All the Feels, page 8
Spirits restored, he then FaceTimed his mother. Complete with video, this time and every time. Without fail. Because he needed to see her expression, her body language, for himself.
Linda answered after two rings, her gray-streaked brown hair gathered into a messy ponytail atop her head, her face lit in a happy beam.
The sun was just setting in Florida, and the warm golden glow bathed her perch on the back porch swing. She set it to rocking, and her tidy yard whooshed back and forth while her face remained steady and centered on the screen.
“Sweetheart!” Her eyes, the same gray as his, creased at the corners with her smile. “I didn’t know you were calling today.”
She looked good. She sounded good too, and something wound tight within him released. At least, until the next phone call.
He wished he could recapture the joy, the unalloyed comfort, her voice used to give him. That sense of homecoming and acceptance, despite all his grievous flaws.
Her voice hadn’t changed. Her love for him hadn’t changed.
He’d changed, just over eleven years ago.
And it was for the better, it really was. He should know how he’d wronged someone he loved as dearly as he loved her, so he could do his damnedest never to make the same mistake again. But the guilt, the self-directed anger, had stripped away the simple solace her presence, her loving words, used to provide. Now when he talked to her, he wasn’t simply talking to his mom anymore. He was talking to someone he’d harmed, and he couldn’t forget it. Wouldn’t forget it.
“I wanted to check in and see how you’re doing,” he said, and it was the simple truth.
No hesitation. “I’m doing great. How about you?”
As usual, she fiddled with the cheap locket around her neck as she spoke. He’d given it to her . . . what? Twenty years ago? Not long after he’d left for L.A., anyway.
She still wore it every day, because she loved the pair of tiny photos inside. On the left: the two of them, mother and child, from when he was a toddler. On the right: the two of them fifteen years later, posed exactly the same way as in the earlier shot.
He’d even managed to find reasonably similar clothing for the second photo, although his mom had insisted he leave out the pacifier for the department-store shoot. If memory served, he’d called her a spoilsport and produced a beanie with a propeller on top instead.
At some point, he’d have to introduce Lauren to his mom. He suspected they’d discover a great deal of common ground when it came to him.
“I’m an exemplar of good health, good looks, and good choices, as usual.” He smirked at his mother, who merely rolled her eyes in response. “What’s happening for you this week?”
“Not much.” She tilted her head in thought. “They finally have the new kid fully trained, so I can take an extra day off. I’m going to set up my big umbrella, put some paperbacks I don’t mind getting sandy in my bag, and relax by the water on Thursday.”
Alex sent enough money for her not to work, but she preferred to keep busy. Her part-time job at a seaside used bookstore kept her happy and well supplied with reading material.
At least she’d finally accepted a new home by the beach a few years back. She deserved the world, and that would be true even if he weren’t roiling with guilt.
“Umbrella or no umbrella, put on your sunscreen,” he reminded her. “You remember what your dermatologist said.”
“Nag.” It was a cheerful accusation, and an ironic one, given his complaints about Lauren. And as if she’d read his thoughts, his mom added, “Speaking of wise decision-making, how’s it going with Lauren? You’re being kind to her, Alex, I know. Aren’t you?”
That tone could still make him squirm, even as a man in his late thirties. As could that calm, piercing, knowing gaze.
“I, uh . . .” He licked his lips and swiveled his chair some more. “I made sure she had everything she needed in the guesthouse?”
Dammit. That was supposed to be a confident statement, not a question freighted with guilt, but holy shit, his mother had powers.
“Hmmmm.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s not a yes, Alexander Bernard Woodroe.”
“She thinks I’m funny. Mostly.” He looked somewhere into the middle distance, where he couldn’t actually see his mom’s chiding expression, then scrambled to change the subject. “Anyway, we have a charity event to attend together tomorrow, which—”
Motherfucker.
He closed his eyes briefly. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
He didn’t want to talk about the event with his mom. He couldn’t.
