Queer as Folk: (Not Quite) Mothers, Sons, and (Non-defined, Non-conventional) Lovers
Boo, LJ broke my fic tags at stars-fic... I needed to update it with Drabble Remix and holiday fic-exchange stories anyway, but still. :-/
The pinch-hit is finished & posted, but since the LJ comm is locked you can either read it at InsaneJournal or here below the cut. You know, if you want. :)
One more fic deadline coming up on Thursday, and I signed up for stop-drop-porn, but beyond that I haven't signed up for anything else. :::no waffling::: Still don't know what I'll do about Remix Redux, but I'll worry about that when it comes up.
That really wasn't much of a post, was it? Too much to do and not enough time, as usual. Hopefully the weekend will bring actual content (I do have some, I swear)... :)
Fandom: Queer as Folk (US)
Characters/Pairing: Brian/Justin, Jennifer, Daphne
Title: (Not Quite) Mothers, Sons and (Non-defined, Non-conventional) Lovers
Rating: R, for language and sexin'
Summary: 4300 words; post-513 gift-fic for netlagd who requested Something fun with Brian and Justin with some Jennifer interaction. Perhaps Brian putting together a online personal ad for Jennifer a la what Brian did for Michael - where Justin is horrified by Brian making Jennifer into a sexy bombshell.
Notes: Assumes readers are familiar with the fabulous story Sons and Lovers by burnitbackwards. If you haven't read it, please do - that premise serves as a prequel and the 'verse for this ficlet.
(Not Quite) Mothers, Sons and (Non-defined, Non-conventional) Lovers
by Stars
[earlier]
"Hey, Brian."
"Sunshine... Hey."
Most days (and nights) it sucked that Justin was hundreds of miles away; ninety minutes too far as crows and jetliners flew, or an excruciatingly boring, bone-rattling car ride (note to self: he should really get the Corvette's shocks and struts looked at). Brian had learned the hard way, after many long years of the Kinney vs. cliff way of living, that sorry wasn't bullshit, after all. It's only time was the true empty platitude, and the worst part was that he hadn't been stoned out of his mind or drunk off his ass or buried impossibly deep in Justin's ass when he'd said it.
(Note to brain: could it please regain some fucking control over his trite cliche-spewing mouth, for fuck's sake?)
Sometimes, though. Rarely, but on occasion... Every now and then Brian heaved a mental sigh of relief that Justin was currently located four hundred miles east (and a little bit north) of the Pitts. Brian could plan for every contingency, secure in the knowledge that he had a two- to six-hour window of opportunity during which, thanks to the basic principles of physics and mankind's inability to manipulate the space-time continuum, Justin would be unable to suddenly turn up at the loft ready to kick Brian's ass, or - more realistically - to fuck first and then kick Brian's ass; neither could he pop in to Kinnetik, storm the dance floor at Babylon, or queen out in the middle of a game of pool with the boys at Woody's.
This was one of those sigh-heaving moments.
Because if Justin was here right now, in this loft surrounded by the evidence of Brian's latest shenanigans? He'd be queening out, all right - in a full-scale, apocalyptic, nuclear fucking meltdown.
* * *
[later]
"Oh my god, why didn't you tell me?"
Justin winced, drawing his cell phone away from his ear. "Shit, Daph, cut the decibel level in half," he groused. "You're gonna make my ears bleed."
He dropped his brush into a can of water - acrylics, thankfully; who knew how many brain cells he'd lose to turpentine fumes, if he tried to paint with oils in this tiny cramped apartment - and flopped onto his bed, settling in for a long overdue fag-and-hag chat.
"You're lucky you're a subway ride away and I've got exams to study for," Daphne informed him darkly. "And that I can't reach through the phone and smack you in the arm."
Justin rubbed his right shoulder. "Why, what'd I do?"
"I mean, I know she's your mom," Daphne continued, ignoring him completely. "But we're best friends, Justin! When our parents lose their minds and act out their mid-life crises? That's the kind of stuff you're supposed to share."
"My mom? Daph, what are you talking about?" Justin sat up abruptly.
There was a half-gasp, half-shriek on the other end of the line. "You mean you haven't seen it? You didn't know?"
"Seen what? Know what?" Justin demanded. "You'd better tell me, Daph. Right now."
"You have to promise not to freak out," Daphne said. "I mean it, Justin."
"Fine, whatever! What haven't I seen that involves my mother but will not make me freak out?" Justin yelled, pacing the small confines of his bedroom as terrifying images flitted through his mind's eye. His mother was - pregnant? Wanted by the FBI? Getting married? Getting remarried - to his father?
Daphne paused, clearly dubious about his sincerity. "It's just that I don't have time to come over there and sit with you and eat way too much ice cream," she explained apologetically. "And I absolutely cannot come over there and get stoned with you. I have too much to do, Justin. I have finals."
"I know," Justin muttered. "I get it, Daph, all right? No freaking out, I promise."
* * *
[earlier]
"Hey," Brian said again, belatedly mustering all of his powers of nonchalance to create a convincing, nothing-to-see-here-nope-move-along tone of bland boredom. (Further note to self: if he ever found himself in similar circumstances, not that he ever would ever ever again, but if he did - don't answer the fucking cell phone. Or any phone. At all. Or the door.)
"What's up?" Justin asked with a tell-tale half yawn, half moan. It was a dead giveaway that he'd been painting, probably for hours. Brian pictured him mussed and messy, with spatters of paint on his feet - barefoot in the Arctic sub-zero of his crappy little apartment in the middle of winter, it drove Brian absolutely crazy - and a self-satisfied gleam in his baby blues. That gleam, the tiniest glitter of Justin's eyes, conveyed a languid smugness that made Brian's toes curl whenever he caught a glimpse of it, because it meant Justin was horny as hell and wanted to be fucked within an inch of his life.
