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Cinnamon and nutmeg and molasses fill my nose - and the apartment. Everything smells like gingerbread cookies and the wassail I have brewing in the kitchen. If I close my eyes, I can almost picture myself back in my childhood years again, dancing in the living room to my mother's fingers working her harp. Indeed, I can press my toes to the ground and almost pretend it's plush carpets... "You know," Lorne says, dissolving my reverie. "Yule's tomorrow and we haven't decorated the tree." I nuzzle against their chest, the soft fabric of their shirt rubbing into my cheek. Through shocks of hair, I can see our green monstrosity in the corner of the room, barren. It's so tall that the tip is bent against the ceiling. "I guess you're right," I reply. "Don't you think we should?" They wind a lock of my hair around their finger as they speak. "It's tradition." A faint pang of longing pricks me. For you. "We could, but why burden it?" "Didn't you decorate a tree every year as a kid?" Now they tug, gently. "I mean, yeah." I reach up and swat their hand away. Again, I can see my younger self in my mother's living room, twirling around and around and around... "So why not now?" Again, their voice brings me back to. I shake my head, mostly to clear the fuzz that's accumulating inside it. "I dunno." With that, I push myself to my feet and head for the kitchen. "Qui – hey! What are you doing?" The couch frame groans as they rise, too. "Did I say something?" I don't reply. The slate tiles are cold enough to make me wish I'd put on socks this morning. On the far counter, the pot of wassail I started earlier has steam pouring from it, thick and orange-scented. "Quinn..." Splinters of wood bite my fingers when I pick up my spoon and stir the wassail. Bits of apple and orange rinds bob in the maroon liquid, fruit ships in a spiced wine sea. "Quinn?" I can hear their footsteps behind me. "What'd I do?" "It's nothing you did." I don't look up, though the steam is enough to make sweat break out all over my body. "Doesn't seem that way." Their fingers glide over my arms and though I want to shrug them off again, I let them wrap their arms around my midsection. "So what's up? And what's this?" "Wassail." They set their chin on my shoulder, breath warm against my ear. Their thick hair tickles my ear. "What's that? I've never had it." My spoon thunks against the side of the pot and sizzles. "You've never had wassail?" I don't have to look at them to know they're blushing; the sudden heat of their cheek warms my own. "I didn't know this existed," they reply through their teeth. "Well, it does." "It smells good." "Thanks." "What's not good, though," they continue, "is your attitude." Their index finger jabs into my stomach. "You turned sour mighty fast. Why?" I pick my spoon up and resume stirring, this time by swirling my finger over the pot. The spoon moves of its own accord. Another pang of longing hits me, right where Lorne's fingers are. "Just memories," I say, "that's all." They brush my hair away from my ears and kiss me right below my earlobe. "Of what sort?" Their lips are soft against my skin and, despite the heat, I shiver. "Just... of my family." They tense and at once, their lips leave my skin. I almost sigh in longing and my stirring falters, but I take a deep breath and resume my work. "Right. I should've known that." Their arms unwrap from my body. "That was... wow. I'm..." "It's fine." I tap the spoon against the side of the pot and extinguish the fire it sits on with the wave of my hand. Without looking, I gesture in the air with my finger and I hear the distinctive scraping of ceramic against wood. "I could've gotten those for you," Lorne says, voice hollow. "Shit, I'm--" "Don't you dare apologize." Talking disrupts my concentration and the mugs wobble, hovering over the counter in front of me, but they remain in the air until I lower them. "Lorne, I swear, if you apologize, you won't get any wassail." "I shouldn't have forgotten." Their voice is soft as they speak. I shrug and draw a curve in the air. A solid stream of liquid sloshes from the pot and drops into one mug, threatening to spill over the sides. Then I pick the mug up, the heat from it nearly scalding my palms, and turn to hold it out to them. Lorne's eyes are unfocused and they sniffle. "Lorne. You're fine." I hold the mug out. "Here." They come back to slowly. It starts with the erratic twitching of their eyebrow, followed by rapid-fire blinking that slows as they meet my gaze again. "I--" "If you apologize, I'm going to dump this back in the pot." Then I take their hand, turn it palm-up, and set the mug down. Their fingers curl around it. "It's warm." "Mmhm." My fingers dance over theirs. "Come back to, love." "It's warm," they repeat. "I know. Come back to." After blinking