Chapter 6

Saint Nick Steel and a Holiday Wish List, Back at Home

"No," Jason attempted. He had a strand of twinkly soft gold lights looped around one arm, because those were meant to go along with the pine branches over the windows. Candles glimmered in cinnamon and golden topaz and spiced marshmallow light.

Their entire place shimmered with, tasted of, sang with Christmas cheer: he and Colby and the house had all decided it was time to start decorating, especially given a few weeks off. They'd have to be back in London in January, for Colby to start rehearsals for a young and updated stage show Macbeth and for both of them to work on voice roles for the animated princes-falling-in-love-while-in-disguise adventure. They'd baked gingerbread that morning.

California wasn't really good at seasonal weather—no snow, no rain—but the afternoon was overcast, a gauzy mystical pearl of a day. Jason, who knew how much Colby loved thunderstorms, hoped this was at least good enough: enchanted and iridescent.

And, apparently, haunting him with his own action-movie sins. In full color.

He tried again, over the relentlessly jolly music now emanating from their television, "Absolutely not. Please. No." He knew that music. And the opening shot that went with it. Santa's sleigh. Accidentally in the middle of a mobster-and-hitman gunfight. On Christmas Eve. "Colby, please."

"But it's a holiday classic." His husband, sitting up on the rug amid a tumble of creamy envelopes and crimson ink and flowing addresses in elegant holiday calligraphy, set down the remote. And did not look at all guilty. "And I honestly adore it."

"You don't."

"I do so."

"Babe, no one adores Saint Nick Steel."

"Then why do they show it on television every year at the holidays?"

"Colby," Jason begged. "It's got me wearing a magic Santa hat. Infused with the spirit of Christmas. And also vengeance. Or something. Please."

"But you're also protecting children! It's a fairytale! You learn about kindness and rescuing children from the evil assassins, and then you get to become the next—"

On the television screen, in the terrible B-or-worse-movie action fantasy that Jason's husband somehow genuinely enjoyed, Jason's mob hitman caught a falling Santa cap as Santa's sleigh fell out of the sky. The cap sparkled in his hands. He muttered, "Merry fucking Christmas," and looked up at the stars, and then seemed to feel uneasy, suddenly: a pang of conscience, perhaps.

Jason, fifteen years later, grumbled, "You realize this movie made basically everyone's top ten worst list, that year. And the next. And, like, every year."

"It's a cult classic!"

"I'd hate to be part of that cult…" He eyed Colby and the plaintive kitten expression aimed his way. He sighed. The lights on his arm twinkled merrily. "You actually do like it."

Colby's eyes got even bigger, mock-wounded. "Jason. Love. I told you I did." But he was trying not to grin.

"What did I do," Jason asked the lights, "to deserve this?" But he ended up grinning too. He meant the question: what had he done, how had he deserved, to be this happy? To have this life, this incredible fairytale life, with his genius husband and their library of steampunk romance fantasy novels and their shared film career?

Colby told him he'd been kind. And a talented actor, exactly right in their first-ever screen test. Jason believed that, these days. He knew he was decently good at his job, and he knew he was pretty good at loving Colby, which after all was exactly what he'd always wanted to do, ever since that first meeting. What he was made for. Big hands, strength, support, and a magic Santa hat.

He looked at Colby. Colby said, pen in one hand, "I'm almost done here, one more, do you want the leftover chicken Florentine for lunch, or do you want to just make sandwiches, or we could do something with the gingerbread?"

"What would we make with gingerbread for lunch? No," he added hastily, "don't answer that." Colby would certainly come up with something. It'd probably even be good, because Colby was a fantastic cook. But Jason's brain and stomach weren't quite prepared for gingerbread and chicken and tomato sauce in combination. "I'm fine with leftover chicken. Finish that last one first, and I'll put these up."

"Love you," Colby said, and picked up the last envelope. Jason forgot about the string of lights, and just watched him.

