Modern Romance

Summary: Witch Weekly's 'Modern Romance' series asks anonymous witches and wizards to record a week in their sex lives—with comic, tragic, provocative, and patently revealing results. Each week, a new episode unfolds in the lives of the Wizarding World's elite. Multiple pairings, post-war, EWE.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters and claim no profit from this work. Credit where credit is due, Joanne Rowling.

a/n: This is a new series based on one of my personal addictions, the Sex Diaries editorial feature in The Cut, a subset of New York Magazine. Please note the following:

- This is based on a very real thing that sometimes includes infidelity, deviant behavior, sexual fluidity, etc; while my take on it is intended to be more humorous and light, please be aware that such things may happen.
- Please also be aware that all the sex diaries are anonymous, so while none of the characters will use their real names, you are invited to guess who the story was about.
- Each 'episode' will be about a different character, but it all takes place within the same closed universe, which means that each person interacts with other people that you will read in future episodes.

Episode I: The Sexually Confused Loner Who Can't Stop Thinking About a Blow Job

Witch Weekly's 'Modern Romance' series asks anonymous witches and wizards to record a week in their sex lives—with comic, tragic, provocative, and patently revealing results. This week, an independently wealthy man-about-town gets caught up in a bit of confusion: 21, male, straight(ish), single(ish).


10:00 a.m.: Alright, look. It's not my fault. Let me just start with that, okay? Of course I slept late. She wears me out. Who is she? Good question. Excellent question. Let's call her Aphrodite: she's a goddess, and I suspect she's fucking with me. I look over; she's still here. Fuck, she stayed over. Fuck.

10:30 a.m.: Aphrodite's definitely fucking with me. She asks me to go down on her first thing in the morning, and I do. No, wait, no. She doesn't ask me. She takes my hand and slips it between her legs, and she's already wet. It's really fucking hot, and you wouldn't think so—or maybe you would think so, I don't know your life—because she's older. Like, a lot older. But honestly? It almost makes it hotter. She pulls my hair while she rides my mouth, and I'm fucked. I'm fucked.

11:00 a.m.: Aphrodite leaves to go back to her husband; let's call him Zeus, because as far as I know, he's fucking everything that moves. He doesn't know about me, thank god. Don't get me wrong, I'm not afraid of him (I was, sure, but I'm basically a man now, despite what my best friend tells me), but in my opinion, it's just better to keep it a secret. She gives me an open-mouthed kiss before she leaves, and I wonder if she can taste herself on my tongue. I hope so. I really fucking hope so.

2:00 p.m.: I shower, have some coffee, lounge around, and then my best friend owls me for a late lunch in Diagon, which I accept. He's sort of an aimless little shit. Like me, sort of, but he's not as happy about it. He's always looking for purpose, looking for meaning. I'm not looking for shit, honestly, but I don't think he minds. He's all fidgety, kind of frantic. I ask him what's wrong but he doesn't tell me; figures. Let's call him Apollo, because he can be cruel and destructive, and his love affairs are rarely happy. Fun, right? Eh. I think I'm fun.

3:00 p.m.: Apollo suggests we go out for drinks tonight; he says we haven't gotten laid in a while, and we could use some fun. Part of me wants to laugh, but I can't. Why not, you ask? Well, bad news, friends. I'm fucking his mum.

6:00 p.m.: Apollo and I go for a walk, buy some things, chat aimlessly. He really is my best friend, and has been my entire life. I'd think of him as a brother, but then I'd be fucking both our mums, and I'm not willing to get that gross. We part ways, agreeing to meet up later.

7:30 p.m.: Aphrodite sends me an owl that just says 'Thinking of you. About to come.' God, she's so fucking hot. Fuck. FUCK. I can't help it. I'm already dressed but I take my pants off anyway, because she owns me, so why fight it? She does this to manipulate me, I'm pretty sure, but I don't care. I come embarrassingly fast and send her an owl back. 'Now we're even,' I scribble hastily on the back of her note.

