Chapter Text
Christmas had caught up to you both like a storm. A storm of colorful lights, ornaments, and matching sweaters that you only wore because they made Billie smile at you like you were the only person in the world.
Just the night before Christmas, you had spent all day double, triple, quadruple-checking the presents you had wrapped for Billie. You adjusted any uneven folds, re-tied the ribbons until they were perfect, and lined up wrapping paper next to each other just to find what looked perfect with the carefully arranged gifts you had picked for her. Everything needed to be perfect.
Once that stress and restlessness had finally faded, you waited until late Christmas Eve night to sneak out from Billie's arms. She noticed, of course—damn her and her light sleeper tendencies—and whined quietly. You pressed a soft kiss to her forehead before whispering, “I'll be right back, baby. Santa's on his way, I think.” That earned a sleepy smile from her lips, and the release of your wrist.
With your chance scored, you slipped out and stealthily grabbed each precisely wrapped present, setting each one under the tree. After glancing over your handiwork once again, you made your way back up the stairs and climbed back into bed, back into her arms. The last thing you remembered before drifting off was warmth, the faint scent of her shampoo under your nose, and her limbs wrapped around yours.
Waking up left none of that. Your eyes fluttered open—all while adjusting to the early morning light unwillingly—only to find the other side of the bed empty. Blankets and sheets were left unmade, proof of both her appearance and departure—but it didn't make the air around you any less cold.
With a pout tugging at your lips, you forced yourself out of the tangled comforter and pulled a tight-knit, red-and-cream-colored sweater over your head. You trudged down the stairs, palm grazing the polished wood of the banister as you did.
Passing the entryway dividing you from the living room, you expected a few things: presents under the decorated tree, cookies gone probably due to Billie, and hopefully Billie herself. Never—in a century—though, did you expect to find her, dressed in practically nothing other than heaps of red ribbon and matching lingerie, seated right in front of the tree.
Her head—topped with a shiny rosette bow—
lifts while she's fiddling with the ends of the satin ribbons. Surprise coats her face, probably not expecting you to come down so early, before it fades into amusement. Her eyes take in your reaction: lips parted in shock, eyes wide, flush blooming on your cheeks.
Her lips curve into a smirk as she speaks, tone light as if she's not half-naked, on the floor in front of you. “Hi, baby! Merry Christmas,” she sings, smile widening.
“What—when did you—” you stammer, face flushing a deeper shade of pink as your eyes dart involuntarily over her bare skin. “Holy shit,” you decide on, the words coming out in a shaky breath.
“Thought I'd be your present this morning,” she flashes a grin, her voice full of mischief. “You like it?” Without your permission at all, your eyes wander again, scanning pale skin tangled in cherry red, shiny ribbons, and the similarly-colored bralette and panties set beneath them.
You can't speak—your throat won't fucking work. She smiles like she's won a trophy. “I'll take that as a yes.”
A beat later, she pipes up, a little softer. “I am genuinely stuck, though, so I'd appreciate some help.”
Finally, words form, and you manage to respond (breathlessly), “Oh—okay, yeah.” Your legs work before your brain does, and you sink down in front of her to undo the tight binds of the ribbons. Your fingers brush her skin too often, and with every shaky breath she somehow hears, you're given a little smirk. When the satin falls to the floor, pooling around her, her hands find your waist and pull you close.
“There we go… now I can actually hold you,” she hums, lips already forming a pathway along your neck. You shiver against her, and certainly not because of the cold air outside.
“Billie… the presents,” you try to reason with the last bit of your self-control. It's a stupid excuse and you both know it.
“You're worried about the presents right now?” She pulls back, face deadpan. “When your girlfriend is wearing almost nothing right in front of you? Really?” She sighs and shakes her head, smiling fondly anyways.
That same self-control is gone as soon as it comes. You reach around her to undo the lacy scarlet cupping her chest, pausing when you're there. Your eyes lock and she nods without hesitation. The fabric drops to the floor, completely forgotten as your hands replace the bra.
She arches into you instantly, a pleasant moan slipping free. Your palms knead her breasts with reverence, fingers rolling her already pebbling nipples. She presses closer, legs wrapping around your waist. Without missing a beat, you reach down and hook your fingers into the waistband of her thong. “Please—I've been waiting since midnight, baby,” she begs, breathing ragged and tickling your neck.
You glide the pair off without hesitation, fingers following. “So wet,” you purr, her arousal coating your fingertips. “You really have been waiting, haven't you?” She nods weakly, hips already bucking towards your hand.
Eyes darkening, you lift the discarded ribbons and pull her palms behind her back. She lets out a soft gasp as you tie them around her wrists. Once her hands are trapped behind her and secured with a simple bow, your fingers return to her core. Your fingertips brush at her clit only barely with every teasing circle around it.
A whimper breaks out of her lips at the growing, unfulfilled ache between her thighs, and you reward her by sliding your fingers inside. Her face contorts in pleasure, breaths hitching after every slow, deep thrust. Her walls flutter around your digits, aching for more. Her thighs attempt to close around your hand, overwhelmed with pleasure, but you only spread her wider with a click of your tongue. A staggered whine escapes her when you reach deeper.
A third finger joins your other two, strokes quickening to a relentless pace. She chokes on curses, your name falling from her lips like a prayer.
“That's it, baby… let me hear you,” you whisper, low and playful in her ear as her legs stiffen and jolt, a tell of her approaching end.
You curl your fingers to reach her sweet spot once, twice, three times—and she breaks. The orgasm hits her like a truck, the knot in her stomach tightening before it breaks, and she cries out your name. Her body rushes with heat, cunt clamping down on your fingers. A string of whines follows her climax, every noise a cadence of her pleasure.
The whimpers fade, turning to heavy breaths as she falls limp in your arms. Her trembling subsides soon after your fingers do. Your lips take hers in a gentle kiss, one that makes her heart slow to savor every second.
“Merry Christmas,” you murmur teasingly against her lips when the kiss breaks. A smile tugs on her lips, even when she tries to hide it.
“Perfect gift,” she returns with one last kiss. “I love you—so much, baby.” Her eyes soften profoundly, and it makes your stomach churn with butterflies.
“Right back at you,” you joke. She shoves your chest lightly, rolling her eyes even when the smirk on her face gives her amusement away. “I'm kidding, I'm kidding!” You pull her back into your arms, wrapping her in the nearest blanket as her body goes limp against yours. The presents are long forgotten as the embrace of her arms swallows you in warmth. As her cheek rests on your chest, you whisper softly, “I love you more.”