You Can Wait - Part 2 - Jericho & Atticus Valentine's Day (Patreon)

Unbeta'd/Unedited. I don't know if I love this or hate it but hopefully you love it.

Atticus couldn’t believe he’d let Adam talk him into this. He couldn’t believe he’d let him clue his other brothers in on his plan either. Or that they’d all been on board with it. Maybe that meant this was a huge mistake?

It seemed like a good idea at the time. Something Jericho would like far more than any material purchase when they already had more than enough. It had taken far more time to plan out what he would get than it had to actually get the ink itself. Weeks of thinking, overthinking, second-guessing, and then pretending he wasn’t thinking about it at all.

He’d originally planned to ask the feelings faction for ideas, but then Adam pointed out that if he was looking for tattoos that would make his possessive husband feral, why not just ask his brothers who were also possessive and feral over their own partners?

After getting over the initial humiliation of listening to his brothers bandy about several unhinged ideas, he’d finally settled on a plan. His only hesitations after that were timing—he would have to find a way to hide them until they healed—and embarrassment. Some of those tattoos were most definitely meant for Jericho’s eyes only. For Jericho’s hands, too.

Even if his brothers had suggested them.

Adam had laughed at him when he’d said he was hesitant to share his list of ink with any tattoo artist. He’d told him to go to a woman. That she’d be far less inclined to judge ‘whatever freaky ass shit’ Atticus had settled on to appease his obsessive husband.

In the end, Atticus had gone to a female tattoo artist and she’d actually been very supportive of the idea, almost a little too supportive. The kind of support that came with a knowing smile and a series of invasive questions about his relationship. But she’d offered ideas for placement and design, things Atticus hadn’t put much thought into at the time. Jericho would be happy that Atticus hadn’t let some other man touch him, even if it was to brand him as Jericho’s for life. 

Jericho scowled if Atticus got a massage from a male therapist at the sports medicine clinic.

Possessive was an understatement when it came to him and Atticus would be lying if he said he didn’t love it. But that was before…back when it was a plan and not reality. Now he was having a crisis. What if Jericho hated it? What if he didn’t like all the ink? What if he hated the design or the placement or just…all of it? He’d always liked the snake and the scorpion but now he was thinking maybe it was a mistake…especially the last ones.

Fuck.

His skin still felt too tight in places, like the ink had settled into him deeper than it was supposed to. 

They’d had dinner together at home then Atticus had showered alone, taking far longer than necessary to ensure he was good to go with whatever his husband had planned. He’d stood under the hot spray until his muscles went loose and his thoughts went mean. He’d redressed in a black t-shirt and gray sweatpants then sat on the edge of the bed while Jericho finished up the dishes. Every minute that passed felt like the slow climb before a drop, his nerves winding tighter and tighter until he wasn’t sure whether he was excited or terrified.

He’d never quite understood the term vibrating with nerves but he was so nervous his organs were shaking, a low hum under his skin like he was plugged into something alive. He wanted to walk, to pace, to do anything to burn off this nervous energy, his fingers flexing uselessly at his sides like he was resisting the urge to bolt.

He just wanted to…get it over with.

The reveal, not what came after. He’d been just as desperate for that as Jericho. They were addicted to each other in what was probably an unhealthy way.

He was so in his own head that he didn’t even hear Jericho enter the room until his husband snickered. “Why do you look like a nervous virgin?”

Instead of a snappy retort, he looked up at Jericho wanting to beg for him to just…be nice about whatever came next. To not laugh. To not tease. To not look at him like this was something to be endured. His expression must have been pretty dire. The smile slipped off Jericho’s face and he crossed to him in seconds. “Hey, are you okay? Why do you look so panicked? Did something happen? Are the kids okay?”

“The kids are fine,” Atticus managed, his voice a fraction thinner than usual.

Jericho frowned. “Okay,” he said hesitantly. “Then what’s with the face?”

“I had this grand plan for your gift and now I’m thinking you’ll hate it,” Atticus admitted, sounding defeated, the words tumbling out before he could stop them.

