Yapping At The Vampire Mansion

tiffany sighs as you put the bin on top of the machine. "besides," you throw in a cashmere sweater with a ice cream stain inside, praying it comes out with only sheer hope, and a shitty tumble system. "i'm not worried."

you can practically hear your friend roll her dark eyes towards the back of her skull. after meeting in high school and being attached at the hip ever since, tiffany knows you better than anyone. just like now, she can tell you're tipsy, cocktail dress still on from your holiday work party—that had you five glasses of white deep, and a sad attempt at flirting with copy guy—bare feet on display. but it's okay because you've got a little snowflake painted on your big toe.

"oh no?" she hums, amused.

"nope," you throw the last of your laundry in, a pair of lace panties that looked so cute, but we're very uncomfortable. you took them off before walking out the door tonight. "i'm just...done. god tiff, im so done with family interrogations. ‘are you seeing anyone?" "when will you settle down?" "what happened to that nice accountant?"' your voice wavers as you attempt to mimic different voices, earning a snort from you best friend.

"it's not funny," you whine, shutting the door a bit too aggressively for almost midnight. it bounces back and hits your knee and you almost loose it. "it's sick. seriously, i'm done."

"why don't you just bring some random with you? get your family off your back?"

the door finally shuts and the machine whirls to life. you grin and sit on top, switching your phone to your other ear. "i've tried! why do you think i had my tits pushed up to my chin for the copy boy tonight?"

tiffany cringes, "brain? i'm pretty sure he's a peeping tom."

you roll your eyes, legs swinging over the edge of the washing machine. "the bar is so low, a worm could trip over it, tiff. seriously." you run your hand through your hair, pulling at your roots. "didn't work anyways. fucking martyr."

"what? really? you're charming."

you practically scream—well, no, but you're really considering it. "I am charming," you agree, tipsiness smoothing the edges of your voice. "but apparently not enough to escape the hell that is another family dinner, where my mom bugs me about finding a husband."

you jump off the machine when you remember that you forgot the little scent pod. the phones back pressed between your ear and shoulder, and you pause the wash and throw some in.

tiffany snorts. "that's why you can't give up. seriously, download tinder." she gasps, "or maybe your hot neighbour?"

your eyebrows draw together in confusion. "mr. tavares? i'm pretty sure he's married with like…a million kids."

she tuts her tongue, "no. the other one. you know, grumpy, tall, sexy arms? last time I was over he knocked on your door all angry because your cat got into his apartment again.”

the man your best friend is talking about is one that instantly has you freezing. anthony stolarz doesn’t like you. you're sure of it. you haven't been living in your place long, and the sugar cookies you made for him as a little introduction treat, well...you saw them still sitting in his counter. two months later. collecting dust like they're not some delicious treat, but rather a decor piece.

"absolutely not," you say instantly, nearly dropping your phone as you throw the tide pod scent booster thingy that cost way too much at the store, into the load. "anthony hates me."

"he doesn't hate you."

you get a brief flashback of him staring you down in the elevator yesterday morning—the morning after returning your cat, moo.

"he glared at me in the elevator for humming." you hiccup. "I'm pretty sure he's allergic to joy."

"so what? he's hot. and besides, you should at least try. you never know, one of these days the right person is going to fall into your lap—maybe literally."

you snicker, "look, i'm not giving up okay?" jumping back up on the machine, you sigh into the dusty laundry room. it rumbles back to life beneath you. "i'm just...taking a strategic pause until I'm less—"

the laundry room door opens before you can finish, distracting you. it's take you a drunken, hazy second to realize that you're eyes aren't deceiving you. anthony walks in with a much nicer basket than your cracked one under his arm, looking as tired and grouchy as ever. his hoodie sleeves are pushed up, revealing the exact the arms tiffany was drooling about.

great. perfect timing, universe, you petty little gremlin.

you clear your throat, lowering your voice. "—less exhausted. and less tipsy."

"okay, so tell me what you're going to do." tiffany prompts like she's a first grade teacher and not your friend. “so I know you mean it.”

you puff your cheeks and roll your eyes, chuffed by her cheery tone. "i'm not going to let my mom get the chance to pity me for being single because i'm going to find someone to bring to christmas dinner.”

at the machine three spots down from you and your shoeless self, anthony halts. jeans he wore to the grocery store last month still half in his hand while the other half is already in the machine. he shoots you a look, one you interpret as annoyance, but really is amusement.

"exactly," tiffany smiles. "okay, I gotta go. next thing I know it'll be morning and i'll be falling asleep at my computer."

you narrow your eyes at your neighbour, a silent challenge. apparently—drunk you has always been a little confrontational. anthony raises a brow and then throws the rest of his jeans in the machine. followed by a shirt.

"okay," you agree. the washer hums louder under your legs, shaking slightly. you wince and hold your phone a little bit tighter. "i'll talk to you tomorrow. hopefully with good news."

"hopefully. nighty night."

you parrot her and then hit the red end button on the screen before your grumpy neighbour can hear anything else. you groan to yourself. it's louder than you anticipated. but you're tipsy and don't even really notice as you drop your phone into your lap.

anthony doesn't look at you, not yet. you watch out of the corner of your eye as he easily turns the million dials to set the washing cycle to his liking. you think he's probably one of those freaks who only washes his clothes in freezing cold water to like...reduce the chances of wrinkles—or whatever that does.

you're sure that even though you wrapped up the more than embarrassing conversation with tiffany  once he walked in, anthony definitely heard enough to piece together something. but then again, he doesn't say anything about it—but does he ever?

the machine jolts violently again, and anthony finally turns towards you. his eyes pin you in place, and you if you were more sober, you probably would've squirmed. or flushed. would've pretended you're totally at ease swinging your bare feet in a cocktail dress on top of an industrial washer at midnight.

anthony's eyes flicker down your exposed legs and painted toes, and then back to your gaze. "where are your shoes?" he deadpans. like he's not surprised.

you're almost embarrassed. almost. your cocktail dress sparkles under the flickering fluorescents, one strap slipping down your shoulder. you wiggle your toes. "left them upstairs." as if you're remembering your predicament mid sentence, you groan, "with my dignity," you continue, throwing your arms out dramatically.

he just stares. "i'm not even going to ask."

"smart." you slide off the washer, and anthony frowns. he takes a step closer, watching the way you're swaying slightly. "are you...drunk?"

"tipsy," you correct, lifting a finger like you're giving a very serious lecture.

"ah."

you narrow your eyes at him. "are you judging me? I feel like you're judging me right now."

"not at all."

you gasp softly, like a scandalized grandmother. "is it because I painted french on my toes instead of my usual red?" you try and hide your one foot with the other one, but it only makes you look like someone who really has to pee.

anthony blinks, looks down at your feet again. when he looks back at you, you can tell he's trying not to grin. ha! "i've never noticed the colour of your toes before, y/n." and much to your dismay, he doesn't crack. satanic bastard.

you straighten a little. "you know my name?"

he brows dip, incredulous. "we are neighbours. remember?"

"well yes, but—"

"but what?" anthony cuts you off with a sharp lift to his brow that affectively has you feeling warm all over.

you swallow, "nothing. i'm drunk."

he grabs his basket. "thought you were just tipsy."

"okay, officer, just arrest me then." you hold your wrists out dramatically, wobbling as the washer jolts.

anthony reaches out—maybe is instinctively, maybe not—but he steadies you before falling against the machine. his fingers dig into the fattiest party of your arms, and you squeak.

"hey!"

he raises a brow, slowly releasing you once he seems you stable enough. "though we already did the formalities." anthony teases, momentarily stunning you. so he's not all sarcasm and brooding? who would've thought.

"we didn't." you lean forward with a drawl, squinting at him like you're trying to focus through fog made of holiday cocktails. and maybe it's said alcohol, or maybe it's the easy way anything seems to be of earning to you tonight—in the dusty laundry room of your toronto apartment building—but all you can think of is tiffany's advice.

you watch as anthony once again picks up his basket—previously abandoned to save you from half face panting. is he leaving?