several more times, Lorne raises the mug to under their nose and inhales. "What do you even do with this stuff?" they ask, tilting their mug this way and that. "You drink it, obviously." I turn back around and make another motion in the air. A stream of liquid, thick with apple pieces, drops into my mug. "It's better with whipped cream," I continue, "but I forgot to make any." "It's good, anyway," they reply. "Thank you." I give the remaining wassail another stir in the pot before setting the spoon back down. "My mom made this all the time for the holidays. For winter in general, really." After a sip of my own wassail, I say, "I can never make it taste like hers no matter how hard I try." "Oh." "That's not a bad thing, though." Warmth pools in my stomach and spreads throughout the rest of me. Over the stove, most of the actual alcohol cooked out, but not all. "Was hers good?" I shrug. "I guess. If it's not strong enough, you're welcome to put some brandy or something in." "It's fine." They lower their mug and stare at me through the steam. "So..." Averting their gaze, they take another sip. "So?" "I don't... suppose you'd want to..." They take another sip again and their hands shake all the while. "Yaknow what, nevermind." My eyes widen as their meaning sinks in. Oh. Oh, oh, oh...! "Would you like to decorate the tree with me?" I ask. The mug slips from their fingers in their shock, but I save it with the wave of my hand before it can spill against the floor. I hold it out in front of them and, after several moments, they close their mouth and take it back. "I... uh... Yes," they say after several moments. "I figured you would." <><><><><> Snow falls outside our bedroom window in thick flakes, coating the ground and sparkling in the mid-morning light. Lorne is pulling boxes from their closet, stacking them on the bed one after another. For once, our floor is free of clothes or stray papers. It's a holiday miracle. "I hadn't realized it snowed," I say. I still have my mug from earlier, half-full now of wassail. Lorne looks up from the closet and glances out the window. "Oh. Yeah, huh?" Then they return to their work. Mug in hand, I lean over the dresser and pull at the latch holding the windows shut. It screams in protest as I mess with it, but with an explosion of copper powder, the latch pops free. Cold air hits my face the moment the window screeches open. "Quinn. Darling." Lorne's voice has an edge to it, an underlying warning. "It's cold outside." "Yep." "It's not a good idea to have the window open – don't you think?" I know what they mean, but they're too kind to say it directly and I'm in too much of a good mood to care. "And?" "It would be nice if you closed the window." More shuffling; they're still unloading the closet. "How many ornaments can someone have, anyway?" I ask with a coy shake of my waist. "Don't change the subject." A grunt, a thunk, and a sigh later, Lorne's hands are at my hips, stilling my movements. "You should close the window." "Or?" "Or this afternoon, we go by my rules." Their voice is a growl now, gravelly and thick. I grin into the wind, gripping the window frame and slowly closing it. "And those would be...?" "You know them. Don't play coy, Darling." Warmth pools in my stomach. One of their hands covers mine at the window and closes it for me. With a sigh, they move to the latch and lock it in place. All the while, they don't say a word. Tension swells between us, the kind that raises the hair on my arms and makes my throat go dry. Faster than I can process it, they restrain me, hands behind my back, and have a gentle hold on my hair. With their guidance, I lift my chin, exposing my throat. My cock swells against my thigh, warm and slick, and wraps around me. "Yes, Dear?" I ask. My voice is a croak. "You really are a brat sometimes." Against my better judgment, I wiggle my hips against them. Their breath catches in their throat. "Quinn. Darling." They pull my hands down so that my back arches a bit and press their nose into my neck. "The things I could do to you sometimes." Their breath is warm, yet it sends shivers through me. "Like?" "Gods... You don't want to know." They nibble at my neck. My mouth parts against my will, but I bite back a moan before it can escape. Around my thigh, my cock pulses, wringing my muscles to the point of hurting. As if sensing my discomfort, Lorne lets go of my hair, reaches down, and grabs me. "Lorne." Despite my awkward position, I try to hook my fingers into their breeches. "Yes, Love?" "Oh..." My eyelids close and my jaws part into the cold winter air. Warmth floods me, from my head to my toes, as they move their hands along the length of my cock. "Gods." All too soon, they let me go and my cock wraps itself around my thigh again. Their calloused palm skirts from my thigh to up my ribs, under one breast