bakerstreet | Just arranged?

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Just arranged?

Arranged Marriage Turned More

To have and to hold, you said, till death do us part, all while the sharp, swinging pendulum of obligation hung overhead. But how could you have truly meant those words? This union has been tainted from the start, forever bearing the chains of an arranged marriage. It would be understandable if you couldn't bear to look at your new life partner, eternal reminder of your stolen future that they are, much less like them.
Much less love them...

Still, things can change.

You could realize that they are in the same boat as you or, that when compared to others around you,
they are the lesser of evils. Perhaps you even open up to the idea of a friendship; at the very least,
an alliance may be in order to become a power couple in a perilous world. From that innocent decision or sense of self-preservation, a new feelings sparks. Something like affection.

Something, you realize in the wake of speeding heartbeats, like love.

Will you acknowledge this? Can the two of you have a happily ever after - happier than if you'd met in another fashion - or will you hold firm in your distaste?

how to play.

- Everybody loves "couples forged by less-than-ideal circumstances" tropes!
- Comment with your character, prefs, all that good stuff.
- Reply to others.
- IDEC where you set your threads, it's wide open. Fantasy world with hairy hobbits, old-timey lands, future AUs, do a space marriage for all I care. I'm sure they're still getting married in Star Wars or whatever.

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( all the way to her wedding day, gwen isn't entirely sure how the fuck this happened.

every part of ælfræd's world is a little alien to her, a throwback to something she hadn't ever thought was real, but being informed that negotiations were underway to forge a marital alliance with something she had previously been under the impression was imaginary—for a start, she's running out of things to think aren't real. she's going to marry the king of atlantis and sooner or later they're going to have to deal with an envoy from fucking santa claus, she's almost sure.

she could have said no. her grandfather might be beholden to his liege-lord, but she isn't; they could force her, but while she's an inspired choice she isn't the only choice. the first, but not the last if she'd declined. there were numerous points during the negotiation where she could have walked away, not least of which being how incredibly unsubtle it was that atlantis generally and her future spouse specifically feel this is, at best, marrying down. the 'aristocratic but not royal' part pales next to 'several generations of human blood', and there's no way that's not going to be an issue...

but what an opportunity to walk away from. nevermind being queen of something—queen consort, it's been stressed to her, a highness and not a majesty, her influence will be managed, limited, at his majesty's pleasure—which in itself isn't that appealing, but to walk into another world and live it. it makes more sense to her than koschei's court, and the pull of it is different; her own intellectual fascination and not the siren lure of something that might not let her go. that she isn't entirely sure wants to let her go this far, because koschei and not ælfræd gives her away, pausing just a little too long before letting her go—

there is both a sense of loss, and of a bullet being dodged in placing her hand, instead, in orm's.

it's apparent, from the varied appearances of the court who attend, that gwen's glamour is just that; that there must be something else beneath it, glimpses here and there of sharper teeth, the curious way her skin catches the light, how wide her eyes seem. still: it remains firmly in place, even when finally they're alone and expected to navigate together, appearing as human as he knows she isn't entirely. )

[ A slight come down for Atlantis, yes, to have a surface-bred aristocratic queen consort instead of royal, but she breathed water and brought a potentially valuable alliance against humans. Even if she had been raised among them and had their blood running through her veins, she wasn't all human so their children wouldn't be like his brother. And that was enough for Orm.

Orm, dressed in gold and purple armor, his crown across his brow, watches the procession, assessing both the attendants who would stay and those who only arrived for the ceremony, then his future bride as she approached, his light eyes focusing on her, a slight question in the back of his mind of exactly who he was marrying really was sparked by glimpses of not quite human.

Her hand's warm, compared to his, but the water's cold down here in Atlantis. He smiles, practiced, with a tiny hint of warmth in his eyes. He can't afford to show much more to her in public, surrounded as they were by the eyes of the Court. They had sharp eyes, here in the depths of the oceans. His fingers squeezed hers, then they turned to the priest and spoke the ancient words that bound them as husband and wife. The rest of the day was a blur of faces and words, the celebrations not quite memorable enough in the moment. The memories would return, much like the tides did.

That evening in their rooms (a change from just his rooms, since now she had the half of the suite that used to be his mother's), Orm prowled the sitting room, his crown whisked to the vault where the royal jewels were kept, his cape tossed over a chair for his valet to find in the morning.

