I’m Abstaining from the Holidays This Year
Title: I’m Abstaining from the Holidays This Year
By: That’d be me. The Meg.
Rated: R-ish? Not that it’ll stop anyone from reading it if they seem interested.
Pairing: Adam and John. Duh.
Summary: With all of his bad luck in the past, Adam decides he doesn’t want to have Christmas. Or Hanukah. Or Kwanzaa. Or any damn holidays.
Dedication: To my best friend Codi who has chosen to abstain from Christmas…unless you want to give her money.
Crossing your arms in front of your chest, you refuse to move from your place beside the stove. “I am not letting you make that disgusting…lump of vomit, John,” you hiss. “It’s not going in my oven.”
“First of all, it’s fruit cake.”
“…You are what you eat,” you mutter.
John rolls his eyes at you, showing his lack of interest in your sense of humor around this time of year. “And second of all, it’s my oven, too.”
“I cook in it more than you do!”
“Frozen pizza is not cooking.”
You scoff, “It takes good, hard work to get that thing off the rack without burning your fingers.”
John shoves you out of the way to put his three pans of nut and colored-cherry-filled dessert into the oven, the heat from it feeling warm on your elbows when he opens the door to it. He closes it, turns on the timer, pats you on the head, and leaves the kitchen with a smile across his face.
“I’m not eating it!” you call after him. When he doesn’t reply, you start for the living room and smack right into him with a rather loud oomph. You realize that he’s somehow gotten out of his apron and into his shoes and thick jacket in what could be a world record time.
“I’m going out,” he tells you.
“Oh, are you?”
“Yep. And in half an hour, you’re taking my fruit cakes out of the oven.”
“John, it’s gonna stink up the house. You know I hate fruitcake,” you whine, draping yourself over him.
“Light a candle. And besides. You love this fruitcake,” he replies, kissing your lips. “Half an hour, Adam. I’ll be back around five.”
“Bring home dinner, I’m not cooking for you.”
“Don’t be mad, Adam. I’m not making you eat it.”
“I want noodles,” you tell him, disregarding his fruitcake.
“Fine.”
You wave him out the door so he can go shop for his sister [because it takes him at least two hours to find her something]. On the other hand, you settle for playing solitaire on the faded tabletop in yours and John’s rather large apartment with seven eight nine candles lit next to you while you try to mask the smell of fruitcake but still remember to get it out of the oven after it beeps. And when it does, you’re a good boy and you use your zebra and alligator [or maybe it’s a crocodile…you’re not sure] oven mitts to safely remove them from the heat of the oven, which you actually remember to turn off [you almost set the apartment on fire once…].
You leave the pans full of brown and red and green and gross-colored stuff on the top of the stove and go into the living room and collapse. You’re tired already today and you’ve only been up for a total of three hours and seventeen minutes [because John told you at noon that “it’s twelve o’clock, you can get up now”]. While you’re in your nice little slumber, halfway off of the couch and so close to the floor that you wouldn’t notice if you fell off all the way, your brain decides to show you a memory from your childhood. In said reminiscent dream, there’s some idiot dressed up in a Santa Clause costume chasing you around with a giant plastic candy cane in his hands, threatening to bash your head in. And in your dream-speak, you’re telling your father that you didn’t touch the lawn ornaments, it was Jesse from next door. When the red and white striped hunk of plastic is about to smack you in the head, John shakes you violently back to reality.
“I didn’t do it!” you yell one final time before realizing that it’s John who’s touching your shoulders, not your drunken father, dressed like a fictitious corporate character.
John looks at you funny. “You know you talk in your sleep sometimes, but none of it ever involved lawn ornaments. I thought you were scared of lawn gnomes…”
Mumbling in embarrassment, you say, “Lawn gnomes are creepy…”
He pats you on your back and whispers, “I got you an early Christmas present…”
“I’m abstaining from the holidays this year,” you announce, standing up and putting your hands on you perfect hips. “None of this Santa nonsense!” you holler as you’re going down the hall, pulling the creepy window-stick Santa Claus off of the hallway mirror. “And I don’t want to hear anything about Hanukah...or Kwanzaa. No holidays!”
“You don’t even wanna know what I got you?”
“Take it back!” you shout from the bedroom. “I don’t want any of your Christmas gifts. That’s for children.” You’re one to speak, dancing around the mall because you got a new pair of shoes [which, if you get dirty, will get you in trouble] and obsessing over cigarettes like Gobstoppers.
“Are you sure?” he calls. You can hear the rustling of plastic in the living room. “You haven’t even seen it yet.”
“I don’t want to see it,” you say, but in a more normal-volume voice…you’re getting curious.