"I have a question." you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

he glances at your over his shoulder. "alright, sure."

you watch him slowly turn back towards you. he leans against one of the un-occupied machines directly across from you. he folds his arms, no doubt already picturing your drunken slew. you lick your lips, eye still pointed like you're a derivative in an interrogation room. "do you have a girlfriend?"

anthony blinks. slowly. like someone restarting his entire life. in other words, you've caught him off guard—and you think if you weren't so serious, you would've had to hide a triumphant smile.

your heart thumps against your ribs, louder than the machine beneath you. maybe even louder than the buzz in your head. his face is half lit by the buzzing light. half shadow, jaw tight, eyes sharp even in his confusion

yoj wait, blinking, toes curling against cold floor, the smell of detergent and old concrete filling the space between you.

he hasn't looked away from you once.

you swallow. hard. the buzz in your bloodstream shored up your confidence with reckless enthusiasm.

a beat passes. "I...what?"

"do. you. have. a. girlfriend?"

"i'm a little worried to tell you," anthony, now recovered from the initial stun of your brashness, muses, looking anything but worried. "but no. I don't."

you raise a suspecting brow, "boyfriend?"

his lips part, "no. straight."

"really?"

"y/n."

the laundry room hums around you then—low, steady, mechanical. warm air breathes from the dryer vents, carrying the faint scent of detergent and anthony's cologne, which you pretend not to notice because you're tipsy, not pathetic.

but your stomach swoops. maybe from the wine, maybe because he said your name like it wasn't new to him at all. either way, everything feels a little fuzzy around the edges.

you blink up at him, neck feeling hot.

"really. because like, I think you're totally hot enough to be in a relationship."

anthony's eyebrows lift slowly—unamused, unimpressed, but somehow...fond?

"and I think you're going to be really embarrassed in the morning when you remember this conversation."

you snort, wobbling again—just slightly, but he looks at your like you've just fallen to the ground—as you shift your weight. "not a chance."

he crosses his arms, muscles flexing under the thin fabric of his shirt. the dryer behind him thumps rhythmically, like it's agreeing. "so do I get to know why you're asking me about my dating life? or is this some top secret thing I just have to wonder about?"

you wave a hand dramatically. "definitely top secret."

anthony tilts his head, studying you like a puzzle he didn't ask to solve but can't ignore. "on a scale of one to the phone call you were having when I walked in here, how top secret are we talking?"

your mouth opens. then closes. then opens again.

"depends how much you heard."

"I heard that you're in a bit of a predicament." a ghost of a smirk touches his mouth.

you squint at him, "you sound like a professor."

"thank you." he nods once, straight faced.

anthony's sarcasm makes the room tilt pleasantly. or maybe that's just you. the admission that comes next, is one you definitely can't stop.

"I need a fake boyfriend."

something flickers over his face—surprise, then neutrality, then something quieter. "is that so?"

you nod vigorously, because honestly you're at the point of no return, and begging, honestly, is totally warranted. "It's so. listen, my family are like too invested in my dating life. like literally all up in my shit every holiday." you change your tone, miming like you did earlier on the phone. "'why aren't you in a serious relationship yet?' 'whatever happened to that ex of yours?' 'when are you going to settle down? wedding? kids?' and before you know it I'm in the bathroom with a bottle of wine trying not to drown myself in the toilet."

anthony blinks. he shifts his weight, studying you with a careful, unreadable calm. then he laughs. it's soft and warm, and even though you don't know him that well, you're pretty sure it's because of you, rather than at you.

"graphic." he muses.

you point at him, like he's just proved your thesis.

"it's just one night. my fake boyfriend just for the purpose of a peaceful holiday. no questions about my love life or lack thereof." the machine beeps behind you, indicating your load is done and ready for the dryer. but you don't move. no, like you're some kind of insane person, you clasp your hands like you're praying—giving nothing your best puppy dog eyes like that will magically get him to say yes.

after a beat, and staring into your hazy eyes for far too long, he just lifts a brow. "I don't wear those cheesy holiday sweaters."

"neither do I." you chime quickly, holding your hands tighter. he sighs, you breathe. "please. i'll owe you."

somebodies dryer load thumps again. then, it's like the gates to santa's dream land open, because anthony bows his head, and mumbles—"okay then."

you stare. "okay?"

he looks back at you, "i'll do it."

your heart does something dangerous, and you jump up onto the balls of your feet with excitement you can't be bothered to mask. "really?"

he pushes off the machine, stepping closer—close enough that you can see the stubble on his jaw, and the softness in his eyes he probably thinks he's hiding. "really really."

maybe against your better judgment, you squeak, and wrap yourself around your giant neighbour like it's a normal occurrence between you. anthony freezes, and then awkwardly pats your back like a kid.

"well," he says once you pull back, "i've got to get another load from my place."

"right." you swallow, watching as he reclaims his laundry basket. he leaves the dryer sheets by his machine, so you know he's not using more laundry as a bad excuse just to escape. "i'll let you do that."

he quirks a brow over his shoulder, already halfway to the door. "thanks?" just before anthony fully leaves the room, he adds—"and for the love of god, please go put some shoes on. or at least sit back on top of the machine. you'll catch a cold."

"yes sir," you salute, and then hiccup and anthony half rolls his eyes.

once the door clicks behind him, you do a little victory dance. then you text tiffany and tell her everything—while sitting on top of the machine, because you don't want a cold.

—

the next morning hits you like a punishment.

your head throbs in time with your heartbeat, your tongue feels like it's wearing a wool sweater, and the sunlight filtering through the hallway window is aggressively personal. you're clutching a travel mug of water like it's the holy grail as you march—well, stagger—across the way towards

anthony's door.

you don't even bother to be polite, not after the panic that endured this morning while you were brushing your teeth and remembered that yes, last night actually happened. you asked your neighbour to be your date.

so you knock like your life depends on it, praying that you've just had a really vivid dream, and not a drunken mishap. your knuckles ache, your stomach lists to one side, and you consider lying down on his welcome mat and just passing away quietly.

the door finally swings open, revealing anthony in joggers and a plain hoodie, hair slightly mussed like he either just woke up, or just always looks unfairly good without effort. he blinks at you once, slow, like a cat.

you blurt out, voice hoarse and cracked, "did I have some wild dream where I drunkenly asked you to come to my family's christmas party? or did I actually do that?"

he leans a shoulder against the doorframe, expression maddeningly calm."if I remember correctly, you were just tipsy."

you stare at him. a full three seconds of stunned horror. then—"oh my god."

this time when he tries not smile, he fails. you don't see obviously, to busy fake sobbing into your hands like the world is ending. he clears his throat, and the ramble you'd been on about never touching wine again comes to a halt. you peek through your fingers.

"when do we leave?"

—

three days later, you're standing on the front stoop of your parents home. the candy cane wreath that you remember your mom making almost 10 years ago, sparkles as it catches a street lamp across the way. it probably would’ve blinded you if you weren’t so stature like right now.

you take a deep breath, frost bitten hands tucked so deep into your coat pocket they're into the new year.

anthony shoots you a look out of the corner of his eye. concerned and amused all at once. "are we not just going to...walk in?"

swallowing, you shake your head once. firm.

he makes a noise, half between a laugh and snort. "why? what's up?"

your mouth opens, but no words form. just a tiny little squeak, like a nervous mouse. snow falls over your head, flakes landing on your cheeks like little kisses. you turn towards anthony, a look in your gaze that probably screams help me.

then, with his usual unforgiving, too casual expression, anthony raises his hands towards your face. he thumbs off a snowflake and you dart back, stomach feeling heavy and full, like you'd just chugged a large tim hortons hot chocolate.

"what?" you press, gaze a little frantic.

anthony grins, "i'm just prepping you for when i've dialled it up to 100 inside. which, maybe no jumping when I try to be affectionate. might give up the whole…pretend thing.”

you blink, "yeah, i'm sure."

he shrugs, smug, and for some reason that makes you even more nervous. the sarcasm you'd just been dishing out dies on your tongue, and with snow covering your black coat like nobodies business, your smile falters. "wait, are you going to like dip me in-front of my parents and lay it on me?"

"lay it on you?" anthony repeats, clearly humoured. "is this the 1950s? say kiss."

"no."

"say it."

"this is ridiculous."

"come on y/n, just say kiss."

"I can't do this," you breathe out, spinning on the heel of your chunky winter boot. before you can start fleeing down the icy steps, anthony is gently holding your arm, guiding you back until you're in front of him again.

