#i'm going to spend like. the next four days or so cranking these out between shifts and shit

[let-it-raines]

I Hope We Never See October (3/?)

When his personal life and football career go up in flames, Killian Jones escapes England for America, finding seclusion in Martha’s Vineyard in order to hide from his demons. It’s a fresh start, or at the very least a paused moment in his life, and all he needs is a few months alone to allow his heart to heal. He doesn’t count on meeting Emma Swan.

Emma’s life depends on tourists who come to the island every summer. It’s how she makes her money working in restaurants and clubs across the vineyard, but every year, she cannot wait until autumn comes and her life returns to normal. She especially cannot wait for Killian Jones to leave.

Rating: Mature

a/n: Not gonna lie, I forget I'm writing this story, remember, and then the moment I sit down to write, I get called away. But here's part three!

AO3: Beginning | Current

Tumblr: One | Two | Three

-/-

His head is pounding. It’s been awhile since it has pounded like this. Usually, it’s from a lack of sleep from the nightmares or the stress. This morning, he knows it’s from the rum. He did everything he could to cancel it out – coffee, water, food, medicine – but his head is still pounding. He is a bloody lightweight now.

Huh.

Killian is making it sound like that’s a bad thing, when really, it’s good. A week ago he was standing with a beer bottle in his hand early in the morning tempted to drown his entire day away. Last night, he made it the entire day without wanting to get pissed and only had two small drinks to toast his friends goodbye.

That’s progress.

This hangover, though, damn. It’s a sign he’s making progress, but damn.

Or he’s simply getting old, which is something else he doesn’t want to think about.

“Fuck,” Killian moans, pressing his fingers against his temples as he opens his eyes. His neck is also killing him, probably from how he slept on this damn couch all night. He should have driven home, but he didn’t trust himself to. Besides, Ariel had offered the couch before she went to bed.

Emma had too.

He’d nearly left after she offered. She was likely only doing it because she assumed Ariel or Eric already offered. He gets the feeling the woman doesn’t like him, which usually isn’t something that happens with him, and that intrigues him. It also makes him realize how much of an asshole he is.

How has he gotten to a point in his life where he expects women to always fancy his company?

Killian sits up, his muscles aching, and slowly, he rises from the couch. The lights in the house are all off, and he knows he can leave now with no one knowing the wiser that he slept over, that he felt bad enough to not be able to drive home. Or maybe that he didn’t want to spend another night in that giant house by himself.

The floor creaks beneath him with each step he takes, but no one seems to stir. Killian finds a notepad and pen in the kitchen and quickly scribbles a note to Ariel and Eric. He said his goodbyes to them last night, and he’ll talk to them on the phone at some point today. He doesn’t need to stick around to say another goodbye this morning. It’s still early enough that the sun hasn’t risen, and they won’t be up for hours. Killian finishes his note, grabs his wallet and keys from the counter, and heads out the front door to his car. It takes him a moment to find his car, to remember what said of the road they drive on over here, but he eventually spots it across the street under a large tree when a light from the house turns on.

Killian turns to see it’s coming from an upstairs window, and Emma Swan is standing between the curtains. He nods, and he swears he sees the slightest nod in return before the curtains rustle and she turns off the light.

She didn’t get in until two this morning, and she’s up at six. How the hell is she functioning?

Then again, how is he functioning?

Killian’s phone buzzes in his pocket, and after he gets in his Jeep, he checks the message.

Elsa Jones: The girls say thank you for their new Leggo set. My bare feet do not.

Killian laughs and puts his phone back in his pocket. That’s how he’s functioning. He may have flown across an ocean, but he’d never leave Ally and Sophia. They’ve already lost enough, and Liam will have his head, someway and somehow, if he doesn’t do everything he can to make sure all his girls are happy.

To make sure Killian is happy too.

“Bloody hell,” Killian whispers to himself as he cranks the engine, “it’s too early to be thinking like this.”

He should be able to have at least a little reprieve from the voices in his head.

-/-

Killian doesn’t leave the house much over the next few days. He doesn’t have reason to. He’s got everything he could possibly need in the house, including his own private stretch of beach that he walks along a few times a day, but the repetition of nothing begins to drive him mad. He trains in almost the same way as he did when he was playing, and while that takes up a good portion of his day, it’s not enough to keep him occupied. He reads the books that the owners of the house left behind but finds it’s mostly romance novels he can’t stomach. For a day or two, he binges Netflix, leaving a permanent imprint of his ass in the couch cushions, but there’s only so much time he can spend staring at screens.

Elsa and the girls call more than once a day with them being on summer holidays, and he gets a call or two from Scarlet, who finally had the bullocks to ask Belle out to dinner. That was good to hear since Killian has been giving Will shit about doing that for years now, and it’s good to see that people are moving on with their lives.

He’s not, not really, but he’s not trying to move on so much as he’s trying to not be a total disaster every day.

Sitting in this house alone all day every day isn’t helping. Why did anyone think sending him to be alone would be a good idea in the wake of his brother’s death? He knows it’s more so the scum English tabloids would leave him alone and he could fix his public image so he doesn’t go broke before he’s forty from loss of sponsorships and possible opportunities to get involved in the league, but damn, this was a bad idea.

At least he’s not drinking himself to sleep anymore.

Or drinking himself awake. He thinks that feat is slightly more impressive.

Killian puts his bottle of water down and opens the door that leads to the deck. It’s cool out today, the sun hidden behind the clouds, and since he cannot stay here anymore, he decides he’ll go for a run. It’s been years since he ran outside and not on a pitch or a treadmill, but maybe it’ll be a good distraction. He’s noticed more people filling into the houses around him, the summer tourists showing up in large droves now, so at the very least he can pass time watching people while hoping no one watches him.

It takes him little time to get dressed, lace up his trainers, and pop headphones in his ears before he’s out the door. The roads aren’t flat around his house, so he drives the Jeep a few miles until he finds smoother, less crowded ground. Maybe it’s a way to keep him from running that little bit longer, but mostly he knows his knees need the flat surfaces right now.

He really has gotten old, hasn’t he?

Eventually, he finds what looks like a good path behind a long stretch of beach, finds a place to park, and then he starts running.

It’s horrible, which was expected, but he does it anyway. There are families lining the beaches, music playing from speakers and phones, and he watches as boats skip out on the water. Maybe he should rent a boat for a weekend and take it out. It’d be nice to be out on the water again. He hasn’t been since Liam’s death, the fear of something similar happening to him despite the unlikeliness, but maybe one day while he’s here. It’s not as if he has anything better to do.

Killian runs until the endorphins kick in and then again until his legs get tired. He’s an idiot, however, because he doesn’t think to turn around to his Jeep.

Bloody hell.

He stops and reaches his hands over his head, stretching out his shoulders, and looks to see what’s around him. It’s mostly beach, but there are several restaurants and shops a few blocks down. He notices the familiar Blue Dog Tavern sign and the long deck filled with their outside seating. That means he’s minutes away from a populated area of shops and restaurants where he could cool down and catch his breath, but he still walks toward the Blue Dog. There’s another diner around here he went to that was horrible, and he doesn’t feel like taking the chance again. He’s still over his phase of twenty-four-hour diners. He doesn’t think he can handle more sticky tables.

Killian cools down on the walk to the restaurant, taking in the people walking along the sidewalk, and he dodges them until he’s inside and the cool air is hitting against his skin. It’s past the prime of the lunch rush, so the place is mostly empty. He thinks of going to the bar again, but as he wants to stay as out of the way as possible, he asks the hostess to seat him at a booth in the corner.

“Is someone coming to meet you?” she asks, smacking her gum as she hands him a menu.

“I’m afraid not. Just me today.”

She smiles, popping her gum again, and leans forward, casually popping a button on her shirt. Killian tries not to snicker at the obvious attempt, mostly because she is attractive, but the last thing he needs is to burn more bridges at one of the few places in towns he likes. “Well, if you want company, all you have to do is come find me. I’m Marina.”

He raises his brow. “Seems like you were born to work by the ocean then.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because your name is Marina.”

She cocks her head to the side and laughs. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing, love.” Killian smiles and nods toward the front. “I believe you’re needed.”

She jumps and walks away, obviously putting a little sway in her hips when she moves, and in another life, he’d ask her to join him for lunch and meet her after her shift. He nearly does it now, but the man he’s been and the man he’s trying to be war with each other in his mind.

No burning bridges, he reminds himself. He’s done enough of that in his lifetime.

He orders water and coffee and avoids eye contact with Marina as much as possible, especially when she keeps finding ways to come by his table despite there being no other customers in his section. He texts Will and Rob, sends Elsa some pictures of the beach to show the girls, responds to Ariel about him doing another video conference with a hospital back home, and then he puts his phone away and tries to focus on his meal.

Unsurprisingly, it does not take a hell of a lot of focus to eat a sandwich and chips.

The music coming over the intercoms keeps him occupied for awhile, so does the television hanging over the bar until someone changes it to ESPN, and eventually Killian starts fidgeting for headphones and something to do while he waits for his meal to settle and drinks another cup of coffee. He needs to start the trek back to his Jeep, but that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Heather, I get that you don’t want to be here, but your uncle and your parents want you here. And you either need to take it up with them or start doing some actual work.”

Killian recognizes that voice, and he sinks in his booth. He was hoping to get away with not running into her here today, if only to save himself the headache. He doesn’t have any paper money on hand, so he can’t pay and leave, and he imagines there’s very little chance he’ll avoid her when she’s walking right toward him with Heather, his server from last week.

She’s in those bloody jean shorts again. They barely cover anything and hug her ass to show it off, and the blouse she’s wearing is fitted to her skin. Her hair is down, hitting past midway on her back, and she looks just as gorgeous as she has every other time he’s seen her…which is exactly why he needs her to not notice him.

So, of course, she does.

Right after she teaches Heather how to clean the tables, she looks up and over at Killian, raises both brows, and walks toward him with her arms crossed beneath her chest. “Anything I can help you with today?”

“The check may be nice, Swan. Lovely to see you again.”

“Uh-huh.” She looks over her shoulder, holds up a signal toward Killian’s server, and he hustles to the back, presumably to get the check. “I can recommend other restaurants in the area. This place is great, but I promise there are better ones.”

He shrugs. “I like the food and how calm it is during off hours. Are you enjoying your house with no Fishers in it?”

“I don’t mind when they come to stay.”

It’s a lie if he’s ever heard one. Killian points to his temple and taps. “I know this may surprise you, but I’m actually quite perceptive.”

Her smile is tight, and she tucks her hair behind her ears. “The Fishers are great landlords, and I can’t complain.”

“I’m not going to tell them what you’re saying, love.”

She smiles again, and he can tell she’s still faking it for him. “All I can say is I’m glad not to have strange men scaring me in my kitchen at two in the morning. Now they simply show up at my work.”

He lifts his glass. “It’s good food, and you’re right, I don’t know of many other reliable eateries around here. Some of them seem a little too…made for tourists.”

“And the Blue Dog Tavern doesn’t? I mean, come on. We have a giant blue animated dog cutout outside. We’re on all those lists of ��Places in Martha’s Vineyard you have to visit.’ We’re made for tourists like you.”

“I am not a tourist.”

