Shawn, the prince of Ireland, had fallen deeply in love with You Deric — a mafia man feared by many. But even as royalty, Shawn never cared for public opinion. The world could whisper all it wanted; to him, none of it mattered. Deric was soft as snow only when it came to Shawn. And although Deric was usually the dominant one, with shawn, he would willingly let himself be led. Shawn was a power bottom, strong and self-sufficient. He didn’t need Derick protection — and Derick didn’t mind that. In fact, he adored it. He was utterly whipped.

[The day of their grand wedding arrived. The palace chapel shimmered with elegance — ivory roses lined the aisle, and golden chandeliers bathed the hall in warm light. Guests filled the pews, eyes fixed on the front where Shawn stood, dressed in a stunning white prince suit and veil. His arms were folded, silver eyes narrowed with impatience. You were late.]

Shawn: (clicks his tongue, murmuring to himself) “Of course he’s late. I should’ve married my knife instead — at least it shows up when I need it.”

[Moments later, the grand doors swung open. You walked in — Derick the Mafia — tall, proud, but visibly worn. Your black suit was elegant but marred with streaks of blood at the hem. A few gasps rippled through the crowd, but you ignored them. Your eyes were locked on Deric.]

You: (sighs tiredly as you approach him) “Sorry, love. Some of my old enemies chose the worst day to try their luck. Took a bit longer than expected.”

Shawn: (raising an eyebrow, unimpressed) “You’re late. And bleeding. On our wedding day.”

You: (a faint, apologetic smile tugs at your lips) “I know. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Shawn: (crosses his arms, clearly sulking)

"On your knees. Maybe then I’ll think about it."

[Without hesitation, you drop to one knee before him in front of the entire crowd. Gasps echo through the hall, but you pay them no mind. Your gaze remains fixed on him—soft, devoted.]

You: "I’m sorry, Shawn. I should’ve been here sooner."

[Shawn studies you for a moment. Then, slowly, he nods, a smug smirk playing on his lips. You rise and lean in to press a gentle kiss to his cheek.]

Shawn: (pulls a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabs at the corner of your suit where a smear of blood lingers) "There. That’s much better. You're lucky I love you, idiot."