“What’s it for?” She didn’t sound entirely appeased, but she’d accepted the change of topic, which was unfortunate. “The environment? Or that UN global poverty initiative we talked about a while ago?”
“Something like that,” he mumbled. “Look, Mom, I should probably go. I just got a text from Lauren about, uh”—fuck, why would she be texting him?—“our apple-Danish supplies”—oh, that was terrible—“and I don’t want to keep her waiting. She’s my guest, after all. My honored guest, whom I treat with the utmost respect and courtesy at all times.”
Another unconvinced hum was her only response to that. But she let him off the hook.
“All right, sweetheart. Thanks for calling.” Her suspicious glare softened into a loving, soft smile. “I’ll talk to you soon?”
“Yes. Definitely.” It was a vow. “If you need anything at all, call me. Immediately.”
And that was a demand. A plea.
Her brow furrowed. “Alex, honey—”
No, they weren’t having this conversation. “I love you, Mom. Bye.”
He barely let her say it back before he cut their connection, all his werewolf-related peace of mind entirely absent once more.
To calm himself, he could read another fic, of course. Earlier that day, a story had appeared in the Cupid/Psyche fandom involving something called . . . consentacles? Whatever that was, it sounded intriguing.
Or . . . or . . .
He could do what he’d been contemplating for days now.
He opened his laptop.
As soon as Marcus had explained the idea of fanfic, Alex had felt drawn to the concept. And after reading Marcus’s stories and dozens of Cupid/Psyche fix-it fics in his spare time, he wanted to write his own.
A literary genius, he was not. But bitching to Marcus wasn’t enough anymore.
He needed an outlet. To wrestle with Cupid’s warped, regressive character arc. To express how redemptive Cupid’s story could have been in the hands of virtually anyone other than Ron and R.J. To apologize to the fandom, even in such an inadequate way, for how Cupid’s final-season relationship with Venus and Jupiter had become a glorification of abuse, and how it implied violent, manipulative relationships couldn’t be ended or escaped.
By acting out his scenes to the best of his abilities, he’d made that message more powerful. More believable.
He should have quit as soon as he saw the scripts for the last season, but he hadn’t. The shame of that burned like bile in his throat.
His fanfiction would serve as therapy and penance both.
And as long as he was writing fanfic, he might as well include pegging. He wanted some damn kudos, and dildos the width of a lover’s forearm were apparently the best way—other than actual writing skill—to gain an audience.
For his AO3 account, he chose the screen name CupidUnleashed. Chortling with glee the entire time, he selected all the most popular tags for his fic: Porn Without Plot. Smuttity Smut Smut. Half-Human Disaster Cupid. Bottoms Up. The Peg That Was Promised.
On the verge of designating Cupid/Psyche as the relationship, he paused.
Asha portrayed Psyche on-screen, and she was his friend and colleague. He didn’t want to involve her, even tangentially, in a story about the character he played having sex with hers, because that would be fucking creepy.
Although it would definitely limit his audience, he’d have to write about Cupid and an original character instead. But what to call her?
He scratched at his beard. What . . . to . . . call . . . her?
When inspiration struck, he sat bolt upright.
Why the name was so perfect, he couldn’t explain. But somehow he knew, he knew, it was what Cupid’s lover should be called.
With that piece of information in place, the first line emerged effortlessly from his keyboard, and he beamed at his monitor.
The day Cupid met Robin, he said goodbye to his family for good.
Rating: Explicit
Fandoms: Gods of the Gates – E. Wade, Gods of the Gates (TV)
Relationships: Cupid/Original Character
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe – Modern, Porn Without Plot, Smuttity Smut Smut, Half-Human Disaster Cupid, Bottoms Up, The Peg That Was Promised
Stats: Words: 2531 Chapters: 1/1 Comments: 102 Kudos: 411 Bookmarks: 27
Square Peg
CupidUnleashed
Summary:
Cupid wants to free himself from his unhealthy relationship with his family. And he’s about to get help from the most unlikely woman of all—a harpy with a dildo the size of her fucking forearm.
