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oliver--fox · 8 days ago

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TIMING: late july, sometime before this. LOCATION: a motel (but not THE motel). PARTIES: @oliver--fox & @bazzledazzle. SUMMARY: baz and oliver meet for a hookup and discover they have a few unexpected things in common. CONTENT WARNINGS: wrspice.

It wasn’t the first time that Oliver had used the motel as a rendezvous location for a hook-up. He wasn’t one to bring strangers home if he could help it, and the other individual sometimes had the same idea. However, this wasn’t like NYC or Los Angeles, where there were hotels on every corner, which meant that his only option, if he wanted to be in an actual bed and not a car, in a bathroom, or on the ground, was the motel in town. He was just grateful that the person at the front desk was not the person he had seen the last two times he had come by. Logically, he knew that there was always the chance that they wouldn’t recognize him, but he also knew that return guests weren’t exactly typical.

He had gotten the room key, sent Baz a text with the number, and made his way up the stairs. It had been a while since his hook-ups had been set up outside the thumping of music in a club or glances over the top of a beer in a bar. Oliver had a dating app or two on his phone, but talking over text had never been something that he was great at. Hooking up with someone he knew lived in town was also something he hadn’t done in a while. Done mostly out of practicality, due to how there was always an air of awkwardness that came with running into someone you’ve seen naked at the grocery store, no matter how good the sex was. However, there was something about Baz’s whole….thing that had drawn interest from Oliver. Plus, if the universe was going to put him on Oliver’s FMK list, well, he may as well listen to it.

Oliver had just finished untucking the bed’s linens (a tip he had learned forever ago), when he felt his internal alarm go off. At first, he just assumed that another fae had decided to stop by the motel as well, but when there was a knock on the door and the feeling hadn’t dissipated, it made Oliver pause. He had hooked up with other fae before, obviously, but he had typically known they were fae before it happened. He shook his head, no, this was fine, things would be fine. Oliver opened the door with a grin, leaning against the door frame, “Evening”

—

Hookups were far from a rare activity for Baz to partake in. It was, in fact, quite the opposite. They spent a lot of their time working out ways to wind up in bed with people they’d like to wind up in bed with, dedicated a good amount of time and energy into deciphering who was interested and who wasn’t and pursuing the former. They liked going to bed with beautiful people. They liked being looked at, and they liked being touched. There was nothing that reminded you were real quite as well as things like this, after all, nothing that confirmed just how tangible you were like hands on every part of your body. Baz craved the connection, even if they still needed it to be a temporary one. Anyone who stuck around too long, after all, was bound to see things Baz didn’t want them to see.

This meant that meeting up in motels and temporary housing situations was also a common occurrence for the doppelganger. They didn’t like bringing people back to their own place for reasons that had little to do with the presence of their roommate and everything to do with the strange intimacy that came with someone else knowing where you lived. They’d go back to a stranger’s place sometimes, but the anonymity of a third party location felt so much safer. They were pleased, then, when Oliver suggested the motel. There was a spring in their step as they made their way towards the room number he’d provided, tipping their invisible hat to a woman walking by. Tonight would be a good night; they were sure of it.

As they got closer to the room, their skin began to buzz with a familiar feeling. It was easy to guess that it simply meant one of the rooms was occupied by a fae, or that some passerby was sporting an impressive glamour. But the feeling intensified as they neared Oliver’s room, making it unmistakable by the time he opened the door. Baz matched his grin, their eyebrows shooting up. “Now this is a surprise, hm? Seems we’ve got a thing or two in common. Beyond our good looks.”

—

“It would appear so.” Oliver said with a laugh, stepping back from the door to allow Baz to come in before it shut behind them. A quick glance didn’t offer any answers as to what kind of fae Baz was, which made sense because the same could be said for Oliver. He looked just like any other mortal, it only becoming apparent that he wasn’t when he used his powers. Baz was hot, though; there was no denying that. “Looking back, it makes sense that you’re fae. You’re far more interesting than any normal human.” Oliver said, his tone decreasing to a whisper as he stepped into the other's space.

