Eighty-five degrees doesn't sound so terribly hot. However, as it's nearly ninety percent humidity outside, and it's the first day of November, the weather is absolutely ridiculous. Two days ago, I was getting ready to cut on my heater, and in rolls this massive heat wave just ahead of the tropical storm that's on its way up the coast. As much as I enjoy warm weather, I've already broken out my winter clothes and packed away my summer things in storage, so I'm left to loaf around in my apartment in an old tank top and a forgotten (and washed) pair of boxers.

Sans bra, per Connor and Murphy's request. I figure, why not; I can be reasonable.

Even so scantily clad, it's all I can do to stay awake in the drowsy, humid heat of my apartment. When the boys call to see if I'm up, I tell them they're welcome to come over if they don't mind the lack of air (it didn't seem to vital to get it fixed the last few weeks when the high was a whopping fifty degrees). The sardonic silence on the other end of the line recalls me to the perpetual lack of any type of air conditioning at the boys' place, and I mentally smack my forehead.

"Sorry," I sigh, fanning myself with a take-out menu. "Brain melted, wasn't thinking. C'mon, I've got at least a twelve-pack in the fridge. Bring more if you think you two will drink it."

So here we are, elevenish in the morning, with a twin melted over each end of my couch and me puddle in the middle. Murphy is half-dozing, his eyes closed and head flopped backwards while I gaze dazedly at the television screen and absently toy with the limp fingers of his left hand. Connor, on the other side of me, is less entertained than I am by the current movie and Murphy's lack of awareness. His hand snakes towards the remote once more, despite repeated dire warnings to the contrary.

The resounding smack of my fingers on Connor's wrist rouses Murphy from his heat-induced stupor long enough to laugh and belittle his brother's less than masculine yelp of surprise. Connor, of course, feels the immediate need to retaliate, reaching across me to swat at his brother.

"Fuck ye, Murphy, like ye didn't squeal like a princess seeing a wee little mousie when ye got in th'shower dis mornin'!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! You two do not do this while I'm in between you, house rules! Besides, it is too hot for the two of you to be starting shit," I cut in, stifling Murphy's attempted retribution with a sharp, matching smack to his own wrist.

"Murphy, you both yelp like little girls or small dogs, take your pick. Connor, I swear to God, if you try to change the channel again, you will owe me an entire pack of VHS tapes! I told you I'm recording this, so knock it off!"

I am immediately presented with a pair of the surliest, huffiest, most pitiful sulking faces imaginable.

"But, lass, it's a buncha glowin' bugs dancin' 'round th'woods wit'a bat an' a giant talkin' oil slick! There's real movies on, always are on Saturday mornin's! Clint Eastwood, Charlie Bronson, dat sort of t'ing!"

"S'better cartoons on, too, proper ones wit' mutants an'transformers 'n shit," Murphy adds hopefully.

"For both of your information, FernGully is not just acceptable, it is required viewing. And it's not 'bugs dancin' 'round th'woods,' Connor, it's fairies attempting to save their home from that oil slick, which, by the way, is meant to bring attention to the pollution and deforestation that are destroying the rainforest as well as the people who sit back and allow it to happen! It's important to—"

Which is when I'm abruptly cut off by howls of laughter from either side of me.

"Fairies savin' th'rainforest?"

"Ye gonna run off t'dance wit'em an'defeat th'evil oil puddle, lass?"

"T'ink they could get ye some of dem glowy wings t'wear, as well? Shrink ye down t'their size so y'could dance all properlike wit'em?"

Oh, for the love of…

"Fine! Whatever! It's only got twenty minutes left; just leave it alone long enough to finish, and then you two can beat the shit out of each other over what you want to watch. Just don't destroy my furniture." With that, I peel myself from the sofa and stalk from the living room.

I do love the pair of them, I swear I do (I should probably get around to telling them that), but sometimes it really is too hot and too frustrating to deal with them in tandem.