You can hear him over-exaggerate a sigh and the plastic noise again. He knows you too well and when you peek out of the bedroom, you see him staring at you, plastic bag swinging from his fingers.
“Where’s dinner?” you ask.
His eyes drop to the ground. “Oops.”
You start down the hall, trying your best to put on your angry eyes face. “You forgot to get dinner! John, I’m starved! I took your nasty fruit...stuff out of the oven and you didn’t bring me any dinner!” Staring at the bag in his hand, you’re really beginning to wonder what he bought you. You grab the bag. “This is not a gift to me, it’s payment for not getting me dinner.”
“Hey!” he shouts, grabbing at the bag, but missing as you pull it out of his reach. “Aw, Adam. I was just all excited to get home and I forgot.”
You stare at him, thinking of how you can use the situation to your advantage. “I want KFC…that three strip-thingies meal. No biscuit, mashed potatoes instead. Pepsi with orange soda in it. Annndddd…some extra mashed potatoes. No Cole slaw.”
“Fine. So much for noodles.”
John leaves to go get your food and whatever it may be that he orders and you’re left holding the plastic bag in your hands. There’s something in a Delia’s bag over near the door…Michelle’s gift, obviously…unless he bought you some sparkly pants. But the bag in your hands is light and somehow you feel like you should take it to your bedroom to examine its contents. So after changing into some comfortable pajama pants [because (a) you’re not leaving and (b) if you or John happen to be in the mood, there are no silly belts in the way] and having a quick cigarette, you sit in the middle of yours and John’s bed and dump out the bag.
“Hmm,” you hum, picking up the blue box and reading the label aloud. “Sex chocolate.” You like chocolate. You really like chocolate. Down in the corner there’s a big green star. Mint!, it says. You like mint chocolate more than you like regular chocolate. And now you want John to be home…and not so you can eat that abused delicious chicken and load of mashed potatoes.
But too bad for your sex drive, he’s home not too long later and the scent of KFC chicken strips sends you running down the hallway without a shirt on [because you were picking one out to wear to bed] to rip the plastic bag from his hands and start in on your food before your ass even has a chance to sit down in a chair at the table.
“Hungry, I see,” John notes, sitting down across from you and opening his take-out container. “Save room for some chocolate.”
“Sex chocolate?” you ask, hoping he doesn’t mean one of those chocolate cakes they sell at KFC.
“Sex chocolate,” he confirms.
“Mint sex chocolate?” You lick your fingers after you swallow the last bit of one of your chicken strips.
“Mint sex chocolate.”
You whisper it back to yourself and start in on your mashed potatoes. It’s good to have energy because you’re sure you’ll be using that chocolate tonight. Because mint chocolate is good and so much better than chicken.
While your sucking seductively on your fork after you’ve finished everything [and some of John’s potato wedges...he didn’t seem as hungry as you, but then again you hadn’t eaten since the night before], you realize that all your thoughts of sex chocolate and licking it off of John’s chest are really getting to your crotch. John’s sitting across from you, twirling his spork in his own mashed potatoes like nobody’s business, looking positively gorgeous [as always], bored and obviously quite in tune with his artistic side. Those mashed potatoes are beginning to look like the next Mona Lisa.
“So…” you start.
“So…”
“You wanna just get right to it? Because I can’t stop thinking about that chocolate,” you blurt out, slapping your hand over your mouth after you say the last word.
John raises his eyebrows at you like he always does when you’ve said something silly. “Well. It was a Christmas present. And you are abstaining from holiday cheer,” he says, dragging out all of his words.
You stare. He has got to be kidding you. “If you expect me to just…give into you because that’s what you’d expect,” [you know he reads those silly stories people write about you on the internet when you’re not home] “well, you’ve got another thing coming, Mr. John Nolan.” You get right up in his face and stick your index finger right in front of his nose. “You’re not getting any tonight.”
John’s looking a bit mortified as you lean away from him and cross your arms across your bony chest. He’s not getting any. You’re not really getting any either, but if he wants to apologize, you’re free for make-up sex tonight. You like make up sex. He was looking forward to it and you know that you made his plan backfire.
“But…” he starts.
“Nope,” you say. “No sex for you.”
“But that means no sex for you, either.” Oh, is he catching on?
It doesn’t matter. You are the master of comebacks. “Not really. I can get sex wherever I want.” Ouch.
Adam, that was mean.
- - -
Your plan, of course, does not backfire. Your plans never hardly ever backfire. An hour later, you’re sitting on the couch watching A Charlie Brown Christmas and tapping your fingers to the pianist genius himself [George Winston…all hail] and John comes in from the kitchen and sits down in your lap.
