lemonmeringueprincess

Genevieve

Gen gen ❤// 00s kid // callsign: lilith // "Gen's Character Moodboard Gallery" // angst addict

669 posts

Gurl I'm Sooo Screwed

Gurl i'm sooo screwed

premise: being in an arranged marriage was complicated enough, but catching feelings for your betrothed? now that was just ridiculous.

pairing: royal!namor x (f)reader

word count: 1.9k

warnings: reader comes from royalty as well, therefore this is an au, arranged marriage, light angst as well as very light fluff, mutual pining, alcohol mention.

note: shoutout to @rae-gar-targaryen for sending in this little mistletoe request!! i may or may not write for these two again since i think their relationship would be hella angsty and interesting. but ya girl already has too many wips so lmaooo who knows.

You have lost track of how many minutes—possibly hours—have ticked by since you departed from the lavish holiday party your parents had thrown in honor of your new engagement. The clinks of glasses, orchestrated music, and laughter hitting nerve endings you didn’t think were possible to reach in such a manner that would cause you to bolt down the halls of your childhood mansion.

You had loved parties growing up. Had adored being the center of the ball room's attention. But sometimes you think you had no choice but to adore and love the two. After all, you were your parents' only child. Only heir. Their pride and joy to the point of suffocation.

If the circumstances were different would you be out enjoying yourself? Taking part in the festivities like everyone else? Eating your weight in macaroons and dancing.

Perhaps if you were given a choice in any of this you would be.

Wouldn’t find yourself with a death grip on your third glass of champagne and pacing in your fathers library.

If you had gotten a say in who you were to marry—or given the choice of at least picking someone less…cold, intimidating. Maybe then you’d be just as happy as everyone else at this god forsaking party.

Namor—or K’uk’ulkan, he had emphasized you call him, insisting on it by your tenth meeting. “We are to be married” he had said, giving you a gentle expression that showed neither disappointment or joy in the fact. But still made you feel woozy all the same.

He wasn’t a bad man. Reserved. Cruel to some. Cold to most.

Your first meeting had done little to dampen down your anxiety over the whole arrangement. He hadn’t shown disinterest, or anger. In fact you could barely read his expression at all. The only show of emotion was in the tick of his jaw, the slight crease in his forehead when you spoke about yourself—whether it was from surprise of the many facts you were forced to spew out, sounding almost robotic—or if he just didn’t care. You didn’t know.

But a week later when the two of you had met outside of your home and went on, what could be considered, your first date: he had acted differently.

“Now that your puppeteer strings have been severed,” his tone filled with amusement. “Tell me your actual hobbies. What you like to do, not what you’ve been taught to like.”

You couldn’t help the small smile that had spread across your mouth. You should have felt insulted or scolded him on the insinuation on your parents behalf. But you were not that far up their asses, and as much as it had seemed face-value to people who were only spectators, your parents had left you to your own devices years ago. Your life was your own.

Until this.

Until being their only child came in handy for a business deal.

And when you had shared your love for the opera, classic books, writing poetry, finding yourself lost in your own joy of talking about the things you actually loved: that’s when you saw real emotion on his face. When you say a glint of something in his eyes. A cough in his hand covering up the traces of a smile.

A smile that made him look even more regal and beautiful, if that were possible.

It didn’t take the two of you long to warm up. For you to see that smile un-hidden, to learn more of his homeland and people.

That should have eased your nerves and mind on this marriage arrangement. Should have made you happy to know that you weren’t really marrying the coldest-man-alive like you had thought that first day.

K’uk’ulkan was a man with many layers, layers that you would have years to pull back. You had no choice in the matter.

But even now, after growing to like his company, to think of him as a great man—your dress already bought, venue booked, flowers picked—your nerves refused to settle. Stomach refused to let you rest, to enjoy all of this as much as the rest of your family was.

You just…couldn’t.

Not even with the beautiful golden ring on your finger. Or a lavish party. Or reassuring words from your betrothed. Or the many more glasses of champagne you could see yourself downing in the very near future as you take the last gulp of the one in your hand.

Already turning on your heels to poke your head out of the library to see if a waiter was passing—hoping, praying, for this one miracle tonight.

But your movements halt when you start for the door and the door is blocked by your betrothed himself. The breath caught in the back of your throat almost making you choke, your heart finding itself in your stomach.

“K’uk’ulkan,” you attempt at a smile. Don’t know why you feel the inclination in you to run a hand along your black gown, making sure every crease is straight—every curve accentuated. His eyes following the motion of your hands, and then trailing back up your frame to your eyes; your nerves could not catch a break tonight could they?!

“I see we both had the same idea,” his hands are in his front pockets, the corner of his mouth pulling up slightly.

