Spoiler Alert

by Olivia Dade

  From his verging-on-pained expression, his stilted words, he might have been starring in an impromptu hostage video. Ironically, it was the worst acting she’d ever seen him do, and that included his hilarious feigned ignorance of what geology meant earlier that evening.

  She smiled at him, highly entertained.

  “There’s—there’s no alternative script, no alternate universe, so . . .” He spread his hands. “Yes, I’m thrilled with Aeneas’s story. Completely. Dido’s too.”

  Yes. Very convincing. He was going to need to rehearse his answers a few more times before his press junket for the sixth season began.

  Although . . .

  Her smile widened.

  Damn, he was smart. By playing Mr. Dim-and-Pretty all these years, he’d managed to avoid publicly discussing scripts and story lines and the way his show diverged from E. Wade’s books. Instead, he could focus on workout routines and grooming rituals, subjects that wouldn’t get him into trouble with his showrunners or costars.

  She leaned conspiratorially close, propped on her elbows. “There’s no alternate universe, that’s true.” This time, she tapped her spoon against his ramekin. Winked at him. “Unless you write fanfic and come up with one. Like I do.”

  He didn’t smile, as she’d anticipated.

  Instead, head tilted, he gazed at her. Pressed his lips together. Rested his own elbows on the table and spoke haltingly, his voice barely audible despite the few inches separating them.

  “Growing up, I—” His throat bobbed. “I was never much of a writer. Or a reader, for that matter.”

  This . . . this wasn’t a tale she’d heard before. Not in any interview. Not in any blog post.

  “I liked stories. Loved stories.” He gave his head an impatient shake. “Of course I do. I wouldn’t be an actor if I didn’t. But—”

  This close, she dragged his subtle scent into her lungs with every breath. Herbal. Musky.

  This close, she could measure the true length of his eyelashes, trace how they fanned and turned pale gold at their tips.

  This close, she couldn’t miss the raw sincerity in his words, in his pained eyes.

  She held very still, a steady presence as he seemed to struggle for words. “But?”

  Softly. Softly. An invisible hand holding his as he faltered, not a shove in the back.

  With his thumb and middle finger, he pinched his temples. Exhaled. “From the very beginning, there were issues. I took a long time to begin speaking. And once I started school, I kept, uh . . . kept reversing my letters and numbers.”

  Oh. Oh.

  She knew where this was going now, but he needed to get there in his own time. In his own way. “Okay.”

  “My parents blamed the teachers, so they decided my mom should homeschool me. She taught at a nearby prep school, so she was more than qualified.” His little huff of laughter didn’t contain a single trace of actual amusement. “We all found out pretty quickly that the teachers weren’t the problem. I was.”

  No, that couldn’t stand unchallenged. “Marcus, having d—”

  He didn’t seem to hear her. “No matter how much she had me read, no matter how much she had me write, no matter how many vocabulary lists she made for me, I was a terrible speller. I had terrible handwriting. I couldn’t write or read quickly, couldn’t pronounce things correctly, couldn’t always understand what I’d read.”

  Fuck. That early interview with Marcus, the one that had cemented his reputation as amiable but not especially bright, now seemed—

  “My parents thought I was lazy. Defiant.” His eyes met hers, and they were defiant. Daring her to judge him, to second the condemnation of his family. “I only found out there was a name for my problem after I dropped out of college and moved to LA. A name other than stupidity, anyway.”

  Chin haughty, no hint of a smile softening that famous mouth, he waited. Knowing, somehow, that he didn’t need to use the word himself.

  “You’re dyslexic.” She pitched her voice low, to protect his privacy. “Marcus, I had no idea.”

  That stony expression didn’t flicker.

  “No one does, except Alex.” When her brows furrowed, he clarified. “Alex Woodroe. Cupid. My best friend. He’s the one who figured it out, since one of his ex-girlfriends had dyslexia too. Diagnosed, unlike mine.”

  The bitterness in that last phrase painted the back of her tongue, and she pushed her panna cotta to the side. No need to get custard in her hair, and she wasn’t hungry anymore, not after hearing his story.