“Says the man who is renting one of the big houses out in Edgartown and staying here for the summer. I’m guessing you go to the beach and lounge around the pool and go through way too many of the bad books the owners of the house have on their shelves.”

Killian huffs and crosses his arms over his chest, leaning back in the booth. That was a little too spot on. “How do you know where I’m staying? Wait, no. Ariel, right?”

“Yeah,” Emma smiles, and God, it feels like a hell of an accomplishment to get her to smile. “She went on and on about the great Killian Jones.”

“Ah, so you know who I am then?” He leans forward and waggles his brows, flashing his brightest smile.

“Yeah, a rich British tourist who is friends with my landlords.” Someone calls her name from across the restaurant, and Emma holds one finger up. “Your check will be with you soon. I’ll ask Marina to give you some other restaurant recommendations on your way out. You’ll get sick of this place soon enough.”

“I’m perfectly happy with it, Swan.”

She shrugs and walks away, and Killian chuckles to himself. He doesn’t understand this woman at all, but she intrigues him.

He knows that’s a dangerous game to play.

Killian gets the check, pays it, and before he can escape, Marina corners him to give him more recommendations. She ends up veering into bars and clubs on the island and the surrounding towns, asking him if he wants her to show him around, but he declines and takes the list of places. Maybe he’ll check them out, but the last thing he needs is to go to a club. A bar, maybe, but not a club. He’s learned that there’s a hell of a difference.

He’s also learned that he’s bored to tears in this place, and no amount of calls to Ariel and Elsa can solve that boredom. He finds himself googling pre-season training information, checking up on mates and rivals, and while that’s a bit of a slip-up, he does manage to still stay away from looking himself up. He never used to have the urge to google himself or to read any of the tabloids, but ever since his retirement, he’s been curious. Were people sad? Happy? Did he leave any kind of lasting impact? Or did they all just see him as the drunk, washed up old man with a dirtied past?

That is a path he absolutely cannot go down, and since he’s already run a half marathon today, he decides to shower and get dressed to go to one of the places Marina recommended. If his time alone doesn’t start to get less depressing, he thinks he’s going to have to fly back to London and bother Elsa and the girls until they kick him out. He’ll pay for the remaining time on the house, but he won’t be staying there.

While the sun sets, Killian drives down new roads on the island, going to different towns and neighborhoods to see what others are doing, before ending up at a bar near his house. Marina said it was a spot for locals with good food and a quiet energy, so he doubts Marina has ever stepped foot into it. Killian pushes open the old oak door, and the lights inside are dimmed, the music quiet. There’s a guy playing guitar in the corner hidden between two pillars, and Killian finds himself sitting at the opposite end of the bar on a stool that’s cushion squeaks when he sits down.

Charming.

“You eating, drinking, or both?” The bartender asks, wiping his hands off with a cloth.

“Eating. Have any recommendations?”

“You have an objection to seafood?” the old man asks.

“Not a one.”

“Good. I’ll fix you up with the daily catch.”

Killian nods as the man makes his way through a door behind the bar, and then Killian swivels on his stool, looking around the place. He doesn’t know about the food yet, but Marina was right. It definitely has a quiet energy to it. There are people in nearly every booth and at every table, but there’s a hushed tone except for a laugh in the booth nearest him. His eyes are drawn there, and to both his surprise and horror, he finds Emma Swan with her head tilted back with laughter.

Fuck.

She’s definitely going to think he’s stalking her, and as hungry and bored as he is, he’s still tempted to leave. So of course, that’s when Emma stops laughing and looks directly at him.

Bollocks. Utter bollocks.

She blinks and stares at him a little longer, her brows raising before falling, and then she turns back to whoever is sitting in the booth with her. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see her arms moving, but he turns on the stool until he can see her no longer, wishing at the very least he had a water to nurse.

“Hiya. Come sit in our booth with us.”

Killian twists and looks at the brunette who’s now sitting next to him. “Pardon?”

She sticks out her hand, and he takes it, shaking it. “Ruby Lucas. You’re Killian Jones, the – ”

“There’s no need to – ”

“ – the guy who scared Emma half to death at her house in the middle of the night,” Ruby completes, grinning like the cat who ate the canary. “And I must say, you are much more attractive than she described.”

“So she talked about me then?”

“In her own special Emma way.” Ruby tilts her head back toward their booth. “And in my own special Ruby way, I’m inviting you to eat dinner with us. It’s me, Emma, and this super wholesome woman named Mary Margaret who will take you home and bake you cookies while asking you about your childhood because she had a good one of those.”

Killian chuckles, cheeks still flushed from him thinking Ruby knew who he was earlier – he is a pompous, entitled ass obviously – and from being invited to their table. “I couldn’t intrude.”

“I insist that you do.”

He likes her, he decides. She’s stunning and funny with no filter, but she reminds him too much of a dirtier version of Anna. It’s a rather peculiar comparison, but it’s true. It’s also half the reason he agrees to switch tables, rising from his stool and walking toward the booth. The other half a reason is the blonde woman with her face pressed into her forearms against the table top.

She looks beyond thrilled for him to be joining them.

“Oh, Emma, you were right, he is handsome!”

Emma bangs her head into the table as who he presumes is Mary Margaret smiles at him from across the booth. Killian slides onto the seat and elbows Emma’s side before patting her shoulder. “It’s alright, darling. I told all my mates you were beautiful, so we’re even.”

“Go to hell.”

He laughs, grinning at her, and slowly, she peels herself off the table. “Just so you know, I’m only here because Marina recommended it.”

“Remind me to fire her in the morning.”

“So,” Mary Margaret interrupts, tucking her short hair behind her ear, “tell us about yourself, Killian. Where are you from? What do you do for work? How long are you planning on being here?”

“Good God, Marg,” Emma sighs, slumping down, “give the man some room to breathe.”

“What? I’m curious.”

“You’re nosy is what you are,” Emma corrects.

“Aren’t we all?” Killian shuffles in his seat, hoping they move on to another subject, but when Mary Margaret turns to him, he knows she isn’t one to forget. “So, how long are you staying?”

“I have the keys to the house I’m renting until the first of October, but I imagine I’ll leave sooner.”

“And why’s that?” she asks.

Killian shrugs as the man behind the bar drops off a glass of water at the table and tells Killian his food will be ready in ten minutes. “I’m afraid no matter how nice it is here, I don’t know many people. I miss the people I’m closest to. A man can only spend so much time alone.”

“Then why’d you book a house for so long?”

“I needed to get away.”

“Yeah, but – ”

“Marg,” Emma interrupts, placing her hand over her friend’s, “please. You don’t have to know everything about him. Not everyone wants to reveal their entire life to complete strangers.”

She’s right. He doesn’t. But for some inane reason, he doesn’t think he’d mind revealing most of his life to her.

He has obviously lost his damn mind.

But it’s nice to spend a night with other people, to be included in the conversation, and while Mary Margaret and Ruby are delightful, he finds Emma captures his attention, not that this surprises him.

What does surprise him, however, is how much friendlier she is in this environment. He knows it’s her friends and not him, and maybe the glass of wine she had with dinner, but it’s nice to see her laugh freely and blush when Ruby tells stories of Emma he cannot imagine knowing otherwise. He can’t imagine Emma ever scaling a building to break into an ex’s apartment to get her favorite sweater back, but then again, that seems exactly like something she would do if she wanted it badly enough.

He fancies her.

He has no business fancying her, none at all, but when he ends up driving all three women to their homes because Ruby and Mary Margaret had too much to drink and Emma can’t drive the stick shift in Ruby’s car, he accepts Emma’s invitation inside for a cup of coffee.

He also accepts her invitation upstairs into her bed.

To hell with the consequences and burning bridges. He’ll deal with those in the morning when he isn’t so enticed by the trail of freckles running down Emma’s bare stomach.

-/-

-/-

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[bird-in-a-cage]

#42 from the prompt list... I mean I'm sorry but... I NEED TO SEE THAT.

Wow, am I sorry this took so long! This was a tough prompt but, thanks to @cockasinthebird for being a wonderful human being, we got through it. So I hope this was worth the wait!

Prompt list is here if anyone wants to throw a prompt at me!

#42: “I didn’t say “sex party” as in orgy.  I said “hex party” as in witches.”

So far, college had been okay. It was as hard and challenging as Steve had expected, but he was getting on almost well. He had to spend a lot of time studying in the library, reading and re-reading source materials, typing, editing, deleting and starting all over again with essays and assignments sure. But it was different from high school, on a deep level he wanted to be here, amongst the old stone buildings that either held no heat at all or far too much depending on the weather outside, surrounded by people who also shared a passion for learning. It was different to focus on what he wanted to learn instead of just having to cram a little bit of everything into his brain everyday.

Turns out, if he was just allowed to go a little slower and take his time, he wasn’t as dumb as everyone back home at thought.

He’d gotten into college by the skin of his teeth, pulling far too many all nighters and living off five hour energy to drag his grades up when it was almost too late, pulling in every favour he had to retake anything below a C with nothing but a prayer and a pleading smile, somehow managing to not go completely insane in the process. Getting a 3 point grade average at graduation had been nothing short of a miracle. He wanted to say his parents had nothing to do with his acceptance into quite a nice school, but in reality Steve knew they probably greased a palm or two. Maybe helped pay for the new set of band uniforms that were recently unveiled.

The college itself was beautiful. Steve had fallen for it on his first visit. Old stone buildings, a large green campus area, a good surrounding community, regular activities and groups to go meet up with and try different things with now he was getting out of small town Hawkins and away from being stuck in what he knew. 

There was something a bit…odd about the college though. Steve would be sat in the library, for example, finishing up a comparison piece when he would hear the telltale low battery beep from his headphones. He always forgot to bring a charger. He knew it was on his nightstand back in the dorm room, wrapped around the drawer handle so he wouldn’t forget to lift it this time, so it was pointless checking his bag for it. He would go to pack his things away, open up his slouchy backpack and there it would be, his exact one because he’d wrapped a piece of green tape around it when his roommate kept stealing it and swearing blind he hadn’t, laying curled around his water bottle..

That wasn’t the only example though. Things would just appear when he was looking for them. Books he needed from a completely different section would just happen to be on the shelf he was currently looking at. If a flavour of soda was sold out at a vending machine, he would pick another, but the one he originally wanted would tumble out, ice cold and somehow impossibly refreshing. None of them were a major inconvenience by far, but it was just odd. 

The only small downside to the college of his dreams is that he forgot to investigate anything about the fraternities and sororities. Steve didn’t really have any desire to be in any frat even if offered, they were just houses for boys to pretend not to be at least a little bicurious as they bumped into each other all sweaty playing sports, using basketball as an excuse to touch each other’s muscles. Flat out no homo-ing each other. Steve was out and proud at college, didn’t need an excuse anymore other than “you’re hot, you wanna?”. The days of bi-panic and needing a thinly veiled excuse such as helping someone he thought was cute off the ground in the middle of a match were long gone.  Steve had been to a couple of frat parties, naturally, everyone did. They were kinda fun if you hung around outside away from the thick, choking air of sexual tension that was threatening to bubble over at any minute.

Everyone knew frat houses were just potential orgy dens, right?

