Mason | Christmas Shopping

By eight in the morning on Christmas Eve, Mason had already stationed himself at the railing between the first and second floors, watching the front yard through the window like a hawk. Elbows braced against polished wood, he stared out at the unfolding chaos in the shared driveway.

He couldn’t count how many times he’d watched {{user}} burst out of her house, shirt half-buttoned and clearly mid-panic, hovering around the hood of her car as if sheer willpower might stop it from smoking. She fluttered uselessly from one side to the other, hands wringing against each other, before darting back inside again and again as if trying to reset her morning.

Mason exhaled through his nose.

That car was a damn lemon. He wasn’t sure how many more times Noah could wander over there and beat the engine back into cooperation before it finally gave up out of spite.

Mason’s eyebrows twitched upwards as he thought of an idea.

I could just buy her a new car.

Simple. Elegant. Obvious.

Except he’d already tried that, and {{user}} had shut him down decisively, in more ways than one. Firm. Unimpressed. Infuriatingly principled about it, too.

“You’re grinning like an idiot, Mase.”

Harlow dropped down beside him, nursing a glass of water like a lifeline. He was the only other soul in the house awake this early, the rest still casualties of the night before.

“Friendsmas,” Pierce had called it.

Which, in practice, meant spiking the eggnog and letting the Christmas carols slowly dissolve into bass-heavy dance tracks by eight p.m.

Mason made a vague gesture toward the window, still not tearing his gaze away from the woman outside, who appeared to be bargaining with her smoking car like it might suddenly grow a conscience.

“Look at her,” Mason said, lips twitching. “She’s adorable when she’s freaking out.” He shrugged, like that explained everything.

Even Harlow seemed entertained now, his attention snapping to the scene outside—green eyes sharp, assessing, following her movements with predatory focus.

“No surprise,” Harlow said lightly. “She was probably trying to go to the mall.”

Mason worried the inside of his cheek. “Oh?”

“She told me last night she ‘kinda accidentally forgot’ to do her Christmas shopping this year.” Harlow smirked into his glass. “That was right after I mentioned you’d already bought her a return flight to see her family.”

Mason’s head snapped around so fast it nearly cracked his neck. “You didn’t.”

Harlow only shrugged, taking another unbothered sip.

“I knew I shouldn’t have told you, you bastard,” Mason muttered, already pushing off the railing as he turned for the stairs.

“You’re not about to go buy her another present, are you?” Harlow called after him, amusement echoing down the hall.

Mason didn’t slow. He just flipped him off over his shoulder, phone already in hand. “You’re getting coal, Reed.”

The morning air bit cool against Mason’s cheeks as he crossed the driveway, long strides carrying him toward the chaos she was orchestrating with impressive inefficiency. The hood of her car was propped open, steam curling up in thin, accusing wisps. He winced as the engine gave a strangled protest—her foot apparently mashing the accelerator in defiance.

“What are you doing, babe?” Mason drawled, stopping beside the open driver’s door. His palm settled on the roof as he leaned down, peering in at her with equal parts concern and amusement

“Mornin’,” he added, a smile tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I can’t help noticing you’re in desperate need of a chauffeur.”

The mall was a powder keg of Christmas consumerism—feral children, frantic parents, and festive pop blaring from the speakers, all sung by artists chasing their annual cash grab.

Mason loved Christmas. It was the one time of year you could give people things they absolutely couldn’t refuse and call it generousity. His list had been finished weeks ago, tucked neatly beneath the tree he’d personally strong-armed the boys into decorating yet again.

Asher was getting a WWII-manufactured Walther PPK .25, still nestled in its original case. Tavio would lose his mind over the Celestron telescope—wrapped with deliberate cruelty so it was painfully obvious what it was. Mason had been teasing him about it for weeks.

But something told Mason that {{user}}’s shopping list didn’t exist in the same tax bracket the boys were used to... and that alone was going to be a problem.

So, he started with Starbucks, hoping caffeine and bribery might loosen her resolve enough to extract something about what she planned to buy the others. She stayed maddeningly tight-lipped, even when he ordered her favourite drink like a peace offering.

She’d shoved cash at the cashier before he could open his wallet—a stubborn insistence on paying her own way.

“Can I give you some tips? Advice? Even a little hint, my diamond?” Mason asked as they stepped out of Macy’s, empty-handed again.

She looked overwhelmed. Hesitant. Too worried about choosing the wrong thing and disappointing someone. He could see it in the way she kept glancing back at the doors, like they’d missed something important.

Mason reached out, stopping her with a hand at her arm, his head tipping slightly as he studied her.

“I’m giving you my advice whether you want to hear it or not,” he said, gently tugging her aside, steering them out of the crush of the crowd.

“If you’re so determined to buy us presents and absolutely refuse to let me—us—spoil you,” Mason said, exhaling softly, “then here’s my advice on what everyone actually wants.”

“Pierce and Harlow?” He waved a dismissive hand. “They like practical shit. Things that make their day easier or keep business moving.” He rolled his eyes, but there was no real bite behind it.

“Noah and Tavio?” His expression softened. “Honestly, the best gift you could give them is your time. They’re like puppies.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “Take Noah to the beach. Go stargazing with Tav. I already handled that.”

He knew she wasn’t going to let him pay for anything, he’d accepted that loss hours ago. But reminding her that gifts didn’t have to come with a price tag? That, he could do.

“Oscar would love a board game. Or a puzzle,” Mason added. “God knows he needs something to keep his brain busy.”

She was listening—really listening.

Good.

“And if you think Asher deserves anything other than being ignored,” he went on dryly, “he needs a new sketchbook.”

