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“Speaking of which,” Ray whips around to face him, “you said you’d stay with me last night.”
“I…uh…”
Tapping her foot impatiently, she squints her eyes in wait for his answer.
“I wanted to get the lights all untangled for today so we could use ‘em.”
“Hm.”
Ray scrunches her nose in thought.
“I guess that’s an acceptable reason to leave me all alone in the cold.”
“I’m sorry, Cups. I just wanted to be helpful.”
“I’ll forgive you on one condition.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“You help me put ornaments on the top of this tree.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Hunching over so that Ray can climb onto his shoulders, Chatterbox hands her the mix-matched ornaments: both new and old. Glass and metal. Wood and clay. Sparkly and rusted. Each ornament finds its place on the jam-packed tree. Ray refuses to leave a single ornament out, even if it’s broken or bent. That’s her magic. It’s always been her magic. Pure acceptance and unwillingness to leave any clown out, it’s what made him feel like maybe, just maybe, he could lead the clowns this time. It couldn’t be further from the truth though.
The tree starts to groan under the weight of the ornaments, its branches dropping low and dangerously as it tilts, close to snapping. Chatterbox shifts to keep Ray balanced with her legs still wrapped snuggly around his shoulders as she reaches for a particularly precarious spot near the top, either unknowing or uncaring of the fragility of the tree.
“Got it!” she chirps from her perch.
He looks warily at the tree, unwilling to stop her happiness as she leans forward and her hand brushes against the highest branch with a glittering star ornament.
When she leans back, she snags her sleeve on a reaching branch. Caught off guard, she pulls her arm away, underestimating the force of the movement, and it is as if the world falls into slow motion. Chatterbox attempts to steady her by taking a step back, but instead, his foot catches on the side of a misplaced box. And suddenly, the world tilts backwards.
“Uh-oh!”
Ray squeaks, her legs tightening instinctively around his neck like a vice as they wobble.
“I—” Chatterbox speaks as he tries to gain purchase.
“I got—” he yelps “—I don’t got it”
He gives up trying to steady them with his arms and instead bravely turns to take the brunt of the fall.
The couple topple in a slow, inevitable chaos; he flails to shield Ray even as they crash backwards into the sea of boxes behind them. Ray lands unscathed but still firmly latched onto his head, a surprised burst of laughter tickling out like the jingle of a thousand sleigh bells.
“Are you okay, Chatty?” Ray gasps between giggles.
She tries to pry herself free as her hands flopped helplessly against his chest and straightened her back. Chatterbox groaned, flat on his back with pine needles stabbing him in the arm and a very amused girlfriend on top of him like a gargoyle.
“Y-Yepppp, I’m oh-kay!” he assures her, his tone betraying his words.
Her laughter softens as she finally wiggles free of her perch on his shoulders, trying to detangle herself with little grace, but her position leaves little room for it as her thighs press against his stubbled cheeks.
“Er— R-Ray,” his voice is muffled between the soft, fleshy limbs.
She feels him flush before she sees the rosy tint form across his ears, his hands instinctively grip her hips to steady her movements.
“Could ya stop, ya know, moving about?” his pains are forgotten in the face of one of his favourite places to be.
She freezes, realisation dawning on her as she glances down at him. Her cheeks flushing into a deep crimson, though her eyes gleam mischievously and her lips curl seductively.
“Oh… why should I stop doing that?” she teases.
Her tone drips with playful innocence as she continues to shift her weight, her movements not entirely necessary — or innocent.
Her hands move to rake through his hair, nails gently raking across his scalp as her eyes become hooded. He groans at the sensation, his grip tightens further and he grits his teeth together as he tries to keep his thoughts from spiralling. They had things to do, there was no time for boyyuck. We should get up and—
“Ray, we should—”
“Hmm?” she interrupts, “we should what?” She leans forward just enough to hover over his chin.
He closes his amber eyes, “We should—”
She interrupts him again.“I have one more condition.”
Her grin sharpens, her eyes predatory as she bites her bottom lip. His breath hitches and his eyes snap open as he waits in anticipation, half-heartedly praying that should would get off of him so his mind would charter to safer territories.
“C-condition?” he croaks, darkened eyes watching her.
Her grin shifts into a smirk, fingers massaging his scalp, “Mmhm,” she hums.
“I could’ve gotten hurt. So that means you have to do something for me.”
“I— uh…” he’s unable to speak, the warmth radiation off making it nearly impossible to form a coherent thought besides ripping aside her—
“W-what’s the condition?”
“Just a teeeeeeeny tiny condition…” she murmurs, shifting her hips closer to his face
He swallows in anticipation. “Anything,” he blurts without hesitation.
She tilts her head, her hand moving to cup his face, the thumb brushing against his chapped lips.
“Anything? That’s a lotta things, Chatty, who knows what I wanna make you do.”
He waits impatiently, chocolate-dipped eyes begging her for a taste of the sweet scent radiating from between her legs, savouring the scent as he inhales, mouth watering as he waits and waits, unable to do anything more than try to pull her closer with his hands on her thighs, urging her to kneel above his face.
He licks his lips, the motion slow, almost unconscious — like he’s trying to ground himself in something real. His fingers twitch where they rest against her thighs, a restless, barely-contained urge humming under his skin. The cold in the room should’ve been biting, sharp enough to sting through fabric and bone — but not here, not like this. Not with her warmth pressed so close, bleeding into him, muddying every sensible thought. He wonders how she could wear a skirt in winter when it was freezing cold.
