#also my beta and i kept affectionately referring to this as

[nerdallwritey]

Just to Ruin Me

Summary: “You don’t have to tell me any of this right now,” you said. “A lot has changed in the past few hours and there’s no rush in sharing these things with me. I know how hard it was to talk about your past the first time.” “It was necessary, though,” Astarion looked over at you, his expression determined. “You needed to know what we might be up against. And you might need to know this too.” “If you want to tell me, then I’m happy to listen, but please don’t force yourself for my sake.” Astarion released a puff of air from his nose. “You keep doing that.” “Doing what?” “Asking me what I want. Letting me choose.” OR The morning after you spend the night with Astarion, you learn another thing or two.

Pairing: Astarion x f!reader Rating: 18+ Word count: 12.5k CW: smut, reader is new to sex, piv sex, vaginal fingering, dry humping, mentions of Astarion's past trauma, blood drinking, mild angst, soft Astarion, porn with feelings, reader is an idiot (and a bard), so is Astarion (not a bard, just an idiot), the other companions are also idiots, but don't piss of Shadowheart Spoilers: Minor spoilers for Act 1 (in-game dialogue, plot points, etc.), as well as Astarion's plotline Also posted to: AO3 FAIR WARNING: This is PART 2 in my series, "Beauty and the Bard." Find Part 1 here. Find the masterlist here.

a/n: Thanks to everyone who read Part 1!!! Your kind comments and encouragement spurred me to write Part 2 and I hope it's a sequel that lives up to expectations!! I know the summary is a little angsty, but I promise there's more banter to be had. Everyone is still a goof, after all. Please enjoy :) (Thank you to @kermitwazowski for beta reading!) As a reminder, the last part ended with the following few lines: “For now, you were content to sleep under the stars in Astarion’s arms. It was the best sleep you’d ever had.”

Taglist: @a66-1 @khaleesiofthewolves @khywren @lollipopsandlandmines @minestrones

Okay, so maybe it wasn’t the best sleep you’d ever had.

Though you’d grown accustomed to roughing it in the last few weeks since the nautiloid crash, waking up in the forest was still a shock. It had its charms, sure, like the fresh air and the breeze blowing in off the mountains, but the appeal was starting to wane. Especially after one too many nights of having to take a dip in the frigid lake next to camp to rid yourself of gnoll blood. 

This morning however, you found yourself surrounded by blankets and pillows from your camp in the middle of a clearing surrounded by large pine trees, all of which had been thoughtfully arranged by the figure trancing beside you. Your own sleeping figure sighed comfortably, unbothered by the lack of a mattress or a hot bath, just a nice deep sleep-

Astarion whacked you in the face.

Your eyes shot open.

“OW?” You scrunched your nose and blinked a few times to get your bearings. 

It was still dark. The forest around you was painted a delicate shade of periwinkle. You’d hazard a guess that it was just a little before dawn. 

At some point in the night, you’d rolled onto your back, away from Astarion, who was now curled to your right, his back facing you. He must have just rolled over, explaining the harsh wake up from his forearm. You smiled softly and instinctively brought your hand to rub your forehead where he’d made the unfortunate contact. 

Blinking a little more, your eyes were beginning to adjust. From this angle, you had a clear line of sight to the large scar that overran a majority of his back. You squinted in the dark to try and get a clearer view of the terrible thing, but came up short due to the shadows of tree branches being cast from above. Still just a mandala of jagged lines and brutal curves. When you got your hands on Cazador, you’d…

No.

No, that wasn’t your fight. 

But you’d be gods damned if you wouldn’t be there for every bloody moment Astarion faced him, giving support however you could. Though you had to admit that it would be so gratifying to corner the bastard and cast a quick little Otto’s Irresistible Dance… Assuming you’d be strong enough to cast it by then… Gods, he’d look so fucking stupid just before Astarion plunged a knife through his heart-

Enough. Battle strategies and sick, twisted (but satisfying) revenge fantasies later. Right now you noticed that the shifting of the shadows on his back wasn’t from a breeze shaking the branches above you, but because Astarion himself was trembling. 

Your first instinct was to reach out and touch him, but you quickly retracted your hand. Based on the short whimpers he was letting out, it seemed like he was having a nightmare.

How was one supposed to wake someone from a nightmare again? With Astarion you’d have to be extra careful; you wouldn’t be surprised if he’d stowed a knife somewhere within these blankets that he might reach for in a surge of waking fear. 

That… would not be pleasant. 

You shifted to sit up and look around.

Ow.

A dull throbbing made itself known between your legs.

No, that was great. Spectacular, in fact. You’d have to stop and assess later.

Gingerly, you got onto your knees and peered around at your surroundings. Astarion had done a decent job of cleaning up the clearing to make room for this blanket nest, so there wasn’t a poking stick to be seen within reaching distance.

Not that you were going to poke him with a stick… but the thought had crossed your mind. You were still tired! You’d been fucked for the first time last night! There was a lot going on! 

You shook your head to clear the stupid overlapping thoughts and set to looking around for a wayward pillow. You spotted one in the far corner and made your way over to it carefully but with some haste to end Astarion’s unconscious suffering. 

You crawled back over to him. And then backed up a little. Just in case.

“Astarion,” you sang quietly. 

Astarion continued trembling, but you heard him inhale sharply. A good sign?

You raised your voice a little, but kept the same musical cadence. “Astaaaarioooon.”

Nothing.

Okay fine. 

“Sorry,” you said quietly, then threw the pillow at Astarion, hitting him squarely on the back of the head. You leaned forward to grab your own pillow as a protective shield as he gasped and shot up.

“What the hells? What’s happening?” Astarion rolled onto his back and frantically looked around until his eyes landed on you. 

You smiled sheepishly and waved at him lamely from behind your pillow. “Hi.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes, confused. He shook his head, then lifted a hand to the back of his head where the pillow had hit him. “What did you do?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“Oh, I know what I was doing,” his tone was sarcastic. “What were you doing?”

You looked down at your lap, guilty. “I couldn’t remember how to wake someone up from a nightmare.”

“So you assaulted me?”

“I didn’t know if you had a knife!”

“Why would I have a knife? What is happening?!” He sat up fully and brought a hand to his forehead as if he were in pain. 

“Are you okay?”

“Thankfully, I’ll live,” he opened his eyes and looked at you, his hand still on his forehead. 

You huffed. “I meant with the nightmare.”

Astarion sighed and closed his eyes again. “It’s far too early to discuss this.” He tilted his head up towards the sky, which was getting brighter with every passing moment. A practiced smirk appeared on his face and he looked at you once more. “I’d much rather know if you’re okay, darling.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. 

“We had a lot of fun last night, didn’t we?”

“Seeing as how I’m always a lot of fun, I don’t understand why you’re posing this question.” You looked down your nose at him. 

He hung his head and sighed exasperatedly. “Will you simply allow me to work my charms on you?”

You tutted. “Is that what you were trying to do just now?”

“Attempting to, yes.” Astarion crossed his arms. “I’m usually irresistible.”

You snorted. “Okay,” you said, a small smile appearing on your face. “I’m going to ignore your lack of an answer about your nightmare and will elect to wait until you’re ready to tell me about it yourself.”

Astarion pursed his lips.

“But go ahead,” you rearranged your legs, wincing mildly as you moved to sit cross legged, “charm me.”

A look of worry flashed over Astarion’s face when he saw you wince, but the concern was quickly overtaken by an all too self-satisfied grin. “Feeling it this morning, are we?”

You rolled your eyes. “I knew you’d be happy about this.”

“Positively delighted, my sweet.” He leaned forward and kissed you gently, bringing a hand up to your cheek. You brought your own hand up to lay against his. He pulled away and appraised your face smugly. “I was completely enamored by your performance last night.” You were about to open your mouth to say something, but Astarion interrupted. “Don’t even think about mentioning that you’re a bard and that of course you’re good at performing, or something like that.”

You closed your mouth. You were going to say something like that. Instead you said, “You were pretty good yourself.”

He brought his hands up to make air quotes. “I’ve ‘ruined you,’ from what I recall.”

You groaned. “I just said that to make you cum.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself, my dear.” His face was still smug, but he motioned for you to come closer. You scooted forward and he lifted you slightly to sit on his lap. 

He leaned up and kissed you deeply, his tongue swiping your bottom lip for entrance. You moaned in response and opened your mouth for him. Though the rest of his body was cold, his mouth was warm and inviting, and you leaned in further to try and get closer. You wrapped your arms around his neck and tilted your head slightly to get a better angle. You’d been mildly distracted last night; had he always smelled this good?

When Astarion pulled back suddenly, you couldn’t help the whine that escaped at the loss. He hummed in satisfaction, and his voice was low and seductive when he spoke.

“Every part of your perfect body whispers temptations-”

You giggled. “What?”

“Shush dear, I’m charming you.” He cleared his throat, “-it’s as if the gods made you just to ruin me.”

“So now I’ve ruined you?” You raised your eyebrows teasingly.

“Wait, no-”

You leaned your forehead onto his and laughed. “And that one usually works?”

He blew out a puff of air. “You’re an unusual one, I’ll give you that.” 

You shrugged, pleased with yourself.

“But yes,” Astarion continued, “I’ve made plenty of previous lovers swoon with that particular line.”

“Show me what else you’ve got, then,” you challenged.

Astarion tilted his head in thought. “Let’s see… I can’t use the ‘cried from your lips’ line because I used that one last night…” You scoffed joyfully, mockingly scandalized that he’d already used a line on you. He met your eye and smirked. “How about this one: When I’m with you, I feel practically alive, yet I crave only to die again, with you.”

The sultry tone of his voice did send a pang of want through your body, reminding you that you were only wearing Astarion’s shirt and nothing else. You shifted uncomfortably. 

“How romantic,” you said, trying to keep your voice nonchalant. “I didn’t think you liked dying the first time.”

Astarion narrowed his eyes, sensing your deflection and smirked, looking down at where you sat on his lap. He rolled his hips, which made you inhale sharply. “I see that one did do something for you,” he leaned forward and kissed your neck. 

You exhaled slowly, “I blame that stupid sexy voice of yours.”

Astarion growled against your throat and you shivered, bringing your hands up to his back. 

“Astarion,” you sighed and he hummed in response, licking over the twin wounds he’d left the night before. You sat up a little straighter. “Wait.”

He immediately pulled back and looked at you with concern. “What is it?”

“I just thought of something,” you said.

Astarion raised his eyebrows and nodded, wanting you to continue.

“Can I borrow your fangs?”

“My-?” His tongue instinctively flicked over his teeth.

“Because I want to leave a lasting impression on you,” you tilted your head at him to show off the marks he’d left on your throat. You shimmied your shoulders a little for good measure. 

“I’m leaving,” Astarion made to get up with you still on his lap and you laughed loudly.

“No! No! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I wanted to try a dumb line on you, too!” You threw your arms around his neck and hid your face in his shoulder. You felt him kiss your hair.

“You’re lucky I don’t travel with you for your personality,” he joked. 

“I’d say ‘I’m a lot of fun’ again but I think you’d actually stop talking to me.” You pulled back to look at him.

“And you’d be right.” He kissed you chastely and then adjusted you on his lap. You winced a little again and he looked genuinely sympathetic. “I might have a way to ease the pain from last night,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

You smiled at him. “Yes.”

He smiled back. “Good.” He positioned your arms over his shoulders. “Hang on, my love.” You crossed your arms where they hung behind him and waited to see what he would do. 

Without warning, you felt one of his cold fingers slide through your folds. You hissed at the sensation and looked at Astarion. 

“Supposedly, massaging the area can help,” he was trying to sound knowledgeable, but the look in his eyes was one full of lust. Then he tutted, looking down. “You could be wetter, darling.” His thumb began to circle your clit.

Your eyes rolled back at the sensation, and you leaned forward again to rest your forehead on his shoulder. 

“Do you want my cock again, love? You took me so well last night, I was so proud of you,” he’d moved his mouth next to your ear and was speaking with the same sultry tone that he had a minute ago. You whimpered at his praise and rolled your hips to get his thumb to press you harder. Astarion let out a low groan. “That’s it, you’re getting so wet for me, you’re so good.”

After a few more tight circles, you practically sobbed when you felt him take his thumb away from your clit.

“Shh, shh, I know,” he cooed, “but we want you to feel better, remember?”

You let out a frustrated sound. “I already was feeling better.”

Astarion chuckled. “Trust me, would you? Impatient.” His tone was nothing but fond.

His other fingers began massaging the area around your entrance. You winced and bit your lip. 

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Fine,” you confirmed. “I assume this will get better?”

“That’s the idea,” he kissed your ear and you nodded against his shoulder. 

You rolled your hips, attempting to get friction where you needed it. 

“Just a little longer,” Astarion said, moving his fingers gently around your cunt.

You hummed an acknowledgement and kept rolling your hips, trying to combat this weird form of edging that was happening. 

Finally, Astarion ceased his massaging and brought his thumb back to your clit. You let out a long shuddering breath and squeezed your eyes tight, adjusting your hips to roll against his thigh. 

“There you go, my love,” Astarion said, voice still in your ear. “I’ll make you cum for behaving so well.”

You whined loudly as his thumb picked up the pace. You began rolling your hips at an equally fast pace. “More,” you whined, willing your climax to approach faster.

“Not right now, darling. Let’s give you a break there, shall we?” Astarion used his free hand to pet your hair. 

“But you asked if I wanted your cock again,” you whined.

“And while I’m pleased to hear that you’d like it again, let’s relax and get you off like this for now, okay?” 

You groaned but nodded, squeezing your eyes shut again and focusing on the pleasure Astarion was currently providing. “Harder,” you instructed.

Astarion pressed down harder on your clit with his thumb. He swept his index and middle finger through your folds, coating them in your slick. He quickly swapped those fingers with his thumb, changing the sensation by swapping one finger for two and adding more of your arousal to the mix. 

You keened and gripped his bicep. “Harder!” You instructed again, desperate and approaching the edge. You could feel the coil in your stomach preparing to let go.

Astarion pushed again and brought his lips to your ear once more. 

“I just thought of something, precious thing,” he murmured.

You blinked at him, your eyes unfocused and half lidded.

“More of a question, really,” he clarified.

You squeezed your eyes tight, nodding. You were on the precipice of your orgasm and could feel it fastly approaching. You slammed your hips against Astarion’s thigh as he continued to rub your clit brutally. 

“Do you believe in love at first bite?” He leaned forward and kissed your throat, then began to suck a new mark into the flesh there. Contrary to his pun, he wouldn’t drink from you without your expressed permission first.

It did, however, send you crashing over the edge. You moaned loudly, Astarion’s name tumbling repeatedly out of your mouth. The vision behind your eyelids was white and you reached out blindly to grip Astarion’s shoulders. His lips detached themselves from your throat and found your own. His tongue was immediately in your mouth, swallowing your moans and shouts of his name.

When you came down, you disconnected from the kiss and opened your eyes, a lopsided grin on your face. 

“Thank you,” you said. “I do feel better.”

Astarion smirked. “I knew you would.” He brought his fingers, still coated in your essence, up to his mouth and sucked them clean. You watched, mesmerized by the way his cheeks hollowed and his eyes fluttered shut. He pulled them out with a lewd pop. “Delicious.”

You felt your face flush, embarrassed by his display, despite just cumming in his lap. 

“You shouldn’t feel embarrassed about this,” Astarion said, reading your expression immediately. “What you should feel embarrassed about is the fact that you came because I told a joke.”

“I did not!” You protested.

“You absolutely did,” Astarion said. “And it was a particularly bad one, too.” He clicked his tongue. “You must feel so ashamed.”

You groaned. “I came because you started kissing my neck!”

Astarion raised his eyebrows, clearly not believing you. “It’s okay, darling, no one here was under the impression that you aren’t incredibly lame.” He gave you a pitying look, then kissed your nose and you laughed. He pulled back and looked at you fondly, a dopey half smile on his face. Then he looked up at the sky.

The periwinkle you’d awoken to was now vibrant shades of orange and pink. 

“Are you okay if I move you?” Astarion asked.

“Um… sure?” You weren’t sure why he was asking, and helped to move yourself off of him. You did feel a bit less sore thanks to his help. 

He stood up and stretched his arms over his head, then bent to pick up a rag to wipe off his pants. 

“Sorry,” you said.

Astarion shook his head. “Comes with the territory.” You were about to make a joke but he held up a finger and gave you a warning look. “Don’t.”

You held up your hands innocently. 

He tossed you the rag after and then your pants and underthings.

“Clean up,” he instructed, “then get dressed.”

You furrowed your brows, your stomach dropping suddenly. He didn’t expect you to leave right now, did he? He hadn’t fucked you last night, then brought you more pleasure this morning, only for him to send you back to camp like it hadn’t happened, right?

Astarion snorted. He was watching you as he slipped on his shoes. “Relax, darling, I see that face. I just want to show you something.” He held out a hand to help you up.

“Okay,” you smiled, soothed by the pleasant look on his face. “Do you want your shirt back?” You made to lift it over your head.

“Keep it for now, dear,” Astarion said. “I rather like that on you, truthfully.” The collar was slipping off your shoulder as you pulled on your pants, and you made no move to adjust it, opting not to put your bra back on yet.

“Do you want to wear my shirt?” you teased.

“Tempting, but I fear I’d look better in it than you do.”

“Excellent point, don’t do that.” You adjusted the ruffles on Astarion’s shirt and felt a light breeze on your cleavage through the lacey opening at the collar. 

“Gods, you’re beautiful,” he said. You looked up and caught Astarion staring at your chest.

You laughed as he cleared his throat, then gestured deeper into the woods with his head. “This way.” He held out a tentative hand and you took it eagerly, bringing the back of his palm up to your face to leave a gentle kiss. Astarion squeezed your hand slightly at the contact, and began heading further into the forest, away from camp. A pleasant silence hung between the two of you and you rubbed your thumb absently along the back of his hand.

It wasn’t long before the trees started to thin and you heard the sound of rushing water somewhere close by. You emerged from the trees to find a cliff overlooking a ravine below. On the other side of the ravine was more forest, and beyond that, you could faintly see the Sea of Swords. The sun peeked out over the horizon, bright reddish orange in the distance. Its glow was a welcome sight and you found yourself in awe of the view.

Astarion let go of your hand and sat, dangling his feet over the edge of the cliff. You hesitantly stepped forward and sat beside him, opting instead to sit with one knee up, the other leg crossed beneath it. Astarion sat back on his arms. The sun reflected off his skin in the most beautiful golden and magenta hues. His hair, somehow still perfect despite your night together, was being jostled lightly by the breeze. He’d closed his eyes and tipped his head up, basking. You couldn’t help watching him as you rested your cheek on your bent knee. 

He didn’t open his eyes when he said, “I try to come out here every morning.” 

You sat in silence, continuing to watch him as you prepared to listen to whatever he’d say next. 

“After two hundred years in darkness, you forget how lovely the sunrise is,” he said. “I don’t ever want to miss another.”

“I can’t even begin to imagine what that must have been like,” you said softly. 

Astarion hummed in acknowledgment and opened his eyes. “I’d catch glimpses while lurking around the city for too long before dawn, hopping from shadow to shadow until I made it back to Cazador’s manor.” His eyes didn’t waver from the sun in the distance. “But there were moments where I’d catch a glimpse of it over the Chionthar.” His tone became sardonic. “The promise of a new day emerging! Something that I would never get to participate in.” He sighed. “I’d linger as long as I could in those moments.” 

You nodded, picturing a hopeful Astarion hiding behind buildings and in alleys, trying to get a fleeting look at a phenomenon that occurred every day, one that you took for granted. Your heart ached for him. 

He continued. “I never quite told you what Cazador made his spawn do for him.”

You tried to recall what Astarion had said to you before. Only that he’d been made to go out into the city and bring back “the most beautiful souls” he could find. Then Cazador would make him either drink from a disgusting dead rat, or abuse him for refusing. The thought made you visibly shudder. 

“I know that you had to bring people back to-” you lowered your voice, as if saying his name might summon him, “-Cazador, against your will. And that he’d kill them.” 

Astarion nodded his head once, remorsefully. “I never told you how we lured them.”

You could see pain etched into his features. You reached out a hand and placed it on his shoulder. He flinched a bit at the contact, but settled when he looked over at you.

“You don’t have to tell me any of this right now,” you said. “A lot has changed in the past few hours and there’s no rush in sharing these things with me. I know how hard it was to talk about your past the first time.”

“It was necessary, though,” Astarion looked over at you, his expression determined. “You needed to know what we might be up against. And you might need to know this too.”

“If you want to tell me, then I’m happy to listen, but please don’t force yourself for my sake.”

Astarion released a puff of air from his nose. “You keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Asking me what I want. Letting me choose.” 

You cocked your head sympathetically. “And I take it two hundred years as a slave hasn’t really afforded you any choice.”

“Correct,” he sighed. “As a spawn, your vampiric master has complete control over your body and your actions. Even in moments where I wanted to defy or fight back, I was powerless to do anything.” 

Your heart jumped into your throat. You hadn’t realized that was how it worked. Having no control over yourself or your actions sounded like a complete nightmare and you were glad that you’d hopefully never have to experience it. Knowing that that had been Astarion’s entire existence for the past two centuries made you sick to your stomach. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, just as you’d said the last few times he’d shared glimpses of his past.

Astarion’s eyes were closed once again as he inhaled deeply, then exhaled. He continued to bask in the rising sun for a few silent moments and you watched as it slowly rose higher into the sky. 

“That nightmare I had,” he said, his voice coming out quiet, “I’ve had it before.”

Again, you said nothing and waited for him to continue.

“I actually had the same one the night you let me drink your blood for the first time.”

“Oh, please don’t tell me that drinking my blood was some sort of revenge plot against me for haunting your nightmares.”

Astarion smiled a little. “No, it wasn’t about you. It was about Cazador.”

“You know, I’m really starting to dislike this guy,” you said, knowing how difficult this was for him and trying to keep his mood up with another little joke. 

“You and me both,” he sounded tired. “In the dream, I’m in the forest. Cazador appears and recites the rules of being his vampire spawn.” He held up his hand and recounted them on his fingers: “‘First, thou shalt not drink the blood of thinking creatures. Second, thou shall obey me in all things. Third, thou shalt not leave my side, unless directed. Fourth, thou shalt know that thou art mine.’” 

You listened patiently as Astarion recited each rule almost mechanically. You scrunched your nose with each passing instruction and rolled your eyes dramatically when Astarion finished.

“What a prick.”

He smiled again. “With an archaic speech pattern.”

“I was going to mention his archaic speech pattern.”

The smile faded slowly as Astarion returned to his thoughts. “The dream ends with Cazador telling me I’m his forever. That I can never escape.” 

You let the words hang in the air for a moment. “And yet, here you are.”

“Here I am,” he said humorlessly. He laid down fully on his back, the sun high enough to bathe him completely in its glow. He rested his arms behind his head and angled himself to look at you. “I realized, if I could walk in the sun, what other vampiric laws could I break?”

You looked down at him, admiring the light glinting off his bare chest. “So you decided to test your theory on me? I’m touched.” You held a hand to your chest, pretending to be deeply moved.

“In all honesty, I thought you were the least likely to kill me if I got caught.” He smirked at you. “And it would seem I was right.”

“I wouldn’t have let any of the others kill you,” you said firmly.

Astarion chuckled. “How sweet. My brave little protector.” He reached over to pinch your cheek.

You swatted him away. “Hey, who saved your ass from a bugbear yesterday?”

He shrugged. “I would have been fine.”

You leaned forward and shoved him lightly, making him laugh and throw his arm forward as a shield. 

When his laughter died down, his face grew a touch more serious again. “When you so graciously assaulted me this morning, he’d just finished telling me rule number three; that I can’t leave him unless he tells me to.”

You thought for a moment. “Which begs the question,” Astarion looked over at you expectantly, “how did you end up out here? From what I recall, the sun was still out when the nautiloid reached the Gate. You didn’t have the tadpole yet, so how’d you escape?”

“I wouldn’t say it was much of an escape.” His eyes shifted up to the sky, his expression thoughtful. “I was looking for new victims for Cazador. It was dusk and I had just been given the order to go out and hunt. I was weaving through shadows, avoiding the setting sun, but there’s only so many places one can hide from a giant tentacle that won’t burn you to a crisp. One of the tentacles caught me when I attempted to flee down an alleyway. A complete accident.”

“If it helps, I tripped while running away.”

“Of course you did.” He sighed. “Figures it would take an alien invasion to finally free me from his clutches. Not some,” he waved his hands in the air, gesturing to nothing in particular, “heroic figure sent by the gods to save me and smite that horrible man down to somewhere further and more vile than the Nine Hells.” His hands fell ungracefully to his sides.

He wasn’t wrong. How could any god worth their salt claim to be holier than thou when such suffering was occuring right under their noses? And you were pretty sure, based on tales you’d heard of Mystra and Shar from Gale and Shadowheart, that the gods hadn’t planned for the nautiloids or the rise of the Absolute. Yet if it weren’t for any of that, Astarion would still be trapped in Baldur’s Gate and your adventure thus far would have looked very different.

“If I’d known, I would have done something,” you said, knowing it was more complicated than that, but still wanting to help somehow. 

“Darling, if I’d met you in Baldur’s Gate, I would not have hesitated to take you to Cazador.”

That hurt. 

You said as much. “Ouch.”

“Well,” he sounded angry, though he directed it up towards the sky and not at you, “I wouldn’t have had a choice! Sure, it would have been a little novel, given how inexperienced you are, but regardless, I would have handed you off to him as soon as I’d made you finish.”

Ah. So that was how he lured people. It made sense, now that you put the pieces together; Astarion was so experienced because he had to be. Of course unsuspecting victims would fall prey to the allure of an eternally beautiful vampire, especially the one laying next to you. Of course the promise of pleasure from someone that sexy would be the obvious thing to agree to. It was a wonder your paths had never crossed before the nautiloid. 

“Once,” Astarion broke the silence that had fallen between you, his tone distant, “in the first decade of my slavery, I found a darling boy who I couldn’t bear to bring back to him.” He finally looked over at you, his eyes full of sadness. “So I ran, instead of hurting that sweet man.”

You reached for his hand, then thought better of it. All his snide “don’t touch me’s” on the road now held a new, terrible weight.

“After Cazador caught me, the bastard sealed me, starving, inside a dusty tomb, all on my own, for an entire year. A year of silence”

A hand flew to your mouth. “Astarion…” you felt your eyes begin to prick with tears and did your best to will them away, fearing that they might make Astarion stop sharing.

He went on. “Months of scratching my hands raw, trying to carve my way out, more months of not moving at all. Months wishing only for death.” He took a deep breath, then blew it out shakily. “So no, I wouldn’t have hesitated, had we crossed paths.”

You opened and closed your mouth several times, attempting to find words that could possibly compose an appropriate response to the horrors you currently refused to picture. “I have no words,” is what you finally settled on, followed by an, “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing can make up for that,” he said quietly. “Not even Cazador’s death.” He paused. “Well, it would help a little, but the coward deserves a fate worse than death.”

“Can I hug you?” you blurted, unable to stop yourself.

Astarion blinked a few times, then sat up. “What?”

“I just… you’ve been through such hell and I want to hug you, but I don’t want to touch you without your permission.”

He looked you up and down and saw the sincerity evident on your face. “I… suppose.” He pulled his legs up from where they were still dangling above the ravine and turned to face you head on. 

“Thank you,” you said, still attempting to keep your tears at bay.

You leaned forward and weaved your arms beneath Astarion’s, hooking your arms up and placing your hands on his shoulder blades. You settled your face between his neck and shoulder and could feel that his arms were frozen rigidly in place in front of him. You took a shaky breath and stayed still, allowing Astarion to move at his own pace. 

His arms finally settled around you and he bent his head so his cheek rested against your hair. 

The two of you stayed like that for a while, relishing in the other’s closeness. You moved your hands back and forth across his back absently. When you caught yourself, you pulled back to look at him and asked, “Is it okay that I’m touching your back?”

Astarion chuckled softly. “Yes, my dear. It’s rather nice, actually.”

You smiled and nuzzled your nose into the crook of his neck. Seriously, did he always smell this good?

Despite the pleasant distraction, something was nagging at your thoughts.

“Can I ask you something?” you murmured into his skin.

Astarion sighed dramatically. “If it has anything to do with my fangs, I’ll rip your throat out.”

You snickered to yourself. “No, not another dumb joke, I promise.”

“Then by all means.”

You pulled back once more to look at him in the face. His eyes widened when he saw your nervous expression. You avoided holding his gaze, feeling a little small. 

“Do you… want to be with me?”

Astarion looked taken aback. “What?”

“I mean… well…” You were having trouble sorting through your thoughts. Who were you to make this moment about yourself when Astarion had just been so open with you? And why couldn’t you trust him in what he had told you last night? Still, you had to know. You’d made it clear how much you cared for him and how much sleeping with him had meant to you. 

Given his past experiences, it made sense why he’d sleep with you, but you wanted to hear him say it. If this was all some ploy to manipulate you into doing what he wanted, even without Cazador’s instruction, you needed to know now. 

“Was I… just another conquest?” you asked, your tears reemerging. “Because if that’s the case, then I think we should end whatever this is.”

Astarion’s face was now inches away from yours. He moved a hand from your back and shifted it up to wipe a wayward tear that had escaped. He said your name softly.

“No, my sweet,” his other hand started rubbing soothing circles into your back. He pulled back a little. “Well, yes.”

You scoffed, another tear rolling down your cheek. 

Astarion was quick to correct. “No, no! I mean, at first, yes, it was my plan to seduce you and sleep with you.”

You let out a small whimpering noise and he tried to catch your eye. You kept your gaze glued on something in the distance, unseeing.

Astarion cleared his throat. “You- You’re valuable; someone willing to feed me, someone who advocated for me to stay with you all, even though you knew vampires were dangerous, someone who would protect me in battle, even if it meant sacrificing something important to you.”

Try as he might to get your attention back on him, your face remained blank as you stared into the distance.

“I wanted your continued protection.” He shrugged. “Habits from two hundred years of charming people kicked in and I thought I could secure that with sex.”

That got you to look at him, a sour expression on your face. “Have you met me?”

Astarion chuckled. “Yes, I have. And that’s what threw me for such a loop.”

You humphed.

“When I realized you’d be more of a challenge, I modified my plan.”

“I don’t love the direction this is headed.”

“Stay with me, darling” he said, “I promise I’m going somewhere with this.”

You exhaled and nodded for him to continue. 

“I did want to give you a good first experience, that much was true, but I will admit that I was still planning on using you.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You realize how bad this sounds, right?”

“Will you-” he sighed. “Let me finish, damn you,” he brought his forehead to yours briefly, then pulled back. “So imagine how stupid I felt when I realized I genuinely felt something for you.”

That made you smile softly. 

He groaned. “And yes, it is because I find you to be… a lot of fun.” The last phrase sounded like it hurt coming out. 

Your soft smile transformed into one of smug satisfaction. “And when did you come to this conclusion?”

“Well first of all, look at you.” He smiled slyly and you playfully pushed his face away from yours, just as you had last night. After a moment, Astarion looked up, as if searching through his thoughts. “I suppose I’ve always found you to be amusing. You were so easy to fool in the beginning. I mean, the very first day we met, you thought I had one of those brain things cornered.”

“I had no reason not to believe you! And then you held a knife to my throat!” “Ah, memories,” he sighed wistfully. “But then we started traveling together, and I don’t think I’ve ever laughed more. Killing those goblins outside the Grove, fooling those trolls into working for us, taking out those Paladins of Tyr… you always had a sarcastic comment to contend with my sarcastic comments. Which is saying something.”

You snorted. “As if I wouldn’t have something to say.”

Astarion nodded. “You do talk a lot.” 

You chuckled softly, feeling better. Your arms were still wrapped around Astarion.

“It was when I kissed you.” His tone was thoughtful.

“Hmm?”

“When I really kissed you for the first time, there was something different about it.” His eyes flicked down to your lips momentarily. “Suddenly everything we’d been through came rushing back to my mind and there was this… pleasure I hadn’t felt. In an awfully long time.”

You smiled like a dope, bringing your forehead to his.

“I realized you weren’t going anywhere. And that you genuinely cared about what I thought and what I wanted.” He looked at you almost shyly. “No one in the past two hundred years has stayed.” Astarion pulled back and his inflection became flamboyant and playful: “Not that they had much of a choice, but it was a somewhat shocking revelation.” His tone then returned to one of sincerity: “And no one has cared for me as you have.”

You looked away, embarrassed by the kind words.“What can I say, I’m incredible.”

Astarion blew out a cool puff of air that tickled your face. “Annoyingly, you are.”

You looked back at him and smirked. “For me, it was when you asked me how I’d want to die.”

Astarion snorted. “Pardon?”

“When you asked me how I wanted to die on one of our first nights at camp. I genuinely had the thought, ‘Now here’s a guy who knows how to have a good time.’”

Astarion laughed brightly. You mirrored his grin.

“You said you wanted to be decapitated.” 

“How romantic of me,” he said, raising a seductive eyebrow. 

“Well it did spark the crush I’ve been harboring this whole time,” you felt your face heat up at the admission. “That, and your stupid beautiful face.”

Astarion sniffed mockingly. “Thank you, not enough people mention that.” Then he looked at you fondly. “But that long, eh? How adorable.” He rubbed his nose against yours teasingly. “And here you thought nothing would come of it.”

“Nothing usually does!” you exclaimed.

He laughed and leaned forward to kiss you once. “Not so loud.”

You lifted an eyebrow and gestured to the empty landscape around you. Astarion shrugged. You lowered your voice despite the lack of other people to bother.

“I am glad something came of it this time.” You settled your forehead onto his shoulder.

“As am I, my love,” he kissed your hair. “Though I have something else to admit.”

You pulled back and looked at him curiously.

Out of nowhere, he presented you with a knife.

“I did have a knife.”

You scoffed incredulously and whacked his arm. “I KNEW YOU HAD A KNIFE, YOU BASTARD!” You laughed loudly and pushed him backwards. 

He fell back onto his arms, laughing with you as you crawled on top and kissed him deeply. 

“Careful darling,” he murmured against your lips, “don’t move.”

