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Jeremy: So my hotel budget has gotten a little out of hand
Victoria: I've been telling you to let me pay for like two months.
Jeremy: Actually I was thinking you could come over
Jeremy: To my house
◦◦◦
Victoria: Huh.
Jeremy: That's not encouraging
◦◦◦
Jeremy: I feel like you'd know by now if I was a serial killer
Jeremy: Planning to serial kill you
Victoria: It would explain so much if you were, though.
Jeremy: Woooowwww
Victoria: But as a general rule serial killers are white guys.
Jeremy: Really reassuring me with all this serial killer knowledge
◦◦◦
Victoria: I don't think you're a serial killer.
Victoria: It just seems kind of awkward.
Jeremy: Being in my house?
Victoria: Kind of.
Jeremy: You might like it
Jeremy: I could make dinner
Victoria: That's more awkward, not less.
◦◦◦
Jeremy: Okay
Jeremy: Well
Jeremy: That's kind of
◦◦◦
Jeremy: Can you explain to me what's awkward about it?
Jeremy: I'm not trying to argue with your decision
Jeremy: I just want to understand
Jeremy: For future reference
◦◦◦
Victoria: I don't know.
Victoria: It feels like a date?
Jeremy: And you don't date
Victoria: See putting it like this makes me sound crazy.
Victoria: I just don't like it when guys do stuff like that.
Jeremy: Stuff like having you over for dinner?
Jeremy: And having sex in their own bed?
◦◦◦
Victoria: Bringing me into your life.
Victoria: Your not-sex life.
Jeremy: As a friend
Victoria: Yeah but I'm not really that either.
◦◦◦
Victoria: Friends are there for you and they're emotionally supportive.
Victoria: I'm really not.
Victoria: There's not a point where I stop being a huge bitch.
Jeremy: Victoria
Victoria: I'm not saying that for pity.
Victoria: Literally the exact opposite of that.
Victoria: I've had guys think that they just needed to get past my defenses.
Victoria: Like I've got a crunchy bitch shell around a gooey feelings center.
Victoria: But I am nothing but bitch.
Victoria: Oops, All Bitchy.
Victoria: I don't want you getting mad at me because you thought I was something else.
◦◦◦
Jeremy: Okay
Jeremy: Thank you for explaining it to me
Jeremy: I can see how that would be frustrating for you
Jeremy: And possibly dangerous if the wrong person got mad
Victoria: You're not that kind of person, though.
Victoria: I think you'd just be really sad.
Victoria: And that sounds fucking depressing.
Victoria: So I'd really rather you didn't.
Jeremy: Okay
◦◦◦
Jeremy: I know I said I wouldn't argue
Jeremy: But I just want to point something out and then I'll drop it
Victoria: Okay.
Jeremy: You've been fine meeting me at the pub
Jeremy: Which means that doesn't count as a date
Jeremy: And that's the kind of thing I was thinking of
Jeremy: Making dinner's nbd because I do that every night
Jeremy: This was never going to be a candlelight and roses thing
Jeremy: And it's not like having someone over is a big deal for me
Jeremy: Basically everyone in the office has come over
Jeremy: They bring their kids and I let them use the pool
Victoria: Why do you have a fucking pool??
Jeremy: Why would I not have a pool if having one was an option
◦◦◦
Jeremy: Anyway
Jeremy: If you still aren't comfortable that's fine
Jeremy: Just let me know if you need my address
Jeremy: Or if I need to get a room

◦◦◦
Victoria: I don't know.
Victoria: I'll think about it.

●●●

EverettFalse's status has been changed to Available

EverettFalse: If you haven't heard from me by tomorrow, I got murdered.

EverettFalse's status has been changed to Offline

badmutton: WHAT
badmutton: WHAT
badmutton: WHAT

badmutton's status has been changed to Offline

●●●

Jeremy's house was in one of Louvenia's older suburbs, close to the city but not quite inside it. He was a lot closer to Old Town, which explained why he'd been going to the Crown's Head for so long.

"You've got to be fucking shitting me."

She pulled into the driveway, but double-checked the address on her phone. And the house number. And the address.

What the fuck.

It was an old Victorian, the kind with a turret and a wraparound porch, three stories tall and looking like a dollhouse. Mint siding, violet accents, a rosebush that looked like a fucking tree. His fences were all cast-iron and covered in honeysuckle.

Somehow this was more infuriating than a white-picket fence.