Graceful hands. Swooping classical script. The line of that forearm, lavender shirtsleeve shoved up. The tumble of Colby's hair, chocolate-dark and wavy and long enough to curl over his ears, into one eyebrow, against his cheek. Intent focus, making sure he'd got the address right for one of Jason's aunts.

Jason put down the lights. Found the small brass-and-iron-gears dragon that lived on their fireplace mantel, a Renaissance Faire purchase which now wore a Santa hat. Nodded at it, got permission, and took the Santa hat. Put it on.

And then he came over to Colby's spot on the rug. Standing over his husband.

Colby put down the pen and the final finished envelope. Looked up. Began to smile, glorious, delighted.

"Hey," Jason said. "Have you been naughty, or nice, this year?"

Colby started laughing. His eyes were absolutely thrilled. He'd been wearing comfortable soft around-the-house pants, indigo with a pattern of dancing cupcakes, and the pattern did nothing to hide his arousal, as he leaned back and gazed up at Jason. In the background, on the television screen, former hit man Nick Steel took cover in a shopping mall, and looked at small frightened children, and chose to protect them. Wearing the hat.

"I mean," Jason said, "I'm here to, y'know, punish the bad guys and reward the good. Or something. I'm Nicholas Steel. Saint Nick."

"Oh yes," Colby said. "Oh, yes, you are. Hmm. I don't think I've been terribly naughty, but…I did forget to do the laundry, last week. When I said I would. And perhaps I've done some slightly naughty other things as well. Working on this screenplay, this week, but I keep starting this sex scene and then becoming distracted, thinking about Regency-era dildos, and then I have to find my husband and indulge myself, because I just can't wait, you see, I really am being naughty…"

Jason, having been the beneficiary of Colby's thoughts about historical dildos and sex scenes and impatience, agreed cheerfully, "Got it. Okay, not too bad, but I think maybe I get to punish you a little, and then, if you're good, you get a reward."

"Oh, I like that."

"Thought you would."

"I suspect that's more Krampus than Saint Nicholas, with the birch switches and such, but yes, by all means." Colby got up on both knees, which meant he was kneeling at Jason's feet, and put his hands behind his back, mock-penitent. "Yes, Nick, please. Decide what I deserve. I'll be good."

Jason's entire body wanted to turn into glitter. Snowflakes. Billowing and overjoyed. Colby and random knowledge of seasonal folklore. Colby kneeling in front of him, at his feet. His jeans were too tight, abruptly.

"You'll be good for me. Whatever I decide to give you. You always are." He put a hand on Colby's head, stroked fingers through dark waves. "Merry fucking Christmas, babe." He did not have a prop gun to wave around at evil assassins, but that was all right; Colby was still smiling like holiday mornings, though his eyes got all soft and warm and pleased at Jason's hand on his head.

"Okay," Jason told him. "Saint Nick wants you to do three things. First, get naked. Then go find whichever paddle you want. While you're naked." They owned three, one black leather, one newer sleek wood, and one outright antique, Victorian, polished, with an ornate handle. They mutually hadn't been able to resist buying that one. "Whatever you feel like."

Colby's eyes got wider. "Oh."

"Checking," Jason said, "you good with that? Color? Not in the cherries territory?" That was Colby's safeword, the way Jason's was crocodile; they both knew, but he'd wanted to say it aloud, a reminder. "Or were you thinking something else?"

"I hadn't had anything specific in mind, and I like the direction you're going with this, thank you." Colby's eyes danced. "Not too hard, please, but I enjoy you making me feel it, you know I do. I love knowing I'm yours. That was only two orders, sir. Nick."

"I know. Third, turn off the damn movie."

Colby completely began laughing, aloud and unconcealed, this time. On his knees, with Jason's hand in his hair. His soft pants were stretched, tented, at the front: absolute rock-hard desire. "Yes, sir. Santa."

"Okay, no, that part's weird. But I'll keep the hat on for you."

"Agreed, and agreed." When Jason lifted his hand from Colby's head, Colby pulled off his shirt in one sinuous motion, a swoop of lavender, a glimmer of skin. The freckle at his collarbone sparkled too, a decoration.