"you're fine," his eyes glimmer. they've been doing that a lot more recently and it's freaking you out more than it should. "does this mean kissing is off the table."

your breath catches. "it's—" you trail off, because you don't want anthony kissing you to be off the table in all honesty. I mean god, your brooding neighbour has showed you the most bare minimum affection for three days and you're ready to drop your panties.

he quirks a teasing brow, silently encouraging you to continue. so even though you're reeling with anxiety about bringing your hot neighbour as a fill in fake boyfriend to your families christmas dinner, and filled with dread anticipating your families overbearing questions about him, maybe a little kiss wouldn't hurt. maybe it's what you need.

the door opens before you can even make an attempt at finishing your sentence, and you're not sure if you're going to take that as a sign or a curse. your nephew gasps at the sight of you—because obviously you're his favourite aunt. also his only aunt but you'll take it—rushing out onto the snow porch in his socks.

"auntie y/n!" the four year old boy gleams, wrapping himself around your coat covered legs like you're santa in the flesh. anthony wordlessly grabs the gift bags in your hands so you're able to scoop your nephew up—where you naturally press a million loud smooches to his warm little cheek.

you're not sure what inspired eli to open the door, but you're glad he did. now you don't have to just walk in, were you'd surely look like a timid and like very guilty cat.

"hi my little man," you smile, tickling just below his jaw. and like you were earning for, your nephew shyly tucks away from you. "hey, do you know what today is?"

anthony watches fondly as you tuck your face close to eli's as the boy hums thoughtfully. then, in the cutest voice, he says—"christmas eve!" it's sounds more like cwismiss ee but it only makes you coo.

the shout seems to gather the attention of your mom through the open door, because anthony watches an older woman who looks a whole lot like his fake girlfriend glide towards the door—hair up and wearing an apron that looks like a gingerbread man.

"you're here!"

you look up and find your mom, arms already open for a hug. she steps out onto the porch before you can blink, gathering you in a hug that also squeezes eli.

"mom," you smile, letting your nephew down. he immediately runs back inside, shouting something about toy cars and cookies. you wish you could follow him and skip the formalities, because…seriously your mother is looking at anthony with fluttering lashes and your palms are drenched in sweat.

thankfully, as if he's sensing your sudden distress, he gently tugs you into his warm side, large hand wrapping around your coat covered waist until his fingers are all splayed out over the comically large buttons.

despite the feeling of anthony's hands on you—a silent reminder that everything is fine—the second your mom urges for you to introduce him, you regret everything. and for the first christmas since you can remember, is not your choice of a skirt and tights rather than pants you're regretting. it's not the gift for your dad, or bringing pumpkin pie because it was discounted, instead of apple that you're regretting.

no. you're regretting bringing anthony. because for the first time since your wine hazed eyes landed on him in your apartments laundry room, you're coming to the realization that this isn't fair to him. you barley know each other outside of cat custody drop offs, that he also didn't ask to be apart of, and switching mail after the mailman puts the envelopes in the wrong slots.

and it only makes you feel guiltier that he's good at this. he greets your mom like a gentleman, never once letting his touch fall from your torso. you wonder if strangers he barley knows often take advantage of him—or maybe it's just a new development.

you're kind of frozen, half laughing as your mom makes some joke that's probably at your expense, so anthony guides you into the home before your even realize what's happening.

"you going mute on me, y/n?" anthony's lips ghost over your ear lobe, tickling you as he whispers the question under the ruse of helping you remove your coat.

you look back over your shoulder and meet his eyes. a beat passes and you nod, a little robotic, but real. "no. i'm fine," you take your coat from his big hands with a smile. "thank you."

anthony grins back, coat still heavy on his shoulders. he pulls his toque off in the way boys do, and then runs his long fingers through his hair, fluffing the curls he usually hides. that heavy belly feeling comes back in a wave when he meets your gaze through his lashes, and sends you a smile so syrupy that it could give you a cavity.

your mom claps and you blink. she's looking between the two of you like it's a christmas miracle that only she gets to witness, beaming like this whole fake relationship is the best thing to happen to christmas since the birth of christ.

as you toe off your boots at the speed of a child would—one even thumping against the shoe rack and leaving behind a mushy print—she slides up next to you, attempting to be conspicuous but miserably failing. "he's tall sweatheart," your mom chimes, impressed. "he must just break you in half."

"mom!" you scold, embarrassment crawling up your neck like chicken pox. your eyes dart towards anthony, mortified and praying that he didn't catch that, but obviously he did, because you're moms whisper voice is equivalent to a herd of elephants stomping down the hall.

and you're not sure if you're just imagining it, but you're pretty sure the tips of his ears have gone red. probably just the cold. or mortification.

lord save you.

"what!" she huffs, like she hasn't just made insinuations about her daughters sex life with a man who she's only meeting for the first time. "i'm just stating the obvious! he's a big man."

anthony clears his throat and rubs the back of his neck, while you can only look between them like you can't decide what to deal with first. you choose your mom, narrowing your gaze in her direction. "okay, well, that's inappropriate. i'm your daughter, you shouldn't talk about my sex life. and maybe we haven't even had sex yet, you can't assume."

"sweetheart," she hums like it's funny, squeezing your biceps. "if your father looked like that, I wouldn't be able to stop myself from making—"

"alright!" you stop her, face burning. if it hadn't already, your soul just left your body so fast that you could see stars.

your mom releases you, and moves towards your fake boyfriend. helplessly, and still very much mortified, you watch her smile at him and take his arm. "anthony, dear, let me show to to the kitchen. i'd love if you could grab something off the top of the cabinets for me. i'm sure you'll be able to reach."

anthony laughs under his breath, letting your mom lead him away like he doesn't mind. and you're just baffled by how your do not perceive me neighbour has turned into a people pleaser who doesn't mind all the fuss in a matter of seconds.

"i'm sure I can." anthony reassures as they move around you. his free hand brushes lightly against yours in that casual, steady way people in real relationships do. your stomach flips as your pinkie instinctively tries to lock around his, and again when anthony lets you do so for a split second.

but then he's gone, looking like a giant next to your tiny mother.

you take a deep breath in the muffled quiet of the front hallway. you can hear your mom introducing anthony to your family like he's her boyfriend and not yours, and for a split second you consider running back out the door—eat a turkey sandwich from the gas station in your car and call it a christmas feast.

placing a hand in your stomach, you narrow your gaze. "you have no right to flip right now. literally no authority whatsoever."

your sisters curly head of hair peeks around the archway that leads to the kitchen. she gives you a look, "you coming? I think mom might be a second away from mounting your boyfriend."

you groan like the world is ending, your sister laughs and eli is suddenly darting around his mom, running back into your legs with the strength of a teenager. you let out an oof because your nephew always thinks that's funny. and naturally, he laughs.

then smell of pine, nutmeg, and something distinctly ham-like wafts from the kitchen, and as your nephew brings you closer with his sticky little hand in yours, you can hear christmas music humming through a radio your parents have had in there since before you were born.

when you do make it into the kitchen that's been painted an awful yellow since way before you moved out, you spot anthony instantly. he's letting your mom give him tasters of the food, asking if each dish needs need more salt. your aunt is sitting in the bar stool next to his—eyeing him up and down like prey.

you make a face, disgusted and a little jealous. and as soon as little eli pulls away from you—apparently your brother has suddenly become more interesting—you're moving towards them like a woman on a mission.

your aunt amy greets you, but you give her nothing more than a clipped smile and the sheer determination of showing possession. you plop down onto anthony's lap like it's something you've done before, nestling in like a baby bird.

he doesn't freeze. his eyes don't widen in a way that would scream he’s surprise. no, because like you've already decided, anthony stolarz is way too good at this fake relationship thing. he wraps a forearm around your middle, holding you against his chest.

"have you finally decided to stop hiding in the hallway?”

you click your tongue, looking at him over your shoulder. "I wasn't hiding," you lower your voice, just for him to hear, "I was plotting my escape."

he tongues his cheek and pinches your side. you’re pretty sure your sister coos at that. in retaliation, you wiggle your hips over his lap. then you feel something half hard poke against your ass and you stop quicker then lightning.

anthony drops his nose against your neck and lets out a low groan, confirming that yes, you've just turned him on. what the actual fuck is happening and where the hell has your moody neighbour gone?

from the living room, the rest of the family start emerging like curious woodland creatures. your dad is first, a tired grin on his face that means he's been working too hard. he spots you immediately, and your eyes widen. because you're sitting on your fake boyfriend, something totally out of character, and he's got a semi.

anthony, putting the pieces together, whispers against your ear. "so dad—super traditional?"

