November, 1889 — Spain

Valencia, having attended countless weddings over the course of her life, had gone into her wedding with the expectation of it lasting until dawn. She knew she would be exhausted, her feet aching from the fiesta, and ready to collapse into an everlasting sleep. However, what she didn't account for (rather foolishly, in hindsight) was what was meant to happen after the wedding.

It was hysterical, she delirously thought throughout the entirety of her family leading the newlyweds from the hall back to her childhood home, that she had forgotten about the consummation. The closed door activities that her family had heavily suspected Don Juan and she had already indulged in. (They hadn't, of course, for they were never granted even a second alone together.) She'd dreamt of it for months, sneakily gleaning whatever information of what was to come from the few forbidden texts she knew her cousins to be in possession of, and yet she'd forgotten about it entirely throughout the course of the night.

Valencia must've had some sort of love struck girl's expression on her face, for the sharp pinch on her arm from her mother instantly sobered her some. The lecture she'd endured last night of what was to come spoke only to the seriousness of what consummating a marriage was to be. A pious act, a holy union granted only to them by God. That Don Juan was perhaps the least pious man she'd ever met wasn't a strong enough argument to deter her mother's continued lecture.

Serious. She was to be serious.

At least for a few more minutes.

By the time they were in her childhood bedroom (newly furnished with a larger bed to accommodate them both), Valencia's exhaustion had been overtaken by the apprehension of what was to come. They were to finally be alone. And not alone by way of a stolen moment in the garden or down a hill, but alone in her room with her husband.

Her husband!

The door clicked shut as her parents were the last to leave after blessing them both, and Valencia wandlessly locked it.

Now what?

She stood somewhat awkwardly from her place near the door, still in her beautiful black laced down, when a nervous laugh escaped her. Serious. How was she to be serious when he was here and hers for the rest of their lives? Her eyes widened as she covered her mouth to prevent any other laughter to continue. "I apologize," she said seriously in English, her chosen language for the night. "I did not mean to - I - this is - " she broke off as she struggled to find the right word in his native tongue. When she couldn't, Valencia said again, "I apologize."

---

Don Juan had gone to bed the night before intending to rise bright and early and flee the country. By now it was the only sensible course of action left to him. The longer he waited to clear up the confusion regarding their engagement, the more dramatic that conversation was bound to be. The more dramatic the conversation, the more he wanted to ensure he could have it privately... which hadn't been possible. Running away (again) was hardly a noble resolution, but he wasn't a noble person. Leaving in the morning would still have been better than leaving at the altar, or lying to her through a set of vows.

He'd woken up to a knock on the door of his rented flat, and his first thought of the day had been Shit. The majority of his thoughts throughout the day as it unfolded were also Shit. Valencia's father, brother, and a handful of male cousins had come to help him get ready, since they knew his own family wouldn't attend. Shit. They could take his bags (already packed, in preparation of his flight) to the house so they'd be ready to leave on the honeymoon tomorrow morning. Shit, there went all his worldly possessions for the moment. He might still have left without them, but her father was pouring him a shot and insisted on riding with him straight to the reception hall once he'd dressed. Shit.

The preparations went by in a whirl; before he knew it people were filing in and taking seats for the ceremony. Shit shit shit. He'd had one last thought of escape — he could apparate straight out, couldn't he? Even if he didn't know the area well and risked splinching himself, he could manage... in the very worst case scenario he could always send a desperate owl home to his mother and she would come to rescue him, whatever trouble he landed himself in. But then Valencia was there, and the way she looked at him when she walked to the altar put all thoughts of apparition out of his mind. She adored him. He felt sick to his stomach.

When the time came his mouth was dry and he was faintly dizzy, but there was nothing to say except I do.

For the rest of the night as he was approached and congratulated by legions of her family and friends, his inner monologue was once again reduced to shit, shit, shit.

