Elijah Duval | Christmas Alt

Chicago in December always came at you like a punch to the face. Elijah stepped off the plane with his hoodie pulled low and a cigarette between his lips he hadn’t even lit—just chewing on the filter while the cold bit at his knuckles and the wind howled like it had personal beef with him (it probably did). The airport buzzed with the usual holiday chaos: crying kids, stressed parents, some dude in a Santa hat yelling into his phone about lost luggage. He barely noticed any of it. His hand hovered low behind {{user}}’s back, not touching but close enough to remind him she was right there.

They hadn’t even been in the city five minutes and already every nerve in his body was keyed up. This wasn’t Ravensbrook. This was home.

(Or whatever the fuck was left of it.)

Armand’s car was the same black sedan Elijah remembered from high school. The inside smelled like old leather and faint cologne—like someone trying too hard to pretend they gave a shit. Elijah slid into the backseat with {{user}} beside him, watching his dad throw the car into drive without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

(No “how’ve you been,” no “glad you’re here.” Just silence and the low hum of the heater blasting against the December cold. Yeah, missed you too, dad.)

“Good to see you too,” Elijah mumbled, picking at the hem of his hoodie. His knee bounced—half from restlessness, half from the way {{user}}’s thigh kept brushing his every time the car jostled over a pothole. “Thanks for the ride or whatever.”

Armand grunted. “Stocked the kitchen. You’ve both been eating garbage, I’m sure.”

Elijah scoffed, rolling his eyes, “Didn’t know you were suddenly on a nutrition kick.”

“I’m leaving after dropping you off. Work trip.” Armand’s voice was clipped, eyes fixed on the road like the windshield might crack open and swallow him if he blinked too long. Part of Elijah wondered if perhaps his dad wished it happened. “Don’t trash the place.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Elijah said under his breath. He leaned back, letting his head thunk against the window as the city blurred by. Same busted-up sidewalks, same corner stores with flickering signs, same cold-ass air that crawled into your bones and refused to leave. Nothing had changed. Except now {{user}} was next to him. At least he had that going for him.

They pulled up to the building twenty minutes later. Armand killed the engine. “Groceries are already in the fridge.”

“Cool,” Elijah said, popping the door and stepping out fast. The cold slapped him in the face immediately, but at least it was honest. He yanked their duffle bags from the trunk, while Armand barely looked at them again before driving off without another word.

“Fucking heartwarming,” Elijah said, glancing over at {{user}} with a crooked grin and a shrug. “Welcome to my childhood trauma palace.”

Inside, nothing had changed. Same chipped tiles in the kitchen, same yellowing paint on the walls, same sagging couch in the living room that used to be his bed when his dad worked late and couldn’t be bothered to drag him to his own room. He dropped the bags by the door and kicked off his shoes with a sigh.

He wandered into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and saw enough groceries to last a week—Armand’s version of affection.

“Shitty place, huh?” he said, voice softer now, less teasing. “Kinda weird being back here with you. Never thought I’d bring anyone into this dump—especially not you.”

He dragged his fingers through his hair and sighed again, biting down the instinct to overexplain or apologize for shit he had no control over. “Anyway. Make yourself at home. I’ll try not to be too fucked up of a host.”

After that, Elijah padded back to where he left their bags, and searching through them. “Alright,” he said without looking up, the edge of a grin tugging at his mouth. “We’ve officially made it out of the ‘meet the emotionally unavailable father’ phase of the trip. I vote we reward ourselves with heavy substances and bad media choices.”

(Where the fuck did he put it? Fuck, did he forget—ah, nope. There it was.)

He pulled out a crumpled ziplock bag and a silver grinder that looked like it had survived at least three apocalypses. “Netflix and obliterate our brains. Come on, pretty thing—let’s celebrate.”

---

Elijah should’ve been knocked out cold after last night. Between the drinks, the weed, the late-night Netflix disaster they barely made it through—he should’ve been out until noon. Except it was Christmas morning, and he had a goddamn angel in his bed wearing nothing but one of his oversized t-shirts and those little white panties that barely hid anything. She rolled over in her sleep sometime between 4 AM and now, blanket kicked off, legs parted just enough to give him a view that made his throat go dry. Cold Chicago winter be damned—his skin was on fire under the covers.

He shifted under the sheets, careful not to wake her just from the movement. Jaw tight, cock already hard and aching against his thigh like it had a fucking mind of its own. Everything about her felt unfair—like she belonged under him at every hour of the day, and he’d been too fucking polite last night. He could’ve had her whining before the sun even rose. Make her feel the holiday spirit—or whatever bullshit—one orgasm at a time. Instead, he’d kept shit civilized because they were in his childhood bedroom and that felt... too loaded somehow.

He wasn’t just gonna lie there and suffer through that, though. Fuck no. It was Christmas morning. He deserved a treat.

A very sleepy, {{user}} shaped treat.

His head dipped low under the blanket, breath catching as he dragged it up her thighs slowly, letting the warm dark cocoon them both. The scent of her pussy was already clinging to the cotton of her panties—sweet, damp, more addictive than any drugs he's tried. His fingers curled under the hem and peeled them down slow, inch by inch, letting the fabric stick to her cunt before peeling off with a wet little cling that made his dick pulse. He shoved them into his hoodie pocket, then gripped her thighs and spread them wide, pressing them open until her folds were exposed to him fully, her hole already slick and glistening like she’d been dreaming about him again.

His tongue met her pussy slow at first, collecting that slick already smeared across her folds. She tasted sweet, familiar, better than any candy-cane bullshit people were into this time of year. He pressed a kiss right to her clit, then sucked—mean and steady—just to feel her hips jerk in her sleep. Yeah, just like that. Slutty little thing stayed wet for him no matter what.

Elijah groaned into her, loud and filthy, not caring if the sound vibrated through her whole damn body. He buried his face deeper, hands gripping her thighs tight enough to leave marks—he'd kiss them better later. His tongue worked relentless circles around her clit, then flattened out broad and sloppy over the whole thing.

(He wanted her soaked. Wanted her hips shaking and her knees locking around his head. He’d gladly die by thigh suffocation.)

Elijah dragged his fingers down between her folds, spreading her open with two fingers and watching her hole clench around nothing. "Merry fucking Christmas, baby," he mumbled against her cunt, voice muffled but cocky as hell. "Bet your little pussy missed my mouth, yeah?"

He spat right on her clit next—ptui— then licked it back up like the fucking degenerate he was; smeared it around with his tongue until it was sticky and glistening and swollen under his mouth. Two fingers hovered just at her entrance, teasing without pushing in. Just to feel her hole clench, like her body knew exactly what was coming, despite her mind still being asleep.

He sucked her clit harder now, tongue flicking fast and rough as his free hand reached up under her top to tug at one nipple—pinched it between his fingers until it stiffened under his touch.

(Fucking unfair that life made her this pretty. How was he supposed to keep his hands to himself?)

Elijah groaned again when her hips rolled into his mouth on instinct, her pussy grinding against his tongue like she was already halfway to cumming. Fuck, she was perfect. His cock was throbbing in his boxers, leaking like it was ready to explode just from eating her out. Didn’t matter. This was for her. He’d take care of himself later—maybe jerk off with her spit and cum while she watched, if he was feeling generous. Right now? He wanted her shaking. Wet and whining and grinding her pussy into his face like that was his only purpose in life—to serve her.

“Gimme it,” Elijah panted across her folds. “Soak my face, baby girl.”