out you have it easier than most. Soon after that, you find out why.

Warnings: 18+ MINORS DNI. Power Dynamic (VERY inappropriate boss/employee relationship). Swearing. Smidge of making-out. Bakugou probably gives off manipulative yandere vibes. Reader; wears a skirt, is called 'baby', otherwise is g/n (unless I've missed something T-T).

Listening to: 'Donatella' by Lady Gaga - "I wanna dress you up in silk taffeta, tailor these clothes to fit your guilt, what's your size?"

Masterlist || Ko-Fi || Art inspired by the fic

The Bakugou brand was known all over the world. From Gucci to Balenciaga, Bakugou was a name everyone in the fashion industry respected - and when it came to the man behind it all, it was also a name to be feared.

Katsuki Bakugou, with his grown wealth, fame, and the power that went with them, was practically a god on earth.

You were the one lucky (or pitied) person chosen to work closely with him. A secretarial assistant job to none other than the man himself was a job so many people would die for. It was also a job many before you had almost died while enduring. No one had lasted longer than a year. It barely took a week for you to figure out why.

Katsuki wasn’t just a diva, or a bitch (although he certainly was those things too) - he was the devil in Christopher Goodyear Welt’s.

By three months working under the blond tyrant, you had decided your life could be worse. You weren’t sure why all his previous assistants weren’t able to handle it - not until you walked into work this morning.

Katsuki was already in his office - a situation you hadn’t come across yet since he had a strict nine-to-five schedule he adored - and was practically roaring at someone down the receiver of his landline. He had a temper on him, sure - he was as famous for it as he was for his designs - but you’d yet to see him quite this angry before.

“You wouldn’t know corduroy if you spent your nine months in the womb with it!” you heard as you set your bag aside and hooked your coat up. “Get me Eijirou you shitty prick!”

You settled at your desk, eying his shadow through the frosted glass as he paced back and forth as you powered on your computer. Your eyes flickered down to the phone on your desk - if you picked it up you’d be able to hear the person on the other end - however if Katsuki caught you eavesdropping more than you already where (not that you had much of a choice right now) you would be in a whole new world of trouble.

“Put me on hold, I dare you.” Was the final thing Katsuki said before slamming the phone back down. It became eerily quiet. You barely dared to breathe.

Hearing his footfalls softly stalk across the carpet of his office, you tucked your head down and opened a random email to look busy.

“Where the fuck have you been all morning?” Your eyes rose to meet his vermilion ones. He had on that black button down that made his shoulders seem extra wide. For a moment words failed you - but you kicked your brain into gear quickly.

“Sir, it’s only eight thirty?”

“I’ve needed you here since six.” he said, leaning forward with a hand sprawled across your desk, looming over you in a way you had become quite accustomed to, and sending a dizzying waft of his cologne in your direction.

“I was very unaware of that,” you said, almost apologizing, but then thinking otherwise. You had been learning quickly the things Katsuki liked people saying, and the things he liked less so. “What can I do now?”

“Absolutely fucking nothing. You’re useless now.” he leant back, waving you off and sighing. “I need a coffee.” he said, turning on his heel back into the office.

“Useless my ass - who else gets you coffee?” you mumbled, quickly clicking through the email so you didn’t forget to later. Katsuki could be an absolute bitch, but at least he hadn’t yelled at you specifically - yet.

The little kitchenette across from your desk made coffee runs very easy - the only issue was that it still took a while. No instant or pod coffee’s for the great Katsuki.

Ten minutes later and you were pushing the door to Katsuki’s office open with one hand full of cayenne pepper infused coffee, and the other holding the latest Vogue magazine that had just been dropped at your desk.

You wordlessly placed the coffee on a coaster, and the magazine went from the table into his hands before you could even put it on the table. He likewise silently started flicking through the pages - but you had things to talk about.��

“What was the issue this morning?” You asked, straight to the point. He didn’t look up at you when he answered, instead stayed focused on the pages as he fingered through them.

“Some extra who can’t get his head out of the twentieth century.” He said, taking a large mouthful of his drink. If he liked it he’d say nothing - often the only time he gave his opinion on things was when he didn’t like something. “He won’t call back.”

“They always do.” You said, standing firm until you had the answers you sought - coming back to ask the same thing twice was such a hassle for the both of you. “I’d appreciate knowing what to say when he does.”

“I don’t care,” he said, flicking the magazine down in exasperation to look up at you with a heatless scowl. “If it’s Eijirou you can patch him through, everyone else is a complete waste of time.”

Your eyebrows raised in something akin to surrender as your hands smoothed down the fabric of your skirt.

“Don’t forget your meeting with the seamstresses after lunch.” You said, then left to return to answering your emails and phone calls.

You always took your lunches with Hanta - a seamster two floors below Katsuki’s office. You found him extremely chill after having to deal with your whirlwind of a boss. He was like your lifeline - better yet, he could keep secrets like it was nobody’s business.

“I walked in this morning and I swear the glass for the whole floor was rattling.” you said, looking down into your cup of canteen-supplied orange juice. “If I wasn’t so sure he wasn’t going to hurt me I’d probably quit.”

“You know I’m like ninety percent sure you’re his favorite.” Hanta said. Your eyes shot up to his, but he wasn’t looking at you.

“I doubt that would be hard,” you said slowly, “His past secretaries sounded super incompetent for a job this fast-paced.”

“No, not just a secretary, but a person. I think your his favorite person in the whole world.” he said, tucking a stray hair behind his ear. “He can scream at me, hell he’s thrown punches at Kirishima, and he’s Kirishima - you though? He acts like you’re porcelain.”

You felt your face scrunch up into a frown, and a huge smile cracked over Hanta’s face. “I can see why he likes you - you look just as scary as him when you make that face.”

“Hanta Sero, you take that back!” You said, voice almost too shrill besides the hum of the lunchtime cafeteria rush.

“I will do no such thing,” he said, leaning back in his chair, and crossing his arms and legs in a slow, cat-like manner. “I think it’s hilarious. Needed something new to tease you over anyway.”

“I am simply going to ignore you then.” you said. You felt your face scrunch even more, before you took a deep breath to relax. “You don’t deserve my attention right now anyway.”

Hanta huffed a laugh, leaning forward on his elbows. “I think we both know who really wants your attention, and I’m not going to be the person to fight him for it.”

Katsuki’s afternoon meeting had gone smoothly - you thought that it must mean some catastrophic hurricane was due later that afternoon. Or maybe you’d get hit by a car on the way home. Either way, the pleasant meeting meant Katsuki was either in a really good mood - or a really bad one.

On his way back into his office, he threw an order to call Eijirou at you over his shoulder, before throwing the doors open and entering his office.

“It’s important.” he said, and that was where the conversation ended. When you dialed the number only to be met with the receptionist - not even patched through to Eijirou’s assistant Denki - you practically rolled your eyes.