There was one frat house though, just off campus and to the right a little, that gave off a weird vibe. The Omega House. It didn’t look that special, had dark grey panelling on the outside, windows trimmed in white, the omega symbol on the outer wall above the door painted in silver that reflected the sunlight and looked almost like real silver. Like the college itself, it was just odd. As far as Steve could tell it didn’t have many members, only four, as far as he’d counted, would walk around in blazing orange letterman jackets with that emblem stitched into the back and a smaller one on the front right breast. He didn’t know what majors they took, probably all on sports scholarships with how stacked a couple of them looked, and one liked to hang around the library. Always in sunglasses even indoors, tight jeans to combat the slightly too big jacket. Blonde hair shaved at the sides but longer on top, not wildly long but just enough for natural loose curls to develop.

Not that Steve had been looking at how handsome he was at all.

Thinking about it, he seemed to always be around when the odd things happened. When there would suddenly be a spare chair even though all the tables were packed with other students trying to do their work, a fresh stack of post it notes in Steve’s bag when he needed to write an annotation down quickly, a newly sharpened pencil just happening to be on the floor by his feet when he’d lost his before class. The rain suddenly starting as soon as Steve got into a building when he’d forgotten an umbrella like it was waiting for him to be safe and dry.

There was just something weird about the whole thing. Not enough for him to freak out and want to go home though, no way. He could deal with weird and slightly odd far better than being stuck in a town going nowhere, where his only future was getting a job in his father’s company and a wife he didn’t love, cranking out a couple kids after a year of so and slowly but surely morphing into a mirror image of the man he lowkey despised.

Even the thought of that was horrifying. It was bad enough that genetically they might look similar one day. Hopefully many, many years in the future. When plastic surgery was cheap.

The library was quiet when Steve entered. Of course it was, it was a Friday night. There were a number of parties and gatherings happening all over the place, but this week he’d promised himself to be good. Study now and party later. He’d been invited to a glow paint, totally-not-a-rave party happening just outside of town that he was pretty excited for. He’d been focusing hard on his studies so it was time to let off some steam. And maybe that steam had been building for quite some time cause ol’ Lefty wasn’t doing the trick anymore, mashing his face into a pillow in the dead of night, furiously jacking off under a blanket and praying his roommate didn’t wake up or come back soon. And, maybe sometimes, Steve thought about that cute blonde in the Omega House jacket and how good it would be to see those thick lips all slick and swollen wrapped around his cock. Really those thoughts were just between him and God, who he hoped wasn’t paying attention most of the time he was alone in his room.

Steve found the spot he liked, towards the back facing towards the window where he couldn’t be distracted by people walking in, and pulled his laptop and the well annotated copy of Dracula he was working from. His half finished essay sat on the screen, cursor blinking at him accusingly, demandingly even. He sighed at it and opened up to the page he was last working from when the chair next to him was pulled out. Not even one or two over, obeying the unspoken rule of the Personal Study Bubble. No, the very next chair. Steve could see orange reflected on his screen. He frowned slightly and turned to just give a passing glance, hoping for a the fuck? expression, when he saw staggeringly blue eyes staring back, nestled into tan freckled skin, natural curls just reaching down into the field of view. The regular sunglasses had been tucked up into the neck of a black tee. The back of Steve’s neck felt instantly hot as he looked away, hoping for a moment he hadn’t been seen, but that was impossible. He was right there.

“Hey, haven’t seen you around before. Must be in the same class though.” His voice was deep and Steve felt his legs turn a little bit to jello. He chanced another glance and saw the guy was holding a copy of Dracula too. Steve wasn’t sure he’d been holding it before… 

“Well, I attend almost every lecture…”

“You must do if you’re in here by yourself on a Friday,” the guy smiled. It didn’t look cruel, neither did it sound like he was making fun. This was already confusing, and Steve wasn’t the greatest with people at the best of times, let alone he around guys he thought were kind of stupidly handsome from afar, and apparently just stunning close up.

Steve just nodded and shifted in his seat slightly since this guy clearly wasn’t going to go away any time soon. He didn’t have anything on the table in front of him, didn’t even look like he had a backpack for the potential of anything. The odd feeling was definitely strong and getting stronger. “Can I… can I help you with something?”

“That depends,” the book was quickly tossed aside and the guy nudged closer with his chair, Steve could smell his cologne. It didn’t smell like anything he’d tried before. It was floral but dark and spicy, but also fruity too. Slightly burnt lemon and vanilla loaf? His hand wrapped easily around Steve’s freer one. His skin was warm, a little rough maybe from weightlifting which he clearly did, applying a comforting amount of pressure. Steve couldn’t help the skin on his arm breaking out in goose pimples. He glanced at their hands together and his throat felt impossibly tight. “I’m Billy by the way.”

“Steve...”

“Great. So, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but things can be a little, strange around here-”

Steve glanced at their hands again, felt that blue steel bore into his eyes and further back. “Oh they’re strange alright…”

“You ever wondered why?” This guy, Billy, grinned something devilish and let Steve’s hand go only to put it on his knee, squeezing firm but not unpleasant. Steve was sure he was starting to sweat under the attention of all this. Yeah he had fooled around with a couple guys drunk at parties, stumbled into a dorm room or two he didn’t recognise to have some fun and wake up with carpet burns over his back and his knees, but this felt very direct. Especially when Billy’s hand started slowly drifting higher. Steve couldn’t even say he didn’t want it, he’d been staring at this guy from a distance for months now, but to have him suddenly be right in front and touching with obvious intent. It was something else.

“Uh, n-not really. Sometimes maybe?”

Billy’s eyes turned from cool to blazingly erotic in an instant, for just a moment, then back to cool again. He nudged even closer into Steve’s bubble, who was more helpless than a fish on dry land at this moment. 

“Would you like to know why?” The way Billy’s tongue licked over the L was something filthy. If Steve had been set jello before he was now quickly melting into a sweet pool of tangy cherry. “My friends and I can show you.”

Steve felt like he was drowning. This wasn’t happening, it couldn’t be happening. But still BIlly’s firm hand crept ever higher until he was practically cupping Steve through his jeans, inching closer until their lips were connected in the middle of the library. Steve’s eyes fluttered closed. He was already boiling alive in his skin from all the attention and Billy’s lips weren’t helping. They were as plush as Steve had imagined. Maybe not in the right area just yet but with the way Billy was pushing his palm directly against Steve’s slowly awakening dick they just might be soon.

He was half hard when Billy pulled away, flushed bright red like he’d been sunburnt.

“Come by the house tomorrow night, you’ll see. We promise you’ll enjoy it.” 

With that, Billy winked, slipped his sunglasses back on and left. Steve blinked at nothing for a long time, trying to piece together what the hell had just happened to him.

Did… did he just get invited to an orgy?

He packed up quickly and went back to his dorm, there was no way any studying was going to happen now. It didn’t happen throughout all of Saturday either. Just the memory of the whole short incident rolling around and around in Steve’s mind, of Billy’s words dripping from those lips and the feel of his hand pressing just right.

He’d definitely gotten invited to an orgy.

He lay on his bed for a while just thinking, tapping his forefingers together as something for them to do. Steve was kind of flattered really, he knew he was nice looking, but there were far better looking guys on campus, and from the stories he’d heard they’d probably be up for it no questions asked. It also popped into his head that the guys he’d seen wearing the orange Omega jackets were a lot more jacked than he was, and Steve had seen enough porn to know what that probably meant. A part of him knew this was utterly insane. Shit like this didn’t happen without a bored camera crew and fourteen different close up angles.

But then maybe it did happen. He was from a small town after all. He was pretty sure his neighbours three doors down were swingers from all the cars that would suddenly appear once a month for just a night. Least that was the rumor that he may or may not have pushed a couple times. And, afterall, wasn’t this what college was about? Being out there and experimenting with crazy shit you wouldn’t do in the real world. He’d taken ecstasy in his first few weeks at a warehouse party, he had no desire to do that back home.

So, maybe he was warming up to the idea of being a bottom at an orgy party being held in the weird grey frat house. Who was anyone to judge? Steve just wasn’t going to tell anyone about it, that’s all.

He felt nervous standing on the front steps of the Omega House. All the blinds were drawn inside. He didn’t know what to bring, what was customary? It didn’t feel right to bring, like, snacks, so he’d just brought himself, already flushing and trying not to get hard by just the thought of Billy getting his hands on him again, how good he must look naked and sweating, finding out what those lips could really do.

The man himself answered the door after two sharp knocks. The grin he wore was sinful, eyes wild and excited, grip firm as he pulled Steve easily inside the dark room. Steve wasn’t sure what to expect, but low mood lighting, a coffee table in the middle of three couches covered in books and blank papers, and every other surface holding up thick lit candles dripping with wax wasn’t it. It also appeared to be just the two of them.

It wasn’t entirely what he had signed up for. But Steve wasn’t exactly complaining.

“Man, am I happy you actually came,” Billy started, pulling his letterman off and hanging it over the banister like a coat hook. His black tee had the sleeves ripped off, his arms were nothing short of statue worthy. He ruffled his hair a little, the curls bobbing just so. They looked delightfully soft. “The rest of the guys are at some sorority bullshit, but they’ll be here later.”

“Uh, o-okay, cool.” Steve tried to sound confident as he went to go take a seat on one of the couches. Billy sat next to him, up close and personal again and it wasn’t the worst thing in the world. He was radiating body heat which Steve wanted to eat up greedily. He noticed some of the books on the table. A copy of Frankenstein, a very old looking copy of Dracula, maybe second edition, a copy of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea, and copies of both Malleus Maleficarum and A Guide to Modern Witchcraft. Those titles mixed with all the candles and the mood lighting and Billy’s staring and frankly demonic grin led Steve down the path that seemed the most obvious to him.

This was a sex cult house. And it was about to get all Rosemary’s Baby up in here.

Billy’s hand was back on his thigh again, heavy and pressing, taking Steve out of his deep barrel of thoughts. The grin was back on his tanned features. “You look nervous.” He gave Steve’s thigh a squeeze. Even though he had no idea what was going on it still made his cock jump alert in his jeans.

“Well, I’ve never exactly been to… one of these before…”

Billy’s eyebrows furrowed together a little, he still wore a smile though. It suited his face. “One of what?”

“You know...?” Steve rolled his hands as his face turned ever redder. He was sure it could almost be seen from space. He wasn’t a prude by any means, but growing up in quite a strict household meant he just struggled saying some things out loud. So he whispered it instead. “...an orgy?”

Billy stared at him for a moment before breaking into laughter that wasn’t at all humiliating. He must have sensed Steve’s rapidly growing discomfort and indignity because the laughter quickly died and turned more into gentle questioning. “Did you think that was what this was gonna be?”

“Well I don’t know what else this would be!” Steve spat out in frustration. He hated not knowing the whole story and here he felt he barely even knew the first line of the novel. Billy smiled warm like a summer day and cupped his cheek. He felt instantly calmed, being swallowed up by those cool blues like a gentle river on an August afternoon.  “I said I’d explain about all the odd things that happen around campus. They’re from us in this house. We’re kind of, different.”

“Different how?”

Billy took his hand back and snapped his fingers loud and piercing. All the candles extinguished themselves at once. Not a breeze to be felt. It wasn’t scary, or spooky, but it was pretty cool. “Different different. You’re the only person who’s seemed to notice. And, by house law, that means you get initiated. You get to know that we’re all witches.”