10:00 p.m.: I hate clubs. I fucking hate them. When it happened with Aphrodite, I'll admit that I was the one who initiated it. During the war, she was horribly neglected; Zeus barely knew she existed, but I did. Hell, I had my first orgasm with her name on the tip of my tongue, and it's not like I ever stopped looking. It was a late night, a few months ago, and I was at her house, hanging out with Apollo (he still lives there, but that's pretty common for us manor house types). He passed out, a little drunk from the night. I was drunk too, but fuck if I was going home after I ran into Aphrodite downstairs. "Where's your husband?" I asked her, like the little shit I am. "Fucking someone else," she said. Barely even blinked; because she's a damn goddess, for fuck's sake, and I told her so. Told her I'd worship her if she were mine. "Prove it," she said, so I fucked her against the wall. I came so hard I thought I was dying.

10:30 p.m.: This place is shitty and I want to leave. I could be balls deep in an actual goddess right now, but I'm not, and I'm really not happy about it. I tell Apollo that I'm bored, but just as I say so, a group of guys walk in that we know from Hogwarts. Correction, guys that we hate from Hogwarts. Let's call this one Hercules—you know, hero complex, blah blah—and the rest of them are his pointless minions, so they don't get names. Hercules and Apollo trade jabs, as usual. I'm bored. "Fuck off," I tell Hercules. He smiles.

11:00 p.m.: I'm drunk now, and I can't get over the fact that Hercules fucking smiled at me. What the fuck? It bugs me. I take three shots just to force myself to think about something else, but then I'm thinking about the little dimple on Aphrodite's back, the one just at the base of her spine. I want to bite it. I'm dying to bite it. Hercules smiled at me. Why did he smile? Fuck, I'm drunk.

11:30 p.m.: I run into Hercules in the bathroom and I can't really see straight, but I want to punch him in the mouth. I tell him so. He says do it. I laugh. I laugh so fucking hard. Fuck, I'm really drunk, and I tell him so. He says, "I know." I tell him to go fuck himself. He kisses me. I fucking stop breathing.

11:45 p.m.: Hercules pulls me into a stall and he's fumbling with my trousers. I put my hands on his head and shove it down. I have no idea what I'm doing but his mouth is hot and perfect on mine, and when he puts it on my cock I shudder. He looks up. "You sure?" he asks. Fuck him. He's so fucking earnest, but we're both sweating and his hair is a mess and he looks—I don't know. I don't know. "No," I tell him. I'm not sure. "I've never done this," he says, and I think he's telling the truth. "Neither have I," I say back. I'm telling the truth too, which is something I almost never do. He slides his lips along my cock, slowly, and runs his tongue along the underside. "You know," he says, "you taste, like … really good." I laugh. He laughs. "Keep blowing me," I say, "I like it." He slides his tongue along my shaft. "I like it too," he says quietly, and my knees go weak.

11:50 p.m.: I come hard, and he swallows. I still can't breathe. He opens his mouth and I know what he's going to ask me, I fucking know, but I can't do it. I run. I run.

12:00 a.m.: I get home and beg myself to fall asleep. I don't. I can't.

2:00 a.m.: Exactly how drunk was I?


6:00 a.m.: Today I wake up early, because I can't fucking sleep. 'Come over,' I write to Aphrodite. 'I need you.' I clean my house and wait for a response. This house used to belong to my father, but I'm the only one left. I let all the elves go a long time ago, and it's too much for me to keep the whole thing clean on my own, so I mostly occupy three rooms. She responds quickly, as I knew she would. 'Zeus is here,' she says, and I roll my eyes. 'Where would you rather be: with him, or with me?' I write back.

6:30 a.m.: No answer yet. I fix tea.

7:30 a.m.: I almost give up, but then her owl shows up. 'With you,' she says. 'Be there in half an hour.' I'm not happy about the wait, but I'll take what I can get. She knows that.

8:00 a.m.: I'm almost positive that I'm not Aphrodite's first extramarital affair. I sometimes wonder if I'm even her only affair, because I honestly don't know. But then I see her face, and it doesn't matter. It doesn't fucking matter. "Hey stranger," she says. "Tie me up?" she asks. She owns me. I oblige.

