#kd77

“We’re having this conversation because you’re too stubborn to consider my point of view,” Kirby bites back, a wide grin on his face. He’s always felt delighted when you fight him, especially when your arguments turn back to the root of your rivalry: Kirby’s Canadiens and your Bruins. 

It’s been the same topic of conversation since you met, when Kirby called you out for wearing a Boston Bruins t-shirt and expressed his own poor taste. You knew why he preferred the Habs from the first second, since you’re an avid hockey fan. You know the people on the team that you hate. Kirby seems to think that he knows more than you because he is an active player in the rivalry and you’re just a spectator, but that’s exactly why you think you know it better. You get to see both sides from the outside and even though you are biased, you’re not nearly as biased as Kirby is. He’s loyal to his team, which would be an admirable quality if his team was any good.

Your mouth opens in shock. “I am considering your point of view. You’re just so into yourself and your team that you can’t accept that mine is better.”

The hot tub cleared out shortly after you two started arguing, leaving you and Kirby alone in opposite corners. It’s like a boxing match and you’re both coming out with your fists swinging. 

“Your team is not better!” Kirby exclaims. “The Bruins had a shit season!”

“We are allowed to have a shit season. You bitches have had a bad decade!”

Kirby flinches back like you hit him, looking affronted and borderline betrayed.

You think you could’ve crossed a line, to be fair, but you’re right. The Habs have gone to the playoffs, but they haven’t had a solid, powerful team in a long time. You shrug and shake your head at Kirby, daring him to retort.

He surges forward and gets his hands on you instead. It’s not a violent or intimidating series of touches, but you’re caught off guard by it. 

Kirby tugs you over to his side of the hot tub and holds onto you by the ties of your bikini bottoms. “You are so fucking infuriating,” he growls. He licks over his bottom lip and bites down on it, eyes narrowed as he surveys you. He seems to consider you for a moment, then makes a snap decision. “Do you even know how much you affect me, Y/N?”

It’s your turn to bring your eyebrows together. “No,” you say defensively, pushing away from him and trying to squirm back to your corner.

Kirby catches your wrists and pauses, calculating his actions again. You freeze when he circles his fingers around your wrist, not out of fear, but because… well… you have been known to like a man who’s stronger than you.

And you are starting to see the appeal of Mr. Kirby Dach, even though it’s going against every fiber of your being.

His eyes flicker over your features, raking in your blown yet confused pupils and the pink on your cheeks and the way that you’re not trying to get away from him anymore. Kirby inhales and brings your hand to his abdomen, then slides it lower, giving you plenty of time to pull away.

Your hand covers his bulge tentatively, then you double down upon feeling just how hard he is. His cock is raging, straining against his board shorts. 

You blink at him, not sure what to say. “Every time?” you muster weakly.

“Every time,” Kirby confirms. “You do something to me, Y/N. Even if we hate each other. You do something to me.”

You lick your lips slowly and nod, taking in his words and processing the overwhelming information facing you. Kirby’s hard and he says that you affect him every time you fight and now, he’s not looking at you like he wants to fight you. He’s looking at you like he wants to devour you.

It’s your turn to move slowly, moving to straddle his lap. You let your weight sit against his cock, allowing him to feel you against him. 

“What are you going to do if someone sees you grinding against a Montreal supporter?” Kirby asks seriously, although his hands have remained on your hips and are now dragging you along his length.

You feel like you’re in a trance, staring at his mouth move. “Tell them you made a good point for once, maybe,” you reply, inching forward until you feel Kirby’s smile widen underneath your lips. Then, you close the distance and kiss him, feeling all of your frustration and anger towards him and his opinions melt away, seeping out of you and transferring that energy into the sexual tension between you. 

Your first Christmas in your shared place with Kirby meant the changing of traditions.

For years, your four-foot-tall synthetic pine tree was the perfect centrepiece for your tiny apartment during the holidays. It fit perfectly in the corner of your living room, decorated in string lights and tiny baubles when the season came around.

