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Eiden ceremoniously drops the cardboard box onto the pristine tiles of Aster's mansion, sending Yakumo and Garu nearly flying as they startle over the noise, the poor souls. The rest of his clan gather around, peeking over his shoulders to examine the contents of the box. Blade has taken a piece of the multicolored garland before Eiden can even untangle it, and Kuya had surprisingly stood over and took a ball in hand, humming to himself.
"I noticed a few of the holy ark decorations look and feel really similar to Christmas tree decorations, so I gathered some leftovers from the temple's stock! With Olivine's permission of course," Eiden beams, pulling out pieces of wood carvings and paper flowers. "In my world, a lot of the decorations are also handmade, some households even have D-I-Y'ed, personal decorations that represent them, and we hang them on the tree together."
“My point is, I think it’d be really fun if we try the same! We can make our own Kleinmas balls and hang them up on a tree—oh, we need a tree first…”
Eager as they are, the younger ones clamored to start, already off to harass Aster to get everything needed.
“Eiden, what’s this red coat for?”
Quincy stirs awake when he feels the sofa dip under another's weight, inwardly sighing as he notes just who has come over with the explicit intention to bother him. He can practically see the grin on the little devil's face as he scooted over, and Topper squeaks in recognition, senses dulled likely from the wine he'd been guzzling since early evening.
"Hm."
He hums in acknowledgement regardless, and Eiden whines about Topper giving him away. "Ackㅡwhatever, Quincy...! You were listening earlier, right? I got a favor to ask you." As expected, the little devil would not have crawled his way over to the farthest corner of the living area to simply sit in silence. With a sigh, Quincy simply cracks his eyes open, brows furrowed already. "Oh, great! You're actually awake. Can you put this on?"
In his hold was a flimsy, tacky red... drapery, lined with cotton around the collar, nearly sheer around the sleeves. It did not look like it'd fit someone of Quincy's build, and his gaze all but communicated his displease towards the grand sorcerer, if his cackling laughter was anything to go by. "You haven't even put it on! Don't worry, this is just the prototype."
"Eiden."
The man in question squeals, bolting straight up like he's been splashed by cold water. Olivine stands over them with the same practiced smile, expression as gentle as always, regarding them both in a soft, sweet tone.
"Ahㅡwas I interrupting? I apologize."
"It's no trouble."
Quincy grumbles out, and he can feel Eiden shift in his seat, he can feel Eiden looking at him, then back at the priest, then back to him, and topper purrs as he perches himself on his knee. Quincy doesn't pay either of them any mind, taking the time to take in Olivine before him, now changed out of his formal choir attire and opted for a more comfortable, thicker shrugㅡit appeared handmade, knitted by the young man himself, and it drowned his figure in a warm embrace. Cute.
Olivine regards him the same, hands placed in front clasped together, eyes raking down his own attire with all the subtlety of a faun; the priest had always worn his heart on his sleeve, his expression meant clear as day to the practiced eye.
"Um. did you need help, Olivine?"
the priest breaks eye contact first, his ears reddening as if he'd been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. He scratches his cheek, a habit Quincy recognizes from him, something he did when nervous.
"Ah, right! The others are in the library, Aster and I have already set up like you asked. We can all start now with your instruction," He smiles, and Quincy swears flowers started materializing out of thin air, surrounding the priest like he's godsent.
Eiden bolts up from his seat, Topper following suit as he claws his way up from Eiden's pants to his shoulder, marching over to the mansion's library with newfound bravado. "Thanks, Olivine! Let’s go."
The two watch Eiden disappear into the halls, waiting a beat, another, until they turn to look at each other again. They stand in silence for another second, before Olivine giggles behind his hand. Quincy schools his expression when he sees Olivine stalk forward, bent forward towards him as he picks up what Eiden had left, the red coat. Just the sight of it has Quincy groaningㅡwhy did he have to wear this? Sun Lord Dante had red, fiery hair, this gaudy thing would have suited his mug better than Quincy. He gets up, stretching to pop his tired joints, and Olivine simply stares until he finishes.
"Is this the... mn, Santa costume Eiden had mentioned?" He holds up the thin red robe, angling it towards Quincy's towering stature. At this angle, even Olivine can fit better in the damn thing before Quincy could. "I... think it would look rather cute on you, mister Quincy. You do remind me of him."
"Are you calling me old?" Quincy finds himself smiling, unable to resist the urge to tease the young man, relishing the way Olivine's face flushed in a deep shade of red, nearly rivaling the costume itself.