8:30 a.m.: I should point out that I've had sex with other women before. I had a girlfriend but with all the usual pureblood shit, she was married off to someone else about a year ago. It broke me a little, but I'm one of those people that's better broken. Makes me more interesting, because otherwise I'd just be another pureblood with a bad attitude and too much money. I wish someone would take the money. I wish someone would take everything. I put my mouth on the inside of Aphrodite's thigh and I bite down, and then I suck a little on her perfect skin, just to leave a mark. I never leave a mark. She yanks my head up. "Don't," she warns. "I deserve to," I say, defensively. "I know you do," she says back, "but don't."

11:30 a.m.: After she leaves I stare at the ceiling. I get an owl from Apollo but I don't feel like answering. I close my eyes and I think about Hercules, about the way his hair felt between my fingers, about that fucking smile, about the way he sucked me off with what can only be called utter fucking gusto. He's hot, I think, and wonder if I just noticed.

3:00 p.m.: I get out a quill. 'Why?' I write, and send it to Hercules. I have self-destructive tendencies. Can you tell?

7:30 p.m.: An owl from Apollo. 'Where the fuck are you?' he demands. He's so demanding. 'Fucking tired,' I say back. 'Come out tonight,' he says. I growl out loud. 'Fine,' I say, because hell hath no fury like Apollo scorned, and frankly, I'm not up for an argument.

10:17 p.m.: We go to the same club from last night. It just opened in Diagon, so it's still pretty packed, even though it's a weeknight. I hope Hercules is there, but I also hope he's not.

11:08 p.m.: Just as I'm about to give up on Hercules, the bastard shows up. He's alone, and suddenly I realize that so am I. Where'd Apollo go? I don't know. I guess I don't care. Hercules makes a beeline straight for me, and I pretend not to see him coming. "What?" I ask, when he just stands there. "I got your owl," he says. "What owl?" I lie. He looks around, and then he grabs my hand. "Come on," he says.

11:15 p.m.: He takes me outside. "I don't know why," he says, but he doesn't move. I look around; people can see. I'm the kind of person who is very sensitive to what people can or can't see. "Whatever," I say, and I leave. He calls after me, but you know what? Fuck him. This isn't what I wanted.

11:17 p.m.: I'm walking. WALKING, like I'm not even a fucking wizard, and I'm doing it furiously. Violently, even. What did I want? I don't know. I don't fucking know, but it wasn't this.

11:30 p.m.: I get home and my bed smells like Aphrodite's perfume. I think I love her. I think I hate her. I definitely hate Hercules. I wonder where Apollo went tonight. I fall asleep with a thousand questions, and my heart hurts. I assume it's something I ate.


8:00 a.m.: I wake up to two owls. One from Apollo: 'My parents are making me do a dinner thing tonight, so you're coming. No excuses.' Fuck. The second doesn't have a signature, but I know who it's from. 'I'm sorry.'

9:00 a.m.: He's sorry? Fuck him. I consider writing something back—something dickish, and entirely capital letters—but ultimately decide it wouldn't be worth it. I want to see his face when he gets no response, though. I want him to think about me. Is that weird? I want him to think about me. I'm thinking about him. This can't be good.

11:00 a.m.: I read a book.

1:00 p.m.: It's not a great book. I throw it at the window, but when the glass doesn't shatter, I find I'm disappointed. So I pick up a vase and I break it, watching the pieces cover the floor.

3:00 p.m.: I've broken all my father's vases.

5:00 p.m.: Apollo shows up through the Floo. "What the fuck," he says, finding me lying down on the floor. I sit up. "What?" I say, and he shakes his head. "Dinner," he reminds me, and then, again, he says, "no excuses." "Why?" I demand, but it's no use. He's my best friend. I change while he cleans up the glass. If he thinks anything is wrong, he does me the favor of not saying so. Sometimes I wonder if I deserve him. But I don't wonder for long, because I know the answer: I don't.

7:00 p.m.: Aphrodite and Zeus look perfect, like they always have. Zeus leans over, brushes his lips against Aphrodite's cheek. She crosses her legs tighter. I wonder if it's because the outline of my teeth is still on them, and then I wonder whether she can feel it. I think she can.

7:15 p.m.: Apollo keeps checking his watch. I think this is suspicious, but as I'm fucking his mother, I very politely say nothing.