I figure it's really the heat that's making me so pissy, so I stop off in the kitchen for a glass of ice water (five parts ice, two parts water) and retreat to the dark solitude of my bedroom. I've drawn all the curtains in the apartment in the hopes of shutting out the worst of the heat, but I'm pretty sure all I've really done is keep the air from moving around.

Flicking some exceedingly attractive perspiration from my upper lip, I pull the curtains partway open and raise the window a few inches. Relief flows over me in the form of a breeze, and I stand contentedly in front of the open window, not caring who happens to see me in what amounts to underwear. Too humid to care.

Plus, I'm six stories up. I doubt anyone will notice.

After draining the last bit of liquid from my glass, I fish a piece of ice out and set the cup on my nightstand. The breeze ruffles the curtains, flicking them around me as I roll the ice cube contentedly over my tongue. I can't quite see any storm clouds yet. At the moment, the storm is far off and nothing for me to worry about. A little tension drains out with each cool lick of air, and I breathe a small sigh of contentment, letting my irritability go as I watch heat waves rolling off the roofs of the shorter buildings around me.

Because I am thusly occupied, I fail to note the near-silent swish of my bedroom door opening. What I do notice, however, is the feather-light tickle of my purple silk scarf slithering down the front of my shoulder and over my collarbone.

A smile curves the corner of my lips, and I start to turn to see which twin has decided to attempt reconciliation first. Firm fingers on the sides of my face stop me from looking round, and before I can protest, the scarf slips up, sliding teasingly over my chin, my lips, my nose, before settling into place over my eyes.

Huh…this is new. And…kind of…interesting…

My pulse quickens, my tongue darting out to moisten my suddenly dry lips. After securing the scarf over my eyes and knotting it behind my head, fingers glide tantalizingly over my neck and mostly bare shoulders, resting heavily on my collarbone. I suck in a sudden breath, aware of the irregularity of my breathing, and say, "Not that I'm averse to new things, and not that I'm complaining, but which one of you—"

Whoever is behind me places a very warm finger over my lips, shushing me in a way that should raise my hackles (I'm not a toddler, for heaven's sake) but really just succeeds in making my breath catch in my throat. As the finger starts to slide away, I act on a random impulse and dart my tongue out, catching the offending digit and closing my lips around it. I wrap my tongue around the finger, tasting cigarettes and the familiar, arousing taste of skin itself (there's really nothing else that tastes like it), and grumbling enthusiastically.

There's a sharp intake of breath behind me that mirrors my own from a moment ago, and the twin behind me pauses as I swirl my tongue over the tiny ridges on the pad of his finger. I scrape the edge of my teeth over his skin, wrapping my fingers around his wrist to hold his hand in place as I begin sucking.

His free hand presses lower, sliding from my collarbone downwards, coming to rest on my hip. I'm pulled backwards, and I can feel his response to me pulsing against my ass. Denim grinds against the thin fabric of my boxers, and my whimper is hardly muffled by his finger in my mouth. His fingers dig hard into my hipbone as he thrusts once, twice, before my knees buckle.

I hear a faint, regretful sigh from behind me, and the finger is removed from my lips with a faint pop. He frees his wrist from my grip and firmly places my hands on either side of the window frame. After an extra squeeze of my fingers to make sure I'm securely holding on, he runs his hands teasingly slowly back up my arms to my shoulders.

Fingers (one of them hot and damp) slip under the shoulders of the tank top I'm wearing, gently lifting the fabric. He stretches the shirt upwards for a moment as if testing the material. Without any further warning, he grips one of my tank top's shoulders with both hands and rips before moving swiftly to the other side and repeating the action. The thin cloth falls uselessly away, leaving me bare to the waist in front of my open window.

My fingers clench the window frame reflexively at this unexpected aggression before my hands release it to cover my breasts. He catches in one of his own hands before I can do so, and when I open my mouth to protest, his finger covers my lips once more. My eyes are open under the makeshift blindfold, and though I'm facing the window, all I can see is a deep purple haze with the buildings outside appearing as only the faintest of outlines.