“You’re telling me outlandish parties are not your thing? I don’t think I would have ever guessed that.” You distract your anxious thoughts with a joke. A joke that lands and has him chuckling under his breath. A sound you’re growing to enjoy..too much.

“The celebrations we throw in Talokan are quite different. Less…flashy,” he waves a hand in front of his velvet emerald suit. A suit that fits him so well you don’t think any other man living—or dead—could wear it better.

The mention of his country makes you smile. The country that was soon to become your home. The country you had only visited a handful of times over these past eight months, but had quickly grown to love nonetheless.

“Oh gosh, yes.” You groan dramatically, “I’m counting down the hours until I can rid my feet of these death traps.” You point a manicured, stiletto adorned, foot out from beneath your dress for emphasis.

He chuckles again, “you look beautiful.” He says it so casually, so simply and with adoration that it almost knocks you on your backside. It hadn’t been the first time he had complimented you. Had said how nice you looked in something, had spent too long focusing on your face, looking in your eyes, or having things sent to your house with a note attached “Thought of you - K”—before this.

And yet your nerves still had you ready to run.

If you took a second—a single damn minute—to let yourself dive into those nerves. To stop looking at it at surface level. Coming up with excuses; you only see K’uk’ulkan and that half-smile he was currently giving you. The way it made you feel. The fondness that had grown between the two of you, that left room for more to grow—more feelings, more…other things one felt for their husband. Normal. Feelings.

What they lacked was ease. Feelings were not easy. Love was not easy. And while you had been so hung up on not marrying a stranger another fear had set in, knocked you off your feet and made you want to run from it.

Arrangements were easy.

Love wasn’t.

And that scared you more than the arrangement itself.

“I can have Namora send for-”

“No.” You blurt out. Harsh, fast, and surprising him. The expression on his face grew into something stone-like and worrisome. Making an embarrassed flush burn in your cheeks. You try to recover with a pressed smile, “sorry. Just need some air. This is all just…a lot.” Your eyes downcast to the floor.

You needed that drink. Needed to escape once again. Maybe this time outside in the gardens where no one could find you.

Where the party goers couldn’t be heard.

Where your soon to be husband couldn’t make your blood heat from his beautiful stare.

“I’m going to get another drink,” you state as you try to push past him in the doorway—try to ignore the heat you feel from his body as your body brushes against his.

But then he’s stopping you again.

His fingers curling around your bicep, your side now pressed to his chest. The fabric of his suit making your body feel close to sweating. The heat from everything bound to crack, break, tear at something that would have you perspire through the silk of your dress, leaving your knees even more wobbly.

You don’t try and free yourself though. Don’t even attempt at disingaging the situation, removing his searing palm from your bare arm. Because it’s the first time he’s touched you. Really touched you.

It was laughable.

The first touch from your soon to be husband happening in what seems to be—when you finally look up at him—in frustration, if the lowering of his brows is anything to go by. His dark eyes become so onyx you’re almost frightened of what they are holding back, what he’s holding back from the already tight grip he has on you.

“Stay.”

The words are simple and not at all what you expect from him.

“Why?”

He doesn’t say anything for a beat. The silence growing so deafening you feel yourself tremble when his thumb presses into your skin and starts a light back and forth motion—soft, soothing. “You know why,” and you think—know—those three words alone hold more meaning than any others could. In this situation. With this man; a chunk of ice melted somewhere deep in his chest. For you. From you.

Your lips shake when you part them to say something, what you don’t know. Anything. Everything. Whatever you have to make this moment drag on for centuries. To keep his hand on your body. To finally let yourself breathe for him, because of him.

But then an “ooh” is breaking the spell.

Both of your attentions turn to see two older women in the hall grinning widely at the two of you. Feeble fingers pointed to the ceiling, your brows coming together in confusion until your eyes follow theirs and you see it. Your heart no longer hammering in the pits of your abdomen, but leaving your body all together you’re convinced.

Mistletoe.

The look of worry fades quickly from your face when you see the amused heat that’s on K’uk’ulkan’s.

And while you’re still spiraling from his first touch, you feel completely floored by his next. With the hand at your bicep keeping you glued to him, his other cups your cheek. The pad of his thumb pressed just below your bottom lip. His eyes flashing from your mouth to your eyes, your brain going cloudy—legs barely keeping you stationary.

“May I kiss my wife?” There’s a ghost of a smile at the corners of his mouth.

A puff of air filled with something saccharine, heedy, and something on the cusps of insanity that makes your body turn into a forest fire—leaves you before you’re giving a slow nod and murmuring “yes.”

And when he leans in, excruciatingly slow. When his lips press to yours; full, warm, soft, breathtaking in the way they move against yours. Like he was made to kiss; to kiss you.

You know you’re absolutely screwed.