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Dionysus did not like winter. It was his time of dying, which was already bad enough without a dozen brats taking over his house. Their whining about how cold it was in their heaterless cabins did not appeal to Dionysus’ better nature. He didn’t care if they froze to death.
Except Chiron said that it was against the rules to allow the brats to freeze to death when a simple solution would stop it. He pointed out that there were more than enough rooms in the large farmhouse to hold all of the brats comfortably.
Dionysus was forced to allow them entry. Even as he did, he knew that this would only make them come back next year to use the Big House as an escape from the cold. If they really didn’t want to freeze, they would build their own fireplaces and stay far away from him. Now he couldn’t even walk around in his own skin, lest one of them start lusting after him and making his time at Camp Half-Blood even more unbearable.
So the little brats moved in, each one taking a room. They tended to room closest to the fireplaces and to the basement where the heat traveling through the vents in the floor (and ceiling) didn’t have to go too far to warm them. Soon after they felt settled and comfortable, they began asking to decorate for the holidays.
As if the Greek Gods would want to celebrate Christmas. Of course all mentions of Christmas were avoided. They used the vague term holiday, as though that would appease Dionysus. But it was a cold, bitter winter for Dionysus, and he couldn’t work up the energy to care. They took his indifference as permission and the decorations began appearing.
Dionysus didn’t know which brat it was that thought of mistletoe, but soon there were boughs hanging from nearly every doorway. After that, there was a lot of kissing. Everyone was roped into it; satyrs, nymphs, even Chiron. Everyone that is, except for himself. Dionysus was careful not to get caught beneath the mistletoe with anyone; especially not one of the brats.
But as the end of December loomed closer, Dionysus became careless. And then he got caught.
Luke Castellan was fifteen but he was small and underweight from the neglect at home and then five hard years fending for himself on the streets. His striking blue eyes held barely contained madness; the sort of feral madness you saw in wild animals caught in a trap. He was the kind of demigod that Dionysus almost liked. Broken, beaten, heading for disaster but still willing to bare his teeth in a snarl. Luke looked out of place in the Big House, out of place in his sweater and tight jeans. He would make a better big cat than he would a human, and Dionysus kept that thought in the back of his mind.
Now the feral teen leaned against the doorframe, a foot out to stop Dionysus from crossing into the next room, pointing up to the mistletoe above them. Luke looked like he would as soon bite Dionysus’ tongue off as kiss him. His blue eyes were filled with hunger.
Dionysus scowled at the teen. He did not like how compelling those eyes of his were, how they seemed to challenge and dare and plead all at the same time. His hand shot out to smack the doorframe just inches beside Luke’s head.
Luke didn’t move. The brat. He didn’t even flinch. Just raised an eyebrow.
Dionysus felt his summer skin melt and shift until he was in his preferred skin; the one he’d been born to, though it was currently dying. He flashed his feline eyes at the demigod, hoping to scare him. A little fear did these brats good.
The other eyebrow quirked, as though asking if that was all he had. Luke’s heartbeat gave him away; so loud that Dionysus could hear it. The idea that his heart might give out from sheer proximity to Dionysus was exciting.
Well, why not. If it had to be any demigod brat, this was the one Dionysus would choose. Calling the press of their lips a kiss was being generous considering how much teeth and biting and tongue were involved in the kiss. Dionysus growled into the teen’s mouth.
Luke mewled even as he fisted his hands in Dionysus’ shirt and drew him closer. He melted against the doorframe, body molding to a perfect fit against Dionysus. It was obvious he didn’t know what he was doing, that Luke was attacking Dionysus’ mouth with a growing, lusty rage. His teeth were sharp, and if Dionysus had still been mortal, Luke would have made him bleed.
Dionysus kissed Luke until the teen’s grip on his shirt went slack from lack of oxygen. Then he pulled back. A thread of saliva connected their lips. He felt Luke’s erection digging into his hip.
Nothing about the kiss had made Luke soft. He wasn’t doe-eyed and overwhelmed. If anything, it had made his edges sharper, made him more wild. Luke growled when Dionysus pulled away and he yanked the god back to him, crushing their mouths together.
Dionysus was surprised, which was a rare emotion for him to feel. Luke’s tongue lapped as his lips, wanting into his own mouth, and Dionysus parted his lips. He thought that some of it was the aphrodisiac in his saliva…but those eyes had hungered for him even before getting a taste of Dionysus. A plan began to form in his mind - involving Luke’s body and worship - and Dionysus purred. It turned out the mistletoe was good for something after all.