Oliver’s gaze flickered between Baz’s eyes and their lips, before leaning in and giving the other a soft kiss. It lasted only a moment, not quite a peck but nothing too intense or fancy. “I wasn’t sure if you were someone who liked talking before or jumping straight into it, but figured we should get the first kiss out of the way.” Oliver winked, his tone still hushed. He had lost count of how many ‘first’ kisses he had had at this point. He remembered his first one, Nancy Brown, a classmate who had also been a neighbor. At 14, it had been nothing but a peck that was infused with anxiety and hesitancy, but Nancy hadn’t complained.

“Either way, I think it might be more comfortable if we move this to the bed.” Oliver casually slipped his hand into the others, “How does that sound?”

—

Baz wondered what sort of fae Oliver was, though they weren’t likely to ask unless the question was posed to them first. They’d never much cared what they were sharing a bed with; they didn’t even particularly care about who met up with them between the sheets. To Baz, the important thing had always been a warm body beside theirs. It mattered only that they weren’t alone, mattered only that there was someone there. The details beyond that weren’t important to them. They often longed for a deeper connection, sure, but they weren’t quite brave enough to pursue it. “I’m certainly the interesting sort,” they replied with a wink.

Oliver seemed willing to cut to the chase, and Baz returned the kiss he placed on their lips eagerly. It was quicker than they might have liked, but they understood the intention as Oliver spoke; some people needed a little more before jumping into things. Baz had never been one of them. “Whatever’s best for you, yeah? I’m easy. In every way that matters, really.” They grinned, already pleased with the events of the night. They’d met other fae — even slept with other fae — since coming to Wicked’s Rest, but it felt nice every time. In spite of their less than pleasant experiences with their father (and, to a lesser extent, the rest of their family), Baz liked the community thing that so many fae had going on. They liked the idea of belonging in a way that didn’t need to be earned.

“I’d love to move to the bed,” they agreed, already pulling Oliver towards it. Even if the other would prefer more conversation before getting to what they’d come here for, they could easily talk in bed.

—

As it turns out, neither one of them is all that concerned in conversations. Once they're on the bed, any words between the two are shared between kisses that get deeper and deeper as clothes are removed. Eventually, the talking ceases, as focus turns to explorations of each other’s bodies.

Hours later, Oliver opens his eyes, unsure of when he dozed off, and rolls over. He’s almost surprised that Baz is still here. They hadn’t discussed what would happen after the hook-up, and Oliver had fully expected that one of them would wake up to an empty side of the bed. Oliver supposes that he could still leave and let that story play out. However…there is a part of him that doesn’t really want to. He hasn’t had a ‘morning after’ interaction in a while, but there’s a small part of his brain that whispers What’s the worst that could happen?

He squints at the clock on the bedside table; it’s early still, just after 6 am. He’s just started weighing different options when he hears movement beside him. Oliver glances over, wearing a small smile, “Morning”

—

Conversation was quickly replaced by something a little more enjoyable, much to Baz’s appreciation. As much as they enjoyed talking — or, more specifically, hearing themself speak — there were always much better things to do with one’s mouth.

They must have tired one another out quite a bit. Baz wasn’t usually one to sleep with people in the literal sense — they much preferred to be gone by the morning. But the hotel bed was comfortable, and the room was paid for. There was no harm in staying in a place that was no one’s home, no risk of anyone getting the idea of anything more serious than what they’d initially agreed upon. At some point, they let themself fall asleep, and they did not wake until there was a quiet shifting in the bed beside them to stir them from their slumber.

Baz stretched, throwing their shoulders back and yawning loudly. “Morning,” they greeted, squinting at the clock. They didn’t typically see this hour unless they stayed awake to greet it. “You’re a bit of an early riser, aren’t you?”

—

A shy smile graced Oliver’s lips. “My internal clock usually wakes me up around this time. Downside of keeping a job for so long, I suppose.” He joked as he rolled over to face the other. There was something nice about the fact that Baz hadn’t gotten out of bed as they woke up. Oliver knew how easy it would have been to say that something had come up, that there was somewhere they needed to be. They hadn’t though, and while Oliver wasn’t naive enough to think that it meant anything, it was sometimes nice to have pillow-talk.

