To:badbadpixie From:fansee Request: Fic: Merry Fucking Christmas, Brian Genre:badbadpixie requested PWP...and she got a little PWP mixed in with some song!fic. Hope you like it,badbadpixie. Pairing/character/theme/focus: B/J Other specifications: Toppy!Confident!Justin - Post 513? Credits: Thank you to chering for her usual thoughtful beta and for some inspired Brian!snark.
I get a little crazed every time I have to buy Brian a present. Oh, all right, more than a little. He may not be the most difficult man in the world to buy for, but he’s right up there in the top ten. Maybe the top five.
He would say, of course, that I don’t have to buy him anything, to which I reply, “Merry Christmas, Brian Kinney. I like to give gifts. I like to buy them, I like to wrap them, and…best of all…I like to watch you unwrap them. So deal."
The whole concept of ‘present’ is so alien to Brian that he approaches a gift as though it were a live hand grenade. I know he’s afraid that he’s going to hate whatever I’ve gotten him and that his horror when he sees it will show, so he approaches the package wearing the great Kinney stone face. To see that look turn to surprise and relief, happiness even, is just heart-stoppingly fun. I wouldn’t miss it for anything. So, every year, at least twice a year, I drive myself crazy, getting him a present for his birthday and Christmas.
The best presents are ones he can’t buy, such as the gift card worth fifty blowjobs, with a hole punch to keep track of them. (I looked, but I couldn’t find a a penis-shaped hole punch.) I’ve made him stuff in the past…sketches, pictures…and once I treated him to a deluxe overnighter at the Four Seasons, complete with the hot sex needed to make the event complete.
Those all worked, but sometimes there will be something I want to buy that I think is perfect for him. Remember, however, that this is a man whose hobby is shopping, so just about the time I get a brilliant idea for a gift, he’ll waltz into the loft, holding that exact item, saying, “Look what I just bought.” Since I’ve gotten caught that way more than once, I’ve started waiting as long as possible to make my purchase. There’s less chance that way that I am the one surprised.
This year I made part of his present myself, with the assistance of the high-end digital camera he got me for my birthday. I put together a memory stick with about 100 pictures of places and people special to Brian. I took my camera to Toronto with me and got some great shots of Gus and Jenny Rebecca and the girls. I took pictures of Babylon’s glitter and of a typical Pink Plate special at the Liberty Diner. I caught Ben’s hand on Michael’s ass and another shot of Hunter looking disgustedly at the two of them. There were even a few close-ups of parts of my anatomy that I was sure Brian would recognize even though none of them showed my face. (Thank you, Daphne.)
This year I waited until the very last minute to go buy the digital picture frame that the memory stick would go in. I know, as surely as I know they have glitter at Babylon, that Brian is not going shopping on Christmas Eve. Shopping when the unwashed masses are out in force is not Brian’s idea of fun. Me, I can handle it. I’m a mall brat.
The malls open early on Christmas Eve, of course, so I planned to go get Brian’s gift first thing in the morning. With any luck, and if the buses were running on time, I could be out and back before he was out of bed. If he did ask where I was going, I planned to lie and say I needed something from Utrecht, the art supply store. As it turned out, however, I didn’t need to lie.
When I woke up, a little before 8:00 a.m., Brian was still sound asleep next to me, drooling on the pillow. I forced my reluctant body out of bed, the hardwood floor cool on my bare feet, and padded into the bathroom. We’d rolled in from Babylon about 3:00 a.m. this morning, both too wasted to do anything strenuous, so I kind of expected to feel less than 100%. I shook my head cautiously. I felt O.K., but had a bad taste in my mouth and a headache two ibuprofen would cure. Thankfully, that was the extent of the damage.
Now, the old man in the other room would feel a lot worse. He doesn’t bounce back as fast as I do anymore. He was good until noon, I figured. Time enough for me to hit the mall and pick up our stuff from the dry cleaners and still be back in time to hide Brian’s gift before giving him a memorable wake-up call.
I was almost on my way out the door when he rolled over and pushed himself up on his elbows. “What the fuck…,” he mumbled. “You’ve got clothes on.”
“I have to run some errands. Go back to sleep.”
He let himself back down with a thump. “’Kay.”