"meh," you whisper back, already slipping off his lap. anthony gets off the stool, but stays pressed behind you. for obvious reasons. "not sure he'd appreciate the situation going on against my lower back right now."

your dad joins you both before anthony can respond. the latter extends his hand, and your dad takes it firmly. "anthony stolarz," your dad starts, and you're frowning in confusion—because why does your old man know the name of your neighbour. he continues, "huge fan. pleasure to have you here with my daughter."

your brows furrow as anthony smiles back, casually, like strangers knowing his full government name is a normal occurrence. "pleasure is mine. i've got quite the women with your daughter here."

your dad looks at you, "you didn't tell me you were dating an athlete baby girl."

"an athlete?" you repeat, tilting your head back to look at your fake boyfriend. it's a bit ridiculous, because the top of your head only reaches the middle of his chest and you feel like a child. and like the universe is determined to clear up your confusion, you catch a glimpse of the tv in the living room playing sportsnet highlights.

and there he is, your fake boyfriend, wearing an toronto jersey looking all sweaty and angry and sexy. this is just perfect.

how did you have no clue that your neighbour was not just an athlete, but a goalie for the most iconic toronto sport. suddenly, that explains his weird time schedules, and why you've run into him in the elevator before wearing workout shorts over tights in the middle of winter.

your dad is giving you a look, so you clear your throat, forcing a small laugh. "right. duh! what am I saying?"

anthony gives you a closed mouth smile like it's a thank you and exclamation of relief that you didn’t just ruin the whole fake relationship ruse. then, he breaths, that teasing smile pulling at his lips once more. "I think you were saying that you just got me confused with one of your other boyfriends."

your dad laughs, "I like this one, y/n. keep him around."

anthony presses his lips to the top of your head, an apology for his goofy joke. you have the urge to tilt your chin up so he kisses your mouth instead. because you're sure he'd do it for the sake of the act.

but your grandma is swooping in before you gather the courage. she pinches your cheeks, and then pats anthony's chest. "oh well you're handsome," she looks back at you through her eye glasses, "why haven't you brought him around before? are you hiding him?"

his eyes shine with innocent mischief as you look at him. anthony answers for you, tugging you further back into his chest. "she gets territorial."

you choke on nothing, because apparently that's true. hell, you practically started riding him on the bar stool because your aunt was looking at him like a handbag she wanted to purchase.

great, now you're thinking about bouncing on his lap like a starved woman, all naked and slick and skin glowing under christmas lights.

the room laughs all around you at anthony's comment, because no matter what, somehow you're downfall is still their holiday entertainment.

subtly, you clench your thighs together, searching for relief from the sudden heat coursing through your veins. and you truly think, the evening can't get worse. hell, you’re secretly thirsting over your secret boyfriend, your mom is still touching anthony's biceps, your dad keeps talking about hockey, and your aunt may still pounce.

but then somehow, things get worse.

just not in the way you were expecting. as dinner began, christmas candles lit, tree twinkling in the background like a hallmark moment, you expected something bad to happen. call it anxiousness or self sabotage, but you assumed it would only be natural— at this point—eli would've pantsed you and revealed a tattoo you weren't aware of or something. knowing your luck it would say something about your fake boyfriend and christmas dinner would be ruined.

obviously that doesn't happen. because eli is too busy chewing his ham in the most adorable scrunchy face baby way, and you don't have a secret tattoo.

but somehow, this feels much worse. you find yourself watching anthony beside you, pushing sweet potatoes around your plate absentmindedly as you do so.

he's talking to your dad, laughing at some terrible pun about hockey. his posture is relaxed, one hand wrapped around his fork while the other rests on your knee. his thumb keeps moving rhythmically over your tights, like he's checking in without actually do it. and you know you should jump in, save him from your dads fan behaviour.

but you can't. because you're finally seeing your neighbour as anthony. he's not just the guy who carries in groceries at odd hours, or the guy who returns your cat by holding him under the armpits like he’s a bomb, and he's not just the guy who begrudgingly accepted your tipsy family date request.

anthony is warm, steady and surprisingly funny. and most importantly, he's someone who can charm the most chaotic branches of your family tree without breaking a sweat. and that's the worst part, because he's feeling more and more like a man who fits into the scene far too easily.

and maybe you're just hot and bothered and needing a good fuck, but you're also fearing that it's more than that.

like he knows your thinking about him, anthony looks at you. your gazes meet and he squeezes your knee cap playfully. "you're spiralling."

you try and scowl, but you look more like a tiny kitten. "i'm not."

"your eye is twitching." he releases your knee in favour of dragging his thumb over your eyebrow,  careful of your makeup. it so is twitching, and you know that because as soon as he touches your face, it stops.

you bat him away gently, and it makes anthony snort. but you don't look away, you can't. you shrug a shoulder and rest your cheek against your fist, "maybe i'm just suprised that you can speak in full sentences around people. you know, until like, three days ago I thought you hated talking or something. or hated me, maybe."

he pauses, your words settling in his chest in a way he doesn't like. you watch with baited breath and a glint of curiosity as anthony's mouth tugs down in a frown. then, like your entire family isn't all around, he leans in close, voice low enough that only you can hear.

"you underestimate me. I'm not always a hermit." his palm settles over the meat of your thigh, finger slipping dangerously inwards. your muscles tighten. anthony continues, just as calm. "and i've never hated you."

you swallow, nervous. "could've fooled me."

he grins crooked. "I know."

"then if it's not hate...what is it?" silence swallows the space for a beat, the kind that feels measured yet cracked. the kind that screams want with nothing more than a hitched breath and daring tongue.

your breath catches as anthony's gaze flickers down to where his hand is nestled between your legs. not where you want him, obviously, but close enough that you can feel the ghost of him. it's slow—deliberate—and then his gaze returns to your face with a knowing tilt of his mouth.

"based on the way you're squeezing your legs together right now," anthony murmurs, voice barely more than a rasp. "I think you know."

that has you looking away in favour of chugging your entire glass of wine down in one go. your sister snorts at the sight, your mom says something along the lines of you trying to loosen up for your man—so then you're refilling and chugging that glass too.

the rest of dinner flows easily enough. dishes are passed around, your mother scolds your brother for eating half the entire serving of potatoes, and anthony's got his meaty, biteable arm strewn over the back of your chair—like he didn't send you into a spiral between the first and second plate.

it doesn't help that the more seconds tick by, the more and more natural this all feels—his hand brushing your shoulder, casual jokes about the childhood christmas photos your mom proudly displays, the little conspiratorial glances you share every time someone said something unhinged. in other words, the sudden crush you've developed for your neighbour is only getting more and more unbearable.

you stay an hour or so once plates have been cleared, and until your dads half asleep on the couch. eli has once again decided that you’re his favourite person, and insists you help get cookies out for santa, as well as sprinkle the magic reindeer foot in the front lawn. you looked a bit silly in your brothers too big boots and the blanket off the chair over your shoulders as a coat, throwing sparkly oats along the path—but anthony took a picture of you all pouty and glittery and suddenly it felt less silly and more normal.

honestly, for the time you're still at your parents, you try your best to like, totally avoid anthony. because you're pretty sure since chugging that wine during dinner, you're literally one smile away from telling him to meet you in the bathroom for a little christmas eve sex. then you start thinking about how hot laundry room sex in your apartment complex would be, and you have to excuse yourself to scream curses into a pillow down the hall. because what the actual hell has gotten into you.

that includes avoiding eye contact with him while you're sitting in eli's bed, bedtime story propped open—because apparently your nephew has decided your fake boyfriend might be his second favourite person and dragged anthony into bedtime story reading time along with you. but then anthony nudges his sock covered foot against yours without looking away from the cartoon illustrations, and you're ready to dive right in.

fuck it. you want him.