“Yes?” you ask, leaning over to look around him while Linus and Lucy are ice-skating.
“I’m sorry, Adam,” he apologizes. “I shouldn’t try to make you celebrate the holidays if you don’t want to.”
You’ve won, but you’re not letting him off that easy. “I’m trying to watch my show, John,” you whine, trying to shove him off. Good for you, he’s got strong thighs [and you’ve got some strange feeling he was once a horseback rider] and you’re only pushing his torso. “Johnnnn.”
“I’m sorry,” he says again, kissing your forehead. “We can use the chocolate now if you want.”
“Charlie Brown,” you say like you’re seven, pointing at the TV. “A Charlie Brown Christmas, John. Only about ten times better than The Great Pumpkin.”
His shoulders slump and he looks like he’s given up. That is, until you see him try to hide and grin and wriggle around in your lap a little. His ass [in those really tight jeans…mmm] is rubbing real close to your crotch.
“I’m not going to pay you for this lap dance, you know.”
John leans down and captures your lips with his while you’re gazing at the glorious little Christmas tree and you forget all about the little spruce and move on to the fact that John Nolan’s lips taste a little bit like mint [but not peppermint. He’s not allowed to kiss you with peppermint lips].
“John,” you stop him.
“Hmm?” he hums, shifting his hips and moving his fingers to dance across your stomach.
“If we get chocolate on the sheets…you’re cleaning them.”
Six minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, the two of you are on the bed, stripped down to your boxers and trying desperately to break the safety seal from the bottle of mint sex chocolate sauce. It’s just your luck that you’ve got at least one sharp-ish fingernail, otherwise the purpose of your chocolaty-good sex would be entirely defeated. You’re sitting on John’s thighs and he’s perfectly content lying underneath you with his hands tucked underneath his head. From time to time he wiggles while you’re picking at the seal and even if your legs aren’t close enough to his groin to feel it, you know the man is eager to get off.
“Adammmm,” he whines. You love when he whines.
“Yesss?” you taunt him. You’re such a tease.
“Will you just open the chocolate and pour it on me already?”
“Who said anything about you getting chocolated?” Congratulations, you’ve converted a noun into a verb by simply adding a letter. You should be darn proud.
John looks rather sad now that you’ve told him that you’d rather he lick chocolate off of your body instead of the other way around. He gives you his puppy eyes…the ones he can only manage to break out once or twice a year [obviously earlier in the day didn’t work] and now your flawless non-backfiring-plan-making has been shot to hell and you’re kissing him hard and biting at his lips until you finally rip that god-forsaken freshness seal off of the chocolate, push him back onto the bed, and write your name in pretty letters across his chest.
He moans like a whore while your tongue is snaking its way across his chest and your lips are sucking at the skin near his collar bone where the top of the d in your name is running slowly down onto his neck. Your name, some curse words, and a few religious references are thrown in amongst his attempts to tell you what he wants to do to you when you’re done licking chocolate sauce off of his nipples. When you finish snacking on his torso, you sit back on his thighs and your fingers are dancing around his navel and he’s staring at you. It’s not just a stare, though. It’s that hungry, lustful stare - the one where his eyes aren’t so dark and his lips are a bit redder than they usually are from kissing you so much and they’re parted a little while he’s trying to breathe right and by god, do you love that stare. You know that in his head, he’s got all those little thoughts of what he wants to do to you and currently you’d love nothing better than to act them all out. Eyeing his boxers, you’re reminded exactly what you’re doing there on that bed half naked with a bottle of sex chocolate next to your left foot. Yes, yes, you’re going to let your lover have his way with you even if it involves being tied to the bed with tacky garland.
Instead of him just fucking you senseless, he barrel-rolls the two of you over so he’s got you trapped underneath him and drizzles that chocolate sauce exactly where sex chocolate is intended to go if you happen to be a homosexual man…yes, he pulls your boxers down and puts it all over your erection. He proceeds to lick it off and you’ve got your fingers threaded in his hair [which you need to remind him to cut, even if you like it, long hair is all you] and you’re making throaty little noises and swearing softly. He can tell you’re going to come if he keeps up his actions and crawls back up the bed to kiss you with his minty-chocolate lips.
“Fucking shit, John,” you breathe his name, hands roaming over his back while he kisses down your neck again. Being the talented man you are [and having spent hours perfecting the art of picking up pens with your toes], you push down his boxers part way and use your feet to pull them the rest of the way off, all the while kissing him and biting at his lips and neck.
After sucking on your tongue a minute, John gets right to it. None of that “preparation” nonsense, just him letting you adjust to him a moment before he starts thrusting inside of you and complimenting your “fucking perfect” body. So he’s moving inside of you, fast and hard [exactly how you like it] and you’re moaning like it’s everybody’s business that someone named John is either murdering you in some erotic manner, or he’s got his dick so far up your ass you don’t know how to say anything else.