“I’m guessing you usually get up a bit later?” He asked, raising an eyebrow, “Actually, I don’t think I ever asked, what do you do?” It was always a somewhat fascinating question to ask other long-living individuals. Oliver felt like they tended to fall into two groups: those who worked and those who didn’t. Oliver had spent so long jumping between schools, getting different degrees for professions that he would never get into, that when he finally left the world of academia, he hadn’t thought of any other choice than to get a ‘proper’ job. He had often worked part-time jobs during school, needing a way to pay for the classes after all, but those were vastly different then the jobs he got afterwards. However, he knew that there were lots of people who never got jobs, some choosing to stay as far away from humanity as possible. Oliver had, when he was younger, often thought about what would have happened if he had been raised by other fae instead of humans. How different would his life have been? Would he have experienced less grief? More? They were unanswerable questions.

—

Baz knew it was something of a stereotype, the way they preferred to stay in bed until the morning gave way to the afternoon. Artists were known for keeping odd hours, and Baz was no different. Most days, their shifts at the museum started later in the day; their boss had learned early on that scheduling Baz for an early morning shift wasn’t the kind of thing that ended well for anyone at all. “I think my internal clock gave up years ago,” they joked, propping themself up against the pillows a bit further. They were in no rush to leave now that they’d already broken the barrier of staying the night. They liked the pleasant buzz under their skin that came with spending time with another fae when it was in this context.

They laughed at Oliver’s (correct) assumption, nodding their head. Perhaps they gave off a certain sort of vibe. The thought sent a quiet thrill through them. They’d never imagined themself as the sort of person who left enough of an impression to give off a distinct vibe before. “Mmm, suppose that depends on the context. What do I do for money, or what do I do?” Because they were two different answers. Baz made most of their cash through the museum job, but they’d never define themself by it willingly. The job was a means to an end, a way to help Joel out with the rent and put a little extra spending money in their pocket so they could buy nice clothes at thrift marts or decorate their home with yard sale finds. It wasn’t them, though. Baz existed on the other end of a paintbrush, or with a notebook clutched in their hand. “I work at the natural history museum to pay the bills,” they provided, “but really, I’m an artist. A poet. A painter. A musician, sometimes. How about you?”

—

Oliver laughed at the other's comment about their internal clock, before tilting his head at their question. There was something about Baz, where every interaction felt like it was designed to keep the other person off balance. Perhaps that was just the other fae’s nature.

Oliver sat up a bit as they explained what they did, before nodding. An artist fit Baz’s general…aesthetic. As did working at a museum. Oliver would have been more shocked if they had said they worked in a proper office or were in charge of something important. “The museum must be interesting at least, though, I’m always a little worried I’ll see something of mine in one.” He said, only half joking. At one point, Oliver had learned that you could tour museums in other countries online, and from time to time, he would electronically visit different ones around the world. He had been looking at one in Paris when he was shocked to find a picture of himself there. It was a crowd shot, from in front of a cafe, from the early 1930s. His hair was darker, and his face was barely visible between being turned slightly to the side, his hat, and the cigarette that he was smoking. Oliver knew it was him, though, because the woman next to him was Victoria. She had been someone he had dated for a bit, and he would recognize her golden locks anywhere.

“That’s cool. What’s your favorite medium?” Oliver asked. “I own one of the plant stores downtown. It’s called Everlasting Garden.”

