bakerstreet | Becoming the mask

Becoming the mask

THE FALSE PRETENSES MEME
a shipping meme

It's only a natural response to want to be shown love and affection, no matter how hard your exterior is. If not in those words - if you truly are that cold - perhaps what you seek is adoration or worship. Regardless of how you slice it, there's something invigorating to the ego in being the object of someone's ardor. And that's what you are now, to put it mildly; the way they look at you, you'd think you hung the moon and stars. In fact, their love for you has lead to a relationship with them. Congratulations! It's all going so well.

Except that it's all based on a lie.

You're not the person they think you are...maybe even literally. They could think you're someone else completely, as such, or it could be more abstract. They don't know what you've really done, do they? The crimes you've committed, the blood on your hands - what if blood they cherished? It's doubtful if they knew what you truly were, they'd look at you with such tenderness. That's not something you can deal with. You've grown used to them and don't want to let them go. Not now.

You love them. They've wormed their way into your heart, and you just can't lose them. You just...can't. Despite what your intentions were at the beginning (you were being purposefully cruel, you were playing along, you didn't want to hurt them, you wanted to give them what they wanted), you've bought into your own hype. Whatever you have to do to keep this ruse up, you'll do.

But, of course, what's done in the dark will be brought to the light. Soon, those eyes that look towards you will be filled with pain and doubt; you can't keep your little secret forever, and it will only gut your lover in the end.

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[Deceiver: although normally cheerfully honest about their love of violence, Henry is also hungry for affection and could lie about themself to be what the other wants them to be.]

[ooc: Probably deceived. Always open for discussion.]

((Nina is a spy who stays alive by doing exactly this, so she is very likely to be the deceiver!))

It's nothing, right? Just a student-teacher fling; everyone has them, they're hot, that's why it's a thing. Then a way to pass the time, then a matter of habit-

Only, by the end of the year, Quentin rolls over in bed, puts his arm around her, and asks in a way that he probably thinks is casual;

"So, would you ever consider going to a world other than your own home when you graduate?"

As if it's right around the corner.

It's not, but she has her answer ready anyway, and it even has the convenient benefit of being true.

"Consider," she echoes as she stirs out of a comfortable doze. She shifts to face him, bringing a hand up to rest on his arm, stroking lightly over his skin. She shakes her head.

"I'm never going back there," she tells him plainly. No need to consider that much at all. "I haven't decided where instead yet, but it won't be there. Why?"

"I was picturing you as a noblewoman."

He admits, kissing the nape of her neck.

"A Fillorian lady. In velvet and- what's that gauzy stuff?"

Not his area, obviously.

She sighs and arches her head to the side so he can get at her neck, her eyes closing briefly.

"Chiffon?" She lets out a soft chuckle. "Across the top, maybe? Above a corset?" she teases. "We could probably get these things here, if you want to see something like that."

"I want to see you in the dress."

He admits.

"But more than that, I want to see you in the authority. A real titled lady, with like- a duchy to mind, maybe?"

She shifts onto her side and loops an arm languidly around him, looking curiously up into his eyes. "I don't know if I can imagine," she admits.

In real life, he'll have long since learned that she rarely wears much if anything to bed -- right now, it's a commandeered old t-shirt of his -- and she's bemused by the contrast in his mind. Going from this to a stiff velvet dress; going from his student, lover, whatever he usually thinks of her as to someone with so much authority. She's not even used to having much power over herself, much less a... duchy. So what brought this on?

"Whatever world you end up in out there, I hope it's one where I can find you. That's all."

He says, and leans down, pressing a kiss to her forehead.

"I'd- just like this to keep going, see how it turns out."

"Quentin." Touched, she gives him a sunny smile, her eyes brightening. She curls in a little closer to him, though not so close that she can't still look at his face.

"I'm not going anywhere yet," she reminds him gently; there's no reason they can't keep it going for the foreseeable future on her end. "Are you?"

"Of course not."

He answers, reaching up to brush her hair back. He'll stick this place out until she's done, in all likelihood.

"I mean, there's also earth. This house, the one we're in, is mine in real life, and it's even bigger."

She chuckles softly, affectionately. "I remember. New York, yes?" Could she see herself there? It's easier than Fillory, anyway. Living in the beating heart of capitalism, but with somebody who has almost no use for money... It's certainly a thought. It's one she's had a few times since things started getting serious, since she started to wonder in herself what the end goal here is.

