I'm sorry your request couldn't be fulfilled, because your gift maker had to drop out. I hope you'll accept this fic by the wonderful vamphile, who has been so kind to step in, instead.
He says he hates Christmas, and I believe that he hates the stupid songs and the faked good cheer and eggnog. He really really hates eggnog, but he loves his son, so watching him choose gifts for Gus is an exercise in self-control. If I smile too broadly at how fucking adorable he is, he gets all glowery. If I let even a fleeting glimpse of sympathy cross my features when I recognize his trying to create the Christmases he never had, he’ll just close the site and start drinking. So I say nothing, and watch him out of the corner of my eye while he leans closer to the screen, reading everything he can about each item before adding it to his shopping cart. I’d bet the amount he’s spending that he doesn’t even check the total before he makes sure all the gifts are being wrapped and sent express mail.
When he’s done he stands up, and I close my sketchbook. He rolls his eyes and picks it up, flipping to the sketch I was working on. It was just a doodle really. I’ve got three projects in different states of completion in the studio. I’ve been a little ADHD about my work but somehow, it’s making these pieces better.
He sees what I’ve drawn and tosses the book onto the desk, out of my reach. I didn’t think he’d like it. I made him look like a wide-eyed kid, but it wasn’t a stretch… he does, sometimes, when he’s thinking about making Gus happy.
His eyes aren’t wide now, and it’s not Gus he’s thinking of pleasing. He holds out his hand and I take it, unfolding my legs and standing up. He kisses me and I melt a little, pulling his head down, making the kiss deeper. “You done shopping?”
He nods and pulls at the hem of my shirt. I lift my arms over my head, but he doesn’t pull the shirt off of me; he wraps it around my wrists. I smile and let him lead me to bed.
“Now I’m going to unwrap my favorite gift.” He says it into my chest as he kisses down my torso and unzips my pants. He yanks my jeans and underwear off and tosses them aside. Falling on top of me. His own jeans still on, the soft worn denim rubbing against my thighs. He’s hard, and I try to move my hands to help him with his jeans, but my shirt’s still twisted around my wrists. So I grab the headboard and let him do whatever it is he’s planning.
He moves against me and then pulls away, his head disappearing between my thighs. I moan as he sucks hard on the spot just behind my balls. Two fingers are rubbing at my hole. I’m torn between spreading my legs wider and closing them, trapping his head and hands on me. He makes the decision for me and pulls back. Licking up my shaft, running his tongue around the head of my cock and then sucking hard.
I’m about to come. He moves his mouth off of me. I can’t take it anymore and twist my wrists. The shirt that was binding them falls behind the bed. I don’t fucking care. My fingers are in his hair, but I resist the urge to press his head back where it was, where it should be. He smiles at me and strokes my cock. It’s slick with his spit and my pre-come, and when I do come it’s all over my belly and his hand. I moan as he slides two fingers, wet with my come, into my ass. My legs are shaking as he presses his fingers to my prostate. “Brian.” It’s a gasp and when I see his almost evil smile, I know this is going to take a while.
When he finally rolls me over, I rise up on my knees, spread open, dripping with my own come, wanting him… needing him. I feel him blow over my hole and let out a low grunt. He rims me for what feels like hours. Maybe it is. There’s no time but this, there’s nothing for me now but the smell of us, sweaty and together. I’m whimpering and groaning and so close to coming, but he keeps pulling back, stopping before I get there. Finally I feel his sheathed cock press at my hole and I reach back, grabbing his thigh, pulling him forward while I press back on him. Taking him inside me and clamping down, trying in vain to hold him there.
His rhythm is perfect; it always has been, and we move together until I collapse under him. He doesn’t stop. I’m wet and sticky and pressed into the sheets, and he doesn’t stop until I’m shuddering and my body convulses around him again. He comes, too, this time, and I sigh as the weight of his body presses me down. His hand running through my sweat-dampened hair.
I shiver and look around. “Fire’s out.”
He grunts and pulls out of me. I miss him immediately.
He calls the front desk and asks for clean sheets and someone to light the fire. I roll my eyes, but he just tosses me a warm robe and pulls on a pair of fleece sweatpants. We move to the other room. The fire there is dying. He throws a log on it, stoking it back to life, and then pulls a blanket around the both of us. “Merry Christmas.”
“Christmas isn’t 'til next week.”
“Yes, but I consider this one of the best presents ever.”
“I missed you too.”
“Promise me something?”
“Next time I get weird…”
“There’s gonna be a next time?”
I feel him nod. I sigh.
“Next time I get weird, don’t let us go two weeks before we fuck again.”
“Why is this my responsibility?”
“Because you’re the mature one in this relationship.”
“Justin.” His fingers are interlaced with mine.
I kiss his hand. “I promise. But…”
“Oh, here it comes.”
“I think you’ll like this one.”
He kisses the back of my neck. “What?”
“You have to promise me that the next time you get weird will be a long time from now.”