8:00 p.m.: Zeus has had a lot of wine and he leans over, kissing Aphrodite on the lips. She freezes in place; I know that this is because Zeus doesn't kiss her often, and she doesn't know what to do, but she covers her shock quickly. She used to ask me to kiss her, but she no longer has to ask. I stare, but she refuses to look at me, even after Zeus' attention wanders. Apollo is checking his watch again, and I make my excuses: I'm tired. I have a headache. I feel sick to my stomach. It's all true, and I take my leave.

8:30 p.m.: I go back to that club. Hercules is there, and he's alone, standing in a corner and facing the door. I realize with a jolt that he's been waiting for me, but I do him the favor of not mentioning it. I'm a nicer person than people give me credit for. "What the fuck are you doing here?" I ask him brusquely. He locks eyes with me, and then his tongue slowly passes over his lips. "I like women," he says. "Me too," I say, because I fucking do. He nods. "Want to go somewhere?" he asks. Fuck me. Yes, I fucking do, and I tell him so.

8:45 p.m.: He takes me to his house. It's a weirdly old school pureblood house, but I don't say anything because I don't care. "I have a roommate," he says, and pulls me into his room. I look around, but I'm not really looking at anything. "I'm fucking someone right now," I tell him, "and she's toxic." He conjures two glasses of Ogden's. "That's too bad," he says, handing me one.

9:00 p.m.: I ask him why he blew me, and he seems displeased with my choice of language. "I don't know," he says again, and I shove him hard against the wall. "Did you like it?" I ask, with my thumb sliding across his throat. He doesn't look afraid. "Yes," he says, and his eyes drop to my mouth. I swallow hard. He slips his hands down my chest, running them down my torso, and then he pulls them back. For a second I'm disappointed, but then I realize he's unfastened his own trousers, and his cock is in his hand. I stare at him, and he reaches out, gripping the back of my neck. "I dare you," he says, very seriously. What a dick. I lower myself to my knees.

9:15 p.m.: My cock is throbbing while I blow him. When he comes he whispers my name, so softly I almost miss it. For a while after, I don't get up; I just stay there on my knees, and then I rest my forehead against his hip. I tell him about Aphrodite. I tell him I might love her. He strokes my hair, and then he gets down on his knees and looks me in the eye. "I'm sorry," he says. I don't ask for what.

10:00 p.m.: We kiss. We kiss a lot. He tastes good, steady, sure. He feels present, in a way that Aphrodite never is. It's a primitive, stupid, juvenile mess of a make-out session, and I come from grinding against his leg. He cups my jaw and holds it, and I tell him I hate him. He says nothing.

10:30 p.m.: He's not a goddess. But fuck me, he's a god.


7:30 a.m.: I didn't make it home, but he wakes me. His roommate is getting up soon, he says. I disapparate without a word, and then I pass out in my bed.

9:30 a.m.: I wake up to Aphrodite standing at the foot of my bed. "Fuck," I say, scrambling backwards, and she grimaces. "I'm sorry," she says, and for some reason, she actually looks sorry. I take her in my arms, which is something she almost never lets me do, and she melts a little. I kiss the top of her head, which I know immediately is too much. She pulls away. "Fuck me," she demands, "now." I take off my pants and she shoves me back on the bed.

10:00 a.m.: I can't believe my dick's not tired.

10:30 a.m.: This shouldn't even be scientifically possible.

11:15 a.m.: "I hate him," she whispers to me after, "but I'm not going to leave him." I know this, but I don't tell her so, because it feels like admitting a loss. "Just tell me this," I say, putting on my best mask; telling my best lies. "Can he make you come like I can?" For a minute she looks far away, and then she looks up, her nails digging into my chest. "No one makes me come like you do," she says. I take it as a win.

11:30 a.m.: "You slept in your clothes from last night," she says, while she's pulling her clothes back on. I know what she's really saying, and I tell her the truth; I was with someone else. She looks hurt, or maybe I just imagine that she looks hurt. "Good," she says.

11:35 a.m.: She fucks me again because she's a liar, and I briefly wonder if that's why I love her, if I even do. "Leave a mark," she says. "Where?" I ask. "Somewhere he can see," she whispers, and I think to ask what's wrong—I wonder what he did—but I know she won't tell me, so I don't say anything. I set my lips against her throat and she shudders while I make her mine.