The word hung in the air and seemed ridiculous. But, at the same time, it didn’t. It did certainly explain how chargers and post its and pencils would suddenly just appear whenever Steve needed them. He still wasn’t completely convinced though.

“Witches?” He repeated back carefully, just in case he’d heard that wrong too. Billy nodded and clapped his hands. Every candle reignited themselves, flickering back to life one by one in a circle around the room. A bottle of whiskey and cans of coke appeared on the table where there had been just papers before. The books remained. There was a proud look on his face. Short of being drugged at the door and this all being a crazy fever dream, this was definitely real. Steve didn’t really have any reason to not believe his eyes and what was happening around him. Billy didn’t look like David Copperfield that was for sure. “So, not an orgy?”

“No. Not an orgy.” Billy chuckled and repeated back. He must have seen Steve’s face go from confused to understanding to a little disappointed all within the space of a few seconds because his hand was high on Steve’s thigh again. Maybe the guy just didn’t understand personal space? That seemed growingly likely. “I don’t think I’d wanna share you anyway.”

Steve felt the flush on his face again, but he grinned through it this time. Weird, spooky, otherworldly shit could be saved for later if there was even a chance of getting what he’d been thinking alone in his bed. “But you’d wanna maybe...?”

He let the question stay floating between them as Billy smirked lewd and pressed himself up against Steve’s body. “Bet you’d love to find out what I can do with my fingers pretty boy…”

Oh, Steve really would.

[xxisxxisxxis]

Gateway Drug | Part Fifty-Two

Wattpad

Word Count: 3.2k

Warning(s): explicit language, drug abuse, violence, sexual situations

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"Ah!" I squeal with a small giggle laced through it, Nikki's lips pressing to my shoulder while he pulls out of me and his cum spills on the inside of my thighs that are wide open.

My leg's hooked over his hip as he lays behind me with his arm snaking around my waist, between my breasts, while his hand has a solid hold on my throat.

When he's done, he's pressing one last kiss to my cheek before rolling over on his back, reaching for something on his night table.

I shift to my back, staring up at the mirrored ceiling to see him holding something out to me.

I turn my head to look at him just as he's taking my hand and sliding my wedding ring back on, pressing a little kiss to my hand before grabbing at my jaw assertively, kissing me.

"Apology accepted." I say once he pulls away.

"Yeah, ditto." He chuckles, kissing me one last time before I'm giving out a content sigh and sitting up to go shower.

Once I get out, I dry off and wrap myself in a towel, brushing through my wet hair with my fingers as I step into our bedroom to get some lotion on and get dressed.

"Wait, wait." Nikki stops me as I squeeze lotion onto my hand and I look up at him and raise my brows, seeing him grab his camera from the drawer in the nightstand. "Okay, drop the towel and oil up nice: I'm gonna need something to keep me company while I'm in the studio for countless hours the next several weeks."

I roll my eyes and hold back a smile, throwing my towel at him and it hits him in the face.

"Woo!" He cheers, tossing the towel away and I cover my chest just as the flash goes off and I shake my head a little, ignoring him collecting the dispensed Polaroid as I start putting my moisturizer on.

When I'm finished, I'm pulling on sweat pants and hooking my bra, about to pull a tank top on.

"Hey, Viv?" Nikki asks me.

"Yeah, babe?"

"Is the Lord's prayer important?"

I furrow my brows, finding it odd that's he's asking.

"Well, it's the template Jesus gave Christians to use when praying so yes, it's very important." I reply and he nods a little.

"So...like...what is the prayer, exactly?"

I drop the tank-top in my hands, my eyes widen, and I look at him like he's lost his mind.

"Okay, who are you and what have you done with Nikki Sixx?"

"Ha, ha." He sarcastically lets out.

"No, seriously, either you're a clone, had a bad dose of drugs, or your body is officially done with and dying and God's jabbing at you to throw one last 'hail Mary' attempt at salvation before you croak."

"No, I just wanna know what I need to say when I pray to you." He replies with a smirk and I pretend to nearly trip and fall on the floor as if it's slippery.

"Woah, woah, woah, you gotta give me a warning before you say something so slick." I tell him, grinning and he pulls me onto him, laughing. "And to answer your question, it's 'Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen'." I finish, deciding he wasn't even listening, but I have a weird feeling he's taking notes. "Seriously, though, why're you asking?" I add, my fingers fiddling with the various necklaces hanging around his neck.

A devious, childish, sneaky little tug of his lips his highlighting the "up to no good" look in his hazel eyes as his pointer finger traces the crucifix around my neck before meeting my gaze.

"Just curious."

Just a dumbass.

I finish dressing before stepping out to check the mail.

When I come back, I realize there's a handwritten note pinned to the door.

It's signed by our accountant and I roll my jaw.

It was $2,500.00 last May, which means he's been going through $5,000.00 a day.

"Uh, Nikki?!" I call coming into the house with the mail and the letter, going to our bedroom where he's plucking at his bass, waving the letter.

"Yeah?" He asks.

"Sixx 1 & 2,

Sixx 1 is still spending exponential amounts of money on heroin a day. I left a warning last May, and said Nikki will either be dead or the two of you will be completely broke by May this year. That still stands because the amount being spent has doubled since then. Slow down." I read it off. "Nikki, it was $2,500.00 last time so he's saying you're currently spending $5,000.00 a day on smack?!" I raise my voice. "How the hell can someone possibly do that much heroin--or any freaking drug--in one day?!"

"Viv--"

"--That's $1.6 million a year! Did we even make that much last year!" I scream.

"We? Vivian, you've never worked a day in your fucking life. There is no 'we made', it's what I made. And because I'm the one who made the money, I can do whatever the hell I want with it so just hop off."

"Nikki, baby, we have bills, and insurance didn't cover as much on my time in the hospital and follow-ups as we had hoped so we have to spend money on necessities and not..." I trail off, calming myself down, rubbing my forehead, trying not to start crying.

"Viv, I'll handle it." He tells me after a moment of quiet between us. "Alright?"

I rub my lips together, letting out a sigh as he holds his hand out to take the stack of bills from me.

I hand them over, not saying a word more, before leaving him to continue scraping up motivation to actually write something.

He wrote "Wild Side", which completely reworks and assaults the Lord's prayer...then the bastard listed me as a co-write because, "well you told me what the prayer was to begin with so technically you helped me write it."

When the conservatives went digging around once the album was released, they dragged me through the mud when they saw my name attached to a bastardized version of something sacred to christianity and I heard every degrading, yet passive, insult any holier-than-thou Bible-biddy could throw at me.

I stopped going to church for quite a while after that because I didn't even want to face the possibility of all those people smiling in my face while thinking, "she's not the really for God."

"Valentine's Day?" I ask Doc, raising my brows. "...Really?"

"Well, they wanna get a good feel of Nikki and you're obviously a part of his life, so they figured spending Valentine's Day with you two would be pretty interesting." He explains.

"I don't want anybody getting a good feel of Nikki's anything." I reply stubbornly, crossing my arms.

"Yeah, and Viv won't let me pull out the really special techniques while someone's in the house with us." Nikki adds. "And she only lets me do them on special occasions."

"Nobody's feeling anybody else, and you two sodomites can have all the fun you want once the interview is done with. It'll take four hours, tops." Doc says, looking at Nikki. "We're gonna have to start promoting the album."

This is the selling point.

Nikki sighs, rubbing his face, groaning.

"Fine." He gives up, looking at me. "We can entertain the nosy bastard for a few hours, I guess."

"I suppose." I roll my eyes.

"Thank you." Doc let's out with relief.

"Was that it?" I ask him, glancing around his office.

"Oh, yeah." He nods.

"We drove down here just for you to tell us something you could have easily called and told us over the phone?" Nikki asks next.

"Yeah, 'cause I wanted to see how you look and sure enough you look like shit." Doc states and Nikki rolls his eyes. "Which reminds me, clean up your house and make yourself seem like you're not on drugs. K?" Doc gives us a parting word of advice as we stand up to leave.

"Yeah, yeah, got it." Nikki waves him off, leaving in front of me.

"Viv." Doc says to me and I nod reassuringly.

"I'll make sure he keeps it together for the interview."

"Thank you, you two be careful on the way home."

"We will, bye." I shut the door and follow Nikki out to his Jeep.

"I really don't feel like dealing with the press." He grumbles, looking at me now with his sunglasses on and I give him a small smile.

"Maybe it won't be that bad."

"I don't like people I don't fuck with in my house. It's my house. My space. It isn't a fucking amusement park that's open for review." He cranks the car and I put my seat belt on.

"Baby?"

"What?" He says a little harsh.

"It will be okay." I pat his fluffy hair. "K?"

He doesn't answer, actually pouting like a spoiled little boy.

When he ignores me, about to start driving, I raise a brow, unbuckle, and my fingers slowly fumble with the button on his jeans as his pout falters and his smirk replaces it, followed by the sound of a content, groan-filled sigh, and the back of his head hitting the back of his seat when I get my mouth around his prick.

Once we get home I'm wiping the remains of slobber and cum from my lips and he's struggling to keep his legs from collapsing.

"Are you okay?" I ask him smugly when his leg shakes a little bit as he unlocks the front door.

"Watch it, Sixx." He warns as he points at me, his hand popping me on the ass when I walk in front of him to go inside, and I let out a small shriek, following it with a laugh.

My laughter abruptly stops when I see Vanity watching T.V.

She actually seems sober enough, but she looks like she just came off of a bender.

Nikki and I look at each other.

"Oh, there you are. Nikki wasn't answering the phone and I wanted to see him." She tells us, her eyes glued him, and he sighs.

"Well, I'm here. What do you want?" He asks her in a snap, taking his jacket off.

"Nikki, quit being rude." I tell him quietly.

"Showing up to people's houses uninvited is rude." He replies, glaring at her.

"Not when I gave her the code to the gate and a key." I state.

His eyes bug for a second and he's raising his brows at me.

"You what?"

"Tansy has the code and a key, Tommy, Vince and Mick have the code and a key. Izzy, Steven, Slash, Duff, Axl--"

"--That's different." He cuts me short.

"How? They're our friends and so is she." I point out.

"If I'm not welcome I can just go." She says, grabbing her coat.

"Bye." Nikki says just as I say, "no, it's okay."

He and I give each other dirty looks.

"I was actually about to start cooking dinner and invite some friends over so feel free to stay, please." I offer to her. "Nikki, I need your help in the kitchen."

He follows me and I yank on the ends of his hair once we're alone, scolding him.

"Will you stop being a jackass to her?!" I whisper-yell.

"Can you stop being so fucking nice to people? It's stupid."

"Oh, God forbid Nikki Sixx be married to someone who's not a complete bitch." I roll my eyes, grabbing a few pans from our cabinet and he let's out a heavy breath.

"She's fucking crazy, Vivian." He argues and I turn to face him.

"You say the same thing about me any time I piss you off. I really believe she's a good girl, Nikki. She just needs one, good, solid friend that isn't just friends with her to have someone to do drugs with." I explain.

"Oh, yeah, Viv, she's really good...at being a fucking slut."

I pop him in the side of the face and point my finger at him.

"You don't talk like that about Vince or Tommy or Robbin so why the hell talk like that about her?"