"I don't care how big the house is," she murmurs, dropping her hand to rest on his forearm, leaning her cheek into the gentle touch of his hand. "It could be just this room. What matters is me and you."

"Oh."

Says Quentin, who is still easily flustered- in such a pleasant, intimate way. It's nice to be thought of that way. To be talked about that way. To admit;

"In my fantasies, we turn the bottom two floors into a used bookshop, and specialize in antique tomes and Russian literature. I make money-money selling magical texts from upstairs."

"Like that breach? Where we were married, with the shop." She grins, tracing her fingers lightly back and forth over his arm. "Mister Coldwater."

The breach where he had never known that she was anything but his loyal, loving wife. Maybe that fits, as in the dark as she suspects he still often is about her worse traits. She likes that he sees the good in her, of course; she likes to show him the good. It's hard to convince herself there's any reason to do anything but.

Maybe she could be a little shopkeeper. "What else happens in your fantasies?" she teases, soft.

"You're happy. I don't know what you do in your spare time- sometimes teaching history, sometimes directing plays, but it makes you happy, and you come back as excited as I sometimes get. Exuberant."

With whatever passion is consuming her.

"What do you like, Nina? I realized I don't actually know."

She blinks, her smile fading into puzzlement. "What do you mean? Of course you do."

She likes teatime with him, and sharing books. She likes things from home, her pretty things. She likes the magic when she feels like she's doing well with it.

"Not really."

He admits.

"What would you do, if I weren't around, just to wile away a quiet afternoon, all on your own, with no one to answer to?"

"You're not always here," she counters loftily, sitting up partway and propping herself up on her elbow to look down at him.

"I don't just shut down when you're gone. I go to the pool, I read... I go to the art room, the music room, I try to teach myself things." She purses her lips, going just a hair sheepish. "Sometimes I go back to my cabin to play video games."

"See, I like knowing that. I like knowing those bits of you. The things you like."

He teases, even as he reaches for her again- that angle does something gorgeous to the curve of her hip, and he isn't the sort to grope, but he does just brush his fingertips, ever so lightly, over her waist.

"Video games like what?"

"Space Invaders." She bites her lip on a smile, definitely a little shy about it now.

"A friend gave it to me for the holidays after I mentioned playing back in DC. Turned out to be the wrong game, but it's fun, anyway."

Quentin grins- really grins. He loves this- everything from the nerdy passtime itself to that little shy smile on her face.

"Are you any good?"

She looks back at him, eyes narrowing slightly at the challenge she infers from that. "It's my game. Of course I am."

She will take you down, Coldwater.

But then she glances down again, picking at the sheet below. "My ex-boyfriend taught it to me, is why I never mentioned it. He showed me how to play on his computer at work."

"What was his name?"

He wonders, and then, a second belatedly;

"Is he all right to talk about?"

"Oleg. I don't mind -- I thought maybe you wouldn't want to hear about it." Somehow, men never seem to love to hear about each other. Imagine that.

Although... "He's the one I said you remind me of," she adds with a little smile. "Science and technology, computer games and new wave." She leans down to kiss him playfully right on the tip of his nose. "So maybe you can be grateful for him. He gave me thing for geeks."

"I talk to you about Alice a lot."

Not a lot, exactly, but she knows most of the story, barring one or two major missing pieces.

"That's cute. So I'm part of your geek-chique fetish?"

She lets out a laugh, moving suddenly to climb on top of him, sliding a leg over his to straddle his lap.

"Yes, Quentin," she teases. "You're my fetish." She kisses his nose again, then his lips, nipping lightly at the latter. "Is that okay with you?"

"Everything that involves you is okay with me."

He points out.

"But I should warn you. I've got a thing for long chiffon-"

"We'll see," she quips. "I've never worn one. Maybe I'll like after all."

She folds her arms atop his chest and rests her chin on them, settling on top of him. "So now in your fantasy I sit around in my chiffon dress, playing on the Atari."

"Well, now you do."

He says, eyes going appreciatively wide, before he leans over to give her a pleased, laughing kiss.

"That doesn't sound like a bad life," she purrs, shifting up a little to return it. "Very ritzy. Very decadent."

She brings a hand up to his cheek, tracing her thumb over his cheekbone, drawing back just enough to look at him with unfeigned fondness in her eyes. "You're going to make me very spoiled." She drops down to kiss him again, softer, sweeter.

"Unless we become penniless booksellers."

He reminds her, but then kisses her again instead of really pressing the point. She feels so nice.