She was half-convinced, as she pressed the doorbell, that he'd given the wrong address. That someone completely different lived there, and she would have to leave, and it would all be awkward as hell.

Jeremy opened the door, smiling like the fucking sun as soon as he laid eyes on her. Dark khakis and a long-sleeved shirt in such a flimsy white she could faintly see the colors of his tattoo through it. He had to have dressed up, didn't he? He couldn't possibly sit around at home looking like that. "You showed up," he said, and she scowled.

"You don't have to sound so surprised. I said that I would."

"You might have changed your mind." He stood to the side so she could enter, and she hoped she didn't look as anxious about it as she felt. She didn't even know why. It just felt… portentous? Like she was crossing a line, or allowing a line to be crossed.

"Your house is fucking bullshit," she said, rather than acknowledge his lack of faith in her.

"You haven't even seen my house yet," he laughed.

"I've seen enough to know it's bullshit." She stepped out of her shoes as he closed the door, hardwood cold through her stockings. "How much do you even make?"

"Rude," he accused, coming up behind her to wrap his arms around her waist and bury his face in her neck. "It needed a lot of work when I bought it. I got a good deal."

"Did you restore an old Victorian yourself?"

He paused. "… maybe? Is this going to be one of those weird things that pisses you off?"

"You're fucking ridiculous."

"So, yes."

"At least tell me you have a dungeon." Her eyes scanned his front hall, bookshelves and window seats and a grandfather clock.

"Not… really?" She raised an eyebrow at him over her shoulder. "Pretty sure the last person who had this house fixed it up in the fifties. They converted the basement into an apartment, you can only get in through the side door. I've thought about renting it out, but I'd be a shitty landlord."

"Yeah, right," she scoffed as he let her go. "People'd pay extra just to have you as a landlord."

"Nah," he said, walking further into the house. She followed, trying not to grip her purse too tightly. "Too loud, too many people over all the time. I let family stay down there when they visit, it works out." Everything in his house looked so… cozy. Dark wood and worn leather couches and photos, so many photos. Pictures from work, pictures of people who must have been his family, pictures of him. Against one wall was what could only be a piano, old but polished like new. Through the living room window she could see his backyard, the pool and the area beyond it. Trees, not enough to be a forest, just enough for privacy. Familiar. "Is there a particular reason you look fucking terrified?" he asked, standing in a doorway.

"I do not," she said, turning to glare at him.

"I'm the one that's looking at you, remember? I think I'm the authority on what you look like." She huffed, but he only crossed his arms over his chest; he wasn't to be swayed.

"Being in other people's houses makes me nervous, sometimes. I'll get over it."

"See, now, if you'd told me that before I could have done something about it sooner." She hated when he scolded her like that, for not telling him things that it hadn't occurred to her that she'd need to. He was back by her side near the hallway, pulled her close to wrap his arms around her. She shut her eyes, and basked briefly in how it felt to be held by him. "Is this helping?"

"Kind of."

"Would a tour make it better, or worse?"

"Worse."

"Okay." He kissed the top of her head. "Do you want to just stay here for a bit? Or I can take you to the bedroom, if that would be better for you."

God. He was so fucking accommodating. It made no sense at all. "Where's the kitchen?" Kitchens were usually fine. Kitchens didn't feel quite so… expectant.

He laced his fingers with hers to pull her along, and though she followed, it was with another frown. "I said I was nervous, not that I'm going to have a panic attack," she said. "You don't need to hold my hand like I'm five."

"Maybe I just like holding your hand," he said, which was fucking ridiculous. There weren't many opportunities for hand-holding at work or during hotel sex. He'd drawn her attention to exactly how it felt to have her hand in his. His hands were larger than hers, his fingers longer, his skin soft. How strange, to be so suddenly aware of his hands when they'd been so many other places and done so many other things.

"Your kitchen is also bullshit," she informed him.

"Duly noted."

She didn't know what his counters were made of, but she was sure they were something nice. "I don't know where to put my purse."

"Just stick it on the credenza," he suggested as he let her hand go.

"Who the fuck has a credenza?"

"I do, clearly. I like your dress."

"Thank you." She set her purse down on the totally unnecessary piece of furniture, and did her best to pose prettily without making it obvious what she was doing. It was a simple shirt dress in blue, the most casual thing he'd seen her in. She'd thought her usual work attire would be overdressed, when he wouldn't be wearing a suit at home.