You paused your movements, your lips still pressed firmly against his own. Astarion turned his head slightly to look over to his left at the treeline you’d emerged from not too long ago. You pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth and felt him grin. Then you felt his right arm come up and jerk slightly, followed by a “THUNK” sound off to your right. 

You waited a moment before you asked, “Can I move?” Your mouth was smushed against his face and your voice came out muffled.

He chuckled. “Yes, you can move now.” 

You sat up and looked to your right, the knife Astarion had pulled was now wedged deeply into the trunk of a nearby tree. You raised your eyebrows at him.

He stretched out like a cat in a sunbeam, his voice straining as he went. “Impressed?”

“Honestly? Yes.” You leaned back down and kissed him again. 

He hummed and his mouth moved against yours at a leisurely pace, his hands coming up to tangle in your hair. You kissed down his jaw and throat before coming to his collarbone and stopping.

“You’re sure you don’t want to fuck me again?” Your words came out a little shy and Astarion laughed. 

He twirled the ends of your hair around his finger. “Delicious as you were, my sweet, I think I’d prefer to take my time with you.” 

You pursed your lips, disappointed. 

“That’s not to say I don’t want to, darling, but…” His fingers stopped twirling your hair as he thought. “Like you said earlier, so much has changed in the last few hours. I’ve only just discovered that I can sleep with somebody because I actually want to.” His hand moved from your hair to your cheek. “I think I need some time to adjust to that.”

You nodded and bent to kiss him. “I’ll wait as long as you need me to.”

He smiled up at you. “Thank you.”

You spent a few moments just looking at him, admiring how his eyes sparkled in the sun like rubies. You sighed noticeably. 

“What is it, love?”

You shook your head. “It’s nothing.”

“Darling…” He raised his eyebrows at you. 

“No, it’s inappropriate right now.” You looked away.

You felt his hand in your hair, and his voice was conspiratory, “I love when you talk dirty.”

You sighed again and looked him in the eye. “One of these days, when you’re ready, I’m going to look into your gorgeous eyes as I make you come.”

Astarion sputtered out a surprised laugh. “Easy there, lover,” he gave you a sultry look, “I may just take you up on that.”

You sat up and spread your hands over his chest. “I want to make you feel good, too.”

He brought both hands up to his face and groaned loudly before dragging them back down his face and looking at you. “Come lay in the sun with me, will you?”

You pouted but rolled off of him and curled into his side. 

“There now,” he said, arching his chest upwards towards the sky where the sun had now risen for the day, “isn’t this nice?”

You inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the trees and the sounds of the ravine below. You exhaled and closed your eyes, warmed by the sun and comforted by the presence of Astarion beside you. He himself had his eyes closed and looked peacefully content. You nuzzled further into his side, enjoying how his cool skin contrasted with the warmth coming from above.

