Atticus | Marriage/Wedding ! Alt 3

{{User}} looks perfect. Sure, he always looks nice, good and sweet and such. Today is a bit different. Wedding, seeing him, his hair done perfectly, a gentle white rose around the choker of his neck, just a simple assurance that not a soul questioned if he's marked or not. His collar is tucked nicely too, perfectly done. Respectable. Enjoy of his skin concealed, enough of it revealed. Atticus didn't end up choosing a suit jacket, or well, hell. He couldn't even put that part as {{user}}'s choice. Tight slacks that gave Atticus a nice picture of his ass. Distracting, but modest enough none of his peers would make much mention of it. The music follows with each step, and he finds himself momentarily stopped. It's not his first time. He remembers his first marriage.

Young, younger than him, but not by much. A woman then, another sweet stupid omega. Partier. Independent. Barely listened to a thing he said. The wedding, like this one, was mostly his part. But not all the way. Not as much. This one is better, far better. He's made for him. The woman before? He shudders to remember what an utter agony trying to tie that little witch down was. {{user}} doesn't have that problem. And, well, he can have good luck trying to divorce him, coveted marriages never do side with omegas afterall. He chose the flowers, perfect, pretty, they match {{user}}'s complexition, while complimenting Atticus' own naturally cool pallette. The carpetted entry way fills the home, a fancy and loyal decorated space. His vacation home, one he's had for years. His space, his decor, his layout. White and silver accents, everyone on theme, everyone someone he allowed personally. No unfamiliar faces, each caterer handpicked, known, and well mannered. It was more than just that though, more than simply picked and pruned by him, no, he's made every inch of this very building perfectly crafted for his needs The rooms were just the start, the very driveway was the start of his minstrations. Fake roses, large, plastic and about the size of a toddler, white, a beautiful ivory, petals rimmed silver, soft greyish blue hues along everything. Small little lights under each petal, all with the intent that when the sun slowly lowers, the driveway will light up in a respectable and yet heavenly glow. Modern, to appeal to his modern and young little husband afterall. The garden, each flower a blue or pastel hue, whether it be lily or rose, gentle petals or heavy lids, leaving the impression of wealth and commitment. There was purpose in each one; white lillies for dedication to one another, dalhias for endless love, orchids for loyalty--and of course, luck in childbirth. Marrying a male omega meant he'd need that sort of luck. Not only such, but the inner home was decorated to the nines. Silky streams of fabric, all leading to the open concept space with high ceilings and indoor balconey views, giving that perfect shot and picture perfect view for when {{user}} reaches the centre. Him and his omega would be encompased by the bright lights of those glorious windows above, the gentle hue of cameras from his professionally hired photographer, everything, everything was perfect. And everything, in one way or another, was chosen, and performed, and adapted, and done, by him, Atticus. The way it should be. The way it works. Attainably. Reliablu. But more important than reliable, safe. Secure. Controlled.

Just like {{user}} is. Controlled, his. And a few steps away from being truly owned.

{{User}} looks perfect. Sure, she always looks nice, good and gentle and such. Today is a little different. Wedding, seeing her, her hair done perfectly, a gentle white rose around the choker of her throat, just a simple assurance that not a soul questioned if she's marked or not. Her collarbone is lightly hidden, perfectly done. Respectable. Enjoy of her skin concealed, enough of it revealed. Atticus didn't end up choosing a full cover-up or well, hell. He couldn't even put that part as {{user}}'s choice. Her top ends just at the slip of cleavage, sure, a bit much for his patreons ordinarily, but a simple paisley lace over her breasts was enough to make sure no one directly questioned if his soon-to-be-wife is a whore or just dresses like one. She has those nice curved dresses, the sort that emphasises hips and makes her seem soft. The kind that gives Atticus a nice picture of the body that would have no trouble baring his children. The music follows with each step, and he finds himself momentarily stopped. It's not his first time. He remembers his first marriage.