"No, no! I did not mean for it to sound that way, Mister Quincy!" Olivine startles, hands flailing about as he explained himself. "I simply meant that Mister Quincy is as caring and sweet to little children as this Santa Eiden had spoken of! I meant no ill will," and Quincy simply cannot call himself a good, sweet man, not like Olivine himself, not when he finds the priest's flustering adorable.
"I'm joking." he hums, laying a hand down on Olivine's shoulder, kneading the soft flesh there in a firm reassurance, and Olivine visibly relaxes under his touch. "Help me put it on?"
Albeit still shaken, the young man nods and steps closer, and it was Quincy's turn to bend forward, lowering himself so Olivine can reach over his shoulders with ease, and he does, and the closeness has Quincy reeling when he catches that all-too-familiar scent from the little priest's neck, sweet, milky from behind his ears. Small, lithe hands smooth over the span of his shoulders, draping the costume over them before fixing the wrinkles over his chest. Olivine's palms linger there, the warmth from his own body heat felt like it burned his skin deliciously, and Olivine had mindlessly let his hands wander the space of his pecs, once again plucking the fabric from here or there so it sat nicely over Quincy.
As he'd thought, it was much too small for him, realizing Eiden had made it from his own measurements before deciding someone else is playing Santa for Kleinmas. They hadn't even bothered putting the sleeves on, the length around the shoulders barely even sitting comfortably around him, and yet Quincy makes no move to take it off, his attention tentatively fixed on Olivine; his distracted red face, his plush lips wet from his own spit, his gentle hands against his chestㅡ
"Hello? Quincy! Olivine! You guys are the only people not here, y'know!" Eiden returns and peeks over the corner, and if Quincy and Olivine almost look disheveled and awkward, Eiden doesn't pick up on it, rushing both of them out of the living area and into the library.
The long table that sat in the center of the library is quickly crowded by bits of paper, splashes of glue, wood, and, courtesy of certain individuals, various "unique" decorations picked up from what Quincy can only describe as garbage you can find on the street. The noise isn’t as grating to his ears as it usually would have been, dimming down to idle chatter with the occasional happy yelp from the younger members. Quincy sits next to Rei to his right, peeking over at his bauble as Father coos at him—he’s taking this surprisingly seriously, already halfway through painting the egg-shaped silver ornament in an attempt to make it look like Father. Rei eyes him, a slit brow raising as if to ask, "where have you been?”
“May I sit next to you, Mister Quincy?”
Olivine appears behind the two of them, the same polite smile on his lips, hands full of two of those same egg-shaped baubles and various decorating materials. Quincy finds himself wordlessly scooting over, bumping against Rei and cornering the man farther out of his seat, paying no mind to the glare burning a hole through his head by raven himself, not when Olivine lets out a small noise Quincy can only describe as a sough as he sits at their table.
“Thank you,” the younger man beams. “I managed to procure another ball for you, I thought you’d have wanted to avoid tussling with the others for one.”
Ah, ever the thoughtful, generous man Olivine is. He takes the small ball in his hands, twiddling the string attached to the metal hook drilled into it. It’s wooden, likely a piece broken off from the head of a bed. Quincy hums, smiling down at the priest now sitting next to him. “Can you help me make mine?”
The evening drones by smoothly, almost too smoothly. While it’s not an unwelcome change, it takes him some getting used to, surrounded by people. People who eagerly sit by him at the mantle, listening to the fire crackling as they hang their baubles on the stems that stick out of the tree, sourced from who knows where. It’s not a feeling entirely foreign to the forest guardian, having lived a hundred lifetimes in his own, slow lifespan, but a while may as well have been decades, and he’s long forgotten what it meant to belong with people.
Olivine sits near him the entire night, bundled up in his own blanket, his feet cold against Quincy’s thighs as they huddled close with a quarter of the clan in one sofa. Yakumo sits between them, Olivine’s thighs over his knees, almost fast asleep as the priest holds him close to his chest. Garu sits at Quincy’s other side, actually asleep where he rested his head against the forest guardian’s arm. He and the priest meet each other’s eyes as the younger one snores, and the smile Olivine gives him sends enough warmth to Quincy better than the dimming fireplace could have given him.
Well into the eve, they help the rest of the clan to their rooms, the manor having long since quieted down as midnight ticks by. Garu and Blade put much of the protest as they are sent to bed, claiming they have to be awake, they have to catch Santa Claus! To which Eiden makes another promise, that he will come, with the condition that they retire for the night first.
Quincy was right to squint at him from the corner—as soon as the door to Edmond’s door closes, the young sorcerer beams at him. Nothing like the warm, pure smile Olivine sends his way whenever they cross paths. Eiden’s grin was suspicious, almost devious. The little devil he was, as he approached Quincy with that dastardly red robe, now unfortunately fitted to his side.