A sudden thought occurred. Rather than navigating via the bus…. “Would you mind if I took the ‘Vette? I’ll be back before noon.”
He opened one eye. “Mmmph.”
I waited a moment, then decided that was a Yes. “Thanks.” I stuck the keys in my pocket and headed for the door.
“What?” I looked over my shoulder.
“Pick up a carton of cigarettes, would you? And I think we need more condoms. Get some money out of my wallet.”
“I’m okay. Later.” And I was out the door, a smile on my face. I felt good. I was happy. Make a note of that: I was happy.
Even though it was only a little after 8:30, the mall parking lot was already filling up. What the hell is it with these people, anyway? Where are their organizational skills? Leaving everything to the last minute, for God’s sake. It's not like they all had a good excuse. I parked out on the fringes of the lot, where the Corvette would be safe from assault by car doors and shopping carts.
I went directly to The Camera Store. I had already scoped out digital picture frames in Consumer Reports and on the web, I knew what I wanted, and I knew this store had it. Boxes of $200 digital picture frames were not, however, conveniently stacked in the middle of the store. They were behind the counter, safely locked away from shoplifters.
There was a clerk behind the counter, but she was busy catching up on her personal life. Her cell phone was held to her ear, her eyes were scrutinizing her elaborately painted fingernails, and she was saying, “No! You’re kidding! She actually said that? I can’t believe it.”
I looked around the store for help but the only other employee there was actually working, running the developing machine. I cleared my throat, but the clerk ignored me. She turned a little away from me, twitching her ponytail as she turned. “Who does she think she is, anyway?”
I cleared my throat more loudly. The girl’s only reaction was to turn her back on me completely. I said, “Miss?”
No reaction. I raised my voice. “Pardon me?”
The little brunette sighed. “I have a customer. I’ll call you back.”
“Good idea,” I said.
The clerk gave me a hostile look, but she said, “Can I help you?”
My purchase went smoothly after that. I knew what I wanted, the store had it in stock, and I and my painfully hoarded $200 plus dollars were soon parted. I grabbed my package and headed out. A quick stop at Costco, followed by an even quicker stop at the dry cleaners, and I’d be back in the nice, warm loft, out of the biting wind that was making my eyes water as I crossed the parking lot.
Fuck. Someone had parked right next to the ‘Vette. And I do mean right next to it. There was barely room for me to squeeze my body between the passenger side of somebody’s big black SUV and the driver’s side of Brian’s low-slung toy. The two vehicles made a bizarre little island in the midst of a sea of unoccupied parking spaces.
I inspected the ‘Vette as well as I could…there didn’t seem to be any damage…then I got in on the passenger’s side and crawled over the steering column and into the driver’s seat. I pulled away carefully and headed away from town again, toward the even more suburban Costco.
Speeding a bit on the way there cheered me up considerably. I parked at the far end of the lot again and went looking for condoms. When I found them, I made an unpleasant discovery. I should have taken Brian up on his offer of money or, better yet, taken his credit card. Costco was now stocking wholesale quantities, which Brian had been buying over the web. At $100 per 1,000 condoms, Costco was definitely competitive with CondomNation.com. Since my current affluence wouldn’t cover a $100 purchase, I settled for the 36-pak. I got in line at the register and pulled out my wallet. I had $110 left, plus change, which would pay for the condoms and the cigarettes, with enough left over for the dry cleaning. I’d be closing in on broke then, but since Brian usually picked up the tab when we went out, I should be okay.
I slipped my wallet back into my pocket and looked down the line. Only two people ahead of me, so it shouldn’t be too much longer. I wasn’t on a timetable this morning, but I wanted to get back to the loft before Brian woke up. Thoughts of stripping off my clothes and crawling back into the nice warm bed, next to his nice warm bare body, entertained me for a while, creating a warm, snuggy feeling in my mid-section that stopped just short of getting me hard.
When I came back to this world, the so-called Speed-Line (“15 items or less”) hadn’t moved. The chick who was checking out had dumped all her change on the counter and was pushing it around, making little piles and counting them. She was apparently trying to pay for cat litter. How expensive could cat litter be, for fuck’s sake?
Now she was taking everything out of her purse and up-ending the contents onto the counter. A sparkling shower of coins was accompanied by bits of gum wrappers and assorted lint. She pushed the additional coins into piles and recounted everything. I looked at the clerk. He was watching her with a bored expression on his face and made no movement to scoop up all her coins. Apparently they didn’t total up to whatever that tub of cat litter cost.