But now, everything has changed. Your new home — a proper house, with more rooms and higher ceilings — called for something grander. The diminutive tree, once perfect, suddenly felt out of place in your freshly upgraded surroundings. It was time for a full-sized tree, one that matched the new chapter of your life.

Kirby, however, had other ideas. Firmly attached to childhood memories of fresh pine scent, he insisted on a real tree this year. His excitement was contagious, and soon, the two of you were bundled up and driving an hour outside Montreal to a picturesque Christmas tree farm.

The crisp December air bit at your cheeks as you and Kirby stepped out of the car, boots crunching on a patchwork of frost and dirt. Before you stretched a sea of evergreens - rows upon rows of firs, spruces, and pines, their limbs sagging under a heavy blanket of snow. The air was thick with the smell of pine and earth, mingling with the faint echo of distant voices and the whir of a chainsaw. This was not the bustling lot of pre-cut trees you'd frequented in the past, but a proper Christmas tree farm, sprawling and timeless, as if untouched by the haste of modernity.

Kirby, bundled in a black parka and a knit hat that sat slightly askew, surveyed the scene before him. “Alright,” he murmured, his breath curling in the cold air like smoke. “It’s out there somewhere. The perfect tree.”

You smiled, tucking your gloved hands into your coat pockets for warmth. “Just so long as it doesn’t take all day. My fingers are already frozen.”

Kirby grinned, his eyes alight with boyish enthusiasm. He hoisted the chainsaw out of the back of his car and started toward the nearest row of evergreens. “C’mon! It’ll be fun!”

The two of you meandered into the forest of trees, saw in hand, ready to claim a piece of this natural expanse for your living room. The first tree you approached was stately, its branches dense and green, with a satisfying triangular shape. You turned to Kirby with a hopeful look, but he tilted his head, squinting as if trying to solve a riddle. He circled the tree slowly, running a gloved hand along the needles.

“Hmm,” he murmured. “The back side has a bare patch.”

“It’s going to be against the wall,” you pointed out, already feeling a chill crawl up your legs.

Kirby shook his head, resolute. “We’ll keep looking.”

And so, the journey continued. Tree after tree presented itself as a potential candidate, only to fall short of Kirby’s exacting standards. Too sparse. Too lopsided. Too short. Too tall. The phrase just ‘pick one already’ hovered on the tip of your tongue, biting back the urge to utter it aloud as you trudged through the snow.

“Kirby, my fingers are about to snap off,” you finally said, rubbing your mitten-covered hands together for emphasis. “Can’t we compromise? Like, just a little?”

“We’ve only seen half the lot,” he replied, undeterred. “Trust me, the perfect one is out there.”

You sighed, casting a glance back toward the farm entrance where cheerful families bustled about, loading their chosen trees onto trailers. Kirby’s optimism was beginning to grate against your growing fatigue. You had dressed for the weather, accommodating the recent winter chill that had settled over Quebec, but the cold had seeped past your thermal socks and three layers of clothing.

At last, when you were two seconds away from abandoning your boyfriend in the snow, you found it — a towering Fraser fir, its branches full and evenly spaced, tapering upward in a perfect, natural silhouette. The deep, lustrous green of its needles seemed to absorb the fading light. Kirby circled the tree, his expression shifting from skeptical to satisfied, his gloved fingers brushing the branches as if to confirm its solidity. “This is it,” he declared, a triumphant smile breaking across his face.

You wanted to roll your eyes but instead let out a relieved laugh. “Great. Let’s cut it down before I freeze solid.”

Kirby started up the chainsaw, the sound of the engine roaring to life shattering the tranquil quiet of the farm. Kirby knelt in the snow, the chainsaw grumbling as he carefully angled it toward the base of the tree. The blade bit into the wood with a satisfying growl, and the tree began to teeter.

“Watch out!” Kirby called, grinning ear to ear. The tree groaned softly before yielding with a final crack, the weight of it falling into the bed of snow below.

Within a couple of minutes, workers — bundled in plaid jackets and exuding a practiced efficiency — arrived on a four-wheeler, securing your tree to the attached trailer and saying they’d meet you at the front of the lot.

