#Forced marridge

[evita-shelby]

Hello ! How are you?

Im a sucker for angst so could you do a alternative part or a second part where you still have feelings for your late husband ?

Lots of angst of tommys part ?

Its interesting to see tommy im lizzies place😂

Im talking about the fic of the aranged marridge where you have 2 children with him and you are still in love with your dead ex

Thank you so much !

Jsnsnsns

I love angst.

I cried a little while writing this.

Spring

Gif by @nofckingfighting

When he tells her he loves her, she doesn’t say it back.

His wife gives him a sad and pained smile and says “If I could love again, I would love you.”

It hurts.

They have four children now, little Florence is born six months after Polly is murdered and still there is no change.

Y/N cannot love someone who is not her husband.

At the beginning Tommy believed she couldn’t love someone like him, someone who fucked whores by the dozen or someone who drinks himself until he blacks out.

So he changed, he stopped seeking comfort in other women, he stopped drinking so much, he started letting her in because if he did she would’ve understood why it pains him so much that she doesn’t love him.

He is loyal as dog, a dog expecting for his mistress to love him. Even Cyril has an easier time being loved by her.

“She doesn’t love you, she won’t care.” Diana Mitford tries to seduce him the only way she and Mosley know how. They loved forcing people into things they didn’t want.

“I swore a vow, Lady Diana. Besides, I can get the funding for my charities without resorting to prostituting myself for it.” He told her so as he walked away.

He has eighteen months to live. If he cannot make her love him before he dies, then he will have wasted ten years of his life.

When he lies down on the warm grass, he is surprised to find her laying down beside him and gently nudging him awake.

“I do love you, Tom, just not how you deserved.” She whispers and he keeps his eyes shut.

“If you were truly dead, that would’ve been part of the eulogy.” She kissed his lips as if he was snow white and she was prince charming. And like all fairy tales they read to the children, the curse breaks and the winter frost melts away to bring forth spring.

[sublimerhymes]

Hitched by C.J. Dennis

Hitched

“An’ — wilt — yeh — take — this — woman — fer — to — be — Yer — weddid — wife?” . . . O, strike me! Will I wot? Take ’er? Doreen? ’E stan’s there arstin’ me! As if ’e thort per’aps I’d rather not! Take ’er? ’E seemed to think ’er kind wus got Like cigarette-cards, fer the arstin’. Still, I does me stunt in this ’ere hitchin’ rot, An’ speaks me piece: “Righto!” I sez, “I will.”

“I will,” I sez. An’ tho’ a joyful shout Come from me bustin’ ’eart — I know it did — Me voice got sorter mangled comin’ out, An’ makes me whispe r like a frightened kid. “I will,” I squeaks. An’ I’d ’a’ give a quid To ’ad it on the quite, wivout this fuss, An’ orl the starin’ crowd that Mar ’ad bid To see this solim hitchin’ up of us.

“Fer — rich-er — er — fer — por-er.” So ’e bleats. “In — sick-ness — an’ — in — ’ealth,” . . . An’ there I stands, An’ dunno ’arf the chatter I repeats, Nor wot the ’ell to do wiv my two ’ands. But ’e don’t ’urry puttin’ on our brands — This white-’aired pilot-bloke — but gives it lip, Dressed in ’is little shirt, wiv frills an’ bands. “In sick-ness — an’ — in —” Ar! I got the pip!

An’ once I missed me turn; an’ Ginger Mick, ’Oo’s my best-man, ’e ups an’ beefs it out. “I will!” ’e ‘owls; an’ fetches me a kick. “Your turn to chin!” ’e tips wiv a shout. An’ there I’m standin’ like a gawky lout. (Aw, spare me! But I seemed to be all ’ands!) An’ wonders wot ’e’s goin’ crook about, Wiv ’arf a mind to crack ’im where ’e stands.

O, lumme! But ole Ginger was a trick! Got up regardless fer the solim rite. (’E ’awks the bunnies when ’e toils, does Mick) An’ twice I saw ’im feelin’ fer a light To start a fag; an’ trembles lest ’e might, Thro’ force o’ habit like. ’E’s nervis too; That’s plain, fer orl ’is air o’ bluff an’ skite; An’ jist as keen as me to see it thro’.