Jason licked his lips, involuntarily.

Colby blew him a kiss, getting up, and then wriggled out of the loose pants and tossed them at a chair. He had not been wearing underwear, which Jason had known—not like they hadn't had sex that morning, after all—but right now the sight hit hard and powerfully. Squarely under Jason's breastbone.

Colby's long legs and swimmer's body, muscle and slim waist and gorgeous cock and the other stray freckle at the crease of his hip, right where Jason always wanted to lick. Colby naked, here in their living room, bare and revealed and unafraid and happy about it.

Jason loved him, ached for him, wanted him so badly the want felt like fire, crackling, everywhere. Incandescent, and full of awe.

Colby said, quietly, "I love you, Jason," watching him, which was exactly what Jason's too-full heart needed to hear.

He breathed out. Whispered back, "Love you, cream puff," which made Colby giggle, and then the television erupted in gunfire, and Colby said, "Oh, drat, sorry—!" and dove for the remote. "Sorry, sorry, does that count as more naughtiness? Not following orders…"

"Maybe. You warm enough?"

"Perfect. I'm going, I'm being good, I'm listening." Colby scampered off toward the bedroom. Jason admired his thighs, his back, his ass: everything adorable. Tantalizing. Beckoning. His to play with.

He went over and sat down on the couch, comfortable, at least as much so as he could be given the massive arousal happening in his jeans. The Santa hat was warm and fuzzy on his head, and the house smelled like ginger and spices, and Colby's beautifully hand-addressed envelopes lay across the rug in a swirl of friendly stationery.

He also found lube, in the drawer of the side table. They'd learned to just keep some on hand everywhere, though of course he cleaned up when guests came over. But like this, just him and Colby…

Who ran back, impressively fast, and beautiful. His hair got into his eyes, his nipples were tight and pink, and his cock was long and hard and poking up, and he came right over and knelt between Jason's spread legs. And held out the paddle.

Jason took it. "This one, huh?" The Victorian one was also the hardest, and the most expensive. The wood of it murmured like honey to his touch.

Colby shrugged a shoulder, one hand curling around Jason's ankle. Jason liked that; he'd never wanted Colby to be super-formal, or anything other than exactly what those blue eyes chose for them both. "It felt right, I think? The history, the carved handle…oh, I don't know. Like decorations. Holidays. Carols."

"Yep. Come up here. On Saint Nick's lap."

"Oh, my."

"I can listen to your holiday wish list and keep you safe. Professional hit man skills and all."

Colby hopped up, perched on Jason's left knee, leaned in and put both arms around Jason's neck, and said, "I would like the next Werewolves and Waistcoats novel, please, and an entire Parmesan wheel to play with for cooking pasta, and that vibrating cock ring you were looking at for me, and also your very large cock inside me, very soon, filling me up. Please."

Jason exhaled a laugh, put polished wood down for a second, kept one arm around his husband's waist, and found Colby's pretty dick with the other hand. Teasing, playing, fondling. Nice hot length, not as thick as Jason's but still impressive, and very excitable: already wet at the tip. He played with that, drawing out more desire, rubbing at the slit.

Colby made a little needy sound and squirmed in his lap. Jason kissed his eyebrow. "What a nice wish list. Also, already pre-ordered that book. And your cock ring. We can do some cheese shopping later." Colby did enjoy some denial—being made to wait, being good, coming when permitted—and Jason always enjoyed making Colby feel good, so. New toys, ordered.

"I love you very much," Colby informed him, and one talented hand slid under Jason's shirt: tugging up dark green cotton, finding Jason's stomach, exploring muscles, appreciating. "Does anyone ever give Saint Nicholas presents, in turn? Perhaps I could offer."

"Oh, you already are. Exactly what I want." He tightened his hand around Colby's cock, enough for Colby's breath to skip happily. "I like giving you what you deserve. And you're being very good right now."

"Well. Maybe a bit naughty."