"How do you pick your nail polish when you can't match it to your skirt?" he asked, leaning against the counter of his kitchen island with a half-smile. She didn't know why it even occurred to him to wonder.

"The usual way?" she said, digging her phone out of her bag so she'd have something to fidget with.

"I don't know what that is."

She leaned against the counter opposite to him, mimicking his pose, but she had to balance on her toes to do it. "What do you do when you need two things to be in colors that look good together?"

He shrugged. "Stick colors next to each other until they look okay?"

"What? No. You use a color wheel."

"Wait, do you have a color wheel? Like, a physical wheel? Do you keep a color wheel in your closet so you can pick out outfits?" He looked delighted by this prospect. Victoria turned her attention to her phone. "You do. That's adorable."

"Fuck off."

"Just the cutest fucking thing." He pushed away from the island to open up the fridge. "Do you want anything to drink?"

"Beer?"

"This okay?" He held up a bottle for her approval, and set two on the counter when she nodded. "I figured I'd just make whatever I had in the fridge, so right now it's looking like tandoori chicken and coconut fried rice. That okay with you?"

"I guess if you don't have lobster I'm willing to settle," she said dryly.

"I can get lobster."

"Please don't." She wasn't going to risk egging him on. Because he would. He'd take her with him and they'd go grocery shopping and it would be a domestic nightmare.

"How do you feel about spinach?"

"Depends on the spinach."

"You'll like mine." He seemed sure of himself, which was adorable. "What's that smile for?" he asked as he opened her bottle, set it in front of her when he rejoined her at the island.

"It doesn't need to be for anything," she said as she took it, rolled the bottle in her hands.

"Bullshit it doesn't. You know how hard it is to make you do that? Making you orgasm's easier."

"I'm not that bad," she muttered as she sipped her beer.

"Getting better. I've noticed a significant reduction in murderous gazes."

"Fuck off."

"See?" he said with a grin. "Barely murderous at all."

"Keep it up," she warned, "see how long that lasts."

"Are you like this with everyone, or just me?"

"You know I'm not like this with everyone."

"People at the office don't count." To that she said nothing, because he was right and wrong all at once. Coworkers were a unique circumstance, but if they didn't count, that didn't leave anyone. She couldn't explain that without it sounding sadder than it was. "Am I prying again?" he asked. Her face must have given her away.

"You're not prying," she said, trying not to pick at the label of her bottle.

"I want to pry," he admitted.

"Do you?"

"I'm not going to. I just want to."

"Why?" She didn't know if she expected a real answer. If he had any sense, he'd lie.

"Because you don't want me to, probably," he said with a shrug. "You've made it into a mystery."

She shrugged in return. "I'm not mysterious."

"You're pretty mysterious. I still don't know your middle name. Names."

"You're not going to, either."

"I have no idea what you do after work when you're not with me," he continued, changing the subject. "Except for walks, you've mentioned walks before. That's basically it."

"I don't do anything." Worked, ran errands, played video games. She thought he had a warped sense of the normal number of hobbies for a person to have.

"You've got a lot of stilettos for a homebody."

At that, she blushed. She'd forgotten about that somehow, those nights on the prowl. Not that they'd ever been common enough to call a hobby. Those nights seemed a million miles away. "The stilettos are for you."

"I don't think they're for me specifically." His voice was level, a casual observation.

"No," she agreed, because she refused to be embarrassed about that. She wouldn't pretend she was anything but the kind of woman who'd go out in dangerously high heels and a short skirt looking for the right kind of trouble. "They're not."

Jeremy sipped at his beer. His eyes were somewhere on the wall over her shoulder, actually in the middle distance. "How long has it been?" he asked finally. "Since there was someone else."

"A while," she said, meaningless. "I don't know."

He looked at her, eyes met hers. "You don't know like you don't know, or you don't know like you don't want to tell me?"

Victoria looked away first, and that irritated her. "How long ago was the 5K?" she asked, because it was the answer and because it was spiteful.

"The… what?" His confusion made her feel vindicated and guilty all at once. He wasn't confused about the what, just the why. A sip of her beer stalled for time and helped her get her head straight.

"That was when," she said. "The last time I…" She trailed off, unwilling or unable to finish the thought. "I don't know," she said, frustrated again that she was feeling guilty and had no one to blame for it but herself. "You got me all fucked up and it wasn't like you were going to do anything about it—"

"I would have," he interrupted quietly, "if you'd asked." There was an intensity to the way he said it that spread heat right through her.