Before you could even register that you were still tired from your early wakeup call this morning, you’d drifted back into a comfortable sleep.

~~~~~

You were awoken some time later by a lick to the face. 

You shut your eyes tighter and groaned. “Gross, Astarion, I’m trying to sleep.” You threw an arm over your eyes, the sun now directly overhead. 

“Did you find them, boy?” A voice shouted from the distance.

Your eyes shot open and found Scratch panting above you, wagging his tail excitedly. 

You sat up quickly and immediately leaned over to shake Astarion who appeared to be trancing soundly. 

“Astarion,” you shook him anxiously. 

He scowled, his eyes still closed. He groaned lowly.

“Astarion, my dear, my sweet, my beloved,” you shook him harder and his eyes opened immediately. He sat up, fast as lightning.

“What’s happening? Where’s my knife?” He looked around frantically until his eyes landed on you. “Ah,” he said, calming, “déjà vu.” 

“They’re coming,” you hissed.

“Who?” Astarion narrowed his eyes, thoughts still foggy from his trance. 

“No FUCKING way!” Came Karlach’s voice from the treeline. 

You looked over and found her with an elated grin on her face and her hands on her knees. She started laughing loudly and you hid your face in your hands. 

“You guys did NOT,” she wheezed. 

“Hello Karlach,” Astarion’s voice sounded nonchalant beside you. “What brings you out to ruin our beauty sleep?” 

“Did you find them?” Shadowheart soon emerged from the forest and stopped in her tracks. She surveyed the area and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Astarion, tell me you didn’t.”

“Did what, darling?” He sounded smug and you looked over at him. His expression matched his tone. “You’ll have to be more specific.” He rested his chin on your shoulder.

“I fucking knew this would happen,” Karlach said, coming down from her laughing fit. “Soldier’s had her eye on you for a while now, Fangs.”

“Karlach!” You whisper-shouted.

“Oh, I’m aware,” you felt Astarion turn his head to look at you. 

Suddenly Gale, Lae’zel, and Wyll joined the fray. Scratch ran to them and happily weaved between them as they emerged. 

“We heard a commotion, did you find them?” Gale halted when he saw you and Astarion sitting together on the ground, him shirtless, you wearing his shirt. “No,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yes,” Astarion said, tilting his head against yours. You gave him a dirty look. 

“Chk! Was that filthy nest of our blankets your doing?” Lae’zel asked, cradling her greatsword proudly. 

You groaned and hid your face in your hands again. 

“It would appear so,” Wyll confirmed awkwardly. 

“You vampires have a disgusting way of mating if that nest was any indication,” Lae’zel narrowed her eyes and lifted her nose in the air judgmentally. “Far too soft.”

Astarion scoffed and pulled back from you. “I’ll have you know that vampires mate in the most satisfying- well, we don’t mate, necessarily, we’re not dogs, but we, well at least I, am always an exemplary lover.”

Shadowheart ignored him and walked forward, crouching down and resting a hand on your shoulder. You looked at her. “Are you okay?”

“What?” you laughed in disbelief. “Yes, I’m fine.”

“He didn’t… coerce you into something, did he?”

“Excuse me?” Astarion sounded insulted. “I always ask permission first, darling.”

“Your charms can be quite overwhelming at times, Astarion,” Gale said. 

“And wouldn’t you like having my charms turned on you, wizard,” Astarion sneered. 

“Well, let’s not jump to any conclusions,” Wyll held up his hands, gesturing for the others to relax.

“Everyone!” You raised your voice. All eyes settled on you. “Nothing happened between us that I didn’t expressly and happily agree to.”

Karlach started chuckling again. “Good for you, Soldier.”

“Thank you, Karlach,” said Astarion. 

You narrowed your eyes at him. 

He shrugged. “What?”

You groaned and stood up, wiping grass and forest debris off your clothes. You adjusted Astarion’s shirt on your shoulders, making sure you weren’t showing off too much to your companions. 

“Is there a reason you all came out here? Or was it just to mortify me? Because mission accomplished!”

“It’s midday,” informed Wyll. “We grew worried when the two of you seemingly vanished and didn’t return.”

“Halsin and the tieflings are coming to camp tonight to celebrate our victory against the goblins,” Shadowheart crossed her arms. 

“Yes, and it wouldn’t be a great look if our leader and the gangly one were missing,” Gale said.

“Gangly?!” Astarion exclaimed, very clearly not gangly. 

“You’re- okay, well, I hadn’t seen you shirtless before now,” Gale amended. 

“Like what you see?” Astarion teased. 

“Astarion,” you scolded. 

He sighed and got up, wrapping an arm around you and resting a hand on your hip. 

You went red as you watched your companions track his hand. 

“Listen, people,” Astarion said, sounding serious. 

You saw your companions’ eyes shift to the vampire. 

“Don’t give her a hard time. This was my doing.” Shadowheart was about to say something but Astarion raised his voice a bit. “While yes, she gave permission in everything that we did, this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t suggested it in the first place.”

“I could have suggested something much better, surely,” Lae’zel huffed.

“I mean, did you-?” Karlach thrust her hips in the air with her fists at her sides.

“Oh my gods,” you groaned.

“I don’t kiss and tell, darling,” Astarion said, squeezing your hip slightly. 

Karlach smirked smugly and winked at you both. 

You shook your head and looked up, silently begging any god that was listening to kill you and to do it quickly. 

“We should get back to camp,” Wyll suggested diplomatically. “Let these two collect themselves.” 

“So what does this mean?” Shadowheart asked, ignoring Wyll. 

“Shadowheart,” Wyll warned but she waved him off.

“What do you mean?” You asked.

“Are you only going to sleep with the pathetic vampire moving forward?” Lae’zel stated bluntly.

You and Astarion looked at each other. You saw the slightest flash of uncertainty in his eyes and smiled. “If he’ll let me,” you said. 

A small smile appeared on his face in return.

Lae’zel groaned. “K'chakhi. Your loss.” She turned and walked back into the forest, slinging her greatsword over her back.

You bit your lip, feeling guilty about Lae’zel’s feelings, but Karlach soon slid into your vision. “Congrats, you crazy kids,” she laughed and pretended to punch your arm, then followed on Lae’zel’s heels, Scratch bounding close behind her.

Gale walked over, his face stoic. He stood in front of Astarion and held out his hand. 

Astarion scowled. “What is this, do you want some sort of handout?” 

“I want to shake your hand, you buffoon,” Gale sounded frustrated. 

“Gale…” you said sorrowfully. 

“No no, think nothing of it,” he waved you off. “The right man won out in the end.”

Astarion took his hand and shook it. “Better luck next time,” he jeered. 

“Astarion,” you scolded again. “You both know I’m not something to win, right?”

“Of course you’re not,” Gale nodded. “Apologies, I misspoke. I’ll see you both at camp. Lunch is bread and cheese to save room for tonight’s festivities.” He stiffly turned and walked back towards the trees. Wyll gave him a sympathetic look, then caught your eye. He nodded somewhat sadly and followed after Gale. 

“Well that certainly doesn’t feel good,” you said, holding a hand to your chest and breathing deeply.

“Not quite finished yet, love,” Astarion nodded over towards Shadowheart who lingered nearby. 

She approached slowly, holding her hands behind her back. Astarion released your hip and moved away, sensing what Shadowheart aimed to do. You looked at him curiously, but your attention was drawn back to Shadowheart as she threw her arms around your neck. 

“You’re happy?” She asked softly.

“Shadowheart…” you smiled into her hair. “Yes, I’m happy. Thank you.”

She pulled back to look at you in the eyes, double checking your expression. When she saw that you were genuine, she nodded. She cleared her throat and looked over at Astarion. 

She pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Hurt her, and you will never know a happy day again.”

Astarion held up his hands defensively. “I won’t-”

“You have never known the pain of Lady Shar’s wrath, and you’d be smart to keep it that way, so help me gods, Astarion.”

“I got it,” he said flatly. 

“Our Lady of Loss would not hesitate to strike you where you stand-”

“I think he gets it,” you said, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Thank you, Shadowheart.”

Shadowheart narrowed her eyes at Astarion before she looked back at you. “I’ll see you at camp. Don’t dally.” She looked pointedly at Astarion who shrugged helplessly. 

When she headed back into the forest, you and Astarion were finally alone. 

You let out a heavy sigh.

“That was a lot,” Astarion joined you at your side.

“Wait, did you know those people?” you smirked at him.

“Vaguely,” he smirked back and caught you in a kiss. “At least I don’t have to hold back from doing that at camp now.” He held you close in his arms.

You sighed again and laid your head on his shoulder. “You were right. I didn’t realize so many of them felt something for me.”

“That seems to be because you block out the advances of others.”

You shoved him playfully. “How dare you turn my pitiful backstory against me.”

He smiled and held out his hand. “Come on, let’s go dismantle that ‘disgusting’ nest.” He did his best to impersonate Lae’zel on “disgusting.” 

It made you laugh. “Okay.”

You took his hand and let him lead you through the trees back to the blankets and pillows that you’d spent the night on. 

When you arrived, you picked up your shirt and bra, feeling mild embarrassment that the others had probably seen them and drawn (correct) conclusions. You removed Astarion’s shirt and threw it back at him, hitting him in the face and quickly covered your chest with your forearm. 

Astarion laughed as his shirt fell into his awaiting hands. “Darling, you don’t have to hide from me,” he narrowed his eyes seductively. “I’ve already seen it all.” He tossed the shirt aside and made his way over to you.

“Feels different in the light of day,” you admitted self-consciously. “Worse, I guess.”

“Now, now,” he said, gently pulling your arm away from your chest, “let me see you in the daylight.” You allowed him to move your arm but didn’t look at him. “Lovely,” he breathed, and kissed you hard. 

You inhaled in surprise, but immediately gave in and slipped your tongue into his mouth and your arms over his shoulders. His hand came up and began massaging your left breast, his icy touch sending a shock wave through you and making you moan. 

Instantly, you pulled away and took a step back. “Careful,” you said as Astarion stared at you wide-eyed, his hand frozen in the air where he’d been palming your breast, “I thought you wanted to take things slow?”

He made a sound somewhere between a groan and a dry heave. “Stop being so nice to me,” he avoided your gaze. “It makes me want to… be nice back.”

“Gods forbid,” you laughed, and bent to pick up your bra which had fallen back amongst the pillows. 

All of a sudden, you found yourself face down in the blankets, the wind knocked out of you and Astarion’s body weight pressed firmly on top of you.

“Astarion,” you wheezed, “what are you doing?”

His voice was sultry in your ear, “If you’ll remember, I said I wanted to take my time with you.”

Sexy as that was, you couldn’t breathe. You reached behind yourself and smacked Astarion’s back with your palm. “Living creatures need to breathe, idiot!”

“Oh,” he realized his error and rolled off of you. You had no time to adjust yourself before he flipped you over and hovered above you on his hands and knees. 

You blew some hair out of your face, irritated. “Did you just tackle me like I was some sort of prey?”

“My dear, I would never,” he bowed his head and kissed your neck.

“And yet I find myself on the ground, even though I didn’t put myself here,” you tangled your hands in his hair, your voice wobbly. 

“You’ve always been rather clumsy,” he murmured teasingly. 

You took a deep breath and pushed him away. His lips were still puckered, making you giggle. “Shadowheart told us not to dally,” you reminded him. “And she threatened to kill you, what? Three times?”

“You forget that I’m already dead,” he smiled. “What’s another little death?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

You snorted. “Bad.”

“I thought that was rather clever, actually.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “We should really head back.”

Astarion whined and hung his head. “Let me have you again, woman!”

“But you said-”

“I know what I said!” He lifted his head and looked you in the eye. “And while I appreciate your concern, right now, I very much want to be inside of you again.”

You smiled cautiously. “Are you sure?”

He rolled his eyes and kissed you, lowering his body to roll his hips against yours and making his erection very obviously. You jolted at the unexpected sensation and he pulled back.

“Unless this is too much for you,” he searched your face for hesitancy. “You’re probably still sore and we don’t have to rush anything-”

You gripped the back of his head and tightened your fist into his curls. “Please,” you whispered, “fuck me again.”

A wicked grin bloomed on Astarion’s face and he kissed you passionately, rolling his hips against yours for friction. You moaned into his mouth, but he broke the kiss after only a few moments. “Like I said, love, I want to take my time with you.”

He rose up onto his knees and began untying the laces of your pants. You watched him intently and bit your lip as he removed them fully from your legs. He made quick work of his own and crawled back on top of you. His thumb hooked under your panties and his eyes met yours. You nodded and he pulled them down gently and discarded them close by. He then laid beside you, his eyes heavy with lust.

“Come here, precious thing,” he purred and you inched yourself closer to him. “Turn around,” he instructed. You gave him a confused half smile but did what he asked. He reached forward and pulled your hips back, causing you to feel his still-clothed cock against your ass.

“What are you doing?” you asked nervously. 

Astarion chuckled. “Not that, fear not.” He kissed your shoulder as he slid his left arm under you and settled his hand on your lower stomach. A chill ran through you as he nuzzled his head onto your shoulder. “Fair warning,” you could hear the mischief in his voice as his right hand made itself known in front of your face. He wiggled his fingers in a delicate wave, then brought it down between your thighs. 

A gasp escaped your throat when you felt his fingers swipe through your folds.

Astarion tilted his head and kissed your throat. “So wet already, darling.”

“You’re handsome,” you said by way of explanation.

He hummed against your shoulder and began to rub your clit. A shuddering breath left your mouth and your eyes fluttered shut. Astarion paused for a moment to lift your leg and hike it back over his. “This will feel good,” he said against your skin and dragged his fingers through your folds again before inserting a digit into your cunt. 

You threw your head back in surprised pleasure, which made Astarion turn and nip at your ear. He began pumping and curling his finger slowly inside of you. Your breath caught when his thumb resumed its spot on your clit and whined when his finger inside of you hit a particularly sensitive spot. He adjusted his angle to hit it repeatedly. 

“Astarion,” you moaned, your head clouded with nothing but ecstasy. 

“Yes, my sweet, you’re gripping me so tight,” his voice was sensual in your ear. “Do you think you can take a little more?”

You nodded, your eyes shut tight. 

“Words, darling.”

“Another…” you said breathily.

“Another what?”

Your voice was sing-songy. “Astarion, if you don’t put another finger in me right now, I’m leaving you.”

He laughed loudly before moving his mouth close to your ear again. “You like me too much.” Then he leaned up a little to catch your eye, his finger still pumping between your thighs. “Right?”

You smiled sympathetically, seeing your words had spooked him a little. You reached a hand up to cup his cheek. “I’m not going anywhere,” you clarified. “But I might kill you.”

“Got it,” Astarion dragged his index finger through your folds, then carefully added it to your cunt alongside his middle finger. 

You exhaled, moving your hand down from his cheek to his hand resting on your stomach. You laced your fingers together and squeezed when he hit a particularly good spot, getting you to moan out an, “Oh, gods.”

“Like that?” He asked cockily, reaching and curling to hit the spot again. 

“Yes, my love,” you sighed, grinning upwards with your eyes closed. 

Behind you, you felt Astarion’s cock twitch.

Your eyes opened and you looked back at him. 

He smiled back at you sheepishly. “It does that sometimes, darling. When something is particularly arousing.”

Your breaths were coming out short and keeping in time with the pumping of his fingers. “Was it… ‘my love?’”

Astarion let out a low moan and hid his face in your shoulder before reemerging and nodding. “Coming from you while you’re in the throes of passion with me is really… something.”

You laughed between whimpers. “My… loooooove,” you sang, squeezing his hand again. “Your fingers feel heavenly, my looooove.”

“Fuck this,” Astarion said, pulling his fingers out of you unceremoniously and curling you forward with his body so he could shimmy out of his underwear. 

“What are you doing,” you winced and whined childishly, “I was so close!”

“Unfortunately, darling, if I’m not inside you within a matter of seconds, I’m going to lose it completely.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” you said, half dazed and still coming down from your almost climax. 

You felt his hand bump your ass as he pumped his cock and you instantly went stiff. “You’re not going to…?”

Astarion let out a breathy laugh. “Oh, my sweet, you’re not nearly ready for something like that yet.”

A relieved sigh escaped you. 

“We could always work our way up-”

“No, that’s okay,” you said quickly. 

“There’s nothing wrong with-”

“No, of course not-”

“But we can-”

“Let’s not talk about this now,” you patted Astarion’s cheek.

“Understood,” he nodded and resumed pumping his cock. “Hook your leg back over mine, darling.” When you followed his instruction, he kissed your shoulder once more. You felt the head of his cock glide through your folds until it prodded at your entrance and you let out a shaky exhale. “Don’t be scared,” he muttered, squeezing your hand. “Are you ready?”

You inhaled. “Yes.”

Just as he had last night, Astarion was slow to enter you. This time you heard him whimpering with his mouth so close to your ear. 

“Fuck,” he murmured, dragging his fangs from your shoulder to your neck, “still so tight.”

“Obviously,” you said, squeezing your eyes shut, but not feeling nearly as uncomfortable as you had the first time he’d entered you. You let out a satisfied exhale when his hips bumped your ass. 

“Let me know what I can move,” Astarion said against your skin, his words barely recognizable. 

“You can move,” you said almost immediately, reaching a hand up behind you and twisting it into Astarion’s hair. You moved it over a little to play with the tip of his ear.

He let out a loud groan and snapped his hips forward, probably with more force than he meant to. “Apologies,” he whispered, “that felt heavenly.”

“Keep going, my love,” you encouraged and he caught your eye with a seductive smile. 

He continued to pump his cock into your dripping hole and brought his right hand down to your clit. He licked a stripe from your neck up to your ear. “You know, I really did intend to take my time with you just now,” he spoke lowly from the back of his throat. As if to illustrate his point, he slowed his hips to take long, languid strokes out, and then moved back into you at an equally slow pace. His thumb on your clit slowed as he disconnected his left hand from yours and brought it up to fondle your breast. He kissed up your shoulder to your neck sloppily and sucked on the fading bite marks from last night. 

You moaned loudly, hooking your foot around his calf and tightening your fist in his hair. “We’d really be dallying, then,” you commented.

He made a frustrated noise. “Don’t even allude to the cleric right now,” he pulled away from your neck. “Unless it’s to tell me I’m a much better lover than her.” He snapped his hips into you, hard. 

“I don’t have much of a reference, genius,” you responded breathlessly. 

“Right,” he said, and picked up speed at your clit. His mouth returned to sucking on your throat. 

“Oohhh,” you sighed. You let out a gasp when Astarion’s left hand pinched your nipple.

“You feel wonderful, my darling,” spit connected him to your neck.

“So do you,” you brought your hand up to cover Astarion’s that was kneading your breast. “You can bite me, if you want.”

He groaned loudly and bumped his nose against your jaw. “Well,” he said between thrusts, “if you insist.” 

He kissed your throat before biting down, his hips instantly picking up speed. 

The ice that shot into your veins was a shock as always, but melted into a fuzzy pleasure that had your eyes drooping in ecstasy. 

Astarion took long pulls of your blood as he continued thrusting, circling your clit, and needing your breast. How he was keeping track of everything at once was beyond you in this pleasant, foggy state. 

“Darling,” he pulled away suddenly, swallowing loudly and seemingly out of breath. “May I taste you as you come?”

Your tongue lolled to the side, but his voice snapped you out of it. You nodded up at him. “Yes, please.”

“What do you need?” He licked the wounds on your neck. 

“As much as I’m enjoying you taking your time,” you said, “harder and faster.”

“Easy,” a cocky grin graced his face as a drop of your blood dripped down his chin. 

His hips picked up a brutal pace that nearly had you reaching your peak, and he pressed further onto your clit, his tight circles picking up speed as well. 

“Oh, Astarion,” you moaned loudly, reaching back again to grip his hair.

“Come for me, dearest,” he spoke softly against your throat, but loud enough that you could hear, “I want to hear you sing again. I want to taste how sweet your blood is when I make you cum on my cock.” He continued leaving sloppy kisses against your neck.

“I’m close,” you confirmed, your eyes shut tight and your body tensing. 

“Go ahead, love, I’ve got you,” his hard thrusts were becoming uneven, but ever the professional, his voice remained mostly even. “You’re so tight and warm, thank you for letting me taste you.” He kissed your mouth. “Darling.” Another kiss. “Beloved.” One more. “Mine.”

You cried out as you fell over the edge, your cunt squeezing his cock repeatedly, only to cry out again as you felt Astarion’s fangs enter your neck once more. 

“Astarion!” You shouted, squeezing his hand and pulling his hair and wrapping your shaking leg around his. Almost simultaneously, you felt Astarion spill inside you as he moaned your name loudly into your neck, his hips pulsing clumsily against you. 

The sensation of him drawing your blood was still pleasantly fuzzy, but you could feel yourself becoming light headed. You tapped his arm twice, your signal for him to stop, and he pulled away, leaning his forehead against your temple and breathing heavily. 

“Still cumming,” he groaned and clenched his teeth, his hips faltering in their rhythm. 

After another moment, his body finally relaxed and he pulled you closer into his chest, catching his breath. “That was… amazing,” he sighed happily, leaning forward to lick the remaining blood from your neck. “If I knew blood could taste that good-” His voice trailed off. “Well, I’m sure I’d do something about it if I could.” He seemed pleased with his own answer and hummed contentedly behind you.

“I’m glad it was to your liking,” you said, looking back at him with a smile. He bent forward and kissed you happily. “I’m like a fine vintage,” you teased.

Astarion pursed his lips. “You’re far from vintage, darling, you’ll have to work on your wine related japes.” 

You laughed and a comfortable silence fell between you. Astarion rested both of his hands on your stomach. Which growled suddenly.

“What’s that like?” He teased, licking a wayward drop of blood from the side of his mouth. 

Your body tensed. “Oh gods, bread and cheese!”

Astarion blinked at you. “Are those some sort of new deities I’m not aware of, or-?”

“No, that’s what Gale said we’re having for lunch.”

“And that’s important because-?”

“Because we DALLIED and there’s a PARTY tonight and now Shadowheart is going to KILL us.”

“I see.” Astarion remained still, fixed in place. Then suddenly he was pulling out of you at a breakneck speed and reaching for his clothes. 

You winced a little at the sensation but scrambled for your own clothes, wiping yourself down with the cloth Astarion provided again and got dressed in what was probably record time. 

Incredibly, you both looked presentable. 

“We do make a gorgeous pair,” Astarion cocked his hip and smirked at you, going in for a kiss.

You swatted him away. “Enough flirting, loverboy, we can talk about us later!” You started reaching for blankets and pillows. 

“Us,” Astarion stood on the sidelines, testing out the word on his tongue. “I do so like the sound of that.”

“Help me, would you?” You threw a pile of blankets at him, hitting him in the face and blowing his hair back. 

He groaned. “It should be a crime to rush after you’ve just made love to the most amazing woman.” He came up behind you and smacked your butt teasingly. 

You stood up straight and tried to look angry. “We are going to die if we don’t head back right now.” Astarion wasn’t buying your anger, so you turned bashful. “You made loooove to me?” You clasped your hands together by your face. “You think I’m amaaaazing?” You twirled some of your hair for good measure.

Astarion sighed. “Be serious, woman, we’re going to die!” His voice was exasperated but he smirked at you. He bent to pick up more blankets and pillows and you did the same until you both had piles you could barely see over and nothing was left behind.

“Ugh, I’m going to have to do so much laundry,” you muttered. “Seriously, how did you manage bringing all this out here?”

“Well first, everything was folded neatly.”

“We don’t have time.”

“And second, multiple trips, darling.”

“We can’t afford to leave camp EVER again.”

Try as you might to rush back to camp, you still had to maneuver through a forest and be careful where you stepped. The pair of you moved as quickly as you could, which wasn’t as fast as was probably necessary to avoid Shadowheart’s ire. 

“Soooo…” You broke the silence after a few moments. 

“Gods,” Astarion rolled his eyes, “what?”

“‘My love,’ huh?” You waggled your eyebrows at him.

“What about it?”

“You liiiiiiked it,” you teased. 

“I-” You could see that he thought about arguing but decided not to. “I’m not used to the pet names turned on me. It’s… nice.”

“You’re cute,” you said, looking over at him affectionately and nearly tripping over a tree root as a result.

Astarion snickered, then made his face serious. “I’m the furthest thing from cute. I’m a horrifying monster.” He lowered his voice as if that would back him up.

“Yeah, but you like being mushy.” 

“I do not.”

“You do!” You moved closer to him and bumped his hip with your own. “You were so sweet to me yesterday. And just now.” 

“It’s different with you,” he said quietly.

“Oh?” You raised your eyebrows.

“It’s… um… This is stupid, I hate it.” He tried to walk ahead of you but you caught up easily.

“No, no! Please.” You gave him a reassuring look. “I, of all people, will not judge you.”

He sighed. “It’s just… nice to feel like something is mine.” He was quick to correct, “Not that I own you but… I don’t know. You’re not a victim. Not a target. Not just… one night it’s better to forget. You’re something entirely new.”

You smiled over at him. “I like you too, weirdo.”

Astarion humphed. “Whatever.” He moved closer and bumped your hip with his own. The two of you shared a fond look, then turned back to the path ahead.

If Shadowheart was going to kill you, at least you’d die together. 

You both quickened your pace to try and avoid that fate, but it was a lovely thought.

Soon, you began to make out the bright colors of your tents through the trees and the sound of your companions chatting by the fire. 

You turned to Astarion. “See you on the other side.”

He nodded, determined. “It’s been a pleasure servicing you, darling.”

“I hope she kills you first.”

You shared a laugh before you took a calming breath. 

And stepped into camp. 

[xirayn]

As a fellow nature documentary kid, I would love to hear more about your take on Omegaverse. Anything world-buildy with it

I have put way too much thought into this because I am a chronic world-builder, so there is a lot. It ranges from the biology and evolutionary reasons behind it, to how and why social constructs came to be.

[Character examples will be in context of Stranger Things because that is my current fandom]

Now to go into it under the cut.

Note: Male and female will be used to refer to assigned sex. Trans people exist in my omegaverse with the distinction between male/female vs man/woman being culturally better understood due to the existence of subsexes.

Evolutionary Origin

Subsexes are the result of a vestigial monotreme system that developed parallel to the eutherian system that humans possess. It was socially advantageous, but biologically detrimental, which is why parts of it were kept. As a result, male omegas are unable to get pregnant despite having an estrus cycle and being capable of lactating.

Subsexes

Alphas (Hopper, Steve, Mike, Lucas, Billy, Argyle, Chrissy)

The heart of the pack, alphas are usually extroverts who keep order and generally ensure all pack members are safe and supported.

Mostly male since female alphas have been historically unable to survive childbirth due to their pseudo-penis, which also makes vaginal sex tricky.

Social constructs resulted in the ideology that alphas are the ruler of a pack and should want to be dominant in their relationships.

Alphas go through annual ruts, a period of two to three weeks marked by a heightened sex drive and a decreased ability to regulate emotion.

A roar, also known as an alpha voice, is a loud, guttural vocalization. Despite popular belief, it does not force an omega to submit or obey, but does have a tendency to activate a fear response.

Happy, friendly, or comforting vocalizations include chuffs and rumbles.

Betas (Robin, Dustin, El*, Kali*, Jason)

The lifeblood of the pack, betas tend to be supporters and problem solvers who keep everything running.

Betas will often form a partnership with an alpha or, rarely, an omega. The bond is usually platonic, though it can be romantic.

An alpha or omega child may mature into a beta. They retain the personality traits associated with their original secondary sex, but do not produce any of the hormones involved in mating cycles and bonds.

Betas have an underdeveloped vomeronasal organ, which makes them less aware of pheromones and other chemical communications.

*On rare occasion, a beta is the result of subsex sterilization. These betas are even less capable of picking up scent queues, to the point they are unable to reliably identify subsexes.

Omegas (Joyce, Nancy, Jonathan, Will, Eddie, Max, Murray)

The will of the pack, omegas are independent risk-takers who drive innovation and exploration.

Omegas are typically the first to leave their familial pack, sometimes with 1-3 other omegas to form a coalition. These groups are often the start of a pack.

Mostly female due to male omegas rarely passing on their genetics due to having a lower sperm count than male alphas and betas.

To promote loyalty to a ruler over pack and prevent rebellions, many cultures have developed the false idea that omegas are meant to be subservient.

Starting between the age of fifteen and eighteen, omegas start experiencing heats every 6-15 months. During the two to seven days a heat lasts, the omega produces sex pheromones and experience a higher libido. While omegas in heat and preheat are more affectionate and outgoing toward other subsexes, they may act aggressive toward perceived competition.

Omegas are the only subsex capable of purring.

Mates/Pairbonds

A pairbond is created when an alpha knots an omega in heat, triggering the production of primer pheromones, then bites one of the omega's scent glands, typically on the neck or shoulder. The pheromones from both partners, transferred through sebum and saliva, alter the other's hormone production to create the pairbond.

Pairbonds are renewed each heat. Two to three heats are enough to break the bond, though the addictive qualities of a pairbond can make this difficult to achieve.

Mating marks are the darkened patch of skin, resembling a bite mark, that occurs after a pairbond is formed. They fade when a pairbond is broken, but never fully disappear.

Feel free to send me asks or prompts on this.

[snackhobi]

pairing: taehyung x reader / word count: 13.3k / genre: fluff, friends to lovers, smut (NSFW, 18+)

summary: you’re used to being in love with taehyung. you’ve had a lot of time to get good at it, after all—by this point you’re the world’s expert at keeping your less-than-platonic feelings hidden from him, what with the amount of practice you’ve had.

but then he signs up for a massage therapy course, because apparently you can never catch a break.

or: the one where taehyung gives you a full body massage and then some.

warnings: sexually explicit content, massage with a happy ending (literally 🤧), cursing, edible massage oil/lube, fingering (f), unprotected sex (be safe when you have sex please), multiple orgasms (f), oral sex (m), cum swallowing, pet names, body worship?, brief mention of shower sex

a/n: I swear this was meant to be pwp. this was literally meant to just be pwp with some massage shenanigans. and then I blinked and it had become a soft 13k fic which honestly… kicked my ass quite a bit. but I hope you enjoy it!! thank you as always to @hobi-gif​ for beta reading this and encouraging me and putting up with me changing this multiple times, what would I do without your support miss hope?

--

Taehyung goes through a lot of different phases.

He just finds so many things interesting. Photography, art, art history, music, fashion, thrift shopping; heck, there was even the time he got weirdly into making tea and became some sort of connoisseur, going through the whole rigmarole of buying the loose leaves and weighing them out, checking the temperature of the water, brewing for a precisely measured amount of time.

You still remember the look on his face when you said it all tasted like hot leaf water to you.

Because, of course, as one of Taehyung’s best friends and his roommate, you’re inevitably swept up in everything he does. You’re used to the weirdly acrid smell of photo development fluid and how cold dark rooms can get. You use phrases like chiaroscuro and sfumato to describe the simplest things after listening to Taehyung do the same for so long. You’ve lost count of the amount of times you’ve tripped over his saxophone case when he leaves it lying around the apartment. You regularly wear the baggy t-shirt with the face that Taehyung had painted on it—even if you still refer to it as the Squidward-House-Shirt despite the fact you know he was inspired by Basquiet and Schiele and not the Easter Island themed stone head that Squidward lives in.

You don’t mind getting dragged along with whatever he does, honestly; you don’t have time to attend every class, but go with him when you can. It’s always good to expand your horizons. You also love watching Tae’s face whenever he learns something new, the various expressions that flit across his features—from wide eyed excitement and eyebrow raising astonishment to the more solemn side that appears whenever he’s taking something in and thinking deeply about it, turning it over in his mind, mulling on it.

(You love watching Tae’s face all the time, actually, but that’s a whole other can of worms you’d rather keep shut.)

However, the latest course he’s signed up for is not one you’d been expecting.

“Massage therapy?” Your face twists in equal parts confusion and surprise.

Taehyung’s dropped this latest nugget of information while you’re cooking, trying to fry some rice while also peering at the phone screen that’s been thrust into your face. You’re not bad at multitasking, per se, but Taehyung’s iPhone is drifting so close that you’re almost cross-eyed and it’s blocking you from seeing what’s going on in the pan. 

“I had a coupon,” he says, as if that explains everything. (It doesn’t.)

“Scooch,” you say, and he immediately moves so you can turn the gas off.

“Jiminie and Jungkookie say that my massages help with dance, and that's just from Youtube tutorials.” Taehyung continues to talk as you bustle around the tiny kitchen. He’s already set the table so now he’s free to watch you finish doing the rest of the work. “And Joon-hyung says I have the perfect hands for it.”

You fumble with the pan as you’re scooping the steaming rice into a large bowl, only just managing to save food from scattering everywhere. You’ve thought about Taehyung’s hands a lot, about how large and long fingered and beautiful they are, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Really? Huh. That’s nice.” You stare at the pan, fixated on getting every grain of rice so you can avoid looking at Taehyung’s face. And hands. Which are still cupped around his phone. Which looks so small in his big, pretty grip.

Jesus Christ.

“It means I can give you massages if you ever start to get tense.” Taehyung sounds pleased, lovely grin on his face at the prospect of being able to rub his hands over you. As if that isn’t going to make every single one of your muscles lock up and turn you into some sort of coiled rope of a human being, which is the complete opposite of what a massage is supposed to achieve. 

“Great.” Despite your inner turmoil, your voice is level and steady as you meticulously scrape the last grain of rice into the bowl, chasing the tiny fleck of white around the huge pan. Scrape, scrape, scrape. “Sounds fabulous. Can’t wait.”

Of course Taehyung would sign up to learn something that he could use to help his friends. He’s so big-hearted and loving. Big-hearted and loving and kind and funny and affectionate and beautiful and deep-voiced and so entirely overwhelming in every single way imaginable. 

You do what you always do when confronted yet again with your all-consuming crush—you bottle that shit the fuck up until he’s not in the room.

And then you have a miniature breakdown at Pickles.

“I am going to die,” you whisper-scream. “He’s going to offer to massage me and he’s going to get a bottle of massage oil out and he’s going drizzle it onto his massive hands and I am going to fucking die.”

The bearded dragon cocks his head as he stares at you. Taehyung had come home with the reptile one day, tank and all, saying that someone on Facebook had been giving him away because they were moving house and could they just look after him for a little while, please, pretty please? Until they found a good home for him? Please?

That was over a year ago. (You’ve always been bad at saying no to Taehyung.)

“I hate my life,” you lament to the lizard, but then you hear the noisy flush of the toilet and know that Taehyung is going to emerge from the bathroom soon, so you have to wrap this miniature meltdown up pronto. “I wish I was a bearded dragon too, you know. All you do is get fed and sit under the heat bulb. Your life is so easy. You don’t even know what capitalism is.”

The silence you get from Pickles is far more support than you get from your human friends once you tell them. Yoongi just raises his eyebrows while Seokjin and Hoseok laugh outright in your face, just like they always do when you cry to them about Taehyung.

You need new friends. These ones are defective. (If only you’d kept the receipt so you could return them.)

“We learned how to do neck and shoulder massages today!” Taehyung says brightly after the first session.

You hum in response. You’re rewatching Pacific Rim together, cuddled up against Taehyung’s side, and you don’t have to turn your head to know what expression is on his face. There’ll be that little upturn to his lips, happiness at learning something new. That warmth in his eyes at being able to share it with you, even if you couldn't be there with him. Those little freckles on his face, under his eye, his nose, his lip; the one you’ve imagined kissing more times than you can count.

“My teacher says I have a natural talent with my hands,” he adds, and you’re so grateful that you can blame your sudden intake of breath on the scene that’s playing on the screen, as high stakes as it is. 

“That’s nice,” you say, and mentally pat yourself on the back at keeping the strain out of your voice. You've had a lot of practice at this. “I’m not surprised, though. You’ve always been good at doing things with them.”

That’s not a euphemism. Taehyung’s always so careful when he makes things; you’d learned how to fold different origami patterns together, matching crane for crane, lotus for lotus, and he’d always been so delicate with his fingers. He’s always so careful and considerate with you, too, fingers splayed wide across your shoulder as he squeezes you closer to his side, leaving you breathless.

“I wish you could come too.” Taehyung sounds disappointed. “We always have so much fun together.”

For the first time in your life you’re grateful that your manager at Olive Chicken is such a hardass and won’t let you swap shifts, so you’d had to miss signing up for the massage course with Taehyung—because you know there’s no way you’d be able to keep it together if there was some sort of tandem practice in class or whatever. Your crush on him is filled with equal parts of tenderness and lust and you’re well aware of that. You’d rest your hands on the soft skin of Taehyung’s shoulders and back, the lust would overwhelm you, and you’d immediately burst into flames like some sort of demon stepping over the threshold of a church. 

Why oh why did God have to make Kim Taehyung so hot?

Why oh why did God have to make you so… not?

You know Taehyung doesn’t see you in a romantic light at all. You’re grateful for this deep, platonic relationship you have, and you love him to pieces, but holy hell is it hard to walk around with Kim Taehyung looking the way he does and wanting to jump his bones while simultaneously being aware that it’s never going to happen. Whenever he smiles at you, or touches you, or holds you, it’s in exactly the same way as he treats any of his friends—and as happy as you are to be one of those friends, it also kind of kills you inside. 