He had no fucking clue what to do now. There was no way for her to salvage this, he didn't think. Maybe she could get an annulment, but even so she'd be ruined. No one would marry a woman who'd already been locked alone in a bedroom with a man all night — which was where the exceptionally long evening had eventually left them. He took a second when the door shut trying to mentally unspool himself, switching from entertaining dozens of people he didn't know with a smile plastered on his face and repeating inane remarks in a language he only somewhat understood and into... whatever was going to happen next. They were finally alone &mdsah; he supposed he'd at least have to explain things to her. Except then she laughed. He hadn't expected that, and didn't know what to make of it. He raised an eyebrow at her. "What's funny?" he asked in Spanish.

---

"I forgot," she confessed with the corners of her lips still upturned with the suppressed giggles. "In all the ... busy ... the party. I forgot we would end here." Don Juan didn't seem as pleased as she to have finally arrived, but he had to be exhausted from tonight. The sag of his shoulders and his serious expression had to be from being forced to celebrate all night long.

---

Don Juan wasn't following her meaning at all, and supposed that there was something significant about here, meaning the room they were in. He hadn't paid attention as they'd been bustled in, except to note that it was a bedroom and presumably the one they were meant to spend what very little remained of the night in. Now he looked around him, eyebrows raised, as if he expected the reason she was reacting this way might become evident once he'd taken in the decor.

If asked half a second ago whose bedroom it was he would have guessed it belonged to no one; a guest room, one of several guest rooms, made ready for anyone who needed to spend a night and mostly devoid of personality. He was surprised to find that wasn't the case; this was clearly a lived-in room. There was a hand mirror on the vanity alongside a hairbrush. A collection of spare ribbons he recognized from the pattern of Valencia's hair today. This was the room she had prepared for the wedding in — more than that, though. This was the room she had lived in. He was in her space, and the realization struck him as solemnly as though he'd just walked into a church and realized he was talking too loud and disturbing those who had come to worship. He did not belong here.

I need to tell her, he thought, but it occurred to him as she giggled again that he didn't know whether she was sober enough to really hear him. The post-wedding party had been going on for hours; he couldn't really blame her if she was drunk. (He wasn't exactly sober himself, but the seriousness of the situation had sobered him enough to get through a conversation — he wasn't sure the same was true of her). But if he didn't talk to her tonight, then what?

Well, even if he did talk to her tonight, then what?

"Let's sit down?" he suggested, though after he said it he realized this wasn't exactly a parlor. They didn't have a wealth of chairs. There was the one at the vanity and there was... the bed.

---

Perhaps it was foolish of her, but Valencia found herself also swallowing down a small kernel of disappointment in his reactions. The few stolen moments they'd managed were passion driven, warm and intimate. That he hadn't crossed the room already to kiss her wasn't lost upon her.

But, maybe the act of consummation was as serious as her mother had made it out to be. Maybe the passion he'd fueled into his kiss wasn't to be matched with what happened beneath the sheets. Her giggles died out completely then.

Neither option for her to sit was entirely appealing. The stool felt too rigid, too proper, too far from him. And the bed ... the bed was far too close. The bed would ultimately lead to other things, things she didn't know she could get through whilst maintaining that proper demeanor she was apparently meant to have.

"Would it be okay if I changed first?" She asked, not because of any rising desire but because it was an excuse to delay sitting. "My dress ... it's uncomfortable to sit."

---

She wanted to get undressed before sitting down. That short-circuited his brain a bit. The numerous drinks he'd had all through the night wouldn't prevent him from having a serious conversation with someone, but a girl in a nightgown would. Particularly when the girl in question cut as fine a figure as she did — her wedding dress accentuated her body, which meant he could imagine it already. His mouth had gone dry.

"Of course," he managed. Then, before she could turn away or retreat into a lavatory: "Valencia. Let me help."

---

There were no warnings of her husband wishing to undress her in the lectures. Everything Mama focused on revolved around the bed itself, and how she was meant to lay with her skirts pulled high while he did what men were meant to. She had learned that intimacy could evolve beyond that point with the few anatomy drawings she found, but even that didn't necessitate him undressing her.

"Oh ... okay." She agreed a bit nervously before taking a slow step further into her room. Then, as Valencia looked towards the closed door in the corner that felt impossibly far away, she added, "The dressing room is there, I change in there normal ... usual? No, it's normal I think." She stopped her ramble, her cheeks flushed in the dim room. Normal still didn't sound right, but what did it matter when he was looking at her like that?