—

the car door to anthony's all too fancy SUV thunks shut with a soft, final sound. you take a long exhale as the silence envelops you, watching with cautious eyes as he jogs around the front, glowing through the headlights, to the drivers side.

the snow had thickened while you were inside—light, powdery flakes drifting down in lazy spirals, catching in your hair and melting on the windshield. because he's got one of those fancy cars that have renovate start, warm air was beginning to blow through the vents of the car, making your face feel wet.

anthony gets in, and you look out the window instead of meeting his gaze, crossing your legs. you can hear him buckle the seatbelt with a defined click, and then the car is pulling away from the curb outside your parents home.

christmas lights blur past through the windows, and the faint glow from the dashboard lights anthony's profile in cool blue—jaw sharp, nose straight, lashes casting shadows across his cheeks. he looks calm, but the vibes of the evening in general, has you feeling the opposite.

you swallow, "so tonight was..." you trial off gently, pursing your lips in thought. insane. hot. hectic. inappropriate. you eventually settle on—"something."

he huffs a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh. "it was." the car creeps into a stop at a red light, and he takes the time to look over at you. you're nibbling the skin around your thumb anxiously, thighs squeezing tighter like you're trying and failing to be subtle, and your eyes are filled with a mix of a million emotions.

anthony gives you a slow, half smirk. "relax. i'm not scared off." he shrugs a shoulder and then the light goes green. you're moving again. "but they're exactly how you said they'd be."

"I know," you groan, hiding your face behind the palms of your hands. you hear him laugh gently, over the wipers on the windshield, and it all feels so soft. a beat passes and you lift your head. looking back over at him, a weight settles in your chest. because the night is over, and he's here. driving you both home, stealing secret glances, and you couldn't of done this christmas without him.

"hey," you start, voice a little trembly. you clear your throat, anthony looks at you, then back to the road just as quickly. "I can't thank you enough for tonight. I'm really glad you agreed to my drunk request, because I couldn't have done this without you, anthony."

subtly, his grip tightens over the leather wheel. "i'm glad I agreed too. I had a nice night."

you raise a brow, "really? because my mom was way too inappropriate, and my dad was talking your ear off about stuff i've never even heard about—like I thought icing was only for cakes—and then I was just acting like a minx—"

he laughs, and you follow suit. "seriously!" you press, shifting in the warm seat to get a better look at him. "like plopping myself down on your lap? and that was before the wine!"

anthony's amused gaze flicks towards you for a half second before flicking the indicator—but it's just long enough for something to spark in your chest. he licks on to his bottom lip, "everything, somehow, just worked. I enjoyed myself. as i'm sure you could clearly tell."

your tongue goes dry at the thought of his dick poking your ass. and then your lower back. anthony turns the car into a side street, not far now from your shared complex. you swallow and run your sweaty palms down your tights. "yeah, well. I really mean it, i'm glad you were there."

the car fills with comfortable silence for a few beats, the only sound is the whisper of the tires on snowy pavement. but beneath the quiet, something thick and electric lingers—something that hadn't existed before tonight's wine and not so subtle hints.

he slows at a stop sign, the car idling. he’s free to go without any traffic this late at night, but anthony makes no move to drive. not yet. snowflakes cling to the windshield like they're waiting for the pin drop just as you are.

that's when he says it. "I wasn't pretending, you know. all those things I said, they weren't just for the sake of an audience." there's something in his voice—low, unguarded. something that makes your breath catch.

your heart thuds once, hard. "what does that mean?"

a car slows to a stop across the street, and anthony curses lowly, easing into drive again. you keep your gaze on him, the glow from a passing street lamp highlighting the tension in his throat you want to lick and kiss away.

"with your family. with you." a beat. "I thought tonight would feel like a favor. just a fake date. something I'd have no choice but to laugh about later." his voice drops, and he casts you a quick glance. your apartment complex comes into view. "but it didn't feel fake at all. it never was."

the air tightens, sharp and warm at the same time.

you inhale shakily, "it didn't feel fake to me either."

anthony looks away as he has to punch in the code to your complex. the metal gates whirl open with a gust of snow and he carefully drives you through. you still haven't looked away, too busy teetering on the edge of a mountain you never knew you'd be at the top of.

he pulls into the the same spot he'd been parked in when you left for the dinner. the car idles, and he doesn't make a movie to turn off the engine. instead, anthony sits there for a moment, fingers tapping once on the leather of the steering wheel before he finally finds his voice again.

"I didn't come with you tonight with the expectation of more than one night." he says, voice careful like he wants you to understand. like he doesn’t want you do get the wrong idea.

you breath hitches, "I know that."

the air in the car between you thickens. warm, charged and impossible to ignore. the car is still running, but everything somehow feels very still. you can only hear your heart slamming against your rib cage.

finally, he turns fully towards you, broad shoulders angled your way. his voice was low, honest, edged with something raw when he speaks again. "but I do want more."

a couple things happen to you then. inevitably, your breath trembles, and heat curls through your stomach, and obviously you clench pathetically around nothing. because you’re getting the confirmation that no, you weren't reading too much into tonight with anthony. everything that you've been fighting off—every feeling and fluttering lash and smirk—he's been doing the same.

you lick your lips without thinking—and anthony's eyes flick to your mouth like it physically called for him. the tension that's been pulled taught between you all night is snapping, humming like a live wire.

"anthony." you practicing whimper.

"tell me if i'm reading this wrong," his voice comes out a little rougher now, and it only does wonders for your heart beat. "please, y/n. if this isn't what you want, tell me now and i'll walk away."

your hand lifts, slow and unsteady, until your grazing the hard muscles of his chest. the featherlight touch has him sucking in a sharp breath, watching as you test the waters.

"you're not reading it wrong," you whisper, "I want this. I want you."

the exhale anthony lets out is shaky, like he's relieved but still holding back his true desires. it excites you just as much as it scares you. he leans in, just slightly—close enough that you can feel the warmth of him, and the heat of his breath. but he doesn't kiss you. not yet.

your chest heaves, noses dancing together in their own rhythm like little ballet dancers. your lips brush, barley enough to call it anything, but your pulse thrives like he's just slipped his tongue into your parted mouth.

anthony swallows, tugs at the hair at the base of your neck until you whine. he grins, "let's head upstairs."

the lobby is quiet, almost echoing—the kind of stillness that makes every footstep sound too loud. you and him walk side by side, hands brushing but not quite touching, both of you humming with the same charged silence that was in the car.

neither of you speak as you reach the elevator. neither of you need to. the doors open, and you step in first, followed by anthony. and as soon as the elevator begins to rise, he exhales—slow, controlled—like he's been holding his breath all night.

you feel it all the way down your spine.

when you reach your shared floor, the doors slide open with a soft chime. and like when you entered the elevator, you step out first with your heartbeat thudding, keys trembling in your hand.

you barely make it two steps toward your apartment door before you feel anthony pressed behind you—close, but not touching yet. it's only when you attempt to turn the key in the lock does he move. it starts slow, gentle kisses to your neck that have your toes going numb and eyes fluttering closed.

and then.

anthony spins you around, your chest pressed to his. the key falls to the carpeted floor, neither of you make a move to reach for it. the door is probably unlocked, but it doesn't matter. because the hallway is where it's meant to begin. and begin it does.

you inhale sharply, the air between you hot. you can feel the heat rolling off his chest, his breath brushing your cheeks while his gaze is fixed entirely on you—like nothing else in the world exists.

anthony lifts a hand to your jaw, cupping it with a rough, steady tenderness that makes your stomach flip. "is kissing still off the table?" his voice is quiet. low. dangerous.

you only manage to get out—"it was never off." because then he's kissing you.

the back of your shoulders hit the door with a soft thump. anthony's other hand braces beside your head as his mouth claims yours—hungry, warm, a little messy. like restraint has finally given out and he doesn't care about careful anymore.

you make a quiet sound into him, fingers curling into the front of his coat, pulling him closer. he groans—low, surprised—like he hadn't expected you to kiss him back with the same need. his thumb strokes along your cheekbone, but in contrast to the heat of his mouth, it's slow and gentle.

like he wants you to feel every bit of him, not just the urgency. and it's dizzying.

you gasp softly when he deepens the kiss, and then presses you further into the door, forehead brushing yours between breaths. "you have no idea how long i've wanted this," he admits, mouth brushing yours with every word.

