bakerstreet | Forced Family Unit

Forced Family Unit

The Not So Happily Married Meme

(or the FORCED FAMILY UNIT meme)

Let's get one thing straight. Not all marriages are happy. They don't start with love, and they don't end with it. In fact, some marriages are more arrangements that anything. Whether it be through the will of an iron-fisted totalitarian government or something as ancient as tradition, people end up stuck. And now, you're one of them. Maybe you were assigned you partner. Maybe your parents picked them out. Maybe it's something different all together. But no matter what, you're going to be with them in some shape, fashion, or form.

So, what can you do? Do you just deal with it? Try to find a way out? Or worst of all, do you blame your so-called "spouse" for all this? You'll have to do something.

HOW TO PLAY;
1. Comment with your characters, putting any preferences you have in the subject. These are your OOC preferences, however. Remember, in meme your character's preferences won't matter.

2. Reply to others! You can use the RNG to roll for the WHY (why are your characters in this mess), the WHEN (what stage are they at), and the HOW (how do they feel about their partner). Or just wing it.

3. The fun of this meme is putting together characters who would normally never be together or have no business getting married, whether it be cross-canon, enemies, or strangers. But feel free to do what you want. Unlike your characters, you're never forced.

4. This is not a smut meme, nor is it a romance meme. There is a smut option and a romance option, but neither are required. The focus here is on CR and coping with situations that might be fairly unpleasant.

5. Have fun! And by that, I mean be miserable.

WHY;
1. GOVERNMENT: You live in a world where all aspects of life are controlled by the government. This includes who you're matched up with. Take "government" to mean anything you want it to, whether that be actual government or something like gods.

2. ARRANGED: Due to your culture, status, or family, you have an arranged marriage. Your significant other was picked out long before now.

3. SOLD: One of you belongs to the other in some way. At any rate, it's not a completely consensual arrangement.

4. KEEPING UP APPEARANCES: You don't particularly care for this person, but you have to look good for some reason. They'll do for that.

5. SHOTGUN WEDDING: Because of outside circumstances (read: an unplanned child), you're stuck together.

6. CURSED/POTION: At least one of you is under the effects of a curse or potion that binds you both.

7. THE BEST I COULD GET: Either one of you or both of you are settling. This is just a marriage of convenience.

8. Wildcard/free space.

WHEN;
1. JUST MET: You've never seen this person that you're engaged, intended, or assigned to. This is your first meeting.

2. JUST MARRIED: Ceremony or knot, you've just tied it.

3. CONSUMMATE: What's a married live without consummating the union? Whether it's for some kind of ritual, a fulfillment of a contract, or the need to produce offspring to become workers, you have to come together.

4. IN THE FAMILY WAY: Congratulations! You're about to bring a child into this (potentially loveless) family. Are you proud?

5. MARRIED WITH CHILDREN: You have kids already. They might be biological, or they might be state-assigned. How's the family life going?

6. FILLING YOUR ROLE: The two of you have a job or purpose, such as starting a business.

7. TRYING TO ESCAPE: You have to get out. You can't take this life anymore.

8. THERE'S SOMEONE ELSE: Since you didn't ask for this marriage, one of you has a lover on the side. Do you tell your spouse upfront, or do they find out themselves?

9. Wildcard/free space

HOW;
1. STRANGERS: You hardly know this person. Getting to know them is important (since you're only going to be spending the rest of your lives together) , but are you willing to put forth the effort for that?

2. HATE: They've ruined your life. Maybe not directly, but they're there and that's enough.

3. LOVE: There might be a light at the end of the tunnel. Perhaps you do love each other, or you're at least learning to do so.

4. IN THIS TOGETHER: It may not be perfect, and you might not be be in love, but you're making it work for yourselves or for any children you might have. And hey, sometimes friendship like that can be a strong enough bond.

5. Wildcard/free space

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ 1, 2, 4, or 7, or my fave option, something based on the premise of the old jamjar game we're still here: characters wake up in a suburb in the american 1960s, married, with photos and evidence suggesting they've always been married and have always lived here. 20+, no idol/musician/model fcs please. ]

[Oh, hey, I know we're still here! I'm a tiny bit canon familiar with Vincenzo, I watched the first couple of episodes. Are you up for something with Huaisang? I put him in the 'wife' role in the actual we're still here game, since I figure he'd be more comfortable talking flower arranging and party planning with other 'wives' rather than cars and poker with the other 'husbands'.]

[ We actually played together in WSH!! I was playing Vasiliy. I'd totally be down although I do have to warn that Hanseok is initially going to be like 'man in a dress haha'. If that's ok though fire at will! ]

Huaisang awoke feeling too warm in an unfamiliar bed, tangled up in some kind of material that seemed like silk but rasped where it should slide, clinging unpleasantly. He sat up, too upset by the strange false-silk he was in to start noticing anything else. It was a fine satin weave but an unnatural fiber, and the garment was a straight tube of white fabric rather than his normal robes.