He places my hands resolutely back on the window frame and silently pulls away for a moment, leaving me bare and alone in front of the open window. I shiver despite the heat as a humid breeze flows over me, caressing every naked inch like the breath of some mythical, evanescent lover. My mind races in the moment, frantically worrying about whether people will see me, if it will be someone I know, what if they start talking...and a dark corner of my brain takes a moment to chime in that it might just be fun to see what we can get away with.

This, of course, being the corner of my brain that thinks it would be a thrilling and wonderful idea to have sex in a park or on the hood of a car. This side of my brain has been gaining a steady foothold on my thoughts and ideas during my relationship with the twins, and its not so subtle hint that I should shut up and enjoy myself is quite convincing.

I guess I can take a hint.

Though I'm still not entirely convinced this is the smartest thing I've ever done, I decide to hang on to the frame and see where this twin is planning to take me. Just as I start to seriously wonder if I've been abandoned as some sort of bizarre prank, I feel a solid, reassuring presence reappear behind me. He sweeps my hair to one side, baring my neck to his lips as he brushes feather light kisses from my earlobe to the end of my shoulder.

At this point, I think my internal temperature has cranked up to a little over a hundred, and a drop of sweat trickles from underneath the scarf and down the side of my face. He lazily catches the droplet on my jaw, tracing the damp trail upwards with his tongue. Lips brush over my temple gently before making their own trail down my cheek to the corner of my mouth. I start to turn and deepen the kiss, but he holds my head firmly in place with one hand.

It's driving me mad not being able to see what he's doing or where he's moving, and every little thing comes as a completely surprise. This isn't really either of the twins' style, and my nerve endings are practically singing with delicious tension as I wait for whatever he's going to do next.

He doesn't disappoint.

Ice, shockingly cold against my feverish skin, is pressed against my lips, gently wedged between them, and I open my mouth to accept it without thinking. He runs the cube around my parched lips, allowing my tongue to flick around it, but doesn't release it to me. He drags the thing in a freezing, melting trail down my chin and over the hollow at the base of my throat, pausing only to lick stray water drops from my skin. A fresh breeze rolls in, this one cooler, and goosebumps prickle across my arms as the wind wafts over the evaporating water.

I have no idea how to classify the noises that are slipping from my lips, but I have no doubt they're being carried right out the open window on that same breeze. Some of them are words, I'm sure, but most of them are simplistic, monosyllabic sounds that are dragged out over long, torturous seconds as he continues to slide the melting cube over me. My nipples stand hard and erect from his ministrations, first stimulated by the ice then by the air rushing over my damp skin; it's not long before I'm pleading with him to please, please, anything, something, please just don't stop, for the love of God…

Just as the cube seems to melt away to nothing, he moves away again, pausing only to run his soaked fingers over my parted lips. I've got the window frame in a death grip (I'm fairly certain the pattern of the wood grain will be imprinted into my palms), but I don't dare move.

He might stop.

Then he's back, only now the bare skin of his chest is pressed against my back. Sweat immediately starts to form in the heat between us, and his coarse chest hair scraping over my back sends a jolt of sheer lust straight down my spine. I'm almost growling with tension as I press back against him, needing some sort of release and soon.

"Please, can you just—"

He shushes me, his breath hot and moist on my ear, and I moan desperately as his fingers wrap snugly around my throat. With his other hand, he traces a new line with a fresh ice cube straight down my middle, moving much more quickly than before. He squeezes my throat ever so slightly, forcing my chin up until the back of my head is resting on his shoulder with his lips pressed to my jaw. The salty scent of sweat mixes with the smell I recognize as the twins' shampoo, and I move my nose a little closer to his neck, inhaling deeply. I don't smell any cologne, but I can't remember if either of them was even wearing cologne today.

My train of thought is interrupted by a sharp nip to my earlobe that coincides with another sharp contraction of his fingers on my neck.

I don't think I've ever made that sound before, but I sure as hell hope I get to make again soon.