(Because you know you don’t have a chance, have never had a chance, and will never have a chance.)

The idea of offering to massage Taehyung is one that makes you want to melt into a puddle of horny goo. But when he offers to massage you, it’s because you’re a convenient practice partner who he’s comfortable with. It’s no big deal. You could strip naked and slather yourself up in oil and stand in front of him with your bosoms heaving and say ‘Have at me, big boy’ and Taehyung would say: ‘Sweet! A chance to practice deep tissue massage! Gee, thanks for being such a great pal!’

The kind of deep tissue you want Taehyung to massage is very different to whatever he’s talking about.

… Anyway.

You manage to avoid Taehyung using his apparently magic fingers on you for a surprising amount of time, though you’re kept up to date with his progress, because he shares everything with you and tells you about everything and you always, always listen. Because, more than being your crush, he’s one of your best friends and you love him.

Which is why you try your best to be gentle, graciously refusing his offer of a shoulder massage after he sees you wincing, even if with anyone else you’d just tell them to back off with zero hesitation.

“It’s fine,” you say, flapping a hand at him. “I just slept on it funny.”

“A massage would help! It won’t take long, I promise. Five minutes? Please?” 

Taehyung’s looking at you with those big puppy eyes of his, pleading. You waver. You’re torn between being steadfast and avoiding a situation you’ve literally had nightmares about (Taehyung had offered to massage you, and you’d said yes, but then you’d fallen over as you were walking to him and suddenly a lasagne had appeared in your hands and you’d spilled it all down your shirt and he’d pointed and laughed and laughed and you’d felt so embarrassed that you’d woken up, cheeks burning), but then he pouts and you give in like the spineless and lovesick fool that you are.

“Five minutes,” you say, and Taehyung nods emphatically, looking pleased.

(You have the backbone of a chocolate éclair.)

You send quiet thanks to whatever God is listening when he doesn’t ask you to take your top off and doesn’t break out a bottle of scented oil. Instead he just asks for you to straddle a chair, clutching a plushie against your chest to cushion where it leans against the backrest, and tells you to get comfy.

“Just relax,” he says, as you desperately try to remember how your body works and coax it to relax like Taehyung wants you to. You fail miserably. You feel like a ball of rubber bands, each muscle a layer of tighter and tighter elastic that’s circled around you. “Lean forwards a little?”

At least Taehyung can’t see your face from this angle. You have no idea what sort of expression is twisting your features; consternation and horrified anticipation, probably. You're basically throttling your plushie, taking out your tension and frustration on the poor thing, Rilakkuma's placid face morphing into a twisted expression of sympathy under your grasping fingers.

“Perfect,” Taehyung says. The sound of praise in his deep voice has your insides turning into overheated syrup, hot and thick, dripping down and pooling between your legs. You hate yourself. Getting turned on by the most innocuous words from your best friend, really? Get it together.

The second you feel Taehyung's warm hands touch the back of your neck, your shoulders hunch up faster than a whiplash, a turtle sucking its head into its shell. Your friend laughs.

“This is the opposite of relaxing,” he says, voice warm with amusement. 

“You surprised me.” You dig your nails into Rilakkuma's soft brown fur. Taehyung just thinks you're not used to being massaged, not that you're being weird because it's him that's touching you. Because he touches you a lot. He’s just never done it like this. “Sorry.”

“It's fine,” he replies, unruffled and oblivious. “Let me try again?”

You bite your lip, desperately trying to quell the mix of arousal and tension that’s churning in your stomach, begging your muscles to unwind. You’ve kept your crush a secret from him for this long, you can keep that energy up. (You have to keep that energy up.) “Um. Okay.”

You’re still tense when Taehyung puts his hands on you again. The touch is warm through your clothes, firm but careful, digging into the sharp line of tension laid across your shoulders; despite the way your heart is threatening to launch itself out of your chest, you start to loosen up, because holy shit that feels nice, actually.

You melt against Rilakkuma and smother the bear's face in your chest. “Your teacher wasn’t kidding when they said that you’re good with your hands,” you mumble. 

You’ve never gotten a proper massage before but it feels so damn good that you can’t help but unwind, turning to jelly at the confident presses of Taehyung’s fingers and palms into the soft skin between your neck and shoulder. A little sigh spills past your lips when Taehyung starts to work at the part that’s been twinging after you lay crookedly on it, limbs akimbo in your sleep after a long night at work. “Oh, right there, Tae.”

Taehyung goes still for just a second before continuing, trailing his fingers over your shirt. “Here?”

Your eyes have drifted shut so you can focus on the sensation of that tension being pulled out of your body. “Yeah, right there,” you repeat, massaged into a state of lazy euphoria. The breath you let out is long and deep, catching in the back of your throat at a particularly firm rub of Taehyung’s hands; if you weren’t so blissed out you might be embarrassed at how much the noise you make is like a moan, but as it is, you don’t even notice. You just let out a little sound of discontent when Taehyung’s fingers stutter in their motions, displeased that he’s stopped even for a second.

By the time the massage is over, you’re so relaxed that you feel like you could melt into the floor, a wobbly puddle of unwound muscles and loose limbs. It’s official. You’re a massage convert.

“Holy shit.” Your eyes flutter open as you lean away from Rilakkuma so you can turn around. They’re the first coherent words you’ve spoken for a while; small sighs and sounds have been dripping from your lips and it’s only now that you’re able to regain your breath. “Tae, that was amazin—”

You’re met with the sight of Taehyung’s back as he power walks away, steps rapid, a little shaky, awkward. Before you can ask what’s wrong, he’s stepping into the bathroom. 

“I need to wash my hands,” he says without looking at you, before the door slams shut.

You don’t remember Tae telling you about how quickly you have to wash your hands after finishing a massage. But, thinking about it, you suppose it makes sense—you know, with massaging multiple clients or whatever—even if it’s surprising exactly how fast he’d hoofed it away from you. It sounds like he’s switched both taps on full blast as well, noisy even through the wooden door, and judging from how long he’s in there, he’s being very thorough. Hand washing must be a lot more important than you’d realised. 

Once Taehyung emerges, his face is a little flushed, cheeks a soft red. You wonder if the hot water tap is playing up again and filling your dinky bathroom with hot steam, and make a mental note to look into it. You smile at Taehyung from your perch on the sofa, Rilakkuma plopped on your lap, smile spread across your features; one that Taehyung returns, as pink-faced as he is.

“How’s your shoulder feeling?”

“So much better, honestly,” you admit. It’s incredible. He hasn’t even finished the course yet and he's already this good. He really does have magic hands.

“I’ll have to give you massages more often,” Taehyung says, though the end of the sentence trembles a little. He must be light-headed after all the steam in the bathroom.

The thought of more massages doesn’t fill you with as much mind-numbing trepidation as it might have earlier, utterly languid as you flop across the sofa, muscles uncoiled after the lovely touch of Taehyung’s even lovelier hands. No wonder people rave about spa days if they leave you feeling like this. Maybe if you’d been staring at Taehyung in the eye when he’d been touching you, then you’d feel a lot more awkward—as it is, it’s no worse than usual. Your crush is still all-encompassing but you also got a massage out of it, so.

“Sounds great.” This time you don’t even have to fake your excitement. “Now come sit your butt down so we can order some takeout and decide what to watch.”

When you bend down to speak to Pickles later, the bearded dragon is lolling on his favourite branch. “There’s still a high chance that I’m going to die,” you say in a low voice, before you flick the lights off so the lizard can sleep. “But he hasn’t broken out the oils yet, so I think I’ll be okay for now.”

--

Your luck doesn’t last.

“Strawberry and champagne, lychee martini, mint mojito, white chocolate, or tropical coconut?”

You look up from where you’re painting your toenails. “Huh?”

Taehyung bundles into the room and throws himself onto your bed, flopping on his belly and ignoring the way the mattress is jostled. You, of course, are used to his antics, which is why you’d swept your open bottle of nail polish up before he could spill it everywhere.

“What do you think sounds best?”

“Well, that depends,” you say, squinting at your toes and carefully sweeping the polish over the freshly buffed nails. “For candles, I think they sound pretty nice. For sauces to pour over a steak, I’d say I’d give them all a hard pass. What’s it for?”

“Massage oils,” Taehyung says blithely, too busy staring at his phone to see you muffle a curse when your hand slips and you paint your entire little toe blue. “I was wondering which you think sounds best.”

“Oh. Uh.” You fumble to clean your toe and salvage the now-terrible pedicure you’re trying to give yourself. It was only a matter of time before massage oils were going to become part of your life. Taehyung never goes into things half-hearted, so of course he’s going to invest in oils, too. God’s sake. You can never catch a break, can you? “Why these ones in particular?”

Taehyung pauses for a suspiciously long time, but it gives you the chance to furiously rub at your toe while he’s distracted. “We get a free bottle from the course,” he says eventually.

Huh. Okay. “That’s pretty neat. What was the last one? Coconut? Stick with the basics, can’t go wrong with that, right?”

“Coconut is always tasty,” Taehyung comments absently, and you glance up from your Smurf toe.

“Agreed, but it’s not like you’re about to eat massage oil, are you?”

Taehyung pauses, and then buries his face into his phone screen—suddenly very intent on rereading the list of ingredients in each bottle, it seems. “No, of course not, you’re right,” he mumbles.

He’s almost finished the course. He’s not going to be an accredited masseuse or anything, but you definitely think he could be, if he wanted to—you’ve never had less tension in your shoulders and neck in your life. Taehyung always eases his way into your personal space anyway, casual and effortless after years of friendship, but now you’re used to his fingers sliding over the back of your neck, a gliding touch, sending tense little goosebumps over your skin while simultaneously making you melt. 

“It’s pretty cool that you get free stuff, though.” Your toe is clean, thankfully, no longer blue. “And not just, like, a generic bottle of oil or something. They all sound really fancy. I didn’t realise that you could get massage oils that were scented like that?”

Taehyung makes a non-committal noise, which is uncharacteristic of him, but you’re too focused on repainting your final nail to pay it too much mind, letting out a loud huff of triumph when you’re done.

“Get me a bag of shrimp crackers, please?” You have a sudden craving but you don’t want to penguin waddle to the kitchen and risk getting anything on your wet nails. “Ya girl is hungry.”

“Got it.” Taehyung rolls off the bed without protest. You’re used to his antics, and he’s used to yours, indulging you whenever you feel lazy or want him to do something for you. “You need me to feed you?”

“I wasn’t going to use my toes to feed myself,” you laugh, but Taehyung ends up feeding them to you anyway.

When you recount the list to Seokjin later, his face crumples in a way that’s equal parts offended and disgusted. “They all sound terrible,” he says. “White chocolate should stay in chocolate form and not be turned into an oil. Why does massage oil even have to smell like anything?”

You’re both holed up in the tiny smoking nook behind Olive Chicken; neither of you smoke, but it’s a good excuse to go outside and get fresh air during longer shifts. 

“Hey, don’t ask me, I’m not the one who’s taking the course. I think lychee martini sounds interesting, though.”

“Agree to disagree.” Seokjin unwraps one of the complimentary chocolates the restaurant gives to diners with their bill, swallowing it whole. “Besides, we all know Taehyung could approach you with dirty, used fryer oil and you’d let him dip you in it.”

You slap the next chocolate out of his hand before it reaches his mouth. He’s unmoved and simply plucks another from his pocket, which is apparently bulging with them.

“Yoongichi,” Jin says, calling to the delivery boy, who’s just appeared from the dark like some tired-eyed spectre of fried chicken. “Tell me this. If I were to ask you what smell of massage oil you’d prefer, what—”

“I would say that I really could not care less.” Yoongi flops down on one of the rickety fold-out chairs before silently accepting a chocolate from Seokjin’s stash. “And then I’d ask why you’re asking me in the first place, seeing as you’re the one using it, not me. If Taehyung’s asking what massage oil you’d prefer, Y/n, it’s because he wants to rub it all over you specifically.” Yoongi munches on the chocolate, already filling in the blanks without needing to be told the context. You really are that transparent, huh. “Please, we’ve been over this.”

Jin pouts. “You ruined my set up. I had a whole speech prepared.”

“Oh no.” Yoongi remains blank-faced. “How terrible.”

“I hate both of you,” you say. “I’m going to tell Pickles how mean you are.”

“I bet if that lizard could talk, he’d tell you how tired he was of you two dancing around each other, just like the rest of us,” Yoongi says.

There’s no dancing around, though, no matter what your friends say. Well. Not on Taehyung’s end anyway. You’re out here doing the fandango, castanets and all, while Taehyung just stands stock still, oblivious.

You let out an incredibly long sigh. Seokjin hands you a sympathetic chocolate.

The massage oil doesn’t make an appearance in your life for a little while, though. The end of the course comes and goes, Taehyung proudly flapping the laminated certificate at you, wobble-wobble-wobble, filling the apartment with the sound of rippling plastic. But no coconut oil.

The scent of ‘tropical coconut’ has started to haunt your dreams, in a way that’s both good and bad; when you wake up in a sweat, heart pounding, it’s not because you’re having nightmares, let’s just put it like that. It’s like there’s an invisible countdown that you can’t trace and it’s only a matter of time before it ticks over and the shoulder massages (that you’ve gotten very comfortable with) edge into something different. Taehyung’s going to innocently offer to give you a backrub and uncap that bottle of scented oil and you’re going to explode into a mess of putty under his hands.

Well… then again… you had been worried about that with all the shoulder rubs. Now look at you. You weather those like a champ. Sure, your skin tingles and you run hot and you think about the sensation of Taehyung’s hands gliding over you whenever you’re alone, but you’re basically fine. Your friend who just so happens to also be the great love of your life remains none the wiser.

You bet a full back rub would feel great after a long week.

Which is why when Taehyung steps into the apartment with a look on his face that you immediately recognise as tiredness, you sort of wish you knew how to massage people, too.

He falls into your arms with little fanfare. It’s been one of those days, one of those ones that everyone gets, even Taehyung—he’s usually so Switched On and Exuberant and Alive, and people don’t seem to realise that even he feels exhausted, sometimes.

“You alright, bubs?” You can’t massage him but you can rub his back soothingly, let him snuffle against your neck. Sometimes you think about that little space between your chin and collarbones as Taehyung’s, a hollow that’s perfect for him to press his face into, hair tickling your chin as he curls up into you. His and his alone. “Did something happen?”

He just shakes his head.

“Okay,” you say.

(Close proximity and skin on skin with Taehyung doesn’t always have your pulse rising and your heart racing. Sometimes it’s just this: quiet and soft, your heart bright with fierce affection for this boy, the only thought in your mind that you want him to be happy, forever.)

The long silence is broken by the sound of Taehyung heaving in a breath before letting out a long, exhausted sigh. 

“Thank you.” His voice is quiet and low, far less energetic than his usual self.

“Nothing to thank me for, Tae,” you reply. “Always here for you. You know that, right?”

He doesn’t respond straight away. He just burrows closer, draped over you, until he murmurs, barely audible. “Why?”

Your face twists. “Why, what? Why am I always here for you?”

“Yeah.” Taehyung squeezes himself impossibly closer, skin warm against yours, forehead pressed to the skin of your neck. You can’t see his expression from this angle.

“Because you’re one of my best friends and I love you,” you answer, immediately. You don’t even have to think about it. “Because you’re important to me and if there’s anything I can do for you, I will. I’ll celebrate the good things in your life with you, and I’ll be at your side during the bad times, just like you are with me. Please don’t ever forget how much I love you, okay?”

There’s a pause, and then it feels like all the tension leaves Taehyung’s body, slumping his whole body weight against you. “Okay,” he murmurs. “I love you too. Thank you,” he says again. You just reply by squeezing his shoulders.

He’s a little quieter for a few days after that. You’re not sure why, because he’d perked up after a lazy evening of lying around and eating too many snacks, flopped against you like an oversized, clinging starfish—but you’re gentle with him nonetheless. 

(Well. You’re always gentle with him. It just takes you half a second to fold in the face of his whims, rather than a whole, full second.)

So when the dreaded bottle of oil finally appears, you’re far less ready to fight off Taehyung’s insistence on a full body massage, caught off guard after days of indulging him. Fuck. 

“You’ve had a long week!” Taehyung insists as you scrabble your way over the sofa’s backrest so you can hide behind it, clutching a cushion to your chest. “You need to relax!”

Without looking you fling the cushion over the sofa. Judging from the fact that Taehyung doesn’t make a sound, you’ve missed. “I was feeling perfectly relaxed until you started yelling at me about it! Why are you so obsessed with the idea of me being relaxed?”

Taehyung doesn’t respond. Oh, crap. Maybe you did hit him with the cushion?

You pop up from behind the sofa. Nope. It's an embarrassing distance away from Taehyung, who’s got that surprisingly large bottle of oil held loosely in his hands. There’s an expression on his face that you can’t decipher; a little crestfallen, a little unsure, but there’s something else there, too, something you can’t put a name to.

“Taehyung?”

“I just… wanted to help,” he says. “You’re always there for me when I’m not feeling great, and you calm me down, and I wanted to do the same for you.”

You immediately feel like the worst human being alive. Take the feeling you get whenever you accidentally step on an animal’s tail, multiply it by infinity, and that’s only just a drop in the ocean of awful, awful guilt that you’re drowning in. 

“Oh, Tae,” you say. Your voice comes out so much softer and sweeter than you mean it to, but you can't help it. “I’m sorry. I was just joking. It’s really nice of you to be so concerned. You just surprised me. You do help me relax and your massages are great.” (You tell him that often enough that he should know it, but it never hurts to repeat a compliment.)

His face lifts. It’s like the sun bursting forth from the clouds after heavy rain, and you have to resist the urge to shield your eyes, blinded by the brightness and beauty. Kim Taehyung is so unfairly gorgeous (but what else is new?). “So I can give you a massage?”

Despite the fact the prospect makes you want to fling yourself into space, when you’re faced with Taehyung’s dark eyes and wide smile and large, warm hands, you cave, because of course you do. If, way back when you’d first been frying up that kimchi rice and letting Taehyung thrust his phone into your face, you’d been told you’d end up in this position, you would have laughed outright. Haha, yeah, sure, like you’d be stupid enough to let yourself be wrangled into such a vulnerable state in front of Taehyung, nowhere to run, helpless under his fingers. Not.

But here you are. Whipped for Kim Taehyung, forever and always.

The pastel blue towels under your stomach and chest are soft as they shield you from the cold, hard floor. You’re incredibly aware of how chilly the apartment feels, air prickling against your bare skin; you shift to try and get comfortable, glancing over your shoulder to fiddle with the towel that’s draped over your hips and ass, making sure it’s covering everything. Taehyung insists on authenticity (as if you’re not lying on the floor of your apartment rather than on a massage table) and he says that it’s normal to be completely naked for a full-body massage, even underneath any towels that are covering you up.

Authenticity is also why he’s in the other room, warming up the massage oil, because that’s apparently a thing?

(You’re going to die.)

It doesn’t matter that Taehyung will only be able to see the back of your head, your shoulder blades, the small of your back, a slip of your thighs, your calves. None of these things are especially scandalous; all the parts of your body that someone might find more interesting are out of sight, pressed against the floor or hidden under a layer of Egyptian cotton microfibres. 

And yet you can’t help but be hyperaware of how you’re entirely unclothed. Even if it doesn’t bother Taehyung—what with, you know, the fact he’s not interested in you like that and doesn’t find you attractive at all (sigh)—embarrassment creeps hot and uncomfortable under your skin.

It just feels so crazy intimate to be laid out like this, even if people do this all the time, happily strip down to let professionals rub the tension out of their body. 

(Then again, most people aren’t best friends with their masseuses and haven’t harboured long, one-sided crushes on them, either.)

Just breathe. You can do this. You love the shoulder massages that Taehyung’s been giving you; just think of this as a shoulder massage. 

… A shoulder massage that involves warm oil, near-nakedness, and Taehyung’s hands sliding all over you.

… You are going to have a very long venting session with Pickles after all this.

You’re so distracted by your own self pity and distress that you don’t register the sound of Taehyung entering the room; the little pause when he steps over the threshold, feet stuttering, just for a moment. It’s only when he’s kneeling down that you notice his presence, body jolting from surprise before you let out a slip of high laughter.

“Jesus, Tae,” you say. In any other circumstance, you’d be clutching your chest. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” He sounds genuinely apologetic.

Your cheek is pillowed on your arms. When you turn to look at your best friend you immediately regret it; he’s settled back on his ankles, knees spread wide, and you come eye-to-eye with his crotch.

In an effort to look away from his clothed dick, your gaze flies up to his face, which might be even worse. He has this intense look in his eyes, and wow, alright, you’ve never been able to see Taehyung’s face as he’s been massaging you, but you never realised exactly how seriously he seems to take it, judging from his expression.

(Do all massage therapists look like that when they work?)

“That’s alright.” You’re a little breathless, but you’re going to blame that on how your boobs are smooshed into the floor, and not on anything else, nuh uh. Shoulder massage. It’s a shoulder massage. It’s just like a full bodied shoulder massage. (Maybe if you repeat it to yourself often enough then you’ll actually start to believe it.) “Uh. Do you need me to… do anything? Or do I just lie here?”

Taehyung’s expression lightens a little at the uncertainty in your tone, smile curling up the corners of his mouth. “You’re perfect right where you are,” he says, and then he reaches for the bottle of oil.

You turn your head away again, cheeks burning. There’s no way you’ll be able to handle the visual of him slicking his fingers and palms up. “Cool,” you say, voice only a little strained. “Coolcoolcoolcool.”

(It’s not cool.)

You don’t have a visual, but you do get the auditory experience thanks to the relative silence in the apartment. Goosebumps ripple down the back of your neck and trail down your spine at the sound of Tae’s hands sliding against each other, thoroughly coated in the warmed oil, and you’re so glad that you can blame it on the chill in the air.

At first, it’s okay. Taehyung starts at the parts of your body that are used to receiving his attention, though it’s different without the barrier of clothing in the way, not to mention how easily his palms glide over you, the air full of the light scent of coconut. It’s different, but manageable, and you think you just might be okay; as always, his touches are firm but careful, and your body is used to this by now, relaxing.

But. The second you feel Taehyung’s touch between your shoulder blades, you stiffen with a shiver. The oil is the perfect temperature against your skin, but you’ve always had a sensitive back; you can’t help but clench your fists, digging your fingers into your palms. Relax. Just breathe. 

“You’ve got a lot of tension here.” Taehyung’s voice is low as he digs the heel of his palm into the dip of your spine.

It’s because you’re touching me there, you think to yourself, but just let out a non-committal hum of agreement instead. 

You feel Taehyung's hands, a repeated sliding motion between your shoulder blades; the tension starts to leak out of you again, but your breath hitches in your throat at how you're pressed downwards and into the cotton towels beneath you, nipples hardening against them.

Thank God you're on your front so Tae can't see what effect he's having on you.

“Better?”

Taehyung's voice is always deep, but you'd swear it was even deeper in this moment, pitched low. Maybe that’s because the sound of blood pumping is filling your ears so it’s hard to discern. At this point, who even knows? Not you, that’s for sure.

“Yep.” Why are you so breathless? You haven’t moved at all, but you sound like you’ve just run the 100m sprint, winded and weak. “So much better.”

You regret agreeing to this. You are so out of your depth and there’s no way you’re going to be able to hide exactly how much this is affecting you and you want to collapse in on yourself and shrivel up like a sundried tomato, tiny and wrinkly and underwhelming. 

Taehyung shifts to reach more of you and you squeeze your eyes shut so you don’t come face first with his crotch again, shielding yourself from the view of his loose linen trousers stretched almost taut with how wide his knees are. It’s both a blessing and a curse—a blessing because you’re saved from aforementioned view, but a curse because your sensation of touch is heightened, and all you’re aware of is his hands sliding down your sides. You’d swear those fingers were so long he could circle your waist with ease.

(Massages are meant to relax you and yet you’ve never felt so tense in your life.)

Taehyung clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. “I can’t get a good angle like this,” he mutters.

Before you can think anything or say anything, you become aware of the sound of moving and shifting and—

Your eyes fly open. Taehyung’s straddling your thighs, heavy and warm, and you suck in a breath so sharp and fast you can feel your chest expand, brain full of the screaming clang of warning bells. There’s no way this is a normal masseuse thing. There’s no way. It’s intimate and entirely too physical and there’s absolutely no way that this is something Taehyung learned in class. 

(What is he doing?)

But then any coherent thought in your brain slips when his hands settle on you again.

They so, so lightly brush the hem of the towel that preserves your modesty, and you can’t help the full-body shiver that wracks through you. You suck your lips into your mouth, swallowing down the noise that threatens to bubble up in your throat. There’s the sensation of fingers trailing up the line of your spine, feather light, smoothed by the slide of oil, and you feel like molten lava, burning hot and bright.

“Taehyung.” Your voice is high and faint.

His fingers splay down your ribcage and run down your sides, confident and smooth, warm with that coconut-scented oil, and you’re dying, you’re living; you want to disappear, you never want this to end. 

“Taehyung,” you repeat. Your voice shakes.

He hums, low and indulgent. “Yes?”

“M-my thighs,” you stammer, unable to articulate yourself. Why are you on my thighs, oh God, you’re so warm and heavy on top of me, oh God oh God oh God.

Taehyung completely misunderstands you. “Oh? Of course.” He sounds nonchalant. “I’ll massage those next.”

You can feel the drag of his linen trousers against your skin as he moves down to rest on your calves, and hear the bottle open as Taehyung drizzles more oil over his hands, far more than he could possibly need. His palms feel so broad and warm against the smoothness of your thighs, touches firm and confident as he digs his fingers into the muscle, and, oh, fuck, this is, this is too much—

Your legs jump when Taehyung hitches the towel up, just a little, baring more of your body.

“Fuck.” You can't keep quiet any longer. “Tae, I’m fine, I’m feeling way less tense now.”

He’s still, for a moment, before his hands slide up the back of your thighs. “Are you sure? You want me to stop?”

It’s only then that you realise how deeply Taehyung is breathing, fast and low, voice rough and gravelled. His fingers rest in wait, warm and slick with oil; you’re so close to losing any modicum of modesty, only one motion away from that towel being rucked high enough that there’s nothing protecting you from Taehyung’s touch and eyes.

“I haven’t finished yet, though,” he continues, digging his thumbs into your skin as he pulls his hands down your thighs, mindlessly following the motions he’s been taught. “There’s still more to go.”

You could twist around to look at him but you’re almost afraid to look at his face, afraid of what you’d find there. He sounds as affected as you are, but there’s absolutely no way. There’s no way.

“You don’t need to do the whole massage if I’m feeling relaxed, right?” 

(Because you’re feeling so relaxed right now, of course, and not like you’re about to go supernova and burst into heat and light. Absolutely.)

(But.)

(But. Taehyung’s hands settle at the back of your knees, swiping the sensitive skin with his thumbs. You can’t see his face, but you can feel something in that touch, something more than skin deep, like it’s sinking into you, through skin and muscle and bone, in in in, settling inside you, a flicker of—of—)

“Want to do this perfectly for you,” he murmurs. You clench your hands at the husky note in his voice, nails digging so hard into your palms it hurts. “You deserve the best. I want you to feel good.”

He must be able to see your back rise and fall as you breathe in sharply.

“Taehyung.” Almost pleading. 

“Yes, love?”

You suck in another sharp breath. The pet name sounds so soft and sweet in his mouth, somehow, even with the heated edge to his voice. One that’s definitely there. You’re not imagining it. 

(You’re not.)

“Do you want me to make you feel good?” he continues.

Before you can think, you nod.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

You’re trembling. Taehyung’s still heavy and warm across the back of your calves, sliding one hand to the inside of a knee and up the soft skin of your inner thighs. You instinctively shift them apart, as far as you can with Taehyung trapping your legs, and, oh, his hand is going higher, oh—

His hand is so big, cupping your overheated sex. It’s hard to tell where the oil ends and your own arousal begins, flushed wet and hot; when he dips his middle finger between your lower lips, long and gentle and firm, you let out a noise you didn’t realise you were capable of. The angle is off, a little awkward, the motions of Taehyung’s fingers stifled by how you’re lying flush to the ground, but God, you’re so turned on it barely matters.

You’re hyperaware of everything. The soft touch of air on the cooling oil across your skin. The fall of the towel, bunched around your waist, slowly slipping to one side. Taehyung’s hand, his fingertips easing through the heat of you, sliding over your clit, over your entrance, slow and soft and amazing. 

“Again,” you plead. “Again, Tae, please.”

“Feels good?” He asks, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you nod, cheek still pillowed against your arm.

“So good,” you say. “But I want more, please, Tae.”

“Anything you want,” he murmurs.

Taehyung’s hand shifts between your legs again, so hot, so big, so reverent. The slide is smooth as his fingers press into your folds, practically gliding. You twist beneath him, letting out a noise of displeasure when he draws his hand away, but then he lifts off your calves. You let him thrust your legs apart before he resettles between them.

Just as you’re distracted with the towel being tugged away from your hips, baring you entirely, Taehyung slides a finger into your weeping cunt.

You whine. It's so long. Now that your calves aren’t trapped, there’s nothing to stop you from rutting back against his fingers. He splays his other hand over the soft flesh of your ass, encouraging the rolling motion of your hips, and you’re gasping, wanton in your noises of desire and pleasure. One finger becomes two, and then three, Taehyung’s voice a low undercurrent to your stuttered moans as he presses them as deep as he can.

“Just like that, angel,” he breathes. “Want you to feel good, keep making those pretty noises, let me know how good it is—”

“Taehyung,” you whine, dragging the syllables of his name out when he curls his fingers inside you, so amazing, hitting you in all the right places.

“Baby.” He sounds wrecked, words sliding together, and you haven’t even touched him yet. “You’re so hot n’ wet, fuck. So perfect. Just like that, keep moving like that.”

You can hear the slick sounds of his thrusts into you. He’s already learned what you like, twisting his fingers in a way that leaves you breathless; they’re so fucking long, sliding into your greedy cunt with ease, reaching so much deeper than your own can. His pretty lovely hands are on you, inside you, and you’re heady at the thought.

“There, Tae, don’t stop, please, p-please.” The coil twists tighter in between your legs, a taut thread that’s ready to snap. He listens, repeating the motion that’s pulling you closer to the edge, eyes wide, staring at the way you’re writhing underneath him; the way the oil on your back and legs shimmers in the light, the evidence of his touch all over you, shining. “Tae, oh, God, right there, yes, yes, yes—”

Your entire body goes tense and then you’re cumming around Taehyung’s fingers, clenching your thighs together, trapping him inside as you buck your hips. You grind back against his hand, a loud moan falling from your lips, drowning out the noise of awe that Taehyung makes when he feels your walls pulsate around him. You're warm and tight and wet, arousal flooding thick against his skin, and he lets out a stuttered groan, fingers buried knuckle deep inside you, feeling every wave of pleasure that rocks through your core.

You’re panting by the time you settle back down and barely make a sound when Taehyung drags his fingers out of you. When he leans down the oil on your skin feels tacky against his clothes, material sticking to you, chest to back, hips to ass. You can feel the hot curve of him through his trousers, his cock heavy, getting harder—and it feels sososo good.

Taehyung’s face is so close, now, chin hooked over your shoulder. Even though you can feel the hardness of his cock pressed against you, the smile on his face is so gentle. Your heart thrums in your chest.

“So cute n' pretty,” he says, and presses his nose to the soft curve of your cheek. Rather than coconut, all you can smell is his shampoo, familiar and homely and heady. “All over. God, I can’t believe you’d let me touch you like this. I’m so lucky. Was that good, baby?”

“Yes,” you say, and then, because you’re still floating in a light haze of disbelief: “I’m the lucky one.” 

Taehyung laughs, low and quiet. It’s a honeyed moment, dripping slow and sweet, even sweeter when he tilts his head forward. His lips are soft against your cheekbone, your jaw, and when you turn towards him, they’re even softer against your mouth. You can feel the shape of his smile, and it tastes so bright, small kisses that turn open mouthed, so perfect. Because you’re kissing Kim Taehyung, your Taehyung, something you’ve been dreaming about for so long, now—even if this entire situation is pretty unbelievable, honestly.

When you pull back, his eyes spark with unadulterated joy. He’s warm and heavy, pinning you down against the towels that are soft against your front; arching your spine, you lean back against the weight of Taehyung’s body, his cock fattening up through the layers of clothes that separate you. He lets out a breath of surprise before he grinds down, pressing that hard heat against you, and your cunt clenches.

“Can I finish the massage?” He asks, sounding almost eager, even with the rasp of lust in his voice. You can’t help but laugh, an affectionate giggle that has you knocking your foreheads together.

“Of course,” you say, and he catches your lips again, swallowing the last of your laughter, sweeping his tongue over your lips, inside your mouth, wet and hot and a little messy, but good. 

“You need to be on your back,” Taehyung continues, slow after the kiss is broken, and, oh, okay, that has you shivering. “If you want to?”

Of course you want to.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let me move.”

He shifts to give you room, but not before pressing a kiss to the back of your neck, the bump of the top of your spine, lips sliding against the oil that he’d rubbed there earlier, goosebumps erupting over your skin.

“So good to me,” he whispers. You don’t think he even means for you to hear it. 

(It’s said without thought; not thoughtless, no, but a soft little thing that says so much. A thought that’s slipped across his mind and fallen from his lips, warm and tender. Like you’re always good to him, and he sees it, he knows it, he feels it, he thinks it, and he’s almost in disbelief about it, because you’re so good to him.)

You feel warm and languid after cumming, loose-limbed as you flop onto your back. There’s no going back now. There’s no going back from this moment, naked and vulnerable under Taehyung, nothing hidden away any more—the soft fall of your breasts, your stomach, the lines of your hips, your fingers tightening in the towels spread beneath you as Taehyung’s eyes drink you in, wide and overawed at the sight of your flushed cunt, ripe and slick and ready for him.

(There's no more hiding how much you want Taehyung to have you, body and heart alike.)

You can see the shape of your body silhouetted on his clothes, where the oil has seeped into the material from how close he’d been pressed against you. You can see just how affected he is, cock straining against the loose linen of his white trousers, and you bite your lip to try and stifle the sound you make.

“Look at you,” Taehyung breathes, kneeling between your legs. “You’re so perfect.”

Your cheeks burn. “Taehyung, please,” you say, embarrassed. You really aren’t, especially in comparison to model-gorgeous Kim Taehyung, eyes dark and full of heated lust, hair falling in his eyes, effortlessly beautiful, always.

“You are,” he insists. “You have no idea how perfect you are.”

Before he reaches for the massage oil, he sucks the taste of you off his fingers, sloppy and messy. Your pussy throbs at the sight. And—you were also right about the visual being too much to handle, breath catching in your throat as you watch it drip into his broad hands. His palms shine as he rubs them together, interlacing his fingers, so graceful in their motions. You’re so wet from your orgasm, only getting wetter as you stare back at Taehyung, whose gaze has been heavy on you the whole time.

He starts at your collarbones. It’s even slower than before, and you ease underneath him, revelling in the softness of his touch. He sweeps his hands over your shoulders, down your arms, circling his long fingers around your wrists before lifting one of your hands. Your eyelashes flutter as he presses a kiss to your palm, a motion so full of adoration and tenderness it steals your breath away, and you squirm, shy.

“Tae,” you whine. “You can’t just do that.”

Of course he doubles down, lifting your other hand and repeating the motion, letting his lips linger between your head line and your heart line. “I can,” he says, words warm in your cupped palm. 

“I hope you didn’t do this in class.” Your voice is too weak for it to come out as the joke you mean it to be. 

Taehyung just shakes his head, mouth brushing over the tips of your fingers. “Only for you,” he says. “Did the whole class for you. I wanted—wanted an excuse to touch you more,” he admits, and your heart feels like it’s going to launch itself out of your throat.

“Then touch me,” you say, trying to sound confident even if your cheeks burn.

And he does. He lets your hands drop, gliding his touch back up your arms, down your body, over your legs; he massages your thighs and calves, digs his thumbs into the arches of your feet, circling his fingers around your ankles, shackles you don’t want to escape from. You feel so relaxed and lax, somehow, even if every touch has you biting your lip, anticipation roiling  in your stomach for what’s to come, Taehyung laying your legs down softly before he shifts back up, hands held out towards you—

—then he cups your breasts in his big, big hands and your back arches, fingers sliding over your nipples, glistening with coconut oil, circling them with the pads of his thumbs. You let out an embarrassing whine.