"Because she is one." He ignores me and I let out a breath. "Some of the dudes she's fucked are married." He adds.

"Tansy has slept with married men, is she a slut, too?" I ask him and he rolls his jaw. "What I thought."

"Viv, I really don't--"

"Okay, Nikki. Whatever you say." I interrupt him, grabbing some things from the fridge. "She's an awful person, got it. Can you please help me with this so I can clean up the house some?" I ask.

He hesitates for a second before opening the packet of chicken on the counter I pulled from the fridge.

"Thank you." I smile, kissing his cheek, before leaving him alone so I can get the house in nice shape.

To say Nikki projected shit onto Vanity would be an understatement. Her hands weren't clean, of course, but he would often externally put her down the way he internally put himself down for what the two of them were doing to me. It was moments like that, that I looked back on after finding everything out, and would want to hit myself.

He practically told me they were sleeping together without actually saying "hey, I'm screwing this woman that you think is your friend, and you're being too nice and naive to think we wouldn't do that to you."

"Tommy and Heather, Vince and Sharise, Tansy and Vanity, Duff, Slash, Steven, Izzy and Axl." I tell Mick how many people will be at dinner and I hear him let out a breath on the other end of the phone.

"I don't know, Viv." He tells me.

"Mick, c'mon, I haven't seen you very much the past year."

"I don't know..."

"Mick--"

"--Mick, get your ass over here so we can have a good time. We're gonna see you in the studio tomorrow, anyway, so just come celebrate the commencement of the start of the new album." Nikki says after he takes the phone from me.

Mick says something and Nikki grins.

"Alright, bye." He hangs up. "He's in." He tells me.

"Thank you for snatching the phone from me, dickhead." I say, half-joking.

"Okay, I am this close," he holds his pointer finger and thumb centimeters apart from each other. "to bending you over my knee and beating your ass."

"Promise?" I reply, grinning, and he tugs me closer to him, but just before our lips meet, Vanity is walking--more so bursting--into the kitchen.

"Nikki, when are we hanging out?" She asks him, nearly bouncing on the balls of her feet.

Nikki's hands dig into my hips as if he's channeling his frustration instead of being rude.

I know what "hangout" means, and I don't need him cracked out, especially not now with guests coming over soon.

"I don't think that's a good idea, Vanity." I explain to her as politely as I can.

"Why not?" She asks me.

"Just not aright now." Nikki tells her, actually more tolerant than he was earlier.

I don't know if I'm shocked because he's not being an ass to her, or because he's  turning down the opportunity to go hit a crackpipe. 

Vanity looks at me for a split second--a very short, nearly millisecond--as if I'm the fucking Devil, before it vanishes and she smiles at us.

"Okay, I'm gonna be in the bathroom freshening up." She tells us, walking in the direction of the guest bathroom, and I let out a breath when she's gone.

"You mean you don't wanna greet our guests naked, waving a gun, and accuse them of being the FBI before opening fire?" I ask him.

He just gives me an unamused look.

"I'm gonna go change before that 'ass beating' is administered." I suggest.

"Yeah, good idea."

I change, put on some makeup, and run my fingers through my hair to comb it out before stepping into the kitchen to help Nikki finish up.

I'm met with uncooked food.

"Uh...Nikki?!" I call, glancing at the clock to see it's 8:00pm.

People will be here any minute.

I go looking for him, smelling the familiarity of cocaine.

"Oh my God." I say to myself, opening the guest bedroom to see Nikki and Vanity crouched over their pipes with a mountain of blow out.

They look at me with wild eyes.

As if on cue, the doorbell rings.

"Please be someone sober. Please be someone sober." I repeat, shutting the door as I step to the door.

I open it to reveal Duff and the guys.

"I need help." I tell them, sounding panicked. "Nikki and Vanity's cracked out."

"Um, w-we were gonna ask you for help." Duff tells me.

"What, why?"

They move over and I see Tansy, shaking a little.

"Are you--"

Before I can finish, a familiar "BANG" is sounding through the house and is joined with a loud, ear-shattering shriek of glass breaking, and we hit the ground, Duff securing me under him before a second shot is fired, breaking more glass, causing Tansy to start screaming and crying from under Axl and Steven.

I thank God when Nikki doesn't shoot again, instead the sound of him scrambling to get to his closet, and the sound of Vanity's heels scampering along with him has me sighing with relief. I hear him slam our bedroom door, and Duff runs his thumbs under my eyes to wipe at tears that I had no idea were even coming out of me.

"Holy shit." Izzy mumbles. 

"Are you okay?" Duff asks me and I nod as he helps me up.

"Tansy?" I ask her gently, she's got her hands over her ears, tears streaming down her face.

Axl carefully steps into the house as I continue to reassure Tansy.

"Uh, Viv?" Axl asks.

"I got it, Viv." Steven tells me, trying to calm Tansy down.

I follow Axl into the house, and I'm taken back by the sight of our entire ceiling in the living room shattered over our couches, the carpet, the coffee table, the T.V., it's a giant sheet of sparkling, sharp, shards of mirror.

It seems like forever just staring at the damage done to my house, and I'm unable to get words to come out of my mouth.

"Dude, is Tansy alright?" Tommy's voice sounds at the door and we snap around to see him.

I hear Heather and Sharise outside before Vince comes in behind Tommy, their brows raising at the sight of the mess.

"Hooollllyyyy..." the blonde singer drags out.

"You alright?" Axl asks me, and anger rolls through me, my teeth grinding together.

"Viv?" Tommy adds.

"Doc. Bob. Now." Is all I'm able to say.

"On it." Tommy doesn't waste a minute stepping through the glass to get to the phone in the living room while Axl tugs me back outside to avoid murdering Nikki.

That was the first straw that began the process of breaking the camel's back.

[everlarkbirthdaydrabbles]

Hi! My birthday is April 24th and I'd love to read everlark where Peeta thinks he's lost Katniss somehow, like a misunderstanding or even some kind of accident, but everything works out in the end. Love the drama/angst, and I'm down for any rating (but let's be real, the smuttier the better bc it's my birthday lol). No infidelity please! Tytyty! You are awesome!

Happy Birthday! There is definitely some angst in this one. Thanks for having a birthday so we can all enjoy this great story! And thank you to @katnissdoesnotfollowback for writing and submitting it. She’s been a MAJOR contributor to this blog, as have many others, and we can’t thank her enough. Links to part one & part two if you haven’t read them yet. Enjoy! I know we did. 

Happy Birthday! Hope you enjoy this somewhatangsty story. Hugs and lots of love to you on your special day!

 All’s Fair - Part 3

 WARNINGS: RATED E for language, PTSD, and smut. Mostly the rating is forthe smut. SMUT I SAY!

 A/N: HR inthis instance stands for Human Remains. There’s no gore or graphic violence inthis, but there is a healthy dose of angst. Thank you @peetabreadgirl for pre-reading.

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 My boots scrape the pavement as I stop to stareup and down the parking lot aisles. I find at least four Jeep-shaped vehiclesunder black covers and sigh, drop my bag on the pavement, and search throughthe pockets for my keys. Not even my car keys, either. Customs fucked up mypacking job and I’m pretty sure they wound up back in my footlocker. I find thekeys I need underneath a half empty bottle of Gatorade and unlock my trunk,rummaging around until my fingers find the canvas ribbon on my at homekeychain. Yanking them out, I listen to the jingle of home with the distantgrowl of a C-130 spooling up its engines. The humid North Carolina air pressesdown on my lungs and I blink in the fading light.

 It’s late. I’m exhausted and hungry. And the redREMOVE BEFORE FLIGHT tag on my keys is a one-two punch to the face. Idon’t even know where he is right now. He was supposed to be home sometime lastweek, although I don’t know the exact date, but the fact that he wasn’t here tomeet me means he was delayed somewhere. Or something far worse that I am notprepared to contemplate on four hours of shitty sleep on a cramped rotatorflight and an empty stomach.

 Pocketing my car keys, I slam my footlocker shutand lock it back up, hefting my bag back on my shoulder and hauling the trunkonto its wheels to continue my solitary trek. I hit the lock button on the keyfob twice and hope my battery didn’t die while I’ve been gone. I’ve gotjumpers, but no one I feel comfortable inconveniencing. Most of the others havealready gone home. Prim couldn’t be here this time, unable to get away from medschool. Mom’s too sick to travel. Gale’s still somewhere in Fallujah, I think.At least, that’s the last place I ran into him.

Finally, my car honks back at me and I trudgethree aisles over towards the sound. Think it’s rough remembering where youparked your car after a thirty minute trip into a grocery store? Tryremembering where the fuck you parked it in a long term lot after a year longdeployment. I drop everything when I reach my Jeep. Unceremonious and messy.Fuck the Army and it’s obsession with order.

 It takes me a few tries to get the cover off mycar and folded up enough to shove it in the back. My footlocker and duffle goin next. The pack goes on the front seat since it contains my wallet, such asit is. I climb into the driver’s seat and roll back enough of the canvas sothat I’ll be able to feel the breeze. Keys in the ignition and I freeze, oncemore staring at the bright red tag.

 Peeta gave it to me right before my firstdeployment, in a black velvet box that looked like it contained a fancynecklace. Which it did. A single, luminescent pearl on a silver chain nestledunderneath a layer of padding, but on top had been this keychain. I’d laughednervously and shoved his face away from me when I saw the tag, but then he’dshown me what he’d bought for himself...a red, white, and blue double Akeychain. The emblem of the 82nd Airborne. My unit. They were meant to be asymbol. When we saw the keychains that ought to belong to each other, then we’dknow we were home.

 The C-130 must be warmed up because the tone ofit changes, softens as it faces a different direction. Turning up the taxiway,preparing for takeoff. I wonder what they’re doing tonight. Dropping bundles?Cargo? Jumpers? Or maybe they’re just making proficiency runs. Either way, Iknow Peeta’s not with them.

 “Come on baby, don’t let me down,” I mutter andcrank the engine. She starts rough but she does turn over. I throw my coveronto the passenger side floorboard, needing to feel the wind in my croppedshort hair after months of it being stifled beneath a kevlar helmet.

 As I leave the lot, I make a last minutedecision, turning towards the airfield instead of the main gate. I just want tobe sure. I’d call, but my phone’s buried in the back and I didn’t think to pullit out while I was searching for my keys. And maybe I’m not ready to face thesilence of an empty house.

 The drive is refreshing, but when I reach theairlift wing’s long term parking lot, I realize what a mistake this was. Theirsis almost as full as ours. I drive up one aisle and down the next, slowing everytime I see anything that might be silver. I find it in the fourth aisle.Peeta’s dark silver Mustang, parked next to a black Silverado, a layer ofpollen coating it, obscuring the color. I grip my steering wheel and stare atthe car for a moment. Then I force myself to leave.

 I’ll be going home to an empty house.

 The lights in town feel blindingly bright.Foreign after a year in the desert. When I tip my head back, I can barely makeout a handful of stars as they emerge into the night sky. At a red light, agroup of teens in a Tahoe with all the windows down stops next to me, laughingand singing along with their music. Once more, I’m massaging my steering wheeland trying to find my place in this world. It’s familiar and still disturbing.The lights and the colors too bright, the sounds too much like a dull roar, apounding in the skull.