and along my arm. I bend into their touch and whimper. "Why'd you stop?" Against my best wishes, my question comes out with a whine. "Because you've been a brat." Up my arm goes their palm. Their fingers press into my chin for just a moment before swooping back and grabbing my hair again. "So. Are you going to be good?" As much as I can, I press myself into their body. "Are you gonna do that again?" They pull at my hair again, almost to the point of hurting, but not quite. I don't fight them. "Are you going to behave, Love?" Stomach thick with need, I nod as much as I'm able to. My cock strains against my skin, begging to be touched. Even squeezing itself against me isn't enough now. It hurts. "Use your words, Quinn." I gulp. "Y-yes." "Yes what?" "Yes, Master." At once, the pressure around my wrists fades. Their warmth against my backside dissipates as they step away from me. After rubbing each wrist a couple of times, I scratch the back of my head and exhale. My breath clouds against the glass of the window. "For future reference," they say, voice rumbly, "being a brat won't have good results." I don't reply. When I turn back around, they're digging through their boxes. Objects knock together – presumably ceramic, based on their think clinking sound as Lorne stirs their hands in the box. Even with the cacophony, Lorne's still gentle in their movements. "Mind if I..." Without finishing my sentence, I flick my finger. A ceramic model in the shape of a pirate ship raises from the box Lorne is digging through, just past their nose, and through the air towards me. Solid brown from stem to stern, the ornament bears only one mast, complete with a crow's nest threaded through with ribbon, and a brown, wrinkled excuse for a paper flag. S.S. LORNE is etched onto one side in a thin script. "Did you make this?" They're watching me, mouth angled to one side and eyes narrowed. "I didn't realize I still had that." They reach out but must reconsider, because the next moment, they drop their hands again. "I uh..." I take the ornament in my hands and inspect the bottom. There's more writing on the bottom, done in the same writing: To my own little pirate: Happy Yule! Love, mom Lorne shuffles their feet. "That was from my mother." "I can see that." I look up. "Would you like this back?" "Please." Instead of magicking it into their hands, I step for them and, after giving it back to them, place my hands over theirs around the ship. Their eyes are wide, expression unreadable as I look over them. "Darling?" I ask. Their gaze drops to our clasped hands. "Hmm?" "Would you like me to put this away now?" They shake their head. "No, no... it's okay. Just..." Lorne shakes themself. "I don't know." "And that's okay." Slowly, I let them go and turn for the number of boxes spread across our bed. After a moment of sifting through the box they had open, I pull out another ornament from the box. Something pricks my fingers when I touch it, and then I see why. It's a wooden hedgehog, its spines carved directly from the body, with apple seeds for eyes. "This one's cute!" I say, turning it in my hands. "Oh yeah," Lorne replies. "That one. A patron of mine made it for me a couple of years ago." "They were very good at their job. Woodcarver?" "Of a sort. His own wood was cut too short, though." I nod and catch their eye. "An acorn instead of a spruce tree?" Their nose scrunches and, bewildered, they give me a strange look. "What?" "Nevermind." I chuckle. "That was a bit much – even for me." Lorne arches an eyebrow at me and crosses their arms. "You think?" "Not all of us can be masters of humor," I reply. Laughter explodes from their open mouth, allowing the light to gleam off their teeth for half a heartbeat. The sudden, sharp sound is deep and rumbly, like they just spit out a thunderclap. It's comforting all the same. "You have a nice laugh," I say with a smile. "Are you just realizing this?" "No." With the shake of my head, I shift my hold on the hedgehog ornament so that I'm cradling it. "I just didn't realize how much I liked it until right now." Faint streaks of red flare against their umber cheeks and they hide their smile behind a thick strand of their dreadlocked hair. "You're too sweet to me sometimes." "Nah. Just honest." "Well... Even still." Soundless, even steps close the gap between us and they take my face in their hands, thumbs running over my cheekbones. Their smile alone is enough to stir the deepest parts of me to attention. From my head to my toes is waves and waves of heat, originating from the two points where Lorne's thumbs touch me. My eyes close and I press one cheek into their palm. Shivers crawl through my body. I plant my hands on their chest, against the soft material of their shirt. "Touch me more, Darling," Another swipe of their thumbs across my cheeks. God, I could melt into