#and peeta/katniss will inevitably get pulled in over the precipitous union

[porchwood]

Unposted Fic Bits from 2017: Modern Marko/Prim

College student!Prim and bachelor baker!Marko in a disgustingly fluffy premise slightly inspired by Dharma & Greg. A snippet of this was previously posted as a writing check-in.

By 10am, it’s already been a long day, and I’m drowsily eyeing the clock in the corner of the register screen when a pale blur appears in front of the counter. I glance up, then down again at a young woman – girl, really; twenty at the absolute most – with a wide, merry mouth, high cheekbones, and hair like frost and cream, spangled with actual flakes of thawing snow.

A veritable Christmas angel, never mind it’s still a week to Thanksgiving.

She smiles up at me in greeting. Her eyes are a stunning shade of blue that just might be violet, and her skin is downright porcelain – even fairer against her mint-green sweater.

“I know this is ridiculous, but do you have gingerbread yet?” she asks.

I blink owlishly at the vision while I try to think where I left the forceps to remove that kidney she asked for, and she elaborates, “I mean: gingerbread syrup, for lattes. I know it’s not even Thanksgiving but it’s been snowing like crazy and I’m having a hankering for gingerbread.”

I shake off the trance and transition neatly into Customer Service Mode. There’s no need to get spoony over a pretty college student, never mind this is the first time it’s happened since…well, ever.

“We like Christmas around here too,” I reply with a grin and duck over to the espresso machine to lift the newly stocked bottles of Monin gingerbread and peppermint syrups for her to see. “We've even got eggnog in the cooler.”

“Oh, I love you,” she declares, and my heart skips a beat. “Can I get a grande eggnog latte with gingerbread syrup?”

Strictly speaking, drink-making isn’t really my job, let alone my forte, but Luka’s in the back wrapping grab-and-go sandwiches and Peeta’s not due till 11 today, and I’ll be danged if I let any of our new-hire “baristas” make this angel’s latte.

I decide to throw in a square of fresh gingerbread on the house; the dark, moist, cakey stuff that hasn’t caught on yet but I’m almost certain she’ll enjoy.

And then I get the most amazing idea. “Do you trust me?” I ask her.

“Well, I did just ask you to make me a drink, so I suppose that’s a yes,” she answers impishly. “It doesn’t have to be fabulous, just festive.”

“I want to make you something – something different,” I explain, breathier than I intend. “Still using the gingerbread and eggnog, and I’m fairly certain it’ll be tasty, but if it isn’t I’ll make whatever you want to replace it and you can keep both drinks, free of charge.”

Her antennae perk up at the word free but she quickly demurs, “That sounds awesome, but you really don’t have to do that. I’ll pay for whatever you have in mind –”

“I’m honestly not even sure how to ring it up,” I admit. “It’s a new idea that you just inspired.” She raises her brows at this and my cheeks burn. “I-I know it’s cold out, but do you drink cold coffee too?” I stammer. “Frappes, I mean.”

I wince as I say it, because the last thing I want is to imply that she’s a foofy college girl who goes to Starbucks for Caramel Waffle Cone Frappuccinos, and I’m relieved to my bones when she replies, without a flicker of offense, “Sure, if it’s unique and tasty. And there has to be actual espresso – the real stuff, pulled as a shot, not that syrup concentrate junk that they try to pass off.”

“I wouldn’t dream of giving you anything else,” I assure her. “Where are you sitting? I’ll bring it out.”

She gestures behind her at a booth, its tabletop filled with a neat assortment of textbooks, folders, and notebooks. “In for the long haul?” I tease, and she nods.

“Anatomy final tomorrow,” she replies gravely. “I know I’m probably overpreparing, but I kind of geek out on this stuff.”

“Two shots, then?” I say, and she grins.

“Sounds perfect,” she replies, and glances at my name tag. “Thanks, Marko,” she says cheerfully and heads back to her study nook, taking my flailing heart with her.

I’m grateful for the relative quiet as I pull together the makings of what absolutely needs to be the most amazing drink I’ve ever prepared and wonder what in the world has come over me. We get the gamut of clientele here – college kids, savvy new grads, career women on their way to work or a quick lunch hour, and more than a few pretty faces among them – but no one’s ever affected me like this girl; not even Greta, my grade school crush. I want to kiss her to bits and take care of her and fill her with fat blond babies all at once.

I shake my head fiercely and offer up a silent prayer as I drop a square of gingerbread into the eggnog-and-espresso mixture in the blender. Ice and a hearty splash of gingerbread syrup round things out, and I press my lips together in hope as the ingredients noisily break down to a sippable consistency: a deep golden beverage with dark flecks of gingerbread crumbs.

There’s too much of the resulting drink for even our largest cold cup to accommodate, so I fill the 20-ounce to capacity and toss the rest into a 12-ounce for myself. I’m both eager and reluctant to steal a sip but I needn’t have worried; while relatively new to drink-making, I’ve been in the food business for eons, and this gingerbread frappe is downright to die for – a must for our holiday drinks menu. I’d love to run a taster back to Luka because I know he’ll love it too, but I don’t want him to find out about the girl, for some reason. She’s like a dream that I want to keep just for me.