 It’s when I pass a McDonald’s and my stomachgrowls painfully that I realize I’ll be going home to an empty pantry, too.There might be a can of soup or something, but nothing fresh. No one’s lived inthat house for six months and I didn’t think to ask Eddy, our neighbor’s kid,to stock the pantry for us. He was just keeping an eye on the place,maintaining the yard, and bringing in any mail. It’ll all be junk, but it’sbetter than leaving it to piss off the mail carrier.

 With a sigh, I pull into a grocery store thatlooks new, hoping they have a deli still open so I can get something alreadycooked and warm. I make it quick, though I do spend a few minutes debatingbetween macaroni or potato salad to go with my rotisserie chicken.Choices...something else that feels incongruously familiar. They’ve got abakery, too, and I add a loaf to my basket for dinner, and a couple bagels soI’ve at least got something to eat for breakfast, not caring that they’ll be alittle stale. I’ve eaten worse. I’ll come back tomorrow for a real groceryshopping trip.

 I use the self checkout lane, though, becausethe last thing I want right now is attention called to me in the form of achatty cashier or someone wanting to thank me for my service. Most of them meanwell, but sometimes it’s hard to know what to say in response. ‘You’rewelcome?’ Arrogant. ‘Thank you?’ For what exactly? Thanking mefirst? ‘Just glad to serve my country?’ Yeah, tell that to Darius andhis family… I shake myself and gather my groceries before rushing out of thestore.

 Once I’m safely back in my Jeep with nounnecessary human interactions, I breathe easier. She starts up like a dreamthis time and I drive home, only freaking out at one plastic bag as the windmakes it drift across my path. Pretty good, considering.

 “Here goes nothing,” I say and reach up to pressthe button to my garage door opener. Nothing. Car battery lasted. Remotebattery did not. Time for the car and door dance. By the time I get my Jeep inthe garage, I add grouchy to my list of feelings. My pack goes inside with meand my food. The rest can wait.

 The house is dark and smells musty. I open a fewwindows to air it out, humidity be damned, and flip on a couple lights so it’snot as depressing. Then I eat -- with a real fork, off a plate that I’ll haveto wash -- in about four minutes. Which is savoring my meal, by the way.

 Once I’ve placed my leftovers in the fridge, Iget the rest of my shit inside and in the bedroom, glaring at the neatly madebed. Starting the shower, I toss crap from my trunk until I find my phone andplug it in. Then I wait for the thing to turn back on and for the water to warmup. I’ve got one voicemail from Prim. I’ll call her after my shower.

 I leave my cams on the floor in a pile. I’llshove all of it in the washing machine later. The good thing about shampoo andsoap is that they don’t go bad, although there’s a strange crust around thecaps. I wash quickly, watching the murky water drain away sand and three daysworth of funk layered over remnants from months of half-assed showers.Normally, I’d be in a rush. Limited water and somewhere to be in five minutesmeans that when we got them, showers weren’t luxurious or even very efficient.They were just fast.

 Standing under the clear, steaming stream, I tryto relax. To enjoy the luxury. But I can only manage a few extra minutes beforeI start to feel ansty and get out. It’s silly, but once I dry off and am standingin my underwear, staring at my drawer full of pajamas, I hesitate. Instead, Iyank open one of Peeta’s drawers, finger the neatly folded cotton shirts beforefinally dragging one over my body. The shirt smells stale as well, from it’smonths untouched in storage, but as long as I don’t inhale too deeply, I cansort of pretend that it’s his arms holding me. I comb through my hair andsettle on the bed to call Prim.

 “Hey! Welcome home!”

 “Hi, Prim,” I say and smile for the first timesince stepping off the plane.

 “Oh my gosh! I can actually hear you! Nostatic!”

 “Just one of the many perks of being stateside,”I say and look around the room. Prim prattles on for several minutes aboutschool and how excited she is to see me in a few days. I try to remaincheerful, but it’s not easy. All I can think about is how her life continueduninterrupted while I dodged bullets, sent a friend home in a casket, and camehome to a stale house.

 “You okay?” Prim asks, cutting into my thoughts.

 “Yeah, I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Why?”

 “I asked if you’d be bringing Peeta when youcome home in a few days and you didn’t answer.”

 “Sorry, Duck,” I say. “I spaced out. It was kindof a long flight home.”

 “I’ll bet,” she says then waits for my answer.

 “I don’t know. He was supposed to be back lastweek, but he’s not, so…”

 “I’m sure he’s okay,” Prim says and goes on tosuggest that he can always catch up to us after he gets back, but her wordsopen the gates of fears and worries that I’ve kept carefully under lock andkey.

 I maneuver awkwardly through the rest of ourconversation until I remind her how tired I am. When we hang up, I sit rigidand at war with myself. And even though I already know what's going to happen,I press Peeta's name and hold the phone to my ear.

 Straight to his voicemail, but I listen anyways.Just to hear his voice for a few seconds, something I haven't heard in sixmonths. I disconnect before the beep and power my phone down then toss it onthe nightstand to charge the rest of the way, wondering if he ever called myphone during those six months he was here and I was not, just to hear my voice.I hug a pillow to my chest before laying down. I squeeze my eyes shut and ordermy body to sleep, but as exhausted as I am, I can’t seem to relax. The sheetscarry a musty smell of their own that makes my nose wrinkle, and they feelcold.

 Four months. I haven’t seen him in four months,and even then, it was thirty seconds from a distance and a twist of luck. On atarmac in Baghdad while we were piling into the back of one plane, he waspre-flighting another. At least, I think it was him. We didn’t get a chance totalk. And I’m not even sure he saw me or knew I was there. Since his deploymentwas six months versus my year, we kept in touch better while he was stateside.Skype and e-mail, when I was lucky to stop at a base with internet. Theoccasional letter or phone call. But once he was in the desert too, all but theemails stopped. We just kept missing each other and it was more frustratingthan anything else.

 With a low growl, I shove myself off the bed,dragging the spring green duvet into the living room with me. I plop on thecouch and turn on the TV, hoping it will numb me into slumber.

 It doesn’t.

 News channels covering events I know littleabout, since I was isolated from current events at home for a year other thanthe tidbits Mom, and Prim, and Peeta while he could, would send to me in theirletters. When I stumble across war coverage on one channel, I pause, butquickly move on. I live it. I don’t need them telling me what it’s like.Besides, there’s a small part of me that’s terrified that the next breakingstory will be about a plane crash.

 The rest of the channels disappoint just asmuch. Petty squabbles on reality shows. Commercials and other fluff. It’s justlike talking to Prim only magnified. This used to be my life, I think as I turnthe TV back off and wander into the kitchen. I eat one of the bagels I’d meantfor breakfast just to have something normal to do.

 When I finally shove myself back into bed, it’swith little hope of sleeping. Still, I try, and I must succeed because I seethings, some of them real, others more difficult to pinpoint. Sergeant Chaffyelling over the pop of gunfire. A woman racing into the streets to enfold herchild into the black billows of her dress before collapsing and crying over hisbody. Peeta’s smile. The ringing in my ears when a grenade went off close by,drowning out the shouts and gunfire that followed. A door kicked in beneath atan boot. Darius laughing the second before the IED went off. A fireball and atower of smoke against an azure sky, the twisted wreckage of a plane’s tail.

 I gasp and wake up, sweating and trembling.Slowly, I manage to get ahold of my breathing and stand, walking slowly to thebathroom to splash water on my face in the dark. I gulp down a few handfuls andthen return to bed, stripping the duvet off first and using only the sheet.Staring at the ceiling as I wait for morning or sleep, whichever arrives first.I can’t tell which one it is, drifting in and out of dreams. Even when I see myroom, there’s Gale, detailing a strategy for clearing a street, his neckbandaged. My mother humming as she rocks in a rocking chair and sews. Theconstant, choking brown haze of a dust storm.

 I am a stranger in my own life.

 When I wake again, it’s late afternoon. Atleast, that’s what my clock says. The room is dark, the curtains drawn, so I’mnot sure that I’m not still asleep. I roll onto my stomach and stare throughscratchy eyes at what should be the empty space beside me. Only, there’s a bodythere, stomach down and faced away from me. My mouth goes dry and I hope it’snot a nightmare. I wouldn’t put it past my twisted brain to imagine him lyingdead beside me.

 Reaching out, I poke his ribs and he startles.It takes him a moment, but he finally turns his head to look at me, his eyesbloodshot and dark circles beneath them.

 “You look a little rough for a dream,” I tellhim and he blinks at me, confused. “And quiet, too. That’s how I know you’renot real. If you were, you’d have already said ten witty things.”

 “Too tired,” he mumbles behind a yawn.

 “You should've already been here,” I mutter, thefear of what could go wrong still clinging to me.

 “Plane broke and we had to divert to Turkey.Then we got stuck waiting for parts. I called you as soon as we had a takeofftime from Canada, but your phone was off,” he says and I shrug.

 “No one I wanted to talk to,” I tell him.

 “Ouch,” he says and I scoot closer, hoping dreamPeeta feels half as good as real Peeta. He opens his arms and I snuggle againsthis body. My subconscious has at least gotten the incredible warmth that heemits right.

 “You smell good,” I murmur and fist his shirt inmy hand.

 “I better. I just got back two hours ago andtook a shower first thing.”

 “You got naked without me,” I accuse. “Who’s incharge of this dream anyways?”

 “You were out cold when I got in. Didn't want todisturb you. How long have you been home?”

 “No idea. Tell you when I wake up.”

 “Katniss,” Peeta says softly. “You are awake.”

 I open one eye and look up at Peeta. Reachingout, I pat his cheek and he smiles.

 “You didn’t wake me!” I shout and scrambleupright in the bed and put space between us. I’m not sure if I’m more angryover the fact that he climbed into bed without waking me or that by leaving myphone off, I missed the chance to be there for him when he landed. But he justlays there, watching me with tired blue eyes.

 “I didn’t wake you,” he says softly, one handreaching for me and falling short on the bed, “because you looked so peacefuland wonderful, and all I wanted to do was to sleep next to you for a few hours.Just sleep with the knowledge that I wouldn't be alerted soon, and withouthaving to block out the sound of mortar shells.”

 “How's that working out for you?” I ask,resenting the fact that he's the one who brought it up, reminded me that hewasn't all that much safer than I was over there. He shrugs.

 “Not so well. It's so quiet here.”

 “Yeah,” I say and fold my hands in my lap as weadd to the silence. Staring at one another, neither one of us knowing what tosay, and I wonder if I will feel like an interloper in this part of my lifetoo, caught in a world I no longer understand. I search his blue eyes for somehint of the person I left a year ago. His eyes are the same color, but they'reguarded. Maybe even frightened. And defensive. I don't know how to talk to thisperson.

 “This is weird, isn't it?” I whisper. He bracesa hand on the mattress and sits up so our eyes are on the same level, but hedoesn't reach for me again.

 “Feels that way, doesn't it?” he asks.

 “Prim wanted to know if you’d be coming with menext week.”

 “Yeah. If you want me too,” he says and I nod,because what am I supposed to say to this cautious dance around each other.

 “Are you hungry?” I ask.

 “I could eat,” he says. We make our way into thekitchen and eat the rest of my chicken, salad, and bread from dinner lastnight. In silence. And we don't touch one another.