As his lips tend carefully to my tender ear, he skates the ice cube along the waistband of the boxers. The cold water soaks quickly into the cloth which rubs surprisingly abrasively against the skin of my belly. I wriggle impatiently in his grasp, and I can feel rather than hear the rumble of the laugh in his chest against my back. As if to say, "Well, if you insist," he slips the ice between my skin and the boxers, reaching downwards until his freezing fingers are poised just above my already soaking slit.

Oh, God, I want him to so badly, but I swear I don't know what I'll do if he really—

Then he plunges fingers and ice cube down together, brushing roughly over my clit. He drops the cube, thrusting both fingers deep inside me, and I nearly choke from the paradisiacal shock of his frigid digits inside the absolute hottest part of me. He moans simultaneously with me, and the sound reverberates through every part of me capable of feeling something. The only thing holding me off the floor and keeping me from pitching out the window are the hand at my throat and the hand currently stroking out the most intense orgasm of my life.

As far gone as I am, it takes me a minute to register that a pair of hands are now gently prying mine from the death grip on the window frame, a pair of hands distinctly separate from the ones that are still soothing me as I come down from that incredible high. My brain kicks into some unknown gear, one that is simultaneously jumping up and down and clapping its hands in lustful glee while beginning to freak out that this is new, this is different, this is frowned upon, this is…this is…Oh, my God, this is…

I've just died and gone to heaven.

I feel like, with all the church and praying and everything, the boys could've at least given me a heads up that this is what's waiting in the afterlife. I would've been on my knees next to them every Sunday from day one.

Before any of these orgasm-laced thoughts can spill from my gaping mouth, hot, frantic lips crash against mine in a fevered kiss, even as the twin behind me starts pulling me backwards away from the window. With a tongue that tastes of smoke and breakfast food, a biscuit I think, twisting against mine while another searches out the most sensitive places on my earlobe, my thought processes short circuit completely. Whichever twin is kissing me disappears suddenly, and the one supporting me from behind turns, dumping me abruptly and unceremoniously on my bed, ass first.

"What the hell, guys?!"

I'm greeted with a pair of chuckling idiots that I can't even see to smack properly. I can hear the urgent, scuffling sounds of clothes being shed in a hurry, and I reach up to remove the blindfold while they're occupied. Before my fingers even brush the scarf, I'm flattened on my back with my wrists pinned above my head. I strain against the hands uselessly, knowing there's no way I'd be able to pull away even if I wanted to.

But it's no fun if I don't put up at least a little fight.

There's a tugging on my boxers, and I give in to being helpful for a moment, lifting my hips and allowing the underwear to be yanked off. A pair of hands begins massaging their way up my calves, and whoever's holding my hands down switches to a one-handed grip. There's a bit of shuffling above me, a brief whispered discussing in some language so rough I can't even making out who's saying what, and then I'm being prodded and rolled until I'm on my belly and pulled until I'm up on my knees between the two of them.

My heart rate was already elevated; I think it might actually crack my sternum in a minute.

Now the only sounds in the room are the hammering of the blood rushing from my head to pool very low in my belly and three pairs of lungs that are working very hard at the moment. Behind me, the massaging hands work higher, kneading the insides of my thighs then working higher still until I'm forcing myself not to grind back against him. In front of me, fingers are roughly thrust into my hair, pulling me sharply forward for another kiss. I can taste coffee, cigarettes, and something else, something sweet. Syrup? Didn't one of them say something about pancakes this morning?

I'm only just grasping the edge of the memory of that conversation when the massaging hands move a little higher, a little closer in, and then thinking is no longer wanted or needed. Grinding my ass back against his naked, throbbing cock as his fingers tease me into oblivion, though…that is definitely Priority Number One.

My kissing boy has other plans for my attention, however. With a sharp nip to my lower lip, he shifts my concentration back to him, and for a moment I think that, considering how difficult they are to keep up with one at a time, I probably should've seen this coming. They're almost childlike in their demands for attention, and right now will apparently be no exception.

At some point in the transition from my back to my knees and sandwiched between the pair of them, my fingers have tangled in my kisser's hair. Without removing his maniacally talented lips from my own, he gently tugs my hands loose, moving them lower until they're pressed against the hot, hard length that's throbbing against my lower belly.