John grabs the bottle of gooey mint-chocolate flavored magic from next to you and takes your hand, dribbling it on the index finger of your right hand and sucking on it like a popsicle. He’s sucking on your finger and rubbing his other hand all over your neglected dick and you can’t help but come, which in turn causes him to do the same with a moan of your name around your finger [and he might have bit you, but it doesn’t matter].
- - -
Usually, you don’t fall asleep after sex, but you do and when you wake up, John is not next to you. You figure he’s already showered and dressed in some holiday sweater and sitting in front of the TV waiting for you to get up. You get up, not bothering to put on any clothes, and go into the bathroom [and you’re walking a little funny]. Showers are good. So you shower and dress and find John sleeping on the couch, the TV on Fox [you don’t like Seinfeld…] and a half-eaten piece of fruitcake on a napkin on the floor.
“Johnnn,” you call, poking his side. “Johnny, wake up!” You smack his thigh and he jumps. “I don’t want fruitcake on my floor, clean it up!”
He’s silent, obviously still worn out. His hair is mussed from sleeping awkwardly and when he gets up to throw his dry fruitcake out, he walks slow and without bending too much […you were the one who got fucked, not him, but maybe his joints are stiff] which reminds you to tell him he shouldn’t sleep on the couch whose springs are broken.
“Adam, can you dress up all nice and pretty for me?” John asks from the kitchen. You can see him pouring a glass of orange juice.
“Get me a glass of that and maybe I’ll consider it,” you reply, leaning in the doorway like a woman in a romantic comedy. “What’s the occasion?”
“It’s a secret.”
“I don’t like secrets,” you tell him. “You remember what happened the last time you had a secret.”
He rolls his eyes, rather subtly, but you’ve learned in your years to pick up on the most subtle of facial expressions. “It’s a party.”
“Me…dress up for a party?” You own one pair of slacks and they are not flattering to your perfect ass figure.
“It’s my parents’ party,” he explains. Yes, his parents.
“Those parents who hate me?” you ask.
“They don’t hate you.”
“It’s a holiday party, Johnny. I’m not going.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No.” You’re angry now. You’ve already explained to him today that you don’t intend on celebrating anything, you had sex with him to [sort of] prove that point, and now he’s trying to drag you to Mommy and Daddy’s Christmas party? Uh-uh. In fact, you’re so pissed off and in your own world, mentally screaming at him for thinking you’d actually go and simultaneously ignoring whatever it is he’s talking about, that you pull on your shoes and grab your coat and gloves and leave.
A second after you’re out the door, you hear him yelling at you from down the hall and when he’s silent, you know that he’s gone inside to put his shoes and socks on and grab his warm coat and chase after you. You’re already halfway to the end of the block before he catches up with you. You really don’t have anywhere to go, you’re just walking and he’s tugging at your arm.
“Come on, Adam. It wouldn’t kill you to just humor them for one night.”
“Humor them? I’ve been humoring them since the day we met. I can’t be myself around them and I haven’t been forever and they don’t even know me.” You’re walking faster now and he’s almost jogging to keep up with you. Long legs were a gift from god, you’re sure. If you actually believed in god. “Jeez, John. Do you even know me anymore?” Christ, you’re beginning to sound like an angst-ridden teenage girl.
“Then be yourself, Ad. C’mon, they’re expecting us.”
“They’re expecting you and your ’friend’ Adam. They’re not expecting you and your boyfriend, Adam.” He’s got his hand on your arm and you shove him off.
You’re not expecting him to grab your arm and pull you back to him. His lips crash against yours and you let his tongue past your lips and…he never does this to you in public. Taking advantage of the situation, you put one hand behind his head and one grasps his bicep and you’ve taken the lead, sucking on his face kissing him as best you know how in the middle of the sidewalk.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t change what they think.”
“I know. But I’m still not going. Tell them I’m sick or something.”
“Fine.”
The two of you return to your apartment and he calls his parents and tells them he’ll be coming alone [because you insisted he go and promise he won’t kiss anyone but his mother] while you search the cabinet underneath the TV to find your Fight Club DVD. And while he’s off drinking eggnog with his relatives, you’re sipping hot chocolate and watching Brad Pitt movies.
Apparently, your values differ a bit from John’s.
Well, there's my Christmas story. I don't like the holidays too much and I'm damn sick of seeing the same damn thing with different details every time I click on an Xmas story link.
Shameless promo below, click, read, and review, yo.
the__regulars -- R&R, por favor. Not slash, just. A thing.