—

Was the museum an interesting place to work? If it was, it was only because Baz made it that way. They imagined it was rather dull for most people, reading lines off a page for bored tour groups that were typically only there because they hadn’t found anything better to do with their day. But they liked the idea that Oliver thought it was interesting, and so they made no attempt to correct the assumption. Instead, their curiosity latched onto the latter half of the statement. “How old are you, then? Bit more than you look, I’m assuming. Unless there’s some other reason why you’re worried your things might be museum-bound.” Of course Baz knew that fae aged differently than most, even if doppelgangers were a bit of a special case. Their father was older than he looked, too, though Baz had never been certain just how old he was. Old enough to build up a great fortune he cared little about. With all the different faces they’d worn over the years, Baz had only ever been able to keep up with their own age by tracking that of their younger brother, three years their junior. Now that they were no longer in contact with him, they wondered absently how long it would take them to lose track. “I’m only as old as I look, by the way. Twenty-eight. I’m afraid you’ve robbed the cradle.” Their grin was bright and amused. They had a feeling it wasn’t Oliver’s first run as a cougar.

Their face only lit up further at the opportunity to partake in one of their all-time favorite hobbies — talking about themself and their art. “Well, poetry’s closest to the heart, I suppose,” they hummed thoughtfully, thinking of the notebooks upon notebooks they’d filled with words long before they’d even had the courage to pick up a paintbrush. “But as far as painting goes, I’m a sucker for a good oil paint. Takes ages to dry, but I’ve always felt it’s worth the wait.” They looked Oliver over carefully, trying to determine if plant store owner fit his vibe. It did, in a way, and so Baz nodded approvingly. “Think I’ve seen it a time or two. Always mean to drop in, but the girl behind the counter’s a bit intimidating.”

—

“Just a bit, I’m 150.” Oliver said with a shrug. “I know the grannies are jealous of my skin care routine” He joked. It was always a little interesting to see how other long-living species aged. Oliver himself wasn’t sure how long he would continue to look like he was in his late 20s; would there be a time when, after enough centuries, he would appear to be more middle-aged? He had met other nymphs along the way who looked older than him, so he knew it was possible, but asking specific questions always felt awkward. He knew they would look at him with confusion, the unasked question about why he didn’t know things already. Especially when the usual response was them being sorry for Oliver that humans had raised him, like it was the worst thing they could imagine. Which had ended in a fight at least once. Oliver wasn’t going to let someone talk badly about his parents after all. So, Oliver shied away from them. Instead, he figured he would learn as he went. It had worked out so far, at least.

When Baz shared their age, Oliver feigned shock “What! Nooo” He said dramatically before laughing. “I figured” Baz had such a youthful air to themselves, so Oliver had guessed that they hadn’t even reached their fourth decade yet. “Though, it’s not as if I have many people around here my age; so every time I sleep with someone, I’m gonna be doing a bit of cradle robbing”

He hummed as the other spoke about their preferences. “Poetry can be lovely, a true look into a person’s soul, no?” Though there was nothing worse than bad poetry, or someone who was clearly trying too hard. Oliver had spent a fair amount of time at poetry and spoken word nights at coffee shops, and sometimes it was…painful. “Oh, I love oil paintings. They always feel very sophisticated.” Oliver wasn’t very talented when it came to art. He could get by, but nothing he ever made was going to end up in a museum. He grinned at Baz’s description of one of his co-workers. “Ah, short black hair with a snake tattoo on her arm? That’s Kennedy. She never wears her glasses, so she always looks like she’s glaring at people by accident. She’s actually really nice. Loves tulips.” He stretched as he sat up fully. “But you should stop by at some point, I can get you discount” Oliver added with a wink.

—

“Hmmm, you might be the oldest person I’ve ever shagged,” Baz commented thoughtfully, trying to think back. They didn’t always know the age of the people they slept with, of course — it wasn’t as if they presented hookups with a survey — but a hundred and fifty was a fairly impressive number. Surely anyone older would have made it obvious in some way, wouldn’t they? A neon sign, perhaps, or a quiet inability to work a doorknob. (When were doorknobs invented?) There was something curious about it, really. Oliver, despite his hundred and fifty years, didn’t behave in a way that was outwardly different than someone else might have. Had he not told Baz his age, they would have pegged him for thirty at the most. Fae aged differently than humans, of course, but Baz wondered if that went beyond the physical. For someone who could live a thousand years, Oliver might seem like a child. It was strange to think that one day, Baz would be a hundred and fifty themself, looking no older than they cared to.