But, ’Struth, the wimmin! ’Ow they love this frill! Fer Auntie Liz, an’ Mar, o’ course, wus there; An’ Mar’s two uncles’ wives, an’ Cousin Lil, An’ ’arf a dozen more to grin and stare. I couldn’t make me ’ands fit anywhere! I felt like I wus up afore the Beak! But my Doreen she never turns a ’air, Nor misses once when it’s ’er turn to speak.

Ar, strike! No more swell marridges fer me! It seems a blinded year afore ’e’s done. We could ’a’ fixed it in the registree Twice over ’fore this cove ’ad ’arf begun. I s’pose the wimmin git some sort o’ fun Wiv all this guyver, an’ ’is nibs’s shirt. But, seems to me, it takes the bloomin’ bun, This stylish splicin’ uv a bloke an’ skirt.

“To — be — yer — weddid — wife —” Aw, take a pull! Wot in the ’ell’s ’e think I come there for? An’ so ’e drawls an’ drones until I’m full, An’ wants to do a duck clean out the door. An’ yet, fer orl ’is ’igh-falutin’ jor, Ole Snowy wus a reel good-meanin’ bloke. If ’twasn’t fer the ’oly look ’e wore Yeh’d think ’e piled it on jest fer a joke.

An’, when at last ’e shuts ’is little book, I ’eaves a sigh that nearly bust me vest. But ’Eavens! Now ’ere’s muvver goin’ crook! An’ sobbin’ awful on me manly chest! (I wish she’d give them water-works a rest.) “My little girl!” she ’owls. “O, treat ’er well! She’s young — too young to leave ’er muvver’s nest!” “Orright, ole chook,” I nearly sez. Oh, ’ell!

An’ then we ’as a beano up at Mar’s — A slap-up feed, wiv wine an’ two big geese. Doreen sits next ter me, ’er eyes like stars. O, ’ow I wished their blessed yap would cease! The Parson-bloke ’e speaks a little piece, That makes me blush an’ ’ang me silly ’ead. ’E sez ’e ’opes our lovin’ will increase — I likes that pilot fer the things ’e said.

’E sez Doreen an’ me is in a boat, An’ sailin’ on the matrimonial sea. ’E sez as ’ow ’e ’opes we’ll allus float In peace an’ joy, from storm an’ danger free. Then muvver gits to weepin’ in ’er tea; An’ Auntie Liz sobs like a winded colt; An’ Cousin Lil comes ’round an’ kisses me; Until I feel I’ll ’ave to do a bolt.

Then Ginger gits end-up an’ makes a speech — (’E’d ’ad a couple, but ’e wasn’t shick.) “My cobber ’ere,” ’e sez, “’as copped a peach! Uv orl the barrer-load she is the pick! I ’opes ’e won’t fergit ’is pals too quick As wus ’is frien’s in olden days, becors, I’m trustin’, later on,” sez Ginger Mick, “To celebrate the chris’nin’.” . . . ’Oly wars!

At last Doreen an’ me we gits away, An’ leaves ’em doin’ nothin’ to the scran. (We’re honey-moonin’ down beside the Bay.) I gives a ’arf a dollar to the man Wot drives the cab; an’ like two kids we ran To ketch the train — Ah, strike! I could ’a’ flown! We gets the carridge right agin the van. She whistles, jolts, an’ starts . . . An’ we’re alone!

Doreen an’ me! My precious bit o’ fluff! Me own true wedded wife! . . . An’ we’re alone! She seems so frail, an’ me so big an’ rough — I dunno wot this feelin’ is that’s grown Inside me ’ere that makes me feel I own A thing so tender like I fear to squeeze Too ’ard fer fear she’ll break . . . Then, wiv a groan I starts to ’ear a coot call, “Tickets, please!”

You could ’a’ outed me right on the spot! I wus so rattled when that porter spoke. Fer, ’Struth! them tickets I ’ad fair forgot! But ’e jist laughs , an’ takes it fer a joke. “We must ixcuse,” ’e sez, “new-married folk.” An’ I pays up, an’ grins, an’ blushes red. . . . It shows ’ow married life improves a bloke: If I’d bin single I’d ’a’ punched ’is head!