By: That’d be me. The Meg.
Rated: R-ish? Not that it’ll stop anyone from reading it if they seem interested.
Pairing: Adam and John. Duh.
Summary: With all of his bad luck in the past, Adam decides he doesn’t want to have Christmas. Or Hanukah. Or Kwanzaa. Or any damn holidays.
Dedication: To my best friend Codi who has chosen to abstain from Christmas…unless you want to give her money.
Crossing your arms in front of your chest, you refuse to move from your place beside the stove. “I am not letting you make that disgusting…lump of vomit, John,” you hiss. “It’s not going in my oven.”
“First of all, it’s fruit cake.”
“…You are what you eat,” you mutter.
John rolls his eyes at you, showing his lack of interest in your sense of humor around this time of year. “And second of all, it’s my oven, too.”
“I cook in it more than you do!”
“Frozen pizza is not cooking.”
You scoff, “It takes good, hard work to get that thing off the rack without burning your fingers.”
John shoves you out of the way to put his three pans of nut and colored-cherry-filled dessert into the oven, the heat from it feeling warm on your elbows when he opens the door to it. He closes it, turns on the timer, pats you on the head, and leaves the kitchen with a smile across his face.
“I’m not eating it!” you call after him. When he doesn’t reply, you start for the living room and smack right into him with a rather loud oomph. You realize that he’s somehow gotten out of his apron and into his shoes and thick jacket in what could be a world record time.
“I’m going out,” he tells you.
“Oh, are you?”
“Yep. And in half an hour, you’re taking my fruit cakes out of the oven.”
“John, it’s gonna stink up the house. You know I hate fruitcake,” you whine, draping yourself over him.
“Light a candle. And besides. You love this fruitcake,” he replies, kissing your lips. “Half an hour, Adam. I’ll be back around five.”
“Bring home dinner, I’m not cooking for you.”
“Don’t be mad, Adam. I’m not making you eat it.”
“I want noodles,” you tell him, disregarding his fruitcake.
“Fine.”
You wave him out the door so he can go shop for his sister [because it takes him at least two hours to find her something]. On the other hand, you settle for playing solitaire on the faded tabletop in yours and John’s rather large apartment with seven eight nine candles lit next to you while you try to mask the smell of fruitcake but still remember to get it out of the oven after it beeps. And when it does, you’re a good boy and you use your zebra and alligator [or maybe it’s a crocodile…you’re not sure] oven mitts to safely remove them from the heat of the oven, which you actually remember to turn off [you almost set the apartment on fire once…].
You leave the pans full of brown and red and green and gross-colored stuff on the top of the stove and go into the living room and collapse. You’re tired already today and you’ve only been up for a total of three hours and seventeen minutes [because John told you at noon that “it’s twelve o’clock, you can get up now”]. While you’re in your nice little slumber, halfway off of the couch and so close to the floor that you wouldn’t notice if you fell off all the way, your brain decides to show you a memory from your childhood. In said reminiscent dream, there’s some idiot dressed up in a Santa Clause costume chasing you around with a giant plastic candy cane in his hands, threatening to bash your head in. And in your dream-speak, you’re telling your father that you didn’t touch the lawn ornaments, it was Jesse from next door. When the red and white striped hunk of plastic is about to smack you in the head, John shakes you violently back to reality.
“I didn’t do it!” you yell one final time before realizing that it’s John who’s touching your shoulders, not your drunken father, dressed like a fictitious corporate character.
John looks at you funny. “You know you talk in your sleep sometimes, but none of it ever involved lawn ornaments. I thought you were scared of lawn gnomes…”
Mumbling in embarrassment, you say, “Lawn gnomes are creepy…”
He pats you on your back and whispers, “I got you an early Christmas present…”
“I’m abstaining from the holidays this year,” you announce, standing up and putting your hands on you perfect hips. “None of this Santa nonsense!” you holler as you’re going down the hall, pulling the creepy window-stick Santa Claus off of the hallway mirror. “And I don’t want to hear anything about Hanukah...or Kwanzaa. No holidays!”
“You don’t even wanna know what I got you?”
“Take it back!” you shout from the bedroom. “I don’t want any of your Christmas gifts. That’s for children.” You’re one to speak, dancing around the mall because you got a new pair of shoes [which, if you get dirty, will get you in trouble] and obsessing over cigarettes like Gobstoppers.
“Are you sure?” he calls. You can hear the rustling of plastic in the living room. “You haven’t even seen it yet.”
“I don’t want to see it,” you say, but in a more normal-volume voice…you’re getting curious.
You can hear him over-exaggerate a sigh and the plastic noise again. He knows you too well and when you peek out of the bedroom, you see him staring at you, plastic bag swinging from his fingers.