"Don't worry, Saint Nick Steel doesn't forget things. Vengeance or gifts for good boys." He caught Colby's gaze first, checking, while Colby was laughing at that one; and then, given permission, flipped his husband over across his lap, face-down, gently manhandled, put right where Jason wanted him.

"Good heavens," Colby said, cheek resting against sofa-cushions and the holiday-plaid blanket. He sounded breathless, and delighted, and exactly like himself: the person who didn't swear much and who tried hard to be polite but who loved being claimed by strength, taken and swept up and thoroughly possessed, undeniably wanted.

Jason loved him so damn much. So he ran a hand along Colby's back, tracing the arrow of his spine, slim muscle, the curve of Colby's backside. On display in a few romantic comedies, that famous movie-star ass; most of Colby's early roles had been rom-coms or decadent jewel-drenched historical period pieces, or combinations of both. Kings, young knights, courtiers. Shakespearean adaptations, sometimes in modern settings. Colby in real life liked fuzzy cardigans with rainbow buttons, and romance novels about werewolves, and thunderstorms, and interesting cheese.

Jason let his hand, large and heavy, rest over one luscious curve: letting his husband feel the weight of it. "Were you asking me for something?"

"Yes, please." Colby tucked one hand under his cheek, gazing up at Jason. No restraints, not for this. They'd had that discussion a time or two, too. In other contexts, with soft scarves or ropes, able to wriggle free if necessary, Colby was very much in favor—he liked belonging to Jason—but not in combination with scoldings, he'd said, even playful ones. Jason had listened, nodded, mentally added that to his ongoing list, which he loved keeping track of, and kissed his husband thoroughly. And found a particular freckle to nibble.

Colby batted those romance-hero eyelashes at him, flirtatious. "I've been…mostly good, this year. I promise. Only a little in need of chastisement from very impressively muscled winter incarnations."

Jason snorted. "Let's say ten, for that. You can count." Colby had said not too hard, and it wasn't about that anyway, for them; it was about the roles, the dynamic, the play of this. He wouldn't let Colby get hurt. Not now, not ever. His to care for.

He'd make sure Colby felt it, though. They both liked that. The evidence of that enjoyment was pressing rigid and dripping into Jason's thigh, because Colby did get deliciously eager when excited.

"Ten," Colby answered, agreement. "Yes, sir." His hips shifted, asking.

Jason picked up the paddle. Brushed it lightly against Colby's backside, letting him comprehend it. Enjoyed the sight, for a moment: anticipation, bare skin, honeyed wood, poised together.

He'd always had good control over his muscles, his body, given martial arts and wrestling and former stuntman action-hero training. He didn't make this one too sharp; he was being careful.

The sound echoed anyway. Reverberations all through his heart. In Colby's gasp, in the new rosy mark blooming across fair curves.

Colby breathed, "One." He'd shut his eyes at the impact; he opened them again, blue and enormous.

Jason touched his cheek, brushed clinging hair out of his face. "You still good? I won't ask you every time, I promise, just this one."

"Still good." Colby's voice was soft, layers of stories and accents tangling. "You could make it a bit harder if you want, but only a bit, I think. I'll stop you if I need to."

"Nah," Jason said. "About harder. It'll build up. But yeah, stop me if you want. Otherwise…" He found the paddle again, tapped it—no force—over the fading pink he'd just left. It wasn't really much. "Saint Nick gets to punish you a little for being naughty. Like you said. And then reward you for being nice."

"What was the line from your movie, when you've just disposed of those five evil assassin henchmen, about how you'd better be good, because Santa Claus is coming to—"

Jason aimed. Accurately. This impact landed on the other side, mirrored pink over both curves. Colby yelped, and his fingers dug into the blanket. "Ow. Sorry. Two."

"You're not sorry, and you wanted that. Twelve, and don't apologize. But no more than that."

Colby laughed. "I did, thank you. I love you. Oops, drat, out of character. Well, not terribly so; I can love Saint Nick."

"And Nick Steel loves you," Jason told him. "Be good, and we'll get to the last thing on your wish list. Filling you up, like you wanted." The grip of the paddle fit his hand as if made for exactly this. The clouds gathered themselves up, outside; the air tasted like gingerbread and like oncoming rain. And Colby's body was warm and lax and willing, spread out across his lap.