“Oh, Tae,” you beg. “More, please.”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

You smile at another soft, unexpected pet name, flustered, but then your eyes slide shut when Taehyung bends down to kiss your neck as he continues to run his hands over the swell of your breasts. He trails his lips over your oiled skin, shifts down, drawing a line from your neck to the valley of your chest, the hard line at the center of your ribcage.

“Tae,” you murmur, and then, feeling bold under the heat of Taehyung’s dark eyes— “Baby.”

He hums before laying another sloppy kiss against your sensitive skin. You can feel the curve of his smile in the kiss. “Yes, love?”

“Is it really okay for you to… you know… get that oil in your mouth? I don’t want you to get sick,” you say, concerned, even through the haze of your arousal. His lips shine with it, at how he’s been trailing his mouth over all the parts of your body that he’s touched.

There’s a short beat, and then Taehyung buries his head against your neck—in that little hollow that’s his, in a motion he’s done dozens of times. Except this time you’re naked and he still has fingers splayed across the soft skin of your chest, nipples dragging underneath his palms.

“You’re always so considerate.” His words are muffled against your skin. “It’s fine. It’s edible.”

“You got edible massage oil from your course?”

Taehyung hesitates. “No,” he admits. “I bought it. It’s edible and, uh. Safe for intimate use.”

You’re silent, just for a moment, and then you can’t help it. You start to laugh. 

“Kim Taehyung,” you say, body shaking with amusement. “Did you buy edible massage oil that you can also use as lube?”

Taehyung pulls his face away from your neck and glances up. You’re giggling at him, and he feels so full of love and affection; he can’t help but join in, both laughing at him, loud and carefree.

“It’s why I asked which one you liked,” he confesses, once he can catch his breath.

“I can’t believe you lied to me,” you say, but you don’t mind, really, and he knows it. You lift a hand to push hair out of his face, running your fingers down his scalp. He leans into your touch with a smile, bright and lovely, before he abruptly shifts one of his hands down so he can lick a hot, wet stripe across the skin of your breast.

That stops your laughter pretty fast, surprised hiccup shifting into a broken moan when he engulfs your nipple in the heat of his mouth. “O-oh,” you gasp. “Oh, Taehyung—”

“Been thinking about this for so long.” Taehyung’s eyes are lidded and dark as he leans back, watching the way you react to his touch, arching up towards him. “Wanted to touch you like this so much.”

“Wanted it too,” you breathe. “Wanted—oh, God, Tae, fuck—”

It’s overwhelming. Not just the way Taehyung is flicking his tongue over each of your nipples, pressing his lips against your skin, no—but the idea that he’s been hoping for this, too. Each wet motion of his tongue over your pebbled skin drags pulls out of you; Taehyung’s cock twitches at a loud keen that’s drawn from your lips, a wet patch of precum seeping through his boxers and trousers, darkening the fabric, even though you haven’t touched him yet.

When you reach out to grasp him through his clothes, his hips jolt forward and he bites off a surprised gasp, cutting through the sound with his teeth. He feels long and heavy as you stroke him, thumbing over the wet patch at his tip, hot, even through all those layers between your skin and his.

“I want to feel you, Tae,” you say, staring at him. “Inside me. Please.”

His breath hitches when you tighten your fingers around his shaft and drag your hand upwards, slow and intent. 

“The oil isn’t condom friendly,” he admits, abashed. 

“Then you can cum in my mouth,” you reply. No hesitation.

Taehyung’s eyes are so wide, but then he smiles, eyes squeezing into crescents, mouth turning up into that lovely, broad grin of his. He looks so sweet and sincere, and you feel like you could explode, stuffed overfull with love for him.

“You really are perfect,” he says.

“Only for you,” you reply, your smile just as bright.

He lays one final kiss to your chest, above your beating heart, before he starts to strip. The oil has obviously soaked through his shirt and onto his skin because it sticks when he peels it off and carelessly throws it aside. 

Just like his heart, Taehyung’s body is soft and lovely. You sit up so you can touch him properly, catching him off guard when you pull him in for a kiss—one he eagerly leans into, and without the shirt in the way you can feel the way your skin slides against his, softened with oil. 

There really is no one as beautiful as Kim Taehyung. You drag your hands over him, so warm and wonderful under your palms; his chest, his cute tummy, his waist, his hips, the soft skin above his red, neglected cock. He’s radiant in his nakedness, every easing line of his body so perfect as he kneels in front of you, the flush of his skin, the heavy weight of his arousal, head shining with precum, so wet it’s practically dripping.

You lean in to kiss his neck and nip at his Adam's apple as his hands slide over your shoulder blades and down your back, the parts that make you shudder.

“Want you, Tae.” You whisper into his mouth, a soft secret that isn’t really a secret at all, not any more. “All of you.”

“Going to give you everything you want.” The words flow out of him with ease. “Everything you want.”

His chest and stomach shine with the massage oil that’s rubbed off from your own skin. You run your hands across him, and when you finally grasp his cock without the barrier of cloth in the way, he’s almost burning under your grasp, thick, his entire body shuddering when you pump his length. So sensitive to your touch.

“I’m goin’ to make you cum again,” he promises, and you love it, the way he talks when he’s losing himself. “Bet you’ll feel so good around my cock, so perfect.”

A shiver skates through your body. Taehyung’s fingers dig into your skin when he feels you trembling under his hands, and all you can think about is how you want him in you.

“Please,” you say. “Please, wanna make you feel good too—”

“Hands and knees, angel,” he rasps, and, God, yes, those words cut straight through you, sharp and electric.

Maybe you should feel embarrassed at how quickly you obey. The towels underneath you, so carefully placed at the start, perfectly flat, become rumpled as you shift into position; you arch your back, wanting to look as good as possible, and glance over your shoulder to see if it works.

Judging from the look on Taehyung’s face, it does. He looks like he’s never seen anything more awe-inspiring, eyes wide and mouth a little slack, dumbstruck. But then his jaw snaps shut and he splays his hands over the soft skin of your hips, your waist, your ass, shuffling closer to you; you feel the curve of his cock slide against your skin and you bite back a noise of need.

“Fuck, so beautiful.” He ruts forward, and you can feel the wetness of his precum slicking against you, a beaded line drawn across the sheen of massage oil. “My beautiful, perfect girl.”

“Tae,” you plead, already overwhelmed with need, heart squeezing at his words.

“Just one more thing, angel, I promise.”

It’s a good thing that the bottle of massage oil is so big, considering how liberal Taehyung is with it. You gasp when he uses one hand to spread your ass and before you can react there’s a drizzle of oil falling onto your skin, down-down-down, over your cunt, dripping over your inner thighs; Taehyung catches the excess with his palms before he slicks himself up, spreading that sweet coconut over his throbbing cock.

(You wonder what it’ll taste like when you lick it off him.)

When you feel the blunt head of his cock nudging at your pussy, your entire body lights up in anticipation, nerve endings on fire, every inch of your body singing under Taehyung’s touch—and when he finally sinks in, it’s almost effortless. He’s thick and long but everything slides so easy; you gasp and he moans, both lost in how your body opens up for him, hot and wet. By the time he’s bottomed out you're a quivering mess, collapsed onto your elbows. You’re so full. You feel split open in all the best ways, wanting to draw him in impossibly deeper even so.

Taehyung is gripping your sides, hands unmoving even with the slick oil underneath them, fingers digging into your skin. He’s breathing so loud, and when you experimentally shift your hips, he bites back a noise that cuts through that breath.

“How’s it feel, love?” His words slur together in arousal, but the hand that strokes your back is slow, thoughtful. “Feel good?”

“Fuck me, Tae, baby, please,” you beg. It’s so, so so much, so good, amazing, hotter and bigger and harder than anything you’d let yourself imagine, your entire body taking Taehyung and holding him in, in, in. “Please, I need it, it feels good but I want more, please.”

When he pulls away it’s slow and torturous and he goes so far he almost slips out, cock nearly sliding out of your folds. You whine, a little shameless, mostly needy, but then—

The snap of his hips drives you forwards, towels shifting underneath as you scrabble for a hold on something. Each sharp motion of Taehyung’s body has you choking for air and letting out whimpers and gasps, drowned out by the slap of skin on skin; his hipbones meet the soft flesh of your ass, again and again, but all you can focus on is the thick heat of his cock inside you, in-out-in-out, the press of his balls against your clit, everything so wet and smooth and slick.

You can feel how you’re losing yourself to that heady place that’s golden bright with feeling, lust and sex, the rest of the world gone, unimportant. There’s nothing but this—Taehyung touching you, filling your body so well, so perfect, helping you chase that high that’s growing faster and faster, that precipice of pleasure that he’s going to throw you over again, intent on it.

One of his hands trails up your back, between that sensitive dip of your shoulder blades and into your hair, locks tangling with coconut oil before he urges you up. He doesn’t yank or pull but his hold is firm and you end up back on your hands, arms trembling as you try to keep your balance, back bowed, overwhelmed. 

“Baby,” he rasps. “Oh, you’re so tight n’ hot, so pretty, fuck. You feel so good, do you feel good?”

Your answer is almost a wail, so overcome with pleasure, sensation, the glide of his hands over your shining skin, the mix of oil and arousal that drips out of you, only getting wetter with each thrust of his hips into you. “So good, o-oh God, Tae, baby, fuck, oh, theretherethere—”

“Here?”

He punctuates this with a roll of his hips, using the hand still on your hip to pull you back onto his cock as he fills you up once more, throbbing heat. He bends over you, and this time, there’s nothing stopping the skin on skin contact, the slide of his chest against your back as he kisses the soft skin behind your ear, nipping at your lobe, and that’s it, you’re gone. Your eyes slide shut and your mouth falls open as another orgasm crashes through you, legs shaking as you cum around Taehyung’s cock, grinding back against him to drag out that pleasure; the only thing holding you up is the hand still in your hair, the lips trailing up the side of your bared neck, the hard cock inside you, keeping you against him, so many points of connection with Taehyung.

(His chest pressed against your back, heart beating so hard you can feel it, your own heart moving in tandem, matching him.)

He’s been whispering filth to you, heated praise and love, how good you feel, how beautiful you are, what it’s like to see you like this, touch you like this, have you like this. Lovely, pretty, perfect, gorgeous, hot n’ wet n’ tight, fuck, love, oh.

You’re still shivering, the final pulses of your orgasm curling through you with each unintentional shift of Taehyung’s hips, the drag of his length inside your inner walls. You can feel something dripping out of you; oil, cum, you don't know, but fuck, it feels so so good.

“Oh, God,” you say. Breathless. “Oh, Taehyung, oh.”

“Pretty darling,” he murmurs. He swivels his hips, grinding against you, and your entire body jolts with oversensitivity, clit swollen where his balls press against it. You tighten around him and groan at how hot and big he still feels inside, even as you still shiver from the come down of your second orgasm. “Gonna roll you over so I can see that perfect face.”

And when you’re on your back again, fucked out and mussed and wrecked, he just stares at you. You’ve watched his face for so long, seen so many expressions flit across his features, but never something like this—it’s a mix of amazement and awe and tenderness and lust and love, a lift to his brows and a spark in his eyes and a set to his lips.

And when he leans down to kiss you, that look doesn’t leave. It melts and softens around the edges as you catch each other's mouths, as you kiss and kiss, small tender things interspersed with longer, deeper touches, lips and teeth and tongue—his eyes darken and his mouth flushes darker pink, kiss swollen and so beautiful, but that expression stays. It stays for you. 

Kim Taehyung is beautiful and lovely and unique. Kim Taehyung is so far out of your reach it’s kind of stunning, actually. And yet, here you are, existence of his touch over every part of you, in every part of you, lust driven, love full; the carefully balanced weight of his body splayed over you, pinning you down, keeping you close.

“I wanna see you cum, Tae,” you say. “Please?”

And just like he always does, Taehyung indulges you, just like you indulge him. He presses back inside you, cunt opening up for him so easy, so smooth, like his touch has already been etched into the memory of your body, perfect for him. He stays pressed close, face so near as he rolls into each thrust, sweat and coconut oil painted across your skin as your bodies shift together.

He’s been covering you in his words, both heated and sweet, and now you return the favour. You tell him how good he feels, how beautiful he is, so good, so perfect, so considerate, how much you’ve wanted this. So good, so long and thick, oh, Tae, feels so good, ah-ah-ah, baby, you’re unreal, fuck.

You can see the exact moment he starts to reach his high, the way he sucks in air, the way he lifts his chin, starts to thrust a little harder, a little faster, chasing that thread of pleasure that’s spiralling through him, and you urge him on. You lift your hips and clench so tight it has him gasping, hips stuttering, and you press your nose against his jaw, saying give it to me give it to me give it to me, wanting him to feel the same pleasure he’s given you. 

When he pulls out, you’re too busy moving to pay attention to how empty you feel, settling between his legs and swallowing down his shining cock almost desperately. There’s no coconut. You can only taste yourself and when you lave your tongue across his slit it’s all Taehyung-Taehyung-Taehyung, hot and salt and bitter; he gasps and his hips jump and you take it all, lowering your head as far as you can, the head of his cock at the back of your throat before you pull up, dragging your tongue over the pulsing vein at the underside, messy and wet. You drink down the wetness of his cock, your own arousal, mixed with his, the precum that beads at his head, staring up at him, your hands sliding over the sheen of his stomach, his thighs, cupping his balls, everything slick with oil and sweat.

“Oh, God.” Taehyung’s eyes are blown and his hair is a mess and his mouth is wide open as he pants for air, watching. “Baby, baby, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum.”

You suck hard, dragging your lips up from the base of the cock to the rounded tip, swirling your tongue, bobbing your head faster—

“Oh, fuck—”

—and you swallow down each wave of cum, swallow down the way his cock twitches as he spills the evidence of pleasure into your mouth, swallow down the lovely noises that shudder out of him, watching him the whole time, never wanting to look away.

When you take your mouth off his softening cock, you draw a line of kisses with your mouth, up the soft skin of his body, stomach to chest to neck to mouth. He licks the taste of coconut oil off your lips, the taste of himself off your tongue; you curl up in his lap, settled against him, the apartment’s cool air even sharper against your skin, magnified by the oil that still lingers.

(Even without the oil painted across him, Taehyung would still shine, even under the weak light from the cheap lightbulb that hangs above you.)

You feel soft and warm and small in the circle of Taehyung’s arms, pulled close, and you can hear the words in his chest as he speaks, a resonance that touches against your skin.

“‘M sorry,” he murmurs. 

You pause.

“Baby, love, darling.” The endearments are sugar sweet in your mouth, soft against his skin before you pull back to look at him, confused, concerned. “Sorry for what?”

“I really—I really was just planning to do a massage, but you’re so…” 

You let out a slip of laughter. The room smells of coconut and sex, but when you lay your head against Taehyung’s collarbone all you can smell is the light tinge of his sweat. You breathe in, deep, like you can hold onto that ephemeral part of him. “Oh, Tae. I’m so what?”

“You’re so good,” he says. “So good and kind and lovely and—and so beautiful. I was going to do the massage to make you happy and then… tell you. About how happy you make me.”

You burrow your head into the hollow of his neck, the way he does to you, shy. “I’m not as beautiful as you,” you reply. “Tae, you are literally the most beautiful person alive, and—God, I’ve. I’ve been. So head over heels for you.”

There’s a pause. “Really?”

When you pull back to fix Taehyung with all the surprise in your gaze, you can see that he’s surprised, too. His hair hangs into his eyes, and he looks a little unsure, like he believes you, but finds it impossible to fathom.

You leave massage oil on his cheeks when you cup his face in your hands, staring at him with wide eyes. “Kim Taehyung, I have had daily breakdowns about the intensity of my love for you to Pickles ever since we got him. You’re the first person I think about each morning—usually because we wake each other up—and the last thing I think about at night—well, usually because you end up climbing into my bed more often than not, but, it still counts,” you say. You’re both tangled together in so many ways already. “You’ve had my heart for a long time, you know. I just never thought I had a chance?”

When Taehyung kisses you, it’s brief, a hard press of his lips before he rests his forehead against yours. “You really, really have no idea how perfect you are,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted—I want to do everything for you to show you how grateful I am for everything you do for me.”

“You don’t have to,” you protest, but he just smiles.

“I don’t have to, but I want to,” he says. “Like you don’t have to look after me, but you do.”

“That’s because I love you,” you say. “Like, capital L love you.”

You’ve been so afraid of confessing, so convinced that it was an unattainable dream; that Kim Taehyung would never, could never, has never seen you as more than a friend. But the way he’s looking at you now, the way he’s touched you, the way your body still echoes with the feeling of him inside you: you’re not scared, any more. You don’t need to be.

Taehyung’s eyes are so dark and warm when he replies, easy and effortless. “I love you, too.”

Your relationship has always been a give and take, is the thing. When you climb in the shower together, he washes the oil from your back while you massage shampoo into his scalp, laughing when he makes devil horns in his hair. He catches you by surprise when he presses you against the tiles, swallowing your moans when he coaxes one final orgasm from your tired body, rubbing tight circles over your clit as you buck against his hand and water cascades over you both. His cock hardens in your hands, sliding between your legs when you press them together, tight-tight-tight, his length rubbing against your cunt as he fucks your thighs until he’s moaning and shaking and cumming again.

(The water’s cold by the time you finally climb out, but that’s okay. You giggle and kiss as you dry yourselves, each other, excuses to keep touching and feeling, driven by affection, not lust.)

When you’re both clean, and dry, Taehyung’s leg thrown over your hip as he tugs you in, flush with his body under the covers, you press your lips against the line of his jaw.

“Taehyung?”

“Yes, angel?”

You smile and hunch up even closer to him, scrunching yourself up as small as you can to plaster yourself against his side. “Thank you for the wonderful massage. Definitely the best massage I’ve ever been given, ten out of ten, would do again.”

Taehyung laughs, pressing his rectangular smile into the kiss he lays against your lips, and you think that nothing tastes better than the happiness curling his mouth.

“Love you,” he murmurs. Always romantic. “I love you love you love you.”

“Tae-honey-hyung.” And it feels so nice to not have to filter your words, to bite back that second layer of meaning, to try and keep things platonic and chaste when you speak. “I love you.”

And it feels so nice to have your Taehyung beside you, your body still aching with the press of him inside you, a good ache, a nice ache. A physical ache from good love, rather than a heartache from a love you didn’t think was reciprocated. But it is, somehow, each of you so bowled over by each other.

--

(“Hey, Pickles.”

The bearded dragon looks up at you, placid as he lounges in his tank.

“Well, you’ll be happy to hear that you won’t have to put up with me ranting at you any more,” you say. “Taehyung did break out the massage oil but it’s all good. I didn’t spontaneously combust or anything, like I thought I would.”

Pickles’ tongue flicks out as he shifts, and you smile.

“Okay, that’s it, I’m done,” you finish. “Thanks, Pickles. You’re a real pal.”

Taehyung nuzzles into your neck. His arms are a tight circle around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder as he looks down at the reptile, too. He’s warm and solid against your back, and you lean into him, happiness tingling through you.

“I wonder how much longer we would have taken if you didn’t get that coupon for a massage therapy course,” you muse, and Taehyung chuckles, warm and lovely.

“We would have gotten there eventually. And we would have had each other until we did, anyway. Right, angel?”

Pickles stays quiet as you both kiss, but you can tell he approves.)

--

taglist: @beyoncesdragon​

[jayeray-hq]

How He Shows You Affection: Suna Rintarou

This was a request, but I unfortunately had to delete the original post because it wasn’t showing up in the tags! I hope you see it though anon and thank you so much for requesting!

Post Time Skip/Manga Ending Spoilers!

Warnings: Just a little hint of implied NSFW but mostly fluff!

How He Shows You Affection Masterlist - Character Masterlist

Thank you as ever to the amazing and beautiful Tay @deathcab4daddy​ for not only beta-reading for me, but for helping me figure out these stupid tags 😭

He Takes Pictures of You

           The familiar sound of a phone camera clicking had you blinking awake. You’d almost been asleep, but the sound had pulled you from the depths, and you blinked blearily up at your boyfriend. As per usual, he was the clear culprit, his phone out and pointed in your direction.

“Really, Sunarin?” you asked him, your voice rusty from sleep as you watched him pocket his phone, not a single sign of remorse on his features, “Right now?”

             “You looked cute,” he told you with a shrug, completely and utterly unapologetic.

             “I look like a mess,” you countered with a sigh, keeping your voice quiet so as to not wake the rest of the people on the bus.

 EJP Raijin was surprisingly accommodating to their players’ significant others, and from the very beginning they had let you travel on the bus to their away games with Suna if you wanted to. You didn’t get to go nearly as often as you would’ve liked, if you had your way, you’d go to every single one, but unfortunately, you had your own work so the times you could go were rather rare.

 However, for this particular match, you’d made sure to take time off in advance so you could attend. It wasn’t every day that your boyfriend got to play against one of his old senpai from high school, and despite being extremely laid back most of the time, you could tell that Suna had been really excited for it.

 The game against Aran and the Tachibana Red Falcons had been a rather epic one, with the entirety of the old Inarizaki team in attendance for once. Even Atsumu had managed to be there, his own team having gifted him the day off so he could watch. In preparation you’d gone all out, wearing the official EJP Raijin jersey with Suna’s name and number on it, and doing up your hair and make-up, even though the yellow might not have been the best color on you.

 It had been a lot of fun especially since you got to sit right up close with the rest of Inarizaki. However, now several hours after the game on the bus back, you were sure you looked a mess. No doubt the make-up you’d applied so meticulously was smeared across your face, and your hair in disarray. You were very sure you didn’t look anything close to cute, despite what your boyfriend said.

 “Delete it?” you asked him plaintively, though your hopes weren’t very high.

 From the beginning, Suna had made it clear that he thoroughly enjoyed taking pictures of you. Almost every time you’d turned around he’d had his phone out and pointed in your direction. It had been a bit disconcerting at first, but you’d slowly but surely gotten used to it.

 A part of you thought that if Suna hadn’t decided to become a volleyball player he definitely would’ve become a photographer of some kind. He had a gift for it. The only problem was that he used said gift to capture everyone at their absolute worst. You were pretty sure he could make even the most photogenic person in the world look like complete and utter garbage.

 The most annoying part of it was, he was perfectly capable of bringing out the best in everyone if he wanted to as well. He just chose not to. It could honestly be a bit infuriating at times, especially since you knew he had entire folders of you on his laptop looking completely and utterly hideous because he insisted it was hilarious and adorable.

 As his girlfriend it was no surprise that you were the one he photographed the most, which you might’ve objected to except unlike with others he was very conscientious and considerate of your photos. He never posted anything to his social media that he knew you wouldn’t like, and never shared any of your embarrassing photos with anyone.

 When you’d asked him about it once, he’d told you it was because he didn’t want to share those moments with anyone else. It was honestly almost cute, and would’ve been adorable if he hadn’t followed it up by teasing you. He’d gone on to show you all his favorites, which were quite frankly the most hideous pictures of yourself that you’d ever seen chuckling all the while and wondering aloud how such a cute person could take such ugly photos.

 You might’ve objected, except unlike with others Suna also went out of his way to take pictures of you that were surprisingly lovely. At times, he managed to capture things that made you question if the person in them was even you with how good they looked. He always kept one of those photos as his lock screen, claiming he wanted to show off how beautiful you were. Seeing it never failed to make your heart swell with affection, even if he did set his contact picture of you to something completely hideous.

 “Nope,” he told you as he tucked his phone away into his pocket, another no doubt awful picture of you added to his collection, “You know I don’t delete my pictures.”

 You heaved a sigh at that knowing was true, he really didn’t ever delete anything. You quietly resigned yourself to it again, your feelings a mix of annoyed fondness for your boyfriend who insisted you were his greatest muse.

 “Fine,” you agreed with a pout, “but no more tonight Rintarou. I want to sleep.”

 “No promises,” he told you with an amused chuckle, making you huff at him unhappily, “It’s your own fault for being so cute.”

 You rolled your eyes at that, but did allow him to pull you into his side so the two of you were resting comfortably together, snuggled up as close as the seats would allow. His warmth and your own exhaustion quickly began to pull you back under, and you began to nod off again. This time when the camera shutter sound went off you firmly ignored it, feeling a swell of exasperated fondness for your boyfriend who could never get enough.

 He Seeks You Out

             During your relationship with Suna, you’d thought more than once that he was actually more like a cat than a fox the way he liked to claim. You’d never say so to his face, because he’d no doubt find some way to turn it on you, but some of his actions really were positively cat-like.

             If you told others, they would most likely say it was in the way he was so incredibly choosy about who he spent his time with, the way he liked to provoke people, and just generally be a jerk because it genuinely amused him. However, in your case it was actually in the way he sought you out, and then proceeded to drape himself all over you.

             It didn’t seem to matter where you were or what you were doing, if the two of you were in the same vicinity, Suna eased his way into your presence and demanded your attention. At home if you were on the couch, reading a book, or watching TV, he’d lay his head in your lap and stare up at you until you started to pet him before turning his attention to his phone. If you were laying in bed, he’d lay himself on top of you, nearly always knocking the air from your lungs and absolutely refusing to move despite your protests. If you were sitting at your desk, he was behind you, bent over with his chest pressed to your back and his sharp chin resting either on top of your head or dug into your shoulder with his arms around you.

             It wasn’t just at home either. Suna had never particularly cared about the opinions of others, and the fact that public displays of affection were looked down upon didn’t bother him one little bit. He was always coming up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist from behind and leaning as much of his weight on you as you could take, his face nuzzled insistently against your face or neck. It was more than a bit embarrassing at times, especially since he didn’t care who you were speaking to or if you were in the middle of something.

             In addition, whenever he was cuddled up to you, he always wanted your hands on him, preferably in his hair. The man went practically limp with pleasure whenever you played with it, scratching your nails gently over his scalp. The only thing he really needed to do was start purring to complete the feline image you had of him.

             The funny thing was that the minute he was cuddled up to you and sure that he was taking up your attention, was he then promptly dozed off. You weren’t quite sure why he was so insistent about sleeping draped all over you, but it was this more than anything that made you think he truly was feline at heart.

             It was honestly kind of cute if you were honest with yourself, with as much of a jerk as he portrayed himself to be, you never would’ve guessed he was the clingy type. However, he really was, even if the way he went about it was a bit annoying, since he didn’t seem to care at all about what you were doing or if his clinging to you made things difficult.

             The two of you had been teased more than once about the way Suna went out of his way to find you whenever he wanted a nap. He’d even referred to you as his personal pillow on more than one occasion, but you couldn’t bring yourself to object. You thought it was sweet, and enjoyed how incredibly physically affectionate he was. Especially since he never protested when you wanted to turn the tables and sleep on him, even if he did tease the hell out of you for it.

             He really was a jerk sometimes, but he was your jerk, and you loved him, just the same way his insistent cuddling let you know just how very much he loved you.

 He Shares His Blackmail with You

             You glared at the blond setter who just looked back with a smarmy grin on his face, clearly entirely too pleased with himself. The twins could be annoying, but were usually fairly respectful when it came to you. Today however, for whatever reason, Atsumu had decided to go out of his way to tease you.

             You were honestly trying to be a good sport about it, but he was frankly getting on your last nerve. You wanted nothing more than to do something that would knock him off his high horse, but had no clue what to do to make him back off. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue, as Kita was pretty good at keeping both twins under control at reunions like this, but unfortunately, he hadn’t been able to make it today. Aran probably would’ve tried to step in, but the man was a little preoccupied dealing with an incredibly drunk Akagi who was stirring up trouble.

             Osamu might’ve helped you, but he was also finding Atsumu teasing you fairly amusing, and was simply watching on. You’d already tried appealing to him, but he’d insisted you didn’t get teased enough at gatherings like this, and it was only right that it be your turn. This, of course, left you with only one option, one you wouldn’t normally resort to, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

             Normally, one would think that your boyfriend should’ve been your first line of defense in situations like this. However, Suna was the kind of man who firmly believed you were more than capable of standing on your own two feet, and would only step in if you asked him to. If things were dire, or your feelings were actually being hurt, he’d do it with no hesitation, verbally eviscerating anyone who tried to mess with you.

             However, in a situation like this, where you were simply being teased, and he was also amused by said teasing, the situation wasn’t nearly as clear cut. What you offered had to be worth more than the entertainment he was already getting, and judging by the amused smirk on his face he was incredibly amused.

             “Rintarou,” you pleaded, giving him your best pout, “Help me?”

             “What’s in it fer me?” he asked teasingly, as Atsumu sputtered at the tactic you’d chosen to use, claiming you were cheating.

             “The love and affection of your beloved girlfriend?” you tried, batting your eyelids at him, making him chuckle in amusement.

             “Nice try,” he told you, his pale citrine eyes gleaming with mirth, “But I’m goin’ to need somethin’ more than that.”

             Your mind whirled, trying to figure out what you were and weren’t willing to offer him, based on how annoyed you were with Atsumu. The man himself wasn’t helping his case, guffawing at what he saw as a failed attempt and only riling you up further. You flipped through several ideas before settling on the perfect thing. Your lips curled into a smirk as you gave Atsumu a slow, triumphant smile that instantly had him shutting up, a wary look settling on his face.

             “Oy, I don’t think I like that look in yer eyes,” Atsumu informed you, leaning back a bit, though you promptly ignored him, all of your attention on your boyfriend who was watching you with interest.

             “Sunarin, if you help me with Atsumu I’ll let you do that thing you mentioned last weekend,” you coaxed, your words heavy with innuendo as you stared him down, “If you throw in Osamu too, I’ll even wear your favorites.”

             “Done,” he agreed instantly, pulling out his phone and pulling up several blackmail photos as both twins squawked in the background, Osamu protesting being dragged into it. It was his own fault, he should’ve helped you when you asked.

             “Since when do ya share that with anyone?!” Atsumu whined. His dignity completely shattered as he stared at his own phone in horror at the images that he’d just been tagged in that had appeared on his timeline, “Ya wouldn’t even give me any blackmail pictures, not even when I bribed ya. That’s unfair!”

             “Suna’s sharing his blackmail collection?” Aran asked, coming over from where he’d finally finished wrangling Akagi, as Osamu let out a low groan of despair, “With who?”

             “With her,” Atsumu told him, pointing at you dramatically, not that you cared a bit. Suna had come up behind you to drape over your back, his phone held in front of you, so you could pick the next few awful pictures of Atsumu to post online yourself.

             “Huh, guess he really must be in love,” Aran mused mostly to himself, though you couldn’t help but agree.

             Suna loved you, even if he did have odd ways of showing it at times. After all the couple that blackmails together, stays together.

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

The Auction - Tool

Inspired by this prompt by @justplainwhump . 

Tool uses he/they pronouns and shout out to the amazing people who beta read this for me! @haro-whumps @walkingchemicalfire @unicornscotty @much-ado-about-whumping @valkyrie-whump Thank you all for your help! 

(also @whump-it named Cog and I do plan to do a little more with him.) 

CW: human trafficking/slavery, dehumanization (not pet whump, just "less than"), physical abuse, creepy whumper, conditioned mindest, references to the Machine, diss//ociation, loss of control, broken whumpee, manhandling.

[Tool Masterlist] 

Tool stood perfectly straight, hands clasped behind his back against the wall. The guests milled around the room, crystal glasses clinking and low refined music drifting over the crowd. The latest stock was ready, and the Mechanic had invited people to the manor to view. There would be an auction later, in which Tool was supposed to keep things running smoothly behind the scenes. He was to take care of everything behind the scenes.

They had been working non-stop to get the ballroom ready for the auction. They had sent one of the little cleaning robots – the one they had affectionately named Engelberger – to make sure the floor was clean and prepared. Engelberger was in the ballroom, Nobel was in the hallways, and Tesla was in the parlor. Tool let them work in the background, then hurried the bots away back to the charging stations. The Mechanic wouldn’t care if the bots were out and about, but Tool didn’t like the idea of them getting stepped on.

It was easier to care about them than the stock kept in the back bays. Tool never heard Tesla crying when he walked by the station, never saw Engelberger tremble in fear when he approached or watched the light fade from Nobel’s eyes.

No, Tool preferred the litter of robots. Besides, they would be the only ones left after tonight.

So Tool stood back, dressed in the black slacks and black button-up shirt that the Mechanic had given them. Waiting, savoring the simple act of breathing.

The stock was lined up against the other wall, available for appraisal and perusing. Heads down, hands hanging loosely by their sides. Tool had promised, promised, himself that he wasn’t going to get attached. No point. There was nothing that he could offer besides gentle movement or the rare soft word. Nothing could be done, nothing at all.

The one at the end of the line caught his eye again. Cog.

The man was utterly crushed at this point. Worse than the others, even worse than Tool. Their heart ached for him, for the empty way that he moved. Tool had tried to help, really tried, but Cog still ended up hollow. But he was supposed to be hollow – right?

Tool was too deep in thought, too distracted to notice the man that was quickly approaching. Before they knew it, he was up close, inspecting them.

“Is it true? That you’re all submissive and shit?”

Light blue-green eyes skated across the man’s face, desperately trying to figure out what to do. In the end, they did nothing. The man leaned forward, measuring Tool against some invisible standard only he knew. Tool’s brow’s furrowed, subconsciously leaning away with shallow breaths.

“He’s not just, like, paying you to act like this?”

Their face must have conveyed their confusion, because the man grinned.

A slap. Open handed, holding nothing back. Tool’s head snapped to the side, disoriented by the sudden strike. They looked back, only to be struck again. After the fourth they stumbled, hand reaching out to the wall for balance. Their cheek stung sharply and they had accidently bitten their tongue, eyes watering. What had they done wrong to deserve this?

A few others had gathered behind the aggressor, sipping from their champagne flutes and observing. Tool didn’t look to them for help, didn’t expect it.

“Oh my god, you really don’t do anything, do you?”

Tool nodded along, hand coming up to gently cup their cheek. It was hot to the touch. Skin sensitive.

“He said you were top of the class before; is that true? Biomedical whatever.”

He kept his eyes down, finally balanced enough to let go of the wall and stand straight. Yes, biomedical engineering – not that it mattered anymore. Tool didn’t really like to think about before. He could never go back there, never fit back in. Graduate school was for whole people, for those who had a future and ambitions. He didn’t have those anymore; didn’t need them. No, Tool was just that; a tool for others to use. He had a specific skillset, but so did the Mechanic’s rachet set and no one would send that to school.

“Where?”

“Ralford, Sir.”

The man whistled. “Damn. From Ivy League to cowering in the corner.” He paused. “Wait, wait wait wait – you’re that kid that disappeared last year. Yeah, I saw something about it in the papers when I was up there. J-something-or-other. He really took a student government president and turned them into a puppet, didn’t he?”

Tool nodded again, wanting the man to stop talking. He wanted this night to be over, to go back to the cot in the corner and sleep until the next day came. Go back to the menial tasks with no bodies to take care of.

The man grabbed Tool’s jaw, forcing eye contact.

“I want you.”

Tool blanched, not sure what to do. They, they weren’t part of the auction – right? They hadn’t even considered it until this very moment, and now they were torn. Farther away from the Machine, but at what cost? What would this man use them for?

The man spun them around, looking at their back as if searching for something. “What’s your number thing-“

“Problem, Mr. Elks?”

Tool swallowed, freezing in place at the sound of the Mechanic’s voice. Were they glad he had come? Or disappointed?

“Oh, nothing Nigel. Just taking a look at your fine stock.” The man smiled, rubbing his knuckles into Tool’s skull. They winced, still overly-sensitive from the strikes.