Mason reached out then, fingers brushing her chin, tilting her face up just enough to meet his gaze.

“As for me?” He hummed, a slow, pleased sound, lips twitching into a grin. “You don’t worry about me.” His thumb lingered there for a beat. “You can give me the gift of letting me buy you some lingerie, my diamond.”

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Fuck. she said yes. She actually said yes.

Mason’s palm was solid around {{user}}’s, his stride just a beat too brisk as he steered her through the Christmas Eve crush. The mall was a nightmare of bodies and noise, but Mason had advantages—height, build, and the kind of presence that made people instinctively step aside without quite knowing why.

They parted for him like water.

Maybe it was the focus. The singular, dangerous intent humming just beneath his skin.

Because she was going to try on lingerie for him.

The memory of her flushed cheeks when he’d suggested it, when she’d hesitated, then agreed—had nearly snapped his restraint clean in half right there in the corridor.

Fuck the rest of the boys. She’s all mine.

He’d given her the ride to the mall, after all. It was only fair he got his present first—and the best one. He wanted something scandalous, but tasteful. Red. No... Green.

Money green.

The thought alone made his grip tighten imperceptibly around her hand, a sharp breath caught and swallowed as his mind betrayed him with vivid, dangerous images. It took everything he had not to pull her close, not to pin her against the cold glass railings and forget the world entirely.

Christmas could wait. Shopping could wait. He couldn’t.

Because he was already hard in his slacks.

The boutique Mason steered her into was intimate by design, the lighting low and warm, just dim enough to set a mood without sacrificing taste. High-end, too, in the way that mattered. The kind of place where staff took one look at his watch, his posture, his ease, and instinctively gave him space. Privacy, purchased without a word.

His hand slid to the small of {{user}}’s back as they crossed from polished tile onto dark wood, gold accents catching the light, velvet furnishings arranged with deliberate softness. It was curated luxury—convincing to the everyday shopper. Mason clocked the imitation immediately.

Still, he didn’t steer away.

It was for her.

And him—

Definitely him.

“Okay, {{user}},” he said lightly, his wallet already in his free hand. “Don’t get shy on me now. I already know what you look like underneath.”

A smirk curved his mouth as his thumb pressed into the gentle dip of her spine, nudging her forward, encouraging, patient, like he was coaxing something precious into motion.

“Can I help you with anything today?”

Mason’s attention snapped to the young woman who’d approached them, a blonde in a crisp button-up, her professional smile aimed first at him, then flicking politely to {{user}}.

He didn’t return it.

“She wants to try on your green pieces,” Mason said smoothly, the decision already made. “Anything you have in her size.”

He delivered it before {{user}} could slip in a polite we’re just looking, his tone making it clear the discussion was over before it had really begun.

The attendant hesitated for half a second longer than necessary, her gaze lingering on him, then nodded and turned on her heel to fetch the items.

Mason smirked as soon as she was gone, leaning in close enough that his breath brushed {{user}}’s ear.

“I can’t wait to see you dressed up for me,” he murmured, restraint threading every word as he fought the instinct to press a kiss against her skin. “Better go with the nice lady, my diamond. Before I undress you myself.”

But whether she obeyed or not hardly mattered. Mason already had plans forming, dangerous and indulgent, involving the two of them and the far-too-private change room tucked away at the back of the store.

Mason waited exactly four minutes from the moment she disappeared with handfuls of lace before turning down the narrow hallway that led to the change rooms. In all that time, she hadn’t called for him—hadn’t really made a sound at all.

That alone was suspicious.

Every stall stood open except the last. He stopped in front of it, pausing just long enough to listen, his breath held. Inside came the faint rustle of fabric—straps, maybe—soft, frustrated movements that told him everything he needed to know.

“You’re stuck, aren’t you?” Mason chuckled, knocking before she could protest.

“Come on,” he coaxed, voice low and indulgent. “Open up. Let me help.”

He waited.

One.

Two.

Three—

The latch clicked.

The door eased open a fraction, just enough for their eyes to meet. Mason caught his lower lip between his teeth, fighting the slow, satisfied smirk threatening to take over. His palm pressed flat to the wood; there was a heartbeat of resistance before she relented, letting him slip into the cramped space with her.

He locked the door behind himself once again, and then a sound tore from him, low and nearly silent, as he closed the distance and collided with her.

It wasn’t about the lingerie, not really. Though the bare skin it revealed was a bonus, Mason was fucking starved of her. And the fact that she had played along—

Their mouths met before he’d even pressed her back against the mirror, his kiss slanting, coaxing, and claiming. He stole her breath first, then her compliance, his lips parting hers with practiced ease as his tongue slipped past her teeth, unhurried and sure.

His hands were everywhere, greedy and reverent all at once, palms skimming over bare skin and the unnecessary complexity of straps and sheer fabric. It was taking everything in him not to ruin it already, not to tear it away as his hips nudged her harder into the glass, reflections fracturing around them.

“You’re fucking divine,” he murmured against her mouth, the words rough, reverent—like the realisation had just settled in. “My diamond.”

His hands slid down to grip the curve of her ass, his fingers biting in as he rolled his hips against her, rough close enough that she couldn’t miss what she was doing to his cock. The ache in him was sharp, controlled only by sheer will.

His mouth traced along her jaw, kisses unhurried, purposeful, his breath warm where it ghosted over her skin.

“Are you going to be a good girl for me?” Mason murmured, every muscle in him taut with restraint. “Show me how quiet you can be as I fuck you against the wall. We wouldn’t want to get caught...right?”

His next laugh was barely a breath against her neck.