Tronnor One-Shots

Loving You (Rascally)

It was like freshman year finals all over again, only almost ten years after high school. There were so many papers and so much information on the coffee table that Connor couldn't remember what color the wood had been. His back was stiff, his eyes were sore and he just wanted to sleep. Too bad for him: he had his final exam in 48 hours, and he was unhealthily scared and unsatisfied with how much he knew. During times like this, he wished he hadn't decided to go back to school for his business degree. Picking up where he left off wasn't as easy as he anticipated. He had overestimated the ability of his memory to match those waiting credits of his. So when he collected textbooks and signed up for third year classes, it came as a blow to realize that his two years of precursor education were only partially remembered. That information had been soaking in a six year hiatus, after all.

Nonetheless, Connor was all about success, and he wanted this diploma for his own satisfaction. He wanted this diploma so he could handle his entrepreneurial endeavors with as much professionalism and knowledge as he could gain in a lifetime. And that meant not only sharpening what skills he already had, but compiling anything and everything he could possibly learn. So, when the numbers and protocols and information came at him too fast for him to keep his footing, he just worked harder. Harder, and later and later and later into the night. But it was currently 3am, and even this ambitious ball of fire had his limits. If he didn't call it a night, he worried he may sleep through half the next day and be scrambling the review before Test Day's early rise. So he retired.

Closing all his books and placing them under the table in neat piles and rows, Connor's stomach growled in a whiney way. He regretted not eating much of the grilled cheese that Troye made for him. The dejected dinner sat cold and relatively untouched on an end table, next to the couch, but it was too early for Connor to appreciate his caring husband's gesture of culinary compassion. So he tucked the dish in the fridge and settled on a glass of warm milk, to settle his hungry stomach and still ticking mind.

Warm clay embracing his fingers and lips, Connor smiled; this was one of his favorite kinds of warmth, radiating from his favorite mug. Holding that overly-big, sloppily handmade demitasse cup, painted in pink and blue pastel colors, he felt nicely sentimental. After all, Troye had made it for him. It was gift to celebrate their marriage (as the honeymoon of these true-blue, rosewater lovers had consisted of a New Zealand hotel room and handmade gifts.) Reminiscing—tapping his wedding band subconsciously against the ceramic—Connor's mind was somehow cleansed of all the "businessy mumbo jumbo," as Troye had dubbed it.

Thinking then only of collapsing into bed next to his warm husband, Connor was finally calm and so ready for sleep. So he finished off his milk, flicked off the kitchen light and, with one hand on the wall, began to feel his way down the hallway. He took tentative steps, with the intention of not waking Troye and making sure his clumsy self didn't trip in the dark, all the same. Dragging the side of his foot along the molding to boot, Connor sensed he was near their bedroom—finally, I can snuggle up to Tokky and sleep—and only that one thing was on his mind. He felt mellow until, out of the blue: "BOO!"

Pale hands emerged from the murky charcoal of the air, grabbing him by the shoulders with a homemade-horror-movie likeness. They rumpled his t-shirt as they rumpled his serenity, instantaneously creating creases of fear and bugged eyes on Connor's face. He rammed into the wall as he jumped away from his accoster, and opened his mouth to scream. The "almost" being put into effect because there was suddenly another mouth to mute him.

Troye's lips pressed sleepily, but teasingly hard against that of his startled husband. He slipped his tongue in slyly, knowing Connor wouldn't be able to resist, no matter how confused, exhausted or scandalized he was. And he was correct; Connor was weak when it came to aphrodisiacal advances in the dark—well, not necessarily limited to the dark, as long as it was Troye—and he gurgled a little helplessly as he was kissed to a pulp. He could think of many a word to string into a lecture about scaring him like that—then being manipulatively naughty afterwards, to draw attention from it—but Connor found himself unable to verbalize them for quite some time. Maybe because, as his socked toes curled delightedly into the carpet, he just kept trying to get his thrashing heart nearer to Troye's.

"You scared the daylights out of me, Troye." He scolded when a natural lull came, but in nothing more than a placated, gasping whisper. Blood slid against his gums—from where he'd bitten his tongue when Troye pounced—but he didn't notice much. Though it was dark, all his attention was stolen by the little Connor could see of Troye's face. Strips of snow-white skin, luminous eyes and the outer curve of such an impish little grin.

"That's what I was going for." Troye chuckled softly, fingers finding Connor's cheek in an impressive amount of time for the light quality. "I couldn't sleep, so I got up to get a snack. I heard you milling around, and I thought I'd try and scare you so badly that all that business school crap would be permanently squished into your head."

Troye laughed and Connor, with a groan to stretch the cramped muscle of his heart—cramped, from the pull of being startled and ravished all the same—couldn't help but lean his head on Troye's shoulder. His heart-rate was still at a peak, and his adrenaline spiked from the scare, but he felt the exhaustion coming again. And this time, nothing could overwhelm it. "I think I've already achieved that myself with all the studying, thank you very much." He yawned, "Now, can you bring me to bed?"

Kissing the jut of Connor's jaw, just below his ear, Troye whispered. "What's the magic word?"

"Please?" Connor whimpered, running his hands over Troye's bare back like a plea. "I love you? You're the best husband in the universe?"

Troye smiled. "Why thank you." He mocked a condescending tone, but countered it with a sugary sweet kiss to Connor's forehead. All mischief left his face, and his smile was gentle and loving. Nurturing: an attribute his hands adopted like follow-the-leader as they pulled Connor very close to him. "Studying this late does nothing for you but tire you out, honey. You know that."

Too tired to roll his eyes, Connor laid his chin on Troye's collarbone and peered up at him. "Yeah, but..."

"Nuh uh." Troye tutted. "No but's. You deserved that fright for staying up so late, because you know you need the rest. Come snuggle with me earlier tomorrow night." He brushed a tender palm on the back of Connor's head, smiling silly. "Or else."

Connor smiled and nodded, by then his speech reduced to nothing but mumbles. In order to get him to their room, Troye nudged him off of his chest and took his hand in his. He lead him to the bed how one would lead a mild-tempered child through the store, or a sleepy drunk to the nearest couch. Gently. Lovingly, and a little endearingly.

Both parties glad that Connor was already clad in Troye's softest grey t-shirt and plaid pajama pants—Troye was tired himself, and neither wanted the floppy teamwork of trying to blearily change at this ungodly hour—the sheets were pulled back.

The two men had never been so excited to be getting into bed, just to sleep. Troye snuggled in behind Connor, spooning him, his loving arms clamping around his waist with the intention of never letting go again. Connor felt those impossibly warm hands on his chest, inspecting his heartbeat, and he let his tiredness simply engulf him. His last thought about Troye though, before floating off, was how he was going to go about scaring him back. Maybe he'd hide something creepy in his sock drawer. Tyler could get him something good: he was like a drug dealer with prank supplies...

Troye's warmth and comfort shut Connor down before he could plot further. You know, maybe he'd rethink the revenge thing. Although sometimes rascally, love like this was enough for him.