Three. And four. Still alternating sides, still being careful. Colby moaned and squirmed atop him, which made Jason's dick throb with want and nearness, the sight, the sound, the heat. Colby's desire was leaving wetness smeared across Jason's thigh, soaking into the denim.

More. In rapid succession. Building. Pink over pink, deepening. Colby kept counting, but by eight his voice sounded less focused, more dazed, falling into the sensation. Jason paused to stroke his backside, to feel burning tender skin, to take that into his own palm and fingers. Colby whimpered, and his hips jerked.

"So good," Jason told him, "such a good boy, almost done, and you're doing so well, you just needed this, didn't you? You don't want to be naughty, not really, you just want someone to know what you need. To take care of you. To protect you. I can do that."

"Oh…" Colby shivered, sighed, softened against him: melting, heated through, malleable. "Oh, yes, that…"

"Not talking much?"

"Everything's pink…very weightless…and hot…oh, like cinnamon…mulled wine, perhaps…spices, and ginger, and floating…"

"Okay, you sound like you." Mostly. Colby in subspace tended to talk—to talk a lot, in fact: unguarded, rambling, opened up. On rare occasions, though, that went the other direction: drowsy, languid, blissful, so far under that he might be thinking or feeling something but forgot to say the words out loud. This was likely going to be one of those, so Jason would have to do some coaxing.

He rested the paddle on Colby's back, a table. Colby's lips parted, soundless. His face was still turned toward Jason; his eyes were big and sweet and hazy, holding rapture like mists over the ocean, deep and peaceful.

Jason said, "Anything hurting?"

Colby blinked at him. This seemed to take some effort. "No. I'm lovely. You're lovely. I like you doing that, I think. Setting that…on me…I'm being useful. It feels good. Thank you, sir."

"Hmm. Good to know, babe, thanks for that one." One more interesting addition to the list. He filed that for future exploration. Colby sounded happy but sliding pretty far into subspace, though, and Jason wanted him awake for their last request on the wish list, so: "Four more, that's all, okay, and then we're done."

"I like cinnamon. And oranges. Like orange liqueur…"

"Can you look at me? Just for a sec."

Colby nodded, and tried to focus. Jason touched his lips, traced the corner of his mouth. "I love it when you talk. Love your voice. And the oranges. Let me know if that turns into cherries, okay?"

Colby nuzzled at Jason's fingertip, mouthing at him, uncoordinated. Nodded again.

"Good," Jason reassured him, and got back to it.

Nine, and ten, though he made those lighter. He wasn't worried as such, but he was adjusting. Colby's skin picked up color fast, and certain spots glowed more red than pink. And Colby was making lots of gratifying inarticulate blissful sounds, but wasn't in good shape to judge later soreness versus present pleasure, at the moment.

Colby made a slightly different sound at the tenth. Hs fingers curled into the blanket, clinging. His eyelashes were damp. "Ten…"

"You're so good." Jason petted him some more, soothing. For them both: anchors, and commitment, and cherishing. He could give Colby this, this pure ecstasy, this fantasy. He could take care of Colby, like this, and then after.

Absolute rightness sizzled along his veins, and leapt into desire. Him and Colby, like this. Colby naked and surrendered and draped across his lap, choosing him, choosing to be his. Hell yes. "Two more, baby, and that's it. That's everything. So good, taking this…so sweet, for me. And we'll give you your present after."

Colby murmured something, into the blanket-folds.

"What was that?"

"Oh…did I say words…"

"Yep. Talk to me."

"I like being yours," Colby explained dreamily. "I was thinking about presents. Stockings. Being stuffed. Very nice."

"God," Jason said, wholeheartedly, "I love you," and ran a hand over him, all over him: marveling in the feel of Colby, the shape of him, the joy. "You want me to let you come, baby?"