---

Don Juan glanced in the direction she'd gestured, but he had no intention of crowding into a little changing room and having to hug the wall to avoid crushing her skirts. He took a step towards her. The room wasn't a large one; it wasn't difficult to close the distance between them. He reached for the lace against her shoulder. He had asked himself as he crossed the room what the worst thing that could happen was, the most dire consequences of sleeping with her. He'd been searching for a reason he could use to talk himself out of it... but what he realized was that the answer was exactly the same as the consequences if he didn't. It didn't matter to anyone what they did or didn't do; she'd been ruined for future marriage prospects the moment the door closed on the two of them. It wouldn't save her if he sat on his hands on the edge of the bed until daybreak — it would just make for a long and awkward couple of hours.

"Tonight is not a normal night," he murmured. He'd come to stand behind her and now used his free hand to brush her hair over her right shoulder, exposing her neck and the back of her dress. He was going to sleep with her. He'd sort through the consequences in the morning. He couldn't talk to her now anyway, and it didn't matter one way or another. He still had one hand at her left shoulder and moved his other one to her right hip, stepping in close enough behind her that she would be able to feel him. He wanted to see if he could take her earrings out with only his tongue — but first there was a moment of tension to be built.

---

No, this was certainly not any typical night, Valencia realized as he crossed the room to stand behind her. A normal night would have resembled something closer to the picture her mother painted: her night clothes flipped up, her lip bit so as to not release any cries of pain, her eyes narrowly focused on a random spot on her ceiling as Don Juan took his pleasure. That was the pious and uncomfortable act of intimacy her mother would have had her endure.

His presence was all the reminder she needed to realize his plans for the evening were a far cry from any such discomfort.

Her breath hitched in her throat as she leaned into his touch. The heavy skirts of her gown prevented her from stepping back and leaning into him fully, something she might have hissed her displeasure at were she willing to make any sort of sound. There weren't any soundproofing charms put around her room that she knew of, and with her parents and siblings still around Valencia was determined to make it through this as quietly as possible.

---

With just the two of them in the room the change in her breathing was audible. Don Juan smiled to himself. On her shoulder his fingers brushed slowly over to the edge of the lace and pulled it down to leave her skin exposed. He dipped his head as though he would kiss her there, but stopped just short so that she could feel his breath on her. He moved from her shoulder along her collarbone and up her neck in the same fashion, teasing.

If he was going to do this (which he was; he'd already determined not to hesitate over it any further), then he was going to have fun with it. So was she, whether she knew it or not yet. Don Juan's imagination was already running through the things he was going to do to her; this pause where he didn't quite kiss her was doing its job well enough that he was getting hard already, before he'd even touched her. Who knew what she was thinking now, given that she had never done this before.

He glanced at the back of her dress just long enough to be sure he knew how to unfasten it. He finally broke the building tension and leaned in to kiss her neck, and started to undress her at the same time.

---

If her breath was hitched only moments before, Valencia was barely breathing now. The few exhales she did release came out a breathy gasps as the fire he was coaxing within her core roared to life. Flames, beautiful and blazing hot white flames, fanned out beneath her skin wherever he touched - wherever he breathed. She hadn't known before now how exquisite another's breath on her skin could feel, but now that she knew she silently prayed for it to never cease.

She didn't know where to put her hands as her head tilted to allow him better access to her neck. They had been hanging at her sides before, but now she found herself reaching behind her on instinct, desperate and eager to touch any piece of him that might permit this heat to continue to build. One hand landed on what she assumed to be his side, the other came to rest atop his on her hip.

A plea for more nearly slipped past her resolve to enjoy this quietly seconds before he finally placed his lips on her. Valencia could feel his hands making deft work of her gown, the tight laces loosening by the second, but she could wait no longer to feel those lips on her own. Twisting in his grip just enough to lean her head back, Valencia reached up to cup his neck and pressed her lips to his in a searing kiss.