(He'd first seen it on Justin's face in a luxurious Chelsea hotel room, a lifetime ago.)
"The usual," Brian managed, knocking an empty wine bottle with his foot and sending it rolling as he turned away from the sofa; but that meant he was looking toward his bed, which was just as horrifying. "Kinnetik's profits. My cock."
It wasn't entirely true, just then; but Justin laughed, low and husky, and the sound shot straight through Brian's ear down to his dick. Bingo; he'd gone from interested to hard in a heartbeat. Just call me Ol' - hmm, fuck that, I'm not old - so just Fucking Reliable.
Brian swiveled on his heel to face the kitchen, glancing uneasily over his shoulder. He could just make out one limp hand, fingers slightly curled, hanging over the edge of the sofa cushion; worse, propped up against the sofa arm - the back of a blond head. Brian looked away, looked down to focus intently on the grain in the hardwood under his toes.
He realized the other end of the line had gone quiet. Fuck. "What was that, Sunshine?" There, that wasn't bad; he hadn't slurred his words at all.
The interrogative fell flat into suddenly empty air. Brian bit his lip and fervently wished for another drink. That's what got you into this fucking mess in the first place, dumbass.
"Brian? Do you - Have you got somebody there?"
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Brian pinched the bridge of his nose against the rapidly-forming headache lurking behind his eyes, and tried to focus. Justin didn't sound suspicious, or mad. Or particularly hurt or disappointed. Maybe a little... curious? What a strange and fascinating creature, that Brian Kinney.
"Just doing a favor for a client," he finally decided on, half-heartedly suggestive. When had his life gotten so fucking complicated?
"I bet," Justin breathed. There was a rustle, and the funny little groan Justin made when he stretched, a sexy noise that Justin knew turned Brian on beyond belief, the little shit. Brian didn't need the webcam to know that Justin was probably already naked, sprawled across his narrow bed and jerking himself slowly, drawing out his pleasure.
Brian couldn't quite choke back an answering moan as he rubbed the heel of his own hand over his straining cock, trapped and aching behind buttoned-up denim. He wanted nothing more than to drop the phone, rip open the fly of his jeans and come. He was practically there, it would only take a stroke or two; maybe not even that if he closed his eyes and conjured up an image of sweat-glazed Justin, legs spread wantonly as Brian pushed inside.
God, how he wanted to. But he was already a dead man; the only question was just how horribly and painfully Justin was going to kill him, when he found out. Brian gritted his teeth and, regretfully, shoved his free hand into his hair, closing it into a tightly-clenched fist. Tight, with the force of his will. (Tight, like Justin's ass... No. He was Brian Fucking Kinney; he could get control of himself, if not this particular conversation.)
"Guess I should let you take care of business," Justin snickered, beginning to pant. Brian could hear the sound of his hand, now, the soft slap of flesh-on-flesh.
"It is what I do best," Brian drawled. "Well. One of several things."
"But I want you to call me back later," Justin said, "and tell me all about it."
Trust me, Sunshine - you really don't want that. Brian sighed a little, padding back into the living room to stand beside the sofa; returning to the scene of the crime, as it were.
"Later, then." Justin smacked his lips against the earpiece in an irreverent kiss.
"Later." Brian clicked off the phone and tossed it toward a cushion, but missed. Instead, it bounced off the oblivious lump which lay, passed out and snoring, under his ridiculously expensive, pale blue cashmere blanket.
He was so dead.
* * *
[later]
"Okay, so, you know how September's had like seven boyfriends just this year?"
"Uh, sure," Justin said, rolling his eyes.
"Well, she decided the problem is that she's been meeting the wrong guys. They're too immature, don't know what they want, they don't have the money to take her to shows and nice restaurants. And she was tired of wasting so much of her valuable time on guys who turned out not to be worth it." Daphne's tone suggested she might be rolling her eyes too.
"Okay," Justin agreed cautiously.
"So she decided to try online dating - you know, like match.com and eHarmony and OK Cupid?"
Justin smirked, remembering Michael's brief foray into the world of online hookups, and his underwhelming non-success. "That sounds like something September would do."
"Totally," Daphne agreed. "But, you know, this is September. She thought she'd have a better chance of finding a decent guy if she avoided the bigger, meat-market kinds of sites."
"How amazingly logical, for her," Justin said.
"Yeah. She chose this local site, northeast states, professionals and serious-minded individuals only need apply, blah blah blah."
"Just like the A-gays, but for the happy hetero household," Justin observed. "How comforting to know that fags and heteros can be equally elitist."
"Step away from the pink Kool-Aid, Justin," Daphne warned him meaningfully. "Anyway, moving on. This is September, so she put an ad on dateacougar.com. And some other sites I forget, but that was the important one."
"Date a cougar?" Justin asked blankly. "What - is she a closet furry, or something?"
"Justin!" Daphne squealed. "She is no such thing! Gross!"
"I don't get it."
There was an aggrieved sigh. "A cougar is a hot older woman - key words being older woman - who is interested in, and dates, younger men."
"Wow, way to miss the target demographic," Justin said. "But I still don't get what September's lack of a love life has to do with anything."
"Because, Justin," Daphne enunciated, slowly and precisely. "When September went to show me her interests page, there was a sidebar with pictures of new members. And your mother was one of them."