I garnish the drink with a towering, precarious heap of whipped cream, cinnamon, and nutmeg, top it off with a straw, and duck around the counter to carry it reverently to the girl’s booth.

She looks up as I approach and gives a delighted, giggling, “Oh good Lord!” as I place the cup in front of her. “That looks amazing,” she breathes, and takes a long, rapturous sip, punctuated by an exquisite little moan that makes something clench deep in my belly. “Oh my gosh, you have to try this!” she exclaims, offering the cup back to me. “Or did you already try it?”

For some reason this makes me blush violently. “I stole a sip of what didn’t fit in here, to make sure it tasted okay,” I reply, but she insistently passes over the cup. “You have to try it in context,” she says. “Properly, from the straw.”

I can’t comprehend her wanting to share a straw with a man she’s only just met, let alone the bakery employee who just made her drink, but I equally can’t deny how wonderful it would be to place my lips where hers were a moment ago. I bring the straw to my mouth and taste marshmallow lip balm before the frappe hits my tongue.

It's the closest thing to a kiss – a real one, not a quick, awkward peck at the end of a blind date, and more often than not on the cheek – that I’ve experienced in my twenty-eight years and I wonder if it’s excruciatingly obvious to her. “It’s good,” I gulp. “Even better than I expected.”

“Please, let me pay you for it,” she entreats. “I know I’m a poor college student so I shouldn’t be balking at any gift horses, but this is at least a five dollar drink, and I know you can’t write off everything as samples.”

And I realize: this is my moment. This is the part where I’m supposed to wink and give a debonair smile as I tell her, “No charge, but I’d love your number,” or maybe ask her out for dinner. If she likes me even a little she’s supposed to say yes, and if she doesn’t I can dismiss the mortification by thanking her anyway and insisting no charge for the drink. Mellarks may be terrible at the business of asking out the objects of their affection, but this opportunity practically flung itself into my lap. My heart is pummeling my eardrums and my breath is shaky and I blurt out the words in a rush.

“Will you marry me?”

I bite my lips together to prevent me gaping at her in horror. It’s the last thing I ever meant to say, but now that it’s out, I’m strangely glad. There was something inevitable about asking this beautiful girl to marry me and I’ll probably never see her again – it’s pretty much a cert after this – and at least now I can’t kick myself for “what might have been.”

Her brows are justifiably aloft but somehow, she doesn’t look offended or upset or freaked out, just surprised. “Um,” she says. “I’m a poor college student, so that really wouldn’t be me doing you any favors.”

“You’d be my wife,” I croak, and consider biting off my tongue. “That’s better than a lifetime’s worth of Christmas presents, let alone five-dollar frappes.”

She takes about five excruciating seconds to look me over from head to toe. I’ve been up since 2am and in the kitchen since 3:00, up to my elbows in flour and yeast. I showered before bed last night but I don’t remember the last time I ran a comb over my curls, to say nothing of tidying up my No-Shave Novembeard, which is mountain-man bushy and extends halfway down my neck.

I can only be grateful that the cold weather keeps the kitchen brisk or I’d be running around in an undershirt, looking about as sexy as my dad.

I’m about to turn around and scramble back to the safety of said kitchen when the girl says, or maybe decides: “Okay. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

I slide into the booth seat opposite her a split second before my knees give way. “You don’t have to humor me,” I tell her, my pulse flailing, but my voice and mind are oddly calm and clear.

“I’m not,” she replies, almost patiently, and reaches over to set a hand on mine, making me jump in my skin. “You’re good-looking, generous, and incredibly nice,” she says. “I’m flattered, to be honest, and I’d love to be your wife.”

“I’m off at 11,” some madman answers in my voice. “We could get married over lunch, if you want.”

She tips her head, considering, and gets up from her seat; to leave, obviously – but no, she simply comes around to my side of the booth and scoots in beside me. “Hold my hand?” she asks, and leans against my shoulder as I clumsily comply. Her hand is half the size of mine, all bird-boned wrist and slender fingers, and I swallow back a whimper at how incredible she feels. It’s all I can do not to dip my face and bury it in her fragrant pale hair.

“You smell amazing,” she sighs, nuzzling her face against my shoulder. “And you feel so good.”

“So do you,” I whisper, my voice a thread, as I dare to stroke the back of her hand with my thumb.

“Okay,” she says again, raising her head to regard me directly. “I’m done with class for the day. Let’s get married.”

“I’m Marko,” I croak, and she chuckles.

“I caught that,” she teases, tracing my name tag with a fingertip and making me shiver. “Mellark?” she wonders, nodding at the bakery logo beneath my name, and I nod. “I’m Prim – um, Primrose – Everdeen,” she says, with the smallest of apologetic winces.

“It’s a beautiful name,” I breathe. “You’re beautiful, Prim.”

