#and then i want them both to lay in bed afterwards pissed that theyre in love

[ghouljams]

Gritting my teeth thinking about Austenian Ghost and Goose...

His gloved hand gingerly cups yours as he leads you into the ballroom, your fingers just hovering over his while you hold your skirt to make your way down the stairs. Ghost tips his head to the side, stretching his neck, there's a stiffness in his shoulders that speaks to his military training. You glance at the length of his neck, the dark mask covering the lower half of his face, he'd be a handsome sight if he could keep his mouth shut.

"Try not to bite anyone," he grumbles under his breath at you. You plaster on a demure smile as he leads you to greet the host.

"Are you going to speak to me all night? Or can I expect a drink at some point," you murmur back, doing your best to keep unheard as you bow your head to the hostess.

"Would love one," Ghost breathes, his fingers tighten around yours as he turns to lead you into the crowd. You have plenty of people to greet, and a horrible escort with which to greet them.

You slip your fingers from his hand and slide them up the back of your neck, checking your hair. At your side Ghost clenches his fingers into a tight fist and drops it to his side. You flick your fan open, glancing around the room. It's warm, and you'd rather find someone you know quickly to save you from bearing Ghost's presence too long.

"You're not in want of a wife, are you?" You ask him with a soft sigh. You can feel him tense next to you.

"No." You give him time to finish the thought, fanning yourself in the meantime. You spare him a glance, and catch his eyed darting away from you.

"Sparing the ladies your riveting conversational skills," you hum, your fan stalling when you hear him snort. You snap your fan shut when you spot one of your friends and start towards them with a smile. Ghost's large hand grabs your shoulder and you smack your fan against his fingers. They only tighten their grip.

"Where are you going?" His tone is cold. You can't imagine what's irritated him now.

"To fill my dance card," you grab his hand to pry it off of you, turning to make sure you can look in his eyes when you tell him, "be a good dog while you're off leash, I don't want to have to take you home early."

Something steely crosses his face, his brows drawing down as his eyes narrow. He growls, and you drop your fan into his hand. It's a lovely night and you're not going to let an overgrown and over-grumpy soldier weigh you down. You have a nice new dress, you have friends to talk to, and despite your father's best efforts you have no intention of finding a husband this season. Actually you're starting to think Simon might be around to hurt your odds at marriage.

Ghost, you remind yourself, not Simon. Never Simon.

Ghost grips your fan watching you grin and hug your friends. You smile up at a man who bows and kisses your hand. You offer your dance card for him, and he smiles penciling down his name. Wood splinters in Ghost's fist. Price was right, men circle you like flies circle honey, each louse eagerly throwing his hat in the ring of your affections. You laugh and cuddle close to your friend, the picture of charm and civility. The picture of discomfort.

He needs a drink. Not for the courage of it, but he needs something to loosen the tightness in his muscles. Otherwise the next time you touch him something might snap, and he'll do something truly stupid. Like fill up your dance card with his name.