them here and now. "Not yet, Love," they reply. Their tone is stern, but in a gentle sort of way. "We still have work to do, remember?" I trail my hands down their front until I reach their hips. "I remember." Even still, my hands are itching to get under their shirt as I speak. Lorne takes my hands and stops me. "Quinn." More terse this time. "Good things come to those who wait." "But I don't want to wait..." Images fill my brain. Oh, the things I would let Lorne do to me. "I know. But we have a tree to decorate – don't we?" "Mmm... fuck the tree." Their hold tightens just a bit when I move to reach under their shirt. I gaze up at them with a pout. "I don't think you want to do that," they say. Their eyes are two blazing coals. "Or fuck a tree." Under their hold, my arms raise until they're above my head. My cock swells and wraps against my thigh, slimy and warm and pulsing. Want pools in the pit of my stomach. "But I'll gladly fuck you." The corner of their mouth twitches. "I know you would." Then they let me go. "But first, the tree. You promised." "Fine." I huff and turn back for the boxes. "But you owe me." As if sensing my disappointment, my cock trails its head along my skin and I give an involuntary gasp. It aches to be touched. Lorne's breath trails over the back of my neck for a heartbeat before their teeth press against my flesh. "I don't owe you anything – except a long afternoon." My eyes roll into my head and I press myself against them. But with a thick slap on my ass, they've stepped away again. Heat flares inside the back of my breeches. "Start with the hedgehog," they say. "We'll go from there." <><><><><> An hour later, the smell of wassail is thick as ever. Lorne's hands are on my hips, hoisting me in the air as I move to fasten the finishing touches on our Yule tree. I part the fronds and gaze at them from under my armpit. "Anything left?" They glance down for a moment before gazing back up at me through their thick strands of hair. "Nothing." Pine needles stab my fingers as I sift through the branches, moving ornaments as necessary. "Not even a star or something? For the top?" "Darling, we don't have any room left." "Says you." I pick up a spherical one, painted in a variety of clock cogs and numbers, and move it from its original spot to one a few branches up. It clinks against a ceramic seashell. "No. You don't understand. You can't even put a star on top because it won't stay." I float through the air, held up by my hips, and Lorne lowers me until I'm sitting square on their shoulders. The ceiling is only a foot or so above me. The tip of the tree is pointed in my direction. "Says you," I repeat. "I can make anything happen." "But you can't contest gravity." "I can – for a while." As I speak, I grasp the tip of the tree and pull it towards me. "Come on, darling." Under my coaxing, the top of the tree elongates until it's long enough to wrap around my palm and up my arm. Then, itching at my elbow, it stops. It scratches my skin as I edge my arm out of its grip, leaving streaks of fire in its wake. With my fingers as a guide, the tip lowers and forms a curve. "Check that shit out," I say, squeezing my thighs around Lorne's shoulders. "Now there's room for a star." Their fingers curl around my thighs and their warmth seeps into me. "I don't think it can hold the weight." "Of a star?" I resist the urge to throw my head back and sigh. "It's just some ceramic, right?" "Which, for a tree, is heavy." Now one hand moves up and down my thigh. "I think it's fine as it is." My cock stirs against my skin with minute ripples and I nibble my lip. As if they can sense this, their palm trails higher, higher... Then they have me by the hips and I'm floating through the air again. I duck my head to avoid hitting the ceiling. The seconds feel like an eternity, until finally my toes touch the floor. Lorne's hands don't leave my hips. "So I guess that's that, then," I say. We both step back to admire our work. The tree is ugly, haphazardly dressed with ornaments that don't match, but it's ours and it's festive. Even if it looks like a color-blind five-year old went after it. "Quinn, my love, this is the worst tree I've ever seen." They plant their chin on my shoulder, dreadlocks itching my cheek, and point at our monstrosity. "Look at that ornament, for example. Who puts a toy boat on a tree?" "Me. Because you had it," I reply. "And because you let me." "Just because it's there doesn't mean you should use it." "We are the worst decorators ever," I say with a chuckle. "We? Darling, please." Lorne pats my hips. "There's a reason you didn't do well in college." "Because of this ugly tree?" They pause to consider this. "Sure," they reply. "Cause of this ugly tree." A deep breath. "We really should've come up with a design scheme or something." "Who needs a design scheme when you