6:00 p.m.: After she leaves I sleep for the rest of the day, and when I wake up, I'm starving. I need to take better care of myself.

8:00 p.m.: I go to bed early. My mind wanders and then I find myself thinking about Hercules, and the way it felt to sleep beside him. He has a presence, I think to myself, trying to put a finger on it. He's just very present.

10:00 p.m.: I think about the way his arm felt, slung across my hip. I can't sleep.

1:00 a.m.: Fuck.


10:00 a.m.: I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm having altogether too many affairs. I wake up late, groggy and exhausted, and then I send Apollo an owl. 'Let's get coffee,' I write. He agrees, and I take a shower and get dressed.

11:00 a.m.: We meet up at the Leaky Cauldron, and I notice he looks a little bit disheveled. He says it's nothing, but I have the odd suspicion he didn't sleep at his own place last night. I ask him about it, but he waves it off.

12:00 p.m.: "I think my parents hate each other," he says. I don't say I hope so, or I know, or any other true answer. "Nah," I say instead. He isn't really listening. He has lipstick on his collar; I'm a little impressed, but I keep it to myself. I wonder what he's up to, but I can't very well ask, can I? He'd only return the favor, and I don't know what's worse, that I'm fucking his mother or that I'm also fooling around with his mortal enemy.

12:05 p.m.: Okay, fine. I know what's worse, but then Hercules comes in. He stops and stares at me, or maybe at Apollo, but either way he's staring. "What?" Apollo snaps, and he shrugs. Hercules picks up something to go, but then, oddly, he steps into the bathroom.

12:07 p.m.: I don't know what comes over me. I follow.

12:08 p.m.: "Come over tonight," he says, as soon as I enter. "I can't," I say back, and when I say it, I'm telling the truth, but he laughs. "Why'd you come in here, then?" he asks. "Shut the fuck up," I say. His eyes linger on my mouth and then he steps forward. We're about the same height and our eyes should be at the same level, but he's still looking at my lips. Fucker. Motherfucker. Fuck.

12:15 p.m.: We make out ruthlessly. I've never liked kissing enough to do it when it doesn't lead to sex, but I'm not going to fuck him right now and we both know it, so at the moment the kissing is enough. It's more than enough; it's fucking good. Too good. I shove him against the sink and he lets out a hiss in my mouth, closing his fingers around my shoulder. "Fucker," he says. I laugh, and then I bite down on his lip. "Fuck you," I say, and like everything else, I think he'll swallow it, but instead he shoves me away. "Come over tonight," he says, "or we're done here." My heart is pounding. He leaves.

12:20 p.m.: "What took you so long?" Apollo demands. I shrug. "Don't care," he says, grabbing my arm. "Let's go."

2:00 p.m.: Something is bothering Apollo. For two hours we wander Diagon and barely speak. But he seems better after, and I think I get that. Sometimes it's just nice not to be alone.

4:00 p.m.: We part ways. All in all, I had a nice day.

4:15 p.m.: Spoke too soon. I come home to an owl from Aphrodite: 'This has to stop,' she says. I crumple it up and throw it in the fireplace. It means nothing to me. She's said it before.

6:00 p.m.: I doze off and wake up in time to fix a light dinner. I still haven't decided what I'm going to do. In the back of my mind I'm aware that Zeus is probably sitting down to dinner with Aphrodite, and I wonder if I hate him or envy him or if the burning in my chest is a strange sort of numbness that indicates that he means nothing to me, and she means everything. But then I think about Hercules and the taste of his tongue on mine and I think maybe I have no idea what everything even means.

7:00 p.m.: I think myself into a spiral and open a bottle of wine.

7:37 p.m.: I'm not really drunk enough to be sending Hercules an owl, but I do anyway. 'I want to fuck tonight,' I say. Surprisingly, he responds. 'I don't know how, but I have a computer,' he says. I frown. 'A what?' I write back. 'Come over in an hour,' he says. I don't want to wait that long, but I do.