"That's what the magic's for," she murmurs, but then she lets silence fall as she leans down into the kiss, drawing it out slow and languid between them. She rests her slight weight on top of him, her hands splayed across his shoulders, her body soft against his, warm through the thin material of his shirt.

She could see it, she thinks, maybe. She doesn't know what she really wants for herself when this is all said and done. She's not dwelling on it at the moment, but it's just starting to dawn on her that most of her interests are actually other people's, and most of the ones that aren't are things she's trying for the first time because she doesn't have many hobbies of her own.

But he wants her, and she likes him -- more than likes. She could be comfortable, she thinks. She could maybe be happy.

"Nina-"

Says Quentin, who isn't thinking about this any more, is just caught up in the warm way her skin touches his, the way he can feel her breathing. He runs a gentle hand up her back, asking permission to continue.

She decides not to leave any ambiguity about that. She reaches back behind herself to take his hand, covering it with her own to slide it up beneath the hem of what is currently her shirt.

Tacit, if silent, approval.

"Your skin-"

Quentin tells her, eyes closing, as he smooths his hand up along it.

"The way you feel. Nina, I don't think I could possibly be telling you often enough-"

"You don't have to," she whispers, sighing with pleasure against his skin as she kisses his jaw. "You don't have to say anything." She shifts against the touch, humming softly. If there's one thing that does it for her, other than the geek-chic, it's his hands, with his long, dexterous fingers. He can say all he wants with those.

...But first, she thinks, starting to kiss her way down slowly, glancing up at him with an arched brow.

"Nina,"

Says Quentin, nearly reverently. She doesn't have to, of course, but the wild, wide eyed look on him suggests that he'll take it to heart if she does.

"Oh God-"

It makes her laugh -- mostly fondly -- that he still looks at her that way after everything, like every time is the first. "I haven't gone anywhere," she murmurs, gently tsking. "I'm still not."

She kisses his collarbone, pushing her hands up under his shirt, running her nails up and down briefly over his stomach before dropping her hands to his fly. She works it open easily, pushing his pants and boxers down just enough to free his cock so she can trace her fingers over it.

"Jesus Christ, Nina."

He whispers, and leans back, eyes closing, glasses knocking askew. He reaches up to grab them, and drops them haphazardly over onto the dresser.

Already he's starting to flush.

She shifts down to kneel between his legs, a pretty if currently fuzzy picture on all fours, still wearing his t-shirt. "Relax," she suggests teasingly, "and think about chiffon dresses."

She wraps a hand around the base of his cock and bends down over it, though she stops just before she gets there, glancing back up at him. "Or book shops, if you like," she adds as an afterthought, smirking. Then she takes him into her mouth -- a little bit at a time, just the head at first, tongue circling the tip.

Quentin relaxes, sinking back bonelessly into the blankets, and reaching to grab onto the headboard with one hand, eyes drifting shut.

"Wow-"

Quentin has been very generous about showing Nina all the ways sex has improved for women in his time, and she has been very, very grateful for that. Sometimes, though, it's nice to keep it old school. For better or worse, she's very good at this, and she knows it -- she knows just how to bring her tongue and her hands into it, where his most sensitive spots are, when to hold him down and when to let him move.

Which isn't to say she's in any rush about it. Lying around in bed as they have been, soaking in a lazy morning, the moment seems to call for something languid and easy. She indulges herself and goes slow at first, savoring his reactions along the way.

"Oh, Nina."

He says, nearly chanting her name, but how could he possibly help it? As gentlemanly as he's tried to be about this, there is definitely something especially intimate about this, and before long he's shivering, gripping the headboard a little harder, eventually reaching down and sliding a hand through her hair. He doesn't tug, of course.

Someday, she'll gently tell him that he doesn't always have to be such a gentleman, but now isn't really the time. She just hums her pleasure as his fingers comb through her hair, letting the sound vibrate against his cock as she readily, easily, takes him in deep.

She picks up the pace a little when she feels him start to shudder, encouraging, urging him on. She braces herself with her other hand on his thigh, fingers and thumb kneading into the wiry muscle.

Quentin shivers, and tosses his head back, trying to gasp out a soft warning- but succumbing almost right away anyways, maybe because of the slight edge of her fingertips- and with one small, uncontrolled little jerk of his hand in her hair as his body spasms.

He subsides, breathing deep through his nose, eyes gently shut, with a long, dazed hum.

Nina doesn't always swallow, but for him she does. Afterwards, she lays her head against his thigh for a moment, just looking up at his flushed face, feeling peaceful and pleased. Happy.

