A not-so-wee prezzie
Title: Perfumed Velvet
Author: Tas (tasyfa)
Disclaimer: I own only the words; the people own themselves.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Billie Joe/Mike
Word count: 2,495
Warnings/Notes: Roleplay, light dom/sub. Takes place December 24, 2005 (yes, that IS today!). A little twisted Christmas fluff for canis_takahari. Enjoy, my dear. xD
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“Everyone’s gonna know it’s me.”
“No, they’re not.” A pause. “How long you been watching me with makeup now?”
“Oh, Christ, don’t ask me that. Anything where the answer gets into double digits makes me feel fucking old.” They shared a laugh, then Mike added petulantly, “Why can’t you do it?”
“Because I don’t have pretty blue eyes.”
Said eyes rounded in sudden hope. “Tré has-”
“-an attention span shorter than any of our kids. No can do, Mikey.”
He subsided at the affectionate nickname, at least for a moment. When he started to say something else, Billie laughed.
“Dude, shut up and stay still! I may be relatively expert but the ten gallons of rum and eggnog my wife’s poured into me are making this a little more difficult.”
“You didn’t have to drink it.” Mike rolled his eyes at himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Refusing Adie’s concoctions was a bad job at any time of year but over the holidays? Worth a guy’s life. Or pride, at least; Adrienne Armstrong had a way with cutting words that rivalled her husband’s.
“I’m not even going to dignify that with a reply.”
The two men shared an easy silence, Mike feeling the contours of his face change under the other’s deft touch. He badly wanted to scratch his lip but stayed still as ordered, not wanting his eyebrows to go down his nose or something. Finally Billie Joe pulled back, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Perfect.”
Mike wiggled his features. “It feels weird.”
“It looks exactly like it’s supposed to.” Billie canted his head to one side. “It does look different, though. Not used to it.”
His eyes acquired a speculativeness that had Mike raising his newly fixed eyebrows and then Billie leaned in and kissed him, tongue teasing his lips open so that he could explore. Mike pulled the smaller man as close as possible, whining in the back of his throat at the spongy barrier preventing full contact.
Billie reached down to cup Mike’s erection. He frowned at the unfamiliar awkwardness of the position and broke the kiss, sliding one leg back and then sinking to his knees.
“You don’t want to sit on my lap?” Mike joked weakly, eyes glittering an intense blue.
“I have something else in mind for Santa’s lap,” Bille murmured suggestively. He worked open the scarlet longjohns, reaching through the slit in the boxers underneath to grasp the bassist’s cock and guide it to his mouth.
Mike groaned at the sensation. His lips twitched in a breathless smile as he glanced down to see the fluffy white hair of his recently-attached false beard mingling with the smaller man’s naturally curly black hair in a demented checkerboard effect.
Billie shifted, wanting to watch his lover’s expression as he sucked him off, only to find that his view was obstructed by the enormous foam belly. He stared at it for a long moment, his rhythm faltering badly, and finally popped off with an uncontrollable giggle.
“Aw, fuck, Bill,” came the throaty protest.
The singer wrapped calloused fingers around Mike, falling back into his rhythm with a smile.
“I couldn’t see you,” he explained, face softening as he leaned up for a kiss. Mike obliged willingly, enjoying the eggnog even secondhand.
“God that feels weird, with all the facial hair,” Billie continued when they stopped to breathe.
The taller man laughed. “Yeah, neither one of us progressed much past stubble.”
“Dude, I’m thirty-three and I still don’t have more than like a dozen chest hairs. A beard just ain’t in the cards.”
He nodded agreement, breath hitching as that talented hand thumbed across the sensitive tip of his cock and gripped harder, speeding up.
“Let me know when you get close. The suit is a rental.”
Any urge to laugh disappeared as Billie ducked his head and captured the bassist’s fingers with his lips, suckling earnestly while his hand pumped. Green eyes locked on his, leaching away his ability to do anything but watch and feel the pleasure build, spiking sharply when the guitarist bit into the fleshy part of his palm.
“Billie,” he gasped, “You better…”
His hand was left dangling mid-air along with his sentence and that mouth, God, that perfect fucking mouth was on him, all heat and silk and hard suction.
Mike arched helplessly, moving without any of his usual grace in the cumbersome costume as he trembled on the edge.