He looked over at Gwen and tilted his head before settling down in a chair, his eyes watching her movements. He knew his duty. Breed heirs on his queen. Sons preferably. Daughters for alliances. Don't parade mistresses in court. But he also knew the worst betrayal would be by the closest person to him, and right now, that was Gwen. He didn't have enough information to know if he could trust her. He shifted in the chair, leaning forward as he looked straight at Gwen. ]

A question for you. They weren't very interested in giving me a straight answer during the negotiations. Typical for a deal with the fair folk, I'm told. But I know you are not completely human, yet raised as one. So how exactly are you related to Koschei?

( the strangest part about atlantis, so far, is all the clothing. not that there isn't any at koschei's court, but koschei's court is more...varied than atlantis in its people. it isn't unusual, there, to see a broader spectrum of socially appropriate; gwen has a nymph's tendency to think of clothing as a human conceit, and it's an odd little quirk that that more than anything else requires an adjustment. her trousseau had been provided by her grandfather, under her oversight, and the fabrics that can survive salt water fascinate her enough that she is still playing with her dress—now unobserved by any but orm, who is not served by whispering behind his own wife's back about her ways—when he breaks through her thoughts.

she twists the fabric in her fingers, one foot tucked up beneath herself, considers where to start with that opener. really choosing the easy ones, she thinks. )

It's more of a...my grandfather, Ælfræd, the leash he's on is long but when his king yanks it, he doesn't get to ignore that.

( great-great-grandfather, if they're being technical, but ælfræd never is. they're all his children, if he's asked. )

He'd floated—no pun intended—the idea of marrying me, a couple of years ago, and I declined. In this, my grandfather is, I guess, a proxy for him? He has no daughters, and one son. He can't marry you, so the granddaughter of the most alarming bastard he has at his disposal made a kind of sense. Links your court, his court, and my inheritance.

( for as alien as it all is, she seems oddly at ease; like she could settle anywhere and make it look like she belonged there. he's cold in comparison to her, but she's cold in comparison to a human—there's no where she quite fits, so why not treat them all the same?

if you don't like a story, change it. reframe it. she doesn't like to be looked at, so she must engage with the looking, and not be helpless before it. )

Edited (icon reasons) 2019-01-23 11:06 (UTC)

[ Orm's never one for easy questions. His mouth tips up a little at the leash comment as he stands up, idly moving through the room. He's precise as he pulls off the gauntlets, laying them just so next to the cape. His gaze flicks over to Gwen's hands, then back up to her face, as he sits in a chair close to hers, her skirts drifting over his knees. ]

Leashes. I can understand that. As long as he doesn't try to act as if I'll come running at the slightest tug. I'm not nearly as tame as his court. I hope that you won't obey him nearly as often as he's been used to, now that you're my queen consort.

[ He emphasizes my, for yes she's his now. She belongs to him and Atlantis, and Atlantis never shares willingly. Even if another king thinks he holds the strings. Orm reaches out and takes Gwen's free hand in his, glancing down at their joined hands then back up to her face with a small smile softening his face, something only seen in private. ]

Based just on my dealing with him during the negotiations, I'm glad you declined him. You would be wasted in his court.

[ He hums a little, the continues, still examining their joined hands, seeing the edges of the glamour meet his own flesh. ]

It will be a few weeks until completion, but I'm told that the engineers are confident they can divert part of an underwater river here. The head gardener and royal architect are at your disposal to design a suitable place for your requirements.

[ He wasn't about to risk her health and a little bit of something that was hers didn't hurt him to give. He enjoyed the thought of taking a river the surface-dwellers weren't even using and would have spoiled anyways. And a wife who was happy wouldn't run like his mother. He flicked a final glance down at their hands then back up to her face, his head tilting, eyes narrowed as if he was assessing something. ]

Another question. Why the glamour?

[ He learned very quickly about the fair folk and their ways. Or as much as he could during the talks. Enough to get by, and he had one of the younger noble sons on a special mission to the surface to learn all he could about Gwen's connections and how best to handle future interactions. There may be a link between the two courts now, but he wasn't about to open Atlantis to any sort of threat. ]

( there's a lot she might say (about how little she's obeyed anyone in general and koschei in particular in the past; how much she appreciates her own water; maybe it isn't necessary to comment on how her teeth sink into her lip at that show of possessiveness that she knows better than to think is personal when they know each other only a little) but the last question stills it, dropping her gaze from his eyes to their hands.

that's a fair question. koschei and her grandfather nearly assault their acquaintance with their inhumanity; they, like those beneath their responsibility, do not hide their light. a cruel, breathtakingly alien loveliness: it is impossible to mistake them for the mundane. gwen, at a glance, is indistinguishable from the mortal masses if you don't know what to look for, the subtle tells. that she's almost too real, like an oversaturated vellum illumination of a girl.

she weighs her words. eventually, )

This is what I used to look like. It's what all my father's pictures of me look like, and...I mean, the world is changing,

( aliens fighting out in the open? wonder woman? )

but not that much. Not that fast. Faerie magic tends to, like, the more I embraced it the more it, um, embraced me.