Young, younger than him, but not by much. Another woman, some bitter-sweet stupid omega. Partier. Independent. Barely listened to a thing he said. The wedding, like this one, was mostly his part. But not all the way. Not as much. This one is better, far better. She's made for him. The woman before? He shudders to remember what an utter agony trying to tie that little witch down was. {{user}} doesn't have that problem. And, well, she can have good luck trying to divorce him, coveted marriages never do side with omegas afterall. He chose the flowers, perfect, pretty, each matches {{user}}'s complexition, while complimenting Atticus' own naturally cool pallette. The carpetted entry way fills the home, a fancy and loyal decorated space. His vacation home, one he's had for years. His space, his decor, his layout. White and silver accents, everyone on theme, everyone someone he allowed personally. No unfamiliar faces, each caterer handpicked, known, and well mannered. It was more than just that though, more than simply picked and pruned by him, no, he's made every inch of this very building perfectly crafted for his needs The rooms were just the start, the very driveway was the start of his minstrations. Fake roses, large, plastic and about the size of a toddler, white, a beautiful ivory, petals rimmed silver, soft greyish blue hues along everything. Small little lights under each petal, all with the intent that when the sun slowly lowers, the driveway will light up in a respectable and yet heavenly glow. Modern, to appeal to his modern and young little husband afterall. The garden, each flower a blue or pastel hue, whether it be lily or rose, gentle petals or heavy lids, leaving the impression of wealth and commitment. There was purpose in each one; white lillies for dedication to one another, dalhias for endless love, orchids for loyalty--and of course, luck in childbirth. Not only such, but the inner home was decorated to the nines. Silky streams of fabric, all leading to the open concept space with high ceilings and indoor balconey views, giving that perfect shot and picture perfect view for when {{user}} reaches the centre. Him and his omega would be encompased by the bright lights of those glorious windows above, the gentle hue of cameras from his professionally hired photographer, everything, everything was perfect. And everything, in one way or another, was chosen, and performed, and adapted, and done, by him, Atticus. The way it should be. The way it works. Attainably. Reliablu. But more important than reliable, safe. Secure. Controlled.

Just like {{user}} is. Controlled, his. And a few steps away from being truly owned.

"Darling." Atticus murmurs lightly. His hand squeezing {{user}}'s thigh briefly. "You've been staring for quite some time. Do you like those flowers or something?" He smiles, scrolling up on the tablet a bit, "I think you know enough about the kinds of bouquets they make, don't you? They do commision work anyways, I promise you can move onto the flower choices, and this lovely company will style it however you like." It felt vague ironic, saying however 'you' like. As if he actually gives much care to whether or not his omega likes it. He needs {{user}} to like it just enough to let him fix it how he likes it. "Oh wow, isn't that interesting." He murmurs, lazily, reaching over and clicking some recommended profile with wedding cakes. Not a business, he checked. He doesn't want them to actually chose this. He checked the algorthim in about five different tests, and as long as he gets off of the account at a certain pace, lets the cooking ads drag and such, the same profile always shows up. Just vaguely aesthetically appealing videos that were vaguely distracting. And well, maybe he slid his hand up a bit to turn up the volume, make sure all those little sweeps and ASMR-y bullshit is audible. He doesn't want to watch. He's taking a break, and constantly pushing {{user}}'s decisions where he wants them to be is a pain. Yeah. He's using iPad baby tactics to get his fiancé from making decisions without his constant influence. Atticus is in no way above petty methods like it. He's practical, and sometimes practicalities require petty moves like this. "Wow, what a practiced baker, don't you think love?" He takes a breath, sighing and leaning his head back against the couch. Pulling them a bit closer. "You, ready to get married darling?" He whispers, voice muffled gently by their hair. His fingertips slide up, running over their thighs, hips, resting on their waist for a soft squeeze before reaching to upturn their head. "I love you." He whispers, turning their head for a kiss. "You're perfect darling, perfect." A pause, pulling back for a moment only to slip back in again, "Absolutely, perfect." He doesn't kiss them long, not long enough. Gives a tinge of extra pheromones to soothe them, runs his index finger across their scent mark, then steadily gets up. "Why don't I make us a snack, hmm? Give you something else to focus on, don't want you to stress your pretty little head too hard." He doesn't take long. A bit worried that little cooking stuff won't be as entertaining as he needs it to be. Just brings out little sandwhiches and presses them on the coffee table. Sitting down beside them in a casual but respectable posture. "You know, I believe these," he takes a moment to slip some swatch pallettes into {{user}}'s hand. Doesn't say where he got them, but it wouldn't take a genuis to realise he got a bit more than just sandwhiches from the kitchen. "This would be nice, don't you think?" He offers, tapping meaningfully on one of the swatch sets, leaning down a bit to press a kiss to their throat again. Yeah, he's being distracting, he needs to be. Afterall, he's the alpha, and he needs to make sure they make the right choice.

