by Olivia Dade
He’d gone very, very still, his face grave.
“I do love him. Of course I love him. How could I not love him?” It was an impossibility, really. An inevitability, from that first direct message on the Lavineas server. “He’s such a talented man. Incredibly knowledgeable and smart and so curious about everything.”
At his sides, his hands twitched and curled in on themselves, but he didn’t glance away. Not once.
“There’s so much more to him than what he’s shown the world, and all of it is even more impressive than the person you see on your television and movie screens.” A vast understatement. She hoped he understood that someday. “He isn’t perfect, just like I’m not perfect. He makes mistakes, because of course he makes mistakes. He isn’t an actual demigod.”
His lips were parted, his eyes bright with more than the overhead lights. Which was fair, because she was suddenly near tears herself.
“He’s just a man. A good, good man who deserves all the love and happiness he can handle.” She tipped her chin to him then, a quick gesture of affirmation before turning back to the audience. “Doesn’t hurt that he’s the prettiest man I’ve ever met, either.”
Then they were all laughing again, and the familiar sound of his amusement rumbled from the side of the stage. Which came as a relief, because she didn’t want him to think she was dismissing him as only a pretty face, undeniably pretty as that face might be.
“Okay, let’s focus on questions for Summer now.” She peered into the audience, searching for the appropriate con volunteer. “Who’s n—”
Suddenly, the microphone was plucked out of her hand.
“Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt. Just a quick note before we move on.” Marcus was looming over her chair, his hand resting on its high back, his thumb caressing her nape in a spot that always made her shiver. “That is, if Summer doesn’t mind.”
His colleague was sitting back in her chair, hands laced in her lap, a satisfied grin splitting her elfin face. “Take as long as you need, Marcus. I’m in no hurry.”
“Great.” He turned to the audience. “Leila, I have something I want to make clear as well. Just as an addendum to April’s answer.”
The young woman got to her feet again. “Uh, okay?”
“Ms. Whittier seemed uncertain on the matter, so let me clarify for you.” His voice was clear and sure, and warmth crinkled the corners of those famous blue-gray eyes. “We’re not breaking up. Not if I have anything to say about it.”
It was April’s turn to stare at him, shocked into stillness. He lowered his microphone and faced her, free hand lifted and waiting for her permission.
She nodded.
His palm gentle on her cheek, he studied her features with care. “Do I have something to say about it?”
“You do.” She barely recognized her own voice, hoarse with relief and love.
“Well, then.” Ducking his head, he pressed a soft kiss on her trembling lips. Another. Then he raised his microphone again. “It’s official. We’re still dating. That’s the answer to your question, Leila.”
April appreciated having such an unambiguous statement on the record.
Honestly, though, Leila would have figured it out anyway, along with everyone else who streamed the video or read the session transcript later. Especially once April surged to her feet and yanked Marcus close and used her hands in that soft, soft hair to pull him down to her.
The kiss was long. It was loving. It was fervent. It involved more tongue than was appropriate for an event advertised as family-friendly.
And for Gods of the Gates fans, it was a kiss that launched a thousand new fics.
Rating: Mature
Fandoms: Gods of the Gates – E. Wade, Gods of the Gates (TV)
Relationships: Cupid/Psyche, Cupid & Venus, Psyche & Venus
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe – Modern, Celebrity!Cupid, Fan!Psyche, Come On You Know It Had to Happen, April Whittier Is Living the Dream, The Peg That Was Promised
Stats: Words: 925 Chapters: 1/1 Comments: 22 Kudos: 104 Bookmarks: 7
One Kiss to Legendary
SoftestBoiCupid
Summary:
Psyche still doesn’t believe Cupid will put her first, now and always. But when his mother attempts to come between the couple at a fan convention, he’ll show Psyche the true depths of his devotion—and his passion. In public, and in private.
Notes:
If you weren’t at Con of the Gates, you should have been. The YouTube video doesn’t do the kiss justice. Like, AT ALL. All hail April Whittier, rightful queen of the Gates stans!
* * *
As the session moderator, Psyche wasn’t meant to be answering questions herself. The possibility hadn’t even occurred to her. Who would want to talk with her, a boring geologist, when Cupid, the single hottest man on the planet, was sitting beside her?
And yet.
When she looked up, she spotted the next audience member with a question, and to her abject horror, it was Venus. Gorgeous and perfect and vengeful—and Cupid’s mother, her strangling love enough to have prodded him into his most heinous acts.
“Look at you,” the goddess made flesh sneered. “No son of mine would desire such a woman. He’s a star. You’re a mere fan. Your so-called relationship is a publicity stunt. Admit it now, Psyche. Before the world, so everyone can know you for the liar you are.”
Tears pricked her eyes. But before they could fall, warm, gentle thumbs had brushed them aside.
“Let them know you for the woman you are,” he corrected, and the microphone carried his words to the entire hall, loud and clear. “Let them know you for the woman I love.”
Then he gathered Psyche into his sheltering arms, heedless of his mother’s screech of dismay, and kissed her and kissed her until she could have sworn he’d grown wings and carried them both to the heavens.
That night, for the first time, she pegged him.