  The skin over his knuckles seemed stretched to its limits, his fists almost as white as the tablecloth beneath them. When she rested a fingertip on one of those bony knuckles, a vein in his temple throbbed.

  “Marcus . . .” Since he didn’t move away from her touch, she traced a gentle line across the back of his hand. “One of the smartest, most talented people I know is dyslexic. He’s an amazing writer too.”

  Sometime after she’d beta-read and proofed a couple of his fics for the first time, BAWN had told her about his dyslexia via DM, amid a flurry of apologies for any spelling errors.

  I have voice-to-text software, he wrote, but it sometimes has issues with homonyms. I’m sorry. I afraid I won’t be much help proofreading your fics.

  I can deal with spelling on my own, she’d written back. Where I need help is plotting and making sure I remain true to the characters, even in a modern AU. Emotional depth too. All strengths of yours. If you could help me with those bits, I’d be very grateful.

  He hadn’t responded for a long time.

  I can do that, he’d eventually written.

  “There are workarounds,” she said, when Marcus remained silent and still beneath her gaze, beneath her touch. “I’m sure you’ve found them already.”

  When she withdrew her hand, he startled, then shifted restlessly in his seat.

  At the heat lingering on her fingertip, the guilt churning within her gut at touching another man while thinking of BAWN, she did the same.

  “Yes. Lots of workarounds.” He cleared his throat. “This person you know, the one with dyslexia. The smart, talented one. Does he write fanfic too?”

  She had to smile. “That’s how I know what a great writer he is.”

  “What name does he use?” As Marcus scooped out a perfect semi-oval of custard, his attention once more seemed entirely focused on his spoon. “For his stories, I mean. In case I ever visit your fanfiction site.”

  Was that an offhand question? A test of her discretion?

  Either way, she wasn’t answering.

  The linen napkin was smooth and crisp under her fingers as she plucked it from her lap, folded it, and placed it next to her half-finished ramekin of panna cotta.

  It was a gesture of finality, matching her firm tone. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you that without his permission.”

  “Ah.” After one final spoonful of the dessert, he nudged his ramekin aside too. “I understand.”

  Olaf appeared from nowhere to remove their dishes, refill their water, and offer coffee or after-dinner drinks. Only moments after they both refused and their server faded into the gorgeous woodwork once more, her jaw cracked in a huge, unexpected yawn.

  Marcus snorted.

  “Good thing we’re almost done for the evening.” He pointed a scolding finger at her. “Don’t stay up too late on the computer, either. After cleaning all day, you need your rest.”

  She shook her head at him, exasperated and amused.

  So he did remember their Twitter DMs, where she’d briefly described her plans for the weekend. Because of course he did.

  His gaze held a new warmth, a fondness she wouldn’t have anticipated. Not after one evening together, not given how carefully he guarded himself. At least until just a few minutes ago.

  If he asked her on a second date again, after that conversation—

  Well, he wouldn’t. Instead, he’d asked for the check.

  When it arrived, he wouldn’t let he
r see the total, much less pay her half.

  “I can get the tip, at least,” she protested.

  Brows high in a silent rejoinder, he pinned her with a look that said everything.

  I’m starring in the most popular television show in the world. I have a multimillion-dollar home in LA. According to fashion magazines, I pay four hundred dollars per haircut and use seven different styling products every day, each of which costs more than you make per hour.

  Okay, so maybe she’d filled in a few of the specifics herself, but still. Those were some damn expressive eyebrows. No wonder the man could afford that home nestled in the Hollywood hills.

  Out loud, he said only, “I believe I can afford dinner.”

  She didn’t argue further. Her exhaustion was dragging at her shoulders now, turning her legs into aching pillars, and she couldn’t help a sense of . . .

  Deflation, maybe.

  This was over. Whatever had happened between them tonight, it was done as soon as he handled the credit card receipt and stood to go.

  But after he signed his name and closed the little leather book, he didn’t stand. Instead, he took a sip of water, those cloudy blue eyes—if she was judging the angle of his gaze correctly—resting on her hair. Her cheeks. Her bare arms.