( a little gesture, light. she changed. )

Daddy doesn't know what we are. Most people don't know. It's...easier, and I guess now it's-

( how to put this. )

If I took all my clothes off, I'd feel less vulnerable than if I didn't and just showed you my face. I mean.

( a hesitation. )

No one's seen it.

( gwen is, heaven help her, a vain creature. what if she showed someone, and they recoiled? if they could never look at her without seeing that? )

[ The tiniest wrinkle appeared between his eyes as Gwen spoke, the only outward sign of his confusion, then cleared.

He hummed a little, flicking a glance from head to toe, rearranging his view of his wife, then nodded at her words. He could feel hints of concern and worry in the water, something pinging in him to make her comfortable.

But another part of him liked being the only person to see Gwen like she is. ]

Ingrained habit, I would say. Show me. Please.

[ Orm's head cocked to the side, eyes curious and warm. He was curious, and he knew this would set the tone for their union. If he didn't accept her as she was, well, it would make everything that much more difficult. He did wonder what any future children would look like, before the voice telling him not to be stupid, she would have an idea of what to do in case their children looked more than her than him. ]

( for several reasons, it doesn't happen immediately. first of all, that she has to steel herself slightly—it was always going to be necessary and she'd always known, and yet. secondly, that it isn't as simple as switching on and off; it's become second-nature, the way that she disguises herself. she can do it in her sleep, as natural to her now as breathing, and it requires more thought to stop than to start—

it runs off her like ripples of water. colour leeches out of her skin, leaving her smoother, paler, a prism: her skin is like pearl, almost, and she doesn't precisely glow so much as she refracts the light around her. her eyes are bigger, without the glamour, and darker than the gold-honey tone she usually looks out of, whites disappearing into hard to read blue-black. her features sharpen, cheekbones more pronounced, her bow-mouth set into a moue of slight discomfort, and the teeth that press into her lower lip are thin and needle sharp. her hair, too, is darker; that same blue-black hue, thick and heavy as it was before.

taken together, changes that in themselves are almost small are more dramatic: from a distance she might be taken for human, still, but not so close as they're sitting. she is, like her grandfather, unmistakable.

the teeth had really taken some getting used to. )

'Socialite changes colour' wasn't a headline I was courting. You know.

[ he watches, eyes sharp as she changes, his mouth upturned. When Gwen finishes her change and speaks, his lips curve up a little more, as his eyes wander from toes up to her eyes, his glance taking in everything.

Orm lifts himself out of his chair, and moves closer to Gwen, a hand rising to cup her jaw, a thumb teasing her bottom lip out from under her teeth then idly rubbing. His eyes are a warmer shade of blue as he laughs, low. ]

I do. Not something everyone needs to know. Thank you for showing me.

[ he hums a little, eyes watching his thumb on her lip for a moment before his head dips as he lifts her chin up, the first touch soft. ]

( as reactions go—as the first reaction could have possibly gone—it's nothing she's braced for, past her most cautiously optimistic expectation of 'not horrifically'. it's much better than that, too understated to get in a fluster over but still somehow leaving her scrambling for a response—

and then entirely spared the necessity by what he does last, which she doesn't need to think to respond to at all. (that it is even more a surprising reaction to that will come back in later, pleasingly.)

she is not, to gauge by the sharpness of her personality and her features, a naturally gentle creature; she doesn't linger long in softness, approaches intimacy like she does driving in paris, which is to say without much in the way of restraint. or regard for road rules. a little; enough that the scrape of her teeth not breaking his skin must take too much care to be other than deliberate, the threat of it playful, the way she kisses him here very different to the chaste, polite thing exchanged for witnesses.

her laugh has a gurgle to it, watery— )

I'm really glad you said that, because I honestly don't know if I can hold it while I'm. Distracted. Like, very distracted.