Taking the hint, I squeeze firmly, wrapping my hands around his cock, working them slowly and unsteadily while the man behind me does his best to drive me absolutely insane. An extra pair of hands finds their way to my breasts, working my aroused nipples to the point of acute, deliciously pulsing pain.

And somewhere in the middle of this mess of limbs and sweat and groping and moaning, my brain somehow manages to wonder why we aren't all simply combusting from the combined heat in my bedroom.

Just when I'm reaching the point of potentially bursting with the need for release, both boys pull back almost simultaneously, and there's another brief shuffle around me. I'm raised up so I'm kneeling on the bed, and glass is pressed against my lips, tipping slowly enough for me to catch on that it's my drinking glass. During our…ahem…make-out session, I suppose it's called, the ice in my glass has melted, and sweet, cold water flows into my burning mouth, quenching one of the two fires burning in me right now. My arid throat revels even as the rest of my body throbs with the sudden removal of stimulus. Then the glass is pulled away, someone sucks a stray droplet from my upper lip, and then I'm surrounded by heated walls of hard flesh once more.

Insistent hands push against my shoulders from behind until I'm bent forward on all fours, still blind to everything going on around me, and practically vibrating. There's movement behind me, then what feels like shoulders are spreading my knees further apart, and…what…is he…oh…okay…

Someone's tongue runs the length of my folds once, twice, a third time. Over and over until even my firmly planted knees are quaking, and I'm making noises pretty close to the ones I was making over at the window. Then his teeth find my clit, and I nearly lose it right there.

I don't even notice the movement in front of me until gentle hands lift my head from its passive hanging position and the warm, velvety head of a cock is pressed against my lips. I open my mouth automatically and dip my head forward, sliding my tongue eagerly along his length. His fingers do some tangling of their own in my hair as I trace the underside of his head with the very tip of my tongue. He's almost trembling from restraint of not simply thrusting himself down my throat, which I appreciate.

I continue to work my mouth up and down his cock until it's nearly dripping with my saliva before pulling my head back just a little. I move until I can feel his head against my lips again, and the sound of his slow, ragged inhalation as I take him in a slow inch at a time is worth all the effort. When I've gone as far down on him as I can, I tighten my lips, sucking hard as I slowly drag my mouth back off, letting his dick slip from my mouth with a faintly audible pop. Something close to a whimper escapes his throat, and the fingers in my hair tighten for a brief, painful moment before relaxing.

I repeat this process a few times, finding it harder to concentrate each time, due to the efforts of the twin whose tongue is still exploring between my legs. My whimpers are muffled by the distraction in front of me until the tongue suddenly picks up a swift, heavy rhythm directly against my clit, and I jerk back with gasp. He adds two fingers to the mix, impaling my cunt so forcefully I jump with a wail of surprise. Less than a minute of this, and I'm a quavering, moaning jumble of nerves that doesn't even bother to try and support itself.

Soothing hands massage my trembling knees, rub my neck and face and scalp, slide softly over my ass, until I've gained a bit of myself back. A cock still damp from my saliva is pressed eagerly into my hands again, and I can tell from his tight, swollen balls that he's holding back from simply pounding into me out of sheer will power. Pushing him back, I blindly crawl between his legs, feeling my way along the hard ropes of muscles in his legs until my mouth is poised over his pulsing length once more.

Taking the base in one hand, I run my tongue over the tip of his head, tasting the bitter precursor to his finish. No need to make the man wait any longer, I say. I plunge my mouth as far down his shaft as I can reach, wrapping my lips tightly and squeezing with my fist. I swear he makes a noise identical to the one I made earlier, and I resolve to tell him so later. If I can remember, that is.

Warm hands run from my shoulders down my back, pulling my hips against a second raging hard-on, and I groan loudly and shamelessly around the cock in my mouth, reveling in the feeling of being so full and fulfilled while still wanting so much.