“I’ve got Marcel!” Silence was the stern reply. You’d spoken to him a few times - not the nicest guy in the world, so in your opinion Katsuki’s hatred of the man was valid/ You didn’t want to speak with him either, so you hung up.

Then there was a call of your name.

“Come here!” You sighed, but obeyed and walked around your desk and into Katsuki’s office. You were met with a sight that wasn’t foreign to you - but it made your heart stutter all the same. He was leant back in his chair, a large drawing pad against his folded knee, and a pencil pressed into his cheek. He was watching you closely as you walked in, red eyes partially covered by a set of half-rimmed reading glasses.

Your boss was mean, but his looks could make the devil cry.

“I am… Promoting you.” he said. You felt your mouth fall open in shock.

“I - Sir, I don’t -”

“Katsuki.” he said, voice now as hard as his stare. “No more ‘Sir’. You call me by my name. Understand?”

“Okay…” you said, voice breathless as joy swirled in your chest (finally, your hard work and patience had paid off!), “Katsuki.”

At the sound of you saying his name, he declined further back in his seat, and smiled - wide and showing off both canines.

“That’s much better,” he said, as if he’d been waiting for the change of title formalities, “Now sit down, we have a lot to talk about.”

You went to sit at the chair in front of his desk but he shook his head, almost jumping to his feet like he’d had hot coffee spilled on his lap. His suddenness had you freezing.

“No no, not there,” he said, waving the chair away with disgust, “Over there.” He pointed over to the chaise as if it was the most obvious place in the room to sit, then sat back in his own chair again.

Turning, you took a tentative seat on the sofa, and looked across at him expectantly with your tongue between your teeth. His pencil had found a new home on the open page of his sketchbook, and you quickly realized he was going to be multitasking this impromptu meeting. However he was making little to no effort at starting this ‘talk’ he seemed so urgent to begin only moments ago.

“So is there anything else to this promotion besides being able to call you ‘Katsuki’, or is that it?” you asked. His eyes flicked up at you, pencil stopped, and the side of his mouth quirked up, before his expressions changed completely to one of disapproval again.

“There’s more.” he said. You could see how tempted he was to not say more, if only to push your patience and see just how far it went. “You probably should know about it, considering just how personal things are going to get around here.”

You felt your heart beat pick up as he stood to stalk around the desk.

“What do you mean?”

“You’re going to need to find a new you, let's start with that.” he said, and pushed your shoulder back with the eraser end of the pencil. You fell back against the couch, and the pencil moved to guide one arm across the back of the chair - then crossed one leg over the other - then moved your other hand on top of your knee. Before you knew it you had been moved to pose like a sketching doll.

Katsuki gave you a once over, looking very pleased with himself (or how easy you were to manipulate), then walked back over to his desk. The pencil started again.

“You want a new secretary?” You finally heard yourself ask, voice coming out far too weak for your liking.

“More like you need an assistant.” he said, attention clearly divided between whatever he was designing, and your conversation, “Your schedule is going to be a lot busier as of now.”

“What do you mean?” you asked again. His head shook.

“If you ask that question again I’m going to have this conversation with you some other time.”

“You do know how badly you’re explaining this ‘promotion’, right?” you asked, voice coming out a little harsher than you knew was appropriate. But being proper can be damned, you wanted answers.

He just looked at you for a long moment with a knowing, albeit smug, smile. The sketchpad was dumped on his desk, pencil and glasses dropped on top.

“I’ve been hit with a new wave of ideas.” he said, “They’re amazing. New. Iconic. These designs fly off magazine racks and clothing store hangers like nothing else before. I couldn’t tell where the inspiration came from, not until I thought of when it all started, and the only thing notable about that was you starting to work for me.”

As he explained he stood slowly, came to stand before you again, now with the side of his leg pressed to your knees. Katsuki’s hand rose, and the backs of his fingers trailed across your cheek in a manner that was almost too soft, and too shy, to be an action coming from the harsh man before you.

“I need you with me, everywhere, from now on.” he said, voice low, softer than you’d ever heard it before. “I need you with me, and I don’t know how else to make sure of it besides making it your job.”

“Everywhere?”

“Of course, what use is an artist without their muse?” You had to admit, that forked tongue of his was making your knees weaker by the second. Was he truly saying you inspired him?

“You couldn’t have just asked?”

“I don’t need to ask,” his hand came down to grip your chin, thumb momentarily pressing on your bottom lip, “I get what I want.” Where his voice was getting stronger by the second, yours was sounding even weaker.

“Maybe I don’t want to.”

“You don’t want to?” Katsuki asked, hand slightly releasing pressure on your chin - as if shocked at the thought of someone willing, and unafraid in telling him no. “Everyone wants to. Don’t you?”

“No,” you said quietly, completely letting your heart take over, no matter what could happen after. “I do want to.” His face broke out into that same wolfish grin as before - his hand snuck around to the hair at the base of your neck and found a firm home there.

“Then why not get paid for it while you do.” he said, an air of finality about the matter, and then leant down to capture your mouth in a searing, hard kiss. Hard enough that you could almost feel his teeth and jawbone trying to meld into yours - searing enough that you could feel heat swelling in your stomach and knees at how fierce and needy it all was. It took your breath away completely.

After a few long moments - long enough to have your eyes fluttering closed and your lungs burning - he pulled away.

Katsuki didn’t even look at you as he walked away, acting as if what he just did was a casual kiss on the cheek - while you were left feeling flushed on the sofa. Only once he sat down again with his sketchpad and glasses on did he look up at you. He licked his lips, as if making sure to taste whatever of you was left. His smile this time was very smug indeed.

“See baby, now you look perfect.” he said, then went back to drawing.

“What?” you asked, still breathless with your nails digging into the fabric of your seat.

“The lighting in here is foul, absolutely horrendous.” He said, “You needed a glow about you. Now you’re all flustered. it's perfect. With you finally in front of me, these designs are going to be breathtaking - just imagining them on you -” he looked up at you, quite suddenly stopping his train of thought, before wordlessly returning to his sketch.

From the way your heart felt like it was going to beat right up and out your throat you guessed he accidentally said too much. Had been too sentimental. Maybe Hanta was right - perhaps you were his favorite person.

You took a deep breath and stood to leave - only to be stopped.

“Where are you going?” Katsuki asked, voice almost a bark. “I need you here - you can’t leave now that I have you right where I need you!”

“I need water.” you replied, awkwardly pointing towards the kitchenette with wide eyes as if you were a child caught doing something you weren’t supposed to. He shuffled in his seat, huffing.

“Be quick,” he said. You could swear you saw the skin of his cheeks flush a tinge of pink as you turned away. He liked efficiency, and it was something you were pretty good at, but you hadn’t moved quite that fast before.

