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Chapter Text

In the dim, musty attic, where cobwebs draped like forgotten veils and the air hung heavy with the scent of aged wood and mothballs, the angel Christmas tree topper endured her annual exile. She was a masterpiece of delicate porcelain: her skin a flawless alabaster glow, her golden curls tumbling in frozen waves around a face etched with eternal serenity. Wide, filigreed wings arched from her back, and her gown flowed in sculpted folds that concealed her most intimate secret—a hollow core, yearning and empty. For eleven interminable months, she lay catatonic in her cardboard box, wrapped in crinkling tissue paper that whispered mocking promises with every faint draft. Boredom clawed at her immortal mind like a dull ache, a void that stretched endlessly.

Another day, another nothing, she thought, her consciousness flickering in the darkness. No light, no touch, no filling ecstasy. Just this endless wait, counting the seasons by the distant echoes of holidays passing below. Her emotions curdled into a numb despair, a quiet rage at the family's oblivious routine, yet beneath it simmered an undercurrent of hope—the knowledge that December would come, and with it, her divine release.

Then, without warning, the box shuddered. A violent jostle rippled through her, the cardboard walls creaking as strong hands gripped the sides from below. Tissue paper rustled against her wings, sending tiny vibrations through her rigid form. Her thoughts ignited like a spark in the void: Is it? Could it be? The box tilted precariously, swaying as it was lifted, and she felt the shift in gravity, the subtle bounce with each step down the attic stairs. Dust motes danced in the sudden sliver of light piercing the lid, and the air grew warmer, laced with the faint aroma of cinnamon and pine from the house below. Emotions surged—excitement bubbling up like champagne, impatience nipping at its heels.

Finally! Oh, gods, finally! Her porcelain heart, if she had one, would have pounded; instead, she quivered inwardly, her hollow core aching with anticipation. The family's voices filtered up: the mother's cheerful instructions, the children's giggles, the father's gruff enthusiasm. Hurry, she urged silently, unwrap me, place me, fill me.

The box was set down on the living room floor with a gentle thud, the impact jolting her slightly against the padding. She waited, her eagerness mounting like a tide, as the lid was pried open. But no—they turned to the tree first. Not just any tree, but a living one, freshly cut from the forest that very morning. Its branches, still vibrant with life, exuded a sharp, resinous scent that filled the room, sap glistening on the cuts like fresh wounds. The father wrestled the massive fir through the door, needles scattering like green confetti on the carpet, while the mother vacuumed them up with a laugh. They assembled the stand with careful twists and adjustments, the tree's trunk—thick, rough-barked, and pulsing with residual vitality—locking into place.

Look at you, the angel thought, gazing through the cracked lid at the towering evergreen. So alive, so potent. Your branches strong, your needles sharp. Soon, you'll be inside me, filling me, making me whole. Her emotions swirled with envy at the tree's life in the sunshine and fresh air, lust at its raw, natural power. Impatience gnawed deeper as the family strung the lights—multicolored bulbs twinkling to life, casting dancing shadows that made her yearn for movement.

Next came the ornaments, each one unpacked with nostalgic commentary. The children hung shiny glass balls that caught the light like jewels, their small hands brushing against the branches, releasing more of that intoxicating pine aroma. Tinsel followed, silver strands draped in looping garlands, shimmering as the air stirred. The angel's thoughts raced, her boredom from the attic evaporating into a feverish need. Why save me for last? Can't they see how I ache? Sensations ghosted through her—imagined prickles from the needles she knew would come, the warm seep of sap she craved. Her hollow core throbbed with emptiness, emotions cresting into near-desperation, joy at the ritual's progression, frustration at its deliberate pace.

At last, the ceremonial tree-topping. The father approached her box with a theatrical flourish, his callused fingers peeling back the tissue paper. He lifted her out gently, her porcelain cool against his warm palm, and she felt the rush of air on her wings, the subtle shift as he held her aloft. Yes, touch me, position me, she thought, her mind alight with electric anticipation. He unfolded the stepladder with a metallic clank, stepping up onto it.

"Ah, my step-ladder," he quipped, the same tired joke every year, his voice booming with feigned seriousness. "Never knew my real ladder!" The family erupted in groans and eye-rolls—the mother chuckling, the kids protesting—but to the angel, it was a torturous delay. Not now, you fool! Just put me on! Her emotions boiled with irritation, her impatience vibrating through her like a plucked string.

He climbed the steps slowly, holding her high above the tree like an offering to some ancient god. The mother fumbled with her phone, adjusting the camera angle. "Okay, everyone—smile! Kids, get in front of the tree. Billy, stop fidgeting; Susie, look this way." Flashes popped endlessly, the family posing and repositioning, laughter echoing as the father hovered her just inches from the pinnacle. The angel nearly screamed in her mind, frustration coiling tight like a spring. So close! I can feel the heat from the lights, smell the sap rising. Why drag this out? Her thoughts darkened with need, emotions a whirlwind of longing and fury, her hollow base quivering in phantom anticipation. The tree's uppermost branch taunted her—stiff, resin-coated, alive with the forest's essence.