( are you picking up what she's putting down, orm, imagine how much more startling that would have been in bed. training herself to do it in her sleep is a little different to...it's been a while since there was anyone in bed with her to worry about. )

[ his eyes crinkle in amusement, his own laugh dry as his fingers drift over Gwen's skin and into her hair. ]

So you're saying I should see how well I can distract you, hmm? [ he leans in for another kiss, his hand cupping the back of her head to pull her closer, and this one doesn't even start out soft, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, before he pulls back, breathing just a little heavy. ]

Just so as long as nothing important is bitten or can be seen when I'm dressed, you needn't guard your teeth, my queen.

[ are you catching what he's saying, Gwen? ]

( —or can be seen.

hazel-gold settles back where blue-black had been, the human-seeming glamour rippling back over her skin and features arranged into a very speculative sort of smile. she's near enough he'd have to tilt to see it properly, but he doesn't need a perfect view to appreciate the sly air of someone who is already thinking about pressing her luck.

not tonight. that's the thing about pressing your luck: it's all about timing. and the thought that maybe there'll be a time she could get away with—maybe he'd like it. if she's his, now, maybe she can persuade him to be hers as well.

it occurs to her that she is plotting to woo her own husband, and if he weren't holding her she might sit with that thought for a while, but she lets it go with the tide instead and lifts herself into his lap, instead. step one: be irresistible. )

I promise, ( extremely seriously, ) only to bite you on purpose.

( the thing about arranged marriages is that while they are in many respects a business arrangement, one doesn't typically seal them with a handshake. she is not embarrassed about having asked her grandfather is he, you know, cute; he had not been very helpful. she had known better than to ask koschei. would he expect fidelity, or just discretion? 'consummation', which sounds like something you contract, what would that look like? would it be awkward? she's supposed to give atlantis heirs—'the heir and the spare', that's the saying, she's like a watery duchess of cambridge with better hair—so that was always going to mean fucking him, but that could have meant anything.

this seems to be working. this is promising.

maybe it'd ruin the mood to bring up the fidelity question right now. maybe she should just bite every part of him fabric covers, so if anyone else sees him undressed they know what she's capable of. )

[ He doesn't even make a noise when his wife climbs in his lap, taking her weight easily, as he sat back in his chair, fingers tracing down Gwen's back. He smiles at her promise, his other hand combing through her hair. He wondered how far his wife would take matters, and he was going to enjoy every minute of it.

Orm planned on being faithful but knew that despite the words they had both said in front of the priest, that he couldn't command the same from her. But he hoped she would be, considering his mother hadn't been to his father. He didn't want a repeat of history. ]

Only on purpose, hmm? I'll have to earn those marks, then.

[ he says in a low purr, his questing fingers starting to acquire some purpose and daring, even. ]

( the strangest part is how strange it isn't—the way that her hair floats against her back and his fingers, the cool pressure of water all around them, that if she weren't holding onto him she could so easily just push off and drift away in it. and that it feels so natural, and easy, and correct. not her water, but water, and she's always sort of wanted...

she'd always imagined a river. and it being messier. and there'd never been anyone who wouldn't probably drown. she wastes no time in the here and now, searching out the fastenings of his wedding garments—a slight frown developing, because atlantean clothes are not the kind she's used to stripping off other people—and then an abrupt laugh. )

I can't believe I'm undressing underwater. I've always just been undressed in the water.

( not that the surrealness of this entire experience is stopping her from embracing it; she doesn't pause what she's doing to make the comment. )

[ he laughs at her words, his hands coming up to help her. He had foregone his usual armor for his wedding finery and they were a bit tricky, even for him, the fastenings not where he was expecting them to be. ]

A new experience, then?

[ he paused, licking his lips anxiously before continuing, a hand shifting from the undressing to Gwen's side, curving around to her back. ]

How much are we talking about? Experience, I mean.

( oh, that's...a conversation. gwen pauses, too, considering her words and the more tactful ways she might manage to answer. in another context she'd be more suspicious of what answer he might be fishing (...no pun intended) to hear, but in this one and so new to each other it doesn't seem entirely unreasonable. just a question she hasn't had in a while, something that takes her off-guard. )

Well, my entire first collection of poetry - the first published one - was, um. On that subject.

( her not inconsiderable experience, undressing. )

I know my way around, let's say.