But that day was not today. Today, Baz was exactly as old as they appeared, something Oliver seemed to have deduced already. (Was that something that came with age, too, then? At a hundred and fifty, would Baz be able to eye a stranger and determine how old they were no matter how old they looked?) “I know, I know. Wise beyond my years, really.” They grinned, shrugging a shoulder. “More here than other places, maybe. I’ve met a few not-quite-human folks myself. Curious, though — when was the last time you slept with someone your age? Or older than you?” When he was younger, certainly, but how young?

Oliver’s description of poetry was enough to make Baz smile fondly. “I imagine you’ve seen a lot of it, in your years.” Had he known famed poets throughout the last century and a half? There was some quiet jealousy at the thought. “Yeah? Maybe I can paint you sometime. You’ve lovely features. I think they’d translate well onto canvas.” Perhaps they’d do a series — Oliver through the decades he’d lived in, donning styles of the eras. He’d look nice in Victorian Era attire, even if he’d probably been too young to be a part of that. “Tulips, really?” Baz was a little impressed with how well Oliver evidently knew his store and his employees. It was… nice, in a way. Their father had certainly carried no such knowledge of the people within his own company, had viewed them as little more than meal tickets. “I do love a discount. Will you make sure to only sell me the best plants, too?”

—

Oliver snorted at Baz’s exclamation, “Could be, I’ll gladly take that title.” Was it fair to make it a competition? Probably not, but Oliver was happy to take the crown if it fit. At the comment about there being other supernaturals around, Oliver couldn’t help but shake his head. “How long have you been in town? You will surely run into others. It’s…a bit of a hotspot. It’s why Hunters are also all over the place.” He added with an eyeroll.

Oliver hummed quietly at their question. Someone his age? Honestly, he rarely asked other long-lived species how old they were unless it came up, and with how often there was little talking involved, it wasn’t something he learned all that often. “Well, when I was a bit younger, like 50-60s? There were humans around that age I hooked up with.” People of those ages tended to want to get into something serious, though, which wasn’t very conducive to the more nomadic life Oliver had been living previously. “Older than me, though? There was someone who was over a thousand years old that I hooked up with every few decades.”

“I have! Some great, some…not as great.” He laughed, his cheeks heating up at the compliment. “I’ve been told I look like an old painting, so we’d have to see if that was true.” He had sat for paintings before, but it had been at the tail end of when that had been popular. Oliver just remembered how long it would take. “Yeah, especially the traditional pink ones.” He said before leaning over, “Of course, only the best for you.” Oliver whispered before kissing the other softly.

—

There was something exciting about the conversation. Perhaps it was the simple fact that there was conversation at all. Baz wasn’t really used to that, wasn’t accustomed to speaking to someone after the deed was done. It was their own fault, usually; they’d sneak out more often than not, but it wasn’t as if they had no reason for doing so. On the rare occasions they stuck around, it wasn’t unusual for whoever they’d just slept with to find that they were much less fond of Baz with the lights on. (“You’re best in small doses,” a man told him once, slipping his pants on as quickly as he could. “Can’t imagine anyone’d want to put up with you long-term.”) But here Oliver was, asking questions. Baz felt a quiet sense of pleasure comparable to the one Oliver had drawn out of them the night before. “Just a few months now,” they replied. “Already met a few not quite human folks. Not sure on their ages, though.” The mention of hunters drew a huff. “Met one or two of those, too.” Not an experience they liked. Oliver seemed to feel similarly.

Baz wondered if it felt odd for Oliver, back then. Had he looked as he did now, or younger still? Hooking up with humans the same age as you who looked much older must have been something of a jolt. “Not quite an option to hook up with humans your own age now, is it?” They joked, leaning back on the pillows. “Few spellcasters, maybe. Heard they’ve got ways of making themselves live longer. Thousands of years old, though…” They trailed off, humming thoughtfully. “I’d like to try that. Seems like someone would either know all the best things to do, or get a bit lazy with it.”

