#cxm fluff

So, you enter his flat, turkey and brussel sprouts in hand, and sneak straight past his room into the kitchen. He’s so busy tapping away at his keyboard that he doesn’t even notice you - perfect.

It takes hours, of course, and you mentally prepare yourself for him to walk in before you finish. Yet, predictable as ever, he doesn’t step foot in the kitchen, nor can you even hear him leave his room. I’m not convinced he’s human, you think to yourself.

You’re taking the turkey out of the oven - the final piece of your festive endeavour - when you catch a flash of green in the corner of your eye. You nearly drop the oven tray on the floor.

You only regain your balance because you’d yet to take the tray out fully. Before a serious accident can occur, you carefully place it onto the counter and push it further inwards - for good measure.

Finally, you spin around on your heels to face your straight-faced boyfriend. “Surprise!” you exclaim, clapping your gloved hands together.

“I think I surprised you more,” his voice is steady and monotonous, the only emotion displayed on his face is the slight curve of his mouth into a lopsided smirk. He traipses over and plants a kiss onto your forehead, playfully rubbing it in as his hand messes through your hair.

Takeru glances at all the food laid out neatly on the table: crisped potatoes, assorted veggies, stuffing, pigs in blankets, and a space in the middle reserved, assumedly, for the turkey.

“So this is what you were doing?” he muses. For a moment you think that, maybe, he’s impressed. “I was wondering why you were making all that noise.”

Whoops. A blush creeps onto your cheeks as you turn your attention back to the turkey, carefully shuffling it onto a plate. “You knew?”

“Of course, I knew,” Takeru sighs. He plops himself down onto a chair, “You’re not very subtle.”

“Y-yeah,” you place the meat in the middle and sit across from him, your hands a tangled and panicked mess in your lap, “I wanted to do something nice for you, for Christmas.”

“It is nice,” you hear him say. When you shoot your head up, he’s smiling. It’s that rare one you hardly see - it’s not laced with cockiness or mockery, it’s just gentle. You smile back, “I’m glad.”

By the end of the meal, your brain is foggy with the sheer amount you’ve eaten. You glance over at your boyfriend, unphased despite eating most of the food, and grow a little envious. At least he enjoyed it, that’s good.

“So,” he rests his chin on his hand, “what’s for dessert?”

Crap. You were so distracted by how long your shopping list had grown that you completely forgot to add something sweet on there. That was rule number one with Takeru, how could you forget? You jolt awake from your looming food coma with adrenaline.

“I’ll make something real quick!” you announce. You could’ve sworn there were a few baking ingredients left behind from the last time you were here - perhaps that would be enough for him. 

When you try to scramble out of your seat and beeline to the cupboards, you don’t make it very far. A hand around your wrist yanks you backwards and you feel yourself fall, air whooshing past your ears at frightening speeds.

But you land in Takeru’s lap, his free arm holding you upright to face him. His expression is unreadable - all you can see is his face so close to yours, his breath warm on your lips.

And he kisses you.

Eyes wide open, you’re too shocked to react at first. Just a second ago you were trying to remember how to make sponge cake, or maybe cookies, and now Takeru’s lips were on yours, his tongue gliding through the delicious parting your surprise left him.

You let him in, melting in his hands so easily, and thread your fingers through his messy green hair in a desperate attempt to pull him even closer.

Takeru’s hands roam from your back to your soft thighs, he smiles into your kiss when you squirm at his touch adventuring further and further up your leg, under the hem of your skirt. He takes advantage of your little gasps and pushes his tongue deeper, wanting to explore you completely.

He’s the first to pull away and you follow for a second, unwilling to let go. His signature smirk makes you pout.

“You’re sweet enough for me,” he says.

Reaching up to cup his cheek, you pull him close again so that your lips are practically touching. “Good,” you whisper, and attack again. 

@12daysofchristmas