It isn't long before the man beneath me freezes in his faint thrusts, fingers clenched tight against my head, growling out something that resembles my name and a few words in some other language as his cum fills my mouth. I wait just long enough for him to stop pulsing against my tongue and gently release him from my mouth and hand, still not sure who it is I've just made so happy. Connor can be especially sensitive after he comes, and if he's the one who just fell apart under me, I don't want to make him uncomfortable.

I start to sit up and lean back against the wall of lean muscle behind me when burning hands abruptly grasp the sides of my face, pulling me forward for a searing kiss that, even after everything the boys and I have done so far, still makes me believe steam must be pouring out of me somewhere. His skilled tongue twines against mine, and I taste that sweet taste again, mixed with the salty, bitter aftertaste he's left in my mouth, and I remember suddenly who it was that had pancakes that morning before coming over to my place.

And as Murphy's fingers slowly release me, I wonder how it is I couldn't tell them apart before, because everything about the two of them is so obvious now: Murphy's hesitant but needy pressing against my lips, Connor's insistent tongue demanding my attention. Even at the window, Murphy showing his darker, dominating side that he rarely lets out, with Connor insisting on not being left out by demanding that sudden kiss.

"Murph," I breathe against his lips, his name coming out as half prayer and half curse. Murphy's lips curl into a smile against mine before brushing a final kiss across my mouth and moving back, momentarily out of reach. These two are going to be the death of me…

But not before Connor gets his turn, of course.

My fingers brush the silk scarf, pulling down, but Connor pulls my hands away. "Leave it," he rasps, reaching up to tighten the knot. He gently pulls until I'm leaning so far back I'd be staring at the ceiling if I could see. His breath is scalding against my ear. "Ain't done wit' ye."

He releases the scarf and grasps my hips in a bruising grip, jerking me back possessively against him. My hand automatically goes back to catch in his hair. He releases one of my hips and slips a hand between us, fumbling unsteadily for a moment, and I'm reminded of just how long they've been working on getting me off (and more than once) without any sort of relief. Well, no relief on Connor's part, anyway.

Then he's inside me, thrusting raggedly, face buried in my hair. The heat between us is thick, dense, and sweat drips down my back to mingle with Connor's where we join. As much as I love the man's fingers and tongue, they are nothing compared to his cock absolutely filling me, and I tell him so in short, panting bursts. Now that I know who is who, it seems the rule of silence is thoroughly broken, and he breathes hoarse, filthy promises of exactly how often his cock will be filling me and how well it will be doing so.

Then Murphy's mouth is covering mine again, swallowing any replies I might've made even as his own fingers slide down to find my swollen, abused clit. Connor's hands tighten almost unbearably on my thighs as he pounds into me, harder and rougher than he ever has before, chasing a release that comes right on the tail of my own. His teeth clamp down on the bend between my neck and my shoulder, and I'm practically howling down Murphy's throat as I utterly shatter between them. Wave after wave crashes over me, and I happily drown in the sensation. I finally fall back to reality, surrounded by the sound of gasping and the smell of sex and sweat and satiety.

Limbs tangle and twist, and there is collapsing as flat as allowable within said twists and tangles. I don't know whose hand is on my breast, though I suspect Connor, and I'm pretty sure that's Murphy's left leg wrapped securely around mine, but a fresh gust of air wafts through the room and cools some of the sweat on my tired, ever-so-fulfilled body. I receive a kiss on both cheeks, one from each side, and not long afterwards, not so gentle snores tell me that Connor has fallen asleep.

There's a brief fumbling behind my head, then the blindfold loosens and slips away. I find myself facing Murphy with Connor pressed against my back, and sure enough, one of Connor's hands is cupping my breast. Even in his sleep, the man gropes me. I look back to Murphy, who is watching me with a hesitant, guarded expression that is so out of place on his face.

"Ye…said somethin' awhile back. About th'three of us…maybe. I mean…was this…was it too much, or did ye…"

I silence his stammering questions with my lips until I feel the apprehension leave his neck and shoulders. He pulls me closer, my head resting against his shoulder as he deepens the kiss. When he finally pulls away, I smile a sleepy, satisfied smile as I stare into his beautiful, piercing blue eyes.