She moves back up and comes to lie down next to him, curled on her side. She kisses the curve of his shoulder, smiling. "Hi."

"Hi."

Quentin answers, reaching out to slide an arm over her, rolling to face her, giving her a wide, unguarded smile.

"You're too nice to me."

She brings a hand up to his cheek, tracing her fingers over it. "You make it easy to be nice to you," she murmurs, looking up into his eyes.

She chuckles softly, wondering suddenly: "Can you see me?"

"You're in soft focus. Like how movies show candlelight."

He says, and smiles wide enough that you see all his crows feet. He's thirty one now and they're coming thick and fast.

"Oh, I like that." She laughs, cuddling up closer, moving her hand back to brush lightly through his hair. "You should have told me sooner. I could have hidden your glasses and then I wouldn't have to spend any time on makeup."

She's joking, of course; she wears it because she likes to, and she's been around him bare-faced plenty of times now. Time has yet to touch her -- but she doesn't mind at all that it has touched him. She's been with older, uglier, meaner... She only sees Quentin's little wrinkles when he smiles, and these days, it's so often for her.

She loves them, she realizes with a sharp pang. She loves him. When had that happened?

"You shouldn't underestimate how much I love the way you look, glasses or none."

He murmurs, unconsciously echoing her thoughts, reaching down and stroking her hair gently back, and then puts his arms around her to keep her near.

"You know, if we live in New York, I could get laser eye surgery, and never need them."

Imagine here a record scratch.

"You could get what?"

"They correct your vision with very precise lasers."

He says, opening his eyes very wide and miming back and forth gestures, like a beam coming into them.

The only lasers Nina has ever seen in person are Han's blasters. She sits up a little to gape down at him, looking horrified.

Then, she turns over to grab his glasses and hand them back to him. "Keep these."

Quentin laughs, and rolls up onto his elbows, leaning in to kiss her. It'll be fine.

With things quiet on the part of Philip's contacts, and Sophie's training going so well, Gabriel told the both of them the Centre had something bigger going on, best done by the two of them. She's surprised about that-- a mission, together-- and even moreso when he tells them where they're going.

Chicago. The place Elizabeth Jennings supposedly grew up, that she's visited all of twice in her life so far. There were always other priorities, somehow, but when Sophie starts beaming at her in the car ride to the airport she actually starts looking forward to it as well.

The mission is this: another Directorate S agent was forced to go lay low for a while, but there are contacts in city that are getting nervous. Very nervous, which makes the Centre nervous, and they'd asked a gentler touch.

Elizabeth winks at Sophie when they mention that. Gentle touch- right.

The journey is pleasant, with Elizabeth slipping her notes, playing little games scribbled on the back of the in-flight magazine, trailing fingers over her knee. She seems a little lighter right now, more playful, and even she's aware of it. She's different with Sophie.

They get settled in a hotel, review the notes, and then decide to go out for lunch at the place 'round the corner. It seems like a place the locals visit and gossip in, which is two birds with one stone.

It's an ordinary place. Just like any-- until a Mountie walks inside, and the guy with the spiky hair with him bumps into a fat guy walking out and one man keeps apologizing for the other's short temper.

It's all exciting for Sophie. She's only been to DC so far, other than a trip through New York to solidify her own backstory, and it's a big mission, the first she's been on that feels really important. The fact that she gets to go with Elizabeth... she'd call it a bonus, icing on the cake, but it's much more than that. It means so much more, even if she's mostly there to make sure Sophie does this right.

She's a trained spy, and her poker face now is phenomenal, but she still can't curb the butterflies that flit around in her stomach the whole way there. It's hard to keep herself from snuggling up to her right on the plane, or pouncing her in the hotel room. They're working, and she knows she can't, but her eyes dance with all the extra energy she's carrying with her.

Maybe that's why she hears what the gangly, spiky-haired one says while everyone else's attention is drawn to the Mountie's bright red jacket, while her own bounces around like a ping pong ball. It stops dead and focuses like a laser when she hears a familiar name. She nudges Elizabeth's foot under the table and shoots a pointed glance at the man.

She's already heard, of course. She has the disadvantage of sitting with her back to the door and has to follow the proceedings in the mirror in the far back. She can make out their faces, their clothing, but can't follow the entire conversation.

But the name stands out. She bends down to take a drink from her straw, raises her eyebrows.