Epilogue
“I CAN’T BELIEVE IT WAS IAN ALL ALONG.” APRIL FROWNED at Marcus from above the screen of her laptop. “Was he sharing scripts with his wife, or . . . ?”
Marcus stretched out on her couch, hands behind his head, and reveled in the moment. Her, working happily on her latest one-shot fic at the kitchen table. Him, between projects and luxuriating in the time to read and write his own stories, catch up with their Lavineas friends as BAWN, and generally drag April to bed whenever possible.
They’d been together almost two years now. Engaged for almost a year.
Last month, they’d put his LA house up for sale and begun looking to buy a home in the San Francisco area instead, something large enough and within easy commuting distance of April’s work. The real estate agent had been instructed to avoid anything too close to his parents, although he and April dutifully visited his childhood home every few months and spent awkward afternoons with his mom and dad.
Awkward, but no longer especially painful. Not after the letter he’d sent, and not after his parents found themselves the focus of April’s cool, narrow-eyed scrutiny and pointed defense of him at every conceivable opportunity.
Frankly, he got the sense they were terrified of his fiancée. Which, given her opinion of them, wasn’t necessarily inappropriate.
“Nope. Not Ian’s wife.” Oh, this was the best part. He couldn’t wait to see her face. “He was sharing scripts with his personal tuna purveyor in exchange for a discount.”
Slowly, she closed her laptop screen, staring at him.
“He . . .” Her head tilted, her coppery hair falling over her shoulder. “You’re telling me Ian violated his contract in exchange for lower seafood prices? Did I understand that correctly?”
“Yup.” He popped the closing consonant for emphasis.
“Wow. Wooooow.” Sliding her glasses off her nose, she blinked at him. “The show’s been over for months. Why is this coming out now?”
“Ian’s playing someone less fit in his new show, so he stopped training as hard. Les
s need for training, less need for protein. Less need for protein, less—”
“—need for tuna.” She tapped the arm of her glasses against the table. “Huh. Ian got ratted out by a newly impoverished, vengeful tuna salesman. I have to admit, I didn’t see that coming.”
He grinned. “I don’t think Carah has stopped cackling since we found out this morning.”
Fishy motherfucker, she’d written in the cast chat. Literally and figuratively. HahahahaHAHAHA.
He and his Gates colleagues had remained friends, some closer than others. All of them, however, closer to him than he’d have expected two years ago, possibly because now they actually knew him. Every few days, someone would post an update, and they’d talk about their new movies and shows, or their families, or possible group get-togethers.
They had, however, kicked Ian out of the group chat that morning, because really? A tuna purveyor?
“Oh, and Summer says hi, by the way.” Idly, he scratched his chest hair. “She wants to have dinner with you the next time we’re in LA.”
Since that first convention together, his former on-screen wife and his real-life fiancée had become good friends, in part because they’d had so many opportunities to spend time in each other’s company. At awards shows and cons. During visits to LA. Also for a few weeks last spring, as he and Summer filmed in San Francisco.
Much to his parents’ bewilderment and April’s amusement, his initial post-Gates project had involved playing a very familiar character: Aeneas. Specifically, Aeneas from Virgil’s Aeneid, rather than Wade’s version or—he suppressed a shudder—Ron and R.J.’s iteration.
For the first time, he’d helped produce his own film. A two-hour movie for a big-budget streaming service willing to invest in somewhat quirky projects, as long as big-name stars were attached. Stars such as, for instance, Marcus and Carah and Summer.
His fans had stuck with him after he’d discarded his public persona, so he’d had his choice of other quality roles. But moving behind the camera was his way of ensuring greater say in the script and his characters and coworkers. It was also a challenge and a set of new skills to master. And much to his satisfaction, he’d been able to coordinate shooting a few key scenes in San Francisco, as close as possible to the woman he loved.
Not that April couldn’t do without him when he was filming elsewhere. He’d been lonely so many years before meeting her, though. Too many to easily accept months spent apart, especially if alternatives were available.
When he’d first tentatively broached the idea of coproducing and starring in a new version of the Aeneid alongside Carah as Dido and Summer as Lavinia, April had laughed and laughed until she’d literally collapsed onto their bed and cried with yet more laughter.
“You—” After wiping her face, she’d tried again. “You realize this is basically one big fix-it fic in response to Gods of the Gates, right?”
Well, he hadn’t thought about it that way, but . . .
“Kind of?” He’d winced. “I guess?”
“God, you are the cutest,” April had informed him, and then she’d pulled him down onto the bed on top of her, and the conversation had abruptly ended.
The memory of that evening was more than pleasant. It was downright motivational.
Accordingly, he rearranged his body slightly on the couch, angling himself toward April. She was still watching him, rather than ducking behind her laptop screen and tapping on her keyboard, and he took full advantage of his opportunity.
One hand still behind his head, he trailed the other down the center of his bare chest, stopping just above the waist of his low-slung jeans.
Her breath audibly caught, and he grinned at her, slow and hot.
Then a phone dinged. “Yours or mine?” he asked.
She glanced across the table. “Mine. My mom.”
It went to voicemail, as her mother’s calls often did.