Clearly he'd been kidnapped, but it was very strange that his kidnappers had changed his garments like this.

Looking around, Huaisang pulled the covers of the bed defensively up to his chin, long hair pooling around his back and shoulders as he peeked shyly around the room and found another bed with another person. "Hello?"

Jang Hanseok wasn't one to sleep in, not usually. His workout schedule didn't follow a specific pattern per se, but there were times when he could appreciate the vigor and feeling of an early morning run, and even when he didn't, the business world tended to start early.

But when he cracked open his eyes, the bars of golden light cast over a bed decidedly less comfortable than his own told him that it had to have been at least ten AM, if not later.

Did I get drunk last night? That could explain it, or maybe he was coming down with something. The pajama set he found himself wearing wasn't as comfortable as what he'd fallen asleep in, and—when he opened his eyes fully and stared at the wall a few feet away from his face, it decidedly was not that of his bedroom.

"What the fuck—" In English, as he still, three years after returning to Korea, tended to default to in moments of high emotion. He sat bolt upright and rubbed at his eyes, taking in his new surroundings—he'd been kidnapped. This had to be one of Vincenzo's mind games. Maybe he'd drugged him again. Jesus Christ, he needed better security.

The thought was interrupted by an unfamiliar voice on the other side of the room, a flicker of motion in his peripheral vision. Hanseok immediately turned and laid eyes on a man in a woman's chemise, long black hair cascading down his shoulders like he'd never trimmed it in his life. His kidnapper? Maybe.

"Who are you?"

Huaisang looked the stranger over curiously, with his hair cropped short like a criminal. He was dressed in undergarments that seemed less strange than Huaisang's odd tube, though of no design that Huaisang recognized. "QingheNie Clan, Nie Huaisang greets you," he said, defaulting to polite Chinese even though he'd somehow understood the unfamiliar words that the stranger had spoken.

The room around them was even stranger, cluttered with patterns and unfamiliar objects. Warily rising from the bed, Huaisang went first to the window and pulled aside the curtain to look out. There was a flat black river in front of the building, and strange buildings on the opposite side. Each one was a different color, but they were otherwise identical. Strange pale-haired persons in bizarre clothing--some in undergarments and others in obscenely scanty robes that showed off bare calves and forearms--moved about outside. Their indecent apparel at least gave Huaisang some faint hope that this unnerving dream would turn pornographic, but he wasn't sure he wanted to see any pornography so downright strange. "What is this place?" he asked, switching without realizing into the alien language. "Why isn't anyone properly clothed?"

Huaisang wasn't usually a stickler for propriety, but he was usually the scandalous one. Perhaps this was some kind of prison, and that was why so many of the people outside had their hair cropped like convicts.

Oh, great, now he was speaking Chinese. So Hanseok was probably neither in Korea nor the States, or they were both kidnapped. Then the stranger opened the curtains and looked out the window as he, Hanseok, rose to his feet on the heinous carpet between the two twin beds; context immediately made itself clear.

They were in the States, but not as the States had been when he lived overseas. No, their new environs were by all appearances a white neighborhood in the 1950s or 1960s. A woman across the street stood watering a flowerbed in front of her single-story yellow house in a knee-length dress and Mary Janes while her husband crouched beside a Ford Fairlane in the driveway, tinkering with a half-disassembled lawnmower, on his second can of beer. Probably a Sunday. Maybe.

"Son of a bitch. God!" In a sudden fit of anger he yanked the cheap comforter from the bed, threw it on the floor. It wasn't nearly as satisfying as he needed. He wanted to break something. Jesus fucking Christ, what a nightmare. He needed to get back, to oversee Babel before his idiot brother or Vincenzo Cassano or both ran it into the ground.

Hanseok stalked to the window at a brisk pace to see what else he could observe, holding in a scream or several. He needed to maintain a semblance of normalcy here. That meant introducing himself, too.

"Henry Jang."

He used his American name by reflex; not like these simpletons would be able to pronounce Hanseok or would be willing to try. He was no stranger to blending in; every moment of public existence for a person like him involved some conscious effort to mimic the deadheaded general public, people toothless and sentimental.

Speaking of. It certainly seemed as if his fellow abductee knew a hell of a lot less about their current situation than he did; the introduction and warped sense of propriety—and hair—seemed to suggest provenance far predating this. Another person he was responsible for. Lovely.

"We're in the United States. It's the 1950s or 60s. When are you from?"