have a closet full of ornaments?" "I mean..." They pause to kiss my neck. "I guess that's fair. We can clean it up some later." "I think it's just fine now." Lorne raises their head. "Is that right?" "Yeah." "So then, we're done?" I nod. "I'd say so." Lorne's hold my hips tightens and I'm yanked backward into them. It happens so fast, I'm too shocked to even respond until several moments later, I gasp out, "Lorne?" They move one hand up my side with incredible slowness, first to my ribs, then under one breast. By the time they have my nipple between their fingers, my back is arched against them and I moan into the air. "Lorne..." Jolts of pleasure flash through me. They give my nipple an experimental tug before pulling at the hem of my shirt. Their lips press to my neck again. My cock strains in my breeches, the leather pinning it in place. Even still, the pressure isn't as painful as it is irritating. "A-Are you gonna to-touch me now?" I spit out between quiet whimpers. The air is cold, but Lorne's hands against my bare skin burns something fierce. Their voice vibrates against my back as they chuckle. "Would you like me to?" "Gods yes." I grab them and move their hand down my front, over the laces of my breeches, voice thick with want. My cock, sensing the pressure, presses against their palm. "Someone is impatient," Lorne whispers, cupping me. The slight touch is enough to make every hair on my body stand on end. "I've been patient," I reply, my words coming out in bursts. Their hand drags across my front at a torturous pace. "I-I wait-t-ted." Minute mewls escape my lips. "I was g-g-gods was I good." Lorne's hand stops, their heat flowing into me as it rests against my cock. "You misbehaved earlier, though, right?" The muscles in my stomach clench as I push my cock into their palm. "B-but I can b-b-behave! I have been!" A hiss escapes me. "P-promise!" "I never did properly scold you..." They grasp my cock, just enough to stop my grinding but not enough to hurt. "How can I be sure you won't do it again?" "I won't!" I say. My hand spasms around their thighs just as they grab my hair and pull my head back. My breath catches in the back of my throat. A moan slips past my lips and fills the air. Tension balloons around us, too thick to cut. "Oh, Darling..." My legs twitch as they circle my cock with a finger. "What should I do with you?" Pressure builds in the pit of my stomach, strong enough to make me weak in the knees. I'm already close to fraying. Another jerk of my hair. Dreadlocked tendrils tickle my nose and lips, and my head is tipped back enough that I can just see the storm in their eyes over their wide nose. "Any ideas, Darling?" they ask. They stop touching my cock, instead toying with the laces of my breeches. A hard swallow. "Anything you want." Heat fills the space between my legs, accompanied by a persistent throbbing. The moment my words leave my lips, Lorne releases me, and I have a half-second to straighten and breath before they scoop me up in their arms. The tree – the cursed, sinfully ugly tree - dances in my peripheral as we move from the living room and down the hall. In their arms, thick as trunks, I feel small as an infant. Excitement shoots through me. "What are you going to do to me?" I dare to ask. They don't respond, but the corner of their mouth twitches. With a single light kick, the door to our bedroom swings open. We're by the bed in three large strides. Against my ear, Lorne's heart beats at an erratic pace. I'm free-falling before I realize they've let me go and a moment later, my body bounces on the mattress. When I've stilled, Lorne is standing over me. Fire dances in their eyes. They gaze at me, splayed out on the center of the bed, and cock their head. "Roll over onto your stomach," they say. Their voice is enough to turn my bones to liquid, but I somehow manage to comply. My stomach whirls with anticipation. I kick myself up and flip myself over. "Palms against the mattress, on either side of your head." Gods, I could listen to them talk all day... "Face against the mattress – whatever is comfortable to you. Remember our word?" "Olives," I reply through a face full of fabric. My head is turned in their direction, but I can only vaguely see them through my hair. "Good. I'm going to undress you now. Don't move." With that, Lorne's calloused hands are at my breeches, sliding under my body to fumble at the laces. Several times, their fingers dance around the edges of my cock and I'm certain they're going to grab me, but then they stray away again. After a time, they must finish, because they move to the hem and yank my breeches down my legs. Cold air washes all over my naked backside. My cock shrinks against the chill and I whine into the mattress. Nothing happens for many heartbeats and I contemplate disobeying them and looking up, but a