* * *
[earlier]
This was definitely not how Brian had anticipated his evening would go. Another semi-boring weekday, putting in long hours at Kinnetik coddling the art department (when he wasn't shredding their pathetic attempts to accurately portray his artistic vision) and snarking at Cynthia, firing Ted (again) and generally making a nuisance of himself when he caught a break between meetings and pitches.
The phone call from Jennifer Taylor, while unexpected, wasn't necessarily unwelcome. True, he would've vastly preferred the diversion of a stealth blowjob, delivered by her son as he knelt beneath Brian's desk - but it was hardly her fault that Justin was presently unavailable for such pleasantries. Besides, Ted had nearly had an aneurysm last time; he'd yelped in surprise, when he'd seen Justin's feet sticking out, and flung a sizable stack of paperwork requiring Brian's signature up in the air to rain down on all of their heads.
(Brian hadn't even had to fire him, afterward; just knowing Theodore would have to sort through the resulting chaos had been satisfying enough.)
He met Jennifer (he specifically did not allow himself to think of her as his almost-mother-in-law) for a semi-boring lunch at a new upscale French bistro he'd been wanting to try. They'd engaged in mutual polite inquiries as to the state of each other's health to start, followed by a course of small talk and sharing of the most recent Justin-related news; and then, with one sentence, she'd had him at her mercy.
"I need your help, Brian."
He might have had a chance - slim, admittedly, but it had been there - but she'd turned those Taylor eyes on him, and Brian knew he was fucked. He'd seen it before, with Justin; the same soulful entreaty, the confident trust that he could fix things and make it all better. He'd always been defenseless against it; but Brian had never expected it from her.
Jennifer must have sensed it, his complete and utter capitulation - his obvious inability to say no when a Taylor was involved. Her mouth had softened, but she hid the gentle curving smile behind her linen napkin and in a brisk, no-nonsense manner that appealed to his inner ruthless businessman, she laid out the situation.
Brian listened attentively with half his brain, plans and ideas for a campaign already forming. At the same time, however, he found himself continually distracted by everything about her that reminded him of Justin. Craig Taylor's hands had been thick and beefy, well suited for the bruising hate they delivered; but Justin shared Jennifer's slender frame, the same elegant line of neck and strong jaw. When she laughed self-consciously, it was Justin's shy, white-toothed grin; she blushed the same rosy pink that had often stained her son's pale cheeks in the early days, when he'd been so easily shocked and aroused.
They'd finished lunch (Brian intercepted the check; he might not be currently keeping Justin in the country manor for which he had - possibly not entirely seriously - expressed a wish, but he could damn well take care of Justin's mother) and Jennifer, her courage bolstered by three glasses of white wine, insisted that the Plan proceed immediately. Brian shrugged agreeably, and called Cynthia to take the rest of the day off without explanation; that would put Kinnetik in a fine mini-frenzy.
Jennifer had come prepared. Brian fetched two heavily-laden garment bags from her sleek, discreetly expensive car and threatened the elevator under his breath as it jerked and hitched its way upward.
Once inside the loft, Brian had hesitated. Jennifer would want privacy, of course; but he felt oddly ill at ease that she might be undressing in the bathroom (he and Justin fucked in that shower, eagerly and as often as they could, sweat-slick bodies half-hidden by billowing steam) or in his bedroom, with the bed where he'd first taken her son's virginity and then every other kind of innocence Justin had ever possessed.
Brian had opened another bottle of wine and set up the lights and backdrop while Jennifer changed. The wine helped smooth over some of the awkwardness; what had really helped was a joint from his stash.
Jennifer Taylor proved to be a giggler, just like her son. By the time they'd gotten to the sexy-mama portion of the impromptu photo shoot, Jennifer could barely hold a pose and Brian was having trouble locating the point-and-click button.
Then the munchies had hit. Jennifer found a box of brownie mix left over from one of Justin's weekends, so a baked Jennifer made brownies; then she and Brian ate the brownies and Brian resolutely put all thoughts about carbs out of his mind.
It was a little bit like spending time with Justin. Kind of.
It was okay, anyway.
* * *
[later]
"What?" Justin blinked in confusion at the phone in his hand.
"I know!" Daphne exclaimed. "You never told me she and Tucker broke up."
"Hard to tell you when I didn't know," he grumbled.
"Justin! How could you not know? She's your mother!" Daphne said, scandalized.
"God, Daph, the last thing I want to know about is my mother's love life," Justin replied, disgusted.
"Some kind of son you are," Daphne scoffed. "I know you didn't like him, but Tucker was hot. I wonder what happened."
"She came to her senses, hopefully," Justin said. "It was really kind of embarrassing."
"I can't believe you," Daphne said. "You carry on about this giant age difference - just look at you and Brian!"
"That's different!" Justin said hotly.
"It's really not," Daphne said in her And That Is Final So Drop It voice. "Anyway, considering her ad, maybe you'd better prepare yourself for another Tucker."
"Daphne," Justin groaned, flopping back on his bed and pulling a pillow over his face.
"I wonder if she's into serial monogamy," Daphne continued cheerfully. "Or maybe she'll have a string of boy toys falling at her feet, following her around..."
"I'm hanging up now," Justin said.
* * *
[earlier]
Brian settled on the edge of the sofa, nibbling on his lower lip, undecided. Which was the greater evil: putting his not-his-almost-mother-in-law to sleep in his bed (where he fucked Justin, where they'd had a threesome and a foursome and Brian had fucked countless - literally - tricks and held an orgy) or leaving Jennifer (his lover's mother) to sleep it off on the sofa? What if she rolled off?