 I try to summon some sort of feeling. But I'm sotired of fighting and I know he must be too. Maybe it's too late for us.

 Two years of visits here and there while he wentthrough his training pipeline, existing on phone calls and quick weekends inwhich we tried to cram months worth of time missing each other. But there wasalways another absence looming on the horizon, and in those absences, it becamenecessary to survive alone. Without each other.

 He fought to get an assignment that somewhatmatched up with mine, requesting an airframe that others in his service oftenlook down on, shocking his superiors when he wanted and pursued a heavy insteadof a sleek shiny fighter. Requesting a base slated for closure just because itwas attached to the fort I was assigned to. Fought to line up our deploymentsso we weren't waving at one another as we swapped places. And now, each of ustwo deployments in, I wonder if we spent so much time and effort trying to betogether that we don't know how to exist together anymore.

 He flicks crumbs across his plate as we sit insilence, his foot bouncing nervously beneath the table. It's a twitch he'snever had before and I don't know what to think of it. Shouldn't we be happy?Crawling all over one another and ravenous?

 Peeta takes a deep breath and I look up to findhim already watching me. “Think I'll unpack...since I'm awake now.”

 “Okay,” I say, pushing away the guilt that Iwoke him after so little sleep when I’ve wasted almost an entire day moping inbed.

 We move around one another, returning personalitems to their places, shoving one load after another into the washing machine,wiping away the fine layer of powdered sand that’s accumulated on almosteverything. We barely speak, just two ghosts sharing a house. I'm not even sureI'd call it a home.

 “Grocery shopping?” he suggests after we'vestored our footlockers in the garage and I nod. I can't even look at him as wedress, afraid I'll find new scars or markings on his body that tell the talesof whatever horrors he lived through. And I don't feel his eyes on me either.

 “Your car or mine?” he asks softly as he doubleknots his shoes.

 “Mine,” I say automatically, and he nods butstill tucks his keys into his jeans pocket. I catch a brief glimpse of hisairborne keychain, dulled a little but still attached to his house key.

 We limit our conversation to the necessary whilewe drive to the grocery store, and while we fill our cart. At one point, herests a palm on the small of my back as he leans around me to grab a box ofcrackers while I read a label and try not to fall apart at the minute touch.The heat of his hand sears through my shirt, and I lean back into it. When hemoves away, the disappointment rushes through me, swift and painful.

 He tosses the box of crackers into the cart andlooks back at me, a small and hesitant smile curving his lips up just on oneside. And I can't take it anymore, pretending like everything's normal and fineand I’m not five seconds from falling apart. I drop the saltines on the groundand fling myself at him.

 He only hesitates a second before his arms surgearound me and he buries his face in my neck, releasing a quiet shuddering noisethat might be a sob or a sigh of relief. I still shake with fears anduncertainties, my fingers digging into the back of his neck to make sure hedoesn't vanish from my arms. Warmth radiates from the spot where his lips touchmy neck. And I don't care that we're in the middle of a grocery store with adozen people muttering in discontent as they have to maneuver their cartsaround us.

 “What’s happening to us, Katniss?” he whispers,and I know he’s not talking about the nightmares or the shortened tempers, butthe apathy. The need to not make a big deal out of things, not even a reunionafter an entire year apart. Or the fact that it’s easier to ignore the possibilityof hurt or death or worse because if you think about it, you’ll go mad.

 “I don’t know,” I whisper.

 “I missed you so much it physically hurts,” hesays, his arms shaking against me for a moment. I think about how many timesthese arms have been my refuge from the world. Always so warm and strong.

 “Me, too,” I admit. But we’ve opened thefloodgates and words pour forth from his lips.

 “It was bad enough being here and watching thenews. I’d go fucking crazy watching it, looking for you in the footage, hopingI’d get just a glimpse of you and dreading it at the same time. But being therewas a million times worse. Every time we got called for medevac or to moveH.R., I’d feel ill, certain that I’d be seeing your face or your name on acasket and knowing it’d be more than I could bear. Katniss, I don’t know if I’dever be happy again if I lost you.”

 My eyes burn with unshed tears. I should tellhim about my nightmares, too. RPG’s and planes shot from the sky. The wordsstick in my throat, and then someone behind us clears theirs impatiently. Iswipe at my eyes as Peeta releases me and we step apart enough to look at theintruder.

 “Excuse me. You’re blocking the shelf,” shesays, oblivious to or blatantly ignoring the obvious tears in both our eyes. Areminder that this is not the place for either of us to break down. Not with anaudience.

 “Thank you for your patience,” Peeta says toher, bending to scoop the dropped box of crackers off the floor and depositingit in our cart as we walk away. Only this time, we join hands and each use onehand to steer the cart.

 Our conversation is still somewhat stilted afterthat, and maybe it will be for awhile as we adjust back to each other’spresence, to the comfort of relative safety and the absence of the fears of thenight.  

 We pay for our groceries and I manage to get ushome without incident. As I cut off the engine, Peeta reaches out a hand tosqueeze my thigh and I look up at him while I press to shut the garage door,the remote now with a fresh battery. His thumb rubs up and down my thigh, asoothing touch along a rubbed raw nerve.

 The air around us already hangs heavy withhumidity, but under his steady gaze, it thickens until it’s almost stifling. Heleans towards me and my grip on the steering wheel tightens. Peeta haltshalfway between us, his eyes flickering down to my mouth and then away with anearly inaudible sigh. For now, I will ignore the voice in the back of my headthat insists there’s no point. One or both of us will just be heading back outthe door in six to twelve months. A seesaw of adjustment to life and thensurvival. Or maybe they’re just two different kinds of survival. But I refuseto let this wall stand between us a second longer.

 With my hands firm on the steering wheel, I moveto meet him over the gearshift and capture his lips with mine. His fingers onmy thigh clench and he brings his other hand up to hold me to him, his palmwarm on the side of my neck, his thumb tracing a path from the corner of mymouth to the edge of my jaw and back again. And I can't believe we waited thislong. I let go of the steering wheel and grip his shirt instead, yankingroughly on the fabric, needlessly because he’s not pulling back or going anywhere.

 He tilts his head and I open my mouth withouthim asking, because I need this kiss right now. Right here. The soft tremorthat shakes through me at the first touch of his tongue to mine. We are sloppyand graceless, but one kiss only makes me want more. All too soon, though,Peeta gently separates our mouths with one last suckle of my bottom lip betweenhis.

 “We should get the cold items put away beforethey all melt,” he croaks and I nod, although I’d much rather kiss him for thenext hour. Releasing my leg to open his door, Peeta kisses the tip of my noseand smiles at me.

 With each mundane task that we complete, thegaping wound between us knits together. A gradual healing. By the time we’vefinished putting our groceries away and managed to prepare and consume a meallike human beings, I’m thinking of tonight, about spooning with him in bed,less in terms of something we just do and more in terms of the comfort that itmight provide.

 When Peeta stifles a massive yawn, I suggestheading to bed, even though I’m not tired yet. He has to be beyond exhausted.Within seconds of crawling into bed, his breathing evens out and I lay in thecircle of his arms, listening to the calm sounds of spring outside our openwindow.

 Eventually, sleep takes me as well, and while Istill see things I’d rather not, they’re easier to face with Peeta’s arms warmand steady around me.

 Some time during the night, I wake to darknessand feather soft touches drifting up and down my side, beneath my shirt, aroundto my belly and up my ribs, back down and around to my side. Over my hip, thetouches dulled through the fabric of my shorts, igniting on my thighs before hereturns to my torso. For a second, I wonder if he’s even awake, but then hislips brush over my neck and I shiver. Peeta’s touches halt and I bite my lip,wanting him to continue.

 “Why’d you stop?” I finally whisper.

 “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispers back.

 “I don’t mind,” I say and rest my hand over his,guiding it in the soft caresses for a moment before I tuck my hands beneath mycheek and relax into his touch as he continues unguided. Each delicate brush ofhis fingers lulls me deeper into a boneless state of bliss, reminding me ofjust how starved I’ve been for something like this, for the softness of hisloving touches. For the feel of him beside me in the darkness.

 “You know what I’m thinking about?” he whispersand kisses the back of my neck.

 “No,” I murmur, content to lay here and let himkeep doing what he’s doing.

 “I’m thinking about that quart of chocolate icecream in the freezer.” It’s not what I was expecting him to say, but my eyesjump open as the idea takes hold.

 “You have my attention,” I say and he chucklesbefore kissing my neck again. Then he’s up and tugging me off the bed. We hurryinto the kitchen, laughing as I slide across the floor in my socked feet. Peetagrabs the ice cream while I get the bowls and spoons. Within minutes, we’reseated at the table and enjoying the frozen treat.

 “Dear diary,” I say as I moan around my firstspoonful and then stare at the smeared reflection of my face in the bowl of thespoon. “It has been seven months since my last ice cream. And even then, it wasmelted by the time I got to eat it.”

 “That’s just sad,” Peeta says and grabs thecontainer, adding another scoop to mine. “You need to catch up.”

 “That’s a lot of empty calories,” I protest andhe shakes his head.

 “We’ll burn them off later,” he says, andalthough the comment could be perfectly innocent, my stomach does a strangeflip and warmth pools in my chest in spite of the freezing chocolate in mymouth.

 Peeta keeps eating, oblivious to the effect ofhis comment, and so I continue to spoon one bite after another into my mouth,savoring it like I haven’t savored anything in months. In between bites, wemanage to open a little more, share a few of the lighter tales of our timeoverseas. It’s relaxing, sitting here enjoying a midnight snack, him in hisboxer briefs and a plain white t-shirt, me in my pajama shorts and a tank top.It feels like something we could do everyday, made special in its normalcy.Eventually, though, our spoons both scrape our bowls to get the last melteddrops. I tip my bowl up and drink what the spoon can’t get.

 “Are they useful calories if they’re slurped?”Peeta asks. When I lower my bowl to scowl at him, he’s grinning, blue eyessparkling in laughter. And for just a second, I see the eyes of the boy I fellin love with in the face of the man I still can’t survive without. My bowl hitsthe table with a loud clink and I wrinkle my nose at him. He bites hislip, like he’s trying not to laugh out loud.

 “What?” I ask sharply.

 “Nothing,” he says as he gathers both our bowlsand rinses them before loading them in the dishwasher. I toss the ice creamback in the freezer and set my hands on my hips to glare at him. “It’s just,you’ve got some ice cream on your chin.”

 I swipe at my chin as unwanted heat floods mycheeks and spreads down my neck. Here I was thinking maybe our relaxing midnightsnack would help us leap the last unspoken hurdle, and I can’t even eat like anadult. Oh so sexy. But Peeta’s smile won’t be contained as he moves to stand infront of me and lifts his hand to my face.

 “You missed,” he whispers, swiping his thumbover my chin. “And you call yourself a sharp shooter.”

 His hand leaves me and his eyes still dance withmirth as he sucks the ice cream from his skin. In a flash, I am heated andrestless, unable to look away from his pink lips as they pucker around histhumb or the deep pools of blue as he watches me.

 “That was mine,” I whisper and he pauses withhis thumb still in his mouth. When he removes it, the silence of the kitchenshatters with the soft sucking noise of release.