‘Come on, Santa,’ Billie thought with a shock of lust. Goddamn if this didn’t feel like the most obscene act ever, scarlet-clad legs parted to accommodate his body, white beard hair tickling his forehead as he pressed close against the low-hanging belly. He felt almost like they were in some pornographic fairytale. But the muscular thighs flexing under his hands were uniquely Mike’s, and the scent, taste, feel of the cock in his mouth were all Mike. He closed his eyes against the burn and pushed all the way down, consciously relaxing his throat to allow the intrusion.
“Fuck!” The full-frontal assault proved too much and the bassist spasmed with a cry, stuffing the end of his sleeve into his mouth to muffle the sound while he rode it out.
He felt the older man suck him dry, wild heat transforming to soothing warmth until Billie Joe withdrew. His wet dick didn’t much care for the sudden coolness of the air, but Mike wasn’t feeling much like making the necessary amount of movement to tuck it back in his shorts so he ignored it.
A few minutes passed, both of them catching their breath, and he realized that he felt pretty sticky - and it wasn’t because the singer had suddenly decided to spit instead of swallow, either. “Fuck, I’m all sweaty now in this stupid thing. I’m going to smell bad.”
Billie huffed a laugh. “Adrienne thought the costume would smell anyway. She doesn’t like rentals, remember? She gave me this in case it did.” He pulled a small bottle from his back pocket and the bassist’s lip curled.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Relax, dude. It’s peppermint oil. It’s all Christmassy and shit. You know, put some on and you’ll smell like a candy cane instead of a sweaty old man,” he smirked.
“Whose fault is it that I’m sweaty, Mr. Three-months-older-than-me?” Mike shot back. He eyed the bottle with his misgivings clearly etched on his face. “Where does it go?”
“It’s skin grade, she said; massage oil. Goes on you.” Billie glanced up slyly. “Want me to do it for you?” His wife had given him that special smile when he’d told her they were ducking out to get Mike into his costume, the one that said she was sure that wasn’t all they were going to do and she didn’t mind. At some point over the years, the three of them had found a balance and so right now, he felt no compunction whatsoever about finding any excuse he could to get his hands on the bassist’s skin before they had to go back to the party.
Mike raised one eyebrow sharply at the invitation, but admitted privately that despite the blowjob he’d just been treated to, he definitely wouldn’t mind just a little more physical contact with his lover. The last show of the entire tour had been a week ago, and they hadn’t had a chance to be together like this since. He wanted to take advantage of it while he could - even if it meant smelling like a candy cane.
“Yeah, sure,” he acquiesced aloud, smiling at the guitarist’s eagerness in twisting the cap off the bottle.
Billie smeared some of the oil on his fingertips and wiggled his hand under the belly form, rubbing it into the toned chest. He couldn’t resist reaching as far up as the bassist’s nipples, tugging lightly in the limited space.
“Tease,” Mike laughed.
The singer returned the grin and dripped more oil on his hand, stroking it across the prominent hipbones. The sharp scent mixed with the faint musk of sex, stronger here, close to the groin. The combination sank into his nose and farther down, jangling in his stomach, and he poured a small pool into his palm, contemplating the shine. ‘Skin grade.’ Adie’s words and her knowing smile flitted through his mind.
His gaze flickered up to meet curious blue eyes and seconds later, the mini slick in his hand had been spread across puckered skin and he inserted two fingers.
“Fuck me!” The bassist jumped, swearing. “Aren’t you done yet?” He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but he hadn’t anticipated this move and while a good orgasm certainly did a lot to relax a body his ass burned at the unexpected penetration.
And tingled, goddamn. It made him want to squirm like a kid on a sugar high. “Bill…” he trailed off into a deep groan, the sensation intensifying as the guitarist pushed, hand exerting expert pressure inside him.
“Get on your knees.”
Mike started at the growled order, mouth dropping open slightly. Billie Joe’s eyes glowed green, brighter than the lights on the tree upstairs, and the need he read there slammed into him. Before he could question either of their sanity-there was an all-families party going on up there, after all-the bassist found himself struggling out of the bottom half of the one-piece longjohns and sliding to the floor with the empty legs dangling from his bare waist. He let out a strangled sound when his knees were shoved wide, one hand pressing between his shoulderblades.
“Down.”