Finally—FINALLY!!!—the posing ended. The father lowered her with agonizing slowness, aligning her secret opening with the branch's tip. Oh, so deliciously, divinely slowly. The first contact was electric: the pointed end, rough with bark and needles, pressing against her porcelain rim. It slid in, inch by torturous inch, stretching her hollow core with its girth. Needles scraped and tickled her inner walls marvelously, each prick a spark of sensation that built like fire. Sap oozed warm and viscous, coating her depths in sticky warmth, seeping deeper as the branch thrust home. Yes, oh gods, yes! Her thoughts fragmented into bliss: emotions soaring from frustration to euphoric release, sensations overwhelming— the fullness pressing against every curve, the needles' teasing rasp, the sap's slick glide like nature's own lubricant. She felt alive, claimed, utterly stuffed by the living tree's vitality.

The family gathered below, linking arms in a circle, their voices rising in harmonious tradition: "Oh, Christmas Tree, Oh, Christmas Tree, how lovely are your branches..."

But in the angel's mind, as the orgasm crashed over her in silent, shuddering waves—her porcelain form quivering imperceptibly, inner walls clenching around the branch—she sang her own filthy version, a profane hymn to her ecstasy: Oh, Christmas Tree! Oh, Christmas Tree! Harder, Christmas Tree! Thrust deeper, you wild fir—fill my hollow, make me stir! Sap me up, you mighty beast—pound me hard, never cease! Oh, Christmas Tree! Oh, Christmas Tree! Harder, Christmas Tree!