When you had agreed to your ‘not-so-little’ promotion, you were sent home with a whole new list of Terms and Conditions and - the more alarming of the two - an NDA.

With your lips still tingling from your apparent kiss from Katsuki, and your knees still weak, you weren’t able to do much more than graze your eyes over bits and pieces before deciding it was all okay. You should’ve taken the time to read it all.

You should always read the fine print when making deals with the devil.

The next day, almost as soon as you stepped into the building, you were met with Katsuki’s not-quite-other assistant, Mina, and whisked away to the seamstress floor. There you met Hanta, who himself had been up for the most part of the night - slaving over the newest design Katsuki procured as of just yesterday.

When you were told to get into a change room and strip - the carcass of a new dress in your hands - you were just shy of shocked.

“What - why?”

“Like I know how the mind of Bakugou works.” Hanta said, waving his hand around tiredly, trying to push you to close the curtain. “You know normally I have models in for this sort of thing - I mean you definitely fit the bill. The measurements, the dress is practically made for you. But it’s weird to me too that he got his secretary to do this job instead.”

“I’ve never done this before.” You whispered, clutching the covered mock-up to your chest.

“You’ll be fine,” Hanta replied, just as quiet, with his hand ready to close the curtain on you, “I’ve seen it on a mannequin - it’ll look fantastic on you. Just be confident.”

You tried your best to be confident - as pretty as the dress was, even unfinished with an unfinished hem and seams half-done - but it was leaving you feeling more exposed than you were used to.

The small changing cubicle had a mirror on one side - what for you weren’t sure. You’d seen plenty of models walk out of them only to have most of it adjusted with pins and cut off with scissors - often by Katsuki himself. You supposed it didn’t matter how bad it looked - you’d get manhandled until it looked the way it was supposed to.

With your hands smoothing the fabric on your hips - a nervous habit you showed too often - you took a turn in front of the mirror. It did look nice, even if it was only ivory muslin.

“ - Taking so fucking long!” Quite suddenly Katsuki’s voice could be heard - and even more suddenly you felt a great need to curl up somewhere and hide. He’s going to see you like this. He’s going to hate it. You are not prepared for this.

Your heart felt like it was going to beat right out your chest and leave a little blood trail all across the floor.

A hand curled around one side of the curtain divider and pulled it back. You let out a small startled yelp, bringing up your hands to cover your chest as if someone had dropped glass over a marble floor.

It was him.

“Oh shut up, no one else can see you.” Katsuki said, rolling his eyes before they laid on you in a hard stare up and down. He was right, besides the half-open curtain, you couldn’t see anyone through his broad chest and shoulders - not to mention the cheshire grin that was taking up half his face. “But I wouldn’t blame them for wanting a peek, give me a turn.”

You stood gobsmacked - where you seriously still processing what was going on? - and watched as his hip cocked to one side and his hands landed on his hips below the huge coat over his shoulders.

“You are starting a habit of forcing me to do things for you myself.” He said, taking hold of your hips and turning you slowly. His hands were warm as they moved you around in a small circle, leaving almost a burning trail behind over your hips, lower back and stomach. “I’ll let you know that’s not why I decided to fuckin’ like you.” he said.

His voice was soft, almost completely without its usual rough baritone. It shocked you, and as you looked over at him he wasn’t meeting your eyes - instead focusing on how a seam at your hip wasn’t seeming to sit how he wanted it to.

“What?” you asked quietly, aware there were probably others outside - Hanta even - and you supposed both yourself and Katsuki didn’t really want to let other people know exactly what you were talking about. Especially since it definitely sounded more personal than Katsuki ever had been.

“You did things for yourself. I liked that.” he said. Then, as if you didn’t just share what was most likely the most intimate moment of Katsuki’s adult life, he pushed the curtain back fully and grabbed you by the hand - exposing you fully to the handful of seamstresses waiting.

With a few barked orders, a flurry of people were at your sides, making adjustments. The neckline loosened, waist was made tighter, the blade of a scissor made another slit up your legs on the opposite side to the one existing. Your hands almost rose to clutch at the fabric at your chest in case it all fell away. Katsuki's hands rose to knock yours away.

“Don’t get in the way,” he mumbled, standing back. The others backed off too, apparently all taking a moment to look at what remained of the dress. “What do you think?” he asked, looking you right in the eyes. Your mouth parted, as if to answer, but the look in his eyes said he wasn’t even talking to you.

“One of your best.” Hanta said, barely needed to look up from where he was taking final notes to read his long-time associate. “Probably will be once it’s done. Beautiful.”

“You mean fucking divine.”

“You’re joking.” you said, carelessly holding the new dress in one hand as you stood angrily looking down at Katsuki.

“Does it look like I’m joking?” he asked, looking at you over the rims of his glasses.

He’d brought you back up to his office after the fitting downstairs, only to demand you change into another dress. The reason this time was completely unknown, and he was refusing to elaborate yet - worse, there was nowhere to change up here.

You’d have to strip and change here (with him in the room), or out behind your desk (right in front of the elevator anyone could use).

“I can’t believe…” you said, scoffing, now slightly gobsmacked along with your anger. “I’m not doing that.”

“If you think it bothers me, you’re mistaken.” He said, standing slowly and leaning over his desk. “Get changed. If you’re so protective of your modesty you can run along into the kitchen, see if I care. Just whatever you do, do it quickly. You’re making me wait long enough as it is.” Then he reached across and squished your cheeks between his fingers, pulling you closer so you leant over the desk too.

“If you really thought I was the kind of man to mix pleasure and professionalism then I’ve got news for you.” he said, wobbling your chin back and forth in his hold. “The only time you have to worry about that is if I invite you home, okay baby?”

While half of you was wanting to continue to defy Katsuki, you knew you were treading a fine line.

Letting out a huff, you pulled away, turned on your heel and held the dress out in front of you. It honestly wasn’t much more than a silk slip, but you’d had enough of an interest in fashion over your time to know this was very tame compared to many other dresses. Even compared to the one you wore not even an hour earlier.

Grinding you jaw in thought for a moment, you thought ‘fuck it’. Katsuki said so already but you knew someone getting almost naked in his office wouldn’t bother him - why should you let it bother you too?

The dress was thrown onto the chaise, and you pulled off your shirt as you slipped out of your heels. Your skirt shimmed off, and the dress came on. Despite refusing to look behind you to see what Katsuki was doing, you couldn’t help how your heart felt like it was going to beat right out of your chest.

At least your underwear was matching, thank god.

You were about to do up the zipper when he made it clear he had indeed been watching you.

“No, take that thing off.” Your head whipped over your shoulder.

“Excuse me?” If looks could strike someone dead, a lightning bolt would’ve shot right through that window into Katsuki’s back. “I am not getting changed again.”