Billie shivered at the instant obedience. The excess of fabric and seeming flesh on the usually lean body before him looked fucking strange, but the perfect curvature of those ass cheeks was the same, and so were the flushed cock and heavy balls hanging framed below them. He leaned down, licking across the base of Mike’s spine, his tongue catching sweat and peppermint.
His ears catching a whimper.
The singer smiled, slow and dirty, and dribbled the last of the essential oil onto his erection, rubbing it in and breathing deep. Then he reached for the bassist with slick, scented hands and thrust inside.
“Ah!” Mike’s elbows flew outward and he crashed down at the shocking force, artificial padding keeping him from flattening completely. He curled shaky fingers into the carpet fibers and kept his head down, recognizing distantly that there was no way he could have stayed balanced, not with the brutal pace Billie Joe was setting. He felt things jiggling that he didn’t normally have and it felt incredibly fucking weird, and his torso was sweatier than ever under the hot costume, his face itchy from the glued-on beard and eyebrows. All of which he noticed as though it were a dream because what captured his full attention was the way the smaller man owned his effervescing peppermint ass, that brilliant cock angling perfectly to smash against his prostate with every heavy thrust.
Jesus, it was as if he were fucking poprocks, the friction seeming to increase the fizzing sensation as Billie sped up even more, hips pistoning frantically in a futile effort to outrace the tingle. He panted, each gasping breath drawing sharp scent into his lungs, dizzying and blinding him to everything but the tight heat of Mike’s body.
The bassist maneuvered one hand to his own erection, sensing that Billie was lost to a candy cloud but needing release from the guitarist’s relentlessly accurate penetration. He pumped lightly, revved enough that it only took a little bit of direct contact before he spilled a second time, moaning into the carpet.
Billie felt him come, the internal contractions rippling snugly around his cock, and he choked back a scream, teeth clacking shut as colored lights burst behind his closed eyelids. He shuddered violently, teetering, the hot welcome of Mike’s orgasm beckoning him on to detonation.
“Oh. God,” he wheezed, bending over to nuzzle weakly along the bassist’s spine. He loosened his deathgrip, feeling the imprints of hipbones in his palms, and carefully pulled out to move down farther and kiss the thin skin he knew would bruise. He rested there a moment, cheek pressed to Mike’s hip, then sat up with a groan and reached for the ever-present box of tissues. Every room in the damn house had one, courtesy of Adie’s allergies.
“Thanks,” Mike mumbled, feeling gentle hands clean him off. He had one arm somewhat underneath him yet but was entirely unsure of his ability to untrap it. All he could smell was peppermint. He knew it would linger for days and he would never be able to look at a candy cane the same again, not being a white man tangled in a red suit who’d been fucked into the ground by a sweet-scented fallen angel. He frowned, becoming aware of something. “My ass still tingles.”
“Fuck, sorry, dude.” Billie Joe pressed kisses to the exposed surface of the offending sensation. He hadn’t thought about the oil’s properties not magically disappearing once they were done with it, and he could feel a faint fizziness in places on his own body too. “You’ll just have to shower really well later.”
Wrung out from the double-header, Mike was in a good enough mood to laugh at the ridiculousness of that comment. “Jesus Christ, Bill. Not only do I smell like a candy factory threw up on me, but now I have to go play Santa for a roomful of kids who are going to fucking bounce on me, and I have to sit there on a goddamn sore tingly ass thanks to your dick taking over everything.”
There was dead silence for a good minute, and then Billie snickered. He tried, really he did, but his snickering was soon followed by muffled howls of laughter and Mike grinned listening to it. The sound of his best friend and lover fucking losing it gave him the strength to move and he fixed the costume, donning the plush velvet surcoat and sliding his feet into the big black boots. Checking that the facial hair and wig were still firmly in place, if slightly frizzed now, he set the quintessential Santa hat at a jaunty angle to finish it off, unwilling to play anything completely straight.
Ready, he turned to find wide green eyes smiling warmly at him. An answering smile bubbled up from his heart. Still, all things considered, the bassist simply couldn’t resist any longer. He extracted a small bag from his coat pocket and tossed it at Billie Joe, biting the inside of his cheek as the older man ripped it open as excitedly as any child only to watch his expression careen through shock, disbelief and finally settle into a pronounced pout at the hard, black lump in his hand.
Mike’s face split into a shit-eating grin. “Merry Christmas, asshole. I love you.”