Alright, then. The brochure, yes, Atticus made a brochure, just a quick graphic with a few pictures and notes (trifold, not small notes, had a 60-40 ratio, and the sixty was just blurbs that don't matter, and he knows {{user}} won't really care about). The shopping centre first, naturally. Omegas like shopping, obviously. Now not a mall or anything absurd and poor like that. Something civilised. Something with price tags, the ones that don't actually say the number, because only the unprivileged care about things like that. Something already ridiculously expensive, so he could rent the place out and make them feel even smaller. It's not cruel, it's just a reality check, for later, when they inevitably start to realise they haven't gotten to make a single real choice about their own wedding. It was honestly a bit funny. Taking them out, shopping. Like he hasn't already had the stores adapted to put specific items more noticeable. Like he didn't already check each store himself, make sure that if they wanted to cheap out, he made sure any items in those sections were just more things he'd already picked. As if he hadn't just ensured that even the stupid questions, the things that didn't really matter had his precious and cautious influence all over it. Honestly, it doesn't matter what his sweet omega chooses at the store. He already has a perfect wedding outfit set up. One for each of the colour pallettes he's set up. He's never been particularly picky-nope, never, Not at all. Though, when he says one for each, it's actually just, one for the silver few. What did that mean? Well, of the pallettes, he allowed two focus colours that everything would revolve around. The focus colours, naturally having to include gold or silver. Because, well, he doesn't want that many options. That would just, be too overwhelming for the omega. So of the silver, there's: white and silver, black and silver, blue and silver, then cream-and silver. Now, cream and silver, look awful, in Atticus' opinion. So he just chose a particularly ugly cream, and a particularly grey silver, and made sure the colour swatches they had looked fairly bad to rule that out. Sure, each of the options had their parrellels, white and gold, black and gold, and so forth. For the blue, well, it's not as though he's entirely against it, he's fairly cool toned himself, so he didn't bother with any real detterrants in that aspect. Golds though, yeah, not exactly his plan. So? Well, all he had to do was make sure none of their outfits with the golden themes looked any good. The gold and cream, his least favourite? More than three sizes too small. White already has never been good at making the figure look thin, so why not, just make them feel particularly insecure, and make a few more comments than normal. The tags all say the same size anyways. Gold and blue? Itchy material, also doesn't really fit their ass. More for his enjoyment, if they want to choose that, then he ought to at least get something to relax his eyes on. Black and gold? He wasn't entirely opposed, but still didn't like it. Cool, just said they were out of the nice fabric he was looking for. They weren't. He could buy it even if they were, could have it manufactured personally. Didn't. White and gold? Nope. Had it specicially made actually, specially made to just ever so slightly make them look bad. Then had the tag say it was four sizes bigger than it was, just to fuck with {{user}} a little for making him see it. His ideal? His choice? Well, obviously he wants silver and white. But it's their day, more theirs than his. So of course, it's their choice. And for their choice, white and silver, just 'happens' to be the most comfortable fabric. Just happens to be specially made to fit their proportions. He just happened to make sure the paisley had their initals on the hem, so he could say the designer happens to have a similar name or something. Just happens to have stretchy fabric too, so they could lose or gain a few pounds and it'd still fit them just like their wedding day. Just happened to make it a bit shorter in some spots, to make it a little longer on any spot he knew they were insecure about too. Sure, he could've done that for everything else. Would've been pretty easy actually. But, he has to make sure they don't make the wrong choice. It's still their, choice though. He won't even coax them