Notes:
Thanks to AeneasLovesLavinia. You rock as a beta, dude. Also, please consider this a fix-it fic for the show, despite my inclusion of an original character.
Fuck knows it needs fixing. Badly.
__________________________
. . . The harpy pinned him against the marble slab. She was stronger than she looked, and that only made him hotter. More eager for her to lube him up, strap on her harness, and peg his fucking brains out with that alarmingly large dildo she owned.
“Robin,” he sighed contentedly. “After tonight, after you’ve claimed me, I’ll be done with my mother forever. Venus will no longer have any hold on me.”
“I know,” she said. “Once you’re mine, you’ll never follow her cruel commands again, or even Jupiter’s. He may be CEO of your family company, but he’s not your boss anymore.”
“I think . . .” He hesitated.
She sat back on her heels, her eyes surprisingly pretty and patient. “What is it, Cupid? You can tell me anything, you know.”
“I know.” He smiled up at her, grateful. “I want to be yours, Robin, so very much. But I was just thinking—even if you left me, I still wouldn’t return to them. No matter what.”
She nodded. “You couldn’t. You’ve changed too much for that. I’m glad you realize it.”
“Freeing myself has been such a slow process, but after five years, there’s no logical way I could ever go back to Venus and Jupiter. That anyone would think otherwise baffles and offends me, frankly.” He scowled fiercely. “If the two of them ever ordered me to leave you unconscious and dying so I could fight one of their corporate battles, for instance, I’d simply tell them to go fuck themselves. I definitely wouldn’t obey.”
“So true,” she agreed. “You wouldn’t ever abandon anyone you truly loved, and after tonight, I promise you: You’ll more than love me. You’ll worship me.”
“Ahhhh,” he sighed. “I can’t wait. Take me, harpy. Take me now.”
“You don’t give the orders here,” she retorted, a predatory gleam in her eyes. “I do.”
“And thank the gods for that,” he said, turning onto his belly.
Then she got out the lube and the harness, and he took it back. He took it all back.
The size of that dildo was just right.
8
“I’M TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW I SHOULD INTRODUCE YOU on the red carpet. ‘Lauren Clegg, Freelance Foe of Fun’?” Alex stroked his bristly chin in faux thought. “Or perhaps ‘Nanny Clegg: Like Mary Poppins, Minus the Umbrella and Any Sense of Whimsy’?”
One of these days, Lauren’s middle finger was simply going to raise itself.
She shifted in the back of the town car, trying not to nudge Alex’s legs with her knee. “If you don’t introduce me at all, won’t everyone just assume I work for the show or the charity in some capacity? I certainly don’t look like a star. Besides, as I was told only yesterday, you’re the dude their audience wants to watch. No one will really care who I am, correct?”
Whether the argument convinced him or not, it was helping her. The echoing pulse in her ears slowed and grew fainter, and the lace of her dress resumed feeling soft, rather than stifling and scratchy.
She might be walking a red carpet—her, Lauren Chandra Clegg—but no one cared except her. Which was true about many things in her life, come to think of it.
Still, she wished she could distract herself by fiddling with her purse, but she’d left it at the guesthouse. Clutch or nothing, Alex had said, them’s the rules, so she’d wordlessly handed him her ID, a credit card, her phone, and some tinted lip balm, all of which he’d secreted somewhere in his not-quite-navy, obscenely formfitting tux.
He looked like a star. Also the night sky surrounding that star, right as blue turned to velvety black. The color, she’d discovered, was much more evocative and dangerous than plain old black or navy could ever be.
“Correct,” he conceded with clear reluctance.
She drummed her fingers on the plush leather seat. “Look, if anyone asks about me, just give them my name and tell them I work for the show. Which I do, so you’re not lying, but you’re also not revealing my specific role in your life.”
“I’m not ashamed of you,” he said abruptly. “I’m not ashamed of what I did, and I’m not ashamed of you.”