Author: Tas (tasyfa)
Disclaimer: I own only the words; the people own themselves.
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Billie Joe/Mike
Word count: 2,495
Warnings/Notes: Roleplay, light dom/sub. Takes place December 24, 2005 (yes, that IS today!). A little twisted Christmas fluff for canis_takahari. Enjoy, my dear. xD
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
“Everyone’s gonna know it’s me.”
“No, they’re not.” A pause. “How long you been watching me with makeup now?”
“Oh, Christ, don’t ask me that. Anything where the answer gets into double digits makes me feel fucking old.” They shared a laugh, then Mike added petulantly, “Why can’t you do it?”
“Because I don’t have pretty blue eyes.”
Said eyes rounded in sudden hope. “Tré has-”
“-an attention span shorter than any of our kids. No can do, Mikey.”
He subsided at the affectionate nickname, at least for a moment. When he started to say something else, Billie laughed.
“Dude, shut up and stay still! I may be relatively expert but the ten gallons of rum and eggnog my wife’s poured into me are making this a little more difficult.”
“You didn’t have to drink it.” Mike rolled his eyes at himself as soon as the words were out of his mouth. Refusing Adie’s concoctions was a bad job at any time of year but over the holidays? Worth a guy’s life. Or pride, at least; Adrienne Armstrong had a way with cutting words that rivalled her husband’s.
“I’m not even going to dignify that with a reply.”
The two men shared an easy silence, Mike feeling the contours of his face change under the other’s deft touch. He badly wanted to scratch his lip but stayed still as ordered, not wanting his eyebrows to go down his nose or something. Finally Billie Joe pulled back, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Perfect.”
Mike wiggled his features. “It feels weird.”
“It looks exactly like it’s supposed to.” Billie canted his head to one side. “It does look different, though. Not used to it.”
His eyes acquired a speculativeness that had Mike raising his newly fixed eyebrows and then Billie leaned in and kissed him, tongue teasing his lips open so that he could explore. Mike pulled the smaller man as close as possible, whining in the back of his throat at the spongy barrier preventing full contact.
Billie reached down to cup Mike’s erection. He frowned at the unfamiliar awkwardness of the position and broke the kiss, sliding one leg back and then sinking to his knees.
“You don’t want to sit on my lap?” Mike joked weakly, eyes glittering an intense blue.
“I have something else in mind for Santa’s lap,” Bille murmured suggestively. He worked open the scarlet longjohns, reaching through the slit in the boxers underneath to grasp the bassist’s cock and guide it to his mouth.
Mike groaned at the sensation. His lips twitched in a breathless smile as he glanced down to see the fluffy white hair of his recently-attached false beard mingling with the smaller man’s naturally curly black hair in a demented checkerboard effect.
Billie shifted, wanting to watch his lover’s expression as he sucked him off, only to find that his view was obstructed by the enormous foam belly. He stared at it for a long moment, his rhythm faltering badly, and finally popped off with an uncontrollable giggle.
“Aw, fuck, Bill,” came the throaty protest.
The singer wrapped calloused fingers around Mike, falling back into his rhythm with a smile.
“I couldn’t see you,” he explained, face softening as he leaned up for a kiss. Mike obliged willingly, enjoying the eggnog even secondhand.
“God that feels weird, with all the facial hair,” Billie continued when they stopped to breathe.
The taller man laughed. “Yeah, neither one of us progressed much past stubble.”
“Dude, I’m thirty-three and I still don’t have more than like a dozen chest hairs. A beard just ain’t in the cards.”
He nodded agreement, breath hitching as that talented hand thumbed across the sensitive tip of his cock and gripped harder, speeding up.
“Let me know when you get close. The suit is a rental.”
Any urge to laugh disappeared as Billie ducked his head and captured the bassist’s fingers with his lips, suckling earnestly while his hand pumped. Green eyes locked on his, leaching away his ability to do anything but watch and feel the pleasure build, spiking sharply when the guitarist bit into the fleshy part of his palm.
“Billie,” he gasped, “You better…”
His hand was left dangling mid-air along with his sentence and that mouth, God, that perfect fucking mouth was on him, all heat and silk and hard suction.
Mike arched helplessly, moving without any of his usual grace in the cumbersome costume as he trembled on the edge.