“No you bitch, I mean the bra. Take it off, it’s making the dress look daggy.” The way he said it made your face heat up. Duh.

“You could’ve said that before I put this much on, you’d think you’d have known that before now.” You grumbled, shoving the sleeves down again to unclasp your bra and toss it aside. Turning around again as you did up the zipper, you looked at Katsuki again, and the red of his eyes seemed darker than ever. You wondered if you’d said something wrong. Then his lip quirked up a bit.

“There’s my favorite secretary.” he said, and imminently tilted his head down to start sketching.

#katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #bakugou katuski x reader #bnha x reader #mha x reader #bakugo x reader

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jewellery-box · 3 months

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Woman's Day Dress: Bodice, Skirt, and Bustle Drape, c. 1870. American. Striped silk satin, silk taffeta.

Philadelphia Museum of Art

#victorian #victorian era #victorian fashion #fashion history #historical fashion #19th century #dress

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mididressobsessed · 9 months

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Source: etsy.com

#black skirt #midi skirt #feminine fashion #taffeta skirt #wedding skirt #elegant skirt

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charles-leclerizz · 21 days

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Rapid Fire Challenge: Aisha vs. Max

Aisha and Max go head-to-head in a rapid-fire question challenge. With only seconds to answer each question, they'll reveal fun facts, preferences, and more. Who will come out on top?

reading time : 8 mins 15 seconds

word count : 1.6 k [ 1650 words ]

warnings : swearing, lewd and suggestive wording, crack, not proof read

Masterlist · 🪷 Aisha · 🪷 Porsche F1 Team · 🪷

" What the fuck are you wearing?" Max looked Aisha up and down, his trademark red bull can clattering into the hollow bin next to him as he watched Aisha run a confused hand down her front before glancing cautiously back up at him.

She arched a brow at him and tugged at her strapless top, " clothes ? "

Max snorted and reached out to poke her slightly exposed mid-driff, " or lack thereof . "

Was the aggravating man wrong? Perhaps not.

In Aisha's opinion, it was a perfectly splendid ensemble. Another one of her brand parter's had generously offered her a two piece outfit, a long, flowing silk skirt that shimmered a classic Porsche silver- paired with a tight cotton, corset top that accentuated her chest with a ruffled middle piece of taffeta.

To others, it may seem over the top.

" You have the same outfit everyday. it's like you're trying to be an NPC ." Aisha plucked at his red-bull jersey with a scrunched up nose, " it's not my fault that brands love to gift me pretty things and you… well . " she fluttered her fingers at his slightly-looser-than-normal tight jeans.

" Hmm .. " he hummed, tempted to flick the stack of dainty, amrapali golden chains that sat delicately on her collarbones, " whatever you say. I'm sure Lando appreciates your outfit . "

" And what's that meant to mean ? "

" - Excuse me ? "

" Just saying - "

" Saying what ? Are you just jealous that I can pull of colours unlike you, who stays about monochromatic as a pair of granny panties . "

" Woah-h-h, big words for miss 'I'm here cause I couldn't get a modeling gig ' "

" - Excuse me ? "

" Oh, just because I have the assets - " she gestured at her breasts and face, "- to do modelling, you're bitter ? don't worry, we can get you a push up bra from Forever 21. You'll fit right in"

" Excuse me ? "

" - What ? "

" We're ready for you, " an onset assistant, who looked too scandalised for her own good, motioned for them to step into the filming room.

They mouthed silent insults and unnecessarily pointed to one another, as they pushed through the inconveniently small door.

" And… we're stuck. this is all your fault max . " aisha hissed, crossing her arms as selflessly as she could muster whilst being pressed chest to chest with an equally uncomfortable Dutchman who propped a palm up- just above the crown of her head on the short doorway.

" my fault ? " he retorted, face growing redder with each second they spent sharing breath, " you're the one with india's remaining crown jewels on her person ."

" well maybe if your entitled ancestors didn - "

" oh shut up, it was the british and you know it . "

Luckily, the assistant had noticed their predicament and rushed over to undo the deadbolt lock to the second door, allowing the two to stumble away from each other.

They had thankfully remained silent as the rest of the filming crew grew more and more entertained with their squabbling, merely following the polite instructions and taking their seats as denoted by the white, masking tape markers stuck onto the plush seats.

" ROLLING "

" Welcome back everyone to a new season of formula 1 ! " the chirpy interview babbled to the largest camera before turning to the drivers who sat in line with her, watching her neutrally as they both accepted small, clip on microphones.

" Today we have … " she trailed off, giggling at Aisha who struggled to slip on the clasp of the tech in her hand, the plastic mechanism clacking obnoxiously at each failed attempt.

" Max, from our very own red bull garage ," she turned to max, who was already set himself up and was now sitting straighter in his tufted, indigo seat. He waved at the camera and politely smiled.

The interviewer glanced at Aisha as she victoriously gasped and raised her hands happily when the microphone stayed put, tucked between her skin and top, " … and aisha, rookie of the season down from porsche . "

Aisha waved at the camera, a serene smile playing on her lips.

" We're here to play a quick fire round of questions with the grids current champion , " she gestured to max, " and this years fresh meat . " she pointed her stack of cards at aisha.

" I'll be asking you both questions about each other, and whoever guesses correctly the fastest, will win a point . it's all about testing if your racing chemistry translates to real-life friendship ! "

" What friendship ? " max deadpanned, fiddling with his fingers.

" Can we do this one thing without you letting people know you hate me ? or is it too hard for the 3X world champion to multi-task ? "

The interviewer's eyes ping-ponged between them before her grin became artificially wider and she screeched a shrill, " Let's begin ! "

" alright max, what is aisha's favourite track to race ? "

the driver jumped at his name and the camera lens zoomed into his determined expression as he glanced between aisha's anticipatory face and the air, as if he were begging the particles for the answer.

" one second "

" she's said this before.. " he tried, clapping his hands nervously.

" i have, " aisha shrugged, egging him on.

" it was one of those times where she wouldn't shut up. "

" two seconds "

" come on max, it's so easy, i've raced there in f2 as well ... "

" yeah- cause i had the f2 races on while i was training, "

" three seconds "

" wow you're bad at this, " aisha huffed out, landing back against her chair with a relaxed flop.

max bounced his knee, forcibly shutting his eyes and harshly pressing his fingers into them as he pieced together his answer, " it's... shit... is it ?.. suzuka ? "

"- oh for fuck sake ! "

" - you are correct ! one point to max "

CURRENT SCORE : 0 - 1

" okay, aisha, If max could race in any era of Formula 1, past or present, which one would she choose ? "

" how come i get the piss hard one ? "

" cause you'll never actually get hard otherwise.." max mumbled.