“I have the gifts ready, you can put this on and get started!”
And maybe Quincy was also to blame, because no matter how troublesome the young man had been, how could he ever say no?
“Oh, by the way, your ball is missing from the tree. Can you help me find it? I’m gonna see if it fell anywhere around the living room.” He thinks of the warmth he’s felt earlier, and considers that maybe it wasn’t the fondness that bathed him in comfort.
With a sigh, he nods, and he can’t help but crack a smile as the young man trots away. By the entryway of the hall he came from, there sits an inconspicuous sack. Looking at it almost made Quincy tired already.
He takes to leaving gifts for the younger members first, finding they’d be easier having considered they’ve been asleep for longer. Yakumo, Blade, Garu and Karu—he had even stopped by Rei’s, surprised to see the man was completely out, recounting the days where Quincy would have to wrestle him to rest. Troublesome as it was, it doesn’t stop Quincy from experiencing the ache in his chest, the buzzing he feels under his fingertips, the fondness that settles in his gut. It doesn’t stop the heavy weight that drags his eyelids down, unfortunately.
With an exhausted moan, he rounds the corner through the hall of the second floor, and there he spots Olivine’s door along the corridor, ajar by a hairs. There’s barely light seeping out, the faint glow of the scented candles he remembers Olivine often reaching for–vanilla, a hint of something vaguely floral–casts a shadow that flickers in and out of view, as if a dim signal that beckoned Quincy over.
Maybe he’s worked his ass hard enough. Maybe a break is in order.
Quincy marches over to Olivine’s room, the ridiculous fur padding beneath his gaudy red boots cushion the heavy footsteps as he stomps with what little it can. He fishes out the gift meant for the priest from the bag over his shoulder as he approaches, pushing the door open with his hip.
The sight that greets him has made this entire day fulfilling.
The room has dimmed down to subtle orange and yellow tones, vanilla-scented candles strewn about the coffee table by the small lounge. It was warmer in the space, in contrast to the rest of the mansion’s cold marble interior, Olivine’s room has about the comfort and softness one would expect from the priest. And there Olivine sat himself, fetchingly draped over his canopy bed, tastefully exposed in the places only his bathrobe would show. There was something picturesque about it all—the dazed look in his eyes, fingers curling around his hair combing through his locks, skin flushed red clearly from a bath. He looks up, meeting Quincy’s gaze as he stands by the bedroom door, and his cheeks flush darker.
“Mister Quincy!”
He’s quickly on his feet, and Quincy mourns the sight as he smoothes his robe over his figure to fully cover himself. “I was not expecting you to be so early.”
“I stopped by yours first.” The older man replies, setting Olivine’s present down by his desk. The younger man stalks closer, meeting him in the middle, his smaller hand set over Quincy’s, and he quickly takes it in his palm. “Doubt that old fox would be asleep anyway.”
Olivine giggles, taking the man’s hand in his hold, bringing it up to cradle his face, its size practically dwarfing his head as he leans into his palm. From how they stood, Quincy takes in more of the priest; the way his hair curls when wet, the drops of water still stuck to the thick strands of his lashes, how his lips keep their pink, dewy hue even having washed off the hydrating balm he’d put on during the dry winter. His hands are neatly manicured, his warm palms almost too soft against the rough ridges of Quincy’s own, and oh, the priest is just so small. He’s not one to fixate on the difference of his own stature to others, not out of a lack of care, just rather uninterested; Olivine brings a sort of instinctual need to draw attention to their size difference, however. Underneath the strong contours of his body lies the ease to bend and twist for anyone to mold, his softness offering little to no resistance to be made anything for anyone to hold, and Quincy is a man who fancies his own handiwork.
“I’m not asleep either, though.”
Quincy breathes through his nose, stepping closer into Olivine’s space until they’re flushed against each other, and suddenly he forgets what the cold feels like. “I was hoping you weren’t.”
He leans in for a kiss, one he could say he deserved after the long day, and Olivine, once again, meets him halfway. Quincy supports his neck in his hold, fingers tangled around the younger man’s damp hair, scratching at his scalp and pulling his head closer. Their noses bump into each other, both of them barely suck in a breath before the forest guardian practically eats him alive—the priest moans against his mouth as he does, his arms coming up to grip around Quincy’s shoulders as he stands on his toes, supported by the older man holding him up by the waist. Quincy simply adores the clumsiness of it all, how Olivine fumbles through how he positions his head, hands trying to find purchase before they settle somewhere he thinks is right, how every lick, suck, and bite Quincy gives has him squealing into his tongue—had Quincy been a pious man, he’d have believed Olivine is nothing short of seraphic.
