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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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.

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lmao oh god

ok with me tbh