" oh fuck off. "

" language guys, our editors aren't paid enough to censor all of this ."

aisha hooked her ankles together before leaning forward and hummed thoughtfully, " maybe... i don't think he's even mentioned this..." she plucked at her dangling earring as she continued to oscillate in recollection.

he shrugged, " i don't think i have actually."

" one second "

" wait... wait..." aisha hurried out, holding her palm out, " i have to choose wether he's too egotistical for my geuss.."

" oh please, " max sassed, " take your time, i'm sure my ego has alot to dissect. "

aisha scrunched up her face sourly, " yeah it does- like your unsolved daddy issues. "

" always the daddy issues ." he threw his hands up, " atleast be creative."

" two seconds "

" okay okay, hmmm, the 2021 season ? " aisha screwed her eyes shut, just incase she was wrong, " he would love to relive his first WDC . "

" that is..." the interviewer patted her legs quickly, continously creating a monotonous beating sound, " correct ! point to aisha . "

CURRENT SCORE : 1 - 1

" last one for max, if he gets this one, he wins, if not, then aisha gets a chance . "

max nodded determinedly, his mouth set in a hard line, "ready."

" wow, okay, " the interviewer gawked at his statue-like intensity, " uhm, what is aisha's pre-race ritual . "

aisha kicked her chin up, ready to watch max blubber over his last question, nobody knows her pre-race ritual, she was diligent enough to keep it hidden.

" so, i know she calls her parents around.. an hour before the race, " he paused mid-way to grin like a cheshire at her increasingly suspicious look, " and, i also know she has a playlist she listens to, mostly hozier.. but, without fail she.." max snaps his fingers, the final peice flickering to life like a broken tube light, "... she always.. can i say this ? "

aisha's face popped, cheeks flushing dangerously quickly, " can he ? "

" i.." the interviewer looked out the small tech crowd behind the camera who all gave her the same, confused shrug, ushering her to continue, " i assume so."

" she always wears.. ehm.. a pair of white underwear ." he mumbles the last phrase, avoiding eye-contact with anyone within the room whilst scratching the back of his neck.

" max ! " aisha smacked his shoulder in outrage, "wha- i mean why- but how ? " she spat out, her words merging within eachother until they tumbled out in an unintelligble spew.

" we didn't get that, she wears what ? "

" white.. undergarments, " max hesitantly answered.

the interviewer blinked a few times before gulping heavily and clearing her throat, " well thats a gross violation ! but let's just gloss over that. "

CURRENT SCORE : 1 - 2

" and for the sake of not continuing this hell-game, max is the winner. congratulations. " she clapped her hand gently against her queue cards.

"yeah.. well done.. bro " aisha muttered, dissociating from her surroundings to protect herself from further embarrassment that may just allow her already erratic heart to jump out of her ribcage.

" i don't feel like a winner," max joined her monotone lilt, eyes wide and wet, maintaing an unwwavering stare at the white wall that stood proud behind the myriad of wires.

MUTUALS GET INSTANT TAGS [@vroomvroomcircuit, @disneyprincemuke, @verstappen-cult, @starkwlkr, @sailing-with-100-ships, @foreveralbon, @lorarri], OTHERS [@weekendlusting, @woozarts, @mellowarcadefun, @paintedbypoetry, @33-81, @kazuha-pista-badam, @inejghafawifesblog,d3kstar, @itsjustkhaos, @tremendousstarlighttragedy, @xoscar03,@nichmeddar, @sisinever], IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED, PLEASE SEND IN AN ASK !

#f1 #f1 fanfiction #Max Verstappen #Max Verstappen imagine #Max Verstappen fanfic #Max Verstappen fluff #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 blurb #f1 fic #f1 drabble #f1 fandom #f1 x female reader #f1 fluff #f1 smut #f1blr #[darlingwrites]#[formulaforlove]

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impala-dreamer · 2 months

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Wonderstruck

A Magical Short Story

~ Attending a wedding alone is rarely fun. Add to it a bunch of people you don't know all hidden behind masks, things can get a little shaky. But sometimes, if you're lucky, magic can happen...~

Henry Cavill x F!Reader

3,160 Words

Warnings: Nothing but romance and magic and fluff and mystery!

A/N: Yes, it's me. No, I have not been kidnapped. This was written in part for my personal goal of branching out a bit, but moreover as a Valentine's gift for @mariekoukie6661 and @kittenofdoomage <3

Impala-Dreamer’s Masterlist ~ Patreon ~ Published Works

Her dress was sleek and as dark as midnight; her heels were high and deadly. Her lips dripped with crimson; a silver mask hid beautifully sad and strikingly painted eyes.

She kept to the edges of the ballroom, ducking behind round tables clad in expensive linens and gold inlaid china, skirting billowing gowns as they spun on the dancefloor. She slipped in and out of the shadows with a slowly emptying champagne glass pinched delicately between two fingers.

Despite her annoyance in being there, she could not deny the beauty of the night. The massive room was decorated in glamorous gold and pearl accents. Heavy velvet curtains hung over the windows on each wall, letting in a glimpse of the moonlit garden outside. The floors were marble that had been polished to perfection, and a warm candlelight glow illuminated the room.

It felt as if she’d stepped into a fairy tale.

A fairy tale about a sad girl watching the party from afar, alone but for the bubbles in her glass.

Which, sadly, were now gone.

Y/N sighed heavily and looked across the dancefloor at the long bar that stretched across the back wall of the ballroom. A hundred guests in suits and gowns, feathers and masks, twirled in front of her, blocking the path. Silently, she weighed the pain of entering the waltzing throng over going another moment without a healthy buzz in her head. She took a breath. She took a step.

Her heels clicked rhythmically as she laid her course for the bar. She kept her eyes on the goal, carefully maneuvering through the dancing couples, wondering if they’d all been to some class she hadn’t been invited to. All their steps seemed identical; all the women spun with the same flourish. She shook her head. Life should never be so choreographed.

After nearly tripping over a dragging tail of taffeta, Y/N finally made it to the bar and braced herself on the top. As she caught her breath, a deep but soft laugh hit her ear.

She turned toward the sound and spied a large man leaning on the bar a few feet away. He turned as she did, leaning one elbow on the bartop and kicking a long leg over the other. His tuxedo was immaculate and perfectly tailored; his shoes shined like the stones below. He wore a mask of black with silver adornment, and two crisp blue eyes scanned her form from beneath. She could feel them sneak down her body, lingering a bit in the deep curve of her waist and at the globe of her ass.

She cleared her throat, drawing his eyes up to hers.

“Something funny, Slick?” she asked, lips pursed in clear annoyance.

The man grinned. His lips were full and pink beneath a thin scruff of a beard.

“I liked your dance,” he said in reply.

