CW: MILD, REALLY MILD SEXUAL CONTENT

Finding a birthday gift for Matthias isn't as stressful of a task as Emerynne thought it would be. First, while searching for business inspiration on Etsy, she stumbled upon a woman selling handmade paints and watercolor paper. Emerynne ordered her largest palette and a medium-sized artbook. They are beautiful; thirty-six hues in little porcelain pots, all arranged in a beautifully embossed steel case, and rough-edged papers in a sketchbook, silver embellishments on the cover. And she knows he will love them, yet, they didn't quite feel enough...

So then Emerynne struggled through brambles, across uneven land to snag pictures of the Franke house's front and rear sides on her phone, complete with the yards and the gardens and the glasshouses. Each night, she spent at least three hours rendering them on wood panels. The results of her hard work are two paintings of the Franke house, renditions that she is content with – she's always been good at landscape art. By the time Saturday rolls around, the paintings are veneered, thoroughly dried, and lovingly packed.

At fifteen past six, Emerynne is on the porch of the Lagerlof house, ringing their doorbell. Sonja welcomes her in, taking the gifts from her and carefully stashing them in her office. The trio get to work decorating the house, drawing a table into the living room center for the cake, keeping the food prepped and ready to be heated before they're served at dinner. Blue locks tied into a scrappy ponytail, hands in gloves, Emerynne helps Amelie garnish the snacks.

By 7:45PM, a couple she doesn't recognize arrive. A few moments later, Noemi and Fynn come and Emerynne can finally stop hiding in the kitchen and engage. A little way after eight, Sonja hurries into the hall, excitedly hushing everyone. "He's coming," she whisper-screeches, "he's coming. You guys ready?"

Matthias walks in, clueless. An asynchronous chorus, "happy birthday!"

All it takes is the sight of the winsome brightness of his visage, the luminosity of his elation and Emerynne truly understands why people call their loved ones 'light of my life'.

Everybody gathers at the cake table, Matthias at their center. Chanting, cheering, and cake-sharing, throughout which he looks so joyful that it makes Emerynne happy too. Gifts are opened over plates of dark chocolate-cinnamon cake. Amelie and Sonja made him dandelion wine, which Emerynne learns is his favorite drink – one of the bottles is immediately uncorked and flutes of it are distributed. The other couple got him a set of gardening tools, Fynn and Noemi brought him seeds of autumn seasonals and a book about Austrian oil painting masters. Matthias himself is endearingly courteous, passing on heartfelt gratitude to everybody for their gifts.

At long last, his fingers are carefully undoing the baker's twine that Emerynne used to tie her gifts. As he unwraps the cotton-paper, her breath feels stymied. He studies the paints and sketchbook first, caressing the embellishments and embossments. Pale eyes hold dark ones; his hands move: thank you.

Check out the others, Emerynne reverts in ÖSL.

Gentle motions open the box, dig through the stuffing, and reveal the two paintings. He brings them out one at a time, wonderstruck. Appreciative murmurs travel through the audience. Emerynne is deaf to the compliments, all her attention focused on Matthias. Setting aside the items, he looks at her, stands, goes to where she is, and envelops her in a tender, soulful embrace. "I'm glad you like it," she says, pulling back to kiss him. "Happy birthday, love."

The party carries on. When the dandelion wine runs dry, Sonja uncorks whiskey and scotch. Post the lavish dinner, the first to leave are the stranger couple. Sometime after them, Fynn and Noemi take their leave too. Emerynne downs her glass of scotch and heads into the kitchen to help Amelie clean up. The woman chases her off. "Sonja and I will handle this," she assures. "Matthias needs your help though. To carry his gifts home."

Thus, arms piled, the pair walk the short trip to the house next door. Laying the gifts on the dining table, Emerynne kisses Matthias, wishes him goodnight, and makes for the front door again when he blocks her path.

It's late, he points out.

