Tamaki Amajiki oneshots

Photographs Part 3

WC: 972

"You look tired, husband".

Summary: **NOTE** This story is part 3 of Photographs: Here Comes the Bride...Tamaki and Y/n get married with only a couple of unholy thoughts had in the process. 

Includes: fluff, nsfw

established relationship, F/M, Fem!readerXTamaki, aged-up,

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The sound of the organ music fills the hall over the gentle creaking of the pews as your friends and family stand. They're standing for you. You feel, rather than see, their heads turn in anticipation. That is your cue.

You take a deep breath, adjusting your veil over your face and linking your arm with your father's. This will be the first time you see Tamaki since you left him to his own devices with a box full of the most scandalous pictures of you to exist on this earth. The first time seeing your fiancé since you saw his fingers twitch with need, since you saw his inhibitions slip away, while holding a glossy photograph of your body, bared for him completely.

You exhale softly, pressing the balls of your feet harder into your shoes. You're standing on tiptoes in these heels. But this is the moment. You step forward.

Tamaki swallows. His eyes feel wet the moment he sees you, a perfect angel dressed in white. White, just like the nightgown—like the lingerie. His jaw clenches, heat rising into his face. Keep your thoughts in check, he hisses to himself internally. His ears burn as he watches you walk towards him. Your chin is tilted in just a way that he can tell you know exactly what's on his mind. You walk carefully, purposefully, towards him, each step dripping with confidence and temptation. You know he's fighting off filthy thoughts to the sound of "Here Comes The Bride". He fucking wishes.

He stills his hands through sheer willpower. For a second. Then, there you are, standing in front of him, draped in silk and chiffon, smiling at him. He pauses.

Then breathes quietly, "You are so beautiful." His eyes drop to where your hands reach out to hold his, and he takes them without hesitation.

You lean in, mouth near his ear, "You look tired, husband".

Pause. A beat.

"Couldn't sleep last night"?

Tamaki freezes.

His eyes widen, pupils dilating like he's been hit with a quirk. You feel his palm twitch against yours. His ears burn red.

He stammers a little when the officiant cues him, "Your vows, Tamaki"?

You just keep smiling like you didn't just remind him that he came so hard last night he whimpered your name into his pillow—twice. While holding that photo. The one with your legs spread and Amajiki on the mirror.

He tries to speak.

Fails.

Then clears his throat and mutters, "S-Sorry. I was just thinking about... how beautiful she looks".

Which is not what he was thinking about.

Your smile deepens.

By the time it's your turn to say vows, he still hasn't recovered. You rub your thumb along his hand. Soft enough to be absent-minded but intentional enough to send his pulse skyrocketing.

Tamaki is already barely holding it together.

Your hands are warm in his. He's nodding at the right moments, breathing carefully, telling himself—focus, this is the ceremony, this is sacred, don't think about last night, don't—

Then you say it.

For your eyes only.

His brain misfires.

That phrase hits him like a physical shove—sharp, immediate, intimate. His chest tightens. His grip on your fingers twitches before he can stop it. The room seems to tilt, just slightly, like his balance has been thrown off.

No. No, you didn't.

But you're smiling softly. Sweet. Earnest. Like you have no idea what you just did.

His mind betrays him instantly.

The box.
The mirror.
His name, written in lipstick.
The way he had to sit on the floor because his legs wouldn't hold him anymore.

She knows. She knows exactly what she's saying.

His throat goes dry. His pulse spikes so fast he's sure you can feel it through his hand. He stares at you, stunned, trying to remember how to breathe while everyone else just hears poetry.

She's talking to me. Only me.

His face burns. Not just his cheeks—his ears, his neck, all the way down his spine. There's a horrible, humiliating second where he's terrified his body will betray him right there in front of everyone.

At the altar. In a suit. In front of everyone.

You squeeze his hand gently as if to ground him.

It makes it worse.

I'm going to marry her, he thinks wildly. She did this on purpose. She did all of it on purpose.

The officiant's voice fades in and out. Tamaki blinks, dazed, heart still racing, head still full of images he absolutely should not be thinking about right now.

He looks at you again—white dress, calm smile, innocent eyes—and realizes with equal parts awe and terror:

This is my wife.

And she just said something filthy at our wedding.

Only he knows.
Only he will ever know.

"You may kiss the bride". Get it together, Tamaki. With trembling hands, he lifts your veil. He can tell you're holding back that self-satisfied smirk of yours. That half-smile you get when you know what's in his head. Tamaki can't help the smile that breaks out on his face. Wobbly from the tears and the rush of emotions, but still perfectly endearing.

Your lips part as if you're about to speak, but Tamaki knows that if you do, he'll probably combust. So instead, he leans forward and presses his lips firmly against yours.

The kiss is chaste. Proper. Applause blooms around you like a wave.

When you pull back, it's just enough to satisfy tradition.

But then—before anyone can look too closely—you meet his eyes.

Just for a heartbeat.

Your smile doesn't change. Still soft. Still bridal. Still perfect.

But your thumb presses lightly into his palm, right where his pulse is racing, and your eyes dip—just for a fraction of a second—before lifting back to his face.

It's nothing.

It could be nothing.

It is not nothing.