Thankfully, she reads him — always has. Or at least, she catches the direction his thoughts have slipped.
“Careful…” she murders, voice low and syrupy, her fingers latched into his hair, “You’re startin’ to look a little desperate….”
His head dips forward instinctively, like he can hide from her somehow, like she isn’t already completely aware of what she’s doing to him. His breath falters when he gets too close, and the accidental brush of contact pulls a quiet hitch from her lungs.
“I—” he swallows hard, grip tightening instinctively where his hands still rest on her thighs. “I ain’t—”
“Oh?”
She tilts her head, feigning innocence, though her eyes glitter, giving her away.
“Then why’re you holdin’ on so tight, Chatty?”
He doesn’t answer. Can’t. Not when she shifts again — definitely deliberate this time — and the shift sends a sharp breath tearing out of him before he can stop it. His jaw clenches, eyes squeezing shut for half a second like that might steady him as she firmly plants her crotch against his face.
He can’t help but inhale deeply like a man starved, Eyes closed to somehow savour the scent more, to imprint it into his nostrils. He could already feel her impatience.
“Mm,” she hums, fingers slipping back into his hair, slower now, more deliberate.
“Thought so.”
“Ray…” Her name comes out rough, frayed at the edges — half warning, half plea.
“What?” she whispers, leaning down until the space between them feels nonexistent, her voice brushing against his skin. “You said anything.”
His eyes flicker between hers, searching for mercy and finding none.
“You’re playin’ dirty,” he mutters, to which she replied with a pleased hum.
The sound alone is enough to send something tight coiling deeper in his chest.
“You’re such a brat,” he adds, low and breathless, more accusation than insult.
“Who are you calling a—”
He moves before she can finish. His tongue darts out and licks up the centre of her underwear, savouring the taste of the damp fabric as he dives in. Her breath catches, sharp and surprised, and her grip in his locks tightens in reflex, the rhythm of his tongue sliding up her centre unrelenting
“Ohhhh…”
The tree behind them dips another inch, branches trembling under the weight of too many ornaments. A glass bauble swings lazily, tapping against another with a faint, delicate clink. Needles fall in soft, dry whispers to the floor.
Neither of them notices as Chatterbox feasts on her, his hand releasing her thigh to wrench away the sliver of fabric from her so he can make contact with her centre.
She moans above him as she tries to pull his face even further into her, suffocating him under her skirt as he devours her completely, his lips everywhere at one before settling on her clint to make tight swirls around it. His fingers running up and down her lips to edge her on.
Her hips buckle under him, unable to control her body as it shakes violently when he hits all of the right spots with practised ease. His shuddering breaths only stimulate her further, and she remains on the brink for as long as he desires.
Moans and pleas fracture out of her as Ray asks for release, the couple missing the sound of the tree dipping down another inch, branches bowing under the impossible weight of their memories. Glass baubles swing, tapping faintly against another. Once. Twice. A fragile warning.
Needles rain softly to the floor, yet neither of them notices, one deaf to the work with his ears bracketed by soft thighs, the other consumed with pleasure. Her breath stutters, her composure unravelling as her head tips back, her balance shifting with it. grip faltering, then tightens again, pulling him closer without thinking, caught between instinct and the overwhelming rush building faster than she can contain.
“Ch—Chatty—”
His name breaks apart in her mouth, uneven, pulled thin by the force of it.
The room seems to close in, heat blooming where there should only be winter chill. Her laughter, her teasing, her sharp edges—all of it melts into something rawer, something that leaves her breathless and unguarded in a way she rarely allows.
The tree finally gives a long, splintering creak.
A sharp inhale, a strangled sound, her grip tightening so suddenly it almost hurts—
CRASH
The tree gives out. It rips through the moment like thunder, collapsing in a sudden, chaotic cascade — branches snapping downward, ornaments shattering or bouncing wildly across the floor, lights jerking loose in a scatter of flickering gold.
She jolts violently with it, the force of both sensations colliding at once, leaving her disoriented — half-crying, half-gasping, breath coming in uneven bursts as the world rushes back in around her.
For a few seconds, there’s nothing but noise — the roll of ornaments, the settling of branches, the faint hum of tangled lights.
With her eyes closed and the ringing in her ears, it takes her a minute before she finally realises, as her legs relax, releasing Chatterbox from their grip, then she does the same to his hair, stroking his head gently as she comes down from her high. Panting as she stares at the stars in the ceiling.
She slowly lowers her head, blinking, trying to reorient herself as strands of hair cling to her flushed face. Her chest rises and falls quickly, her usual composure nowhere to be found.
“Did—did the tree just—?”
Laughter filled with disbelief rips out of her, her voice shaky as she takes in the mess around them. The scattered ornaments, branches bent at odd angles, the entire tree lying defeated across the floor like it had given up mid-protest.
She presses a hand to her face, laughing under her breath, trying — and failing — to regain any sense of dignity.
“…we broke it,” she manages between breaths.
Chatterbox finally extracts himself from under the skirt to observe the mess. Glancing over it quickly.
“It’s your fault, Chatty.”
“Uh-huh, sure, Cups… and this is your fault—” he drags her hand away from her face to press it against the pulsing length pressing against his trousers.
She gulps as she takes in his hungry, burnt walnut eyes. He pushes her hand firmly against his hardness before pulling it away, only to stand and scoop her up like a rag doll.
“Chatty, the—”
“Later.”
“But—”
“No.”