"then don't stop." your fingers slide up, curling behind his neck so you can tug him back down to your lips.

he kisses you again—but it's slower this time, deliberate, savoring—lips warm and soft against yours, breath mingling in the dim hallway light. the mix of heat and sweetness makes your knees wobble, and he steadies you instantly, one hand moving to grip your hip, the other still cradling your face.

before you can blink, the hand around your hip is moving. thick fingers tease the waist band of your skirt, and when you make no move to stop him, anthony is slipping beneath your clothes and finding your heat.

you pull back just an inch, both of you panting softly, eyes half lidded and dazed. your breath catches when he easily moves your soaked thong to the side, middle and ring fingers slipping through the mess of arousal that's been accumulating since before dinner.

anthony's forehead rests against yours, noses brushing as you breathe together.

"fuck," you curse breathily when he teases your entrance, fingers dipping inside you to the furthest knuckle and back out again. somehow it's so good but also not enough. you head thumps against the door and you attempt to grind down onto his hand.

anthony smirks. "fucking god, you're such a greedy girl for me. already dripping all over my hand."

you whimper, loudly, so he darts back in, kissing the noise off your lips. his tongue moves against yours, in time with his fingers pumping in and out of your leaking entrance. cream and arousal pool in the crotch of your sheer tights and begins to drip down your thighs.

"ohmygod," you pant, hips moving on their own accord to match his fingers. anthony's at the perfect angle, palm smacking against your puffy clit with every passing thrust of his wrist, while the calloused pads of his fingers stroke against that oh so good spot on your walls.

"yeah?" he huffs, watching your face closely—drinking in every little detail of your expression. "feel good?”

you don't care that somebody could hear. you don't care that any one of your neighbours could decide to take a late night stroll, and find you getting finger banged against the front door. it's all a ball of nothing as anthony continues to pleasure you. you should tell him to stop. you should tell him to come inside. but you're pathetic. whimpering. clenching. dripping.

you're nodding desperately, fingers gripping onto his bicep so tightly that you're sure it hurts. "i'm gunna make a mess. please, I can't stop."

"that's good," he moans. kissing your neck once in reassurance while he keeps up his relentless pace. "you can make a mess for me."

and you do. hot liquid squelches out of you, coating his fingers and dripping down your legs. the sounds are straight up pornographic—anthony's fingers pounding into your squirting, warm entrance. the mewl that comes out of you as you come. the praise he's whispering against your cheek like you've done something spectacular. and to him, you have.

"fucking hell baby," anthony curses lowly, watching your tights stick to your leg with your own wetness. quickly, his eyes find yours again, and he's surging back in to kiss you.

it's more teeth and tongue than anything else, but it works. your whimper against his lips when his fingers slip out of your convulsing entrance, but then he's pushing open your front door and you're excited all over again.

anthony walks you backwards into your place, never once breaking the spitty, lazy kiss you're entangled in. your hands slip up the front of his shirt, clinging, dragging him with you. he nudges the door shut with his foot, the soft thud barely audible over your uneven breaths.

his mouth moves against yours in a way that makes thinking impossible—slow, claiming, like he's been waiting for this and refuses to rush it now that it's finally happening. he crowds you until your back hits the wall next to the kitchen archway, his palm coming up beside your head, caging you in.

you manage a shaky laugh against his lips. "we’re really—" another kiss steals the breath from you. "—not taking it slow, huh?"

he huffs out a low sound that could almost be a laugh, except it's darker, warmer. "you have any idea how long I've wanted to do this?" his forehead nudges yours. "slow isn't happening."

your fingers curl in his hair. anthony drags his mouth along your jaw. who are you to complain?

before you can form a response, his hands slide to your waist—firm, intentional. you feel the shift in his stance, the way his grip tightens. then he's lifting you like it's nothing. a surprised gasp leaves your mouth, and your legs instinctively wrap around him.

"anthony—"

he shushes you, voice roughened with something that sends heat down your spine. "i've got you."

he carries you toward your couch, his lips returning to yours halfway there, messy and insistent. you're pretty sure there's a collection of unfolded laundry on the coffee table. and your cat runs off when you get close. but you don't care about a thing—not when you can feel anthony's breath, his heartbeat, and the tension coiled in him like he's using every ounce of restraint not to just pin you down the second your back touches the cushions.

when he finally lowers you toward the cushions, he doesn't let go immediately. he keeps you close, hovering over you, his thumb brushing your cheek in a strangely tender contrast to how quickly he just manhandled you off the floor.

you smile up at him, breathless. "so...you've been thinking about this, huh?"

his gaze flicks to your mouth, and he smirks. "try obsessing," he corrects softly. "and now i'm not stopping unless you tell me to."

you don't tell him to stop, obviously. instead, you pull him back down for another breath stealing kiss.

anthony's weight settles partly over you, knees bracketing your hips as he kisses you again—slower this time, but somehow even more intense, like he's savoring the way you're already pliant under him. his thumb drags along your lower lip, pressing lightly until your breath catches.

"that little sound you made when I picked you up," he notes in a murmur, eyes heavy lidded, "you always react that pretty, or is that just for me?"

you glare at him, or try to. it fails when he leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth, lazy and smug. "shut up."

he grins against your neck. "didn't sound like you wanted me to." a hand slides to the back of your thigh, fingertips digging just enough to make your stomach tighten. he pulls your leg up, hooking it around his waist like he's positioning you exactly how he wants. his hard dick hits your barley covered clit, and you moan.

"see?" he whispers, tone all mock innocent. "there you go again."

you grab the collar of his shirt and tug him closer. "you're really loving yourself right now."

anthony hums, brushing his nose along your cheek, teasing, barely touching, "i'm loving you like this." his lips ghost over yours without giving you the satisfaction of a kiss, and you resist grunting. "all warm, all worked up... and pretending you're not."

your breath stutters. "i'm not pretending."

"no?" he finally presses his mouth fully to yours—deep, slow, intentional. it pulls a helpless heat through your chest, makes your fingers curl in the fabric of his shirt tighter like you're trying to anchor yourself. "then show me."

you try to kiss him again, but he pulls back just enough to make you chase him, grinning when you do. "anthony," you warn, breathless.

"yes?" he echoes, all faux politeness, though his hands are anything but polite—one gripping your hip, the other sliding up your ribcage, not quite touching anything indecent, but close enough to make your whole body tense.

"you're teasing me now."

he laughs under his breath. "I know. and you're letting me. letting me get you all withering, while your tights are already soaked in your own mess and cum."

you heartbeat trips over his vulgar words, and you take your bottom lip between your teeth to suppress a whine. "maybe I like it."

that stops him—just for a second. his gaze drops to your lips again, darker now, wanting in a way he's not bothering to hide.

"oh, baby," he murmurs, voice low enough to make your legs tighten around him, dragging yourself over his front. "don't say things like that unless you're ready for me to really tease you."

you swallow hard, pulse hammering harder. "try me," you whisper.

anthony smiles—slow, wicked, thrilled. and then he kisses you again, mouth moving over yours with a kind of hungry confidence that makes your head spin. like now that he's started, he's not sure he can stop.

then, without warning, he catches both your wrists as you reach for him, pinning them above your head on the couch cushion, his thick fingers that minutes ago had been knuckle deep in your pussy, wrapping easily around your wrists.

the surprise of it sends a sharp, embarrassed heat through you. your lips part, and you whine his name for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

"mhm?" his nose drags along your jaw, his lips brushing your skin just barely. "something you wanna say, baby?"

you breathe out, shaky, with a spitty pout already forming. "that's not fair."

"fair?" his laugh is low, warm against your throat. "you're the one who told me to try you."

you try to twist your wrists, but he holds them there effortlessly, the strength in his grip making your breath come faster than it should. he's not hurting you—he's just proving a point. a very smug, very distracting point. and it's working.

"you can't just—" you start.

"I really can," he murmurs, leaning in so close his breath grazes your ear. "and you really like it."

your whole body tenses. "I don't—"

anthony lifts his head and gives you a look that absolutely says don't lie to me. "then why," he asks slowly, squeezing your wrists just enough to make your pulse trip, "can I feel you soaking the front of my pants?"

and well, you can't come up with a single excuse for that one. your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. once again, rendered speechless.

and his grin only widens. "that's what I thought." he releases one of your wrists just so he can trail his fingertips down your arm, the touch agonizingly soft. when his hand reaches the side of your neck, he pauses, thumb brushing under your jaw, guiding your face back up to his.