Jericho watched him, studying his face in that way he did when he was trying to read him, the look that always made Atticus feel flayed open. Atticus dropped his gaze to stare at the floor. Jericho knelt in front of him, between his open knees, forcing him to meet his gaze and staring deep into his soul in a way that made him want to squirm. His thumb brushed along Atticus’s jaw, grounding and possessive.

“Does this plan end with me inside you? Cause if it does, I’m in. All in. I can’t wait much longer, Freckles. I’m losing my patience.”

Atticus was tempted to see what Jericho losing his patience looked like, the image sending a sharp pulse of heat straight through him, but he was too nervous to tease him. His bravado from yesterday was gone. Long gone.

“I-It does. It also involves you undressing me and finding your…gift.”

Jericho grinned, brow arching, interest sharpening into something darker, more focused. “What did you do, Freckles?”

Atticus took a deep breath and let it out. He’d planned for this to feel so much sexier but his nerves were ruining everything. His pulse thudded loud enough he was sure Jericho could hear it. “You’ll see.”

Jericho placed a hand on his chest and pushed, letting him know what he wanted. Atticus crawled backward up the mattress, Jericho following him on all fours until there was no place left to go. The bed dipped under Jericho’s weight, the air between them going thick and warm. Atticus rested on his palms as Jericho settled between his knees, his brown eyes almost black even in the bright lights of their room.

Atticus licked his bottom lip, watching Jericho closely, waiting for him to make the first move. He’d positioned his clothes just so, to keep the truly scandalous tattoos under wraps until it was time. Once Jericho saw what was beneath his sweats, he would—hopefully—be far too turned on to keep playing this game with him.

And Atticus would give in. No matter how desperate Jericho was to touch him, Atticus was worse. He hadn’t realized how much he craved Jericho’s touch until he had to deny him, until every almost-touch felt like torture, like he was edging himself instead.

Jericho didn’t break eye contact as he slid his hand up Atticus’s shirt, fingers cool against his overheated skin, making the muscles tremble beneath his touch, his body already betraying him, already reacting before his brain could catch up.

“You look so nervous. I hate how hot I find that.”

Atticus’s nipples hardened, visible through his thin t-shirt. Jericho’s palm splayed on Atticus’s belly, holding him steady, owning the space, just as he dipped his head and pressed his tongue to his nipple through the fabric.

“Oh, fuck,” Atticus managed, back arching without thought, trying to get more contact, more friction from his husband. Jericho laughed softly, biting down through the material until Atticus made a sound somewhere between a moan and a whine. His hands clenched in the sheets already feeling like he was seconds from coming apart. He was already painfully hard, the wet spot on his sweatpants proof that he was just as affected, if not moreso, than Jericho. 

“You’re so easy for me, Freckles,” Jericho said, biting down on the other sensitive nub before sitting back on his haunches and peeling his own shirt over his head.

Atticus pressed his hands flat against Jericho’s belly, sliding them upwards slowly, thumbs teasing over Jericho’s nipples, savoring the shiver he felt under his palms. Jericho grabbed his wrists and pinned them over his head.

“Uh-uh,” Jericho said, voice low. “You keep your hands to yourself or this will be over before it starts.”

Atticus let himself bask in the power he held over his own husband for a moment or two, in the way Jericho was trembling too, even while pretending he wasn’t, before he met his gaze. “Then hurry up and undress me.”

He sat up as Jericho’s fingers curled around the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and off in one smooth motion, launching it over his shoulder without thought. His gaze landed on the first bit of ink scrolled just above Atticus’s heart. A low noise left his chest, nostrils flaring as he drank him in. The sound went straight through Atticus, hitting some primal part of him, lighting him up from deep within.

Jericho shoved him onto his back, then crawled over him, hovering so he could get a better look.

It's only forever; not long at all.

The tattoo was healed enough to not hurt, but Atticus still flinched as Jericho ghosted his fingertips over the ink. It wasn’t pain—it was the sheer awareness of being touched there, claimed there. Jericho pressed his lips to the tattoo almost reverently and the first knot unclenched in Atticus’s belly.

“This what you’ve been hiding from me, Freckles?”

“One of them, yeah,” Atticus managed, just as Jericho licked over the nipple just below his tattoo.