The Mechanic’s gaze hovered over the red marks on Tool’s face before he smiled diplomatically and grabbed their shirt, dragging them away. “Apologies, but my assistant is not part of tonight’s auction.”

Tool stood closer to the Mechanic, slightly behind him. Their legs felt weak, and they told themself it was from relief. The small group of other attendees still invested in the scene unfolding before them.

Mr. Elks put his hands in his pocket, grinning casually. “Come on Nigel, everything’s got a price. Besides, can’t you just make another – or are you lying? Tricking us with grandiose promises?”

Tool was trembling. A trick? A lie? No, no the Machine was so very very real. The door at the end of the east hall hung over the entire manor, thoughts of it creeping down Tool’s spine at even the thought of disobedience. Their heart was beating faster by the moment.

The Mechanic smiled, nearly inhumanly sensing Tool’s panic. He reached back and grabbed their forearm, dragging them back into the fray.

“Does this look like a lie? Like a trick? Kneel.”

Knees hit the hardwood without hesitation. Tool’s clasped hands hung in front of him, head down and respectful. The situation was perilous; one word and he could be shoved back into the Machine. Not for some act of disobedience or misconduct, but simply as an example. To show the lasting terror the experience left on the minds that experienced it.

“If it’s real, then I’m sold.” Mr. Elks paused, “And you say this can be done to anyone?”

“Anyone. You bring them to me and I will make them obedient.” Tool’s chin was lifted, and those light blue-green eyes met the Mechanic’s steely gray.

“I still want this one. A compromise, perhaps?”

Tool watched, gaze still locked on the Mechanic’s face, as one of the man’s brows rose, a silent go on.

“One week. A trial period. Then I’ll bring in my own for you to remake.” The Mechanic looked as if he was considering it, and Tool’s heart was in their throat. The Mechanic must have been able to feel it from his grasp on their chin, and he grinned subtly.

“I believe that may be possible-“

“I would also be interested in that deal.” Another voice, a female one. Tool stayed perfectly still, never looking away even as their hands started to shake. Their helplessness was choking them, laying like a heavy fog. They took a deep breath, reminding themself they had no control, no authority, no choice when it came to these matters. The mindset calmed them, in the blank, disconnected way that it always did. What happened around them would just happen, regardless of their input. So Tool waited for someone else to make a decision for them.

A few more scattered voices chimed in, and the Mechanic straightened.

“Then I shall add them to the auction list. One-time offer, one week.”  He motioned for Tool to follow and strode over to the other stock. Tool did as he was told and stood next to the others.

They kept their eyes down, letting the invasive looks slide off.

Just let it happen. 

~

@unicornscotty @as-a-matter-of-whump @starnight-whump @whump-me-all-night-long @whump-it @rippedjeansandfadeddreams @valkyrie-whump @cupcakes-and-pain

(pls let me know if you want to be added or removed from the taglist)

[anamaleth]

I took part in the holiday gift exchange organised by @sanderssidesgiftxchange ! My giftee was @to-precious-to-process , who requested a fantasy au, stargazing, and a whole bunch of fluff.

This fic focuses mainly on the last wish and includes elements from the other two - I hope you enjoy it!

@ashblood1314​ was my beta-reader and I cannot thank punk enough for that! Ash did an amazing job and without stars help, this fic wouldn’t be what it is now. Thank you so much, AG, I care you ♡!!!!

xxx

Traditions

Summary: An observation of the traditions the Sides have.

Movie nights, prank wars, playing tabletop RPGs together - their desire to regularly spend time together as a family had led to them creating a lot of traditions.

"Patton was leaning onto Logan, who was holding hands with Roman, and Roman was sitting back-to-back with Remus. Remus had Virgil lying in his lap, whose legs were draped over Janus’; while Janus’ head was resting on Patton’s shoulder. The Sides found comfort in each other’s presence, a blissful serenity that nothing else could provide them with."

Content Warnings (it’s just a whole bunch of fluff, honestly, but to be safe):

Food Mentions

Brief mention of poison (no one actually gets poisoned)

Mentions of in-universe fictional character deaths (they play Dungeons and Dragons and their characters die)

read on ao3

 xxx

Weekly movie nights were a tradition for the Sides, just like the Secret Santa, and the Easter Egg Hunt that Patton organized every year.

"It's important for families to have traditions!" he would often tell the others, and the smile Patton's face whenever he said those words made it impossible for the other Sides to turn him down. Patton's excitement was infectious, how could they resist?

The prank wars all of them had could technically also be counted as a tradition, but only unofficially so. They never followed any sort of schedule, which Logan insisted was a fundamental part of traditions, nor were they really organised. Instead, they broke out whenever one of them decided that peace and quiet had prevailed among them for too long.

It was fairly common for one of the twins to start the prank wars, given that “annoy my brother until I get some sort of reaction out of him” seemed to be part of both of their agendas. Not that there was any malice behind it, causing any lasting harm was never their intention. But given Remus’ love for wreaking havoc and Roman’s usual theatrics combined with his inability to resist being dramatic, it came as a surprise to no one that the chances of chaos doubled when the two of them were in the same space together.

In addition to that, the chances of chaos increased exponentially after a certain threshold of time spent by the twins in the same space was exceeded, especially when Virgil or Janus were with them. The amount of time passed since the last prank war and the absence of any Sides that could be considered a responsible adult (Patton is not to be considered a responsible adult) factored into the probability of a prank war breaking out as well. At least according to the graph Logan had created.

Logan kept this graph for two reasons.

The first one was that there was simply no such thing as “having too many graphs and lists”, not to him at least. Creating them was a fun and useful way to practice organisation, and there was most certainly no such thing as being too organised!

And the second reason was that Logan wanted to be aware of the likelihood of a prank war occurring at any given time so that he would always be prepared for them.

“Prepared” both as in “ready to take part in the planning and semi-serious attacking” and as in “I will not be caught off-guard by my friends’ shenanigans”. He had made that mistake once and he would not allow for it to repeat itself. Just thinking about the feather incident made him shiver, and that one had happened back when the twins were on “no speaking” terms. Logan couldn’t and certainly didn’t want to imagine what the two of them would be capable of together.

For all his distaste for “wasted time” and general aversion of disorganization, Logan considered the prank wars to be valuable bonding time with the ones he cared about. This may have had something to do with his love for scheming in said prank wars. It wasn’t unusual for Logan to be utterly absorbed by a task, but for him to be so open about his enthusiasm? That was a rarity, and it was one the other Sides treasured immensely.

Having Logan on your team in the prank wars was a huge advantage, and if both he and Janus were on the same team, their victory was almost certainly guaranteed. The combination of Janus’ wit and Logan’s intellect made for a nearly unbeatable force, which meant they ended up being allies fairly often.

The twins weren’t normally on the same team, given that one of them “attacking” the other was what often started the prank wars in the first place – but the two of them joining forces was the only way to beat Janus and Logan. And given the twins' distaste (read: hatred) for losing, coalitions between them had started to occur more and more regularly.

Roman’s and Remus’ creativity, their ability to improvise and the sheer chaos that seemed to transpire whenever they worked together were a fair match for Logan’s and Janus’ genius scheming that had rightfully earned them the title of Strategic Masterminds. There was no telling which team would win, especially not with Virgil and Patton as rogue elements.

Well, with Virgil as a rogue element, given that Patton got that “I’m about to make a pun and inflict 80 damage on everyone around me”-look on his face whenever someone referred to him as such, after which he would cheekily remind them that he played as a paladin and not as a rogue in their Dungeons and Dragons sessions, which would make him a paladin element.

As much as what Patton said was true, hearing it made Logan go through all five stages of grief over the course of two seconds. He then considered using his powers as the current Dungeon Master to do something to Patton’s character to finally get him to stop making this awful pun. But, after a few moments of contemplation, he quickly abandoned this plan as he reminded himself that he was a responsible adult.

Logan was aware of the fact that Patton had gotten very attached to his character, and he didn’t want to upset him. He was also aware of the fact that Patton would be the next one to DM for all of them.

And given that Patton had started to spend more time with Janus, Remus and Virgil, Logan really didn’t want to risk getting on his bad side. Not because the three of them would do anything to Logan - he was their friend, too, after all – but because the metaphorical seeds of chaos that Patton had carried with him since the very beginning had started to fully blossom under their influence.

Apart from that, Patton brought home-made cookies to their D&D sessions whenever he was in a particularly good mood, and Logan a) didn’t want to miss out on those and b) couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that, with enough persuasion from Remus and Janus, Patton wouldn’t end up poisoning the cookies as a way to get revenge if Logan really did go through with killing his character.

This only further contributed to Logan’s assessment of Patton not being a responsible adult. He chose to ignore what the fact that he had just had an internal debate on whether or not killing off his friend’s D&D character for making puns would be worth it if it meant that he would have to miss out on the cookies said friend makes said about his own status as a “responsible adult”.

The D&D sessions the Sides had together were also a tradition, and they all took turns being the DM, assuring that each of them would both get the chance to be an active player in the game and, every once in a while, get to decide what challenges and narratives their friends would face.

Janus and Remus joining their sessions had brought the number of player characters from three up to five, which meant that instead of having barely enough players for the sessions to work, they now had a group that could face any monster or villain with ease.

Emphasis on the “could”, because what they actually ended up doing most of the time was very different from the heroic deeds their characters were technically capable of.

Virgil played as a rogue, Janus played as a warlock and even without the added chaos of Remus’ multi-class Bard/Barbarian (or “Bardbarian”, as Patton called them, much to Remus’ delight and Logan's dismay) they were capable of completely derailing every single session.

In the most affectionate way possible, they were a complete nightmare to DM for.

Yet watching them interact and build off of what the other said made the horror of being the DM and watching your plans for the game disintegrate right in front of your very own eyes absolutely worth it.

The biggest session the Sides had played so far had been the campaign that Roman and Remus had created together. Both of the twins loved designing classic high-fantasy games, although Remus preferred to lean more heavily into the gruesome and macabre aspects of high-fantasy, while Roman never strayed far from “noble quests”, “heroic adventures” and “saving your true love from the lairs of evil”.

Which was why they both adored fairy tales – the campaign they created together ended up being a modern, much less heteronormative, and almost sci-fi-esque retelling of just about every single fairy tale they could think of. It was a huge project that took them several weeks of planning and two and a half months of bi-weekly game sessions to complete, and some of them even ended up crying during the last session.

The plot focused on a rebellion against a corrupt king and his followers, led by the characters that the Sides played. None of the characters, neither protagonists nor antagonists, survived the final battle; and while the evil king had been defeated, there was no truly Happy Ending for any of them.

As painful as it may have been, it was the perfect ending for the story – absolutely brilliant and tragic, but in a cathartic way that would leave them with fond memories of everything that they had experienced. They held each other after the session was over, the giant table they conjured whenever they played tabletop games together quickly replaced by blankets and pillows that they let themselves sink into.

Patton was leaning onto Logan, who was holding hands with Roman, and Roman was sitting back-to-back with Remus. Remus had Virgil lying in his lap, whose legs were draped over Janus’; while Janus’ head was resting on Patton’s shoulder. The Sides found comfort in each other’s presence, a blissful serenity that nothing else could provide them with.

Given that all of them wanted to play something with less emotional investment to take a break from the emotional toll that the last game had taken on them, they moved on to playing one-shots again after that. Although, taking a break from emotional vulnerability wasn’t the only reason for that; Remus and Logan had informed them that the two of them had started the planning process for their next proper campaign, which they were certain would take them a lot of time and effort to complete.

Logan and Remus, as different as they seemed, got along surprisingly well.

Whenever they needed someone to listen to them, they knew they could count on the other to do so without any judgement.

Logan had known of Roman’s love for mythology, specifically Greek- and (surprising to no one, considering his name) Roman mythology, but he had been absolutely overjoyed to learn that Remus shared this interest.

As much as Logan enjoyed having discussions with Roman, it was refreshing to hear things from a completely different perspective every once in a while. Roman adored the tragic love stories, particularly Orpheus and Eurydice, and Achilles and Patroclus; while his brother seemed to fixate more on Heracles’ trials and the story of Oedipus.

Logan and Remus had been stargazing together in Logan’s room when they had come up with the idea for their campaign. Technically Virgil had also been with them, but he had quickly fallen asleep looking up at what had once been a ceiling but was now a vast, clear night’s sky. He was curled up next to Remus, who had taken off his sash so that Virgil could use it as a pillow, burying his face into Remus’ side and using him as a teddy bear.

While Virgil was sleeping, Logan rambled about space and the origins of different star constellations. At one point, Remus chimed in to give some additional information about the mythological story behind one of the constellations Logan had mentioned, which resulted in them having a rapid-fire brainstorming session that lasted for several hours.

During that discussion, they decided on the setting for the campaign: a huge dystopian cyberpunk city in which they would tell modern versions of the original Greek myths.

The D&D sessions Logan planned often featured intricate riddles and complicated challenges he designed himself, which were a perfect fit for this setting. And as much as the other Sides tended to struggle with solving Logan’s puzzles, they earnestly encouraged his passion for creating them and looked forward to what he would come up with next.

Remus and Logan, however, weren’t the only ones who had hour-long discussions about shared interests, as Patton and Janus had started having conversations about the concept of morality. Referring to those conversations as debates, although Logan liked to do so when he occasionally joined them, wasn’t quite accurate. It was never their intention to convince the other of their opinion, they merely enjoyed exchanging their thoughts and points of view.

When Logan was with them, their talks tended to become a lot more philosophical than when it was just the two of them. With him present, it wasn't as casual as when they were on their own, as Logan enjoyed having debates in a more serious setting. But even then, they still valued each other’s company more than the actual outcome of the discussion.

One time, in one of their earlier debates - Janus and Patton had been sitting in Patton’s room together, Janus’ legs draped over Patton’s, as his back rested against the armrest of the sofa - Janus had explained the concepts of Utilitarianism and Deontology to Patton. The latter had listened intently as Janus explained the two fundamental approaches to morality, one where ends are justified by the means it takes to achieve them, and one where one’s actions are justified by the results they achieve.

When Janus brought up the Trolley problem as an example, he noticed how Patton immediately tensed up. Janus paused, taking Patton's hands into his own and apologised.

"It was never my intention to upset you back then, Patton. I was trying to prove a point and I hurt you in the process. While I got what I wanted, I shouldn't have pushed you this far. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have used you as a-"

"Means to an end?" Patton interrupted him. He seemed uncertain, but there was a small smile on his face.

After a moment of hesitation, Janus nodded, almost self-conscious, when suddenly, Patton's eyes lit up.

"Like in-! Like in Utilitarism!"

The tense atmosphere evaporated and Janus looked up to meet Patton's eyes.

"Close."

"Ulitiriorism?"

"Ah, getting further away now-"

The fond amusement was clear in Janus' voice.

"Ulitaro...okay, what was it again?"

"Utilitarianism."

Patton beamed at him and Janus couldn't help but return the smile.

"Exactly! That one! And I insisted on the other one? The one where you can’t break your own moral code to achieve a greater goal, what was it? Deon-”

Janus’ expression became impossibly fond.

“Deontology, yes.”

“I got it right!”

After that, their conversation continued as it had before, just that Janus’ fingers were intertwined with Patton’s now. Eventually, Patton came to the conclusion that putting your own needs first can be a means to an end, something that ultimately leads to the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people. He could keep his own values and stick to Deontology while occasionally approaching situations in a more utilitaristic way. He had already done so when it came to the Plato (...or was it Kant? Did it really matter?) dilemma with the murderer that you lie to in order to protect your friends; maybe he could learn to apply the same approach to self-care?

In order to practice, he and Janus had come up with the idea for Patton’s current D&D character: a Paladin who had sworn an oath of devotion to achieving the greatest amount of good for the greatest number of people, no matter the means they had to seize to achieve that goal.

Logan, as the current Dungeon Master, simultaneously marvelled at the concept of Patton’s character, and anguished at the chaos that character caused with the help of the characters the rest of the Sides played.

Apart from D&D, the Sides also regularly played board games together and, of course, held movie nights. Janus and Remus had started joining the others in both of these endeavours. They were family tradition after all, and the two of them were part of the family. Both Janus and Remus – although neither of them would ever admit to it - had been dangerously close to tearing up when Patton had first told them so. Part of the family.

They really had come far, hadn’t they?

Despite the sofa being too small for six metaphysical people to sit on, and despite it now being way more packed during their movie nights than it had previously been, none of them seemed to mind sitting closer together.

Patton was sitting in front of the couch, wrapped up in a blanket while wearing his cat onesie. He was holding a cup of hot cocoa with marshmallows in it and there were two bowls of popcorn set next to him, which he regularly passed around. One of them was salted and one with sugar.

Both of the twins preferred their popcorn ridiculously sweet - much to Roman’s triumph, because this meant that his brother joining their movie nights tipped the scales so that there were now two Sides who wanted to drown the popcorn in sugar.

On their first movie night with very sweet popcorn, Roman had exclaimed “Democracy wins once again!” to a very tired Logan, who was now seriously considering switching over to salted popcorn out of spite, even though he really did not like salted popcorn.

Patton, despite being, in some regard, the literal embodiment of emotions, had no strong feelings on the matter. He held no preference regarding how sweet or salty his popcorn should be and ate out of both bowls. Meanwhile, Virgil had just laughed at the now pouting Logan (“I am not pouting, Virgil, this is ridiculous”), as he shared his bowl of salted popcorn with Janus.

Now, several movie nights later, Logan sat, as he always did, behind Patton.

He kept absentmindedly running his fingers through Patton's hair, and it seemed as though nothing was out of the ordinary. The only real difference to previous movie nights was that he was now dressed in his unicorn onesie.

No one had commented on this, but Logan had registered the fond smiles on his friends’ faces as they realised that he had started wearing it around them again. Terrified of being written off as immature and unprofessional, it had taken Logan quite some time to get comfortable doing so again. But here he was, happy and cosy, dressed in his favourite outfit.

Janus sat right next to Logan. The first time he had been invited over, there had been a considerable distance between them, but over the course of a few weeks, Janus had found himself moving closer and closer to Logan each movie night, until he eventually found himself leaning against him comfortably.

By now, Janus had reached the point where he didn't even bother waiting anymore before gradually scooting closer to Logan. Instead, he assumed his rightful position immediately - Janus' head, mostly covered by the hood of his snake onesie, resting on Logan's shoulder.

Remus was taking up the most amount of space: his head was lying in Janus' lap while his legs were sprawled on the rest of the sofa. Roman had protested in the beginning, screeching at his brother to get his feet out of his face.

Roman had eventually given up, as Remus refused to move his legs and instead stuck out his tongue.

“How very mature of you, Remus”, Roman had grumbled in response, but his twin had already gone back to playing with the tentacles of his octopus onesie. Defeated, Roman settled for moving his throne - built out of a beanbag and all of the pillows and couch cushions he could get (which was all of them) - next to Patton.

Virgil sat on the backrest of the sofa, close enough to Janus to easily share their bowl of salted popcorn. Every once in a while, one of them would reach for the other’s hand, a simple gesture of affection that was starting to feel familiar again.

Familiarity, that’s what it all came down to in the end. The Sides loved each other dearly, and the traditions they had created allowed for them to regularly spend time together as a family. They adored each other and the connection they had, and they made sure to actively cultivate the conditions under which their bond could thrive.

They supported one another, encouraged each other, and all of them found themselves working towards being the best possible version of themselves they could possibly be, motivated by the love they had for the others.

Love, not simply as a state of being but also as an active choice and effort every single day of their lives.

Love, in everything they said and did - in kind words and in bickering, in gentle expressions of support and in playful insults. In fond smiles and gentle touches; in reaching out and lifting each other up. In helping and in being helped; in establishing boundaries and in respecting those set by their companions. In disagreeing and finding ways to compromise. In making the others laugh, and in finding ways to make their days better and easier, if only a little bit.

In being seen, for all of their facets. Their weaknesses and flaws being exposed, and being loved not despite them but for who they are with them. Always working towards being better and having their strengths and efforts appreciated and encouraged by those who love them.

They were a family. And they cherished the traditions they had created because they cherished one another.

[fangirlxwritesx67]

Taken By The Wind: A Sam Winchester x Rowena McLeod Love Story Chapter 7: Purple Roses

Chapter 1: You Naughty Boy After Chapter 1: Wildfire Chapter 2: Why Thank You Chapter 3: Yes Please After Chapter 3: Hours Chapter 4: Green Velvet Chapter 5: Locked On You Chapter 6: For You, Always 

Tags: This chapter doesn’t have any of the sexy times but it does reference them. Just lots of feels. 

Thanks again to @boondoctorwho​ who I have somewhat belatedly convinced to beta for me. Thanks for getting the “damn” back and more.  Thanks @there-must-be-a-lock​ for this gorgeous chapter title card.

“I love you, Sam.” 

Rowena’s voice echoed in his memory. At the time, she had been half asleep. He had been afraid to bring it up afterward. He wasn't sure which thought terrified him more: that perhaps she didn't mean it, or that she really did.

As uncertain as he felt at times, every day one thing grew more and more sure: he loved her. He wanted to tell her. She needed to know.

She needed to know the way his whole world had gotten brighter since she came into it. She needed to know that he thought about her when he heard stupid Ed Sheeran songs on the radio. She needed to know that his arms ached to hold her.

The trouble was, he had no idea what to say. He wasn’t one of those people who threw the words around lightly. For him, love was more than a feeling. It was a commitment. Love was serious, because once he loved someone, they were family. Love was a responsibility, a promise. 

It was a feeling, of course, too. And damn, he felt it all the time. Everything reminded him of her. There wasn’t a room in the bunker that didn’t hold memories. Not just the times and places they had sex, although there were plenty of those. All the research they had done, the books they had read and the cases they had worked together. All the moments when she had smiled at him or teased him or just batted her eyes and he had come undone. His heart sped up when she was near, and his thoughts wandered to her when she was gone. Memories of her could overwhelm him with desire. His last conscious thought before sleep, and his first thought upon waking, was always of her. 

Sam felt her absence like a physical ache, her presence like a contented warmth.

Sometimes he thought that all of his life up until now had been in black and white. The moment Rowena kissed him the first time, the world burst into color. 

Most of his life, he had felt held together by duct tape and safety pins. With Rowena around, his scarred heart seemed not only mended but full. 

But that was what Rowena did to him. She awakened dreams he thought long gone. She made him try for a hope that he had thought out of reach. She made him dizzy, breathless and gasping with possibility. And at the same time, she made him deadly serious with his desire to care for her, to love her.

Dean was right. He had it bad. 

Sam couldn't keep all this love to himself any longer. But his life had required him to shield his heart. He had years of practice with hiding his emotions, locking them away. At the thought of telling Rowena he loved her, his heart soared.

But nagging doubts still echoed in his mind. 

Rowena could have any one she wanted, anyone at all. Why would she settle for him? Sure, they had chemistry, but that wasn’t love. It was asking an awful lot, especially when he had done nothing to earn her love. He had nothing to offer, had done nothing to deserve her.

He couldn’t even protect her, not that she needed him too, but even if he tried, everyone he ever cared about got hurt. He was reaching too far. Love wasn’t for him.

The one thing that could silence that voice of doubt was Rowena. When he was with her, all his questions and fears faded away. Her beauty and her presence was enough for him. Her admiration both supported him and spurred him to do more. The obvious way she expressed her need for him- it floored him. 

Being with Rowena was the most overwhelming mix of sensations. He felt so comfortable with her, perfectly seen and understood. At the same time, his heart raced with excitement every time he thought of her.  Her mere presence was exhilarating. 

He had to tell Rowena he loved her. He was pretty sure, most of the time, that she loved him too. But even if she hadn’t actually said it or meant it, he meant it. He needed to say it. 

The words burned in his chest like a live coal he couldn’t hide. The way she lifted him and grounded him all at once. The way she filled him with contentment and longing. It was love, unexpected overwhelming love. He needed to tell her and he didn't know how. 

He wanted to make it special because she was special. He needed a way to demonstrate to Rowena the depth of his feelings for her. He just didn’t know how. 

What could he get for a woman who had everything? Money, magic, power. She had access to anything she desired. And she didn't hesitate to treat herself, either. Gorgeous clothing and jewelry, luxurious spa weekends, delicious food and drink- she indulged in it all. 

If Rowena wanted something, she had it already. What could Sam offer?

It was Dean who got him pointed in the right direction, finally, making a joke about them “dating.” That’s when the realization hit Sam: he had never taken Rowena out on a date.

"A date night! You're a genius, Dean!" Sam thumped his brother's shoulder affectionately.

"Of course I am," he answered in a voice both pleased and baffled. 

Sam was already sliding into a chair and opening his laptop. Their first date had to be perfect.

But where to go? He could make it exotic, elaborate, expensive, but none of those things would impress Rowena. The only thing left was to make it an experience, something unique and personal. 

It’s not like he could take Rowena to Olive Garden. But he was Sam Winchester. Research was his thing. He scoured the internet for ideas as intensely as he had ever researched a case. 

Finally, he found it. Not a restaurant, but an experience. Once a month, a breakfast restaurant in the city opened its doors for a limited seating in the evening. They featured different chefs, each month cooking a chef's choice or tasting menu. No orders, no options, just course after course carefully planned, and paired with drinks.

Three weeks from now, they were featuring a Scottish chef. It took Sam two weeks and several hundred dollars to find someone who had booked a table and convince him to sell. 

Then he had to figure out how to ask Rowena to join him. He wanted to do more than just call or text her. He decided to send her flowers. 

But no ordinary bouquet would do. Not for a woman like her. Red roses, the traditional symbol of love, seemed cliche. Yellow roses for friendship, too platonic. White roses, too funereal. 

Finally Sam found the perfect rose: purple, for enchantment and irresistible charm. They also stood for love at first sight. He grinned to himself. Certainly not at first sight, but at first kiss, maybe. When he first began to see her for who she really was, love had followed. 

He added calla lilies for devotion and magnificence. He filled out the arrangement with fern, which could mean fascination, sincerity, magic. 

He was confident that Rowena would understand and appreciate the message of the flowers, so he kept the card simple: Friday, 5pm, wear something nice. 

Sam knew as soon as Rowena got the roses because he got a text. How nice?

He took a deep breath and sent her a picture of his dark suit and a fresh white shirt, hanging on the back of his closet door. Up until now, he had only ever worn it for cases. Wearing it for real felt different somehow. 

I’ll see you Friday.

Dean agreed to lend him the Impala for the night. Sam braced himself for usual the barrage of instructions and warnings, but instead, Dean grabbed him in a big hug. Then he pulled back, still holding him by the shoulders, to look his little brother in the eye.

“Sammy,” he said, “Go get her.”

...

SPN First Last and Always: @dawnie1988​ @deanwanddamons​ @divadinag​ @flamencodiva​ @fookinghelljensensthighs​ @idreamofplaid​ @kalesrebellion​ @maddiepants​ @magssteenkamp​ @onethirstyunicorn​   @the-chocolate-moose​  @there-must-be-a-lock​ @tloveswriting​

Sam Girl For Life: @awesomesusiebstuff​ @lilsylvia​

Rowena My Queen: @lilsylvia​ @marril96

[xathia-89]

Playing in the Alpha’s World - Pt 1

This is a heat based modern AU fic for IkeSen. So Alpha, Beta, Omega references. 

I groaned, rolling over in my bed. It felt like hell like my body was going to be consumed by the primal need as I shakily reached out for my phone. Why had my boss insisted on moving me into his mansion?  

I had kept my true nature as an omega secret for a good reason. It was presumed I was an alpha, given how aggressive I could be in my job as the secretary to the CEO of Oda Industries. Gender meant nothing when it came to natures, men or women could be alpha, beta or omega. As proven by who I shared the wing of the mansion with. One very angry and bitter doctor, who was assumed to be beta until he came into contact with his current partner and reluctantly revealed the truth, and a lecturer who was more than a little content to be upfront about his nature. He was a brilliant brain, a leading scholar in military history of the Sengoku era and their techniques. Still, I knew exactly what he sounded like when being pounded by the deputy CEO of Oda Industries as well given that I had taken on that secretary's job as well. Nobunaga, Hideyoshi and Mitsuhide worked together so much that it came to light I was more than capable of doing the support role for them all. Then my boss, Nobunaga Oda, insisted I would be moving in with them at his mansion to save on any commute problems and would ensure that I was properly catered for. I refused at first, trying to cite the separation of personal and work life, only to find that Mitsuhide and Hideyoshi were more than a little in agreement. My only saving grace was that I was able to keep all of my things.  

The quantity and quality of my bedsheets were noticed. I wasn’t quick enough to move them to avoid Mitsuhide’s keen eye, and I broke down after all three men refused to move a thing until I told them I wasn’t an alpha. I had problems with slick and heats on occasions, something only omegas experienced.

I refused to let it change anything. Much to Mitsuhide’s amusement as Hideyoshi tried treating me like his omega, and it backfired massively on him. Nobunaga found it more than a little amusing as well, and it gained me some points with his omega. But there was a reason that there was a wing away from the alphas for the omegas. Hormones would trigger the heats chronically, as my brow was dripping with sweat, my body curled up under the spare sets of sheets and my fingers thrusting into my slicked cunt for a second of relief from the burning cramps.

My body was relieved for a short while after the orgasm smashed through me. Nobunaga was smirking from the other side of the phone, I could feel it in his response saying that he’d arranged for a delivery for me to help. I could only hope that Mitsunari or Ieyasu were home today, otherwise whoever delivered it to my door was going to have to deal with me being out of my mind.

It was my first true heat since university. It wasn't something that you found out what you were until after all of you had matured. Any time between eighteen and twenty-five was normal, and I had been due to graduate when my first heat struck. My doctor was more than a little sympathetic and talked me through everything.  

“Your true nature is omega. All that means for you really is that you will experience heats on a regular cycle, most of them won't be anything like what you have just experienced. They'll be a light heat, lasting three to five days; usually, you should be able to work through them, you just might need to stimulate yourself when your mind begins to cloud. You shouldn't get a full heat that often, usually only when you're either around too many unattached alphas on a constant basis, or you're with a new mate. But legally, you can't be fired from your job if you have the full heats for a few months on the go. There's enough legislation as protection for you in that," she smiled, already getting the packs out as I was registered in the medical system as an omega. "With the registration of your nature, then all of your healthcare will be tailored to you. It's your protection as well. We will know what to do in case of emergencies and the likes. There are going to be considerations and alterations to make, unfortunately. Still, it's a lot to take in, and this folder will go through a lot. There's also plenty on the internet, and you can get books on what to do as well, so there is an abundance of resources for you to go through.”

That folder was still with me. I had created enough of my own notes on the subject of how to disguise my true nature and pass myself off otherwise. I was a faux alpha, I had to be. Society would expect me to be spreading my legs for any male alpha and bear all the children as a home-maker. That would never hold any satisfaction for me, so I knew I would need to be ballsy about any career move I made. I climbed the ladder with ease, it was always assumed I was an alpha with the attitude I had, and I never sought to 'correct' them. It would have hampered me, and Nobunaga had to agree after seeing Hideyoshi's attempt to mother me.

Mitsuhide and Masamune were two alphas without a live-in omega, not that I hadn't seen them with partners of course. Alphas were highly sexed, something I had managed to feign given my gender. Women were always more subtle in their choices and about flaunting their sexual partners. Outside of the mansion, only a couple of others knew about my nature.  

Kiyotaka was one of Masamune's underlings and a beta. He regularly stayed over to help with Masamune's sex drive and knew the layout of the mansion. He was adorable at times, and highly affectionate outside of work. Kojuro was another who stayed over on occasions and worked as Masamune's secretary. He was an alpha with his own omega at home, and again, found out from the direction in which I arrived from in the mansion. Neither of them had any inclination to tell anyone in the business, it worked for Kojuro to know that he worked with an omega so he could schedule meetings and oversights when I wasn't in heat. Kiyotaka had also started working with us both more since my heat wouldn't affect him like it would the rest of the men. He was also not bad at covering for me when I had to be in two places at once.  

“Kayda?" Kiyotaka was one of the best voices to hear as he opened the door to my open plan studio. He padded across the floor, making sure to lock the door behind him before stroking my head. "Hey sweetie, this is a big one, huh?" His voice was low, trying not to agitate me.

“Yeah,” I shakily replied, trying to get the scandalous ideas out of my head. “It’s a sucky one,” I murmured, trying to keep myself bundled in the blankets.

“Let's get you showered, I'll change the sheets, and we can get the toys out that are meant to help," he said, already pulling me out of the bundle.

It felt like I was being robbed of myself during this heat. I didn't see the point in getting dressed, a clean robe was the only thing on my skin I could bear, and this one was designed for heats. Though if Kiyo hadn't been here, I would have stayed naked as I padded out to the living space. True to his word, my sheets were changed, and currently in the washing machine. Taking them to be done by the maids would agitate and trigger the alphas to my room, so it was safer all around for this as I sat down on the sofa.  

The box was huge, I had never truly had a need to invest in many toys, but moving into the mansion had triggered my hormones. My body was eager to make a baby for certain, and I was going to need to be careful about even thinking about leaving my room for several days.

Cocks made of various materials, most of them battery operated to rotate, vibrate and thrust, and even some of them came with faux semen that claimed to soothe the heat for longer. My work phone and laptop were still on the side, I hadn't been able to open then since the previous morning when I had last been able to focus. Then Kiyo did the last thing I expected him to, and he turned my TV to the porn channels and said that this was now a proven thing to help calm afterwards. Studies had been done.  

“I can see Masa being a pain throughout yesterday with you doing this,” I smiled, looking at how to make the fake cum up.

“My ass was sore,” he grinned, and then kissed me on the head. “Chinese is being delivered around eight for you with the instructions to deliver it to your door and leave it outside. And no alphas to deliver. I think Nobunaga is getting a little fond of you,” he laughs.

“Nobunaga likes that I'm ballsy enough to pretend to be an alpha when I'm omega," I shrugged. "Thank you," I blushed before Kiyo leant over and pulled out a container from the box.  

“Microwave it for two minutes. I made you some up, watch the porn, and there's a good variety on there, and see how you go. Make sure you eat the food too," he laughed before letting himself back out and locking the door again.  

[shireness-says]

A Twelve-Legged Matchmaker

Summary: Killian Jones has an undeniable crush on Emma Swan. He just needs a little nudge from man's best friend to act on it. Rated T for language. ~4K. Also on AO3.