Justin had, once. Brian vividly remembered the goose-egg lump that formed (fucking nightmares, right after the bashing when Justin couldn't sleep; Brian hated the nightmares, but the lump on the back of Justin's head had scared him shitless) and how incredibly pissed Justin had been - at himself; at Brian for laughing, until he'd realized Justin was hurt; at the whole fucking world.
Jennifer was unlikely to fall off the bed; it was a big bed. Brian leaned over, sliding one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders, and lifted her with a grunt. (She was almost as heavy as her son, too - not that he would ever dream of saying so. It was just an observation.) Making his way carefully up the stairs, he shoved aside a heap of Jennifer's discarded clothing and settled her onto the mattress. He smoothed the blanket, tucking the edges and pulling up the duvet to cover her more thoroughly.
Jennifer stirred, opening one eye to regard him gravely for a moment. Then she pushed up on one elbow and brushed a kiss across his cheek. "Thank you, Brian."
* * *
[later]
Oh, god. His mother - and Brian. Brian was involved; he had to be, Justin just knew it. Brian had been Mr. Weird throughout that strange phone call. Have you got somebody there? He'd thought it was just stress - so Brian had brought someone home to fuck, whatever, they'd never said no tricking - but what if. There was even a precedent, sort of... What if Brian and his mother -
God, he did not want to know what embarrassing tidbits of his life his mother and his lover had shared behind his back this time; it was too traumatic to contemplate. Justin flinched at the memory of his mother, all but straddling Brian's lap in some sort of slutty lacy clingy shirt and waving bare-assed baby pictures of Justin Taylor, aged two and four and eight months...
He rolled out of bed and sat down in front of his computer, dreading but needing to see just what his mother had been up to.
www.dateacougar.com, he typed. When the site loaded, he entered Jennifer Taylor in the search bar and clicked.
And blinked.
And blushed.
Click away, CLICK AWAY! his brain shrieked, and he wanted to close the window but was trapped by his own horrified fascination. That was his mother, dressed like... like that. All sexy and wanton and lustful.
Shit.
God, the copy - Brian had to have taken the pictures, Brian must have written the copy. Don't read it, click away, click away NOW...
Hastily, Justin slid his mouse over and closed the browser. He sat back, taking a minute to contemplate what he'd just seen, then squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head vigorously.
Even with brain bleach, that shit was never coming out.
* * *
[now]
Sliding open the loft door, Brian wanted nothing more than to get out of his clothes, shower, grab a beer and settle on the sofa for an action-packed James Dean movie marathon. It was nearly the weekend; if he could tidy up a few loose-ended accounts, he might even be able to go see Justin.
Closing the door behind him, Brian realized he wouldn't need any travel plans, after all. Justin had come to him.
"Hey there, Sunshine," Brian said with a genuine smile, tossing down his briefcase and keys and pulling Justin - his almost-naked, yup-kind-of-pissed, unconventional boyfriend - in for a lingering welcome-home kiss. Justin's fingers twined in his hair, pulling a little; he alternately sucked on Brian's tongue and bit lightly at it.
Brian wrapped both arms around him, pulling them flush together from shoulder to knee. He could feel Justin's cock, hard against his thigh, mirroring his own erection. But when he slid his hands down low, dropping from Justin's shoulders to his waist to his silk-covered hips - Justin pushed him away.
"My mother, Brian?" He met Brian's raised eyebrow with one of his own, matched him stare for stare.
Brian changed tactics, flashed his most charming grin. "But she doesn't adore me the way you do, Sunshine."
"Lucky for you," Justin said with a significant leer, as Brian's fingers bunched in the folds of midnight-blue silk just brushing his ass. "But I wasn't sure, so I thought some insurance might be a good idea."
"Do I dare ask?" Brian murmured, dropping his gaze to Justin's pouty red lips.
"The things I do for you, Brian Kinney," Justin sighed. "Like sneak into my mother's underwear drawer when she's not home. Jesus."
"Looks good on you," Brian whispered, leaning in to place a kiss on the pulse point below Justin's ear. "Drag doesn't really turn me on, but this... this is hot."
Justin leaned back in the curve of Brian's embrace, rubbing one hand across his chest. He wore a simple blue camisole - no lace, no dainty thin straps; just the slippery slide of silk over soft skin, Brian's hand sliding under to stroke his stomach with gentle fingers and teasingly pinch his ass.
"Nice," Brian said again, appreciatively. "Now take it off."
"Tell me you had a trick here, and not my mother," Justin countered, pulling the camisole over his head. "Because seriously, Brian, I can't fuck in that bed if my mother was in it."
"She was drunk, Sunshine," Brian said soothingly. "Fortunately, she didn't toss her cookies, or I would've had to get a new duvet."
"What is it with you and my mother getting all drunk and chummy together?" Justin huffed. "Twice now; that's almost a habit."
"She needed my expertise," Brian said, rapidly unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it.
"I am quite familiar with your expertise," Justin said primly, yanking Brian's tie from around his neck and going to work on the button and zip of his pants.
Brian snorted, kicking his pants away and dragging Justin over to the bed. "It's not like I let her join cockslut.com or milf.org, you know, Sunshine. I do have professional standards to maintain."
"Oooh, such a big man," Justin mocked as they tumbled down onto the sheets with an oof.
"I know," Brian said modestly. He nuzzled Justin's face, breathed hotly in his ear. "And you'll take every inch."
"And love it," Justin gasped as Brian crushed their mouths together in an explosive kiss, nipping his chin and sucking at the hollow of his throat.
"Welcome home, Sunshine," Brian murmured as he slid between Justin's spread legs, reaching down with lubed fingers to make Justin ready for his cock.