The forest guardian pulls away, thumb swiping the priest’s glistening lips. He relishes the cloudy look in the younger’s eyes, glassy, as if he’d start crying from a simple kiss. That won’t do, Quincy can get him there in much better ways.
“M-Mister Quincy…”
“Open your mouth.”
And it is a blessing that Olivine is obedient to a fault, because he opens up nicely for him, easily, and Quincy swallows him whole again. His tongue dives in greedily, licking at every corner of the younger man’s mouth, sucking on his tongue noisily until Quincy feels him buckle under him. He lets his hands wander, feeling around Olivine’s body through the thin cotton of the bathrobe, lining his shape. Each fold of fat when he arches his back, each contour of muscle, the small width of his waist despite his wider size; Quincy squeezes, plucks, and molds each part, his hands twitching as he grapples what he can, tracing Olivine’s figure top to bottom, from his chest, his hips, down to the globes of his ass.
It fits in a handful of Quincy’s palm as he kneads, fingers flexing around the flesh in a practiced motion, and a particular squeal catches in Olivine’s throat as he does, one that the older man promptly swallows. Quincy parts from Olivine’s lips, only slightly, his own hunger rendering him unable to be apart from the priest for no more than a few inches.
“Mister Quincy—” Olivine starts, but is quickly cut off with another yelp when Quincy repeats the squeezing motion. Strange—the priest had always been highly sensitive, that much Quincy is well familiar with, but never this much. He tries again, squeezing his rear, parting each cheek slightly as he does. Olivine digs his fingers into Quincy’s shoulders, squealing deliciously for him once more.
“Please…!”
Surely he’s teased the poor boy enough. Quincy chuckles, dragging Olivine up by his bottom, lifting him in his arms in ease. He hums at the noise that comes out of the young man, kissing his face to soothe the priest in his arms as he maneuvers him around to sit comfortably in his hold. From there, he picks at the robe the priest wore, bunching up the fabric in his fist and lifting it just enough to expose Olivine’s bottom half.
“Wait, w-wait…!” Finally able to touch Olivine’s skin directly, Quincy couldn’t help but go straight back to kneading the man’s ass, then bringing his hand up to spank him with practiced control. Hard enough for the slap to resonate in the room, though not enough to actually hurt. He hadn’t meant it as a means of punishment, just a provocation. “Mister Quincy!”
He digs his fingers deeper, nails grazing at the puckered opening of Olivine’s ass, and the priest’s entire body shudders in his grip. Olivine protests once more, for good measure, Quincy assumes, as he often does, a behavior that doesn’t particularly mean he’s in legitimate disagreement of Quincy—having spent a time with the priest, he’s familiarized himself with the habits and quirks that go unnoticed even by the man himself, finding a hobby in studying everything that is Olivine; and now he finds enjoyment in noting differences in even the most microscopic of expressions on him—so he continues, tracing the rim with the rough pads of his fingers, and—
What was that.
Some… thing sticks out of the opening, a thin strand of what Quincy can only describe was a string, two of them, ends tied to one another. He loops it around his forefinger and tugging at it experimentally, earning him a loud whine from Olivine. It almost distracts him, if not for the string to catch on something. Another tug, Olivine nearly hops off his arms, and Quincy is damn sure whatever it is tied to is stuck inside the priest himself.
“Mr. Quincy…”
“What is it.” He feels the shiver that runs cold on Olivine’s body, realising in the way he practically shakes like a leaf in his hold. He circles his thumb and forefinger around the string once more, coaxing whatever confession Quincy himself doesn't know he’s drawing out of the priest. “What do you have in you?”
He damn near pulls whatever it was out, impatient for an answer as he peeks over the smaller man’s shoulder. His other hand bunches his robe in one grip, lifting it up enough to bare Olivine’s ass. He sees it, the small glint of a metal hoop tied to the string, and the way the puckered rim of the priest’s opening clench in and out around it.
“It’s—you! It’s you…!”
Quincy raises a brow.
“I… Mister Quincy’s Kleinmas ball… I borrowed it from the tree—”
Ah. At the very least, Quincy didn’t have to look for it anymore.
He lifts Olivine off his feet, thighs hung over his forearms, walking towards his bed in two long strides. His ears perk at the yelp the priest lets out as he drops him on the covers, giving him no time to protest before Quincy is already on him. He damn near rips off Olivine's bathrobe, taking his legs by the back of his knees and folding him in half.