distinctive scraping sound stills this thought in its track. Metal clanks together and my mind – and my cock – swell with renewed vigor. Is it...? My thought is confirmed when Lorne returns to me, sliding my breeches the rest of the way off my legs. Their hand cups my calf, their touch raising the hair on my arms. Ice-cold metal wraps around my ankle. Then they're stretching my leg out until it damn near hangs off the edge of the bed. Elsewhere, I hear something locking. "It's been a while since you used these," I say in as sultry of a voice as I can muster. It ends up coming out in a an airy mewl. Instead of replying, Lorne locks a cuff around my other ankle and spreads my leg out. Impatient, I rub my front against the mattress, moaning as my cock rubs against the fabric. A hard slap against my ass stops me and I yelp, half surprised and pained and half aroused. "I told you not to move." "I'm sorry!" Another smack. My back arches and I fight to keep my hands where they are. "Sorry what?" "Master! I'm sorry, Master!" Lorne rubs the inside of my thigh. "Good, Darling." Their voice is hot enough to melt my insides. When they leave, the heat of their palm stays for just a moment. My ass stings where they've smacked it. Another scrape. Something supple ghosts across the back of my calf, going from my ankle all the way to my knee before stopping and pressing to my flesh. My stomach flutters. "I told you earlier that being a brat would have consequences, didn't I?" they ask. Unable to nod, I bark out a quick, "Yes, Master!" in response. The object begins to move again, going up the inside of my thigh and bumping against my cock. It comes to a stop against my already-burning ass cheek. "I can't let you get away with that." The object taps my skin before they continue. "So I'm going to spank you, five times on each cheek, and I want you to keep count for me." They pause to consider. "If you lose count, or refuse to count, or lift those pretty little hands off the mattress, you'll get more. Understand?" I whine again, hands scrabbling to find purchase on the dense fabric. "Yes, Master," I finally say. "You remember our word?" "Olives," I reply without missing a beat. "Good." Then something whistles through the air and hits me over where Lorne has already spanked me. I cry out, legs twitching, and let out a whimpered, "One." Another whistle. The next blow hits me on the other side of my ass with a resounding slap. "Two." "Three." Back to the first side. "Four." Over to the next. If I could see myself right now, my ass would probably look like a lobster. "Five." This one brings tears to my eyes, but I force myself to spit out the number. My hands remain glued to the mattress. "Six." Now I'm silently vowing in my head to always behave from here on out. "Seven!" My voice is strained as pain and pleasure twist in my gut. "Eight!" "Nine!" The tears are definitely there, but I bite them back. I can take this. "Ten!" After the last blow, I lay there, tensed for another, but it doesn't come. My body trembles, wracked with chills and pain and desire. My tears moisten the mattress. Then Lorne is dropping to their knees beside me. A gentle hand slides over my clothed back, right under the fabric, and they rub circles into my shoulderblades with their thumb. "You did very good," they purr, and despite my stinging behind I feel a twinge of pride. "Have you learned your lesson?" I start to nod, then reconsider. "Yes, Master." "Good." Their knees pop when they rise again. One cuff falls from my ankles. Lorne nudges me from my splayed position to scoot in next to me. "You can move now." When they're finally settled in bed, I press myself against their side, still shivering, and curl their arm around my shoulders. Their heart pounds out a steady rhythm against my ear, much slower than my own galloping pace. "Are you okay, Darling?" Their hand moves from my shoulder down my arm and back up again. "I didn't hurt you too badly?" "No. I'm fine," I reply, stretching out against them. Our legs tangle together on the edge of the bed. Despite my stinging behind, I feel calm in their hold. "Are you just saying that so I don't feel bad?" "No." I press my lips to their ribs, though their shirt is in the way. "It hurt, but just enough. That's why I trust you." Their hand stops. Warmth pulses into my shoulder under their touch. Then it's gone. "Now that that's over..." The mattress dips as they shift their weight. Before I can ask what they're doing, Lorne is on top of me, eyes gleaming with an emotion I can't read. My heart slams to a stop in my throat for just a moment before starting again. They cup my cheek in their palm. "Would you like to have some fun, Darling?" I swipe my tongue over my lips. "Yes, please." A firm hold on my hair, Lorne leans in until our noses are almost touching. "Yes what?" "Yes, Master."