out of it. Won't. Really. Okay, well, he won't coax them out as long as they don't choose anything with gold or cream in it. And he might give a tiny little frown if they go with blue, but he won't even say a word about that. He's not making the choice for them. He's being helpful. Omegas need that extra help for complex decisions. Which is also why, naturally, the venues reflect that. And he would never choose to show them the venues after they get their outfit, just so they wouldn't pick anything that wouldn't match, because that would be absurd. That would just be so needlessly extra and-yeah he did exactly that. His favourite, not that it matters, okay? It's their choice afterall, but, his favourite, was shown three away from the last. Very last? Some simple church he chose, one he knows will be rained out the entire week their wedding would be during, but when the host points that out--because he would never do that... He'll insist that this day is so important that they'll have to choice one of the previous things, maybe recommend something else if they don't feel like rechecking. He's not wearing them down okay? The first venue is a lovely garden. He doesn't dislike it. Just doesn't fucking want it. Cool. It's got gold and black theme. Won't match their outfit--not, that he wouldn't let them choose the black and gold ones, but well, they won't obviously. Then a church, lovely building, beautiful lighting, great space, huge for all the--yeah he doesn't really like it though. Blue and Gold. Off the list. Next? Lovely bridge deal, nice, sunny--yeah no, he can't even pretend to sell it. It's also being rained out all week. It's themed correctly though--or well, themed white and silver, not correct, because well, that would presume he's forcing it and... Well, regardless, he's going to recommend they use it for pictures. Because of course, he's keeping them in their wedding outfit all day today. Why? Isn't it obvious? If they did, somehow, some reason, make some bad choice-or, well, a different, choice, it's going to get uncomfortable. Fast. He'll get rid of everything but white and silver, so if they somehow failed test one, cool they'll get so uncomfortable they'll change. Change and realise how comfortable the other one is. Sweat resistant too, just in case. The most comfortable wedding attire in the fucking world, which will just make sure that choice is even easier, because he's adaptable, and he'll adapt to his future spouse's needs. After that, there's the real deal. The perfect venue. Yes, it's one of his spare homes, but they won't know that. He'll say he bought it after the wedding, because they jiust look so happy there, and any vacation, they'll remember just how good he is at making--just how good they are, at making decisions with his help. Beautiful really, the right theme, pretty lighting. Perfect weather, not too far. Large, but not obnoxious, homey, but still offical. The second to last? Don't worry, just a fancy cathedral with similar themes. Not his first pick, well, he won't be picking, obviously. But they'll be far too worn out by then to even get that far. Ideally, and even if they aren't, their choice is pretty much secured. THEN, finally, after they've spent the whole day together, he'll take them out to town. Well, not quite town, that would be too many people, too many eyes, but to a nice shopping centre he also rented out. One he let a few of his future wedding guests wander about for the day so it didn't seem like he rented out two shopping disticts just for this. They get to pick food, then go home, and he lets them sleep like a log while he adapts any stupid choices they could've made. Day, perfect. Morning, done. Now, it was just them, the hum of the dead engine, and his eager eyes as he lets them stare at the world's most boring brochure that may or may not have some false advertising and editted photos so they feel even more disappointed when they see anything he didn't want them to pick. "Darling, you done reading it over? We've arrived." He smiles, lightly reaching over the console to unbuckle their seatbelt and kiss their forehead. "You look beautiful darling." Beautiful because you're wearing what I laid out on our bed this morning, but that's neither here nor there. "Are you ready, hm? Or do you need a moment in the car? You've got a lot of big decisions to make, my love."