Jericho froze for half a beat, then lifted his head slowly, eyes locked on Atticus’s like he was trying to decide whether to be furious or worshipful.

“One of them?” Jericho asked, voice rougher now. “How many tattoos did you get?”

“Search me and find out. Think of it like a scavenger hunt,” Atticus said, trying for sexy but failing spectacularly, his voice cracking at the edges from how hard he was breathing.

Jericho let out something that sounded a lot like a growl, sitting up just enough to scan Atticus’s body from the waist up. He pushed his arm out of the way, taking in the coordinates inked across his ribs.

“The murder cabin?” he asked, voice almost disbelieving. Like he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh or growl.

“How’d you know?” Atticus asked, eyes finding his.

“It’s what I would have gotten,” Jericho confessed, dipping his head and pressing a kiss to that tattoo as well. The kiss lingered longer than it needed to, driving Atticus a little crazy.

He sat back, reaching for Atticus’s waistband, but Atticus grabbed his wrists. “You’re not done up here yet,” he said.

Jericho’s brow went up. “No?”

Atticus shook his head, goosebumps erupting along his skin at the look Jericho gave him, a look that said he was trying—and failing—to not lose the tight grip on his control. 

He began inspecting Atticus like a doctor looking for a serious injury, fingers trailing over his ribs, then lower, before sliding back up, teasing over his flushed nipples, lingering just long enough to make Atticus’s breath hitch, looking a little confused when he found nothing. He studied Atticus’s overly innocent expression through narrowed eyes, before grabbing his wrists and pinning them above his head again.

His eyes went wide as he saw the symbol inked high up on his inner bicep.

“You branded yourself as an omega? My omega?” he asked, breathless, almost panting, the hard ridge of his cock pressed against the crease of his thigh, heat bleeding through fabric like a promise. “Your brothers will never let you live this down.”

“It was their idea,” Atticus mumbled, face in flames, heart hammering so hard he was sure Jericho could feel it through their joined bodies.

Jericho crashed his mouth into his, heat zipping up Atticus’s spine. A low whine escaped Atticus as he opened for him. Jericho fucked his tongue past his lips like he was trying to prove a point, like he needed Atticus to understand exactly what he was doing to him.

“Your brothers suggested this?” he growled. “For me?”

“You don’t like it?” Atticus asked, knowing full well he did, even as the question trembled out of him.

“Don’t be crazy, Freckles. It’s the sexiest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Jericho said, voice thick. “Remind me to send them an edible arrangement or something.”

Just like the first tattoo, Jericho pressed his lips to it, his arousal obvious in the way he held him a little too tight, fingers pressing into tender skin, like he was afraid if he loosened his grip, Atticus might disappear. He shut his eyes as Jericho took turns pressing deep kisses into the ink on his skin, then Atticus’s mouth, his kisses softening a little more each time their lips met, slowing, deepening, turning reverent.

“There’s more,” Atticus rasped, fisting Jericho’s hair and dragging his mouth back to his.

He was torn between calling the whole thing off so he could get his husband inside him sooner or letting it play out so that Jericho was so feral Atticus would feel the repercussions for weeks. He wanted his husband to destroy him in every way. Emotionally. Physically. Sexually. 

“You’re crazy, baby. You know that?” Jericho said against his lips. “Everyone thinks you’re so uptight, but you’re so fucking crazy.” He pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes dark and shining. “You had yourself permanently marked…just for me.”

Atticus’s blood was singing at his words, thrumming low and hot in his veins. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

Another low rumble tore from Jericho’s chest before he said, “Roll over, Freckles.”

Atticus didn’t argue, couldn’t, just waited for Jericho to remove his weight from him enough to roll over and show him the tattoo nestled between his shoulder blades, barely an inch from his snake tattoo.

Jericho settled, pressing into Atticus’s lower back as he took in the tattoo, his breath stuttering once like he hadn’t expected this to hit so hard. “Is that a molecule?” he asked curiously.

Atticus nodded, cheeks flushing, grateful Jericho couldn’t see his face for this. “You’re the central atom. Everything else bonds to you.”