  Then he met her own gaze. His chest expanded in a huge inhalation, and he reached across the table. Laid his fingertips lightly on the back of her wrist and spoke as she tried not to shiver at his touch.

  “If you don’t want a second date with me, that’s absolutely fine, and I promise not to bother you again. We can take a few selfies before leaving, post them tonight or tomorrow, and go our separate ways.” That knife-sharp jaw was working again, but he managed to sound calm. Sure. “That said, I want to make certain you understand something before we leave.”

  With her free hand, she fumbled for her water glass. Sipped away the dryness in her throat before responding.

  “Okay.” Whether he knew it or not, his fingertips were moving on her flesh. Just a millimeter back and forth, in the subtlest caress she’d ever known, and it burned. “What should I understand?”

  “Your fanfiction, whatever you’ve written—” His fingers stilled. “It may make things a bit awkward, a bit more complicated, but it doesn’t bother me. It doesn’t stop me from hoping to see you again. If that was your main reason for turning me down, I wanted you to know.”

  If that was your main reason.

  He knew she’d been fibbing to save his feelings, and no wonder. She wasn’t much of a liar. Never had been. And unlike him, she had no natural talent for acting.

  As he straightened in his chair, his fingertips slid away from her wrist, and she almost snatched them back.

  “If you had other reasons, though, that’s fine too.” His voice became oddly formal then. Solemn, as if their dinner together held more meaning for him than she’d realized. “And if this is the last time we meet, please know it was an honor to spend the evening with you, April Whittier. AKA Unapologetic Lavinia Stan.”

  She’d given him a final chance, and he’d taken it.

  Now she had hers.

  She wasn’t hesitating another moment.

  “Let’s do a second date,” she told him. “Are you free the day after tomorrow?”

  That smile. Fuck, that smile.

  It banished the shadows in the dim restaurant. Lit his eyes. Turned her buoyant and giddy, light as helium, as his hand reached for hers again and tethered her safely to the earth.

  “Yes,” he said, his fingers interlacing with her own. “Yes. For you, I’m free.”

  Rating: Explicit

  Fandoms: Gods of the Gates – E. Wade, Gods of the Gates (TV)

  Relationships: Aeneas/Lavinia, Lavinia & Turnus, Aeneas & Venus, Aeneas & Jupiter

  Additional Tags: Alternate Universe – Modern, Sex Work, Explicit Sexual Content, Dirty Talk, Porn with Feelings, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, The Author Regrets Nothing, Except Maybe All Her Previous Life Choices That Led to This Fic, Hard to Say Really, But Seriously Prepare for the Smutathon

  Stats: Words: 12815 Chapters: 4/4 Comments: 102 Kudos: 227 Bookmarks: 34

  Pretty Man

  Unapologetic Lavinia Stan

  Summary:

  When Aeneas arrives in Latium upon the orders of his mother and grandfather, he finds himself disoriented, guilt-stricken, and without enough resources to survive. Unless, of course, he uses the one resource he values least: his astounding handsomeness.

  Luckily, his first sex work client is Lavinia. He won’t need another.

  Notes:

  This is not at all accurate when it comes to sex work, I’m certain, as I wanted to keep things fluffy. But I did intend to explore how two people defined by their appearances in totally opposite ways could find comfort and love and a sense of self-worth through the medium of sex.

  * * *

  Aeneas sees the woman before she spots him. And she is definitely looking for him, or someone like him; there’s no doubt about that. No woman comes to this street at this time of night for anything other than what he can offer: sex. For a price.

  He hasn’t decided on that price yet. This first night, he intends to play it by ear.

  Once he sees her face under a streetlight, pale and crooked and homely, he knows: she’ll pay plenty. This one act should make him enough for a night at a hotel, at least. And in return for shelter, he’ll give her the best fuck of her life.

  “No need to keep looking, sweetheart,” he calls out from the shadows. “Here I am.”

  Only, once she sees him too, she laughs and keeps walking.