There it was, the string hanging out of Olivine’s ass, his quim practically dripping sweet nectar onto the metal hook that stuck out of his clenched rim. He loops his fingers around and tug at it once more until the ball is out halfway, and Olivine’s skin burns in a delicious red color, cunt flushed as glistening against the faint candlelight. He hears Olivine scream before covering his own mouth, now drooling all over the sheets.
“You know Eiden has been looking for this.” Quincy reproaches, but he doesn’t stop the nearly demonic leer he sends the priest’s way, feeling him clench around the bauble as if sucking it back into himself. Olivine cries, tears spilling from his eyes, his empty-headed gaze locked where Quincy’s fingers caressed his skin. “You’re causing trouble for other people, Olivine.”
“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” Olivine pants at him, now clamoring to find purchase on the covers.
Quincy makes a show of clicking his tongue in disapproval, letting the string go as he raises his hand, striking the underside of the priest’s thighs with a resounding slap. It sends Olivine reeling, gushing slick out of his pussy, his own fluids sticking to everything he rolls onto. He cries, and cries harder, and Quincy briefly wonders if he’d been too harsh, had it not been for the way Olivine shook, spasmed, moaned sweetly into his own palm. Ego has it he’s doing quite well, and the priest is well over pleased—too pleased, as it turns out. So much for a punishment.
“You say you borrowed it, I don’t remember you asking anyone.”
Contrary to his rough expression, he smooths his hands over Olivine’s bottom with great care, soothing the red mark he’d left there as he holds his ankles damn near up to Olivine’s ears with the other. The younger man wails, squirming against his hold, yet holds no intent of breaking free.
“I—mn, I was going… to put it back… After I was done…”
Quincy hums, plunging two thick fingers straight into Olivine’s quim, hissing as it clamps down around him, almost too hot to the touch. Olivine barely contained his scream before he was silenced once more, Quincy mouthing on his lips like a starved animal lapping at fresh meat. He can’t have people waking up at this moment, he does still have a job to do once he’s done with the priest.
“Are you so much of a slut you can’t wait a few hours?” He sets a brutal pace, practically punching out the air out of the poor young man as he batters his cunt with his fingers, slipping in a third, abusing the spongy spot he easily reaches inside him. “Need something in you constantly, hm?”
“N-Noooo—”
“How long?” Quincy pulls away, wringing the red robe over his head and taking it off in one go, nearly popping the buttons of his own pants off as he shoves the hem down, his cock springing up to slap against his abdomen. He pumps it once, twice, with Olivine’s slick, relishing in the way the priest eyes him up and down. He wouldn't say he’s any particularly interested in his own body, but Olivine looks at him with the kinda hunger he expects out of an abandoned young, a nursing prey, and Quincy would do well to not doubt Olivine when he sees those eyes. “How long have you had it?”
He massages Olivine’s thighs once more, the young man whimpering under his hold, groin twitching with each micro touch. “S-since… the couch, with Yakumo, Garu—Ah!”
Quincy taps the head of his cock against Olivine’s slit, massaging it into his clit, the underside of his dick spanning the entire length of his slit. He growls, almost needily, his own slit leaking and mixing with Olivine’s fluid.
“That’s four hours ago,” He tsked. With his free hand, he once again takes the bauble’s string, completely pulling it out, holding Olivine down with the other hand now pressed down on his stomach. Olivine screams, voice reaching a nasty rasp that will haunt him in the morning, and this time, Quincy does nothing to silence him. He throws the damn ball somewhere in the room, a problem future Quincy can deal with. “Naughty little angel.”
“I’m sorry…! I’m sorry… I missed Mister Quincy, please…”
How sweet.
Having decided he’d been cruel enough, he sinks his member into Olivine’s opening in one go, the stretch still slow and agonizing as it had been the first time, and the priest whines all the same. “Is that it?” He hums, grinding against Olivine’s quim until he’s sure he’s all in, feeling himself against his own palm, poking out of the young priest’s stomach. “You missed me, sweetheart?”
Olivine sobs, reaching for Quincy helplessly. The adorable thing, his hands clamoring to get a grasp of the man above him, his soft hands smoothing over Quincy’s forearms, tracing the scars of the years he’s lived there, up to the broad shoulders that completely consume his own form, to the strong folds of his chest, to the rough curls that trail from the base of his cock to the span of his abdomen.
“Olivine missed Mister Quincy so much… Please hold me… Please make Olivine Mister Quincy’s again…”
If the priest sins for talks of filth, would that make him a worse man for indulging?