"Not yet…I want to with you. In me, I mean." Colby moved against him, hips pushing his cock into Jason's thigh, shamelessly rubbing himself against denim. "What I told you I wanted, please…being so full…"

"And you can have that. Everything on your list. Exactly what you deserve. Ready?"

"Yes, please…"

One more. Eleven. Burning lines, electric; but they'd fade, and Colby wanted them. That mattered; that made everything perfect, wondrous, incredible. History in antique wood, in the carved handle, plus a story in the ridiculous half-roleplay they'd mostly let go. In a fuzzy too-hot Santa hat and the way Colby's eyes had sparkled at the suggestion. In the heat of Colby's skin, and the trust he'd given over to Jason.

So many stories. Lots of threads woven together. Meeting here, getting them to this place: at home on a holiday afternoon, rain-scented and bright.

Twelve, and right as Colby breathed, "Twelve," the rain hit, a thunderclap, an explosion that rattled the windows and drummed over glass like wild dancers set free. Colby's answering, "Oh, yes," might've been a climax, a release, if Jason hadn't told him not to; he sounded utterly euphoric, entranced, enraptured and erotic.

Yes. God. Jason tossed the paddle away—it landed on the rug, so that was fine—and stroked Colby's backside, fingers exploring, memorizing the feeling, tingling with it. He'd done that. Not to hurt—never, never—but to be exactly what Colby needed from him. Which right now involved that last item on his husband's wish list.

He nudged Colby off his lap and onto the couch, after a glance to check in—Colby did love being put where Jason wanted him, but surprise motions would never be great ideas—and heard the gasp as sore spots met the plaid blanket, pink against red-and-black wool. But Colby's eyes were purely delighted, finding Jason to gaze up at; Colby's cock pressed upward, dripping lavishly, and those long legs spread in invitation.

Fuck yeah. Jason flung off his shirt, shoved down his jeans and boxers. Colby's body was pliant and easy, already conquered from that morning; their lube was expensive and silken, and Jason's fingers opened him up and made him moan, wordless.

The rain leapt, billowing.

Jason yanked Colby's legs up, got them over his own shoulders, moved. Thrust, hard; heard Colby's shuddering moan, felt the heat where sizzling skin collided with his hips. "Colby—oh, God, you feel so good—so fucking good, baby—"

"Yes," Colby gasped, "yes, yes, please—this, yes, Jason—so full—"

"Just like you asked for—giving you what you wanted, and you love this, don't you, taking it all, getting all filled up, like you wanted—" God, he was going to come, a headspinning rush of need and his own words and Colby's body around him and under him, the sight and the feel and the heat and the sounds, himself fucking Colby so hard and deep—

The ridiculous Santa hat fell off his head. He felt it. Didn't care. Thunder boomed.

"Oh, please—" Colby was begging now. "Please, Jason, may I—I need—so close—yes, yes, I love it, I love this, I love your cock inside me, I love feeling this, I'm yours, I'm all yours, oh God please let me—or don't, if you want—oh no please let me come, I'm being good for you, you love me talking, you said, I'm being so good, please—"

"So fucking good," Jason got out, on the brink. His whole body tightened, right at the edge. "You wanted to come from me fucking you, you said—you can, go on—" He had one hand braced on the couch, the other on one of Colby's thighs; he moved that hand, wrapped it around Colby's cock, not stroking, just holding him, Jason's large fingers around that desperate length; and Colby cried out helplessly and began to come on the spot, in long drawn-out pulses, back arching, muscles clenching around Jason inside him.

Jason couldn't talk. Release hit like light, like diamonds, like clarity: white-hot, annealing, bursting through him; but they were sweet diamonds, soft ones, weightless and buoyant, and everything hung suspended, lifted up.

And then he could breathe, and he could sag forward against Colby's legs a little, and he could feel himself buried in Colby's body, and he could see his own hand on Colby's cock and all the splashes of sticky white over Colby's chest and throat and even chin.

Colby wasn't talking, just lying there wide-eyed, lips parted soundlessly. He looked beautiful and beautifully loved and thoroughly pleasured, having just come all over himself, spent and surrendered and floating someplace incoherent.