Jericho traced each additional hexagon slowly, deliberately, as if mapping them into memory. The softness was driving Atticus crazy. “Everything else?”

“Me. Our kids,” Atticus said. “All our kids. The ones you raised. The ones we're raising.”

“Freckles…” Jericho said, sounding as choked up as Atticus felt, his voice rough in a way that made Atticus ache.

“It doesn’t matter when they came,” Atticus continued. “They all attach to the same place.” He waited a moment, hesitated before adding, voice barely above a breath, “And…there’s room for more.”

“Fuck, Freckles. You’re killing me.” Jericho pressed his mouth against the ink, then lower, lips trailing over his spine, each kiss heavier than the last, like a vow being written into Atticus’s skin. “Now can I get you naked?” he asked, tone as close to begging as Atticus had ever heard from his husband before. 

Atticus couldn’t bring himself to speak, just nodded. This next tattoo was the one that would either break his husband or make Atticus regret the hours spent in that tattoo chair. 

When his fingers caught in Atticus’s waistband, he tensed, but lifted his hips. Jericho sucked in a shocked breath. He didn’t blame him. It was by far the biggest tattoo—well, tattoos. Jericho didn’t even pull his pants off all the way, just froze, as if his brain short-circuited on sight.

After a second, his hands wrapped around Atticus’s hips and squeezed, fitting over the handprints permanently inked on his body forever. Jericho’s hands.

The fingers only aligned from the back, as if Jericho was grabbing his hips, holding him still so he could fuck into him properly like he had a million times before when he was unraveling him.

“How did you even manage this?” he rasped, voice rough, like they scraped his throat on the way out. “Are these my actual hands?”

Atticus snorted at the absurdity, though his stomach fluttered with nerves. “Who else’s hands would they be?”

He hissed as Jericho’s hand came down hard on his ass, a possessive smack that sent heat shooting straight up Atticus’s spine. “Careful, Freckles, or I’ll make you get a tattoo of the handprints I leave on your ass too.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” Atticus teased, arching his back to rub against Jericho’s still clothed cock, getting desperate for friction.

“How did you do this…” Jericho repeated, quieter now.

Atticus smiled into the pillow. “Do you want to ask questions or do you want to find the last two tattoos?”

“Two?” Jericho echoed, and Atticus could hear the hunger sharpen in his voice.

“Mm,” Atticus hummed.

Jericho tugged Atticus’s pants completely off, throwing them blindly just as he had his shirt. His hands landed on Atticus’s ass, gripping him tight, then spreading him open.

“Not even I’m that bold,” Atticus admitted, voice muffled by the pillow, pulse thundering as exposure turned into vulnerability.

Jericho chuckled, warm breath skimming over Atticus’s skin. “I wasn’t looking for ink, Freckles. I was looking for dessert.”

Atticus wasn’t going to say no to Jericho’s mouth on him, but he needed him to see the last of the tattoos so he could finally relax. He needed to know this wasn’t a mistake. That Jericho wasn’t going to look at him and laugh, no matter how absurd the idea was.

“You’re getting distracted,” he warned.

Jericho snorted. “Who wouldn’t. This ass is a work of art. It's always been my greatest distraction.”

Atticus buried his smile in the pillow. “Well, you’re lucky then, ’cause the next tattoo is right there.”

Jericho’s hands roamed, his confusion evident, fingers sweeping lower, searching, as if he couldn’t believe Atticus had managed to hide something from him for this long. Finally, he thought to shift his weight to Atticus’s thighs.

Atticus knew the moment Jericho saw it. The words inked along the crease just under his right ass cheek.

Jericho’s property.

He gasped as Jericho’s wet tongue licked over the ink, then teeth sank in just above his ass cheek. He couldn’t hide his whine. Jericho licked over him again, slow and deliberate, like he was proving a point, like he was proving his ownership. 

“That’s right, Freckles. You’ve always been mine. Just mine. You were born just for me,” he said, sinking his teeth into Atticus’s skin again and again, seemingly spurred on by Atticus’s cries. “God, I want to devour you. I can’t believe you made me wait this long to touch you.” 