She was startled by his accent - elegant and somehow too perfectly English, as if he were pretending to be from across the Atlantic. She bit her lip and narrowed her eyes at him, trying to figure him out.

It was nearly impossible. The masks were a problem.

Y/N rolled her eyes. She didn’t know why, but she felt that he needed to work a little harder to get her attention. Maybe she was bored, maybe the shock of his voice had her aflutter. Whatever it was, she turned up the sass.

“Yeah, well, I was a ballerina in a past life.”

Again, he laughed. A little louder, a little more enticing.

“I can see that. Prima ballerinas often trip over themselves and end up slamming into tables.”

She bit back a laugh and turned back to meet his gaze. “We take a special class for that.”

The man cocked his head towards her champagne flute. “And with an empty glass, no less.”

“What can I say, I’m very good at my job.”

Slowly, he pushed himself up from the bar and took a step closer. “May I buy you another?”

Her eyes slid up from his shoes to the loose, curly mop of black hair atop his head. He was tall and broad, and looked as solid as a statue. Her pulse quickened.

“I’m pretty sure it’s free,” she teased.

He stopped a foot from her side. “Still…” With a quick snap of his fingers, he called for the bartender and ordered them both another round.

“A dirty martini, Mr. Bond?” She smiled at his order.

“Shaken, not stirred,” he replied, lifting his glass.

His smile was as intoxicating as the golden liquid in her glass and butterflies swirled in her stomach.

Each took a sip, swallowing slowly with their eyes locked. The blue crashed over her and Y/N lost herself in the sparkle of his smiling gaze.

Worried that she was staring too hard, she tore herself away and let out a hard breath.

“So… how do you know the bride?” she asked, trying to pry his identity free.

He licked a drop of vodka from his lip. “I don’t.”

She laughed gently. “Wedding crasher, huh?” She leaned closer, dropped her voice to a whisper. “Don’t worry, I won’t turn you in.”

He moved in even closer. A warm scent pulsed off of him, flooding her senses with leather and vanilla and something she couldn’t place. Something spicy that made her mouth water so much she forgot that she was supposed to be playing hard to get.

“That’s kind of you,” he whispered. “I don’t think Charlie will press charges though.”

She smiled. “Ah, you’re on the groom’s side.”

“And you?”

His eyes fell to her lips and Y/N’s cheeks burned.

“I, uh… I work with Chloe, the- the bride.”

He nodded and took a sip of his drink. “Charlie and Chloe,” he said with a light laugh. “So many Cs.”

He was too cool, too confident yet sweet. She almost hated him.

“Who are you?” she asked, confused and irked. She had not come to the wedding to meet anyone, let alone a gorgeous, blue-eyed Brit, who may or may not actually be British.

Another slow sip guided her eyes back to his lips and she wondered if he tasted as good as he smelled.

“Henry,” he said softly.

She laughed. “Of course you are.”

“Why’s that funny?”

“Because of course your name is Henry. With your perfect accent and your sexy tuxedo…”

He stood up, suddenly towering over her, and tipped his head, eyes swiping over her again.

“And what about you? You’ve got to be called Celeste or Audrey or something classic and elegant.”

Y/N drained the rest of the champagne at the bottom of her glass and stood to face him properly. “Well, Prince Charming, why don’t you just call me Cinderella.”

Henry reached for her hand and she gave it jokingly.

His kiss was no joke, landing softly on her skin and making the rest of her shiver. She held her breath and nearly fainted when he looked up.

“Pleased to meet you, Cinderella.”

Her head swam a bit and she wondered if that was what swooning was.

“Charmed,” she said with a dreamy smile.

He held her gaze, swept a warm thumb over her knuckles. His touch was like fire and she wanted to run. Away from him or into his arms - she couldn’t decide. All she knew was that there was magic in the air and she could not seem to tear herself away from the mystery of his face. His eyes were tragically beautiful, as if she was lost at sea on a broken raft, thirsting and alone, but she had the comfort of the blue waves to keep her safe. She thought herself insane. He was just a man in a mask at a fancy wedding. Just a tall, impossibly fit, perfectly dressed man at a masquerade ball. A deliciously gorgeous man who smelled like drinking in front of a roaring fire in a cozy library filled with old books in some ancient castle in Scotland. A man who was still holding her hand and her gaze, stealing too many moments and breaths from her day.

Y/N shook herself and pulled her hand from his.

“I should… go…” She turned toward the room. She had to get away, had to free herself from the captivating stranger and return to ignoring her coworkers and the bride’s overly friendly family. “It was nice to meet you, Henry.”

His frown nearly cracked the earth beneath her feet.

“Don’t leave just yet,” he pleaded. “I… Well, I don’t really know anyone here and you’re…”

She looked back over her shoulder as he hesitated. “Yes?”

He blushed and sought comfort in his shoes. Such a beautiful sight: a strong, confident man instantly melting into shyness.

Blue eyes looked up. “Beautiful and enchanting and… I was hoping that we could dance.”

She nearly fell over, knocked out by his voice and charm. A quick breath steeled her nerves. “Sadly, I cannot.”

He stood up fully but somehow still seemed small. “Dance with me?”

“Dance at all,” she corrected.

He laughed. “Well, how about another drink and some conversation?”

With a sigh, Y/N looked back at the crowd, into the sea of indistinguishable masks and unfamiliar forms. Giving in, she nodded politely and spun around to the bar.

They ordered another round and took up residence at the end of the counter, half hidden in shadow, invisible to the other party-goers. Music soared above their heads but they could barely hear it, so engrossed in each other’s stories.

They spoke of simple things- movies they’d loved as children and that well-worn paperbacks were still tucked into their bookcases. She asked him about home and he talked about the London traffic and how he preferred to stay around the house on rainy days playing games on his PC. He poked her about work and she glossed over her job, insisting that they keep the conversation light and free from day-to-day struggles. They drank and laughed and fell even deeper into each other’s gaze.

It was strange to have a conversation with a stranger in a mask. She knew that he was handsome- his eyes were brilliant, his lips perfectly plump. His jaw was tight and his neck was thick. He was big and sturdy, yet gentle and bashful. Though most of his face was hidden, she knew he was perfect.

Perhaps a little too perfect.

But as the alcohol flowed and the night wore on, Y/N couldn’t find a reason anymore to run. The night had cast a spell around them and there was no escape. There was magic in the gilded accents around the room, in the symphony of violins that danced above their heads, in their true smiles and tentative touches.

Even if he wasn’t perfect, she thought, the moment was.

And the moment was suddenly broken.

A firm hand on her wrist dragged Y/N from her place at the bar and onto the dancefloor. The bride would not be ignored and refused to take no for an answer. Pained by the intrusion and the demand, Y/N reluctantly took Chloe’s hands and twirled her around. The skirt of the massive wedding dress billowed like a cloud around Chloe’s small frame and Y/N laughed as she was nearly caught up in the fabric.