Welcome to the family, Brian, Justin didn't say. He slid one hand up into Brian's hair, placed the other palm on his cheek, and smiled as Brian came inside.
* * *
The pinch-hit is finished & posted, but since the LJ comm is locked you can either read it at InsaneJournal or here below the cut. You know, if you want. :)
One more fic deadline coming up on Thursday, and I signed up for stop-drop-porn, but beyond that I haven't signed up for anything else. :::no waffling::: Still don't know what I'll do about Remix Redux, but I'll worry about that when it comes up.
That really wasn't much of a post, was it? Too much to do and not enough time, as usual. Hopefully the weekend will bring actual content (I do have some, I swear)... :)
Fandom: Queer as Folk (US)
Characters/Pairing: Brian/Justin, Jennifer, Daphne
Title: (Not Quite) Mothers, Sons and (Non-defined, Non-conventional) Lovers
Rating: R, for language and sexin'
Summary: 4300 words; post-513 gift-fic for netlagd who requested Something fun with Brian and Justin with some Jennifer interaction. Perhaps Brian putting together a online personal ad for Jennifer a la what Brian did for Michael - where Justin is horrified by Brian making Jennifer into a sexy bombshell.
Notes: Assumes readers are familiar with the fabulous story Sons and Lovers by burnitbackwards. If you haven't read it, please do - that premise serves as a prequel and the 'verse for this ficlet.
(Not Quite) Mothers, Sons and (Non-defined, Non-conventional) Lovers
by Stars
[earlier]
"Hey, Brian."
"Sunshine... Hey."
Most days (and nights) it sucked that Justin was hundreds of miles away; ninety minutes too far as crows and jetliners flew, or an excruciatingly boring, bone-rattling car ride (note to self: he should really get the Corvette's shocks and struts looked at). Brian had learned the hard way, after many long years of the Kinney vs. cliff way of living, that sorry wasn't bullshit, after all. It's only time was the true empty platitude, and the worst part was that he hadn't been stoned out of his mind or drunk off his ass or buried impossibly deep in Justin's ass when he'd said it.
(Note to brain: could it please regain some fucking control over his trite cliche-spewing mouth, for fuck's sake?)
Sometimes, though. Rarely, but on occasion... Every now and then Brian heaved a mental sigh of relief that Justin was currently located four hundred miles east (and a little bit north) of the Pitts. Brian could plan for every contingency, secure in the knowledge that he had a two- to six-hour window of opportunity during which, thanks to the basic principles of physics and mankind's inability to manipulate the space-time continuum, Justin would be unable to suddenly turn up at the loft ready to kick Brian's ass, or - more realistically - to fuck first and then kick Brian's ass; neither could he pop in to Kinnetik, storm the dance floor at Babylon, or queen out in the middle of a game of pool with the boys at Woody's.
This was one of those sigh-heaving moments.
Because if Justin was here right now, in this loft surrounded by the evidence of Brian's latest shenanigans? He'd be queening out, all right - in a full-scale, apocalyptic, nuclear fucking meltdown.
* * *
[later]
"Oh my god, why didn't you tell me?"
Justin winced, drawing his cell phone away from his ear. "Shit, Daph, cut the decibel level in half," he groused. "You're gonna make my ears bleed."
He dropped his brush into a can of water - acrylics, thankfully; who knew how many brain cells he'd lose to turpentine fumes, if he tried to paint with oils in this tiny cramped apartment - and flopped onto his bed, settling in for a long overdue fag-and-hag chat.
"You're lucky you're a subway ride away and I've got exams to study for," Daphne informed him darkly. "And that I can't reach through the phone and smack you in the arm."
Justin rubbed his right shoulder. "Why, what'd I do?"
"I mean, I know she's your mom," Daphne continued, ignoring him completely. "But we're best friends, Justin! When our parents lose their minds and act out their mid-life crises? That's the kind of stuff you're supposed to share."
"My mom? Daph, what are you talking about?" Justin sat up abruptly.
There was a half-gasp, half-shriek on the other end of the line. "You mean you haven't seen it? You didn't know?"
"Seen what? Know what?" Justin demanded. "You'd better tell me, Daph. Right now."
"You have to promise not to freak out," Daphne said. "I mean it, Justin."
"Fine, whatever! What haven't I seen that involves my mother but will not make me freak out?" Justin yelled, pacing the small confines of his bedroom as terrifying images flitted through his mind's eye. His mother was - pregnant? Wanted by the FBI? Getting married? Getting remarried - to his father?
Daphne paused, clearly dubious about his sincerity. "It's just that I don't have time to come over there and sit with you and eat way too much ice cream," she explained apologetically. "And I absolutely cannot come over there and get stoned with you. I have too much to do, Justin. I have finals."
"I know," Justin muttered. "I get it, Daph, all right? No freaking out, I promise."
* * *
[earlier]
"Hey," Brian said again, belatedly mustering all of his powers of nonchalance to create a convincing, nothing-to-see-here-nope-move-along tone of bland boredom. (Further note to self: if he ever found himself in similar circumstances, not that he ever would ever ever again, but if he did - don't answer the fucking cell phone. Or any phone. At all. Or the door.)
"What's up?" Justin asked with a tell-tale half yawn, half moan. It was a dead giveaway that he'd been painting, probably for hours. Brian pictured him mussed and messy, with spatters of paint on his feet - barefoot in the Arctic sub-zero of his crappy little apartment in the middle of winter, it drove Brian absolutely crazy - and a self-satisfied gleam in his baby blues. That gleam, the tiniest glitter of Justin's eyes, conveyed a languid smugness that made Brian's toes curl whenever he caught a glimpse of it, because it meant Justin was horny as hell and wanted to be fucked within an inch of his life.