“It was hard for me too,” Atticus panted. “I was losing my mind. I hate how out of it I feel when your hands aren’t on me.” 

“I love it. I want you to want me so badly you can’t breathe without me. Just how I want you.” 

“After all of this, you still don’t know how much I need you?” Atticus asked. 

“Show me that final tattoo so I can take care of you. Spread your thighs, princess.”

Atticus flushed, pressing his face into the pillow as he complied, heat crawling up his neck. Jericho had no idea just how accurate that statement was.

Jericho sat between his open legs, hands fitting perfectly into the ink on his hips as he pulled him to his knees. “Fuck, this is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m never fucking you any other way but this.” 

Atticus’s heart raced as Jericho trailed fingertips along the back of his thighs, then between his legs, stopping short over the last and final tattoo, so high up on his inner thigh he’d have to be naked for anyone to see it.

It was just the outline of a pillow with a crown in the middle.

Jericho’s breath stuttered. His hands went still like the world had tilted.

“Perfect,” Jericho said, voice wrecked. “It’s perfect.” His grip tightened, like he couldn’t help it, like he was trying to anchor himself to Atticus. “You’re fucking perfect. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”

Atticus’s throat tightened. “Jer…” 

Jericho draped himself over Atticus so he could trail his lips over his neck, his jaw, his ear. “I’m serious. I couldn’t live without you. I don’t even know how to be me without you anymore. You know that right? This has never been one-sided.” 

Atticus blinked back tears. “This wasn’t quite how I saw this night going,” he admitted, words thick. 

“No?” Jericho asked. “How did you see the night going?” he asked, biting the back of his neck. 

His hands wrapped around his hips, scraping his teeth over the knobs of his spine, sucking bruises into his skin as he made his way back down. 

“This works,” Atticus admitted breathlessly. 

Jericho’s hands slid lower, spreading him open, a moment before his tongue dragged over his rim. His whole body jerked in response, his cock throbbing, leaking onto the sheets below. He groaned into the pillow, pressing his hips back, moaning with every wet flick.

“Oh, fuck. I missed this so much,” Atticus whispered. 

“Me too. I missed your taste, your scent. God, I could do this forever,” Jericho said, almost like he was just thinking out loud. “You’re my favorite fucking meal.” 

Somehow that made it a thousand times hotter. 

Atticus reached down to wrap his hand around himself, but Jericho batted his hand away. “Don’t get cocky, Freckles. Just cause it's been a while doesn’t mean you get to touch yourself before I say so.” 

Oh, so it was going to be one of those nights. 

“Do something or I will,” Atticus grumbled, yelping when Jericho’s hand came down hard on his ass once more. 

Why the fuck did that turn him on so much? 

His breath hitched, head hanging as Jericho lapped at him like he was his favorite treat. He tried not to press back into the sensation, but it was impossible not to chase the pleasure after being denied for so long. When Jericho’s probing tongue pressed past the tight ring of muscle, he pulled back. 

“Did you finger yourself open for me already, Freckles?” he asked, before diving back in. 

It took Atticus a moment to catch his breath, heat zipping through him. 

He nodded. “I need you inside me…this has been torture for me too, you know.” 

“Okay, princess,” Jericho said, with one last devastating press of his tongue. “I got you.”

He felt the bed shift, Jericho snagging the lube off their bedside table. The sound of the cap snapping open had his cock jerking, the response was almost pavlovian at this point. He was so hard it hurt. Three fingers circled his entrance, before pressing inside. He hissed at the burn, but it quickly died into that familiar ache he craved. When Jericho didn’t move fast enough, Atticus began to press back, fucking himself on his fingers until Jericho slapped his ass again. 

“Don’t get greedy, Freckles. Take what you’re given.” 

Atticus grunted in frustration, but held still. Jericho moved at a glacial pace, spreading his fingers every time he pulled out, then thrusting back in hard enough to rock him forward. Atticus moaned each time he swept his fingertips across that bundle of nerves until he felt like he might explode if he wasn’t inside him soon. 

He twisted to look over his shoulder, only to find Jericho’s gaze locked on where they were joined, his free hand still curved into the inked version of his own on Atticus’s hip. He was biting his lower lip, seemingly transfixed. 