"It's not that late," insists Emerynne, tapping her phone screen to life. 12:14AM, the numbers shine. "Oh... well, it's a little late."

Matthias signs: drive you home.

"No... nope, we've both been drinking," she says, shaking her head. The action causes a slight wooziness; she lilts to the side. His hands grasp her forearms and keep her steady. She continues, "no driving after drinking."

No walking dark roads after drinking, counters Matthias. He takes her hand, tugging her into the house. Releasing her, he askingly gestures: please stay?

There's no need to deliberate. There is no hesitating, no fretting. Emerynne gives him an acquiescing nod. With a smile, Matthias heads into the depths of his house, and she follows. Opening the door to a bedroom, he signs: you sleep here. Bring you change of clothes.

Emerynne pivots, catching the back of his shirt just as he's about to leave. "Where will you sleep?"

Guest bedroom.

There is a dryness in her throat, her tongue scrapes the roof of her mouth. Her teeth draw in her lips to moisten them; she swallows. "You could sleep here," she suggests, her voice sounding hoarse and inaudible to herself. Clearing her throat, she tries again, "sleep here, with me?"

In the time she gets the words out, Matthias has closed the distance between them. Emerynne's fist lets go of his shirt to reach into the folds between his buttons. Fingertips lie against his sternum, simultaneously tentative and emphatic, like the final brushstroke on a masterpiece. She senses his balmy hands encircle her elbows. She frees a hand from his grip, instead her knuckles line the inside of his arm, down to his palm. Guiding him, Emerynne places his hand at waistband of her jeans, a little way underneath her tee.

An invitation. An imploration.

As his thumb presses circles on her hip, she tilts her head up, lips meeting the underside of his jaw. "Please?" she murmurs into his skin, drowning in the headiness of his warmth, of his presence.

In slow, steady steps, Emerynne inches Matthias towards the bed as she claims his lips. The tip of her tongue tracing the edges of his teeth, the outline of his bottom lip, faltering when his hands grab ahold of her waist. His touch sears where his fingers dip into her flesh, sliding along her sides and bunching her shirt up.

Emerynne breaks their kiss, just so she can get rid of her tee. And they reach towards each other once more, scrambling for bare flesh, quivering nerves, pliant lips and searching tongues. One by one – amidst desperate fumbling and helpless urgency – clothes are peeled from their persons, shoes are kicked off their feet. There is a flood of blood to places in her body that have been asleep for far too long – they awaken, hungry and pining. The two somehow make it to the bed; Matthias falls back on the comforter, taking her with him in a flurry of breathless giggles and tangled limbs.

Knees braced on either side of his hips, Emerynne straddles Matthias. Her eyes take him in, and painted in moonlight lines, she can only marvel at the beauty of the Summer Prince on a summer night. Dipping, she lets her mouth follow the path her gaze roved mere minutes ago, over the bump of his throat, tongue swirling in the hollow betwixt his clavicles. She inveigles him with a squeeze of her thighs, she kisses every other freckle on his starlight-fair skin, she bestows a vicious nibble marking the juncture of his shoulder. He arches up at her, answering her ministrations in a sharp, jerking breath. It takes a swift wrest, a trifling second, for the world to tip around her and for him to come out on top. Through the curtain of her lashes, she meets the fire in his glacial stare – shy, squirming from the butterflies and needles that strain at her seams.

Her chest heaves in hot, frantic inhalations when he bends down to her. His shaky, tempting exhalations tease the delicate arc of her neck, then come his lips. And then, his teeth trap her skin, coaxing a moan from her. Her nails dig into his waist, like a cat bedding its claws into a mattress. She wraps her legs around his hips, submitting to his fingers that thread through her hair and pull her head back, to his hand that admires the slope of her stomach, the thumb diving into her navel, the unforgiving teeth and the soothing tongue against the curves of her breasts.

She submits to his devouring latria, determined to devour just as much, and just as devotedly, in return.

a/n: this was important. this had to happen. shush.