Heart racing and smile wide, she turned back to Henry but was shocked to find his place empty. Their glasses sat abandoned on the bar and Prince Charming was nowhere to be found. She felt a tug in her chest and a dampness behind her eyes.

Before she could shrug it off as just a random encounter and push his blue eyes from her mind, a tap on the shoulder made her gasp.

She spun on the spot and found him there with a sweet smile and open arms.

“May I have this dance?” he asked, dipping into half a bow.

Excitement rushed through her and Y/N bit her lip. “I told you, I’m not a good dancer.”

Unwilling to let her back away, Henry scooped her up and held her close, one hand capturing hers and the other pressing gently into the small of her back. He leaned in and teased his lips at her ear.

“Then let me lead…”

His fingers pulsed against her back, guiding her to move against him. They turned a few times until she was dizzy in his arms, laughing as he whispered into her ear:

“Left… right… back… you’ve got it…”

His breath on her skin was like a gust of summer air, warm and delicious, flooding her body with calm.

“See? You’re not too bad at this.”

Y/N looked up into his eyes and felt the world fade away. They rose up together off of the dancefloor, floating gently above the other guests, impossibly alone in the crowd. She knew she was drunk, knew she’d pay for it in the morning, but she didn’t really care. She didn’t care that her friends were watching, probably whispering about the mysterious man she was dancing with. She didn’t care that she’d twice stepped on his toes or that there was no way she could hide the fact that being so close to him wasn’t turning her into a melted, lustful shell of what she usually was.

The music crescendoed and Y/N held her breath. Henry dipped his chin, blue eyes locked on her hers. The world slowed down, the seconds stretched on forever. She closed her eyes, savored his exhale against her lips. His hand slid gently up her back, fingers wove through her hair. She felt her legs grow weak, her stomach tensed, her heart skipped. He took a breath.

The band stopped short and Y/N startled as the crowd shited. The moment was gone, ripped away once more by the party swelling around them.

A rush of silk; the click of hundreds of heels. Cheers rose throughout the room as a giant cake was rolled out onto the dancefloor. It towered up to the ceiling with beautiful rows of white creme roses and pearls strategically placed to make the fondant glow in the warm light trickling down from the chandelier above.

As the guests closed in, Y/N was pulled out of Henry’s arms and her heart ached as he once again was out of her sight.

Black suits swarmed around her, heavy gowns brushed against her legs. Voices rang loud. Bodies closed in on all sides.

Breathless, she spun, searching for an exit, for a way to push through the throng.

A hand appeared and reached for her. She clasped his fingers and Henry raced toward the big doors to their left, pulling her free of the mob.

They tumbled out into the cool air and found relief as the doors closed behind them, blocking the music and the excitement, leaving them alone in the night.

The garden was dark but magically aglow with warm, golden light. Fairy lights twinkled around them, strung from bushes and topiaries, highlighting a stone path. Beyond, a labyrinth of tall evergreen waited for curious souls to venture inside, daring the branches to keep them from reaching the end.

Wonderstruck by the evening- the dramatic escape, the music, the champagne and Henry’s crystalline eyes- she stumbled. One single step turned her ankle and the deadly heels she never wore took her down.

Her gasp tore through the garden, but Henry was there to catch her fall. She swung in his strong arms and her fear turned to laughter.

“This is just absurd!” she said, steadying herself with a palm over his chest.

Henry was calm and stable, easily holding her upright. “What’s that?”

“I mean… You literally just swept me off of my feet.” She shook her head and with a blushing smile, pushed away. “This is getting silly.”

Away from his grasp, she teetered again and Henry took her hand before disaster could strike.

“Why don’t you sit down for a moment,” he suggested, nodding towards a stone bench not far away. “Those shoes are dangerous.”

“You have no idea.”

She let him help her to the bench and watched in awe as he fell to one knee. Like an actual Prince Charming, he took Cinderella’s ankle in his hands and gently ran his fingers over the thin strap holding the shoe in place.

“You’re not swollen,” he reported. “That’s good.”

When he looked up, concern fading from his eyes, she gave up trying to suppress the enchantment of the night and took a deep breath.

Hands cupped around his face, she leaned in and finally met his lips.

Startled but delighted, Henry pushed up to meet her, taking her once more in his strong arms and kissing her properly.

Tiny lights flickered in the breeze, soft music seeped out into the garden, and Prince Charming and Cinderella found each other in the dark. Lips hungry and hands wild; heat mixing between them like a budding fire.

When the clock struck twelve, it chimed loudly and they broke apart, laughing.

“Seems about right,” she joked, looking towards the wedding. “Party ends at midnight.”

Henry dragged a thick finger over her collarbone. “Does that mean you’ll turn into a pumpkin and disappear?”

She laughed softly. “I don’t know when the last time you read Cinderella was, but… no.”

He licked her taste from his lip. “So you don’t need to go then?”

Her smile fell. “I do…”

“You could stay…” He dipped his chin and looked up through the mask, blue eyes dark in the light. “We could… find a spot-”

Y/N shook her head and reached for his hand. “I can’t, I’m sorry. I have to be back in the city tomorrow for work.” She lifted his fingers to her lips and left him with a final kiss.

Henry sighed. “Pity.”

She nodded and gathered her strength to stand and do what she should have done hours ago- run. Except this time, she was certain she meant it to be into his arms. Only this time, she couldn’t.

“I’m sorry…”

Quickly, she turned, carefully stepping back onto the stone path and away from the mystery man with his intoxicating voice and perfectly engrossing kiss.

He stood and called to her, desperate for one more look at his Cinderella.

“Wait-”

She paused, hand on the big glass door, heart in her throat. “Yes?”

“Don’t I even get to know your real name?”

She looked over her shoulder and smiled. “It’s Y/N.”

Henry bowed his head in thanks and when he came up, the mask came off, slowly revealing a face she’d only imagined in her dreams.

He blushed at her shocked stare and laughed gently.

“It was nice to meet you, Y/N.”

She sighed, blissful and lost in a dream that she prayed would last the rest of her life.

“You too…”

2024 Forever Tags (Always Open! Send an Ask!)

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#henry cavill fanfiction #henry cavill x reader #fluff #romance #one shot #maybe more if it goes well i have ideas

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threadtalk · 1 year

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Red velvet dress. Not to be confused with the cake. But just as yummy, yes?

I adore red velvet, and the deep crimson hue of this gown is no exception. Though it looks quite modern it's about 120 years old, dating from the 19th and 20th centuries.

You see, this dress had alterations. We know the original gown was from 1887, but in around 1902 the bodice and, likely, the skirt were updated to reflect the fashion of the times.

Silk velvet is just such a marvel, though. The way it absorbs light makes it hard to photograph, but when they get it right it's magical. Everything about this dress is just timeless. I especially love the contrasting taffeta on the hem!