"I didn't know that at the time," she snapped, burying it. "So I called someone."

"A friend?"

"Not really," she said, an understatement. Victoria rolled the bottom of her bottle along the counter, watching the top of the liquid stay level inside. "He's okay."

"I hope you know I'm not ever going to be that," he said, and the way he said it made her look back up at him. Not quite scolding, not quite a warning, but serious in a way that was almost both. "The guy you settle for."

The idea that he'd compare himself to the kinds of men she called when she was feeling desperate repulsed her. "I would never—you're different."

"Am I?" he asked, because he had no way of knowing. Even if she felt like he should have known.

"I like you," she said, before adding, "as much as I'm capable of liking anyone, which isn't very."

"I think you like me plenty," he countered. "You've just got a weird way of liking things." She had nothing to say to that, so she said nothing, set her drink down to fiddle with her phone. "Did you not like him?"

"Who?"

"The last guy you were with before me."

"Oh." That should have been obvious, she supposed. "I don't know." She was saying that a lot and she hated herself for it. "He's not bad," she said, because if nothing else she didn't want Jeremy pitying her. "We don't talk or anything."

"Why'd you call him?"

"Convenience?" she shrugged.

"Convenience," he repeated, and her face started to burn. She deleted emails rather than look at him.

"He's not—" she began, before stopping. "I don't have to explain myself to you."

"You don't," he agreed, still casual but not amiable. "I can talk about something else, if you want."

He would, if she asked. That felt like conceding something. She didn't want him assuming the worst, coming up with a reason to feel bad for her. "He lives nearby and he doesn't like anything weird," she said, too quickly. "And he always says yes. That's all I meant."

"Okay."

"I'm hardly the only person who's had bad sex."

"You said it wasn't bad," he pointed out, and this time there was an edge to it.

"Not good, then," she corrected. "You've had sex that wasn't good."

"I have. But I don't keep their numbers around." That edge was still there.

"I don't get to be picky."

"Says who?"

"Says the fact that safe sadists are hard to find." Too much bitterness crept into her voice, and she tried to drown it with more beer.

"You have me, now." He said it like he was the solution to all her problems. In some ways, he was. She didn't need him to know that.

"Now, sure." Not before, and not later. She'd needed other solutions then, would need.

Jeremy drank again, looked thoughtful as he did it. He set his beer back down on the counter, read the label. They stood in silence a while. "Is it overstepping my bounds to say I'd like you to delete his number?"

"It is."

He didn't look surprised. "I'm asking as a friend."

"We're not friends." There was neither malice nor remorse in her reminder. She'd warned him about this already.

"You're not my friend," he countered. "You're not going to drive me to the airport or help me move or whatever. Which is fine. But I think I am your friend."

She bristled. "I never asked you to be."

"Most people don't."

Such easygoing authority, brooking no argument, itching at her. "That doesn't mean you get to tell me what to do." She'd never given him that authority, not in this context.

"I know I don't. That's why I'm asking, not telling."

"Are you jealous?"

"No."

"You seem pretty irritated about me calling other guys, for someone who isn't jealous."

"I'm not irritated," he said. "I'm pissed." Victoria felt an anxious twist in her stomach. "About you calling up some mediocre motherfucker you don't even like and letting him fuck you, insulting me by pretending he's me like he can even fucking compare."

His cold fury made her anger burn hot. "Fuck you," she said, setting her beer down hard and pushing away from the counter to leave.

"Don't," he said, quiet but still an order. "Come here," he said, circling the counter just enough, offering his arms. Everything about him gentler than he'd been a moment before. "Please," he added, soft pleading. She gave in, but warily, slow steps closer to him until he pulled her against his chest. "I wasn't trying to insult you. I'm not mad at you."

"Bullshit."

"I'm a little mad at you," he admitted. "I'm well aware that's fucking dumb."

"Cut it out, then," she said irritably, knowing it wasn't that easy.

"I like you," he said, and he'd said it before but in that moment it felt strange. "People being shitty to you pisses me off. You shouldn't be shitty to yourself."

"You're making it sound worse than it is," she said, because nothing she'd ever done was bad enough to justify protecting her from it. "Was," she corrected. The past tense was an important part of reassuring him.