“Please,” Atticus begged. “I need you to fuck me already.” 

Jericho blinked, spell broken, pulling his fingers free, then wiping them on the sheets. “I got you, Freckles.” 

Atticus watched as he slicked lube over his thick cock, then dropped his head between his shoulders, burying his face in the pillow, anticipation blooming in his core. The blunt pressure against his rim had him holding his breath as he pressed inside. It was slow, but deliberate, filling him in that way only he could. He’d missed the pressure, the fullness, the feeling of being completely and totally owned. 

Jericho wrapped his hands around Atticus’s hips, pulling almost all the way out before driving back in, ripping the air from his lungs. Heat curled inside him, flames racing along his spine with every thrust until he could barely breathe. How did it always feel so fucking good? 

“Fuck, you feel so fucking good, princess,” Jericho groaned, echoing his thoughts. “I can’t believe you made me wait so fucking long. I hope you didn’t plan on sleeping. I’m going to fuck you all night, gonna breed you until its dripping out of you. Gonna keep you on all fours just like this until you’re begging me to stop.” 

“When have I ever begged you to stop,” Atticus managed, the words punching out of him between thrusts. 

Jericho slapped his ass for the third time that night, dragging a moan from him. “There’s a first time for everything. You’ve never kept me this hungry for this long. You have no idea how addicted I am to your ass, to being inside you. Your so fucking hot and wet inside. I swear your body was made just for me. It's like a drug. I want to die buried inside you like this.” 

Atticus was on fire, between his husband’s filthy mouth and the sharp snap of his hips, he wasn’t going to last more than a minute. He bit his lip to keep his whining to a minimum, but every time he buried himself, he dragged over Atticus’s prostate. If he didn’t come soon, he might actually perish. He was leaking copious amounts of precum, his cock painfully flushed and throbbing from neglect. 

“I need to come,” he managed, voice raw, words laced with desperation.

Jericho gripped him tighter, grunting as he bottomed out again. “You can come if you want to, princess but I’m not stopping until I do. If you can handle the oversensitivity, go ahead.” 

Normally, Atticus would have waited until Jericho came but he couldn’t. The sound of their bodies meeting, the filthy squelch of the lube, Jericho’s almost animalistic breathing…He was losing it, the need to get off was like an itch under his skin that he just had to scratch. He wrapped a hand around himself, groaning with relief. He jerked himself with no finesse, the dry clutch of his hand borderline painful, but that somehow just made it better. 

“Fuck, I can feel how close you are,” Jericho growled. “The way you tighten up, the way your body is sucking me in.” 

Atticus made a sound he wasn’t proud of, something between a whine and a cry, his vision going white as he came hard. 

An almost euphoric feeling washed over him, but it was Jericho who moaned. “Oh, fuck. Yeah. Clench around me just like that. You're gonna make me come.”

“Do it,” Atticus managed, saying the magic words that always drove Jericho crazy. “I want to feel it. Fill me up. Breed me.” 

Jericho growled, planting a hand between his shoulder blades, fucking into him in a way that had his toes curling, nailing his oversensitive prostate every time. It somehow hit both his pleasure and pain receptors, confusing his body until his cock was trying to rally and he was drooling onto his pillow, jaw slack and mind empty. 

“Fuck. Fuck. Gonna come. Gonna give you what you want. Ready, baby?” 

That was his only warning before Jericho collapsed over him, hips grinding against his ass. Atticus let Jericho take him down, wincing at the feel of his own cum cool on the sheets below. The feel of Jericho’s heavy breaths and the weight of him on top of Atticus was soothing in a way he could never explain to another human with any level of accuracy. 

“Don’t pull out,” he said, voice raw. “Can we just stay like this?” 

Jericho’s lips pressed into the tattoo between his shoulder blades. “Yeah, Freckles. We can stay just like this.” 

“Good.” 

“I never got to give you your gift,” Jericho said after a while, still pressing kisses into his skin, lazy, open-mouthed ones that lingered like he couldn’t quite stop touching him.

Atticus laughed softly. “This wasn’t it?”