  “Too pretty for me,” she calls over her shoulder, and he finds himself somehow startlingly indignant.

  “Excuse me,” he huffs.

  “Consider yourself excused,” she says, not looking back, and without quite understanding why, he discovers he wants to change her mind.

  8

  THAT NIGHT, AFTER SHE’D SHOWERED AND CHANGED INTO her pajamas, April opened her laptop and went online. Most likely, she’d received several new DMs from BAWN, but she wasn’t ready to face those quite yet, much less the Twitter reaction to whatever dinner pics had been posted already.

  AO3, then, to check the reaction to her most recent story.

  She’d posted her one-shot fic late last night, in response to the Lavineas server’s self-declared fanfic initiative, Aeneas’s Angry Boner Week.

  Her contribution had received a gratifying number of kudos and comments so far. All necessary and welcome encouragement after one of her rare forays into book-canon-compliant storytelling, rather than a self-created modern AU.

  In the story, Lavinia confronted one of her ex’s soldiers outside the home she shared with Aeneas—a soldier who spat upon her for breaking her betrothal to Turnus, his dead leader, and threatened to do worse. Instead of calling for help from her husband, she drove away the intruder with her own sword, and when Aeneas heard about the incident, he marched toward his homely, resentful wife, inexplicably enraged by her carelessness when it came to her own safety, and—

  Yeah. Their platonic marriage of convenience became decidedly less platonic, but somewhat more convenient in terms of, say, mutual sexual gratification.

  April had originally intended to write a fluffy modern AU, as normal. But somehow, even before their date, picturing a hero with Marcus Caster-Rupp’s face meeting, falling for, and fucking a woman—albeit a woman who looked like Lavinia, not April—in the modern world had suddenly seemed . . . odd. Exploitative in a way it never had before.

  When she’d written the story, she’d figured returning to modern AUs might take her a month or two after their date. Until thoughts of the actor himself no longer interfered with thoughts about the character he played. Until she could separate the two more effectively in her mind once more. Until he was no longer so much of a real person to her, but simply the physical vessel in which her chosen hero lived and loved.

  Now she was wondering whet
her she might have to switch her OTP permanently. To Cyprian and Cassia, maybe, forever stuck on that damn island and pining for one another. Or Cupid and Psyche, torn apart by the machinations of Venus and Jupiter.

  But she wasn’t ejecting herself from her favorite fandom without good reason. Contemplating her other options could wait until after a second date, at least.

  Idly, she checked the other stories posted under the Aeneas’s Angry Boner Week tag, and she had to laugh. Almost everyone else on their server had gone full throttle on the modern AUs, and she should have known.

  Her recent online activities really had spawned countless fics. Aeneas’s angry boners these past several days all seemed to be occurring in the presence of a Lavinia he’d met on Twitter, a Lavinia he’d saved from internet bullies, a Lavinia with whom he fell in love and lust over the course of a single, fateful dinner.

  In the stories, he dispatched countless rude paparazzi, a dozen jealous Didos, and battalions of sneering fanboys, and then—his blood still hot from anger—saw Lavinia in the candlelight, eyes wide, mouth an O of shock and confusion and—

  Well. Virgil’s Aeneas might have ascended to the realm of the gods after death because of his dauntless piety, but in this week’s fics, Little Aeneas had risen to turgid heights for decidedly different reasons.

  Reading those fics was hot. Undeniably hot. Also uncomfortable in an entirely new way. At one point, she had to start skimming sex scenes, instead of lingering happily over them as she usually did, because it was Marcus in her head. Marcus on the page. Marcus making her ache.

  After leaving her kudos and comments, she was eager to log out of AO3 and turn to the Lavineas server instead. And once more, she ignored BAWN’s DMs, delaying what she needed to do and say.

  Not much recent activity in the group threads. So far, they didn’t appear to have spotted any photos of her date with Marcus on Twitter or Insta, but that was only a matter of time. And if the server’s response to his public dinner invitation was any guide, she needed to prepare herself for one hell of an uproar.