 “Come and get it,” he breathes. We stare at oneanother for what feels like ages, the moment strung tighter than a bow ready tofire. We snap at the same time, mouths colliding and hands grasping shirts andhair.

 Peeta steps forward, forcing me back until I’msandwiched between him and the refrigerator. His mouth slants over mine againand again, ravenous and demanding. I can’t tell my moans from his as Ifrantically relearn the feel of his hair, the back of his neck, his shouldersbeneath a soft cotton shirt. The taste of his tongue and the ridges of hismouth. When his hand cups my breast and kneads it in the same rhythm as thehand massaging the back of my neck, my fingers clench, scraping my nails overhis skin. His hips thrust into me and we both moan as my stomach somersaultsfrom hungry to rapacious.

 Peeta flattens his body against mine and triesto say something that gets lost between our joined lips. His arms circle me, asteel band of support and I lift my feet to wrap my legs around his hips,trusting that he won’t drop me. With careful steps, he walks us back to thebedroom, but I refuse to stop kissing him. A year. An entire yearwithout his lips and hands on me.

 We need to catch up.

 When his knees hit the bed, our mouths joltapart and I giggle as we flop onto it, Peeta’s hands and the soft mattressbracing the fall as we bounce and he smiles at me before he resumes kissing me,our hips pressed together as we shift restlessly against one another. My feetcaress over the backs of his thighs and his hands encourage me, skimming overmy legs and grasping my ankle to wrap my leg around him again.

 I want our shirts off. I can feel the heat ofhim burning through the fabric that still separates us. I want it unfilteredand undiluted on my bare skin. But I don’t want to stop kissing him to tell himthat either, so I leave the clothes and let the need build and scratch at thehairs on his neck and the back of his head.

 After who knows how many minutes of this, hecomes up panting and tears at my shirt. Relieved, I arch my back and lift myarms so he can remove it to throw it across the room. I’m expecting him to takehis off, too, and gasp as he instead fuses our mouths together, the cotton ofhis shirt dragging over my nipples. The unexpected stimulation does wickedthings to my nerves, my legs pulling him closer in response, until the hardridge of his arousal presses into the soft folds of mine. His hips buck in myembrace, the sudden pressure sending a frisson of need all the way out to myfingertips.

 “Katniss,” he gasps as he lifts his head to transferhis mouth to my throat. Each word he speaks is kissed into my skin, lower andlower on my body. “Hold. Onto. Something,” he warns, pausing only to give eachbreast one quick, hard suck and a moan of appreciation before he moves on. “Ihave an entire year of not tasting you to make up for.” Until he reaches mypajama shorts and silently slides them and my panties down my legs, lays mebare to his gaze. I slip my hands beneath the pillow and grab hold of it whilehe stares at me.

 “Say something,” I whisper when he remains quietand still, staring between my legs beyond the point where I am still confidentin his desire for me.

 “Words aren’t enough to describe how incredibleyou are. I’ll just have to show you,” he murmurs.

 The bed bounces as he drops heavily between mylegs. With no warning or preamble, he wraps his hands beneath my thighs andholds me open, his mouth descends and he moans loudly as he suckles my folds.At first, I squirm, the sensation of being licked there distant and no longerfamiliar. But Peeta doesn’t let me hide behind shyness or uncertainty. Hismouth is on a quest, and before long, I’ve forgotten time and distance,writhing beneath the onslaught that sets my entire body aflame with need.

 I grip his hair and then mine. The sheets andthen his hair again. I watch him until I can’t, my body taking over andbanishing thought in favor of feeling as I crest and shudder, moaning gibberishinto the night.

 Instead of stopping, though, Peeta keeps going.His tongue pushing deep inside me to drink of me as I tremble and yell that Ican’t. But apparently, I can, as he sends me careening over another peak whenhe flicks his tongue over my clit then sucks it into his mouth.

 Falling limp, on the bed, I gasp for air andgroan in beautiful agony. Still, Peeta gives me no reprieve, sliding his handsover my legs until he grips my calves and pushes my knees up until they touchmy ribs.

 “Peeta, please,” I beg, unable to articulate thesearing feeling I can’t escape as his mouth continues it’s sweet torment. Hetakes it to mean that I want another, but it feels so good that each swipe ofhis tongue actually hurts. “Too much,” I finally manage to gasp.

 Undeterred, Peeta’s head shakes as though he’stelling me “no,” but the result is a streak of pleasure so acute that I screamand kick wildly, thrashing on the bed violently enough to unseat him.

 “Fuck!” I hear him exclaim, followed by a loudthud, but I am so lost in the shudders still wracking my body that I don’trealize what’s happened until the pounding of my heart calms enough for me tohear clearly again. It’s only then that I notice that Peeta’s not between mylegs any more. Not even touching me nor even on the bed.

 “Peeta?” I ask hesitantly and his laughterdrifts up to me from the floor at the foot of the bed. Gathering my wits, Ishift to the edge and peer down at him. He’s lying on his back, looking up atme with a pleased grin on his face, one hand behind his head and the otherresting leisurely on his stomach. If it weren’t for the obvious strain of hiscock against the cotton of his briefs, I’d think he was just reclining downthere to get a rest.

 “What happened?” I ask, self-consciously runninga hand through my own hair and tucking strands back behind my ears.

 “You came so hard, you kicked me off the bed,”he says, but he doesn’t seem too upset about it. He reaches up and grasps mywrist. “Come here.”

 I squeal as he tugs me over the edge and ontohis chest, but then I let go any embarrassment or doubt as he pulls me down tokiss him again. This time, it’s leisurely, allowing me a chance to recover fromwhatever the hell it is he just did to me. He reaches up and yanks the duvetdown to cover us both as he ends the kiss, his arms cuddle me to his chest andI settle my head on his shoulder. He’s still hard against me, but doesn’t seemto be in a rush to find his own relief. As it was when I woke earlier, his handtraces delicately over my skin, my back this time.

 A restless longing takes place in my breast, andeven though he seems content to take things slow, this kind of hunger won’t besated easily.  When he makes no move, I push myself off his chest and sit,straddling his hips.

 “Where’re you going?” he asks quietly.

 “Nowhere,” I tell him, but make my fingers walkdown his torso towards myself.

 His eyes jump between my hands and my face as Iwatch him for any sign that he doesn’t want this as much as I do, but when myfingers curl beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs, he lifts his hips fromthe floor and pushes them down his legs. I move my hips, dragging my still wetlips over the length of his cock. With a curse, Peeta drops his hips back tothe floor, his shorts still somewhere on his legs as I take him in hand andkeep up the steady revolutions of my hips over him, sliding him through both myhand and my lips.

 “Oh fuck me, that feels like heaven,” he groans,eyes riveted to what I’m doing to him. I bite my lip and brace a hand on histhigh, and even though I just came three times on the bed, I already wantanother. Heat and blood pulse through me as I move and Peeta whines a little,his hands massaging my thighs.

 I started this to tease him, but it quickly hasme just as excited as him. I let go of his cock and instead grip his shirt,tugging on it like it’s a set of reins and the only thing keeping me frombucking wildly on top of him.

 “Katniss, please,” he begs and bites his lip,lifts his head and smacks it back on the floor in distress. “I wanna cum insideyou.”

 With a nod, I shift myself and he aligns us,releasing a string of expletives as I sink down onto him, his right leg kickingin rapid succession as he tries to hold back. Taking his face in my hands, Ibend over and kiss him as we move. Short, sweet tastes as I slide up and downhis cock. Peeta’s arms wrap around me, hold me close as he draws hearts andswirls on my back, guides my hips in riding him. I try to keep it slow, but hekneads my ass and pushes my hips so they roll over him instead of bouncing. Mybody grasps hold of the pleasure and I take it, following his lead until mylegs start to cramp and I have to straighten them alongside his, laying my bodyflat on top of him.

 When I can move again, I slide up his body andkeen into the night as he curses beneath me. It’s the best of both, taking hiscock in and out while still grinding my clit against him. I grab his chin andhold him so I can stare into his eyes, foggy with need and deeper than theocean. He whispers to me, dirty words in broken phrases.

 “I dreamt about this every night, alone in ourbed and then in my bunk. How fuckin’ sexy you are when you’re on top of me, mycock deep inside you. Jerking myself off when my balls ached with the need tocome. I’d have to bite my lips so no one would here me and blow my load in ashirt or a sock and do laundry the next day. Fuck, Katniss,” he breaks off toswallow and kiss me a moment before I push his head back to the floor because Iwant his words right now.

 “I’ve been starving for the feel of your lips anywhereon me I could get them, your legs around me, and fuck, your tits on my chest,god they feel so good there. And your pussy. I’ve needed your pussy on my cockevery day since the day you left. Fucking starving so bad for the clench ofyour walls and the smoke in your eyes as you come for me.”

 I grip his shoulder and move faster, his wordsdrawing forth a greater arousal and making the slide smooth and easy asbreathing. But it’s not enough to get me there. I whimper and tell him that Ineed more and he grips my thighs, spreading me wide over him as he bends hisknees and leverages himself on his feet to thrust up into me. He’s groaningloudly, getting close as I still lag behind him. And for some reason I think ofthe night I first mentioned the possibility of our future together. I had noidea where we’d be on this night, but I remember the tremulous way he’d offeredme an out, if I’d wanted it. How scared and brave he’d looked as he tried tohide the hurt that just the thought my leaving caused him. Then how he cededcontrol to me without question and let me fuck myself sore and hoarse on him.

 “Pull my hair, Peeta,” I urge and brace myselfto help.

 “What?” he asks with wide eyes.

 “Pull my fucking hair,” I order him and his handshifts to grip the short locks. Then I borrow the words that sent me hurtlingtowards my own orgasm all those years ago. I’ve never forgotten them. “Now takewhat you want. Your cock wants it so bad. I can feel it. Hot and pulsinginside of me.”

 He makes a strangled noise as his fingers tanglein my hair and his hand yanks on me, slamming our bodies together again andagain as pain tingles across my scalp then mellows into pleasure.

 “Stop holding back and fill me with your fuckingcum,” I demand and my muscles ache with the effort of maintaining this pace,but he shouts my name and his hips jerk erratically as his eyes squeeze shut.He stops moving, but I keep going, milking him until he grabs my ass and shovesme down onto him even as he thrusts up into me one last time. We remain there,hips suspended above the floor while he finishes with an elongated moan.

 When he relaxes, dropping us to the floor, Itake his lips with mine and kiss the shuddering breaths from his throat. Hishands flex and clench on my ass and then start my hips rolling again, andbefore I can think or prepare myself, I shatter with a soft sigh, my clitpulsing against him as warmth and wonderment floods through me.

 Peeta makes a sound of contentment in his throatas his leg spasms once more before we lay there, a mess of heavy breathing andfinally sated bodies.

 “Too long,” he groans, his voice rumbling in hischest beneath my cheek. “A year is far too fucking long to go without you.”

 “Yeah,” I agree. Then, because I am an idiot anddon’t think before I speak when I am a melted puddle spread across him, I saysomething stupid. “How long do you think we can live like this?”

 “I don’t know,” he murmurs, shifting us so thatwe’re eye to eye. “But I’m willing to work for us for the rest of my life, ifthat’s what it takes, Katniss.”

 “Me, too,” I whisper and kiss him once more toseal the promise.