“Where’s dinner?” you ask.
His eyes drop to the ground. “Oops.”
You start down the hall, trying your best to put on your angry eyes face. “You forgot to get dinner! John, I’m starved! I took your nasty fruit...stuff out of the oven and you didn’t bring me any dinner!” Staring at the bag in his hand, you’re really beginning to wonder what he bought you. You grab the bag. “This is not a gift to me, it’s payment for not getting me dinner.”
“Hey!” he shouts, grabbing at the bag, but missing as you pull it out of his reach. “Aw, Adam. I was just all excited to get home and I forgot.”
You stare at him, thinking of how you can use the situation to your advantage. “I want KFC…that three strip-thingies meal. No biscuit, mashed potatoes instead. Pepsi with orange soda in it. Annndddd…some extra mashed potatoes. No Cole slaw.”
“Fine. So much for noodles.”
John leaves to go get your food and whatever it may be that he orders and you’re left holding the plastic bag in your hands. There’s something in a Delia’s bag over near the door…Michelle’s gift, obviously…unless he bought you some sparkly pants. But the bag in your hands is light and somehow you feel like you should take it to your bedroom to examine its contents. So after changing into some comfortable pajama pants [because (a) you’re not leaving and (b) if you or John happen to be in the mood, there are no silly belts in the way] and having a quick cigarette, you sit in the middle of yours and John’s bed and dump out the bag.
“Hmm,” you hum, picking up the blue box and reading the label aloud. “Sex chocolate.” You like chocolate. You really like chocolate. Down in the corner there’s a big green star. Mint!, it says. You like mint chocolate more than you like regular chocolate. And now you want John to be home…and not so you can eat that abused delicious chicken and load of mashed potatoes.
But too bad for your sex drive, he’s home not too long later and the scent of KFC chicken strips sends you running down the hallway without a shirt on [because you were picking one out to wear to bed] to rip the plastic bag from his hands and start in on your food before your ass even has a chance to sit down in a chair at the table.
“Hungry, I see,” John notes, sitting down across from you and opening his take-out container. “Save room for some chocolate.”
“Sex chocolate?” you ask, hoping he doesn’t mean one of those chocolate cakes they sell at KFC.
“Sex chocolate,” he confirms.
“Mint sex chocolate?” You lick your fingers after you swallow the last bit of one of your chicken strips.
“Mint sex chocolate.”
You whisper it back to yourself and start in on your mashed potatoes. It’s good to have energy because you’re sure you’ll be using that chocolate tonight. Because mint chocolate is good and so much better than chicken.
While your sucking seductively on your fork after you’ve finished everything [and some of John’s potato wedges...he didn’t seem as hungry as you, but then again you hadn’t eaten since the night before], you realize that all your thoughts of sex chocolate and licking it off of John’s chest are really getting to your crotch. John’s sitting across from you, twirling his spork in his own mashed potatoes like nobody’s business, looking positively gorgeous [as always], bored and obviously quite in tune with his artistic side. Those mashed potatoes are beginning to look like the next Mona Lisa.
“So…” you start.
“So…”
“You wanna just get right to it? Because I can’t stop thinking about that chocolate,” you blurt out, slapping your hand over your mouth after you say the last word.
John raises his eyebrows at you like he always does when you’ve said something silly. “Well. It was a Christmas present. And you are abstaining from holiday cheer,” he says, dragging out all of his words.
You stare. He has got to be kidding you. “If you expect me to just…give into you because that’s what you’d expect,” [you know he reads those silly stories people write about you on the internet when you’re not home] “well, you’ve got another thing coming, Mr. John Nolan.” You get right up in his face and stick your index finger right in front of his nose. “You’re not getting any tonight.”
John’s looking a bit mortified as you lean away from him and cross your arms across your bony chest. He’s not getting any. You’re not really getting any either, but if he wants to apologize, you’re free for make-up sex tonight. You like make up sex. He was looking forward to it and you know that you made his plan backfire.
“But…” he starts.
“Nope,” you say. “No sex for you.”
“But that means no sex for you, either.” Oh, is he catching on?
It doesn’t matter. You are the master of comebacks. “Not really. I can get sex wherever I want.” Ouch.
Adam, that was mean.
- - -
Your plan, of course, does not backfire. Your plans never hardly ever backfire. An hour later, you’re sitting on the couch watching A Charlie Brown Christmas and tapping your fingers to the pianist genius himself [George Winston…all hail] and John comes in from the kitchen and sits down in your lap.
“Yes?” you ask, leaning over to look around him while Linus and Lucy are ice-skating.