The chick picked up all her belongings and stuffed them back into her purse. I felt encouraged. Surely her kitty would just have to use dirty litter until Mommy returned with more money; i.e., paper money. Then the woman picked up a blue tote bag that was sitting at her feet. She started emptying it, too, taking out a couple of books, a folder, some loose papers, and a small, crinkly bag with a drugstore’s logo. I felt my temperature rising as my patience frayed.
She turned the tote bag upside down and there was another shower of scraps of paper, lint, and coins. She reorganized her piles, recounted everything, smiled apologetically at the clerk, and shoveled all the coins back into the bag. Then she went into her purse, pulled out her wallet, and swiped her credit card through the machine. My blood pressure soared into the stratosphere, and I thought I would stroke out. The old man in front of me and I exchanged incredulous looks, but at least the ditzy woman was finished buying her fucking cat litter, and he moved up to pay for his stuff.
He had a full cart, so I counted the items. If there were more than 15, I was saying something. I had had it with the inconsiderate population of Pittsburgh. Freshly baked bread, a 48-roll package of toilet paper, more chicken thighs than I think I’ve eaten in my whole life, a twelve-pack of toothpaste: nope, he was legal. He had exactly 15 bulky items. Then he lifted the last carton of soups out of the cart and there, hidden underneath the box, was a sixteenth item: a smallish package of dishcloths. By this time, the clerk was already scanning his order. Protesting was useless. Not protesting was making me crazy…or, more accurately…crazier.
The old guy handed the cashier a couple of coupons. I dropped my two packages on the conveyer belt and let out a sigh. My turn had come. Uh-oh. Not quite. The clerk was handing one of the coupons back. “It’s expired, man.”
The old guy looked confused. “Huh?”
“’s’ts only good until the 15th.”
“Today’s the 24th.” The clerk swiped another coupon. “This one’s no good, either.”
The old man grabbed the second coupon and examined it. “This one’s okay. It’s good for another two months.”
The cashier cracked his gum. “Not the right product, man.”
“Whaddya mean? I bought Crest toothpaste; this is for Crest toothpaste.”
“Not the right Crest. This is only for Whitening Crest with Plaque Control.”
“Look at the box, asshole. I bought Crest with Plaque Control.”
“No need to start calling names, dude. It’s gotta be Whitening Crest with Plaque Control.”
I’d been staring at the coupon throughout this argument. The fucking coupon was for $1.00. I pulled out a buck and slapped it on the counter. “Here’s the damn dollar,” I said. “Can we just move on? I’d like to get out of here before dark.”
They both turned on me. The clerk said, “Back down, dude…” while the old guy said, “It’s not the money, it’s the principal….” He shoved the coupon back in his pocket and got out his wallet.
I felt like bolting out of the fucking store and leaving the damn condoms and cigarettes lying on the conveyor belt, but my agreement to buy them was sort of my rental on the Corvette. Brian expected me to bring them back. I ground my teeth and waited while the old guy counted out his money. As soon as I’d paid, I grabbed my purchases and got out of there. It was past 10:00, and my good mood was history.
Once again I may have been driving a bit faster than usual when I left the parking lot. My adrenaline was up, and my system was in overdrive. My tires screeched as I made the turn into the highway leading back to town. There wasn’t much traffic…from the congestion in the parking lots, everybody was already shopping…and the relatively light traffic let me put a heavier than usual foot on the accelerator. I turned the radio up to blast and sang along at the top of my lungs. As usual, that helped, and I was starting to cool off when an over-sized pick-up truck abruptly switched lanes, pulling in right in front of me.
I hit the brakes hard, cursing, and pounded on the horn. I couldn’t believe the asshole had cut it so close. “You think you’re king of the road, don’t you?” I yelled. “Fucker!”
I gave the driver the finger, not caring whether or not he could see the gesture in his rear view mirror. The bastard jammed on his brakes, and I whipped my wheel to the left to avoid hitting him. As I pulled onto the shoulder, the grinding sound of metal on metal roiled my stomach and ignited my already uncertain temper. In seconds, I had the door open and I was out on the shoulder, scrutinizing the front left panel, looking for damage. Sure enough, the leading edge was scraped and bent in towards the headlight. “God damn motherfucker,” I said.