8:45 p.m.: Computers are fun. "Lubrication seems to be the thing," says Hercules, and I agree. I'm nervous now, and wish I'd had more to drink. He seems to know that, and he picks up a bottle of Odgen's.

9:15 p.m.: "I have a girlfriend," he says, and I blink. "No, wait, sorry," he corrects himself, "I had a girlfriend, until recently. Very recently." "Ah," I say. "Maybe we shouldn't do this, then."

9:30 p.m.: His. Lips. Taste. So. Fucking. Good.

9:45 p.m.: He gets me naked faster than I will ever admit, but I'm nothing if not a team player, so I tear his trousers off and flick my wand to do away with the rest. He's covered in scars, and my throat is dry. "Who hurt you?" I ask. "Everyone," he says. I swallow. "I know the feeling," I say, and though I mean to say it loudly, it comes out as a whisper. He kisses me again. I'm lost.

10:00 p.m.: He's got his hand curled around my cock and I stop him. "Why?" he says. "I can't," I say. "Why?" he asks again, but I don't know the answer. He takes my face in his hands. "I think you're going to ruin me," he says. I kiss him. "I promise," I say, "I will."

10:30 p.m.: I fall asleep on my back. He falls asleep on his stomach, his arm tossed over my torso. I wake up that way a few hours later but I don't move. I'm fucked.

3:00 a.m.: I'm fucked.


7:30 a.m.: "Want to hang out?" he says. I say yes, but I need to go home first. Shower, I say—"I'm dirty." "Filthy," he jokes, grinning that stupid grin, and I can't help it. I kiss him. The sun's out, and I'm kissing a man, and I'm not drunk and I'm kissing this man, whom I hate, and holy hell, I'm fucked. He kisses back. "See you soon," he says.

8:27 a.m.: When I'm getting dressed after my shower, an owl comes. Her owl. 'I'm serious,' she wrote, meaning the lie she'd told about it being over. 'Give me an answer so I know you know I'm serious.' I think about it. Let her sweat a little, I think. I miss her, but she's cruel.

8:45 a.m.: I miss her. She's cruel.

9:15 a.m.: I miss her.

9:29 a.m.: One minute before I leave to spend an entire day with Hercules, I finally think of something to say. 'If you want me to lie to you, I will,' I say. I know she'll know what I mean; I'm quoting her. During one of our first nights together, she told me that she was the best liar she knew. "I tell the prettiest lies," she said, and I kissed her shoulder. "Will you lie to me?" I asked, and she turned, locking her blue eyes on mine. "If you want me to lie to you, I will," she said, "but you're the only person who sees the ugliness of my truth." I shook my head. "There's nothing ugly about you," I admonished her, and she laughed it off, chalked it up to youth; straddled me and fucked me, like I hadn't just given her my heart.

9:30 a.m.: I shove her from my thoughts and meet Hercules at the Leaky Cauldron.

9:31 a.m.: "What do you want to do?" he says. I'm restless. I don't know. "Come on," he says, and thankfully he doesn't take my hand, but he just starts walking. "Where are we going?" I mutter, half-chasing him, and he arches a brow. "Who cares," he says, and I don't. I breathe a little easier.

10:00 a.m.: He takes me into muggle London, which is a place I've never really been. I think he knows that. I comment that the architecture is nice. He says he prefers open space. "Then take me somewhere spacious," I say. I'm joking, but he's not. "Come on," he says, and this time he takes my hand, but it's just to apparate. In the moment, though, I hold on tight.

10:05 a.m.: "Isle of Skye," he says, and I look around. It's fucking gorgeous. "I want to conquer it," I say. He shrugs. "Follow me," he offers.

3:00 p.m.: We hike for hours, and I look down at the rock formation he says is some old man, though I don't see it. "Muggles," I say, shaking my head. He laughs. I make him laugh.

6:00 p.m.: I make him laugh for hours.

8:07 p.m.: "Should we go home?" he asks over drinks, but the thought of it, of the smell of her in my bed, is unbearable. "I don't want to," I say, and he nods. We get a room above a small pub. "One bed?" they ask at the front desk, eyeing us. "Two," Hercules corrects without hesitation, and I am more grateful to him than I know how to express. When he unlocks the room, I shove him against the wall. "Geez," he says, which is such a ridiculous thing to say, and I hate him.