“I’m sorry, Adam,” he apologizes. “I shouldn’t try to make you celebrate the holidays if you don’t want to.”
You’ve won, but you’re not letting him off that easy. “I’m trying to watch my show, John,” you whine, trying to shove him off. Good for you, he’s got strong thighs [and you’ve got some strange feeling he was once a horseback rider] and you’re only pushing his torso. “Johnnnn.”
“I’m sorry,” he says again, kissing your forehead. “We can use the chocolate now if you want.”
“Charlie Brown,” you say like you’re seven, pointing at the TV. “A Charlie Brown Christmas, John. Only about ten times better than The Great Pumpkin.”
His shoulders slump and he looks like he’s given up. That is, until you see him try to hide and grin and wriggle around in your lap a little. His ass [in those really tight jeans…mmm] is rubbing real close to your crotch.
“I’m not going to pay you for this lap dance, you know.”
John leans down and captures your lips with his while you’re gazing at the glorious little Christmas tree and you forget all about the little spruce and move on to the fact that John Nolan’s lips taste a little bit like mint [but not peppermint. He’s not allowed to kiss you with peppermint lips].
“John,” you stop him.
“Hmm?” he hums, shifting his hips and moving his fingers to dance across your stomach.
“If we get chocolate on the sheets…you’re cleaning them.”
Six minutes and twenty-seven seconds later, the two of you are on the bed, stripped down to your boxers and trying desperately to break the safety seal from the bottle of mint sex chocolate sauce. It’s just your luck that you’ve got at least one sharp-ish fingernail, otherwise the purpose of your chocolaty-good sex would be entirely defeated. You’re sitting on John’s thighs and he’s perfectly content lying underneath you with his hands tucked underneath his head. From time to time he wiggles while you’re picking at the seal and even if your legs aren’t close enough to his groin to feel it, you know the man is eager to get off.
“Adammmm,” he whines. You love when he whines.
“Yesss?” you taunt him. You’re such a tease.
“Will you just open the chocolate and pour it on me already?”
“Who said anything about you getting chocolated?” Congratulations, you’ve converted a noun into a verb by simply adding a letter. You should be darn proud.
John looks rather sad now that you’ve told him that you’d rather he lick chocolate off of your body instead of the other way around. He gives you his puppy eyes…the ones he can only manage to break out once or twice a year [obviously earlier in the day didn’t work] and now your flawless non-backfiring-plan-making has been shot to hell and you’re kissing him hard and biting at his lips until you finally rip that god-forsaken freshness seal off of the chocolate, push him back onto the bed, and write your name in pretty letters across his chest.
He moans like a whore while your tongue is snaking its way across his chest and your lips are sucking at the skin near his collar bone where the top of the d in your name is running slowly down onto his neck. Your name, some curse words, and a few religious references are thrown in amongst his attempts to tell you what he wants to do to you when you’re done licking chocolate sauce off of his nipples. When you finish snacking on his torso, you sit back on his thighs and your fingers are dancing around his navel and he’s staring at you. It’s not just a stare, though. It’s that hungry, lustful stare - the one where his eyes aren’t so dark and his lips are a bit redder than they usually are from kissing you so much and they’re parted a little while he’s trying to breathe right and by god, do you love that stare. You know that in his head, he’s got all those little thoughts of what he wants to do to you and currently you’d love nothing better than to act them all out. Eyeing his boxers, you’re reminded exactly what you’re doing there on that bed half naked with a bottle of sex chocolate next to your left foot. Yes, yes, you’re going to let your lover have his way with you even if it involves being tied to the bed with tacky garland.
Instead of him just fucking you senseless, he barrel-rolls the two of you over so he’s got you trapped underneath him and drizzles that chocolate sauce exactly where sex chocolate is intended to go if you happen to be a homosexual man…yes, he pulls your boxers down and puts it all over your erection. He proceeds to lick it off and you’ve got your fingers threaded in his hair [which you need to remind him to cut, even if you like it, long hair is all you] and you’re making throaty little noises and swearing softly. He can tell you’re going to come if he keeps up his actions and crawls back up the bed to kiss you with his minty-chocolate lips.
“Fucking shit, John,” you breathe his name, hands roaming over his back while he kisses down your neck again. Being the talented man you are [and having spent hours perfecting the art of picking up pens with your toes], you push down his boxers part way and use your feet to pull them the rest of the way off, all the while kissing him and biting at his lips and neck.
After sucking on your tongue a minute, John gets right to it. None of that “preparation” nonsense, just him letting you adjust to him a moment before he starts thrusting inside of you and complimenting your “fucking perfect” body. So he’s moving inside of you, fast and hard [exactly how you like it] and you’re moaning like it’s everybody’s business that someone named John is either murdering you in some erotic manner, or he’s got his dick so far up your ass you don’t know how to say anything else.