(He'd first seen it on Justin's face in a luxurious Chelsea hotel room, a lifetime ago.)
"The usual," Brian managed, knocking an empty wine bottle with his foot and sending it rolling as he turned away from the sofa; but that meant he was looking toward his bed, which was just as horrifying. "Kinnetik's profits. My cock."
It wasn't entirely true, just then; but Justin laughed, low and husky, and the sound shot straight through Brian's ear down to his dick. Bingo; he'd gone from interested to hard in a heartbeat. Just call me Ol' - hmm, fuck that, I'm not old - so just Fucking Reliable.
Brian swiveled on his heel to face the kitchen, glancing uneasily over his shoulder. He could just make out one limp hand, fingers slightly curled, hanging over the edge of the sofa cushion; worse, propped up against the sofa arm - the back of a blond head. Brian looked away, looked down to focus intently on the grain in the hardwood under his toes.
He realized the other end of the line had gone quiet. Fuck. "What was that, Sunshine?" There, that wasn't bad; he hadn't slurred his words at all.
The interrogative fell flat into suddenly empty air. Brian bit his lip and fervently wished for another drink. That's what got you into this fucking mess in the first place, dumbass.
"Brian? Do you - Have you got somebody there?"
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Brian pinched the bridge of his nose against the rapidly-forming headache lurking behind his eyes, and tried to focus. Justin didn't sound suspicious, or mad. Or particularly hurt or disappointed. Maybe a little... curious? What a strange and fascinating creature, that Brian Kinney.
"Just doing a favor for a client," he finally decided on, half-heartedly suggestive. When had his life gotten so fucking complicated?
"I bet," Justin breathed. There was a rustle, and the funny little groan Justin made when he stretched, a sexy noise that Justin knew turned Brian on beyond belief, the little shit. Brian didn't need the webcam to know that Justin was probably already naked, sprawled across his narrow bed and jerking himself slowly, drawing out his pleasure.
Brian couldn't quite choke back an answering moan as he rubbed the heel of his own hand over his straining cock, trapped and aching behind buttoned-up denim. He wanted nothing more than to drop the phone, rip open the fly of his jeans and come. He was practically there, it would only take a stroke or two; maybe not even that if he closed his eyes and conjured up an image of sweat-glazed Justin, legs spread wantonly as Brian pushed inside.
God, how he wanted to. But he was already a dead man; the only question was just how horribly and painfully Justin was going to kill him, when he found out. Brian gritted his teeth and, regretfully, shoved his free hand into his hair, closing it into a tightly-clenched fist. Tight, with the force of his will. (Tight, like Justin's ass... No. He was Brian Fucking Kinney; he could get control of himself, if not this particular conversation.)
"Guess I should let you take care of business," Justin snickered, beginning to pant. Brian could hear the sound of his hand, now, the soft slap of flesh-on-flesh.
"It is what I do best," Brian drawled. "Well. One of several things."
"But I want you to call me back later," Justin said, "and tell me all about it."
Trust me, Sunshine - you really don't want that. Brian sighed a little, padding back into the living room to stand beside the sofa; returning to the scene of the crime, as it were.
"Later, then." Justin smacked his lips against the earpiece in an irreverent kiss.
"Later." Brian clicked off the phone and tossed it toward a cushion, but missed. Instead, it bounced off the oblivious lump which lay, passed out and snoring, under his ridiculously expensive, pale blue cashmere blanket.
He was so dead.
* * *
[later]
"Okay, so, you know how September's had like seven boyfriends just this year?"
"Uh, sure," Justin said, rolling his eyes.
"Well, she decided the problem is that she's been meeting the wrong guys. They're too immature, don't know what they want, they don't have the money to take her to shows and nice restaurants. And she was tired of wasting so much of her valuable time on guys who turned out not to be worth it." Daphne's tone suggested she might be rolling her eyes too.
"Okay," Justin agreed cautiously.
"So she decided to try online dating - you know, like match.com and eHarmony and OK Cupid?"
Justin smirked, remembering Michael's brief foray into the world of online hookups, and his underwhelming non-success. "That sounds like something September would do."
"Totally," Daphne agreed. "But, you know, this is September. She thought she'd have a better chance of finding a decent guy if she avoided the bigger, meat-market kinds of sites."
"How amazingly logical, for her," Justin said.
"Yeah. She chose this local site, northeast states, professionals and serious-minded individuals only need apply, blah blah blah."
"Just like the A-gays, but for the happy hetero household," Justin observed. "How comforting to know that fags and heteros can be equally elitist."
"Step away from the pink Kool-Aid, Justin," Daphne warned him meaningfully. "Anyway, moving on. This is September, so she put an ad on dateacougar.com. And some other sites I forget, but that was the important one."
"Date a cougar?" Justin asked blankly. "What - is she a closet furry, or something?"
"Justin!" Daphne squealed. "She is no such thing! Gross!"
"I don't get it."
There was an aggrieved sigh. "A cougar is a hot older woman - key words being older woman - who is interested in, and dates, younger men."
"Wow, way to miss the target demographic," Justin said. "But I still don't get what September's lack of a love life has to do with anything."
"Because, Justin," Daphne enunciated, slowly and precisely. "When September went to show me her interests page, there was a sidebar with pictures of new members. And your mother was one of them."
* * *
[earlier]
This was definitely not how Brian had anticipated his evening would go. Another semi-boring weekday, putting in long hours at Kinnetik coddling the art department (when he wasn't shredding their pathetic attempts to accurately portray his artistic vision) and snarking at Cynthia, firing Ted (again) and generally making a nuisance of himself when he caught a break between meetings and pitches.