8:08 p.m.: When he kisses me, I curl my fingers into his clothes, burying them in fabric and clinging to muscle and bone. I wonder if he notices how tightly I'm holding on. I wonder why I'm holding on so tightly.

8:15 p.m.: He shoves me back onto one of the beds, almost like it's a fight and he wants me to die, which I appreciate. I like how he's so fucking rough with me, and this time I'm the first one to initiate the removal of clothes.

8:17 p.m.: I pause for a minute, my hands on his chest, and he tells me to take my time. I start to wonder if what I actually like is how he's so fucking gentle with me; but that can't be it. Fuck him.

8:20 p.m.: We stop to drink from a bottle of muggle whisky that he bought from the coastal town's small grocer. He leans forward as I've only half-swallowed and laughs when it seeps into his mouth. The kiss burns.

8:25 p.m.: I pour a little into his belly button and slurp it out, laying my tongue flat against his navel. His fingers tighten in my hair. "Please," he grits out, and I slide a little lower. His cock nudges me in the jaw and part of me wants to laugh, but he looks down at me and holds his breath and I take him in my mouth and let him rut against me, thrusting between my lips. It's wrong. Is it wrong? Aphrodite is wrong, isn't she?

8:30 p.m.: He yanks me up and lays me on my stomach, kissing his way down my spine. What the fuck is right and wrong? I have no fucking idea.

8:32 p.m.: He clears his throat. "I want to try something," he says. I don't say anything, but I let him adjust me, let him work me around like I'm a fixture in the room, a lamp or a chair at his disposal, and then he puts his mouth on me. I go rigid, because this is fucking gay, but he persists, because he's a fucking hero and I figure he's used to getting his way.

8:35 p.m.: This feels really fucking good, so fuck him entirely.

8:45 p.m.: He's got his head on my chest. "How did I taste?" I ask him, and accidentally think of her; of the time she asked me the same question. "Like heaven," I'd said to her, and I wonder what he'll say. He looks up, squinting at me. "Clean," he says, and for some reason I'm so fucking grateful I kiss him again.

10:00 p.m.: We've finished the bottle and we're still naked and we've each come once. We both seem very aware of these statistics. "Who is she?" he asks, and I wonder what's made him think about her. "Aphrodite," I say, and he nods. "Yep," he says, and I ask the same question, only I phrase it as he had; in the past. "Who was she?" I ask. "Aphrodite," he says.

10:05 p.m.: I hate how well I understand this man.

10:15 p.m.: "Thanks for spending the day with me," he says. I tell him to shut up. He ignores me. "When we have sex," he says, sitting up to look at me, "which one do you want to be?" I stare at him for a moment. "When?" I ask, aiming for skepticism. "Yes," he says, "obviously." I feel horribly exposed, and it's not because I'm naked.

10:30 p.m.: "Come on," he says, and pulls me towards him. We don't fall asleep in each other's arms; it's not like that. But I fall asleep with my shoulder touching his, and I know he's put it there on purpose. It's so I can feel him. It's so I can feel him stay.


6:30 a.m.: He's set an alarm, responsible fuck that he is. We wake up early and apparate home separately. "I want you tonight," he says, before he leaves. "You missed a few words," I joke. "No," he says very seriously, and repeats himself. "I want you tonight." It rings in my head as I travel through space and time.

6:31 a.m.: "I do the impossible every day," he'd said last night. "I am magic and you are magic and we are impossible beings." I can't believe he said that.

7:30 a.m.: I fall asleep to the sound of his voice in my head, invading my space. We are impossible beings. Fuck him, I think to myself. I loathe him. I wish he were dead. I wish he were a lie I invented to help myself sleep at night. I hate him. I need him. I want him.

8:30 a.m.: I wake to Aphrodite beside me; I smell her perfume and it calls me back to consciousness, coaxing me on a breath. I'm startled, of course, but she has said nothing; she seems very small, so I pull her close and go back to sleep.