Huaisang repeated back the name, butchering 'Henry' but managing 'Jang' easily. His expression was worried and confused, understanding the words of the strange expressions but not really the implications of them (the offspring of a female dog-god? was that the deity he observed?).

"The what?" he said helplessly, not understanding the pronouncements any more than the obscenities. A union of nations, nineteen and fifty or sixty of them. That seemed like a great many nations.

"When? It is the reign of the Emperor Xuanzheng," Huaisang answers. "In Zhongguo." The Emperor is distant to him and not particularly important amidst the conflicts of the martial sects, but the nominal emperor is still the easiest way to declare an era. "Not long after the Sunshot Campaign between the great sects."

Hanseok forced in a deep, sharp, strained breath against the rising tension in his lungs. He didn't need to deal with this on top of everything else. The urge to clench his hands into fists at his sides until his palms bled was overwhelming; resisting that and the urge to scream took up what little mental capacity wasn't reserved for battling the urge to kill, to harm.

Nie Huaisang's neck was delicate. It would probably only take one hand to choke the life out of him, and then he'd be able to explore on his own, get his bearings without dragging him along. And it would offer some relief from the fury overloading every circuit in his brain, surging through his body like electricity through a series of live wires. But he didn't know the exact nature of his situation yet, how much power Henry Jang held in this world. He'd at least need to wait.

"At least a thousand years have passed." He wasn't familiar with the particular regime and didn't care, but it seemed a safe bet. "You're on the other side of the ocean. Get dressed. I'm going downstairs."

Edited 2023-05-13 17:22 (UTC)

Deeply bewildered by all of this and how his companion reacted to it, Huaisang just stared after him for a moment. Getting dressed seemed like a reasonable place to start, however, so Huaisang started exploring the room. He found clothing piled into drawers, all variety of undergarments but very few robes and nothing of the quality Huaisang was used to.

A tiny painting on top of the chest of drawers popped out at him and Huaisang picked it up. It had unbelievable detail, and depicted himself and the irritable young man who had just left the room. Huaisang was dressed in one of the robes he'd seen outside, calves on display, and gazing up at Henry Jang with warm adoration. He'd never looked at anyone like that. Trust and affection, pressed so close against his side. It was obviously amorous, which made Huaisang's cheeks blaze. In the scanty apparel, he looked like he was the stranger's concubine.

Not sure how he felt about that, Huaisang placed the painting face down atop the chest of drawers, then picked it up again and consulted his own apparel in the painting, taking it as a primer for how to utilise the apparel in these drawers. Even if he couldn't look appropriate by his own standards, at least he could look appropriate for the local norms.

Dressing in a plain blue robe that fitted flat across his chest and hugged his shoulders, closing down the front with a set of little coins, Huaisang checked out the window a few more times, seeing how other people wore robes like these, and then added a short handkerchief around his neck and a pair of relatively sensible shoes that tied around the ankle. He tied his hair up with a simplified version of his usual braided bun, and secured it with a couple of ornamental pins from a box.

He felt like he was going to shake apart with anxiety for this strange situation he found himself in, but he'd done his best. Mercifully, there were some paper fans in one of the drawers, though they were oddly tiny and the ribs were made from some kind of resin. It was at least a gentleman's fan, no matter how small, so he took it with him as shield and accessory, then went to find his companion-captor.

There was coffee and a coffee pot, at least. A stove. A toaster. The candy pink enamel covering said stove more or less confirmed his theories about the era, as though it was needed given the innumerable anachronisms in the kitchen appliances. No french press, no Keurig.

He grabbed a slice of bread from the ugly aluminum breadbox next to the toaster and took a bite as-is, not in the mood to wait on the equally ugly toaster. Bread in hand, he strode to the living room, regarded the heinous plaid couch and matching armchair, the framed photograph on the mantle of the fake fireplace.

Him and the stranger, himself in a tuxedo, the stranger wearing a Western woman's wedding dress. It looked expensive, tailored to his decidedly male frame. And nobody questioned this? That was allowed? The wedding band on his finger, the apparent joint ownership of property—it pained an anachronistic picture. And now Henry Jang had to behave as though he was a contentedly married man. One more assignment.

Masking, a court-appointed psychologist had called this. Masking. It was exhausting when it didn't involve fourteen additional layers to seamlessly maintain. God, he already despised this man.

As though on cue, Nie Huaisang came down the stairs, at least dressed in something less revealing than a silk teddie. It was passably normal; presumably he'd been dressing like this for a while without the neighbors rioting or something, though the reaction whenever they finally left the house would be the tell-all.

"It looks like we're married. You shouldn't talk to anyone until you're familiar with this place."

Otherwise they would just think Henry Jang was married to someone fucking insane.