‘Come on, Santa,’ Billie thought with a shock of lust. Goddamn if this didn’t feel like the most obscene act ever, scarlet-clad legs parted to accommodate his body, white beard hair tickling his forehead as he pressed close against the low-hanging belly. He felt almost like they were in some pornographic fairytale. But the muscular thighs flexing under his hands were uniquely Mike’s, and the scent, taste, feel of the cock in his mouth were all Mike. He closed his eyes against the burn and pushed all the way down, consciously relaxing his throat to allow the intrusion.
“Fuck!” The full-frontal assault proved too much and the bassist spasmed with a cry, stuffing the end of his sleeve into his mouth to muffle the sound while he rode it out.
He felt the older man suck him dry, wild heat transforming to soothing warmth until Billie Joe withdrew. His wet dick didn’t much care for the sudden coolness of the air, but Mike wasn’t feeling much like making the necessary amount of movement to tuck it back in his shorts so he ignored it.
A few minutes passed, both of them catching their breath, and he realized that he felt pretty sticky - and it wasn’t because the singer had suddenly decided to spit instead of swallow, either. “Fuck, I’m all sweaty now in this stupid thing. I’m going to smell bad.”
Billie huffed a laugh. “Adrienne thought the costume would smell anyway. She doesn’t like rentals, remember? She gave me this in case it did.” He pulled a small bottle from his back pocket and the bassist’s lip curled.
“What the fuck is that?”
“Relax, dude. It’s peppermint oil. It’s all Christmassy and shit. You know, put some on and you’ll smell like a candy cane instead of a sweaty old man,” he smirked.
“Whose fault is it that I’m sweaty, Mr. Three-months-older-than-me?” Mike shot back. He eyed the bottle with his misgivings clearly etched on his face. “Where does it go?”
“It’s skin grade, she said; massage oil. Goes on you.” Billie glanced up slyly. “Want me to do it for you?” His wife had given him that special smile when he’d told her they were ducking out to get Mike into his costume, the one that said she was sure that wasn’t all they were going to do and she didn’t mind. At some point over the years, the three of them had found a balance and so right now, he felt no compunction whatsoever about finding any excuse he could to get his hands on the bassist’s skin before they had to go back to the party.
Mike raised one eyebrow sharply at the invitation, but admitted privately that despite the blowjob he’d just been treated to, he definitely wouldn’t mind just a little more physical contact with his lover. The last show of the entire tour had been a week ago, and they hadn’t had a chance to be together like this since. He wanted to take advantage of it while he could - even if it meant smelling like a candy cane.
“Yeah, sure,” he acquiesced aloud, smiling at the guitarist’s eagerness in twisting the cap off the bottle.
Billie smeared some of the oil on his fingertips and wiggled his hand under the belly form, rubbing it into the toned chest. He couldn’t resist reaching as far up as the bassist’s nipples, tugging lightly in the limited space.
“Tease,” Mike laughed.
The singer returned the grin and dripped more oil on his hand, stroking it across the prominent hipbones. The sharp scent mixed with the faint musk of sex, stronger here, close to the groin. The combination sank into his nose and farther down, jangling in his stomach, and he poured a small pool into his palm, contemplating the shine. ‘Skin grade.’ Adie’s words and her knowing smile flitted through his mind.
His gaze flickered up to meet curious blue eyes and seconds later, the mini slick in his hand had been spread across puckered skin and he inserted two fingers.
“Fuck me!” The bassist jumped, swearing. “Aren’t you done yet?” He hadn’t meant to sound so harsh, but he hadn’t anticipated this move and while a good orgasm certainly did a lot to relax a body his ass burned at the unexpected penetration.
And tingled, goddamn. It made him want to squirm like a kid on a sugar high. “Bill…” he trailed off into a deep groan, the sensation intensifying as the guitarist pushed, hand exerting expert pressure inside him.
“Get on your knees.”
Mike started at the growled order, mouth dropping open slightly. Billie Joe’s eyes glowed green, brighter than the lights on the tree upstairs, and the need he read there slammed into him. Before he could question either of their sanity-there was an all-families party going on up there, after all-the bassist found himself struggling out of the bottom half of the one-piece longjohns and sliding to the floor with the empty legs dangling from his bare waist. He let out a strangled sound when his knees were shoved wide, one hand pressing between his shoulderblades.
“Down.”