The pick-up truck had pulled onto the shoulder in front of me. The driver was slower than me getting out of his vehicle, but when I heard the door slam, I turned, ready to kick his ass. He came into view, taller than Brian and maybe twice his width. He was wearing dirty jeans with a washed-out flannel shirt and scuffed work boots. It was instantly very clear to me that any ass-kicking was not going to be done by me. Now I felt nauseous.
The guy stopped to look over the rear of his truck, bending over to inspect it closely. I looked over his shoulder, but I couldn’t see much damage, if any. He stood up, narrowed his eyes, and looked from me to the ‘Vette’s front end. “That your car, kid?”
I hate being called ‘kid.’ I shook my head. “No.”
“Well, you ought to drive a little slower when your dad lets you have the car. Nice car. You wouldn’t be driving it if it was up to me.”
I didn’t try to straighten the bastard out. He’d already demonstrated his lack of sympathy. I kept my mouth shut.
He continued, “I’m going to do you a favor, kid. I’m going to get back in my truck and drive away. No exchanging license numbers, no exchanging insurance information, nothing on your driving record even though you hit me. How you explain this to your father is your problem.” He turned around, climbed back into his macho truck, and drove away.
I got back in my car a lot slower than I had gotten out and drove home very carefully. My anger was leaking away, replaced by another emotion, a strong dislike of everyone on the planet Earth but especially those people living in Pittsburgh. Okay, what I felt was more than a strong dislike. What had my stomach churning and the taste of bile in my throat was hate, pure and simple. I hated everyone, from the people on the street right up to, and including, Brian A. Kinney. Especially Brian. He was not going to be happy about the ding and scrape on his baby.
I parked Brian’s poor, marred car carefully, grabbed my packages, and started up the stairs. Was I taking the stairs rather than the elevator because 1.) I wanted to work off the rest of my anger or 2.) I was delaying telling Brian? or 3.) both?
One thing about the loft: you can’t sneak in. I gritted my teeth and rolled the door open, cringing at its screeches. However, a quick, panicked look around, and I saw Brian still curled up on his side of the bed, apparently undisturbed. I sighed. Something was finally going right.
I kicked off my shoes and hung up my jacket. I’d already figured out where to put Brian’s present until I had the opportunity to install the memory stick: in with the pots and pans, in the cabinet under the counter. I took another quick look at the bed: no change. I went quietly into the kitchen, put the condoms and the cigarettes on the counter, and…again, very quietly…opened the cabinet door and placed his present, still in The Camera Shop bag, at the very back of the cabinet, behind a big soup pot I’d never seen used, in more than five years.
I stood up, shutting the cabinet door carefully. I unsnapped my jeans and started walking toward the bedroom. I had my shirt off before I reached the steps; by the time I was standing next to the bed, I was naked. Brian was still very much asleep, lying on one side, his back to me, facing my side of the bed. One arm was flung out, as though he had felt for me, in my usual spot. A tender little gesture that I was going to undo as soon as he woke up. “I hate you,” I murmured to myself
Brian’s outstretched arm whipped around and caught me behind the knees. I tumbled over his body and landed on the bed next to him. Apparently the door had done its job after all.
“I hate you, too,” he said. “Did you remember the dry cleaning?”
Fuck. Of course I hadn’t. I scooched around on the bed until I was lying on my side, facing him. I said, “I mean it. I hate you…you and everybody else in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.”
Brian gave me a considerably less sleepy smile. “My, my,” He said, “the widdle boy is angwy. Is the widdle boy having a bad day?” There was an edge to his voice.
I snapped, “Yes, I’m having a bad day, and you’re going to have a bad day, too, in just one fucking minute.”
An eyebrow went up, but he didn’t speak.
“I wrecked your car. Merry fucking Christmas, Brian.”
The eyebrow came down and he looked at me intently for a minute that stretched and stretched into perhaps two minutes or even three. I tried to maintain a truculent expression, but I could feel it morphing into needy hurting. I took my lower lip between my teeth and bit down as hard as I could. I by God wasn’t going to make a play for sympathy.
Brian’s expression softened. “Is it drivable?”