The phone call from Jennifer Taylor, while unexpected, wasn't necessarily unwelcome. True, he would've vastly preferred the diversion of a stealth blowjob, delivered by her son as he knelt beneath Brian's desk - but it was hardly her fault that Justin was presently unavailable for such pleasantries. Besides, Ted had nearly had an aneurysm last time; he'd yelped in surprise, when he'd seen Justin's feet sticking out, and flung a sizable stack of paperwork requiring Brian's signature up in the air to rain down on all of their heads.
(Brian hadn't even had to fire him, afterward; just knowing Theodore would have to sort through the resulting chaos had been satisfying enough.)
He met Jennifer (he specifically did not allow himself to think of her as his almost-mother-in-law) for a semi-boring lunch at a new upscale French bistro he'd been wanting to try. They'd engaged in mutual polite inquiries as to the state of each other's health to start, followed by a course of small talk and sharing of the most recent Justin-related news; and then, with one sentence, she'd had him at her mercy.
"I need your help, Brian."
He might have had a chance - slim, admittedly, but it had been there - but she'd turned those Taylor eyes on him, and Brian knew he was fucked. He'd seen it before, with Justin; the same soulful entreaty, the confident trust that he could fix things and make it all better. He'd always been defenseless against it; but Brian had never expected it from her.
Jennifer must have sensed it, his complete and utter capitulation - his obvious inability to say no when a Taylor was involved. Her mouth had softened, but she hid the gentle curving smile behind her linen napkin and in a brisk, no-nonsense manner that appealed to his inner ruthless businessman, she laid out the situation.
Brian listened attentively with half his brain, plans and ideas for a campaign already forming. At the same time, however, he found himself continually distracted by everything about her that reminded him of Justin. Craig Taylor's hands had been thick and beefy, well suited for the bruising hate they delivered; but Justin shared Jennifer's slender frame, the same elegant line of neck and strong jaw. When she laughed self-consciously, it was Justin's shy, white-toothed grin; she blushed the same rosy pink that had often stained her son's pale cheeks in the early days, when he'd been so easily shocked and aroused.
They'd finished lunch (Brian intercepted the check; he might not be currently keeping Justin in the country manor for which he had - possibly not entirely seriously - expressed a wish, but he could damn well take care of Justin's mother) and Jennifer, her courage bolstered by three glasses of white wine, insisted that the Plan proceed immediately. Brian shrugged agreeably, and called Cynthia to take the rest of the day off without explanation; that would put Kinnetik in a fine mini-frenzy.
Jennifer had come prepared. Brian fetched two heavily-laden garment bags from her sleek, discreetly expensive car and threatened the elevator under his breath as it jerked and hitched its way upward.
Once inside the loft, Brian had hesitated. Jennifer would want privacy, of course; but he felt oddly ill at ease that she might be undressing in the bathroom (he and Justin fucked in that shower, eagerly and as often as they could, sweat-slick bodies half-hidden by billowing steam) or in his bedroom, with the bed where he'd first taken her son's virginity and then every other kind of innocence Justin had ever possessed.
Brian had opened another bottle of wine and set up the lights and backdrop while Jennifer changed. The wine helped smooth over some of the awkwardness; what had really helped was a joint from his stash.
Jennifer Taylor proved to be a giggler, just like her son. By the time they'd gotten to the sexy-mama portion of the impromptu photo shoot, Jennifer could barely hold a pose and Brian was having trouble locating the point-and-click button.
Then the munchies had hit. Jennifer found a box of brownie mix left over from one of Justin's weekends, so a baked Jennifer made brownies; then she and Brian ate the brownies and Brian resolutely put all thoughts about carbs out of his mind.
It was a little bit like spending time with Justin. Kind of.
It was okay, anyway.
* * *
[later]
"What?" Justin blinked in confusion at the phone in his hand.
"I know!" Daphne exclaimed. "You never told me she and Tucker broke up."
"Hard to tell you when I didn't know," he grumbled.
"Justin! How could you not know? She's your mother!" Daphne said, scandalized.
"God, Daph, the last thing I want to know about is my mother's love life," Justin replied, disgusted.
"Some kind of son you are," Daphne scoffed. "I know you didn't like him, but Tucker was hot. I wonder what happened."
"She came to her senses, hopefully," Justin said. "It was really kind of embarrassing."
"I can't believe you," Daphne said. "You carry on about this giant age difference - just look at you and Brian!"
"That's different!" Justin said hotly.
"It's really not," Daphne said in her And That Is Final So Drop It voice. "Anyway, considering her ad, maybe you'd better prepare yourself for another Tucker."
"Daphne," Justin groaned, flopping back on his bed and pulling a pillow over his face.
"I wonder if she's into serial monogamy," Daphne continued cheerfully. "Or maybe she'll have a string of boy toys falling at her feet, following her around..."
"I'm hanging up now," Justin said.
* * *
[earlier]
Brian settled on the edge of the sofa, nibbling on his lower lip, undecided. Which was the greater evil: putting his not-his-almost-mother-in-law to sleep in his bed (where he fucked Justin, where they'd had a threesome and a foursome and Brian had fucked countless - literally - tricks and held an orgy) or leaving Jennifer (his lover's mother) to sleep it off on the sofa? What if she rolled off?
Justin had, once. Brian vividly remembered the goose-egg lump that formed (fucking nightmares, right after the bashing when Justin couldn't sleep; Brian hated the nightmares, but the lump on the back of Justin's head had scared him shitless) and how incredibly pissed Justin had been - at himself; at Brian for laughing, until he'd realized Justin was hurt; at the whole fucking world.