10:00 a.m.: She stirs, and I kiss the back of her neck because I love her still, I'm still hers, no matter what my deviant penis has been up to. She turns to face me. "I came here last night," she says. I'm glad I wasn't here, but I don't say so. She draws her finger across my lips and I apply the slightest brush of pressure, just so she knows I'm here. "This has to stop," she says. "This has to stop," I agree, for the first time.

10:05 a.m.: We stare at each other in silence. We do not say how we feel. We break into pieces and drift away on a breeze. We are impossible beings. I am fucked, so very, very fucked, and she holds me while I break.

12:00 p.m.: We say goodbye with sex because we both speak it so well, and so fluently. I say everything I need to when I'm inside her, probably because my mouth is mostly shut. I find it says the damndest things. I wonder if I love her. I'm sure that I do, but I'm also positive I don't, I can't, because I'd be loving something I'd never really have, and so I admit to nothing and I fuck her. I make my goddess come.

1:00 p.m.: She says nothing when she leaves and if I'm being honest, I don't really believe it's the last time. I hope it is. But in the stupid fucked up corners of my heart, I don't really think so.

3:00 p.m.: I go to her house. Not for her. I bang down Apollo's door. "You're not telling me something," I say, loud and accusatory. He blinks, swallows, looks like he might cry. "I can't tell you yet," he says, and I understand. "Fine," I say gruffly, but he's better now, because he knows. He knows I'm here. He knows I'm watching. I feel good, and strong, and I walk outside and I resolutely do not look at the gardens that smell of her. "Bye," Zeus says as I leave, and I wonder if he knows. "Fuck you," I say, because I think he does, and then I promptly run away, but I smile as I do it.

6:00 p.m.: I finish another book. Not bad. Something about resilience, or irony. I understand both.

9:00 p.m.: I show up in Hercules' bedroom. He's lying back on his bed with his arms crossed, and I get the feeling he's been waiting for me; but I don't apologize, because we're not like that. He stands up and eye-fucks me for a second, and fuck, I guess he's kind of sexy. Fuck, he's sexy. I think I like women, but I think I like him. It's confusing. I'm fucked.

9:10 p.m.: He makes out with me against the wall. I tell him we can go to my house if he wants to ruin some heirlooms. He laughs. "I have heirlooms," he says, but I think he understands the offering.

9:30 p.m.: He's going to fuck me. I think he's decided which one he is. "We can switch next time," he whispers gruffly, yanking my trousers down. "Cool," I say.

9:45 p.m.: It took a bit, but this feels good.

9:50 p.m.: I put my hand on my cock and stroke it. This feels better. He looks down, watches me do it, and comes; then he shoves my hand aside, replacing it with his, and he uses his other hand to cover my mouth when I finish, like he knows I'm going to shout his name and fuck—I'm fucking going to. "Roommate," he whispers in explanation, in apology, because he forgot the Muffliato, and I want to laugh; but that, too, would be smothered into his palm, and that seems like a waste. I want to gift it to him on a platter. I want to wrap up my happiness and give it to him like a hat; something to wear. Something to put on when his ears are cold.

10:30 p.m.: We switch. We're gentlemen. This time we remember the silencing spell and he comes with his face in the mattress, and I'm well and truly fucked. Though, in the spirit of fairness, we both are.

11:00 p.m.: "Who is she really?" he asks, and I tell him, and I realize he is only the second person in the world that I don't think I would lie to. He seems startled to find out, but he nods. "We can take this slow if you want," he says, gesturing between us. I get the feeling he never takes anything slow, so this is an offering. I shake my head. "I want it fast," I say, "like lightning. I want violence. I want it to strike. I want it to burn." He stares at me a minute, and then he nods. "I can do that," he says. Fuck him. Of course he can.

11:30 p.m.: We fall asleep. He can do anything; he chooses me. I choose not to run, which seems a similar decision. The world goes on.

11:58 p.m.: In my sleep, I hear his voice. I breathe him in.

11:59 p.m.: We are impossible beings.

a/n: this is not technically aurorarsinistra's birthday gift (that will be posted soon in Amortentia) but this story is being posted today in honor of her; a placeholder of sorts. Happy birthday Aurora! You are wonderful and bring beauty to all of our lives. As I mentioned, feel free to guess who is who. Next sex diary will be someone new and different . . .