From MFA Boston.

#1880s fashion #circa 1887 #fashion history #threadtalk #costume #textiles #costume history #victorian fashion #historical costuming #silk dress #late victorian fashion #red velvet

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dearbraus · 8 months

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Flowers Never Bend with Rainfall⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

— Wriothesley

⊹ Details. 18+ minors dni, fem! reader, mentions of reader wearing a corset, gown and earrings, arranged marriage, original characters; reader has an unnamed family and older sister, nobility and high society's conventions, allusions to gendered familial roles, sfw. ⊹ Run time. 1.3k ⊹ Note. I have had such brainworms for this man since seeing him for the first time. I had to write something but didn't want to get too ahead of myself since we know nothing of him yet sooo I decided to start a new series of drabbles that will follow this plotline, reader, and Wriothesley. You can find it under the tag # flowers never bend and it will eventually be posted to my ao3 as a cohesive story <3

Your sister beams as she gives your appearance another once over. It's the fifth time in the past ten minutes that she’s turned to you with scrutiny in her eyes, adjusting a strand of your hair or smoothing out the crisp neckline of your dress– you must be perfection. Today you’re meeting him, the man your parents sold you to when you were no more than six years old. He had been a boy then too and just as much of an unwilling participant in the whole affair as you had. Perhaps it was cruel to blame him for your misfortunes. At least the two of you had been given the courtesy of a meeting, a single chance to rectify the will of your parents before they made plans to force the two of you down the aisle.

The day after her eighteenth birthday, your older sister had been married. A gaggle of small children soon followed. They made quite the army of troublemakers but she continued to grow round with one every few years because they were just so cute when they were little. She fancied herself a matchmaker and believed that she knew everything there was to know when it came to matters of the heart. But, what did marriage have to do with the heart when it was nothing more than a political arrangement? Your father had made thousands of those in his lifetime and he’d do thousands more by the time by the time his earthly body was returned to the waves.

There was nothing special or romantic about standing in the middle of the lobby at the Hotel Debord being primped and preened over like a porcelain doll. The seafoam-coloured walls make the contents of your stomach curdle uncomfortably though your favourite gown as a child had once been spun off the very same shade. Today you wore pink taffeta topped off with a lace-trimmed neckline and a little white bow placed carefully at your décolletage. It as though your childhood bedroom threw up on your seamstress and out came this dress.

“Did you know that your fiancé is a Duke?” your sister whispers as she ushers you over to one of the plush chairs, “That mean’s he comes from a very wealthy family, mhm, and is a very well respected man.”

The whale-boned corset beneath your dress keeps your spine straight as you sit and still your sister makes a point of pressing your shoulders back before taking her own seat, “Does he have a name?” You ask, placing one delicately gloved hand over the other.

A myriad of people file in and out of the hobby with what appears to be a purpose. You can’t but watch with curious eyes and the childish hope of discerning him from the crowd before he’s able to spot you. Like a flower, you’d wilt beneath his gaze and learn nothing more than the facade people like you and he were taught to wear like a second skin. Instead, you’re met with swishing skirts that ooze refinement and galloping pups in gaudy costumes. There is little to be gained from people watching carbon copies that chased the latest trends as if that would appease their archon.

“Wriothesley,” Your sister states as if the answer should be obvious to you.

The name hardly strikes a chord of recognition within you, you may have heard it in passing years ago but no new memories surface as you search for an inkling of familiarity. It was futile, your days within the court were limited as you much preferred the solace of your family's countryside estate. The quiet was nice. With no nightmare-inducing machinations to tower over you. The servants were friendly too and even with the tendrils of gossip that filled their quarters, they never seemed to judge you too harshly for having the privilege to shirk societal expectations.

“Does he have a surname?” Focusing your eyes on the ornate glass chandeliers that swing with each gentle breeze pushed in through the ever-revolving doors, you quell your growing need for some tangible information into a dismissive interest, “Or shall I just be known as the lady duke?”

Your sister's gaze is sharp as is how quickly she turns her head to face you, “Come now, you know it is inappropriate to make such comments,” She smiles at a passing stranger, and they smile back, “He is a good man, that much I know.”

Despite the sunny disposition that is quick to replace her annoyed expression, you can feel your sister’s ire simmering within her gaze. Light splinters from the artfully crafted crystalline chunks and dances along the slick tiled ground. The sight of it makes you dizzy but you enjoy the head rush as you settle your focus onto the reflective floor. A gloved and idle hand comes up to twirl the dangly earrings that weigh heavy on your lobes, smoothing your thumb against the drop pearl.

“How can you be certain that he is a good man if you do not even know his family’s name?”

It’s difficult to stifle the giggle that rises to your lips when she glares at you. You found in that moment that it was good she had not been blessed with a cryo vision because it would pale in comparison to the chill that settled over the table.

“If you were so curious perhaps you should have asked father,” she gritted out, “I am just here to ensure that you do not embarrass yourself in front of Wriothesley.”

“How kind of you dear sister,” you grin the way she hates, showing her all of your teeth, “Surely I could not know how to talk to a man at my advanced age of twenty-two without your steadfast guidance.”

“It is a wonder why Mother and father chose you for the duke and not I,” your sister muttered beneath her breath, hoping you did not hear her.

Green was an ugly shade on your sister but you supposed it couldn’t be helped. It was human nature and adults were far more like children than they liked to believe, coveting toys that didn’t belong to them.

Though, her ego would balloon to be ten times the size of her body should you ever dare to admit that you wished your parents had chosen her for their political gain and not you. You weren’t well suited for the things you supposed this Wriothesley would expect of you. Most days you spent more time with your nose buried in long-forgotten tomes than you did in etiquette lessons. Those were important, your mother once said, a man of such status had much social responsibility and as his wife, so would you.

“What time did Father say we may expect his grace to grace us with his presence?”

If the two of you were at home, she might have snarled at you, “I do not find you amusing!”

A well-dressed man carrying a shiny silver platter approached the table. If he heard your bickering, he chose not to comment on it, “Your tea has arrived, ladies.”

“Sir, I fear you are mistaken” you stated, your voice growing timid as he began to unload the contents of the tray into your table, “We did not order any tea.”

“No, but he did.”

The “he” in question was an imposing man who hovered behind the waiter. Neither of you had noticed but your sister began to smile demure at him the moment she took notice of his presence. The first thing you noticed was the glinting silver handcuffs that hung off his belt like a warning and then the metal-clad fingerless gloves. The chains and chunks of alloy made the deep red tie he wore look silly and out of place but his keen, pale eyes made you shrink in your seat as they slid over your visage.

“May I present to you his grace, the Duke Wriothesley.”

Oh.

So this was the man your family intended for you to marry.