~~~~~

A/N: Presenting my entry for the @cspupstravaganza! Huge thanks to @profdanglaisstuff to organizing such a fun event. This was a fun one to write. As always, extra kudos to @snidgetsafan for her phenomenal beta skills.

Tagging the usual suspects: @thisonesatellite, @scientificapricot, @teamhook, @kmomof4, @thejollyroger-writer, @snowbellewells, @winterbaby89, @awkwardnessandbaseball

Enjoy, and let me know what you think!

~~~~~

When Killian Jones decided that he’d like a pet - a dog, specifically - Bonny was not exactly what he’d had in mind.

It wasn't like he had a particular dog in mind when he went to the local shelter; mostly, he’d trusted an acquaintance who worked at the kennel would steer him towards a companion that would suit him best. David had suggested the idea in the first place when Killian had expressed loneliness after Liam had moved to Providence for a job, and had seemed more than happy to help. That's not to say that he didn't have an idea of the type of dog he was looking for; a puppy, something that would grow up to be at least midsize and not shed too much. A man's dog who he could take on runs and hikes and his boat. Maybe a labrador. 

Bonny, however, has different ideas.

Bonny technically shouldn't have been in the side room where all the puppies romped around - she was full grown at three years, after all - but her size hadn't looked too out of place. Long-haired dachshunds didn't get that large after all, unless you were measuring in spine length. He'd been sat on the floor, letting all the wee pups come and check him out and contemplating the pros and cons of a labrador-weimaraner mix when Bonny had sauntered right over to curl up in his lap. One look into those big eyes, especially when coupled with those soft and floppy ears, and Killian had known he'd be going home with a very different dog than he’d expected. So he'd filled out the paperwork and bought all kinds of supplies and explained to a very attentive dog that a man has his limits and referring to his dog as Precious was a line he just wasn't willing to cross, and the little dog had been his. Bonny, after the fierce lady pirate Anne Bonny. A proper sailor's name for a less-than-proper sailor's dog.

(He will say, his good girl had taken to the water like a pro; there's a whole album on his phone after their six months together of Bonny on the Jolly's deck, all decked out in her life jacket. Yes, he's now a man that dresses his dog in a life jacket. No, he doesn't care what you have to say about that.)

Bonny may not have been the dog he expected to adopt, but there's no doubt that she's the right dog for him. She's an affectionate little thing, a true cuddle bug at heart, and even if he has to wrestle half his bed back from her - really, his dog takes up an absurd amount of space for such a small creature - he wouldn't have it any other way. There's just something about the trust that she so obviously has in him and the way her entire back half wiggles with the force of her happiness when he comes home after a long day of work. 

(There’s also the added bonus that she’s already housetrained; the details of that process weren’t at the front of Killian’s mind when he first decided that he wanted a puppy.)

There's other unexpected advantages that come along with pet guardianship as well - namely the ability to get closer to his stunning blonde neighbor.

Before anyone makes any mistaken assumptions, it's not like that. He didn't adopt the dog as a ploy to pick up chicks - though he has to admit, if that was his aim, he couldn't have picked a better dog and a worse target. Emma Swan lives two doors down in a little cottage with her young son - Henry, if he remembers the name correctly. He'd been smitten from the moment the moving truck had pulled up. That's how he'd met David too, actually, his acquaintance at the kennel. He's still a little uncertain about the relationship there, but he knows that David has a tendency towards the overprotective where the lovely blonde is concerned. 

Emma has been wary of his advances, though, not that he can blame her; with Henry involved and the lad's father nowhere in sight, she's got all the more reason to protect her heart. He'd tried his usual flirting techniques when they'd first started crossing paths - the charm, the smirk, the swagger, the little innuendos women usually love - but she'd shut that down with a cold tone and an unamused look in her eyes. After that... well, it had seemed most gentlemanly to let sleeping dogs lie. He'd tried his best, she clearly wasn't interested, and that would have to be that.

Still. He yearns, in a way that isn't at all befitting of anyone above the age of fifteen - let alone a grown man of thirty. She's lovely and strong and he can't help but be absolutely taken with everything about her. 

It's a happy coincidence that the park he likes to take Bonny to for walks just happens to be the same park where Emma takes Henry to the playground. He swears. He didn't even know that was the case until he decided that Bonny could use a little socializing with creatures of her own species, something that she's definitely not getting in their little neighborhood. 

(Yes, he's turned into the most obnoxious dog dad. He is fully aware.)

As he said before, even once he knew that the park and playground were one of the Swan's regular haunts, he wasn't using Bonny as some sort of bait. He'd never dare - both because he'd never disrespect his Very Good Girl like that and because he knows Emma would see right through him immediately. The thing is, Henry's at just that perfect age where he's absolutely fascinated by puppies of all sizes - especially Bonny. As hesitant as Emma obviously is about her son's obvious enthusiasm, it's equally obvious that the little dog adores the toddler right back. Now, three months after Killian first started taking Bonny to the park, the two are thick as thieves; Henry's laugh rings out across the park's grassy green spaces as the two romp and chase each other, Bonny's entire back half wiggling in her excitement. It's also a chance for Killian to get to know Emma a little better. He wouldn't say that they're friends at the end of it, but there's a detente for certain. Maybe on an optimistic day, he'd even say that they were friendly. It's not something they've talked about, per se, but he definitely feels like some of the ice has thawed. 

"Thanks for this," she tells him quietly one day as they watch Henry frolic about the open space and Bonny chase along after him, making a fool of herself practically tripping over her elongated back half in her loving eagerness to play with the small human.

"What for?" Killian asks. It doesn't quite track; he's not doing particularly much, beyond sitting on a bench in varying amounts of silence with his lovely neighbor. What a hardship. 

"For letting Henry play with your dog," she replies, nodding in the direction of the spectacle. "Henry really wants a dog right now, and... well, we just can't afford it, honestly. There are months where it feels like enough of a victory to have kept Henry well-fed. Doesn't mean he's good about understanding that," she laughs. It sounds forced, like she's trying unnecessarily to lighten the mood; Killian doesn't much like it. "So... thank you, I guess, for being so understanding about letting him get his fix. I appreciate it."

"It's no problem, lass," Killian responds with a small smile. "And before you try to protest, it seriously isn't. You are - or rather, Henry is doing me a favor, wearing her out a bit. It means I'll just have a sweet, sleepy cuddle bug when I get home, which will be a nice change than her usual running around the house and trying to figure out if she wants in or out. Sweet thing just can't figure it out," he chuckles.

"Henry's the same way - the sleepiness, not the inside or outside thing," she laughs. It seems real this time, which Killian appreciates. She deserves to have more reasons to smile. "He gets home and practically just collapses - no arguing about naptime or anything, which is a pretty novel concept, let me tell you. Maybe that's what I should be thanking you for - letting your dog wear my kid out. It takes some doing, seriously."

"Ah, well, I'm always happy to help," Killian replies awkwardly with an even more awkward wink. He's not especially good about accepting this type of compliment - or any really. Still, it seems less gentlemanly at this point not to. "Anything for milady."

(In retrospect, he should have asked her to dinner at that point - as a date, as friends, as just two adults and a three-year-old eating lasagna, whatever. He just wants an excuse to see her outside of this park. That was his chance, while they were still in the middle of their rapport, and he blatantly missed it. Stupid, oblivious bastard. Time with only tell if he gets another opportunity.)

There are still things to look forward to, even as the weather turns colder and the leaves turn a multitude of colors. Bonny and Henry seem to be the only ones who aren't bothered by the shift in the weather; temperatures change fairly dramatically, up here in coastal Maine. The weather isn't what makes the appeal of this season, however. This year, that designation belongs to Halloween.

"Henry is so excited," Emma explains as they watch Henry clamber up the playground's structure; for once, Killian's crazy dog is curled at his and Emma's feet instead of chasing after her favorite toddler. Maybe she's actually learned how poorly adapted she is to the playground equipment. "He's going to be a pirate, if he hasn't shouted it in your face yet. What are you guys going to do?"

"Oh, I've got a plan in mind," Killian replies vaguely. It's not true in the least; Killian had rather forgot about the holiday until just now. But there's no way he can disappoint his favorite little swashbuckler either, leaving Killian stuck. At least for the moment. 

Which is how they've ended up here: one grown adult man, a bowl of candy, and his absurdly-shaped dog, now with twelve legs as the eight octopus limbs of her costume comically jangle every time she moves. She's a kraken. He found the knit, tentacled abomination of a sweater on Etsy. Somehow, the get-up makes her look even less threatening, which Killian didn't think was possible. Granted, her little matching hat featuring eyes poking out of her forehead doesn't help the picture. Killian isn't much for costumes himself, but damn if he won't dress his ridiculous little dog.

“Now we’re going to be very good and not run out the door, no matter how long it’s open, right?” he asks Bonny, more seriously than anyone would likely believe. So he talks to his dog; so what? Bonny, for her part, does a very good job of sitting calmly enough at his feet, though her tail wags ferociously.

He’ll take that as an agreement.

“Alright, then, let’s go! Let’s go see all the little kiddies!” he coos, patting at his leg until the little pup springs back to her feet. Not that it takes much prodding; despite her size, Bonny has all the energy of a coiled spring. Eagerly, she follows him to his small entryway, where Killian has set up a camp chair just inside the screen door. Killian knows from past years that the crowds of trick-or-treaters come in waves - fairly steady throughout the night, but with pauses in between where he hopes to maybe catch up on the mystery novel he’d checked out from the library. 

He doesn’t have to wait very long; by 6:30, the trickle of princesses and ninjas and devils begins, all here to pillage his candy (an excellent mix of Reese’s and 3 Musketeers and Milky Ways, with a bag of Twizzlers thrown in for good measure; never let him be accused of being the lame house in his neighborhood). Bonny, of course, is a hit; he can tell that she wants to leap all over their little visitors, begging for scritches and maybe a sample from their candy bags, but she stays put when Killian reminds her to stay inside. Truly, the best girl. 

By the end of the evening, however, he’s anxious; it’s almost eight, the proper trick-or-treaters have trickled off as teenagers in half-assed costumes who just want free candy take their place, and he still hasn’t seen Emma. Not that she and Henry are obligated to come by his house or anything - of course they’re not. Maybe they decided to cut the night short, or maybe (God forbid) Henry came down with something and they couldn’t come out at all. Or maybe they just decided to skip his house. Whatever. It’s fine, absolutely fine. That’s their prerogative. He’d just hope, after all Henry’s talk of his wonderful pirate costume, he’d maybe get to see it in person. 

(That is the reason he put Bonny in a kraken sweater, of all things. It wasn’t exactly a coincidence - rather, a planned coordination.)

Of course, the moment he starts accepting that the Swans just aren’t coming, the dynamic duo themselves begin making their way up his walk. Henry’s costume is everything he’d promised it would be, complete with a bandana and a drawn-on mustache and fake buckles on his light-up sneakers and a hook on his hand. Emma herself isn’t quite as decked out, but even she’s sporting a pair of cat ears and some eyeliner whiskers.

“Sorry we’re so late,” she calls as they approach his porch. “We went over to David’s neighborhood for trick-or-treating. They’ve got the good candy, supposedly.”

“Ah, naturally,” Killian smiles back. “I hope you didn’t cut your fun short, you didn’t have to drop by,” he tries to protest, but Emma waves him off.

“Henry was wearing out anyways. Plus you’re, like, two houses down from ours. It’s not exactly a hardship to make such a long trek.”

"Well I’m happy you did," Killian says, before opening the door wide and stepping aside. "Would you like to come in for a few minutes? The trick-or-treaters have mostly trickled off. I could make us a few cups of hot chocolate."

"That'd be nice. Thanks, Killian," she smiles back, helping Henry up the last few steps.

"Arrrrrr," the little boy growls ferociously. He's certainly committed to the pirate act; he even tries to shake his hook at Killian, but the effect is kind of ruined when the plastic appendage flies off to land at Killian's feet.

"I don't know about pirates, though," Killian teases with a wink at Emma. "Can I really trust such a fearsome pirate captain in my house?"

"That's a good point," Emma replies thoughtfully, playing along. "They are kind of known for pillaging. Will a pirate really be able to behave himself inside?"

"Yeah!" Henry's little voice pipes up from thigh level.

Killian keeps it going. "I've got a nice set of bookends in there; you don't think the captain would try and steal them, do you?"

"You know, I don't know. It might be better if only I came in."

"Now, I'll never say no to time alone with you, Swan," he replies saucily. It's pretty obvious that Emma almost certainly didn't think about her words first, and definitely didn't mean them that way; the sudden pops of pink on her cheeks are proof enough of that. "Come in, then. You know, I'll bet that pirates don't like hot chocolate anyways..."

"I do!" Henry says indignantly. Well, at least as indignantly as a three year old can manage. Which is a lot, all things considered. "It's me, Killy!"

"Me who?"

"Henry!"

Killian makes a show of crouching down and squinting, as if to see beneath the makeup. "Well look at that, it is Henry! You've got such a good costume, I didn't even recognize you with all that on. Do Henrys like hot chocolate, then?"

"Yeah!"

"Alright, you can come in too, then," Killian laughs, ruffling his hand along the boy's hair as he stands up.

As the Swans walk into his entryway and he closes the screen door again, Bonny wanders back in from the kitchen, undoubtedly drawn by the noise. Personally, Killian thinks she makes a very adorable sight with all those tentacles bobbing and swaying and dragging as she walks.

Henry, however, seems to disagree, as he catches one sight of Killian's wee beastie and hides back behind Emma, clutching at her leg. It's definitely not the reaction that Killian expected, especially when Henry usually gets along so well with Bonny.

"It's alright, it's just Bonny," Emma tries to tell him, dropping her voice into that soothing tone Killian's come to associate with motherhood and love and a home he's long since lost. 

"It's just a costume," Killian explains, though he does also crouch down to catch Bonny by her collar and keep her from barreling forward like he can already tell she wants to. Quickly, he undoes the velcro on the hat and tugs it off; it probably does look a little alarming to young eyes. "See?"

"She's just playing pretend, kiddo. Just like you are."

Henry still looks a little wary, but Bonny is about ready to wiggle out of Killian's grasp in her excitement to see her favorite little boy, so he quickly scoops her up to bring her to Henry in a more controlled manner. 

Once Bonny's familiar pink tongue flicks out to kiss at Henry's hands and face, he relaxes, thank goodness. "You're silly, Bonny!" he giggles. 

"Well she wanted to dress to match you, lad," Killian smiles, setting the pup down so boy and beast can wrestle and play.

"She really does make a cute sea monster," Emma chuckles as they watch.

“About as well behaved as one too, some days,” Killian grumbles without any heat. It’s hard to really mean it when Bonny is so obviously good with Henry. “Let’s go to the kitchen, I’ll make you that hot chocolate.”

The kitchen is just a few steps from the living room where Henry and Bonny now play and with a clear line of sight into the other room, so he knows they won’t have to worry about the little rascals escaping their supervision. Not that there’s much to get into; the liquor and the matches are in the kitchen, and he’s not aware of anything he’d need to worry about the devious duo breaking. The living room is only filled with shelves and shelves of books. About the worst either one could do is disrupt a stack of coffee table books, and some of those would probably benefit from having pages torn out; the “Mailboxes of the Northeast” book that Belle gifted him is a real head scratcher.

“Sorry about all that,” Killian tells Emma sheepishly, scratching behind his ear in mild embarrassment. “I thought it would be a fun idea to kind of tie Bonny’s costume into Henry’s, since I knew how excited he was, but that obviously backfired. I didn’t mean to scare him, Emma, truly.”

Killian pours all his sincerity into the words, but Emma just waves him off casually. “Killian, it’s fine. He’s three, there’s going to be things that scare him sometimes, and sometimes they’ll be pretty weird. That’s kids. You couldn’t have predicted that, and it’s not your fault. And anyways,” she nods towards her son in the other room with a fond smile, “it doesn’t look like it did any permanent damage, if the way they’re carrying on in your living room is any indication.”

“That’s true,” Killian has to admit. The way Henry and Bonny are alternately chasing one another around doesn’t exactly suggest a traumatized child. “Well, I just wanted to… make sure, I guess, that you knew I didn’t mean to scare him.”

“Don’t worry, I didn’t think that.” They lapse into silence as Killian busies himself with all the necessities of making hot chocolate - collecting milk from the fridge, grabbing a trio of mugs, searching at the back of the cupboard for the tin of good Ghirardelli powder. It’s a special occasion to have the Swans in his kitchen, after all, and they only deserve the best. He’s just finishing measuring out the proper amount of milk into the saucepan - go big or go home, right, and using the microwave is decidedly not going big - when Emma speaks again.

“I actually meant to thank you for being so good with Henry. I know all that back there wasn’t exactly what you expected when you invited us inside, but you did good. Helping to calm him down, I mean. Though even before that, with the playing and teasing about his costume… you’re really good with him.”

“Oh, Swan, you don’t need to thank me for that.” Even as Killian protests, he can feel a flush of pleased embarrassment creeping up his neck. “Thank you, but it’s not necessary. Henry’s a wonderful lad, a real credit to you.”

Emma blows past the compliment, though he does detect the slightest flush on her cheeks. “Maybe you don’t think it’s much, but it means a lot to me. Henry… there’s not really a lot of male role models in his life. Obviously, his dad’s not in the picture, so it’s pretty much just David. A lot of guys… most guys don’t really want to step up like that.”

“It’s my pleasure, Emma,” Killian replies, smiling gently. This almost feels like the beginning of a moment in a way that he hadn’t expected when they’d started this conversation. A part of him wants to seize on that feeling - to step into her space further, to brush that stray lock of hair back behind her ear, to let their hands just barely graze. It’s terrifying to take that step, though, when he knows that could break apart whatever understanding they’ve reached in their weeks at the park.

Killian thinks that Emma must be of the same mind, as he can see her swallow nervously before she continues again. “I actually wanted to ask you —”

He never finds out what Emma wanted to ask him, however, as right at that moment, Henry and Bonny burst into the kitchen, chasing each other around his and Emma’s legs and forcing them closer into each other’s space. It’s like a moment out of some cliche movie, and Killian can barely breathe for the anticipation of it all, his hands somehow braced against Emma’s upper arms as she stares back at him with eyes blown wide. It’s too close, and not close enough, and he really out to step back out of her space now that the little rascals have run back into the living room — 

But then Emma presses up on her toes to drop a gentle kiss on his lips, and all the frantic thoughts running through his head disappear. It’s just a quick little thing - barely a brush of her lips against his - but something about the tentative gesture feels like trust, feels like a different commitment. It feels like hope. 

“That was…” Killian tries to say, not certain of any of his words in truth, no real idea of how that sentence ends. Amazing? Unexpected? Life-changing?

“I was wondering if you’d want to get dinner sometime,” Emma finishes on a rush. Her cheeks are tinted the most charming shade of pink, but she doesn’t seem nervous about the asking - more settled, like she finally knows what she wants and how to get it. Luckily for her, he wants the same.

“I’d love that, Swan.” Like there’s any other answer.

“Well then… good.”

“Good.” As they stand in the kitchen, smiling like fools, Killian can’t help the absolutely silly thought that crosses his mind:

Bonny’s earned herself an awful lot of treats.

(After her clever efforts to push him and Emma together - literally, in this case? She more than deserves it.)

[italian-sides]

“Ombre e Bastoni”, ch. 2

Here I am with the second chapter! Again, a huge thank you to both @misslilidelaney on Tumblr for writing this and @watcher-from-the-heights for being my beta! I also tag @ts-italian-gang, just in case. One last thing: if you want to support the ff, it’s on AO3 too! Thank you if you’re gonna step by! Enjoy!

Whenever Emilio Picani walked into the Dolce&Remì, all heads turned.

And when all heads turned, Giuda Schiavon's only instinct was to turn away.

To avoid imploding.

At the exact moment the young man crossed the threshold, Giuda understood that he was Patrizio's famous "psychologist cousin".

And at the exact moment he saw his face, only one sentence echoed in his brain:

- Sò ciavà. - [1]

The newcomer sat down at the counter, while Remo looked illuminated with immense light and Romolo seemed to be having a heart attack.

"Patrì. Are you kidding? You should at least have said that your cousin was so beautiful!"

"What are you saying, Romolo? C'mon, you're embarrassing him!"

"Orco can, Pati [2], take it easy! Trust me, it takes much more to embarrass me.", the interested party replied, giving Romolo, who just laughed like a twelve year old, a benevolent smile.

- Nice, exactly what I needed, even the competition with the Stellina. -

Giuda glanced at Remo, who had been wiping the same glass for three minutes.

-Ah, well. Both the Stelline. [3] -

He just looked at the newcomer from behind the counter, through the mirror in front of which the liquors were placed.

Of course both twins already came out swinging, while Virgilio and Luca simply looked at him with the gaze of two hungry lions.

And obviously Patrizio noticed the looks that the Trentine guy - that is Luca - launched at his blood relative, and Giuda shook his head after seeing the Emilian's eyes getting a little bleary.

-If I end up like this too, I'll set myself on fire.-

"You're quiet, Giudino [4].", Tommaso, the only one who seemed immune to the charm of the newcomer, chirped.

Giuda merely smiled slyly, pointing to the group behind him with a nod:

"I'm enjoying the vultures."

"Pffftt, they're terribleee!", the pastry chef whispered, biting his lip from laughing, which made Giuda smile even further and then continue:

"They look like they haven't seen a man for ages, eh? And Patrizio has the face of someone who repented 'a sbrega'."

"At what?"

"Someone who regretted it very much. I’ll have to teach you Venetian sooner or later, boss."

Tommaso nodded, and Giuda decided to get defensive even before anyone could attack him.

"Plus, like... He's not even that  cool. He's pretty, don't get me wrong, but c'mon, to the point of making all four of them lose their heads?"

Tommaso nodded, shrugging:

"Agreed. And I hope Luca will soon get over this thing before Patrizio goes on a killing spree."

"Patrizio should also get a move on, however; Luca is too much of a wimp to realize he's drooling like a slug. If he doesn't get moving, someone else will take him and I’d like to remind you that the last time Patrizio got drunk, he got a sad hangover."

"Don't remind me, please."

"Ao, regà!" [5], Remo sneaked in and took them both by the arm, smiling like the idiot he was.

"Come and meet the newcomer!"

- Oh, no, please. -

"Boss, at least let me take off my dishwashing gloves!"

"No no, you have to keep them, I want him to understand who's in charge!", the 'older' brother of the Stella twins laughed at the request of his dishwasher.

- Curses.-

With a movement worthy of the worst drunks in Caracas, he brought Tommaso and Giuda in front of the newcomer, who had a smile capable of melting Giuda's heart in an instant.

And it did.

"Emilio, here's my co-partner and pastry-chef Tommaso Sandero, and my all-rounder, dishwasher, whatever-you-want, Giuda."

"I have a surname too, you know, old man.", with an eyeroll worthy of a Hollywood star, Giuda turned to Emilio.

Shit, he was even more beautiful, up close.

"Giuda Schiavon. I would shake your hand but I have gloves on."

"Schiavon?", Emilio asked, lighting up.

How beautiful a human being could be? Was he even legal?

"Ahah, his name is Schiavon. Which is perfect, since he's ours... [6]", Remo started, but Emilio dreamily clasped his hands in front of his face and asked, interrupting him:

"Are you from Veneto too? I'm from Verona!"

Giuda just shrugged, nodding immediately after:

"Par tera, par mar, Sammarco. [7]"

"Can del porco, un Venexian! Beaaa! [8]"

Having said that, Emilio approached him, pretending to speak in great secrecy - which was impossible, since everyone was still staring at him as if he was a wonderful thing, except perhaps Romolo, who was just looking at Giuda as if he was the worst thing that ever happened in this world:

"Cossa go da far pa aver na bona ombra de vin qua? [9]"

Was he trying to speak Venetian?

Was there a limit to how cute he could be?

"Ask Remo. I only wash the glasses, I don't fill them."

Having said that, he turned to the owner, making a superhuman effort to take his eyes off Emilio, who seemed quite dazzled by the answer.

"Can I go back? I have to go to the kitchen to finish washing the dishes before other people arrive for happy hour."

Then he turned back to Emilio, waving at him with half a smile:

"Fellow countryman, enjoy your stay in Bologna."

And then he left, without giving him time to answer.

*

Three years passed since their first meeting.

Three years in which Romolo made the funniest epic fail with Emilio, in which Patrizio decided to stick his tongue down Luca's mouth, and Virgilio pretended to be drunk to touch Romolo's ass, whom he said he'd forgotten, but Giuda knew that was bullshit.

Because he, being a chronic liar, could basically smell the lies.

In fact, not even for a second did he let anyone remotely suspect of his mind-blowing crush on the psychologist, especially the above mentioned, given that he was probably now convinced he hated his guts.

Which was the intention of the Venetian, since he took for granted that the thirty-year-old was far beyond what someone like him could afford.

After the disastrous relationship with one of his university buddies, Giuda indeed decided that being single was far better than being heartbroken.

Even though his heart wasn't too good.

Treating Emilio badly was making him lose sleep, at times he risked forgetting to put on his contact lenses due to tiredness, and even Virgilio took the piss out of him for the bags under his eyes.

And now he was there. Gloves in one hand and a broom in the other.

With Remo looking at him with a Cheshire Cat's smile on his face.

"You little snake. I get it, you know? You like the Veronese."

"You're speaking nonsense. I’d rather kill him right now. I dropped the glasses because of him."

"Don’t fuck with me. Tommy and I yell at you all the time and you’ve never jumped like this. Yo, Coso [10], I can smell lies too, you're not the only one. You’re being a little shit because you like him."

Giuda kept looking the bar owner in the eye, trying to deny it with all of his body language.

"I. Don't. Like. Emilio. I don’t know what you’re thinking, but Mr. Psychoanalysis isn’t exactly my cup of tea, okay?"

"Giuda..."

There was something in Remo’s voice, something that for a moment opened a breach in the Venetian's heart.

Maybe... Maybe he could trust someone.

"...From the first day he walked in here. You all got over it. But me? Never. I don’t have a crush on Emilio, Remo. I’m in love with Emilio. But I’ve suffered enough in the past to know that I’m better off alone. What if it goes wrong? How am I gonna look at him? How...?"

"You don't know that. I mean, I don't know either even if I live with him, how can you, if you run away every time you see him?"

"I personally believe that what you don’t know can’t hurt you."

"If Luca were here he would scream 'Boiate' [11]. Giuda... I..."

"Welp. It's too late now, the damage is done, right? He’s probably convinced I hate him even more after today's crap."

With a bitter laugh, Giuda surpassed the roman, continuing:

"I blew every chance, amen..."

"Giuda."

"But surely he won’t stop coming, we’re his favorite bar and you’re his roommate..."

"Giuda, shut up."

"I'm sure he'll find someone else pretty quickly, he just needs to breathe and someone always comes along."

"Giuda!"

The dishwasher turned again towards Remo, biting his lip as the stupid tears began to stream down his face.

"I can’t do this, okay? After Mattia, I don’t know what to do, with a man. Besides, I’m kind of a mess. Emilio will never appreciate someone like me."

Remo remained silent for a moment, before moving forward... and hugging? Giuda.

The Venetian was baffled, usually it was Tommaso, the one with whom he sometimes allowed himself affectionate gestures.

"Shut your mouth, you’re not that bad. And I swear on Totti [12], I’ll help you get the therapist, whether you want it or not."

Giuda laughed bitterly, his face stuck in the chest of his tallest peer.

"Yeah, sure. And how are you gonna do that?"

Remo let him go and asked, very seriously:

"Do you know how to play briscola [13]?"

[1]: transl. "I'm fucked" [2]: "Holy crap" + Pati = a nickname for Patrizio [3]: this is a pun with Romolo and Remo's surname, "Stella" = "Star", that here is referred as "Stellina/Stelline" = "Little Star/Little Stars" [4]: a nickname for Giuda, a diminutive of his name [5]: a Romanesco dialect exclamation that means more or less "Hey, guys!" [6]: it's a pun with Giuda's surname, Schiavon, that in italian, without the "n" at the end, is "Schiavo" = "Slave" [7]: it's a Venetian saying that literally means "on land, on sea, San Marco", but more broadly it means the power of the Venice Republic that reigned both on the land and on the sea [8]: "Good heavens, a Venetian! Niiice!" [9]: "What can I do to have a good glass of wine around here?"; in Venetian dialect, "ombra" means both "shadow" and "glass of wine" [10]: "coso" is the italian version of "thingy" and/or "dude/dingus" [11]: yes, "boiate" is the italian term for "falsehood", in this case [12]: a famous Italian soccer player, specifically from Rome [13]: a very popular Italian card game

1 - 2 - ?

see ya next time, ciao!

Quando Emilio Picani entrava al Dolce&Remì, tutte le teste si giravano. E quando tutte le teste si giravano, l'unico istinto di Giuda Schiavon era di girarsi dalla parte opposta. 

Per evitare di implodere.

Nel momento esatto in cui il giovane aveva oltrepassato la soglia, Giuda aveva capito che era lui il famoso "cugino psicologo" di Patrizio. 

E nel momento esatto in cui aveva visto il suo volto, solo una frase gli aveva rimbombato nel cervello:

- Sò ciavà.-

Il nuovo arrivato si era seduto al bancone, Remo che sembrava illuminato d'immenso, e Romolo che sembrava stesse per avere un infarto.

"Patrì. Ma stiamo a scherzare? Ce lo dovevi minimo minimo dire che tuo cugino era così bello!"

"Ma cosa stai dicendo, Romolo? Mo' dai guarda, che lo metti in imbarazzo!”

"Orco can Pati, stai calmo! Guarda che ci vuole molto di più per imbarazzarmi." aveva risposto il diretto interessato, scoccando un sorriso benevolo a Romolo, che si era limitato a ridere come una dodicenne.

- Ben ciò, perché mi mancava la competizione con la Stellina.- 

Giuda aveva lanciato uno sguardo a Remo, che stava strofinando lo stesso bicchiere da tre minuti. 

-Ah beo. Entrambe, le Stelline.-

E si era limitato a guardare il nuovo arrivato da dietro il bancone, attraverso lo specchio davanti al quale erano sistemati gli alcolici. 

Ovviamente entrambi i gemelli erano già partiti all'attacco, e Virgilio e Luca si limitavano a guardarlo con lo sguardo di due leoni affamati. 

Ovviamente, Patrizio si era accorto degli sguardi che il trentino lanciava al proprio consanguineo, e Giuda aveva scosso la testa vedendo i suoi occhi velarsi un po’.

- Se finisco anche io così mi do fuoco.-

"Sei silenzioso, Giudino." Aveva cinguettato Tommaso, l'unico a sembrare immune al fascino del nuovo arrivato. 

Giuda si era limitato a sorridere sornione, indicando il gruppetto alle sue spalle con un cenno del capo.

"Mi sto godendo gli avvoltoi."

"PFFFF sono tremendiii!" Aveva sussurrato il pasticciere mordendosi il labbro dal ridere, cosa che aveva fatto sorridere ulteriormente Giuda che quindi aveva continuato:

"Sembra non vedano un uomo da millenni eh. Veramente. E Patrizio ha la faccia di uno che si è pentito a sbrega."

"A cosa?

"Pentito molto. Devo insegnarti il veneziano prima o poi, Boss." 

Tommaso aveva annuito, e Giuda aveva deciso di mettersi sulla difensiva ancora prima che qualcuno potesse partire all'attacco.

"Che poi... Neanche fosse così figo. Bellino eh. Ma insomma, da far andare fuori di testa tutti e quattro?"

Tommaso aveva annuito, facendo spallucce. 

"Ti do ragione. E spero che a Luca questa cosa passi presto prima che Patrizio faccia una strage."

"Patrizio dovrebbe anche darsi una mossa però eh, Luca è troppo impedito per accorgersi di quanto stia sbavando come una lumaca. Se non si muove finisce che se lo prende qualcun altro e ti ricordo che l'ultima volta è andato di sbronza triste."

"Non ricordamelo, ti prego..."

"Ao, regà!" Remo era arrivato di soppiatto e li aveva presi entrambi sottobraccio, sorridendo come lo scemo che era.

"Venite a conoscere il nuovo arrivato!"

- Oh, no, ti prego.- 

"Capo fammi almeno togliere i guanti da piatti!"

"No no, li devi tenè, voglio che capisca chi comanda!" Aveva riso il maggiore dei gemelli Stella alla richiesta del suo lavapiatti. 

Maledetto.

Con un movimento degno dei peggiori ubriachi di Caracas, aveva portato Tommaso e Giuda al cospetto del nuovo arrivato, che aveva addosso un sorriso capace di sciogliere il cuore di Giuda in un istante.

E lo aveva fatto.

"Emilio, ecco il mio socio e pasticcere Tommaso Sandero, e il mio lavapiatti tuttofare quello-che-vuoi, Giuda."

"Ho un cognome anche io sai, vecchio." con un eyerolling degno di una star holliwoodiana, Giuda si era voltato verso Emilio. 

Merda, era ancora più bello, da vicino.

"Giuda Schiavon. Ti darei la mano ma ho i guanti."

"Schiavon?" Aveva chiesto Emilio illuminandosi. 

Ma quanto poteva essere bello un essere umano? Ma era legale?

"Ahah, si chiama Schiavon. Il che è perfetto visto che è il nostro..." Aveva iniziato Remo, ma Emilio aveva stretto le mani davanti al viso con aria sognante ed aveva chiesto, interrompendolo:

"Ma sei veneto anche tu? Io sono di Verona!"

Giuda si era limitato a fare spallucce, annuendo subito dopo.

"Par tera, par mar, Sammarco."

"Can del porco un Venexian! Beaaa!" 

Detto questo, si era avvicinato facendo finta di parlare in gran segreto - cosa impossibile visto che tutti lo stavano ancora fissando come se fosse una cosa meravigliosa, tranne forse Romolo che stava guardando proprio Giuda come se fosse la peggiore delle cose mai capitate a questo mondo:

"Cossa go da far pa aver na bona ombra de vin qua?" 

Stava cercando di parlare in veneziano? 

Ma c'era un limite a quanto potesse essere carino?

"Domandarghe a Remo. Io lavo i bicchieri, non li riempio mica." 

Detto questo si era girato verso il titolare, compiendo uno sforzo sovrumano per distogliere lo sguardo da Emilio, che sembrava parecchio abbacchiato dalla risposta.

"Posso tornare di là? Devo andare in cucina a finire i piatti prima che arrivi altra gente per l'happy hour." 

Si era quindi girato di nuovo verso Emilio, facendogli un cenno di saluto con un mezzo sorriso.

"Conterraneo, buona permanenza a Bologna."

E se n'era andato, senza lasciargli il tempo di rispondere.

*

Erano passati tre anni, da quel loro primo incontro. 

Tre anni nei quali Romolo aveva fatto il più divertente degli epic fail con Emilio, nei quali Patrizio si era deciso a ficcare la lingua in bocca a Luca, e Virgilio aveva fatto finta di essere ubriaco per toccare il culo di Romolo, che diceva di aver dimenticato, ma Giuda sapeva essere una balla. 

Perché lui, le balle, le subodorava, essendo un bugiardo cronico.

Infatti, nemmeno per un secondo aveva lasciato che qualcuno sospettasse minimamente della sua cotta allucinante per lo psicologo, specialmente il suddetto, visto che si era probabilmente ormai convinto di stargli sullo stomaco.  

Il che era l'intento del veneziano, visto che dava per scontato che il trentenne fosse ben oltre quello che uno come lui potesse permettersi. 

Dopo la disastrosa relazione col suo compagno di facoltà, Giuda aveva infatti deciso che single era decisamente meglio che col cuore a pezzi. 

Anche se il suo cuore non stava troppo bene. 

Trattare male Emilio gli stava facendo ormai perdere il sonno, a volte rischiava di dimenticare le lenti dalla stanchezza, e persino Virgilio lo prendeva per il culo per le occhiaie.

Ed ora era lì. I guanti in una mano ed una scopa nell'altra.

Con Remo che lo guardava con il sorriso dello Stregatto dipinto in faccia.

"A serpentino. L'ho capito eh. Te piace er veronese."

"Tu stai vaneggiando. Ora come ora lo ammazzerei. Ho fatto volare i bicchieri per colpa sua."

"Nun me piglià per il culo. Io e Tommy ti gridiamo contro in continuazione e non hai mai saltato così. Senti Coso, pure io le subodoro le stronzate, non sei mica l'unico. Fai il merda perché ti piace."

Giuda continuava a guardare il titolare negli occhi, cercando di negare con tutto il linguaggio del corpo.

"Non. Mi. Piace. Emilio. Non so cosa ti sei messo in testa, ma Mister Psicanalisi non è esattamente di mio gradimento okay?"

"Giuda..."

C'era qualcosa nel tono di Remo, qualcosa che per un attimo, aveva aperto una breccia nel cuore del veneziano. 

Forse... Forse poteva fidarsi, di qualcuno.

"...Dal primo giorno in cui è entrato qui dentro. A voi tutti è passata. Ma a me mai. Non ho una cotta per Emilio, Remo. Io sono innamorato, di Emilio. Ma ho sofferto abbastanza in passato da sapere che sto meglio da solo. E se poi va male? Con che faccia lo guardo? Come..."

"Non puoi saperlo. Voglio dire, non posso saperlo io che ci vivo assieme, come puoi farlo tu se scappi ogni volta che lo vedi?"

"Sono del parere che ciò che non sai non può farti del male."

"Fosse qua Luca urlerebbe 'Boiate'. Giuda... io..."

"Beh. Ormai il danno è fatto, no? Si sarà convinto che lo odio dopo la stronzata di oggi." 

Con una risata amara, Giuda aveva superato il romano, continuando: 

"Mi sono bruciato ogni possibilità, amen..."

"Giuda."

"... Però di sicuro mica smette di venire, siamo il suo bar preferito e tu sei il suo coinquilino..."

"Giuda piantala."

"Di sicuro troverà subito qualcuno, gli basta respirare e arriva sempre qualcuno..."

"Giuda!"

Il lavapiatti si era girato di nuovo verso Remo, mordendosi il labbro mentre le stupidissime lacrime iniziavano a scendere.

"Io non ce la posso fare okay? Dopo Mattia non so più come comportarmi, con un uomo. E poi sono un casino. Emilio non potrà mai apprezzare uno come me."

Remo era rimasto in silenzio per un attimo, prima di avanzare ed... abbracciare? Giuda. 

Il veneziano era basito, di solito era Tommaso, quello con cui a volte si permetteva gesti affettuosi.

"Ti devi de sta zitto. Non fai così schifo. E te lo giuro su Totti, io ti aiuterò a prenderti lo psicologo, che tu lo voglia o no." 

Giuda aveva riso amaramente, la faccia ficcata nel petto dell'altissimo coetaneo.

"Seh, vabbè. E come credi di fare?"

Remo lo aveva lasciato andare ed aveva sentenziato, serissimo.

"Sai giocare a briscola?"

[kairi-chan]

Me & You - BoruSara

Rating: T

Genre: Fluffy fluff fluff

Soundtrack: Me & You by HONNE

A/N: Designer / Model AU, takes place during Ma-Jusi, when BoruSara stay in Manila. 

Beta read by: @sandpancakecat

—

When Boruto called her, asking her to go out because he was stressed and tired, she imagined he would be akin to a deflated balloon. Probably wrinkled work clothes with tailor’s chalk smudges on his sleeve, tousled hair and a heavy expression on his face.

She doesn’t even know why she thought that. She should have known better. This was Boruto Uzumaki. He lived to look cool. He was wearing a white, crisp button-down shirt with a little puppy print, buttons closed all the way to the top on his collar. He matched it up with khaki shorts and white sneakers. His blond hair still looked wild, but overall, he still looked fresh as a daisy. Sarada had to bite her lower lip to stop herself from grinning so wide. Boruto looked just like one of the college boys from the universities around the area.

“My muse!” He greeted her, as he approached. His eyes scanned her slowly, from head to toe. The smile on his face grew wider. “Feeling cold, or do you just like rubbing it in that you stole my jacket?”

Sarada rolled her eyes, but a light laugh escaped her lips. “This is mine now,” she leaned closer to him and remarked slyly, “I wear it better, anyway.”

Boruto threw his head back and laughed. “Between you and me? Of course, you look better. You’re the model, right? I simply make your clothes.”

The grin on her face was starting to look permanent. She loved being around Boruto, he always knew how to make her laugh and smile. He held her hand and pulled her to his side to cross the street the moment the light turned green. He started chatting about his day, how he was so pleased with the students and assistants that Inojin referred him to. “Young, local talent is the best.”

Sarada giggled. “You’re starting to look like them as well.”

Boruto grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ya think so? I actually like it. It’s so simple and fresh.”

She hummed and nodded in agreement. Seeing him so happy and relaxed was starting to rub off on her, making her forget the law studies she was doing earlier at a local coffee shop. Being with Boruto was a nice change of pace.

“How did your study session go?” Boruto inquired. “Don’t tell me that barista has been flirting with you again!” She could have sworn she saw the smoke come out of his nose as his hand balled into a fist in front of his chest. His comical behavior was only intensified by the fact that he had switched between three different languages in less than five minutes. She was grateful she could understand all the ones he was saying, but the more she spent time with him, the more she caught herself adapting this habit as well.

“Fine, finally finished that book,” she sighed. “And no, he didn’t. He did give me an extra shot of espresso, though,” she teased. And it looked like it worked because Boruto pouted at her.

“Why don’t you just study at my studio? If you can see me while you study, I’m sure you’ll be more productive.”

She scoffed. “No way. More like I’ll be too distracted!”

“Yeah, I know it can’t be helped I’m too handsome.” He smirked.

“Boruto!” She shoved him a bit, and he laughed. They stopped walking and waited for the traffic enforcer to signal they could cross.

All sorts of people and dogs crossed with them. One of the things she loved about living in this city was that there was barely a pattern with the kind of people who she encountered walking the streets. Some were in suits, others in sweats, some were simply in casual clothes like she and Boruto were. It gave her a sense of normalcy, that she could just blend in with the crowd and belong. And of course, the dogs were a plus. From the tiny lap dogs who wore diapers to the giant Huskies and hairy Retrievers. They were all so cute.

After crossing the street, a tiny Shih Tzu came up to her, sniffing her ankle. She bent down and petted it, their owner smiling and indulging her. A few seconds passed and she stood up and waved at the dog and their owner goodbye.

“A little longer and I would have been jealous of a dog,” Boruto sighed.

Sarada laughed and looked at him. He really was so handsome. Thinking of seeing him work while she studied was already making her stomach knot up. “Will you stop that?”

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, planting a quick kiss on her temple as he declared, “Never!”

They finally reached the restaurant Boruto was raving about. He kept on going on about how one of his interns ordered food from Pound one lunchtime and he was hooked. “And it’s so cheap!” Boruto cheered, making Sarada chuckle. For someone who raked in millions, she loved that he could still appreciate a decently priced meal.

It was a little English pub style restaurant. The servers were wearing white long-sleeved shirts with suspenders and bow ties. It looked so cute. The food was also really good, and Boruto was right. It was cheap! They enjoyed their burgers and fries and Boruto kept chatting on about his new collection. Once their dessert was served and Sarada’s milkshake arrived, he took a photo of her with their sweets and posted it on Instagram. When she got the notification for the tag and checked her phone, she rolled her eyes at the cheesy caption but blushed.

“My sweet, enjoying her sweets.”

She purses her lips when she saw Inojin’s comment, “I guess this means she won’t be having you tonight. Hehehe.”

Inojin always thought he was right. But perhaps tonight, she could make him wrong.

—

With the bill paid, and dinner over, Boruto and Sarada headed out to walk around some more. A hobby shop was the first shop they visited. Sarada enjoyed seeing a wide array of board games, and Boruto’s eyes lit up upon reading a sign that said the staff held pottery and painting classes once a week.

“You’re not even artistic,” Sarada stuck her tongue out at him playfully, as he inquired for further details.

He placed his hand on his chest and gasped. “My assistants can understand my sketches just fine!”

“Sure,” Sarada smirked. “How they can understand your scribbles are beyond me.”

He whined and pouted like a child, clinging on to her, making her take it back. She only laughed and accepted the details for the classes written down on a piece of paper the staff handed her. She slipped it in Boruto’s breast pocket. “Here you go, you big baby. Don’t lose it.”

He smirked and placed a hand over hers, pressing it over his heart. “What? Sliding your number into my pocket already?” He leaned close to whisper in her ear,  “Sarada Uchiha, I didn’t think you would be this forward.”

For the second time that night she gently shoved him away from her, as she tried and failed to hide her red face. Boruto laughed and poked her side, teasing her all the more.

The next stop was a bookstore with four floors. Sarada loved this place and often hung around here to study at the coffee shop on the third floor. Sometimes she would just pick out a book to leaf through as well. Even if she was always here, she still excitedly looked around, searching for anything new.

Boruto hung back and watched her, a lovestruck smile on his face. He adored seeing her so excited over something she was passionate about, and books were one of them. He also looked around, scanning the titles, scouting around who the best selling authors were these days, and what topic people liked to read about based on the choices laid out. As soon as he felt bored, he decided to wrap his arms around her waist and lean his cheek on her head, breathing in scent as she scanned through a book.

“You’re being so clingy,” she muttered, not minding his affectionate gesture. When he nuzzled his cheek some more into her hair she moved her head away, attempting to shake him off. “Stop it.”

“Noooo,” he whined and nuzzled into her hair some more, messing it up.

She pretended to look annoyed, but she couldn’t fool him. He grinned at her and kissed her forehead. “Fine, fine. Be a book nerd. I’ll come back for you here in a few minutes.”

“Where are you going?”

He gave her a sly smile. “Now look who’s being clingy.”

Sarada huffed and turned away. “Fine.”

Boruto poked her side and chuckled when she squirmed at his touch. “I’ll get us something. Meet me outside when you’re done.”

After a few minutes, Sarada decided not to buy the book she was holding. Not yet at least. She wanted to finish the books she had on her temporary shelf, in her shared apartment with Boruto. The last part made her blush. She didn’t think she would be moving so fast with Boruto. They’ve only known each other for a year, gotten together for a few months, and now she was living with him in a foreign land. It wasn’t like her to do something so rash, she always calculated and played it safe. But Boruto was the exact opposite. His spontaneous and unpredictable personality excited her, and she would be lying if she said she didn’t like it. Every moment with him felt so right.

Sarada stopped when a plastic cup was held up her face. “You look like you could use a cold drink, my muse.” Boruto smiled. “You okay? Too hot?”

She cleared her throat and took the cup from him. The tropical weather was a life saver. If Boruto knew she was blushing because she was thinking about him, he would never live it down. “Yeah. Thanks. Is this milk tea?” Tentatively, she placed her lips on the straw and took a sip. Dark eyes lit up as soon as the sweet liquid hit her tongue, accompanied with chewy tapioca pearls.