“Okay.” The gruff, vehement emphasis in his words left her bewildered. “Listen . . . Alex, if you’re willing to tell me, what actually—”
Then she cut herself off, because they’d arrived at the mouth of the red carpet, located just outside the swanky Beverly Hills hotel where the charity auction was occurring. A woman wearing a skinny suit and a headset greeted their driver as soon as he braked and rolled down his window.
“That’ll be the publicist for the event organizer,” Alex told Lauren. “Just do what she says, and don’t get offended by all the photographers shouting at you.”
She frowned. “Shouting at—”
Before she could say more, the driver opened the door. Alex swung his legs out of the vehicle and onto the pavement, stood, buttoned his suit jacket, and reached a gentlemanly hand back for her.
He helped her out of the car while she straightened her dress and desperately tried not to flash anyone, and then there were flashes blinding her in little bursts all around as she followed the tug of his grip.
The publicist greeted them both, then gestured for them to move toward the hotel. “I’m here to help, Mr. Woodroe. Let me know if you need anything along the way.”
Beneath Lauren’s uncomfortable wedge heels, red carpet suddenly appeared. The publicist said something Lauren couldn’t hear and guided them over to a journalist with a pleasant but firm “Two minutes, Ted.”
The man introduced himself and asked about the final season of Gods of the Gates while a camerawoman filmed the interview, and Lauren belatedly let Alex go, inching away from his side. But there were flashes behind her too, and, yes, photographers yelling at her.
“Move! Move!” they screamed, and she would gladly go down the other side of the red carpet, where more-normal-looking people were hustling toward the hotel ballroom, but she couldn’t. It was her job to stay by Alex, no matter what—Ron had sent a peremptory email emphasizing that very fact earlier today—even though she couldn’t control what came out of that endlessly moving mouth, no one could.
“Move! Move, lady, come on!”
Up ahead of her, talking to another journalist, was Carah Brown. Behind Lauren and Alex, just entering the red carpet, Maria Ivarsson and Peter Reedton strolled arm in arm, as a woman in a skirt suit and yet another headset spoke and pointed them to a specific news outlet.
Oh, shit, this was absolute chaos, and she was sweating now. Even trembling a little.
Before Lauren quite knew it, the publicist was ushering them to the next reporter, who actually glanced at Alex’s companion before beginning the interview. Lauren was blinking against the bright spots in her vision when she heard Alex say her name.
“—Lauren Clegg, who works for the production. So, no, she didn’t win a fan contest, although she certainly loves my character.” Then he was winking at her, the asshole, and drawing her closer to his side with a warm hand on her arm. “Tell him, Ms. Clegg. Tell them how much you adore Cupid. Not to mention the actor who plays him with such glorious talent and commitment.”
She was about to answer, about to say heaven only knew what, when she saw it.
Movement, where there shouldn’t have been. Acceleration.
After the hurled tray that broke her nose, after all those patients high or angry or hurting and volatile in their pain, her instincts were sound, and they were fast. She was fast. And even amid all the flashes and shouts and sparkly cocktail dresses and various celebrity interviews occurring all around her—
When a pale man with dark hair and dark clothing rushed onto the red carpet, accompanied by the sound of dismayed, panicked shouts, and half leaped, half crawled toward Alex, she didn’t have to think. She simply used her body as a battering ram, shoving Alex out of the way, and took his place for whatever this intruder intended.
The man slammed into her thighs, and she toppled, doing her best to land on top of him and hoping like hell he didn’t have a knife or a gun. People around them were screaming, and so was he, something about men’s rights and red pills, and oh, shit, that elbow in her ribs hurt, and he was clawing at her, spitting at her, and Alex was there too, struggling and scrabbling, trying to get between her and the attacker, both men red-faced and shouting words she couldn’t make out, but she wasn’t going anywhere. Not until she knew everyone was safe.
Then security came rushing onto the scene, just like in the hospital, and she rolled aside as soon as they had the man incapacitated. From her prone position on the red carpet, she watched him get dragged off to goodness knew where while she panted and evaluated all the places she hurt.
