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As the Seasons Grey	By : christinecornell Category: Celebrities - Misc > AU - Alternate Universe Views: 46 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: Started life as kinky Christmas-related short stories in 2022 and took on a life of its own shortly thereafter. 100 fiction, none of this is real, and I own nothing except for the character of Christine.

Chapter List
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“Christine? Christine?”
She opened her eyes and there was Alex who loomed right over her head, with a look of concern on his handsome face. Fake snow powdered the crown of his head, which in turn made his deep blue eyes stand out more to her through the shadows on his face. He showed her a little smile and a gentle stroke of her arm with his free hand: she noticed that he still had his guitar slung over his shoulder, but he had moved it onto his back so he could be closer to her.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t think I'd put you to sleep,” he confessed.
The dream felt so real to her, all the events, all the ways in which they pleased each other and uncovered each other’s secrets to one another. She swore that it had all happened for real: she could still feel his body up against her own.
But she raised her head from the arm of the chair next to her, and she peered up to the ceiling overhead. The fake snow continued to billow down all around them and onto the seats and the aisles all around them.
“Oh, my god. It felt so real.”
“What did?” he asked her with a slight knitting of his eyebrows.
“The dream I had just had,” she told him, and she massaged her temples. “You and I were hanging out and being sexy with each other. We made love and fooled around and—experimented. Kind of went crazy with it, too.”
“Wow.”
“Yeah.” She let out a low whistle and gazed right into those deep eyes as they stared back at her, still as clear as the night sky after a snowfall despite the big glass of wine he had had before then: she could still smell the grapes in his breath.
He seemed rather nonchalant about it: had he been anyone else, he perhaps would have asked her to leave. But he momentarily dropped his gaze to her breasts and her body, and then he offered her his hand.
“What’s going on?” she asked him.
“Just take my hand,” he told her. She did, and he held onto her as she stood up to her feet. She arched her back and stretched, given she had lain across the chairs for a great deal of time as he performed up there for her. Indeed, as he led her down the aisle to the steps by the stage, she could feel the slight sway to her hips with each and every step.
His music had rocked her and cradled her and wormed its way inside of her: he had helped her dream on the erotic level, and she could still feel it inside of her as they walked together to those steps.
Indeed, it wasn’t until he started up the stairs himself when she noticed something about the way in which he walked: as if his pants were too big for his legs. He hitched them a bit once he reached the top, and then he turned to face her with a bold smile. The band of the jeans slung down below his waist, and she realized that they were in fact too big for him. When she stood before him, she recognized the shade of the denim, as well as the slightly bowed look to the hips.
“Are those my pants,” she asked him, and he turned his head for a raise of his eyebrows at her.
“Maybe,” he replied. “Maybe not.”
“They’re awfully loose,” she told him. “Like they’re made—for a girl who’s a bit hippy.”
Alex kept the guitar slung around on his back as he took her by the hand again and led her to the back part of the stage itself. He nudged the curtains out of the way with his free hand, and then he held it open for her.
Christine recognized the apple trees out there, those big full lush ripe apples filled to the brim with juice and decadence. She gazed beyond the orchard, and she spotted something else there. It wasn’t up on the hill, but she knew it when she saw it.
Alex reached up and picked an apple off the branch, and he handed it to her. Christine took a bite and the juice nearly dribbled down her chin.
“Ooh, that’s a good apple,” he remarked as he picked a second one off the branch for himself.
As they ate their apples, they continued on past the apple orchard to the front door at the far end. Christine reached out for the knob, and she held it open for him.
They stepped inside and she recognized the whole entire front room, everything down to the box for the apple cores once they were finished with them.
“Is this the cabin?” she asked him.
“Indeed, it is,” he replied with a smile on his face and a lick of his cherry lips. He turned away from the door and the window, the latter of which Christine noticed still had the menorah in repose: the candles looked as though they had burned down along the wicks at some point. She wondered if it all did in fact happen, even though he swore that it was a mere journey through the mind.
“You know,” he started again once he had another large bite of apple, “there’s something that I really wanted to do when we were here in the cabin, and we were eating those aphrodisiacs together to make us randy and whatnot. Something that I thought we would do during Hanukkah.”
“What’s that?” she asked him, and he set the apple down on the table before them. He then clapped his hands, and the fire in the corner roared to life. Alex picked up the apple for another bite, and that was when he took off the guitar from his shoulder. He set it down on the floor and leaned the neck against the arm of the couch, the couch that looked so familiar to her.
He strode on over to the rug before the fireplace, and he plopped down on the soft shag with his legs extended out before him as if he was about to touch his toes. The pants nearly fell off his legs as he sank down onto the rug.
He took another bite of apple, a rather slow bite no less, and he gestured Christine to come on over to him: all the while, he hooded those deep eyes, so they hooked her and lured her in with their crystal-clear venom.
Christine showed him a playful little smile and then she sashayed over to him, and she knelt before him: all the while, she never lifted her gaze from his. All the while, they kept their eyes locked on one another. He held the apple before him, as decadent and indulgent as the dream itself, and he softly puckered those soft lips at her, as if he beckoned an even softer, more decadent kiss from her.
She leaned in for the sweetest caress, and she caught a whiff of soap on his neck, as if he had just climbed out of the shower rather than indulge in a glass of wine. Before she could ruminate it further, he then lay down on his back before her. He extended his arms out from his body, as if he was giving himself to her. In a fleeting glimpse of memory, she could hear the orchestra in the snowstorm followed by the jazz trio in the bistro, one right after the other, in the back of her mind.
It was so real, and yet she swore that it was all a dream.
“On the carpet, my snow bunny,” he told her as he put his hands behind his head. She took another bite of the apple and then she set the apple down next to his there on the edge of the rug. She suspended herself over his body, so her hair dangled down to his head and the sides of his neck.
He closed his eyes part of the way: the flickering flames of the fire danced over his soft, round, handsome face, which in turn only accentuated the shape as well as the curliness of his hair. She lifted one hand for a stroke down his chest, down the button up shirt under his jacket, down the outside of the jacket, all the way down to the flaccid jeans around his waist. Formal and dapper up top, but he kept it low-slung and sensual down below, just how he should be for her.
“Low and slow, dearest Christine,” he whispered to her. “Low and slow to go with the dwindling moments of the year. I'll see you soon."
She clasped her hands to the sides of his face, and her lips interlocked with his. He tasted like apples, wine, and the most luscious of sin she could ever possibly imagine. She lay her body down on top of his, and the mere caress allowed her heart to pound a bit harder inside of her chest and her hips to writhe upon his. The soft, plush fabrics of his ensemble only cradled her as she slid her hands down the front of his body, down to the band of his jeans for a feel and more soft caresses, all to pleasure him and to please her in the meantime. All for the sweetest, most decadent euphoric feeling out of the entire adventure, the adventure through the mind as well their bodies and all the secrets they had locked away from the world.
He was hers, all for her, by the time the swipe of midnight struck them out of the adventure of the mind, and it all came from the mere strum of his guitar.
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As the Seasons Grey