Jennifer was unlikely to fall off the bed; it was a big bed. Brian leaned over, sliding one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders, and lifted her with a grunt. (She was almost as heavy as her son, too - not that he would ever dream of saying so. It was just an observation.) Making his way carefully up the stairs, he shoved aside a heap of Jennifer's discarded clothing and settled her onto the mattress. He smoothed the blanket, tucking the edges and pulling up the duvet to cover her more thoroughly.
Jennifer stirred, opening one eye to regard him gravely for a moment. Then she pushed up on one elbow and brushed a kiss across his cheek. "Thank you, Brian."
* * *
[later]
Oh, god. His mother - and Brian. Brian was involved; he had to be, Justin just knew it. Brian had been Mr. Weird throughout that strange phone call. Have you got somebody there? He'd thought it was just stress - so Brian had brought someone home to fuck, whatever, they'd never said no tricking - but what if. There was even a precedent, sort of... What if Brian and his mother -
God, he did not want to know what embarrassing tidbits of his life his mother and his lover had shared behind his back this time; it was too traumatic to contemplate. Justin flinched at the memory of his mother, all but straddling Brian's lap in some sort of slutty lacy clingy shirt and waving bare-assed baby pictures of Justin Taylor, aged two and four and eight months...
He rolled out of bed and sat down in front of his computer, dreading but needing to see just what his mother had been up to.
www.dateacougar.com, he typed. When the site loaded, he entered Jennifer Taylor in the search bar and clicked.
And blinked.
And blushed.
Click away, CLICK AWAY! his brain shrieked, and he wanted to close the window but was trapped by his own horrified fascination. That was his mother, dressed like... like that. All sexy and wanton and lustful.
Shit.
God, the copy - Brian had to have taken the pictures, Brian must have written the copy. Don't read it, click away, click away NOW...
Hastily, Justin slid his mouse over and closed the browser. He sat back, taking a minute to contemplate what he'd just seen, then squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head vigorously.
Even with brain bleach, that shit was never coming out.
* * *
[now]
Sliding open the loft door, Brian wanted nothing more than to get out of his clothes, shower, grab a beer and settle on the sofa for an action-packed James Dean movie marathon. It was nearly the weekend; if he could tidy up a few loose-ended accounts, he might even be able to go see Justin.
Closing the door behind him, Brian realized he wouldn't need any travel plans, after all. Justin had come to him.
"Hey there, Sunshine," Brian said with a genuine smile, tossing down his briefcase and keys and pulling Justin - his almost-naked, yup-kind-of-pissed, unconventional boyfriend - in for a lingering welcome-home kiss. Justin's fingers twined in his hair, pulling a little; he alternately sucked on Brian's tongue and bit lightly at it.
Brian wrapped both arms around him, pulling them flush together from shoulder to knee. He could feel Justin's cock, hard against his thigh, mirroring his own erection. But when he slid his hands down low, dropping from Justin's shoulders to his waist to his silk-covered hips - Justin pushed him away.
"My mother, Brian?" He met Brian's raised eyebrow with one of his own, matched him stare for stare.
Brian changed tactics, flashed his most charming grin. "But she doesn't adore me the way you do, Sunshine."
"Lucky for you," Justin said with a significant leer, as Brian's fingers bunched in the folds of midnight-blue silk just brushing his ass. "But I wasn't sure, so I thought some insurance might be a good idea."
"Do I dare ask?" Brian murmured, dropping his gaze to Justin's pouty red lips.
"The things I do for you, Brian Kinney," Justin sighed. "Like sneak into my mother's underwear drawer when she's not home. Jesus."
"Looks good on you," Brian whispered, leaning in to place a kiss on the pulse point below Justin's ear. "Drag doesn't really turn me on, but this... this is hot."
Justin leaned back in the curve of Brian's embrace, rubbing one hand across his chest. He wore a simple blue camisole - no lace, no dainty thin straps; just the slippery slide of silk over soft skin, Brian's hand sliding under to stroke his stomach with gentle fingers and teasingly pinch his ass.
"Nice," Brian said again, appreciatively. "Now take it off."
"Tell me you had a trick here, and not my mother," Justin countered, pulling the camisole over his head. "Because seriously, Brian, I can't fuck in that bed if my mother was in it."
"She was drunk, Sunshine," Brian said soothingly. "Fortunately, she didn't toss her cookies, or I would've had to get a new duvet."
"What is it with you and my mother getting all drunk and chummy together?" Justin huffed. "Twice now; that's almost a habit."
"She needed my expertise," Brian said, rapidly unbuttoning his shirt and tossing it.
"I am quite familiar with your expertise," Justin said primly, yanking Brian's tie from around his neck and going to work on the button and zip of his pants.
Brian snorted, kicking his pants away and dragging Justin over to the bed. "It's not like I let her join cockslut.com or milf.org, you know, Sunshine. I do have professional standards to maintain."
"Oooh, such a big man," Justin mocked as they tumbled down onto the sheets with an oof.
"I know," Brian said modestly. He nuzzled Justin's face, breathed hotly in his ear. "And you'll take every inch."
"And love it," Justin gasped as Brian crushed their mouths together in an explosive kiss, nipping his chin and sucking at the hollow of his throat.
"Welcome home, Sunshine," Brian murmured as he slid between Justin's spread legs, reaching down with lubed fingers to make Justin ready for his cock.
Welcome to the family, Brian, Justin didn't say. He slid one hand up into Brian's hair, placed the other palm on his cheek, and smiled as Brian came inside.
* * *