By the time you and Kirby reached the front of the lot, the fading sunlight had stained the sky a dusky lavender. The towering Fraser fir sat waiting for you, propped majestically against a rustic wooden fence. Beside it, a cheerful teenager with flushed cheeks and a red woolen scarf waved enthusiastically as you approached.

As the tree was whisked away, Kirby dusted the snow off his knees, a victorious gleam in his eyes. “See?” he said, pointing dramatically after the departing four-wheeler. “The perfect tree was worth the search.”

You arched an eyebrow, pulling your scarf up over your nose to shield yourself from the persistent wind. “I think I lost feeling in my feet somewhere around tree number twenty-three. But sure, let's call it worth it.”

Kirby chuckled, brushing a light dusting of snow from your shoulder. “Come on, Scrooge. Let’s get to the front before you turn into a popsicle.”

The two of you began the trek back toward the lot entrance, Kirby glancing at trees as you passed. He nearly stopped by one, a full Balsam fir, but you yanked him away. The snow crunched beneath your boots, muffling your footsteps, and your breath curled in little white clouds between bouts of conversation.

“By the way,” you said, glancing sideways at him, “what’s the plan if this thing doesn’t actually fit in the living room?”

“Oh, it’ll fit,” he replied confidently.

“And if it doesn’t?”

Kirby shot you a playful grin. “Then we’ll just have to expand the living room.”

You laughed, the sound of it rising into the frosty air. “Great, I'll call the contractor. 'Hi, we'd like to add a wing to our house because my boyfriend couldn’t settle for a smaller tree.' That’s totally normal, right?”

He smirked, nudging you with his shoulder. “Admit it. You’re going to love it once it’s all lit up with the smell of fresh pine in the air. It'll make your little plastic tree look like a coat rack.”

You gasped, feigning insult. “That ‘coat rack’ served me loyally for years! It deserved a proper retirement, not slander.”

“Well,” he said, slinging an arm over your shoulders, “let's honor its service by making this Christmas the best one yet.”

The lot entrance came into view, marked by a small cabin strung with twinkling lights and wreaths. Workers were already waiting with your tree, neatly bundled and ready for loading. Kirby picked up the pace, his excitement ramping up again as he took in the scene.

Approaching your car, you surveyed the logistics of attaching the tree to the roof. Kirby grabbed the first end of the rope from a cheerful worker and gave it a determined tug. “Alright, teamwork time.”

“Teamwork?” you echoed skeptically. “You’re the one who chose a tree big enough to double as a communications tower. I think this is a you problem.”

“Correction,” Kirby said, hauling the tree into position with exaggerated effort, “it’s an us problem. Now grab the other side and help me tie this bad boy down.”

Reluctantly, you took your position on the other side of the car. The two of you maneuvered the tree onto the roof with no small amount of effort, grunting and laughing as branches poked and prodded at every exposed surface.

“Stop letting it slide toward me!” you scolded, trying to wrangle the base into position.

“I’m not letting it slide,” Kirby retorted, laughing as he reached over to steady it. “You’re just losing your grip!”

“My grip is fine. Your aim is questionable,” you shot back, attempting to keep your balance as you stood on the edge of the car.

Finally, after several rounds of repositioning, looping rope, and a near-miss with the antenna, the tree was secured. Kirby gave the rope one last triumphant tug and stepped back, hands on his hips as he admired the handiwork. “Perfect,” he declared.

You circled the car, inspecting the knots. “Perfectly ridiculous,” you muttered, though a smile tugged at your lips. “Are we sure this thing isn’t going to take flight on the highway?”

“It’s not going anywhere,” Kirby assured you. Then, as if to test his theory, he gave the tree a hearty shake. It barely budged. “See? Solid.”

“Great,” you said, brushing the pine needles off your coat. “Now let’s get home before I get frostbite.”

Kirby held the car door open for you with a mock bow. “Your chariot awaits, oh cold and cranky one.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth twitched upward. “If this tree doesn’t turn out to be magical, I’m holding you personally responsible.”

“Oh, it’s magical, alright,” he said, slipping into the driver’s seat and firing up the engine. “Just wait until you see it all dressed up. It’s going to be the best Christmas ever.”