"I can find you better people to have sex with, if you want. Even if it's not me, even if you're done with me. You don't have to settle."

She pushed him away, his arms suddenly claustrophobic. "I should go," she said, though the words stuck in her throat, had difficulty escaping around whatever had lodged itself there.

"Why?" he asked, his confusion and concern only making it worse.

"This is getting…" She trailed off, her hands held up between them to keep him away, struggling for an explanation that wouldn't come.

He raked his fingers through his hair. "I shouldn't have pried, I'm sorry. I won't say another word about it."

She shook her head, fingers splayed in the air as if to push away his apology. "No, I shouldn't have come over."

"I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset," she said, knowing he wouldn't believe her. "This is all just really… feelings-y."

"Feelings-y?" he repeated, his tone speaking volumes.

"You just seem like you're having a lot of feelings," she elaborated. "You're caring about me a lot more than you're supposed to."

"Supposed to?" he echoed again, his tone no better.

"Don't say it like I'm crazy."

"I don't think you're crazy. I'm just confused, that's all."

"We hang out sometimes, and we fuck sometimes, and that's all this is. If you want this to be more, that's a problem."

"You've made it very clear what this is, and I thought I'd been clear that I was okay with it."

"You don't act like someone who's okay with it."

"Because I care about you?" he asked, almost offended. "I care about a lot of people. I care about a lot of things. I have zero interest in fucking Janine, but I'd tell her the same thing if I thought she was doing something bad for herself. Right?"

That shouldn't have hurt. She didn't want to be special, that was the whole point. The confirmation that she wasn't still ached. "I guess."

"I don't understand why this freaks you out. I'm not trying to be judgey, I really don't get it. I get the misanthropy and the bitchiness, but I don't get this."

"This isn't going to be reciprocal. I mean it when I say I don't get nicer, I don't. How long has it been, and I'm still being a huge bitch? I don't ask you how you're feeling, I don't ask you how your day went, because I don't fucking care." Part of her hoped that hurt his feelings. "I barely care how my own day went, it's fucking boring."

"You think I'm going to resent you for not caring," he said, didn't ask, following her train of thought to its conclusion.

"That's what happens when you give a lot and never get anything."

"You think I'm not getting anything?"

"Not as much as you're giving."

"I think you're underestimating the value of the fact that you trust me to fucking wreck you."

Victoria turned red. "That's—I enjoy that as much as you do," she said.

"You do," he said, "but that's not the point. The point is that you need to trust me more than I need to trust you."

"I guess."

"I think that makes us pretty even."

"I don't think that's how it works."

"I think it works however we want it to work."

She hesitated. He made it sound so reasonable. Which made her sound ridiculous, by contrast. In the face of that, was it more mortifying to stay or to go? "I wasn't overreacting," she said finally. "I'm not going to apologize for it, either."

"Will you let me hold you again?" he asked. "It would make me feel better." She stepped closer to allow it. Jeremy rested his chin on top of her head. "You do whatever you need to feel safe. I want you to explain and I want to help but you do what you need. Okay?"

"I always do," she mumbled into his chest.

"I know you do." He squeezed her uncomfortably tight, but she didn't mind. "I just wish you could feel safe with me."

She did. She thought she did. She didn't know what to say to that. "You said there'd be tandoori."

She felt his soft laugh rather than heard it. He tilted her chin upward so he could kiss her, unmistakably possessive but gentle all the same. Like she was delicate, even though he knew better. "I'll get cooking," he promised, kissing the tip of her nose. "Then I'm going to nail you to my mattress. Sound good?"

"Good."

●●●

EverettFalse's status has been changed to Available

EverettFalse: Tell Mutton I'm fine.
oinkman: she thinks you blocked her
EverettFalse: Yeah, I temp blocked her because she was spamming me.
EverettFalse: Let her know I'm fine so I can unblock her.
oinkman: okay
oinkman: she's mad
EverettFalse: I figured.
EverettFalse: Tell her if she spams me right when I unblock her, I'm blocking her again.
oinkman: you could always just join the group chat
EverettFalse: I'm in the group chat.
oinkman: you are?
EverettFalse: I lurk sometimes.
EverettFalse: Mostly it's boring though.
EverettFalse: If I say anything there then Jojo will try to talk to me.
oinkman: oh
oinkman: she says she'll behave
EverettFalse: Okay.
EverettFalse: Thank you.
oinkman: no problem

oinkman's status has been changed to Away

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