His English Heart- A Tom Hiddleston Fanfiction

The Wedding

You'll never know the weight that is being taken from my shoulders by posting this chapter. I've been holding onto most of it for months, just waiting for the opportune moment to post when I thought you were all ready. I think the moment has come.

I warn that there's a bit of stuff in here that isn't completely for younger readers. It's not *ahem* a sex scene, because I don't and will never write those, but I do allude and I do detail a few kisses. So.

Enjoy, my lovelies. You've waited long enough.

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It had taken four months of planning, two caterers, forty million different sites, and combing through hundreds of gold bands to finally have a wedding ready to go on the fourth of April. You freaked out at every turn, and not because you were leaving your days of singledom behind, but because you were getting married. To Tom Hiddleston.

If Cora weren't so happy for you as a family member, she'd kill you as a fangirl.

Your best friend of three years would be your husband in two hours, seven minutes, and forty three-two-one seconds.

The second hand on the clock taunts you as the hair stylist rips curlers out of your hair. You haven't seen him at all today because of orders from your mother, his mother, Cora, and apparently both of his sisters. All of these women are in the room directly adjacent to this small, light-blue one you're in; the only thing separating you from their high pitched laughter is the thin wooden door.

Two hours. Six minutes.

Perhaps the torture would never end.

The dress was darling. That's the response you'd gotten from the female population of the small dress shop in London. The boutique was a dimly lit, cozy place that had tea carts and biscuit trays, deep cushioned sofas and rows of wedding gowns that were all well over any price at a David's Bridal back home.

You'd been told money was no object, which was a very scary thought. Money was very much an object and there was no way you'd spend so much on a dress you'd wear once. Even if it was your wedding day.

The 'darling' dress was beautiful though. After searching and searching through stores, the internet, everywhere- this was the best one. A strapless silk and lace ball gown that was free of the thousands of frills you'd sifted through. The bodice was tight and fit like it should, a layer of gorgeous white lace covering the white silk underneath. The bottom was much the same and thankfully, there was no train on the end (you were sure you'd trip all over that later in the evening).

You felt beautiful. Almost as beautiful as you were sure Tom would be in a bow tie and coattails. Your heart flutters at the thought and you hope the multitude of women around you don't see the flush that's erupted over your porcelain-like cheeks. Somehow, the make-up stylist figured out how to make you look like a china doll and even though you think it's pretty- it's just not you.

But this is what they want. So you'll take it.

You were here for one reason. And he was in a different part of the building- probably laughing and chumming it up with his father and Chris and not even worrying about how his eyeliner looked. Because he wasn't wearing any.

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"I think I'm going to throw up," Tom says, sitting down quickly on the light pink sofa, hand fisted and up to his mouth. He's hunched over, leaning on the arm, trying to breathe, his eyes closed tightly.

"No you're not," the deep rumble of Chris Hemsworth's voice permeates the room far greater than the weak, pitiful groan of the man about to go out and recite vows.