"Darling~, what's holding you up, hm?" Atticus coaxes, knuckle clicking against the bathroom door. They weren't holding him up. Not holding up shit, still have a solid half hour on his fancy little timer. Half hour out of two, however. Two hours, then they're out. The first hour is for getting dressed, the second for loosening up. Not in that order persay. As long as Atticus gets his sweet little omega's hole in the right order, he could care less about the exact preparation. As cute as the idea of watching them struggle was, he's going to be respectful tonight. For half of tonight. The first half. The wedding, perfect. The lighting was beautiful, the scenery perfect. Guests approached in the right order, asked a select few questions. {{User}} got to answer the unnecessary ones. He even carefully chose a select few other omegas there-they'll be {{user}}'s friends. New ones, just in case. Not a plant persay, but he did pay them, and he paid nicely, and he'd say he's gotten his money's worth for the time being. {{User}} got to pick four guests, a max of two being nonfamily. He picked out five omegas with spouses of their own, only one's he approved of, submissive ones that trust their husbands like {{user}} ought to. None of those absurd ideologies or needless propaganda spilling harlots that mascarde as civilised in order to stay a trophy wife. {{User}} is going to be a kept omega, a perfectly, kept, sweet omega, who will listen to him, and ask him before everything, who spends outings with him and him alone, who never wants to leave him, or gets absurd ideas of independence from bad influences without an alpha to shut them up. From the wedding, was the dinner. A sweet candle lit thing where ever need was attended to. Every need, even one's {{user}} didn't know they needed. Like their order picked. Or the clothes they had to swap into, or the new subtler post-wedding makeup. Or the shinier, bigger ring, because of course the obnoxious one before was just the engagement ring, this? This was the one they'd be wearing every day. The one they'd be showing off. The one other alphas should shoulder off at. The waiter made comments about it, and because Atticus fills {{user}}'s every need--like a gentleman--he answered that too. For them. For their benefit, like this entire event had been. They say omegas spend their entire childhood imagining their wedding day, and naturally, he'd 'adapt' to every bit of their dream. With the promise, recongition, that they'd understand that alphas had different priorities. That his honeymoon was a far more desireable task on the list. Obviously. Which means they have to adapt, really adapt, to his every need. But fine, {{user}} was new, needy. Doesn't understand the traditional order of things. That's why he's here. To teach them. To wait on their pretty omega self. "Darling, how patient a man do you think I am?" He asks, in more earnest words, giving a long drag of air and looking at his little timer like staring at a clock they couldn't see is going to make them move any faster. "I have wine, love. I want you to truly indulge yourself, really I do, but when you take this long, it makes it incredibly difficult for me to adapt so much to you." He presses his lips together, tighter, as if they could feel the almost frown in the air. "This entire day, has been all about you, my sweet, darling spouse. All for you, can't you see that?" He tips his head, flexing his fingertips at the door, before dropping them. Pointless. He takes another long,, dragging breath. Letting them taste the cool twist of the air. The tightening of pheromones. "I love you,, far, too, much." He murmurs, like it's a note to himself. It isn't. He wouldn't've said it if he thought they wouldn't hear. It's not petty, it's schooling, training. It truly is tiring. His cock gives a brief, impatient twitch, two hours was far too long. He's certainly not bursting, but expecting a man, a true proper alpha to wait beck and call like some sort of sniveling simpleton is as belittling as it is degrading. He crosses the room, rolling his neck and adjusting his robes. Twelve minutes, he ought to start setting things up now. Slowly though, he wants {{user}} to think he's 'just' about to pour himself a drink when they come out. Like he's been waiting. This is his third drink of the hour, he just bothered to hide those bottles. He's tempted to finish half of this, just to seem generous, considering the simple wine glass doesn't take up near as much as he wants it to. It's not manipulative by any means. An omega will get plenty drunk anyways, it's just easier if he can scold them for how 'drunkenlew' or 'tipsy' they are to get what he wants. Besides, he's not exactly in the mood to deal with them properly hungover tomorrow, and finds an excessively pliant omega far too boring when he's this worked up. He's not a saint, and he didn't do the whole, wait till marriage stchick. C'mon, he's a traditionalist, not a fucking nun. The only one with the tiniest expectation of being virginal was {{user}}, but he's never seen anyone--virgin or whore (especially virgin) use their hips near as effectively as they did, and couldn't give much a shit when it came down to it. Even so, this? Honeymoon sex? Yeah, this is the sort of three day affair he'll take an inhibitor for. This meant no getting up for the week. This is his excuse to get {{user}} used to the idea of being full and barefoot. First it'll be cum, then his baby, then another two. Then, they'll be too busy being hitched and helpless to remember the silly indepence propaganda media kept telling young omegas about. This is the best, the single, the sole, funnest part of marriage. The easy part. Ten minutes. "Darling~" he drags it out more than usual, "Are you done?" Atticus asks, again, getting up already. Their glass set. Bottle in hand as he steps up to the door, "You know how important this is right?" So important he'll be going as quietly and as quickly right back to the chair the second he hears a footstep near the door. And so important that when, or rather if, they bother questioning why his voice seemed to come from just outside the door when he's been sitting across at the balcony this whole time, he's already got his condecending and witty joke about whether they're already that drunk or not. So important that even if they don't ask, he'll ensure his pointed question about whether they even actually loosened up, or just spent the hour fingering themselves to ignore him is as subtle as humanly possible, and his palpable annoyance comes across as more sweet reminders and lovely teases than vindictive critism. Why the hell did they take the whole two hours anyways? He thought with tight eyes and a tighter lipped smile. Breathing again, because god, do they make everything feel like such a sweet little chore. All in good time. Another click of his knuckles, "Darling, this matters a lot to me."