“No,” Jericho said, his amusement evident, voice still rough from earlier, like it hadn’t fully recovered. “But it can wait. Unless you want me to go get it now?”

“Not yet,” Atticus said. “Just a few more minutes like this?”

A few more minutes turned into two hours and two more orgasms, their sheets twisted and kicked to the foot of the bed, the air thick and warm with sweat and sex.

When Jericho returned from the spare room, he held a large navy box in his hands with a satin ribbon of the same color. He handed it to Atticus, then sat cross-legged on the bed beside him. He looked nervous, shoulders tight, like he was bracing for impact.

Atticus frowned, lifting the top off the luxe box, expecting something expensive but heartfelt. Instead, he found himself staring down at two halves of a metallic anatomical heart. He pulled them out, turning the pieces this way and that. They were heavy. They were detailed. Painstakingly so. Veins etched in delicate ridges, chambers hollowed with precision. It was industrial and intimate all at once. Inside appeared to be a series of gears, almost like a music box or maybe a watch.

“What is it?” Atticus asked, already feeling something tighten in his chest, like he’d been handed something magical.

“Put the two halves together,” Jericho said.

Atticus frowned, staring at them, only then noticing the grooves in the metal. He pressed the two halves together until there was a click. There was a faint whirring sound and then a steady pulsing sound. The heart was beating.

The sound was soft but rhythmic, a mechanical thud that filled the quiet room in a way that felt almost sacred.

“Where did you find this?” Atticus asked, running his fingers along the polished metal, the cool surface a stark contrast to the warmth still clinging to his skin.

“I made it,” Jericho admitted.

When Atticus looked up, his husband’s cheeks were bright red. Had he ever seen Jericho blush in his life? Not once. It softened something in Atticus he hadn’t known was braced. “You made it? Like made it made it? Not had it commissioned?”

Jericho nodded. “I made it. Out of parts from the garage. I’ve been playing around with the idea for a while but I finally figured out how to make it work. You hate when I buy you generic gifts and when I buy you expensive gifts, so this year, I thought I’d try something handmade.”

“I love anything you give me,” Atticus clarified, voice quieter now. “But this is beautiful. And you made it for me?”

It wasn’t that he couldn’t believe Jericho had made it but that he’d spent so much time on something just for him. 

“Yeah.” Jericho swallowed. “It’s you and me. Two halves of the same heart. It only beats when we’re together.”

Atticus could feel himself getting choked up, felt like all the love he had for this man was getting caught in his throat, holding back the words wanting to spill out. His pulse synced with the steady mechanical rhythm in his hands. “It’s…perfect,” he managed, eyes wet. 

It was such a vast understatement but he was never good with words. “Can we put it on the mantel?” he asked, already imagining it there, a silent declaration in the center of their home.

Jericho nodded, his whole body sagging like he somehow thought Atticus would hate it. “It has a stand. Arsen helped me figure out the mechanics but I did all the work myself.”

“I love it. I love you. And my heart definitely doesn’t work without you,” Atticus admitted quietly, refusing to look at his husband, because if he did, he might actually cry and never live it down.

Jericho took the heart and placed it back in the box, closing it and setting it on the chair beside their bed before returning, pressing Atticus back into the mattress, mouth finding his in a slow, deep kiss that had Atticus sighing into him. Not hungry this time. Not desperate. Just full.

“Mine doesn’t work without you either, Freckles,” he said when he pulled back, thumb brushing under Atticus’s eye like he was checking for tears.

Atticus glanced at the clock, desperate to break this bubble of intimacy before he really did start sobbing. It was already one in the morning. “It’s officially Valentine’s Day,” he noted, voice soft and a little wrecked.

“Happy Valentine’s Day, Freckles.”

Atticus pulled him closer, stifling a yawn, pressing his nose against Jericho’s throat and breathing him in. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

Jericho’s responding chuckle, ruffled Atticus’s hair. “Don’t get sleepy on me now, princess. I’m not done with you yet.”

Atticus pulled back to smile up at him, eyes heavy with challenge, fingers dragging lazily down Jericho’s chest. “Do your worst.”