Probably, Jason thought, someplace warm and tipsy and liquid and full of cinnamon. Like spiced wine.

He said, softly, "Colby?"

Colby made a little noise that wasn't a word, more a drop of a jewel, a pearl, a rain-skip. But he was looking at Jason, so that was fine. Jason murmured, "Okay, you don't have to talk yet, I'm here, I'll take care of you, you were so good, that was so good, I love you," and leaned down to kiss him, not caring about the stickiness. Colby's legs wrapped around his waist, and Colby's right hand found Jason's shoulder, clinging, getting closer.

They held each other for a minute, breathing. The rain purred, steady: less thunder now, more even, and serene.

Jason kissed the corner of Colby's mouth, the edge of an eyebrow, the spot in front of his ear, under sweat-damp drying waves of hair. "Love you. And you're very good for me. You always are." True, in at least two ways. And Colby might need the repetition, resurfacing. "And that was…fucking incredible. I mean, it always is, but wow. I love doing that for you, all of that, and I love seeing how good you're feeling, sweetheart, coming apart like that for me, showing me. So good. I love you."

Colby's inhale and exhale were both shaky, but that was also okay: that was exertion, physical and emotional. Jason nudged his nose into Colby's. "Okay, so…probably gonna have to move soon. And do some clean-up. You don't have to talk yet, I'm just letting you know, you're good."

"Mmm," Colby said, which wasn't a word, and tucked his face into Jason's neck, still holding on; that might've been worrying except that one of Colby's hands also wandered down to Jason's ass, and Colby's voice said into Jason's collarbone, "Cinnamon buns…"

Jason burst out laughing. And cradled him close. "Jesus, you're perfect. Um. Sticky icing. Lots of sugar."

"…perfect," Colby said, reemerging. "You mean you. Or us, together. Holiday baking…er, cookies and, ah, milk, for Saint Nick, perhaps?" His hair stood up in fluffy dandelion-leaps, and his eyes were peacefully radiant, extremely blue. "Oh, no, you've lost the hat."

"It's around. I'll find it for you." He could see it, if he glanced that direction. On the rug, midway between Colby's scattered pile of calligraphy-swirl envelopes and the gleaming wood of their paddle. The antique swirls and loops of the handle design matched Colby's choice of handwriting; they were getting along, and making friends with a very smug red-and-white hat-heap, also.

"Jason?"

"Love you. What do you need?"

"Definitely clean-up. So much, er, icing. And I want you to…to hold me, I think. Perhaps a lot."

Jason found a not-sticky fingertip to stroke a curl of Colby's hair back from one eyebrow. "Was kinda planning on that anyway. I like holding you. Anything you want to talk about? Good amount of intense, with that paddle, or a little much?"

"Good. I might want your lotion, the one you use for bruises…but I love feeling this…" Colby wriggled contentedly, winced a fraction, but shifted under Jason's weight again, apparently just to reinforce some sensation. "I do feel it. But it's satisfying. Wishes fulfilled. Love?"

"Yeah?"

"You have splendid ideas."

"Yep," Jason said, happy. He'd wash the blanket later, too. And Colby, first. In their giant bathtub. And then cover his husband in healing lotion. And then maybe do some baking. He felt like that. Like sugar, and spice, and holidays.

"And…also…we could…in the background, you know, if we did feel like baking, after you take care of us and hold onto me for a bit…could we put on, from the beginning, Saint Nick—"

"Don't say it."

"I think I've discovered a newly rekindled appreciation for it, in fact."

Jason groaned, exaggerated, being merrily dramatic about it; and dropped his head to rest against Colby's. Every inch of his body hummed with satisfaction. "Are you really sure about that? Really?"

"Very, I'm afraid. Though I was only teasing you; I won't make you watch it."

"Yeah, well." He kissed Colby again, because he could, because of the joy in his bones, because the laughing rain and his terrible-but-wonderful movie and his Colby and their Santa hat were all magic. "I might not mind. Might kind of appreciate it, too, now. With you."

THE END