"That should tell you everything you need to know, Murphy. Now it's nap time, though, so no more talking."

And so we fall asleep, my head resting on Murphy and our arms draped over one another with Connor pressed against my back, gripping me tightly. A fresh breeze sweeps over the three of us, bringing the familiar scents and noises of the city with it.

The rest of the day passes fairly uneventfully. I figure out something for dinner since I'm sick of take-out and the boys don't (shouldn't) cook, Connor and Murphy fight over the remote, and later Rocco crashes the whole affair with more beer and a bottle of liquor.

Eventually, though, Rocco heads home for the night. Usually by this point in the evening, I'm either at the boys' place and end up staying with them or one of them stays the night with me while the other heads home. Tonight, however, I notice my apartment is awfully quiet as I finish straightening up the kitchen. With Connor and Murphy, loud and arguing is always cause for worry (if you value your furniture), although occasionally quiet runs a close second in the worrying category.

I glance in the living room but find it deserted, which confuses me, as I know neither of them would ever leave without saying goodnight.

And getting in a goodnight kiss and a grope or two.

Bemused, I head in the other direction, and when I find neither of them in the bathroom, I call out, only to get an, "In here, lass," from the direction of my bedroom.


I find them both on my bed, clothes already dispensed with in separate piles on the floor. Murphy is even asleep, murmuring something about lobsters. I notice they've left me a generous amount of space in the middle, most of which will probably be tossed by the wayside once I climb in. Sure enough, as soon as I'm settled with my back to the sleeping Murphy, he reaches over and snugs his arm around my middle, nuzzling his nose against the back of my neck and tickling me with each sighing breath.

I look up from his hand on my stomach to find Connor watching me. "What's up?" I ask, reaching for him. He slides into my arms, pressing his lips to mine before settling his face on my shoulder.

"Sorry yer movie didn't record like ye wanted. Didn't meant t'hit that button on th'remote."

I sigh, a wry smile crossing my face. "That's okay. You can save up and buy it for me from the store. We do have an anniversary coming up, you know."

"Plannin' somethin' a little better fer ye than a measly movie. Rather insultin' that's all y'expect o'me, lass. Got grand plans fer ye, I do."

I raise an eyebrow, glancing down at his suspiciously innocent face. "How does Murphy feel about these plans?" He hesitates, and I reach down, poking him hard in the ribs where I know I'll get a reaction. Sure enough, he jerks to the side a little, grabbing my hand and pulling me tighter against him so my hand is pinned and I can't repeat my action. Murphy grumbles discontentedly behind me and snuggles closer, still sleeping.

"Let's just say that Murph isn't always so supportive of grand schemes, so I figured would be better to let me surprise th'both of ye."

I start to protests, having seen the result of a couple of Connor's "grand schemes" before, but I'm tired, and the heat radiating off my boys makes falling asleep so very tempting.

"Compromise, then, Connor. Why don't you tell both of us tomorrow so we can make sure everyone's schedules are compatible with your plans?"

"See, lass, dis is why we keep ye around. Level head, an' all."

"I couldn't agree more. Night, Connor." I can feel his head relax incrementally on my shoulder until his snores mix with Murphy's soft, measured breathing.

"Love you both, you scheming idiots," I murmur into Connor's hair. "Maybe someday soon I'll work up the nerve to actually tell you while you're awake."

Author's Note: Moving across the country took its toll on my writing, but I think I'm getting back into the swing of it; what do you think? This story is brought to you by Saynity, who gave me the prompts "Purple Ice Fairy Curtain DVD." Because I try to keep this set in the actual time period of the movie, I begged off DVD and changed it to VHS, and thus was this story born. Also, thanks to Rhanon Brodie for taking the time to look over this piece; it wouldn't have been half as good without her notes. This will be part of a four story arc, the next of which I have finished the first chapter and am considering posting soonish. If you enjoyed what you read, please take a moment to leave behind a thought or two. Also, feel free to check out some of my other stories. Thanks.