Billie shivered at the instant obedience. The excess of fabric and seeming flesh on the usually lean body before him looked fucking strange, but the perfect curvature of those ass cheeks was the same, and so were the flushed cock and heavy balls hanging framed below them. He leaned down, licking across the base of Mike’s spine, his tongue catching sweat and peppermint.
His ears catching a whimper.
The singer smiled, slow and dirty, and dribbled the last of the essential oil onto his erection, rubbing it in and breathing deep. Then he reached for the bassist with slick, scented hands and thrust inside.
“Ah!” Mike’s elbows flew outward and he crashed down at the shocking force, artificial padding keeping him from flattening completely. He curled shaky fingers into the carpet fibers and kept his head down, recognizing distantly that there was no way he could have stayed balanced, not with the brutal pace Billie Joe was setting. He felt things jiggling that he didn’t normally have and it felt incredibly fucking weird, and his torso was sweatier than ever under the hot costume, his face itchy from the glued-on beard and eyebrows. All of which he noticed as though it were a dream because what captured his full attention was the way the smaller man owned his effervescing peppermint ass, that brilliant cock angling perfectly to smash against his prostate with every heavy thrust.
Jesus, it was as if he were fucking poprocks, the friction seeming to increase the fizzing sensation as Billie sped up even more, hips pistoning frantically in a futile effort to outrace the tingle. He panted, each gasping breath drawing sharp scent into his lungs, dizzying and blinding him to everything but the tight heat of Mike’s body.
The bassist maneuvered one hand to his own erection, sensing that Billie was lost to a candy cloud but needing release from the guitarist’s relentlessly accurate penetration. He pumped lightly, revved enough that it only took a little bit of direct contact before he spilled a second time, moaning into the carpet.
Billie felt him come, the internal contractions rippling snugly around his cock, and he choked back a scream, teeth clacking shut as colored lights burst behind his closed eyelids. He shuddered violently, teetering, the hot welcome of Mike’s orgasm beckoning him on to detonation.
“Oh. God,” he wheezed, bending over to nuzzle weakly along the bassist’s spine. He loosened his deathgrip, feeling the imprints of hipbones in his palms, and carefully pulled out to move down farther and kiss the thin skin he knew would bruise. He rested there a moment, cheek pressed to Mike’s hip, then sat up with a groan and reached for the ever-present box of tissues. Every room in the damn house had one, courtesy of Adie’s allergies.
“Thanks,” Mike mumbled, feeling gentle hands clean him off. He had one arm somewhat underneath him yet but was entirely unsure of his ability to untrap it. All he could smell was peppermint. He knew it would linger for days and he would never be able to look at a candy cane the same again, not being a white man tangled in a red suit who’d been fucked into the ground by a sweet-scented fallen angel. He frowned, becoming aware of something. “My ass still tingles.”
“Fuck, sorry, dude.” Billie Joe pressed kisses to the exposed surface of the offending sensation. He hadn’t thought about the oil’s properties not magically disappearing once they were done with it, and he could feel a faint fizziness in places on his own body too. “You’ll just have to shower really well later.”
Wrung out from the double-header, Mike was in a good enough mood to laugh at the ridiculousness of that comment. “Jesus Christ, Bill. Not only do I smell like a candy factory threw up on me, but now I have to go play Santa for a roomful of kids who are going to fucking bounce on me, and I have to sit there on a goddamn sore tingly ass thanks to your dick taking over everything.”
There was dead silence for a good minute, and then Billie snickered. He tried, really he did, but his snickering was soon followed by muffled howls of laughter and Mike grinned listening to it. The sound of his best friend and lover fucking losing it gave him the strength to move and he fixed the costume, donning the plush velvet surcoat and sliding his feet into the big black boots. Checking that the facial hair and wig were still firmly in place, if slightly frizzed now, he set the quintessential Santa hat at a jaunty angle to finish it off, unwilling to play anything completely straight.
Ready, he turned to find wide green eyes smiling warmly at him. An answering smile bubbled up from his heart. Still, all things considered, the bassist simply couldn’t resist any longer. He extracted a small bag from his coat pocket and tossed it at Billie Joe, biting the inside of his cheek as the older man ripped it open as excitedly as any child only to watch his expression careen through shock, disbelief and finally settle into a pronounced pout at the hard, black lump in his hand.
Mike’s face split into a shit-eating grin. “Merry Christmas, asshole. I love you.”