Laughing quietly, Baz shrugged a shoulder. “I think it’s all great,” they admitted. “In its own way, at least. Means something just to have someone try it, yeah? Mine’s good, though. Objectively speaking.” They’d been told as much, even by strangers with no interest in sleeping with them. “It’s settled, then. I’ll paint you in a few different styles, see what looks best. And after, you’ll sell me your best pink tulips.” They grinned, content with the half-imagined plan and more content with the tone of Oliver’s voice. It was nice, being appreciated; Baz had always thought it would be.

—

Oliver hummed quietly, “Yeah, some tend to keep their supernaturalism hidden too; so you never know what you might be talking to.” It wasn’t as if he had even been planning to mention his own faeness to Baz, though the internal alarm that had gone off for both of them didn’t care about his wishes. It was nice, in a way, to be able to discuss these topics with someone. Especially in this situation, lying in bed together after a night of pleasure. A general feeling of unease always surrounded most conversations with Fae. You never knew who you could trust, and for how long. Tonight, though, Oliver didn’t feel any unease; talking with Baz was nice. He couldn’t help but wonder if these feelings would continue even after they parted; if they met up again (which Oliver could see happening), would it be the same? Or would things become muddled with time? “Stay away from the hunters if you can help it. Any interaction with them is just inviting trouble.”

“Right, exactly!” Oliver laughed. “You never know who you’ll run into here at Wicked’s Rest, so you may get the chance eventually.” The one Oliver had been with had left, though, so he wasn’t sure if there was anyone else currently roaming around town that would meet the requirements. “Though humans aren’t all that bad, I think it has more to due with the person than the species.” Not that Oliver would know one from the other unless something was striking about the person's appearance, or if he was alerted to another fae being there. He shrugged, “I’ve even been married before.” He added, not elaborating further as he shifted to stretch his back.

“I look forward to hearing some of it. Have anything to share right now?” Oliver asked softly, kissing the other’s neck, following a path up to their chin and across to their lips. Pulling back slightly, Oliver nodded, “I think that is an excellent plan.” Would it be something that they followed through with? Or would it be something left behind once the two of them stepped into the hallway? Oliver didn’t know, but there was a part of him that hoped it would happen, a part of him that looked forward to seeing Baz again, even if it was outside of the anonymity that came with the motel.

—

The relationship Baz had with protecting the secret of the supernatural world, like the relationship Baz had with most things, often changed on a whim. There were days where it was important, and they did everything they could to hold it close to the chest. There were also days where it seemed silly to hide it, and they were more than willing to tell strangers about their not quite human qualities. They understood people who preferred to remain hidden full time, just as they understood people who didn’t. Both sides had positives and negatives. That was how most things were. Of course, they weren’t sure how Oliver felt about secrecy, because their own collective senses had already given them away. It didn’t seem very important in the moment, anyway. “Don’t have to tell me twice, mate,” the doppelganger laughed, shaking their head. Avoiding hunters was something they’d do with or without advice from someone older and wiser.

They did like the idea of meeting people with thousands of years under their belts, though. Not just in the interest of sleeping with them — though Baz was interested in that as well — but for the simple conversation. They weren’t much of a historian, but that didn’t mean they didn’t think there were some aspects of history that seemed interesting to learn more about. “Eh, humans are fine,” Baz shrugged, waving a hand. They liked humans, really; at least, a lot more than some fae seemed to. “Yeah? Never been married myself. Not sure it’d suit me.” Not sure anyone would be interested, either.

But that didn’t really matter, did it? Baz didn’t need marriage. Baz didn’t even need love. (Even as they thought it, they knew they couldn’t say that one aloud without tasting the bitter lie on their tongue and feeling it twist in their gut.) Right now, they just needed to remain in bed with a handsome man who cared what they had to say. They could recite poetry, and he’d pay attention to their words. That had always been more than enough. As Oliver traced his lips up their chest, though, Baz found themself a little uninterested in poetry. “Actually,” they said, “I’ve got a better idea of what I can do with my mouth right now. Maybe we’ll save the pretty words for after.”

#thread:baz

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