Only now, after two years, was JoAnn able to conduct occasional conversations without a single reference to weight loss or exercise. As soon as those subjects arose, April promptly hung up, but the older woman never seemed to learn.
Nevertheless, April continued giving her mother chance after chance to change.
“In the end, it’s not really about me,” she’d explained after yet another truncated conversation. “It’s about her own fears. I’m not sure she even realizes she’s doing it.”
But April didn’t always have the energy or inclination to discover whether JoAnn could abide by her boundaries for the length of a phone call, and on those days she’d let her cell ring itself into silence.
Marcus wished she’d just block JoAnn once and for all, but it wasn’t his decision.
At least they didn’t visit in person anymore. Not after that first disastrous lunch, where JoAnn had kept nervously pointing out low-calorie menu options to her daughter.
Under the table, he’d taken April’s hand in his. She’d clenched it tight enough to hurt.
Then she’d let go, stood, slung her purse over her shoulder, and walked out of the restaurant without another word.
The older woman had started crying at the table, small and curled in on herself, and he’d wanted to feel sorrier for her than he did. But he’d witnessed April’s brittle rage and grief after that disastrous birthday visit, seen her naked and shaking and suddenly, uncharacteristically unsure he’d still want her under bright lights, and no.
No, he wasn’t any more forgiving toward JoAnn than April was toward his own parents.
“JoAnn,” he’d said before following April out the door. “Please do better than this. If you don’t, you’ll find yourself without a daughter, no matter how much she loves you.”
That night, April had huddled in his arms under an enormous mound of blankets, cold in a way he’d experienced only once before.
“I’m not doing that again,” she’d whispered against his neck, eventually.
He’d laid his cheek on the top of her head. “You don’t have to.”
Fortunately, despite the interruption of her mother’s phone call, she didn’t appear cold now. Not in any sense. Everywhere her eyes lingered on his seductively posed body, heat flushed along his skin and burned a path straight to his hardening cock.
“My goodness, Grandmother.” Her voice a low purr, she pushed back her chair and eyed the growing bulge in his jeans. “What a big—”
A phone dinged. Again.
Closing his eyes, he pinched his forehead.
“Yours or mine?” “Yours. Let me see who it is.” There was a moment of silence. “Shit. Marcus, I think—” Footsteps, and then his phone landed on his belly. “I think you should look at the message.”
Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and checked his screen, stroking her hip with his free hand and hoping she wouldn’t cool off during the interruption. Other than their Innocent Driller and Lustful Geologist role play, the Little Red Riding Hood game was his favorite, bar none.
Once he saw who’d sent the message, he sat up so fast, April jumped.
“E. Wade wrote me.” Agape, he stared at his phone. “Why did E. Wade write me?”
She rolled her eyes. “There’s at least one obvious way to find out, Caster-Hyphen-Rupp.”
Activating the text-to-speech function on his cell, he set the phone on the coffee table and turned up the speaker’s volume.
Hello, Marcus, the author had written. Please forgive the intrusion, but I heard your adaptation of Virgil’s Aeneid is coming out soon, and I wanted to congratulate you. Your portrayal of Aeneas was one of the few highlights of that damnable show, and I’m eager to see what you can do with the character given minimally competent scripts.
April was beaming down at him, pride shining in her soft brown eyes, and he took her hand and pulled her onto his lap. Cuddled close, she listened to the rest of the message in his arms, softness against muscle, heat to heat.
If you ever decide to write your own scripts, a bit of advice to keep in mind: As we’re both aw
are—all too aware—some scriptwriters believe death and misery and stagnation are more clever, more meaningful, and more authentic to reality than love and happiness and change. But life isn’t all misery, and finding a path through hard, hard lives to joy is tough, clever, meaningful work. Yours sincerely, E. Wade.
He opened his mouth, but didn’t have time to say anything before the message continued.
P.S. I like your fics, but they need more sex. Just FYI.
P.P.S. If you want tips on those scenes, both your fiancée and Alex Woodroe possess quite a talent for them.
Aghast, he met April’s wide-eyed gaze. “E. Wade knows I write Gates fanfic.”
“E. Wade thinks I have a talent for explicit fucking,” April countered. “Please put that on my gravestone.”
Ah. A timely reminder of the game-in-progress Wade’s message had almost derailed.
Ducking his head, he trailed his mouth up the curve of her neck. “You do have a talent for explicit fucking. I can say that for a fact.”
She laughed. Then, when he nipped her earlobe and licked the sting away, she shivered.
Urging her down onto the sofa, he tugged off her lounge pants and panties and spread her pale, round thighs. He stroked down those thighs, then slowly back up, watching every inch of flesh pass beneath his hands.
Her voice was choked. “My goodness, Grandma, what big”—as he knelt close, gaze hot on his fingers toying between her legs, her breath caught in a whimper—“eyes you have.”
He looked up and met her own eyes. This time, as always, he gave the phrase all the emphasis it deserved, meaning every word. “All the better to see you with, my dear.”
Her answering smile was soft, like her gasp when his teeth sank into a dimpled, delicious spot on her inner thigh. Like her sprawled, tempting body. Like her gaze on him in the dawning light of her bedroom each morning.