( "you can google my nudes" is another way she might put it, but maybe not until she's got a gauge for how he might react to her ex-boyfriend's tendency to post those when he wants attention. )

Poetry, hmm? Well. I'll have to read it sometime if you want me to. [ He smiles a little. She was his now, but at least he didn't have to be careful with a virgin who hadn't done anything before. ]

Let's see how well you know your way around, then. A game of sorts. See how long we both last? [ his hands slide up and pull Gwen's face closer to his for a kiss, this one a little harder and needier than the previous ones. ]

( patience, short of involving restraints, has never been her strong suit—which doesn't mean that it isn't a particular favourite game, or that she doesn't light up just a little at his playfulness. more than a little, really.

his hands slide up and hers slide down, and when they break apart so does she—sliding down to her knees between his, one hand curving over his thigh, a sly twist to her smile. )

I can test both of our restraint at once.

( his patience; her teeth.

she's always been of the considered opinion that the timely application of one's mouth is an excellent way of solving many problems and winning any arguments, which had presented her with something of a dilemma when her teeth had...sharpened, presenting something of a challenge.

many bananas were sacrificed to the cause of not giving up an advantage. )

[ Orm watches Gwen settle between his knees, his mouth turned up at the corners, eyes glittering. He's found himself a bold wife, he thinks, and he's enjoying every second. ]

Shall we play, then, my queen? [ He shifts in his seat, to give room to work, his voice low as a hand tangles in her hair.

He would say once he's figured out what bananas are and how she used them, that they died a noble cause. ]

( a tell: the way that she tilts her head, just enough to feel the tension in her hair where he's holding it, that he'd be pulling if she tilted any further. that, probably, she'd like it if he did.

she's figured out the fastenings, by this point—she is still mostly dressed, the floating skirts of her wedding gown tangled around his feet where she's sitting, her shoulders bare but the sleeves tight. she's more pressingly interested in getting orm out of his clothes than herself out of her own, that can wait, they're being very patient—

nothing she does next is likely to produce an heir, but those wicked-sharp teeth are on their very best behaviour; he is in no danger of being unable to produce one afterwards, when she dips her head and takes him in her mouth. )

[ he catches the tell and experiments a little with tightening the tension as her mouth touches him. Oh no, that won't lead to babies, but it will lead to very nice things. He notes the puddling of her skirts around his feet, planning on taking his time divesting her of her gown.

But then he wasn't really thinking other than working on keeping from ending much too soon, not when she used tongue and teeth though maybe it wouldn't be so bad to give her the win but also they had time, plenty of it.

Despite his volume in public, in private, he really isn't loud, but he makes choked off whimpers in between words of praise, careful not to tug Gwen's hair out, but applying just the right amount of tension.

His vocalizations are his tell, though his hips moving in counterbalance of Gwen's motions are also telling. ]

( there is something very satisfying about the fact that men are men are men, no matter what they breathe; that atlantis might not want her, but her husband does. and oh, she wants him, too—sweeter luck, when the choices that led them here were pragmatic ones, not sentimental. she likes the way his hands feel in her hair and the sense of power that comes with holding someone else's pleasure in hers. a king. her king, as it turns out.

every way that she can make him hers.

when she judges him right at the edge— )

I think I'm winning.

( she may have to pay for that. the thought is a thrill in itself. )

[ oh but is she? He does make a tiny whining noise when she stops, but he's quick to lift her up, her skirts spilling over his lap as he settles her to face him, one hand in her hair, the other spread over her side. ]

Are you, now?

[ His eyes are half-lidded, with a small smirk on his lips and clearly not winded or put out in any way of essentially deadlifting his wife from the floor to his lap. ]

( —somehow she wasn't expecting that, her laugh burbling out, startled as she lands in his lap, her knees falling either side of his thighs. it takes her off-guard, takes her breath, and, )

...I think I was.

( not that she is at all displeased by this turn of events, ) I still might be.

( her fingertips follow the line of his arm up to his shoulder, a little speculative. what a promising development. )

[ he laughs a little, his hands moving under her skirts, fingers skimming up her legs. ]

Maybe I am, now.

[ he leans in to catch her mouth with his, his tongue tangling with hers while his fingers oh so slowly work their way up. ]

( the restless way she shifts in his lap—gwen can be terribly patient when she's the one holding the reins, but it goes all to pieces (she goes all to pieces) immediately when the tables are turned on her. the way she kisses back is insistent—coaxing—a build to urgency that isn't slow at all, the acute awareness of how hard he still is and how much she thinks she could be doing about that.

the perks of marriage, thus far, are excellent. )

I don't think, ( against his jaw, pressing kisses and dragging her teeth, ) anyone actually loses.

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