John grabs the bottle of gooey mint-chocolate flavored magic from next to you and takes your hand, dribbling it on the index finger of your right hand and sucking on it like a popsicle. He’s sucking on your finger and rubbing his other hand all over your neglected dick and you can’t help but come, which in turn causes him to do the same with a moan of your name around your finger [and he might have bit you, but it doesn’t matter].
- - -
Usually, you don’t fall asleep after sex, but you do and when you wake up, John is not next to you. You figure he’s already showered and dressed in some holiday sweater and sitting in front of the TV waiting for you to get up. You get up, not bothering to put on any clothes, and go into the bathroom [and you’re walking a little funny]. Showers are good. So you shower and dress and find John sleeping on the couch, the TV on Fox [you don’t like Seinfeld…] and a half-eaten piece of fruitcake on a napkin on the floor.
“Johnnn,” you call, poking his side. “Johnny, wake up!” You smack his thigh and he jumps. “I don’t want fruitcake on my floor, clean it up!”
He’s silent, obviously still worn out. His hair is mussed from sleeping awkwardly and when he gets up to throw his dry fruitcake out, he walks slow and without bending too much […you were the one who got fucked, not him, but maybe his joints are stiff] which reminds you to tell him he shouldn’t sleep on the couch whose springs are broken.
“Adam, can you dress up all nice and pretty for me?” John asks from the kitchen. You can see him pouring a glass of orange juice.
“Get me a glass of that and maybe I’ll consider it,” you reply, leaning in the doorway like a woman in a romantic comedy. “What’s the occasion?”
“It’s a secret.”
“I don’t like secrets,” you tell him. “You remember what happened the last time you had a secret.”
He rolls his eyes, rather subtly, but you’ve learned in your years to pick up on the most subtle of facial expressions. “It’s a party.”
“Me…dress up for a party?” You own one pair of slacks and they are not flattering to your perfect ass figure.
“It’s my parents’ party,” he explains. Yes, his parents.
“Those parents who hate me?” you ask.
“They don’t hate you.”
“It’s a holiday party, Johnny. I’m not going.”
“Oh, come on.”
“No.” You’re angry now. You’ve already explained to him today that you don’t intend on celebrating anything, you had sex with him to [sort of] prove that point, and now he’s trying to drag you to Mommy and Daddy’s Christmas party? Uh-uh. In fact, you’re so pissed off and in your own world, mentally screaming at him for thinking you’d actually go and simultaneously ignoring whatever it is he’s talking about, that you pull on your shoes and grab your coat and gloves and leave.
A second after you’re out the door, you hear him yelling at you from down the hall and when he’s silent, you know that he’s gone inside to put his shoes and socks on and grab his warm coat and chase after you. You’re already halfway to the end of the block before he catches up with you. You really don’t have anywhere to go, you’re just walking and he’s tugging at your arm.
“Come on, Adam. It wouldn’t kill you to just humor them for one night.”
“Humor them? I’ve been humoring them since the day we met. I can’t be myself around them and I haven’t been forever and they don’t even know me.” You’re walking faster now and he’s almost jogging to keep up with you. Long legs were a gift from god, you’re sure. If you actually believed in god. “Jeez, John. Do you even know me anymore?” Christ, you’re beginning to sound like an angst-ridden teenage girl.
“Then be yourself, Ad. C’mon, they’re expecting us.”
“They’re expecting you and your ’friend’ Adam. They’re not expecting you and your boyfriend, Adam.” He’s got his hand on your arm and you shove him off.
You’re not expecting him to grab your arm and pull you back to him. His lips crash against yours and you let his tongue past your lips and…he never does this to you in public. Taking advantage of the situation, you put one hand behind his head and one grasps his bicep and you’ve taken the lead, sucking on his face kissing him as best you know how in the middle of the sidewalk.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t change what they think.”
“I know. But I’m still not going. Tell them I’m sick or something.”
“Fine.”
The two of you return to your apartment and he calls his parents and tells them he’ll be coming alone [because you insisted he go and promise he won’t kiss anyone but his mother] while you search the cabinet underneath the TV to find your Fight Club DVD. And while he’s off drinking eggnog with his relatives, you’re sipping hot chocolate and watching Brad Pitt movies.
Apparently, your values differ a bit from John’s.
Well, there's my Christmas story. I don't like the holidays too much and I'm damn sick of seeing the same damn thing with different details every time I click on an Xmas story link.
Shameless promo below, click, read, and review, yo.
the__regulars -- R&R, por favor. Not slash, just. A thing.