She grins through an exquisite blush. “Aww, thank you,” she says. “I was beginning to think you only liked me for my taste in espresso beverages, or maybe my penchant for holiday flavors.”

“Well, there is that,” I reply, and she curls an arm over to hug me, making my heart swell and threaten to burst its bounds.

“Oh, Marko,” she sighs against my shoulder. “This really is going to work.”

I tentatively slip my arms around her torso, shyly hugging her in return and holding her close all at once, and she makes a delicious sound of surprise. “Oh my God, you feel good,” she moans. “You’re really sure you want to marry me? Because I want more than anything in the world to come home to you tonight and curl up in your arms on the sofa.”

“I only have a loveseat,” I warn in a rasp and she giggles.

“All the better for cuddling,” she points out, and leans up to peck my cheek, just above the line of my beard, with an impish kiss. “It’s a little out of the way,” she says, “but do you want me to run home and change into a dress or something?”

“No,” I answer firmly, because I’m terrified if she leaves she’ll never come back, and somehow this will all end up being an impossibly wonderful dream. “I want to marry you just like this,” I add, a little more softly, and raise a brave hand to her hair. “You’re so beautiful just as you are,” I whisper, shivering at the feel of silky blonde waves beneath my fingers.

“What did I do to get you?” she whispers back. “I was just looking for a place to study and this place had espresso drinks and WiFi.”

I grin, because Dad had resisted adding either one of those and I’ve never been happier that he eventually gave in. “Well, since I was the one who suggested we add the espresso machine, I’d call it fate,” I reply, and kiss the tip of her nose, making her squeak.

“Your whiskers tickle,” she explains, rubbing at her lips, where I must have inadvertently brushed against her with my beard, but she looks positively mirthful at the discovery. “This should be fun,” she says, tracing my mouth with a fingertip, and I swallow a yelp at an answering tug from my groin.

I’m a grown man with a very grown-up degree of self-control, but erections usually hit me at night; rarely in public and never at this proximity, and it’s all I can do not to peel Prim off my side and bodily return her to her side of the booth.

Then again, we could very well be married in an hour or two and go straight home to bed. I could be making love with my wife before suppertime –

“I should get back to work,” I blurt and make a clumsy lunge toward the edge of the booth, but of course Prim is still nestled between me and the exit and I end up flinging myself against her.

“You could’ve just asked me to move,” she says, confused but not quite hurt, and my perpetual flush burns crimson across my cheekbones.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell her. “I’m…incredibly attracted to you, and I was trying to make a run for it before I made a fool of myself.”

“What would be so bad about that?” she wonders, and I have the sudden horrifying-yet-wonderful thought that maybe she really doesn’t know what I mean. She’s too beautiful to have never slept with a guy – something I hadn’t stopped to think about before now and which makes me a little sad to acknowledge – or at the very least, to have fooled around with the equipment. And for pity’s sake, she’s in an Anatomy class, so she’s either training for some branch of healthcare or in art school. Either way, the workings of the male body can’t possibly be a mystery to her.

Or can they?

“I’m sorry, Marko,” she says suddenly. “I didn’t think about this being your family’s bakery, where the last thing you want is to be seen cuddling with a girl.”

“No, that would not be good,” I agree gratefully. “At least, not until I’ve taken her ‘round and introduced her properly as my wife.”

She smiles at the prospect and inches out of the booth. “You’re absolutely sure about this?” she says. “I mean, there’s no saying we can’t date for a little while – or heck, get engaged –”

“Would you rather?” I ask, slipping out of the booth to stand beside her, and she gazes properly up at me for the first time. She’s not especially short but her head is at a level with my heart, which feels strangely appropriate.

“You’re really tall,” she observes, and slips her arms around my waist, hugging me soundly. “And no, I don’t want to wait,” she murmurs into my chest as my own arms drift around her. “I want to marry you this afternoon, if you’re still okay with that.”

“I’m so okay with that,” I whisper, curling forward to kiss the crown of her head. Her body feels like heaven held against mine, slim and strong with alluring curves tucked here and there, and I lift her up onto her toes as I hold her closer to me. “I have to run back to the kitchen for a bit, sweetheart,” I murmur, “but I’ll be back as soon as I can and I’ll pack us a lunch to boot, okay?”

“So much better than okay,” she sighs, sinking back on her heels. “I’ve got more than enough studying to keep me busy till you’re free.”

I return to the kitchen on a cloud, my absence unnoticed by any but Luka, who’s frowning as he pockets his cell. “Peet’s in bed with stomach flu,” he says. “He says he tried to get up and dressed but he’s got a fever, chills, puking, the whole thing.”

“I can’t stay past 11,” I blurt, terrified I’ll blush, but my brother shakes his head.

“Wouldn’t ask you,” he says. “The baristas can fill in through lunch and Dad can probably hang out till 4, but I need help with the special orders this afternoon.”

#2017 in review #primko #virgin!everlark #:) #marko/prim #modern au #luka's married in this one #with baby elske to boot #and peeta/katniss will inevitably get pulled in over the precipitous union