“Yes. It’s the left front quarter-panel. It’s a kinda crunched.”
“Front end, huh? What did you hit?”
“It wasn’t my fault. I swear to God, Brian, it wasn’t. God damn motherfucker pulled in front of me, then slammed on his brakes.” I could feel myself flushing. I was getting angry all over again. “Asshole did it on purpose.”
“Nobody’s hurt?” He asked as his eyes were cruising the length of my body.
“No, the other guy was driving some fucking monster truck. There wasn’t even a scratch on it or him.”
“Okay? Is that all you’re going to say? Okay? Christ, Michael eats in the thing and you nearly have a heart attack. I crunched the fender, the day before Christmas, no less.”
Brian pushed himself up on one elbow and narrowed his eyes. Slowly he leaned in toward me. “I’m not fucking Michael and he’s not fucking me. But, just to be safe, you weren’t eating anything when you slammed into the asshole, were you?”
There was a smirk on his face and I couldn’t help but smile. “No,” I replied.
His lips were a fraction of an inch from mine and it was hard to stay upset under those circumstances. Before he got any closer, I added, "but I’d like to do both.”
“Then go for it.”
In our ‘relationship’ Brian mainly tops, but now and then the tables get turned. Usually, it’s as a favor to me. Rarely, but on an occasion or two, this unconventional boyfriend of mine has actually craved my dick up his ass, and when he does, there’s no stopping him from getting it, (not that I’d even try!) There’s no rhyme or reason as to when he gets the urge but I hardly thought my antics this morning would merit this response.
“Turn over,” I whispered.
That damn eyebrow went up again. “Just like that? You aren’t going to romance me first?”
He raised his ass so that I could shove the pillow under him. “I’m going to fuck you,” I said. “That’ll be your damn romancing.”
I knelt between his legs. He had to spread them wider to accommodate me, giving me a nice view of his asshole and a glimpse of his balls as well. He looked so damn vulnerable, splayed out before me. I ran one hand down his back, starting at the nape of his neck and moving slowly from vertebrae to vertebrae, down to the indented waist, then up and over his cool ass. Goosebumps broke out on his skin as I ran my hand over it and I felt him shudder underneath me.
I gently spread his cheeks, then licked down his crack. I flattened my tongue against his hole and let my spit pool around my tongue. Brian’s asshole spasmed in response, and I pressed against him more firmly. Another involuntary clenching, and I felt it in my groin. More spit. I tensed my tongue and pushed it in a couple of millimeters. Brian squirmed and groaned, nearly dislodging me. I slapped his ass once, hard, and he stopped moving. I hadn’t meant to make a production of rimming him, but he had to learn to how to behave, damn it, so I took my time licking and pushing in and pulling out and generally trying to drive him crazy. I seemed to be succeeding, from his muttered cursing and small, convulsive movements.
For my part, by the time I was done, I was rock-hard and dripping. I groped for the lube and a condom, then squeezed a liberal amount on his asshole. I had started to work it into his hole when Brian went up on his forearms and twisted his head around. “What the hell are you doing? Would you get down to business, for fuck’s sake?” He was flushed and starting to sweat a little.
I grinned back and rolled the condom on, then coated it thoroughly. I inserted first one finger, then two in Brian’s ass and scissored them, opening him up. He groaned and pushed back against me, so I replaced them with the head of my dick. I pushed, sweating, until suddenly I was past the barrier and in up to the beginning of my shaft. Brian gasped and when his asshole clenched around me, I gasped back.
I rubbed my hand through his soft hair and kissed his spine. “O.K.?”
He grunted so I pushed in a little more, then held still again. Another grunt and I repeated my actions. This time Brian pushed back against me, and I started to move more definitely, trying to establish a rhythm. There was an awkward moment, and then Brian was moving with me, his heat engulfing me. I couldn’t stop, couldn’t pause, hot everywhere, sweaty skin sliding, sticking, someone groaned, my balls were tight, tighter, I was coming, oh, God. Damn. Damn. Fuck.
Brian had gotten his hand under him and was shaking with his own orgasm. I rode out his aftershocks before I pulled out carefully. I disposed of the condom and threw the abused pillow on the floor after it. I was drifting off to sleep when Brian said, “And a fucking merry Christmas to you, too, Justin.”