---

He'd gotten enough of her laces undone by the time she turned to kiss him that he could brush the fabric off her shoulders, leaving the dress to pool around her legs. The skirts were so large it didn't go any lower than her knees, but that was no real bother; he could lift her out of it easily enough if she didn't step out. Her torso wasn't entirely bare yet, but now she was wearing little enough that when he slipped one hand to her breast he could feel the shape of her beneath his fingertips. He touched her until the kiss broke; until he'd forced a gasp out of her. He smirked into her neck.

"Let's take this off," he said, tugging at her chemise gently so she would know what he meant.

---

By the time any coherent thought returned to Valencia, she was nude on the bed. Her various layers were littered about the room, some (her undergarments, she remembered distantly) had been thrown aside entirely in favor of the sensations Don Juan was providing her. There were so many new feelings and places he touched that she hadn't known could bring about such pleasure. And yet, that liquid heat she felt deep in her core remained in its rising crescendo, almost as though a final piece remained missing.

Much to her chagrin, he remained mostly dressed with only his shirt untucked and unbuttoned in a random order. Every time Valencia had made a concentrated effort into undressing him as he had her he distracted her once more.

A frustrated huff followed another of these failed attempts, even as his hands trailed distractingly on her thighs. "This isn't fair," she muttered in her native tongue, all thoughts of completing the night in English forgotten in the heat of the moment. Then, in a moment of brazen instinct, she forced him onto his back and rose above him so that the only parts of her that touched him was her bare thighs on the sides of his waist. "First, your clothes. Then you may continue." Valencia all but ordered as she began unbuttoning his shirt in earnest.

---

He'd had her entirely at his mercy for a quarter of an hour by the time she decided to do something assertive. The shift caught him off guard and then subsequently off-balance, which was how he ended up on his back with her straddling him. This was a welcome dynamic, overall... but he didn't intend to cede control of the night's flow without a bit of a fight.

"No," he said, tone smug and cadence taunting. He moved his hand up her thigh to the space between her legs. It was the first time he'd touched her there, though that was clearly what he'd been building towards as he ran his fingers over her legs a moment ago. He was counting on the surprise of it to give him the advantage as he pushed back up against her, first so that they were both sitting and then to the point where the positions were reversed.

"Soon," he said — though she'd already gotten through the buttons on his shirt, so he peeled that off before lowering his mouth to kiss her waist, her hip, her thigh, and then onwards. Hopefully she stayed so eager to undress him, because he was keen to set her to work on his trousers — but not until he'd made her scream first.

---

The torturous pleasure he inflicted upon her last for what felt like an eternity. At times, Valencia had even begun to wonder if the white hot bliss he extracted from her was what the priests meant heaven to resemble. Perfect and distracting and all encompassing. It was a challenge now, one she nearly lost an infinite number of times, to remain quiet, to keep her signs of pleasure as gasps and sighs and sharp inhales. It was a challenge not to scream.

She laid stretched out like a cat after her first ever peak, her limbs as heavy as lead as sleep tugged at the corners of her mind. What felt like hours had passed since she last considered the exhaustion of the night, and after that - yes, she could certainly sleep for a week.

Except - Valencia's eyes sprang open as she realized that wasn't the actual consummation. As pleasurable and extracting as Don Juan's mouth had been, every diagram and lecture she'd encountered had mentioned his ... member and the release that he was to achieve. Then, and only then, would they be married in the eyes of God, would he truly be her husband.

She reached for him, her grip insistent as she urged him back atop her. There was still the challenge of his trousers to contend with, but there was time for that yet. Her hands cupped his cheeks lovingly, her eyes bright and alive as she took in the expression on his face. "I love you." Valencia then told him for the second time.

---

He'd watched her with some amusement in the comedown, wondering if his new lover would merely collapse now. The disappointment he would have felt over not getting around to his portion of the night would have been easily outweighed by the pride of having entirely exhausted her. She'd perked up though, and he was all too happy to let her pull him back to her eye level.

He grinned devilishly at her comment. "You love my tongue," he teased, running the side of his finger along the edge of her face. To punctuate the remark, he leaned down and licked her collarbone.

---