"Look," the gangly one is saying to the tall, handsome Mountie, "I know you have your sympathies and all, you know, that suit ain't that red just 'cause mooses like lookin' at that color."

That can't be a good sign, Elziabeth's eyebrows say to Sophie.

"Ray, don't be absurd," the Mountie snipes back. "I am not a Communist." He pauses. "But, you know, if you just talk to the man--"

His partner cuts him off with an abrupt, indignant sound. Sophie looks back to Elizabeth, the blood draining from her face. She starts subtly adjusting the silverware in front of her, her compulsive-control tendencies kicking in in the face of her suddenly overwhelming nerves.

They're supposed to have a code for this, she swears, but she'll be damned if she can remember it right now. "I--" She licks her lips. "You know, I thought I was hungry, but I'm not so sure. Maybe I should cancel my order?"

"We can get it to go," she says, firmly, licking her lips, throwing back the last of her coffee. The men are stepping forward in line, bickering, until the smaller one cuts the Mountie off to place his order at the till.

To go. Great, she thinks: they can follow them easily. She remembers how quickly the coffee was made before, and she throws a few bills on the table before wiping her mouth and walking out, knowing Sophie will follow.

"It's a coincidence," she says, firmly, once the door closes behind them.

She's not sure. She's not sure what to think at all.

More importantly: "What do we do now?" she asks, watching the men walk down the block. Once they're a safe distance away, she starts to move, too.

"We follow them, and if need be, we meet with them. Come on," she urges her, briefly touching her elbow. She sends her a brief smile, hoping to communicate that it's alright-- she can relax, do her job. This is what she's been trained for.

She follows, though it's hard for her to relax, even with Elizabeth at her side. She at least manages to keep the frown from her face, but Elizabeth can likely feel the nervous tension radiating off of her.

Ahead, the mountie and his friend walk, seemingly oblivious to their tail, chatting happily. Or maybe happily. There seems to be a lot of gesticulating happening.

She glances at Nina, but as long as she's not doing anything stupid she isn't going to help her-- she needs to learn how to deal with this. This tension, this sudden shift from normal to work. It's important.

The two men round a corner and step into a building marked Canadian Consulate, and it lets Elizabeth relax for a second, able to talk to her companion.

"We need a car to follow them," she whispers. "I doubt they'll walk to our mark. You keep your eyes on the door while I get us one."

Steal us one, she means, same difference.

[Because this meme was made for James' shenanigans.]

[ Deceiver. Deceiver. Holy SHIT, deceiver. Playing from S1 because I'm still waiting to find out if my theory about subsequent events is correct. ]

[Hello ♥ Would you be interested in doing something with the two of them? I've usually played from S1 too!]

[ Yes let's. I'm heading to work, so do you mind starting? ]

[I don't mind at all! Only I was wondering if you had anything specific in mind-- an AU where the Kimber fight happens later, giving them more time? Playing out a scene that 'didn't make it on screen'? Another AU entirely?]

[ Whatever works best for you will work for me! ]

There is a world in which the coin lands the other way.

Tommy Shelby does not think he's a particularly superstitious man, and he had thought he'd made his mind up. To the others, he'd whispered to Polly, and her hand had felt like a cold, empty comfort after the emptiness Grace had left in his life.

He writes her a letter and tells her he'll flip a coin, just like he did when he was younger; just like he did before the war, when superstitions were a part of his daily life, before he needed rationality to keep him going.

But the coin lands the other way. And after he's posted the letter, after he's taken a look around his offices, he gets in his car and drives to London. He isn't wearing his finest suit, on account of the bandages still covering the wound dug by Billy Kimber's bullet. He hasn't brought anything. He hasn't brought any speech, nor any questions for her that he needs answers to.

But the coin landed the other way. And so Grace's hotel gets a call that she has a visitor.

[Civil War compliant. Canon and cross-canon welcome.]

[Most likely the deceiver. Open to mutual deception.

Characters 20+ only, please.]

(deceiver)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Becoming the mask

Henry | Fire Emblem: Awakening | OTA

Rey | SW:TFA | OTA

Nina Sergeevna Krilova | The Americans

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lmao oh god

ok with me tbh

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lmk if this works!

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Prof. James Moriarty | Sherlock/ACD EU | OTA

Grace Burgess | Peaky Blinders | M/F

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lmk if this works!

Raven | Teen Titans | OTA

Bucky Barnes - mcu - open

Kristoph Gavin | Ace Attorney

Bill Cipher | Gravity Falls | OTA