"I knew you'd be trouble," anthony says, kissing you once—quick, taunting. "I just didn't realize you'd be this much fun."

you narrow your eyes, trying to sound braver than you feel. "and what if I said you're the one who's in trouble?"

"oh?" his eyebrows lift, amusement sparking. "you gonna take control?" he leans in, lips almost brushing yours again. "or are you gonna keep pretending you don't like when I do? thought we already established that this is what you need."

you inhale sharply, and anthony catches the reaction—of course he does—and his smile turns downright sinful.

"tell you what," he whispers, bringing your captured wrist back above your head, pinning it again. "If you want me to stop teasing..."

you hold your breath.

"...you're gonna have to ask nicely."

you blink up at him, stunned, flustered, burning. for a moment, you think about denying him. you think about being a brat, which seeing him now, would end with you bent over anthony's lap, ass red and pussy dripping. but you can't. not when you're this worked up. his large frame settled between your shaky thighs like he belongs there.

so, desperately, you nod. "please. anthony please stop teasing me."

you see him smirk before he's stealing another kiss. you breathe into it, relieved and so much more. the pressure on your dainty wrists eases as anthony releases them, leaving you moaning into his mouth as you feel his hands slip down your body—running over your ribs, belly and hips.

the next thing you can register other then heaving chests and breathless sighs of desperation, is anthony roughly pushing your small black skirt up around your hips, and then the distinct sound of your nylon tights ripping.

you gasp, breaking the kiss. anthony grins at your reaction, eyes not once leaving yours when he repeats his actions from the hallway by hooking your underwear to the side. when your sticky arousal brushes against his knuckles, he finally looks towards your pussy. and hell if he almost cums at the sight.

you’re still soaked. lips glistening with various sex fluids that he wants to lap up with his tongue until you're squirming. clit puffy and in desperate need of some stimulation. entrance creamy and fluttering—searching for him. anthony can't help but to groan. he plants his hands on the backs of your thighs, pushing your legs towards your chest to expose you further.

anthony plants a few kisses to your thighs, licking and biting his way to where you're aching for him. he isn't planning on eating you out tonight, but your body is practically screaming for a little tease. and who's he to not grant your wishes?

with a flat tongue, he licks a stripe from your entrance, up to your clit. the feeling is almost like nothing you've ever experienced, and you're instantly mewling, head falling deeper into the throw cushion behind you. you can't quite grab him, so you settle for digging your nails into the couch like you're fighting to keep gravity.

anthony continues to eat out until you're on the brink of your second climax, switching between slow motions around your entrance that have you withering, and hard sucking on your clit that leave you squealing.

he climbs up your body with the urgency of a man starved, kissing any part of your sweet, exposed skin until he's back on your mouth. your tongues move together, and you can taste your arousal on his lips.

“taste good baby?" anthony murmurs against your lips. "can you taste yourself in my mouth?"

you whine, a string of saliva connecting your mouths. "yes. god, please."

you sit up, just enough that you can pull at the front of anthony's shirt. like you'd hoped, the tiny buttons start to pop open, revealing his hard chest, sprinkled in fine, neat hair that travels all the way down below his waist band. anthony watches you—lets your shaky hands push his dress shirt off his shoulders.

instantly, your running your hands all over, squeezing muscles and brushing over his nipples until they pebble. your eyes flicker up to his, and anthony quirks an amused brow. "you having fun?"

you take your bottom lip between your teeth, falling back down to the cushions while you nod gently. but your hands move towards his belt buckle, pulling and tugging until the sounds of metal clinking open fills the room.

anthony pushes your hands away before you can attempt at reaching into his pants and boxers, slamming your wrists back down to the couch as he comes in for another messy kiss.

"please...what?"

you shift your hips, trying to find some sort of relief against his body. but it's only a momentarily relief, because what you're really needing is still behind those way too expensive dress pants. you moan, either in frustration or desperation, you're not sure.

his lips trial down your jaw, then your neck and words slowly die off your lips. because how are you supposed to breathe when he's licking and sucking your neck like his own personal dessert, never mind speak. 

"use you words." he speaks against your pulse point, followed by an open mouth kiss in the same spot that has you letting out a noise between a grunt and whine.

anthony's dick twitches at the sound, and that has him groaning. he lifts himself from your skin, meeting your lazy gaze. he cups your face, tenderly considering the events of the evening so far. slowly, his thumb traces over your bottom lip, pulling and tugging at the plump skin of your mouth.

you swallow. "please fuck me."

and that's all he needs to spring into action. the hand that was just on your face falls down to your chest, traveling down to the hem of your shirt—where anthony then rips your shirt up to expose your bra. it's a barley there thing, all red and lacy and gives him the perfect view of your constrained, hard nipples.  

all while his other hand manages to ease down his pants and boxers, not fully because that would require leaving your cocoon, and anthony's not willing to move more than a centimetre from you right now. but enough to expose the entirety of his package.

his cock stands at attention, like it's been waiting to be called on. you moan just at the size of him, all girthy and long and well groomed. you didn't think you could spread your legs any further, but here you are. ready and desperate.

"oh my god, anthony."

anthony pumps himself a few times, fist running over the thick vein on the inside of his cock, up to his head where he pays extra attention—already drooling out his rosy pink tip—and back down to his balls.

he grins down at you, slapping his length against your folds and then ruts himself between your lips, coating himself in your arousal. "can feel you shaking. want me inside you?"

"yes, oh my god please."

with a hand at the base of his cock, anthony lines the head of his cock up with your entrance, poking himself just far enough in that you're tearing up.

he shushes you, half amused and half just as turned on. he kisses you once, quick, and then finally gives you what you're both wanting. in one even motion, anthony's pushing into you, slowly splitting you open in a way that feels impossible.

you moan in sync—anthony's low and stomach turning, yours high pitched and lewd—as his pelvis bumps your clit. he's fully sheathed inside you, tip hitting your cervix and balls slapping your ass. 

your head falls back into the pillows, mouth opening in a silent moan, walls clenching down around him.

he grunts, lips brushing your collarbone. "fuck you're so pretty, like you're fuckin made for me."

and that? you actually do verbally moan at that. loud and unforgiving. anthony smirks against your skin, but it quickly falters as he feels your walls constrict again. not wanting to—and not being able to—waste any more time, he re-grabs your legs with hand, keeping you propped open on his hip as he begins to move.

the pace is instantly relentless. the sounds of your wetness is almost disgusting, slurping and squelching every time anthony thrusts back into you. you're a mess with it, tears falling from the corner of your eyes, lips parted and wet with noises you've never made before.

seriously, he's quite literally fucking the noises into you. every time his hips meet yours, you're making some kind of animalistic noise that you used to think were only for fake porn videos. but apparently not.

"fuck," he drawls, watching himself disappear into you, just to quickly watch himself slip back out. "what happened to all that begging?"

you whine, barley lifting your head to watch anthony's cock move inside you. he's so big and perfect all over that your body is already on the uphill to a climax.

anthony smirks, not once faltering in his delicious pace. he sits back on his heels, letting go of your thighs to instead grab your hips, pulling you up and over his thighs so you're back at the perfect level.

he guides his cock back into you, and your back arches off the couch at the new angle. your hands claw at his forearms, the position making your tits push together like the perfect pillows. he swears, eyeing your hard nipples and heavy breasts like candy. 

without being able to help himself, anthony leans back over your body, thrusts momentarily slowing as he attaches his hot, wet mouth to your nipple. you gasp like a scandalized virgin, and it has him snickering around the hardened bud.

your hands card through his curly hair, tugging tightly when anthony's hand comes up to your un-attended to nipple—twisting and pinching and pulling the point between his thumb and index finger.

the stimulation is perfect, and you're pretty sure you're about to cum. "anthony," you moan, half warning, "i'm really close."

without you even needing to say it, he can feel your walls change around his length—your climax quickly approaching. the way you're clamping down on him, like you're trying to suck him deeper and deeper inside. the way you start to squirt a little bit, soaking his balls and the cushion.

but anthony's not ready for you to cum. not yet. so he pulls completely out of you, much to your dismay, leaving you in a combination of pouting, protesting and moaning like the farthest thing from a saint.