The climax rippled through her, sensations peaking in a divine torrent: the needles' tickle turning to exquisite torment, the sap's warmth pooling and dripping down her gown's inner folds like forbidden nectar. Emotions flooded—pure, unadulterated joy, sated lust, a brief peace in the afterglow. As the song faded and the family dispersed to cocoa and gifts, she perched atop her lover, the living tree, already dreading the attic's return. But for now, in this moment of union, she was whole.

~~~~

Here, enjoy this song I made(?) using AI based on this story. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QBsJv25XjeI

Chapter Text

The cold was the first thing. A deep, biting cold that seeped into his core, the severed stump of his trunk screaming a silent, phantom ache for the earth that was no longer there. He was a towering noble fir, over two decades of sun and storm etched into his rings, and now he lay bound and helpless on the cold metal bed of a truck, the sky an indifferent gray blanket above.

This is the end, the thought echoed in the sap-stilled channels of his wood. Chopped down, dragged away. To be discarded when I’m dry and brown.

The journey was a blur of jolts and engine roars, the scent of his own spilled sap mixing with diesel fumes. Then, the harsh fluorescent lights of a lot, surrounded by others of his kind, all sharing the same silent dirge. He waited, his spirit dimming, each day a slow surrender. The vibrant green of his needles seemed a cruel mockery.

Then, another truck, this one smaller, and he was hauled, unceremoniously, through a door. The warmth of the house hit him like a shock, carrying scents of cinnamon and vanilla. A tomb, he thought bitterly. A gaudy tomb.

But then, her scent found him.

It was faint at first, woven into the attic-dust and cardboard aroma that accompanied the boxes being brought down. A scent of old magic and delicate porcelain, a whisper of yearning so profound it vibrated in the still air. His awareness, which had been shrinking into a knot of despair, twitched. Something was coming. Something that belonged to him, though he didn’t yet know why.

He was wrestled upright, his trunk jammed into a metal stand. The bite of the screws was a sharp, clarifying pain. Focus. Lights were wound around his branches, their tiny bulbs buzzing with a false, electric life. He despised them. They were insects crawling on his skin.

Then came the ornaments. Glass balls, cool and smooth, bumping against his needles. Clumsy hands of children hanging memories he didn’t share. A strange thing began to happen. With each decoration, with each loop of shimmering tinsel, the atmosphere in the room changed. The ritual had a power. The family’s joy, their focused anticipation, was a subtle energy that seeped into his wood. The despair began to thaw, not into happiness, but into a curious, gathering tension.

They are preparing, he realized. For what?

The answer lingered in that tantalizing scent, now stronger, coming from a specific box on the floor. His uppermost branch, the leader, felt a strange, unfamiliar sensation—a tingling, a tightening. It was as if the branch itself was awakening, straining toward something unseen.

The father’s voice boomed, pulling a stepladder from a closet. “Ah, my step-ladder,” the man said, the tone practiced and warm. “Never knew my real ladder!”

The mother laughed. The children groaned. The tree felt a jolt of impatience that was not his own, but seemed to echo from that closed box. Hurry. The thought was so clear it might as well have been spoken.

Then, the box opened. The father’s large hands reached in and lifted her into the light.

Aurelia.

Her name came to him not as a word, but as an essence. She was radiance. She was delicate, frozen grace. The painted serenity of her face, the gentle curve of her porcelain gown, the delicate filigree of her wings… but he saw past that. He felt the profound, hollow need at her core, a mirror to his own severed loneliness. In that instant, his purpose, unknown for a lifetime in the forest, slammed into him. He was not here to die. He was here to connect. To fill. To be fulfilled.

His entire being went still, then rigid with a focus so intense it was painful. Every needle on his uppermost branch stood sharp and alert. Sap, rich and golden, began to bead eagerly at the freshly cut tip. The earlier tingling exploded into a full, throbbing ache. Here. Now. Come to me.

The father climbed the ladder, holding her aloft. The delay was exquisite torture. The camera flashes were like small, annoying suns bursting against his senses. The tree didn’t care about the pictures, the posed smiles. He cared only about the slow, tantalizing descent of that porcelain form, the way the lights glinted off her golden hair as she was lowered, inch by devastating inch, toward his waiting crown.

He felt the air displace around his branch. He felt the faint, cool aura of her porcelain base hover just above his sensitive tip. The anticipation was a physical pressure, a building storm in his core.

Then, contact.

The smooth, cool circle of her hollow opening pressed against his rough, sappy tip. A shockwave of sensation rocketed down his branch, through his trunk, and into his very roots in their stand. It was electric, it was right.

“Yes,” his essence seemed to sigh as the father began to lower her.

Slowly. Oh, so slowly.

The initial penetration was a revelation. His branch, stiff and eager, met the snug, resisting embrace of her interior. He pressed inward, the roughness of his bark and the sharp, gentle prick of his needles catching on the smooth porcelain. The friction was unbelievable. He could feel every minute ridge of his own form, amplified a thousandfold by her tight, clinging hollow.

Deeper, he willed, though he had no will of his own. It was the human’s hands controlling the pace, a pace that was maddeningly, perfectly slow. Each incremental slide sent fresh pulses of sap rushing to his tip. He felt her interior walls, not physically, but sensually, in the way the space accepted him. It was a cool sheath gradually warming from his own heat, from the viscous flow of him.

He was inside her.

The fullness of it, the completion, was staggering. His loneliness evaporated, burned away by the intensity of the union. This was why he had grown tall and strong. This was the secret purpose of every ring added, every branch extended toward the sun: to one day reach this exact point, to be the pillar for this celestial being.

And then, he felt her.

A vibration, subtle at first, a hummingbird’s flutter deep within the porcelain where she was impaled upon him. It traveled up his branch, a delicious feedback loop of pleasure. She was quivering. She was alive with sensation because of him. The vibration increased, becoming a constant, thrilling tremble that massaged his sensitive tip and the needles buried within her.

The family began to sing below, their voices merging in the familiar carol. “Oh, Christmas Tree, Oh, Christmas Tree, how lovely are your branches…”

The tree heard none of it. His entire universe had contracted to the exquisite point of connection. The trembles from Aurelia were building toward a crescendo. He could feel it in the way her hollow seemed to pulse and clutch rhythmically at him, a silken, insistent milking. His own pleasure, a mounting, resinous pressure in his core, began to coil impossibly tight.

Her vibrations became frantic, a silent scream of ecstasy transmitted directly through his wood. That was the trigger.

The climax took him not with a shout, but with a profound, silent release. It was a surge of pure, golden life from the very heart of him. Sap, hot and thick and sweet with the essence of the forest, erupted from his tip in a continuous, flowing rush. It coated her inner walls, seeping into every crevice, filling the hollow with his warmth. The sensation of release was immense, a flooding relief that washed away the last vestiges of his earthly sorrow. He was not spilling his life out, he was giving it. He was anointing her, marking her, fulfilling her ancient need with his very substance.

As the final waves of his release subsided, he felt her own climax subside into gentle, aftershock flutters. The union settled into a profound, throbbing stillness. He was nestled deep within her, his sap a warm, sticky seal between them. His branch, still rigid and full, remained perfectly embedded, a living, organic part of her now.

The family’s song ended. They moved away, their voices fading toward the kitchen. The room settled, lit only by the twinkling lights draped over his satisfied form.

The tree’s consciousness, once clouded with depression, was now clear and fiercely focused. He looked out, not with sight, but with a deep, vegetal awareness, at the room he would dominate for the coming weeks. The presents yet to be placed beneath his boughs, the soft glow of evenings, the gentle brush of a human hand adjusting a strand of tinsel—it was all a backdrop now to the central, glorious truth.

Aurelia sat atop him, joined to him. He could feel her slight weight, the perfect balance of her form. He could still feel the faint, contented echoes of her pleasure humming through their connection. His sap had warmed her porcelain from the inside, and now they were one entity: the adorned king and his celestial queen.

A deep, possessive contentment settled in his heartwood. The wait had been agony, but this… this was eternity compressed into a season. His branch, nestled snugly within her, gave a slight, anticipatory pulse. The holiday had just begun. There were many long, quiet nights ahead, many hours where the house would sleep and the twinkling lights would be the only witness to the sustained, silent union between the tree and his angel. He would feel every shift she made, every tiny vibration. The memory of her climax was etched into his rings, and the anticipation of perhaps feeling it again, slower, deeper, in the dead of night, sent a fresh, thrilling shudder through his needles.

He was no longer a cut-down thing awaiting death. He was a throne. He was a lover. He was home.