#cosmos.writes

for what should be such a monumental occasion, a unity to bring peace between kingdoms entrenched in a cold war, his princess arrives without the typical pomp and circumstance. he expects a show, a caravan of several dozens carriages lining up neatly at the front of his castle, stuffed to the brim with family and nobility. he expects nothing more than the finest for a young lady who was, two weeks ago, the heir apparent to an entire kingdom.

it is strange to him, that the treaty was considered at all, given what was demanded - not just a princess, but the princess.

there is a stillness to his court that john has never felt during his reign. every lord and lady holds their breath, expecting chaos, expecting a crowd – and yet the tension seems to pull taut as the door opens, and the only two who step into the cathedral are his young bride and her father.

you wear no wedding dress. the silk of your dress, loose sleeves draping over your hands, is the shade of a winter orchid. a lemon yellow bonnet is tied over your hair, and the only white in your attire is the fleece-knit shawl draped over your shoulders. you look more like a flower than you do a bride.

despite your standing, there are no guards that flank your sides. john can't help but think just how vulnerable you are in this moment, not yet bound to him and his protection.

"i expected more than this," john remarks, looking from the princess, who has yet to bring her eyes up from the ground, back to her father, "where is her bridal party?"

the king, as noble as he might have thought himself to come all this way, does not have the decency to look ashamed or even guilty. "the queen thought it best for everyone that the celebrations be kept contained," he says, "i merely came to give my daughter away, and to be a witness to her union."

the wedding he believed would take hours, between seelie customs and the cultural divide, is over before the hour is up. he expected to wait a fortnight for your ladies to draw the appropriate glyphs onto your skin, to dress you in layers upon layers of silk, embroidered with charms of luck and protection. he expects the brocaded cloak of your house to sit over your wedding dress like armor, only for him to remove it and replace it with his own, bringing you into the fold of his house as his wedded wife. instead, what he removes is your fleece shawl, handing it off gently to be replaced with the heavily embroidered cloak. a few words from an anointed priestess, and john turns your head with two of his fingers to press a dry kiss to the corner of your lips. he hadn’t the foresight to take your bonnet off before the ceremony began.

your father stays long enough to see you married, but disappears before the cacophony of polite clapping from the court can subside. john sees you searching for him more than once, eyes drifting through the crowd like you expect him to show up at any moment. he does not. john turns away before he can witness the crescentfallen expression that crosses your sweet face. he doesn’t want to know if you cry.

to be seelie is to be weak – john knows this for a fact. he’s trained squires and met children less craven than some seelie knights. and yet he foolishly expected more from your father, a king of thousands of years who had threatened his kingdom with war mere moons ago. he expected your bridal party to be giant and glamorous and all proclivities expected of a seelie wedding. seelie children are rare and cherished; his bride was already a young woman, but he expected that the sentiment would stand, given the title she held.

something about gaz being lonely when he's off base, in his bachelor pad by himself, no birds in sight, deciding to adopt himself a pet to keep him company on the quiet days. there's a fine line he's toeing during his search. he wants a breed that likes to play, but doesn't dictate his life with their need for exercise and attention. a low maintenance breed.

and all of this research, naturally, flies right out the door when he's looking on the website of the shelter he's working with, and sees poodle!reader's sweet face on the second page. the hopeful expression on your face, paired with the surrender date in your info that tells him how terribly long you've been up for adoption, has his mind made up, even subconsciously. even if he did keep looking and adopt another hybrid, he knew that he'd never get your face out of his mind.

something about owner!gaz throwing the tennis ball a little too far at the park one day, and it lands in the pond, too far for you to reach. gaz expects you to pause at the side of the pond and whimper in a way that's almost painful, before you look at him to retrieve your toy. he's prepared - albeit not without heartache - to tell you that he can't reach it, either.

gaz who doesn't trust anybody else to wash and style poodle!reader's hair. he knows curly hair, and he knows how fussy it can be. spends weeks finding the perfect routine, hates sending you to the groomers because he doesn't trust them to do it right.

don't tell him this, but the petsitter that watches you when he's deployed takes you to the groomers every week for a bath and styling. not everyone is as diligent as gaz is when it comes to your grooming - and the fact that it's nearly impossible to keep you from retrieving every ball you can from the pond at your favourite park doesn't help.

they haven't messed your curls up yet, and so long as your sitter keeps bringing them the products he buys you so that you don't smell any different, he might never know.

something something gaz getting you a giant, plush bed with all sorts of pillows and cushions to rest your pretty head on, only to wake up every morning with you sleeping soundly at the end of his bed, your head heavy on his calves. he should scold you, but he can't find the heart.