Married. It was some comfort, he thought, that there didn't seem to be anyone else in their little household. Other consorts or even children would be far more than Huaisang felt like he could deal with at the moment.

Henry Jang was certainly acting like he was the head of their household, which Huaisang didn't necessarily mind--when he'd been younger, he'd certainly liked the idea of being a consort more than he liked the idea of being the next sect leader. But this man's consort? He wasn't at all convinced.

"Are you even nobility?" Huaisang said, trying not to sound completely irritable about the prospect of being married to a commoner. He felt like Jin Xizuan, all peacock pretension, but he thought that he was really being very tolerant, given the strange circumstances he was having to endure.

At least he was properly clad in the little painting here, even though he looked like he was dressed for a funeral.

Do you know who you're even talking to? Hanseok burned with the urge to ask, but he kept it in check, just as he had for all the time he'd played the role of village fool Jang Junwoo. He hadn't even been awake long enough to decide what his angle was yet, and it was far preferable to play his cards close to the chest for the time being. Let this man think he had no social currency here, at least for now.

"No. I don't think either of us are here. We're middle class." Judging by the small two-story home, the single car, the television and audio set in the living room. Poor, by his standards; the home made him feel downright cagey in its claustrophobic boundaries. It occurred to him then that even the idea of middle class was probably beyond this man's understanding, so he added, "Not wealthy. Not poor. I work and you probably stay at home."

It's at least a relief that he's not expected to do any kind of work. Huaisang's certainly not capable of that. So they're merchant class but not merchants. Huaisang's a little curious as to what sort of work his new husband does, but not curious enough to actually care about anything categorized as work.

He still feels kidnapped, but it's undeniable that he is not in his own world and something beyond his comprehension is happening, so there's no use being in denial about that. Though he's not yet convinced as to whether this man is his kidnapper or his fellow victim, Huaisang feels like it's wiser to play along either way.

"All right." Huaisang ducks his head, choosing to be shy and nervous because it seems like the safest course of action. Better to make himself unthreatening. "How can I help you, then?"

At least he seemed to finally be yielding to the one of the two of them who had a much, much better idea of what was going on here. This Nie Huaisang, it would appear, had at least realized that he'd be far more useful if he stayed out of the way; there would be a lot of that for him if they didn't get out of here, considering which of the two roles in the wedding photo he'd occupied.

"We need to find a calendar—" Right. He wouldn't know what he was looking for, at least with how they look in the modern day. "Just—hold on."

He returned to the kitchen, looking around the other half; there was a calendar hanging beside the new, primitive yellow refrigerator. July 1961. Fucking hell. Hanseok pulled the pushpin holding it in place from the wall entirely and began scanning what was written in the numbered boxes, almost all of it in handwriting not matching his own, save for 'car inspection' and 'block party 7PM'. It would make sense, if this really was 1961 and Nie Huaisang really was his wife, that most of the calendar entries would be maintained by him.

The notes didn't reveal much; there were a few doctors and dentists' appointments, a brunch at Maryellen's house, whoever she was, a Rotary Club luncheon.

"It's the July of 1961," he announced as he walked back into the living room, then held out the folded calendar with one hand. "Is this your handwriting?"

Edited 2023-05-14 19:53 (UTC)

Huaisang took the oversized paper book he was given, looking it over with confusion. He could understand the words, though many of the implications were lost on him (what was a car? what was a block party? what is a july? why would you club whatever a rotary is?). But he was all the more confused that the words were constructed by sounds rather than meanings, and the sounds were very poorly organized. He had no idea how the words were even formed, because they didn't have brush strokes like he was used to seeing.

"I ... don't know? I can try to write words like this with ... whatever brush is used for this? I've never seen writing like this." He felt like he was failing at whatever test this was, and he wanted desperately to earn approval from his new partner-captor-supervisor.

Hanseok quickly glanced around until his eyes fell upon a tin cup with some pens and pencils in it, sitting on the edge of the counter next to the wall-mounted telephone with an accompanying pad of paper. Probably for writing phone numbers down on. He grabbed one of the pens and took the steno pad with him, then wrote a quick phrase in English to demonstrate its use:

July 1961.

"Like that. Drag it across the paper to write. Copy one of the entries on the calendar."

He held out both, watching expectantly.

This took several tries, with Huaisang first trying to hold the pen like a brush, then not pressing hard enough, but when he finally figured it out he managed a very shaky replication of one of the entries. He had an artist's eye to help copy it, but it was still a struggle, leaving it somewhat unclear as to whether the writing on the calendar would be his handwriting pattern once he got better at it. "I'll try to practice," he said with an apologetic wince. He wasn't sure whether this had been any help, but he looked hopefully at Henry Jang to see what the next suggestion would be.