"what the fuck," you pant, walls fluttering in search of the friction they'd just been blessed with. and he doesn't acknowledge your words right away, which only succeeds in making your more frustrated and way more turned on—like that's somehow become possible.

using his giant hands that you hope never leave your body again, anthony flips you over—easily and quick like you're nothing but a rag doll. your spasming at the thought—until your stomach is pressed flat against the couch.

"you're fine," he insists firmly, but with the undertone of gentleness that has you swooning like this is a scene in a rom com. not sure how the rating on that would play out. but you're far from complaining. in fact, your pushing your ass up in the air, wiggling against his erect member so that it's slipping between your cheeks.

"fucking hell baby." anthony breathes a moan, and then his hand comes down hard and fast against your ass. the sound echos through your apartment, and you wouldn't be surprised if you received a noise complaint soon. he smooths the sting with a gentle palm, and then he pushing and pulling you open—giving himself a nice view of your twitching, dripping entrance.

"put your dick inside me," you sigh, looking over your shoulder like you're some kind of porn star—lips slick and lashes fluttering. "please. I can't take it anymore."

"you want to cum?" anthony asks, pressing his chest to your back. your mouths meet in a messy kiss that barley last a half second. he growls against you, teeth nipping at your bottom lip as you nod lazily in response. "spread your legs then. wider."

and you do just that, with the help of anthony's greedy hands pushing your thighs further apart, pressing you so deep into the cushions that you can barley breathe. but you don't move. you don't want to. what you want, is already easing back inside you're awaiting pussy.

anthony doesn't say anything while he completely pushes back into you, too busy basking in the sound of your whiny mewl—the new angle providing a much deeper and snug feeling.

"oh god anthony, it's so good."

"I know, shit," he grunts in agreement, defined pelvis hitting your ass with every pronounced thrust.

the coil in your stomach is back almost immediately—an approaching orgasm that is tightly wound as if it never left. the pace at which anthony's pounding into you is achieving two things that contribute to your fast falling. the first, his heavy balls are slapping against your clit with every tilt, and the second is how you're jumping up the couch due to the motion—and if it weren't for his hands holding onto your hips and waist and ass and anything he can physically grab, you'd be gone.

the combination of every touch and pleasurable pulse throughout your entire body, and the open mouthed kiss anthony decides to press against your shoulder blade at that very moment, has you cumming. hard.

you can't control the shout that rips through your lungs. it vibrates through you, and you dip your face into the sweaty throw pillow to quiet the breathy moans of aftershock that pass through you.

anthony falters as your warm walls spasm around his impossibly hard length. he falls forward again, a low groan vibrating through his chest and against your back. but he keeps fucking you through it, letting you ride out the high.

it's hard—your tight, and he can barley thrust into you while you're spasming—but he can't stop. not when he's close like this.

"that's it," teeth against your shoulder, "fuck, coming all over my dick. such a good girl."

you can feel yourself leaking—squirting like a waterfall—all over anthony, dripping off his balls and your pussy lips and onto the couch, as anthony continues that feverish pace into your weeping, tired entrance.

"fuck," you whisper, coming down. you're shaking pathetically, from your lips all the way down to yours legs. mastering the strength to look over your shoulder, you find anthony's tender gaze.

your makeup is smudged beyond fixing, tears leaking from the corner of your eyes like he's ruined you. lips bruised and glossy. it's erotic in the best possible way. anthony surges forward before he can stop himself, hand grabbing at your chin and pulling you up and back against him so you’re both on your knees.

you whine, sensitive and anthony kisses your neck. "I know," he huffs, dick sliding in and out of you easily. "i'm sorry. just a little bit longer."

if you weren't so fucked out, you would've physically swooned. because the man is literally chasing a climax and he's still worried for you. reassuring you. and your belly swoops regardless of how tired you are. and maybe you even flutter a little bit aorund him. you're just a girl.

anthony holds you tightly, chasing quickly, thrusts growing sloppier and more erratic as he feels his orgasm at the brink. your small hands wrap around the forearm he's got around your shoulders, sweaty head of hair falling back against his chest as you completely give your body to him.

before he can even utter the question, you’re looking up at him, eyes wide like a begging cat. "please cum inside me. wanna feel you leaking out of me all night—"

you're interrupted by a a particular long and rough thrust, followed by a moan of release. you can't help but smile breathily at the feeling of his seed coating your insides—hot, creamy spurts of anthony filling you so wonderfully. so much so that it's too much, and quickly begins leaking out around the base of his cock still very much nestled in your warmth, mixing with your arousal and falling to the couch.

you'll definitely need to have that dry cleaned.

anthony's mouthing at your neck, snapping you out of your own dazed thoughts, his breath warm against your sweaty skin. "you okay?"

"yeah," you swallow around your raw throat. "better than okay."

he lifts off your neck, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. "yeah?"

"yeah."

the word hangs between you—soft, breathless, heavier than it should be. his smirk eases into something deeper, something that makes your stomach flip, and then he leans in to kiss you again. slow. unhurried. like he finally has permission to take his time with you. like he's showing you that he means this.

your fingers curl in his hair without thinking, pulling him closer, and he follows with a low sound that you feel more than hear. the world seems to shrink to the heat of his mouth, the weight of him settling over you, the quiet, rhythmic creak of the couch beneath your bodies as the kiss deepens.

and then everything blurs—your on your back again, legs wrapped around his strong hips like a vice. soft breaths turning back into gasps, the warmth between you building and breaking, anthony's hands everywhere and yours just as desperate. the tree lights you hadn’t realized you'd left on blink through the haze, casting the room in slow pulses of red and gold as you both tip over that edge together. you didn't notice them that first, but the second time around, you do. and it's perfect.

time becomes impossible to track.

when it finally settles—when the last tremor fades and the only thing left is the sound of your overlapping breaths—anthony eases down between you and the back of the couch. both of you, once again, are a mess of sweat and tangled limbs, skin flushed and still buzzing. you rest your cheek on his chest without thinking, and he pulls you close like he was born knowing how.

just like that, you're here—naked, warm, exhausted, wrapped up in him and the glow of the tree—basking in whatever this just became.

the couch cushions are a mess beneath you—drying arousal, half squashed throw pillows, a blanket kicked somewhere to the floor—but neither of you care enough to look for it. neither of you care enough to break this lazy feeling to cover your naked bodies.

his heartbeat is uneven under your ear when the thought finally spills out of your mouth before you can stop it. "how come those cookies I made you sat on your island for two months? I mean, if you didn't like them or something, why not just throw them out?"

anthony huffs a tired little laugh against the top of your head, fingers dragging slow, lazy lines up and down your spine. "because you made them," he mutters against your hairline, "and throwing them in the garbage felt wrong."

you shift just enough to look up at him, trying—and failing—to hide the warmth spreading across your face. "oh. okay." you hum dumbly, because what else are you supposed to say when the one thing that had you thinking so vastly about your neighbour, now has a purpose.

that if you'd just asked about the plate of cookies that kept you up all hours of the night—endless thought about your grumpy hot neighbour hating you, looming over your head—anthony would've told you the truth and this thing may of happened months ago.

"okay," he echoes, but his voice is softer, like he wants you to hear something beneath it.

a small silence settles, comfortable, humming. then—"hey."

you tilt your head again, looking into his tender gaze with your half lidded eyes, a smile tugging at the corner of your mouth. "mhm?"

he swallows, and your heart does something unhelpfully dramatic. "I meant what I said. this isn't just a one night thing for me. it never was, not unless that's what you wanted."

you shift onto your elbow to give yourself a better gauge at his expression. his fingers don't stop sweeping over your spine, and his gaze never wavers. there's none of that teasing undertone in his words. and that's enough for you to understand the sincerity in the words.

it's so raw it makes your chest ache.

"it's not," you reassure quietly. "I want this. want you."

he can't help the grin that overtakes his mouth, but he's stealing another kiss from you before you can truly admire him. but you're okay with that, because you're sure you'll have a lifetime to do so.

you pull back, a little dazed and sticky between your thighs. "merry christmas, anthony."

his smile breaks fully then, warm and boyish and devastating. he kisses your forehead, your nose, the corner of your mouth in a sympathy, creating a flurry of giggling laughter in you.