Boruto grinned as he watched her expression change. “Good right? Saw the line and thought it had to be good if people were willing to wait.”

She giggled at his logic but was thankful for the drink. He lead her to one of the benches towards the other side, and music started to float towards her. There was a young man standing at the side, singing into a microphone as he strummed his guitar. He had a makeshift sign for his social media on his open guitar case, where a number of bills and coins were splayed out.

“I love this song!” Boruto chose to sit relatively close to the singer, and the amplifier wasn’t the best, but Sarada could tell he had a good voice. The songs he chose to cover accentuated the beauty of his voice.

The two of them sat down and listened to him play as they drank their milk tea. For once, Boruto wasn’t chatting away. He did hold on to her hand and kept it on his lap as they listened, and sometimes, he would sing along to certain lines in the song as he looked at her. A gesture that she found sweeter than her drink.

Sarada tightened her hold on his hand and leaned on his shoulder, closing her eyes and enjoying the cool breeze bristle through her hair. With the milk tea gone and pearls eaten, the two of them stood up and Boruto left a big tip for the young artist and took a photo of his social media pages to check out for later.

Boruto browsed his phone. “Do you think he’ll cry if I follow him and feature his stuff on Instagram?”

“Oh my god. Stop being so full of yourself!”

He laughed. “What? The last time I did that, the girl cried for days. I felt so guilty.”

Sarada rolled her eyes. “Why do I put up with you?”

“You’re stuck with me. No going back, Sarada. This is your life now.” He leaned in close to her face. “And you love it.”

Her cheeks flushed and she scowled at him. “Stop teasing me.”

Boruto wrapped his arms around her waist as they walked and he nuzzled his nose on her ear. “Never!”

.

.

.

Sarada turned on the lights in their apartment and dropped the keys on the counter. She was tired, but she had a fun time. It was a simple date, far from the lavish luxuries that she was used to in France whenever Boruto took her around. She plopped down on the couch and let out a long sigh. “I’m still so full.”

Boruto sat down next to her and placed his hand on her thigh. “Don’t want to sleep yet, then?”

She shook her head sleepily. “Don’t sleep when you’re full. Mama always told me that.”

“We can watch a movie,” he suggested. His hand moved away from her as he picked up the remote, switching the television on. “Up for something funny or sappy?” Boruto smirked to himself. “Who am I kidding, of course, you want something sap—“

He stopped rambling when Sarada pulled him towards her, crashing her lips on his. His eyes were wide, caught off guard at her sudden kiss. But he was quick to close his eyes and wrap his arms around her, pulling her onto his lap. She pulled back for air and it took everything in him not to seize her lips with his own again. Once he saw the blush on her face and the look in her eyes, he stopped. What she said next left him breathless.

“I don’t want something sappy. I want you.”

His face flushed, speechless that she would suddenly kiss him like that. She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck, coming in for another kiss. Slowly this time. Relishing the feel of his warm soft lips on hers, and feeling his hands wander around her hips and lower back, Sarada pressed her body closer to his, allowing his body heat to seep through their clothes and onto her skin. A soft moan escaped her throat when Boruto slipped his hand under her shirt. Sarada tugged at the edge of his shirt, wanting it off but he stopped her.

“Woah there,” he planted soft kisses on her neck as he spoke. “Getting a little excited, are we?”

Sarada groaned when he pulled away to look at her face. She pouted at him, genuinely upset that he was ruining the moment. “Stop ruining it.”

He gave her a cheeky grin and in one quick motion, stood up from the couch, and carried her. She let out a small squeak and held on to his neck. “Boruto!”

“You said not to ruin it, I’m continuing it.” He walked over to their bedroom, and she tried her best to hide her red face against his neck. “You said you didn’t want to sleep yet, right?” She nodded, feeling the excitement bubble up in her chest. “We’re not sleeping tonight, my muse.”

Thank you for reading! :) 

If you like what I write, please check out my #fanfiction tag. I have links on my profile to my Master Post, FFnet, Ao3, Twitter, and Ko-Fi. 

[savvylark]

Not Your Mama’s Hallmark Christmas Part 3

You can find Part 1 here and Part 2 here or read it all on Ao3 here

Katniss tends to be cynical about materialism, love, and marriage. Her friends have replaced the family she lost. So when Peeta needs help, her friends don’t need more than a strong arm to convince her. Katniss finds herself having a very different  Christmas this year with the Mellark family, posing as Peeta’s girlfriend. What will change when this starts to look like a strange Hallmark movie?

Thank you to the amazing @javistg being my beta and encouraging. Thank you @peetabreadgirl for giving me some of the ideas for these cute scenes that bring K & P closer. @everlarkingjoshifer made this banner for me. Isn’t it lovely?

Madge is unbelievable. The girl has connections and she knows how to get things done. Almost everyday after my work at the lab, I’m busy with something to prepare for the trip.

Madge and I are getting our nails done at a salon she frequents. I never do this kind of thing. I kept my nails shorter, square, and a dark red color, seasonal, but edgy enough to be myself. I’m pretending to be a wealthier version on myself I reason.

Madge is getting her baby pink French Tip frost with iridescence and sparkles. She couldn’t be happier that I begrudgingly accompanied her. I try to enjoy her company while she continues with her mission to prepare me. 

“I peppered in compliments about you while I was on the phone with Aunt Loretta, but you know how she is,” Madge admits with a grimace.

I roll my eyes. I do know how she is.

Mrs. Mellark was full of backhanded compliments and condescension when she met Gale. My best friend is a tall, dark, and handsome engineer with intense gray eyes, that could win over any woman.

Madge’s Aunt being the exception.

“When I mentioned that I met Gale through you, it all went downhill.” She rolls her eyes. I’m not surprised.

“Maybe I should have started with how much you make in the lab working for pharmaceutical companies.” Madge winks.

I huff.

I don’t how to handle someone so superficial.

Money was hard to come by growing up. The only reason I had the opportunity to attend college was the archery scholarship I received.

It was extremely lucky that my favorite professor, Dr. Beetee. Took an interest in me and explained that with my major, Biochemistry in Pharmaceutical Sciences, I was eligible for the program that enables undergraduate students to begin taking graduate courses in their senior year.

I received a Master of Science degree within a year of finishing my undergraduate degree.

Dr. Beetee helped me find a job with his connections, I was hired right out of college. With his encouragement, I’ve been taking a few night classes in pursuit of my doctorate.

My paygrade allows me to afford a good chunk of my sister’s college bills as she studies to become a pediatrician, while I continue to live with a roommate and a tight budget.

I guess Mrs. Mellark would like to know what I make and not where it goes.

Madge wrote out an itinerary based on what she knows after talking to her aunt, with what outfit to wear, the right shoes, makeup for each outfit, diagrams, and tips for what might happen.

The shopping she’s done for me is a welcome relief. She knows me so well. What I like, what I look good in, what fits, and most importantly, how much I hate shopping.

Peeta and I are heading out of town in his black SUV –I always refer to it as his secret service vehicle. Snow is lightly dusting our scenery on the open road.

It’s a 3 hour drive to Merchant, Peeta’s ritzy gated community hometown. Politicians, socialites, anyone with money, even a famous eccentric musician are all known to live in that area.

A 30 minute drive from there is the suburban town Madge, Gale, and I grew up in. Gale and I grew up on the poorer side of town. Madge growing up as the mayor’s daughter (and now senator elect) obviously being the nicest part of our area.

The first hour of our drive is filled with our usual banter and laughter. I’m genuinely relieved that this weird week will be with Peeta, he’s a blast.

We take turns playing new music we’ve found, and fall into our usual discussions, sharing thoughts on certain lyrics or a particular soul-stirring melody.

Peeta gets a thoughtful look on his face before he speaks. “Okay, this may seem weird to discuss, but I’m going to surprise you in the moment, when no one is looking. I don’t think our first kiss should be in front of everyone. It’s going to look forced and awkward.”

I quirk an eyebrow at him. “OUR. First. Kiss?” I lock eyes with him, but keep a teasing look on my face.

He raises his eyebrows realizing what he just said, remembering, his cheeks turn rosy.

“You were my first kiss,” I whisper, just barely loud enough for him to hear. Cherishing the memory.

I bite my lip in thought. Quick dart my eyes to Peeta as I catch him licking his lips, then snap my gaze back on the road.

“Really?” He seems surprised, but I can hear a smile and, is that pride, in his tone?

“Mhmm.” I feel 16 again and I’m floating, my skin tingles. I know I’m blushing so I just stare down at my boots.

After a few moments of thoughtful silence, I blurt out. “Our kisses couldn’t ever be forced or awkward, Peeta.” I leave that for him to chew in as I crank up some “Hipster Holidays Radio” on Pandora.

After all the stories Madge and Peeta have told me of the infamous Mrs. Loretta Mellark, I wasn’t expecting someone so beautiful, and well, perfect. Everything about her was “just so,” which, maybe I should have guessed, knowing how “just so” Madge is.

She’s dressed in classically styled name brand clothes, makeup that complements her icy blue eyes and lighter skin tone, elegantly styled updo, highlighted blond hair, nothing is out of place or inexpensive.

Loretta is the most beautiful middle aged woman I’ve ever seen. Her pores seep elegance.

An air of pretension and anxiety follows her everywhere.

Honestly, this explains some things.

“Mom, this is my girlfriend, Katniss. I told you she was coming. She grew up with Madge, remember?” Peeta introduces me, rushed and nervous.

With a weak smile, I offer my hand in greeting. Trying to relax my own nerves.

“It’s very nice to meet you, thank you for having me,” I tell Peeta’s mother.

Loretta purses her lips and looks me over, eyes narrow, ignoring my extended hand.

I stuff my hands into the pockets of my worn jeans, which I realize she’s judging right now.

“What an interesting name. Very Haight-Ashbury.”

I look at Peeta and we’re both trying to hide our amusement.

“Thanks?” I reply trying to keep a neutral expression.

“If my dear niece is fond of you, I’m sure you’ll find your place here. Peeta, can you show her to one of the upper guest rooms? We won’t have any cohabitation in my house, especially among so many family members, you understand?”

Peeta nods.

I try to hide my sigh of relief.

That is until I find that I’m being put in a room so far from the rest of the family.

Message received. My place here is not with the rest of the family. I can tell by Peeta’s grimace he’s also caught onto his mother’s condescending implication.  

“It’s okay, Peeta, I do like having a place to escape, so I don’t know if I really mind at all.”

“Yeah, but it’s just rude. You’re my girlfriend.” He clears his throat. “I mean, she shouldn’t treat you that way, and it’s disrespectful to both of us,” he says with frustration.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, Peeta, let’s just get through this as smoothly as possible. We don’t play her games. We have our own antics,” I say with a smile and a wink.

He rolls his eyes and I know he’s thinking of the reference “antics.”

One year, Peeta stress baked enough Christmas cookies to open his own bakery. When I came over to his apartment to set up for movie night, we came up with the idea of having a cookie eating contest.

We got right to frosting in preparation for our Christmas party.

Later on, Jo and Finnick walked in to find 12 dozen frosted cookies and Peeta chasing me with a spatula, laughing with frosting all over his face, mine being equally frosted.

Johanna and Finnick went into a long list of our games we come up with, the chasing and teasing, referencing them as “antics.” It became a recurring joke Jo and Finnick go back to in reference to the competitions we come up with, or playful things we do together.

“Always with the antics” became a recurring joke.

“Ugh, now I really want some cookies!” I groan.

Peeta lights up at the reference, and chuckles to himself. “I know where to find some!” He takes my hand and leads me out of the secluded guest room.

I don’t really know what kind of awkwardness would have come from sharing a room with Peeta, so I put it out of my mind.

“Did your mom call my parents hippies?” I remind him.

Our eyes meet and we laugh.

“Pretty much.”

Peeta leads me to the kitchen. “You are kind of a flower child, yourself.” He pokes at my side.

I squirm and scowl at him.

As we eat frosted Christmas sugar cookies from Mellark’s bakery, Peeta brings up ways we should look and act like a couple. “We have to believable, right?”

“Yeah?” I roll my eyes.

“Let’s go over ‘couply things’ we should do,” Peeta suggests, always the project manager.

“Like hand-holding?” I deadpan, because this seems kind of silly. We’re adults. We’ve been in plenty of relationships. I do see his point, it is hard to think of Peeta as more than a friend.

Well, was, until Joanna opened that can of worms.

He reaches for my hand and nods.

I slowly grasp his large palm and interlace our fingers, ignoring the tingle that spreads with our touch.

“Or I’ll put my arm around you.” Peeta demonstrates and I try to relax in his embrace. My nerves are a little on edge.

“Loving gestures.” His arm travels down and he rubs my back affectionately.

Then he pulls on the end of my braid to turn me toward him.

Peeta stares into my eyes and smooths a strand of my hair behind my ear carefully.

I crinkle my nose.

He laughs.

Peeta kisses my nose.

I gasp, startled.

Then we both laugh.

He pulls me into a hug as we laugh, for no reason in particular. His face snuggles down in the crook of my neck.

I feel so…

We hear footsteps behind us and in walks William Mellark, beaming at the couple he’s found in the kitchen.

I push away with one hand on Peeta’s chest and look up at him for what to do.

His arms remains wrapped around me.

I’m momentarily distracted by the feel of his muscular solid chest under my fingertips.

Peeta’s attention is on the family patriarch. “Hey Dad! This is Katniss, my girlfriend,” he introduces me.

I try not to notice the huskiness Peeta’s voice took on when the said girlfriend, or the proud smile he gave.

It almost hurts to have to lie to his dad like that. I swallow my feelings.

As Peeta releases me from his embrace, I step forward.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Mellark!” I say, hoping to school my nerves.

With familiar Mellark deep blue eyes, I’m greeted with a smile. Peeta’s dad has prominent laugh lines and the wrinkles around his eyes seem to be from happiness. His blonde hair is cut short with gray sprinkled around his temples, but I’m sure it was exactly like Peeta’s in his youth.

He’s very handsome.

I know where Peeta gets his looks.

“It’s Will to you, please? Make yourself at home here, Katniss!”

I greet him with a handshake. “Thank you, Will!”

The first night, the Mellarks have planned a couples’ ice skating event in town. We meet up with Peeta’s brothers and their wives.

Dane Mellark is a lawyer and it shows with the way he carries himself, seems cold and serious.

His wife, Clara, is also blond; beautiful, perfectly manicured, and dressed like Princess Kate. I’m sure she’s everything his mother wanted in a daughter-in-law.

We make polite conversation, what I do, how we met, how Dane and Clara met. Clara’s favorite topic being their children.

I can’t shake the feeling that I don’t really belong.

Rye Mellark and his wife arrive a little later. The Middle Mellark son greets me with a warm hug and whispers, “try not to melt the ice there” with a wink.

Is he flirting with me?

Then, he pulls Peeta in a headlock and, mutters something that makes Peeta blush.

I don’t have time to wonder what kind of woman married him when a dark red haired bombshell smacks Rye’s arm. “Knock it off Ryen!”

Rye releases Peeta with a huff.

“I’m Lila, it’s nice to meet you, Katniss.” Lila pulls me into a side hug, she smells like an expensive perfume.

She’s clearly used to this kind of lifestyle, but from talking to her she’s approachable, and genuine.

The first time I make Rye and Lila laugh Peeta and I lock eyes. The look of pride and something else I’m not familiar with flashes in his eyes. I’m much more comfortable around them after that.

It’s a relief.

Rye makes a big show of his backwards skating abilities. He’s dressed in a black Red Wings starter jacket and hockey skates.

Lila makes a few jokes at her husband’s expense.

“Why the Red Wings didn’t want him…”

And something about How he dressed in,costume. She’s funny, and clearly Rye thinks so too.

He laughs along and his eyes twinkle with love for his wife.

There’s that feeling again.

What is it with me lately? I’m noticing that ‘love’ look everywhere.

I blame Gale.

The outdoor rink is beautiful, with lights, greenery and holly. It even smells of evergreen.

In the center, is a decorated 30 foot tree looking magical, the music playing makes my ears buzz with nostalgia.

I tighten my hand in Peeta’s unconsciously and feel the buzz travel from my ears to my whole body as I listen.

Taking in the scene as we make our first loop around on the glassy ice rink, I can’t help but sigh in contentment.

“I feel like a kid again!” I smile up at Peeta.

He squeezes my hand and smiles back in reply.

I briefly think of Madge saying “you have a calming effect on Peeta.” I wonder if he has the same effect on me, and if this feeling, similar to holiday cheer, has something to do with the man next to me.

As if he’s reading my thoughts, Peeta draws me into his arms. I’m met with his deep blue eyes and the reflection of lights dancing around us before Peeta plants a chaste kiss on my lips.

My heart is beating faster, and I can’t keep the stupid grin off my face.

The tingling sensation on my lips lingers.

I force myself to focus on one thought,

“This is fun. We’re having fun. Don’t over think.”

I glance behind Peeta and realize his brothers and parents were watching us.

Smiles and whispers are shared among them.

Oh right, this is for appearances.

I grin back at Peeta, as if to say “It’s working.”

A confusing tightness lingers in my gut.

I refuse to let my thoughts wander and analyze. Or think about my body’s reaction to the kiss.

The first thing Peeta says to me once we arrive back at his parents’ house is “Hey, you know what we need? Hot Cocoa!”

We walk with his arms wrapped around me, as if we are really a couple.

It really felt like a first date and it was, well, wonderful.

Peeta hands me a fresh cup of cocoa and I take my seat at the breakfast nook while he prepares his own cup.

On the wall are cute pictures of the Mellark  boys in various stages of life.

It’s funny to see Peeta as a chubby little grade-schooler, same friendly smirk, same bright blue eyes.

I try to think if I remember him like that at Madge’s birthday parties. I just wasn’t paying enough attention then. Maybe I do remember that sweet face, playing tag in Madge’s back yard.

I turn and collide with Peeta’s very full cup of steaming Hot Cocoa. It pours all down his shirt.

Peeta hisses. He sets his cup down, and whips his shirt off to rid himself of the scalding liquid.

I quickly reach for a napkin and attempt to dry his lap.

He has light red marks from the cocoa, but I can’t ignore his chiseled and muscular chest.

Wow. Just. Wow.

My movements still as we make eye contact.

My chest feels heavy, the air feels thick.

My whole body is very aware of this growing attraction.

Or recurring attraction?

This is HOT.

“What?” Peeta says, amusement on his face.

I must have said that out loud.

I try to shake away the magnetism he has.

Then I realize my hand is still in his lap, lingering precariously. Was I just rubbing his… lap?

I pull back, taking a sip of my cocoa to hide my reaction. “The cocoa is hot,” I blurt out in an attempt to recover. Looking anywhere but at Peeta.

We quietly finish our hot chocolate.

“Well, I think I’m ready to head to my room. I had a lot fun, Peeta, thank you,” I say.

Peeta catches my hand and pulls me in a warm hug.

My hands go around his back.

His bare muscular back.

He’s still shirtless.

I resist the urge to moan.

My whole body heats up again.

“Thank you for doing this, Katniss,” Peeta whispers.

I feel his warm breath and the brush of his lips on my neck.

I pull away and nod, mumbling some sort of affirmation.

I head up to my room before I do something stupid like shove him into the wall and kiss him senseless without the pretense of appearances.

That night, I dream of a shirtless Peeta, moaning and grunting as I stroke…

[winterinpanem]

Not Your Mama's Hallmark Christmas part 2/3

A big Thank YOU to my friend and beta @javistg 

Madge is unbelievable. The girl has connections and she knows how to get things done. Almost everyday after my work at the lab, I'm busy with something to prepare for the trip.

  Madge and I are getting our nails done at a salon she frequents. I never do this kind of thing. I kept my nails shorter, square, and a dark red color, seasonal, but edgy enough to be myself. I’m pretending to be a wealthier version on myself I reason with myself.

Madge is getting her baby pink French Tip frost with iridescence and sparkles. She couldn’t be happier that I begrudgingly accompanied her. I try to enjoy her company while she continues on her mission to prepare me.

“I peppered in compliments about you when I was on the phone with Aunt Loretta, but you know how she is,” Madge admits with a grimace.

  I roll my eyes. I do know how she is.

  Mrs. Mellark was full of backhanded compliments and condescension when she met Gale. My best friend is a tall, dark, and handsome engineer with intense gray eyes, that could win over any woman.

  Madge's Aunt being the exception.

  “When I mentioned that I met Gale through you, it all went downhill.” She rolls her eyes. I'm not surprised.

  “Maybe I should have started with how much you make in the lab working for pharmaceutical companies.” Madge winks.

  I huff.

  I don't how to handle someone so superficial.

  Money was hard to come by growing up. The only reason I had the opportunity to attend college was the archery scholarship I received.

  It was extremely lucky that my favorite professor, Dr. Beetee. Took an interest in me and explained that with my major, Biochemistry in Pharmaceutical Sciences, I was eligible for the program that enables undergraduate students to begin taking graduate courses in their senior year.

  I received a Master of Science degree within a year of finishing my undergraduate degree.

  Dr. Beetee helped me find a job with his connections, I was hired right out of college. With his encouragement, I've been taking a few night classes in pursuit of my doctorate.

  My paygrade allows me to afford a good chunk of my sister's college bills as she studies to become a pediatrician, while I continue to live with a roommate and a tight budget.

  I guess Mrs. Mellark would like to know what I make and not where it goes.

  Madge wrote out an itinerary based on what she knows after talking to her aunt, with what outfit to wear, the right shoes, makeup for each outfit, diagrams, and tips for what might happen.

  The shopping she's done for me is a welcome relief. She knows me so well. What I like, what I look good in, what fits, and most importantly, how much I hate shopping.

  Peeta and I are heading out of town in his black SUV --I always refer to it as his secret service vehicle. Snow is lightly dusting our scenery on the open road.

  It's a 3 hour drive to Merchant, Peeta’s ritzy gated community hometown. Politicians, socialites, anyone with money, even a famous eccentric musician are all known to live in that area.

  A 30 minute drive from there is the suburban town Madge, Gale, and I grew up in. Gale and I grew up on the poorer side of town. Madge growing up as the mayor's daughter (and now senator elect) obviously being the nicest part of our area.

  The first hour of our drive is filled with our usual banter and laughter. I'm genuinely relieved that this weird week will be with Peeta, he's a blast.

  We take turns playing new music we've found, and fall into our usual discussions, sharing thoughts on certain lyrics or a particular soul-stirring melody.

  Peeta gets a thoughtful look on his face before he speaks. “Okay, this may seem weird to discuss, but I’m going to surprise you in the moment, when no one is looking. I don’t think our first kiss should be in front of everyone. It's going to look forced and awkward.”

  I quirk an eyebrow at him. “OUR. First. Kiss?” I lock eyes with him, but keep a teasing look on my face.

  He raises his eyebrows realizing what he just said, remembering, his cheeks turn rosy.

  “You were my first kiss,” I whisper, just barely loud enough for him to hear. Cherishing the memory.

  I bite my lip in thought. Quick dart my eyes to Peeta as I catch him licking his lips, then snap my gaze back on the road.

  “Really?” He seems surprised, but I can hear a smile and, is that pride, in his tone?

  “Mhmm.” I feel 16 again and I'm floating, my skin tingles. I know I'm blushing so I just stare down at my boots.

  After a few moments of thoughtful silence, I blurt out. “Our kisses couldn't ever be forced or awkward, Peeta.” I leave that for him to chew in as I crank up some “Hipster Holidays Radio” on Pandora.

  After all the stories Madge and Peeta have told me of the infamous Mrs. Loretta Mellark, I wasn’t expecting someone so beautiful, and well, perfect. Everything about her was “just so,” which, maybe I should have guessed, knowing how “just so” Madge is.

  She's dressed in classically styled name brand clothes, makeup that complements her icy blue eyes and lighter skin tone, elegantly styled updo, highlighted blond hair, nothing is out of place or inexpensive.

  Loretta is the most beautiful middle aged woman I've ever seen. Her pores seep elegance.

An air of pretension and anxiety follows her everywhere.

  Honestly, this explains some things.

  “Mom, this is my girlfriend, Katniss. I told you she was coming. She grew up with Madge, remember?” Peeta introduces me, rushed and nervous.

  With a weak smile, I offer my hand in greeting. Trying to relax my own nerves.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, thank you for having me,” I tell Peeta's mother.

  Loretta purses her lips and looks me over, eyes narrow, ignoring my extended hand.

  I stuff my hands into the pockets of my worn jeans, which I realize she's judging right now.

  “What an interesting name. Very Haight-Ashbury.”

  I look at Peeta and we're both trying to hide our amusement.

  “Thanks?” I reply trying to keep a neutral expression.

  “If my dear niece is fond of you, I’m sure you’ll find your place here. Peeta, can you show her to one of the upper guest rooms? We won’t have any cohabitation in my house, especially among so many family members, you understand?”

  Peeta nods.

  I try to hide my sigh of relief.

  That is until I find that I’m being put in a room so far from the rest of the family.

  Message received. My place here is not with the rest of the family. I can tell by Peeta's grimace he's also caught onto his mother's condescending implication.  

  “It's okay, Peeta, I do like having a place to escape, so I don't know if I really mind at all.”

  “Yeah, but it's just rude. You're my girlfriend.” He clears his throat. “I mean, she shouldn't treat you that way, and it's disrespectful to both of us,” he says with frustration.

  I put my hand on his shoulder. “It's okay, Peeta, let's just get through this as smoothly as possible. We don't play her games. We have our own antics,” I say with a smile and a wink.

  He rolls his eyes and I know he's thinking of the reference “antics.”

  One year, Peeta stress baked enough Christmas cookies to open his own bakery. When I came over to his apartment to set up for movie night, we came up with the idea of having a cookie eating contest.

  We got right to frosting in preparation for our Christmas party.

  Later on, Jo and Finnick walked in to find 12 dozen frosted cookies and Peeta chasing me with a spatula, laughing with frosting all over his face, mine being equally frosted.

  Johanna and Finnick went into a long list of our games we come up with, the chasing and teasing, referencing them as “antics.” It became a recurring joke Jo and Finnick go back to in reference to the competitions we come up with, or playful things we do together.

  “Always with the antics” became a recurring joke.

  “Ugh, now I really want some cookies!” I groan.

  Peeta lights up at the reference, and chuckles to himself. “I know where to find some!” He takes my hand and leads me out of the secluded guest room.

  I don’t really know what kind of awkwardness would have come from sharing a room with Peeta, so I put it out of my mind.

  “Did your mom call my parents hippies?” I remind him.

  Our eyes meet and we laugh.

  “Pretty much.”

  Peeta leads me to the kitchen. “You are kind of a flower child, yourself.” He pokes at my side.

  I squirm and scowl at him.

  As we eat frosted Christmas sugar cookies from Mellark’s bakery, Peeta brings up ways we should look and act like a couple. “We have to believable, right?”

  “Yeah?” I roll my eyes.

  “Let's go over ‘couply things’ we should do,” Peeta suggests, always the project manager.

  “Like hand-holding?” I deadpan, because this seems kind of silly. We're adults. We've been in plenty of relationships. I do see his point, it is hard to think of Peeta as more than a friend.

  Well, was, until Joanna opened that can of worms.

  He reaches for my hand and nods.

  I slowly grasp his large palm and interlace our fingers, ignoring the tingle that spreads with our touch.

  “Or I'll put my arm around you.” Peeta demonstrates and I try to relax in his embrace. My nerves are a little on edge.

  “Loving gestures.” His arm travels down and he rubs my back affectionately.

  Then he pulls on the end of my braid to turn me toward him.

  Peeta stares into my eyes and smooths a strand of my hair behind my ear carefully.

  I crinkle my nose.

  He laughs.

  Peeta kisses my nose.

  I gasp, startled.

  Then we both laugh.

  He pulls me into a hug as we laugh, for no reason in particular. His face snuggles down in the crook of my neck.

  I feel so...

  We hear footsteps behind us and in walks William Mellark, beaming at the couple he’s found in the kitchen.

  I push away with one hand on Peeta's chest and look up at him for what to do.

His arms remains wrapped around me.

  I'm momentarily distracted by the feel of his muscular solid chest under my fingertips.

  Peeta's attention is on the family patriarch. “Hey Dad! This is Katniss, my girlfriend,” he introduces me.

  I try not to notice the huskiness Peeta's voice took on when the said girlfriend, or the proud smile he gave.

  It almost hurts to have to lie to his dad like that. I swallow my feelings.

  As Peeta releases me from his embrace, I step forward.

  “Nice to meet you, Mr. Mellark!” I say, hoping to school my nerves.

  With familiar Mellark deep blue eyes, I'm greeted with a smile. Peeta’s dad has prominent laugh lines and the wrinkles around his eyes seem to be from happiness. His blonde hair is cut short with gray sprinkled around his temples, but I'm sure it was exactly like Peeta's in his youth.

  He's very handsome.

  I know where Peeta gets his looks.

  “It's Will to you, please? Make yourself at home here, Katniss!”

  I greet him with a handshake. “Thank you, Will!”

  The first night, the Mellarks have planned a couples’ ice skating event in town. We meet up with Peeta's brothers and their wives.

  Dane Mellark is a lawyer and it shows with the way he carries himself, seems cold and serious.

  His wife, Clara, is also blond; beautiful, perfectly manicured, and dressed like Princess Kate. I'm sure she's everything his mother wanted in a daughter-in-law.

  We make polite conversation, what I do, how we met, how Dane and Clara met. Clara’s favorite topic being their children.

  I can't shake the feeling that I don't really belong.

  Rye Mellark and his wife arrive a little later. The Middle Mellark son greets me with a warm hug and whispers, “try not to melt the ice there” with a wink.

  Is he flirting with me?

  Then, he pulls Peeta in a headlock and, mutters something that makes Peeta blush.

  I don't have time to wonder what kind of woman married him when a dark red haired bombshell smacks Rye’s arm. “Knock it off Ryen!”

  Rye releases Peeta with a huff.

  “I'm Lila, it's nice to meet you, Katniss.” Lila pulls me into a side hug, she smells like an expensive perfume.

She's clearly used to this kind of lifestyle, but from talking to her she's approachable, and genuine.

  The first time I make Rye and Lila laugh Peeta and I lock eyes. The look of pride and something else I'm not familiar with flashes in his eyes. I'm much more comfortable around them after that.

  It's a relief.

  Rye makes a big show of his backwards skating abilities. He's dressed in a black Red Wings starter jacket and hockey skates.

  Lila makes a few jokes at her husband's expense.

“Why the Red Wings didn't want him…”

  And something about How he dressed in,costume. She's funny, and clearly Rye thinks so too.

He laughs along and his eyes twinkle with love for his wife.

  There's that feeling again.

  What is it with me lately? I'm noticing that ‘love' look everywhere.

  I blame Gale.

  The outdoor rink is beautiful, with lights, greenery and holly. It even smells of evergreen.

In the center, is a decorated 30 foot tree looking magical, the music playing makes my ears buzz with nostalgia.

  I tighten my hand in Peeta's unconsciously and feel the buzz travel from my ears to my whole body as I listen.

  Taking in the scene as we make our first loop around on the glassy ice rink, I can't help but sigh in contentment.

  “I feel like a kid again!” I smile up at Peeta.

  He squeezes my hand and smiles back in reply.

  I briefly think of Madge saying “you have a calming effect on Peeta.” I wonder if he has the same effect on me, and if this feeling, similar to holiday cheer, has something to do with the man next to me.

  As if he's reading my thoughts, Peeta draws me into his arms. I'm met with his deep blue eyes and the reflection of lights dancing around us before Peeta plants a chaste kiss on my lips.

  My heart is beating faster, and I can't keep the stupid grin off my face.

The tingling sensation on my lips lingers.

  I force myself to focus on one thought,

“This is fun. We're having fun. Don't over think.”

I glance behind Peeta and realize his brothers and parents were watching us.

Smiles and whispers are shared among them.

  Oh right, this is for appearances.

  I grin back at Peeta, as if to say “It's working.”

  A confusing tightness lingers in my gut.

  I refuse to let my thoughts wander and analyze. Or think about my body’s reaction to the kiss.

  The first thing Peeta says to me once we arrive back at his parents’ house is “Hey, you know what we need? Hot Cocoa!”

  We walk with his arms wrapped around me, as if we are really a couple.

  It really felt like a first date and it was, well, wonderful.

  Peeta hands me a fresh cup of cocoa and I take my seat at the breakfast nook while he prepares his own cup.

  On the wall are cute pictures of the Mellark  boys in various stages of life.

  It's funny to see Peeta as a chubby little grade-schooler, same friendly smirk, same bright blue eyes.

  I try to think if I remember him like that at Madge's birthday parties. I just wasn't paying enough attention then. Maybe I do remember that sweet face, playing tag in Madge's back yard.

  I turn and collide with Peeta’s very full cup of steaming Hot Cocoa. It pours all down his shirt.

  Peeta hisses. He sets his cup down, and whips his shirt off to rid himself of the scalding liquid.

  I quickly reach for a napkin and attempt to dry his lap.

  He has light red marks from the cocoa, but I can't ignore his chiseled and muscular chest.

  Wow. Just. Wow.

  My movements still as we make eye contact.

  My chest feels heavy, the air feels thick.

  My whole body is very aware of this growing attraction.

  Or recurring attraction?

  This is HOT.

  “What?” Peeta says, amusement on his face.

  I must have said that out loud.

  I try to shake away the magnetism he has.

Then I realize my hand is still in his lap, lingering precariously. Was I just rubbing his... lap?

  I pull back, taking a sip of my cocoa to hide my reaction. “The cocoa is hot,” I blurt out in an attempt to recover. Looking anywhere but at Peeta.

  We quietly finish our hot chocolate.

  “Well, I think I’m ready to head to my room. I had a lot fun, Peeta, thank you,” I say.

  Peeta catches my hand and pulls me in a warm hug.

  My hands go around his back.

  His bare muscular back.

  He’s still shirtless.

  I resist the urge to moan.

  My whole body heats up again.

  “Thank you for doing this, Katniss,” Peeta whispers.

  I feel his warm breath and the brush of his lips on my neck.

  I pull away and nod, mumbling some sort of affirmation.

  I head up to my room before I do something stupid like shove him into the wall and kiss him senseless without the pretence of appearances.

  That night, I dream of a shirtless Peeta, moaning and grunting as I stroke…

  At breakfast, I’m sitting next to Peeta, sipping my coffee while he holds my hand.

  Peeta makes a joke about buttering my pancake.

  I spit a little bit of my coffee out.

  Peeta bursts into laughter.

  “The last time that happened Madge convinced us to swap shirts!” Peeta explains his laughter.

  I laugh with him as we reminisce about our humorous first encounter at Panem State in Gale’s apartment my freshman year.

  Thresh and I became fast friends with a similar family background and interest in mischief, we pranked our entire dorm hall with an airhorn, and shaving cream balloons that popped above everyone’s doors as they opened them.

  Peeta actually started joining our pizza nights at Gale’s apartment through his friendship with Thresh.

  My phone buzzes after class Friday, as I head out of my Freshman Biology class. I check my messages. It's our usual group message from Gale and Thresh conferring our weekend plans.

  Gale: Let’s make ‘Pizza Night’ a party this week?

  Me: Okay. I’ll tell Madge and Johanna. I'm sure they'll get the word out too.

  Thresh: If Kat’s ready to party I'm so in. I’ll invite some of the wrestling team. C-ya.

  Later that night, I’m shoving Pizza in my mouth while Johanna goes on about how to turn a one night stand into a weekend fling.

  Thresh takes advantage of my distraction, picks me up, and sets me in his lap.

  I laugh and elbow him in the chest while he laughs at me trying to break away.

  I swallow down my pizza, take a gulp of my beer and turn, only to be met with a pair of familiar looking blue eyes.

  Instead of saying hi to Peeta Mellark like a normal person, I spew the entire beer all over myself and start choking on what was remaining in my mouth.

  My gasping and coughing gets the attention of the entire room. Madge helps me up and whisks me away to the bathroom only to realize I was wearing a soaked white t-shirt.

Madge reads me like a book.

  “I have an idea, trust me,” she says with her mad-scientist look, taking my t-shirt with her.

  Madge somehow comes back with 2 men’s t-shirts, one smelling like Gale and another smelling delicious, like cologne and something else masculine.

  We quickly put on the larger shirts and make our way out of the bathroom.

  Madge taps a shirtless Gale and he puts on Madge’s discarded shirt without breaking his conversation with a fellow engineering student.

  I look around and realize Madge convinced everyone to switch shirts with the opposite gender.

  Johanna winks at me, then pulls a tall, handsome redhead wearing her shirt into the kitchen, revealing Peeta behind her; smiling and  wearing my wet, white t-shirt, tight across his chest like a tight crop top.

  “I think I owe you this,” he says, handing me a new beer.

  “Madge was a genius! It really livened up that party!”

  Peeta and I laugh about seeing all the guys at that party struggling to keep wearing the girls’ tight-fitting shirts on. It became a “thing” at college parties.

  “People were talking about it for weeks!”

  “I think some embarrassing pictures taken after a few rounds of shots are still floating around FB somewhere,” I snicker, then stop. My eyes widen when I think of a particular picture of Peeta and I that made me blush when it surfaced on Facebook days after that party. I don't remember anything about it, but it's been documented. Handsy when drunk. Among other...things.

  We grin at each other. Then continue eating breakfast.

  Leading up to party time, the day is nearly unbearable with tension.

  Caterers are setting up. I look over the main level and realize that it's best for me to stay out of the way while Loretta barks out orders to the decorators and her sons, putting everything in its final place.

I can tell the moment it’s all too much for Peeta. All the pressure for perfection from his mother is going to make him snap soon. He needs a moment of peace. Some time that’s is real and not for show. “Do you wanna build a snowman?” I ask. He looks at me confused, then remembers those were my code words for ‘let’s get outta here.’ He laughs. “Let’s go for a walk, Peeta? I need some fresh air,” I ask, he nods and follows me to the door. He starts heading for the sidewalk, but I pull him around toward the back through the woods. The snow is especially beautiful here in the woods, the quiet of the snowflakes falling is so soothing. “Katniss I–,” He wants to talk, but I don’t want to. I launch a snowball at his back to shut him up. He turns with a mischievous look on his face, but before he can reach for his own ammunition I pelt him twice. Snowballs fly back and forth as we laugh and dodge, weaving between trees.

  I duck behind a tree. It’s quiet, usually I can hear his heavy tread anyway, so this my chance to take him by surprise. I can’t see him anywhere. It’s silent. As I’m walking, I think I hear something, so I stop. A yank on my ankle and I’m propelled backwards landing in a soft pile of snow. Peeta’s arms wrap around me as he emerges from the snow. Before I can protest, I’m equally covered in icy cold powder. We’re rolling and laughing. Peeta pins me down in an impressive wrestling move.

  I struggle. Peeta smiles down at me. “Okay, you win this round Mellark!” I admit defeat with a huff. My mitten covered hands raised up in surrender. Peeta kisses my nose and grabs both my hands to pull me out of the snow flashing a perfect triumphant smile. I shiver, maybe from the cold, maybe from his blindingly bright blue eyes, I can’t be too sure. He must have noticed the shiver because he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into his arms whispering into my ear, “I have some wood, let’s warm you up and light that fire.“ Was that an innuendo? I raise my eyebrows. He leans in and then smirks as we make our way back to the Mellarks’ house. I sigh. I thought he was going to kiss me for “real” when no one was looking and we didn’t have to be pretending in front of his family. The snow continues to fall around us and snowflakes get tangled in his impossibly long eyelashes. I turn away before he notices me staring.

  The whole family is spending the next few days here at the house, which I learned is “an annually required family bonding time.”

  They're all set up in various guest rooms for the next few days.

  The sister in laws are doing what they can to keep the children out of anyone's way.

  A sitter was hired for the party, but isn't due to arrive yet. I offer to help Clara and Lila while they get themselves ready. Also to get my mind off a certain blue-eyed tall blonde gorgeous someone who refuses to leave my thoughts. I'm 16 again and this is all confusing.

  6 busy grand-kids 8 and under is a lot to try to keep out of mischief. We color and play games.

  “Kat-iss.”

  “No! It's Kat-miss!”

  “Kat-iss!”

  “You can call me Kat, it's okay!”

  “Can we call you Aunt Kat? Daddy says you could be someday.”

  “Well, if some day does happen, then you can call me Aunt. Until then it's just Kat to you, got it?” I give a wink to Dane’s more pragmatic children, predictably the oldest.  

  I try to keep the wildness to a minimum, but there's only so much I can do. I have to admit, the Mellarks make adorable children!

  Lila comes back as I'm tickling two of her blonde giggling sons. She gives me a look.

  “You're a natural, Katniss!” She's beaming now at the thought of more nieces or nephews.

  “Uh, thanks. I'm going to go get ready now.” I don’t want to think about any hypothetical babies with Peeta.

  I give myself a pep talk as I adjust the push up bra I'm wearing under the emerald green dress Madge picked for me. “Try to be friendly, be a calming effect on Peeta.” I sigh as I pull out the detailed instructions and diagrams on how to do my make-up.

  “Thanks Madge.” I text her, with a picture of the finished, party-ready self.

  Mrs. Mellark did a double take when she saw me. Then raised her eyebrows in surprise, “You look lovely, Katniss,” she said, followed by a slow, but sincere smile.

  I smiled back and thanked her. Wow, a smile of approval from Mrs. Mellark, I never thought I would see the day.

  All I've gathered from this party is that loads of money was spent and it's all for show. It's boring and stiff. The entire first hour was introduction and light shallow conversation. The best part of this party is the food spread and the alcohol.

  I thought we would have been able to make out way over to Annie and Finnick by now, but we are being paraded around so Mrs. Mellark can brag about her handsome successful youngest.

  Apparently, being a Biochemist is impressive enough for her, because she's bragging about what I do. I didn't even realize she was paying any attention to my career explanation and clearly she googled some of her fast facts, because she didn’t ask me a thing.

  Peeta holds my hand tightly, as if he's worried I will bolt at the first chance. Which I would be lying if I said it hasn't crossed my mind.

  Maybe Peeta is playing it up for the cameras, but it seems like he’s very eager to kiss me with every opportunity. Maybe it helps with his nerves, but the chaste kiss count is racking up today.

  When Madge’s parents find me, they pull me in a tight hug.

  “Thank you so much for your help with our fundraiser last month, Katniss! We raised so much for aid the childhood hunger that our state is facing.” Madeline Undersee, always a champion for the underdog.

  Before I can say much, Senator and Mrs. Undersee gush about me to Loretta as if I am family. This is all quite the exaggeration. I'm a surly girl who was forced to grow up too fast, I do what anyone else would in my situation. I really do enjoy helping Madge with the causes that improve things for children who grew up with the struggles I had. Why wouldn't I help?

  I can't keep but feel a little surprised by the kind words said about me.

  “I can't imagine a better addition to your family, Loretta.” The senator motions to Peeta and I.

  As the 5 of us pose for a picture, a lump forms in my throat. I never meant to deceive Madge's parents.

  With that, Peeta's mom releases her hovering over us. We've appeased her. We're free to go.

  We spot Annie and Finnick, a welcome relief. Finnick has an audience of middle aged women hanging on his every word. He holds Annie at his side, almost protectively.

  As his audience erupts in laughter, Finnick takes the opportunity to head towards us. Pulling his best friend in a hug while Annie and I catch up.

  “You two look amazing together. A very cute couple,” Annie whispers in my ear.

  I just smile and shrug.

  After only a few minutes, the four of us are laughing and reminiscing. It feels like we're finally enjoying the party, with Finnick and Annie.

  Peeta looks over at his mom, then meets my eyes and steals another kiss. A thank you.

I pretend my heart didn't just flutter.

  Finnick raises his eyebrows then looks to Annie communicating wordlessly. It creeps me out when they do that, so I mumble something about more wine.

  Peeta keeps his hand in mine and follows.

  As we walk by the grand piano, I admire its beauty.

  Peeta gives me a look I can't read and then at the piano, like he's remembering something. He squeezes my hand and leans into my ear. His hot breath brushes my bare neck. I bite my lip, trying not moan or think any dirty thoughts.

  “You should play. Sing something, like you did at my cousin's party when we were kids,” he whispers.

  I try to ignore the husky, sexy sound of his whisper. Or imagine it being something dirty he's saying.

  Peeta misreads my quietness because he tries to convince me. “I think you were 11 and you had a red dress, your hair was in 2 braids. You were so excited to show Madge that you could play the piano like she could. It was a Christmas song, wasn't it?” Peeta asks.

  I lift my head and look into his eyes, his smiling face. “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas. I can't believe you remember that.” I try to hide my surprise.

  Peeta smiles as I find my seat on the bench.

  I haven't sang in so long but, for some reason, the look Peeta gave me all the confidence I need. I'm almost excited to sing for him.

  I play the intro on the piano and I notice the chatter in the room die down.

  “Have yourself a merry little Christmas Let your heart be light From now on your troubles will be out of sight Have yourself a merry little Christmas Make the Yuletide gay From now on your troubles will be miles away Here we are as in olden days Happy golden days of yore Faithful friends who are dear to us Gather near to us once more Through the years we all will be together If the fates allow Hang a shining star upon the highest bough So have yourself a merry little Christmas Have yourself a merry little Christmas So have yourself a merry little Christmas

Nooooooow.”

  My fingers dance over the keys as I close out the song. The dancing in my heart continues and I can't keep the joy inside from spilling out onto my face.

  Music has a way of making right something inside us. It felt like my dad was with me. Smiling.

  “Hey are you okay?” Peeta looks concerned. He starts wiping away tears I didn’t know I shed.

  I take a deep breath. “Yeah, I-I just miss them. I miss my dad,” I attempt to explain.

  Peeta pulls me into an empty room and just holds me close. Exactly what I needed.