Christmas

The previous installment of the "Fucking Normal People" series is "Not Pretty, But Something."


TITLE: Christmas. 1/2.
AUTHOR: Belinda, Doom's Eyebrow (eyebrowofdoom@yahoo.com)
SERIES: Fucking Normal People 2/?
DISTRIBUTION: gimme a little sugar and just ask...
RATING: NC-17. Contains explicit m/m slash sex, drugs, coarse language and other reasons for living.
SUMMARY: When the blackmailing of Greg McConnell goes partly awry, an annoyed Sebastian confronts Blaine Tuttle.
NOTE: CI 2 is an unpleasant hallucination caused by some funky gear probably supplied by an unscrupulous Blaine, and none of its back story holds.
FEEDBACK: Feed the kraken! Squeak! I mean, roar! Both sugar and roughage welcome in a balanced diet.
DISCLAIMER: the characters are from the movie Cruel Intentions, and do not belong to me. This fic has no connection to the makers of the movie and I receive no money from writing it.


"So what you're trying to tell me is, you're completely full of shit," Sebastian says. He stalks back from the bedroom door, coat tails sailing.

I haven't tried to tell Sebastian anything. In fact, I haven't said a word since Greg stumbled away down my stairs with his clothes in his arms. I've dropped the pretence of filing my nails, lying here naked on the bed, but that's it.

Sebastian stops clean at the centre of the foot of the bed. "He can't write out a shopping list, but he can assassinate my character persuasively and compellingly, in writing, to an intelligent audience."

His voice is crisp as clean blotting paper; the vowels strike like type.

"*You* thought it made sense," I say.

"I wasn't in anything like the position you were to know," he retorts, hands to his hips.

I shrug and roll my eyes to the ceiling. The sweet little faggot lisp it is, then. "You're so scary when you're angry!"

"Oh, I think you can do better than that," he says. "At least, you'd better."

And wouldn't he do a lovely Saint Michael with apocalyptic sword, just like this? The single flaring nostril to signify the wrath upon the world. Naked with white wings.

And I shouldn't still have a hard-on, after all the shouting.

"Look," I say. "That there was a *nice* piece of ass. And I think I may have, kind of, blown it for the time being."

"Do you think?" he says, and stalks away across the room again.

"There's no need to sound so amused," I say.

"Au contraire," he says. He's touching that glass bong again.

"But do you see what I mean here?" I fold my arms.

He turns back, one hand on a hip, and waits.

"It was a nice piece of ass of my making, you know," I say.

I get an eyebrow for that one. "How so?"

"Do you know how much work it is to teach a big dumbass like that how to be worth the trouble with his pants down?" I ask. "The bitching, the moaning I had to do?"

"'Greg, let go of my ears. Good boy!'"

"'Greg, lube is our friend. No, you don't have to look at the nasty pictures of nasty nasty men on the label. Just close your eyes or something when you squeeze it out.'"

"'Greg, if you're going to stick your cock in my ass, giving me a little kiss and a cuddle first is not the part that makes you a fag.'"

Sebastian's sweet little boy dimples rise like the sun, and yes, I've almost made him laugh.

"And now I've ruined that, all for you," I say.

"My heart bleeds, darling," he says heavily.

Then, with a sudden purposefulness, he returns to the bed. He sits beside me and puts a hand on my thigh.

His hand is still a little cool from the night air, for all his exertion since. I open my mouth, then close it.

"Don't do that when I have a hard-on." I try to keep my tone light.

Now Sebastian turns his head carefully to look at the disruption in the fall of the shirt I threw across my hips when he pulled the covers off. He looks up to see me watching him looking, and meets my eye.

"Do what?" he says.

His hand is still, still on my thigh. "All I'm saying is," I say quickly, "I didn't do as well out of this as you may think. Now be a nice man, and leave me alone to jerk off in my empty bed."

He's perfectly still.

I throw my hands behind my head and stare at the ceiling. "Don't be an asshole, Valmont."

"Who said anything about assholes?" He starts to stroke my thigh with the back of his knuckles. And then, with a voice like a kid at Christmas, he says, "Oh, wait!"

"Get lost!" I say, hard.

There's a sharp intake of air, and that's his theatrical wounded face. But then the sets change fast and the kid at Christmas is back. Apparently we're unwrapping the presents, because off comes my draped shirt, and away it flutters.

"What do we have here?" he squeaks, like Santa's fucking elf.

Up goes the flag to solid three-quarter-mast, and we're both at attention.

Helpless, I address my cock. "I told you to stay under the house until the bad man was gone!"

"Aw, hasn't Daddy been feeding you?" Sebastian says. And he tickles my cock with his finger, like you might under the chin of a child.

Oh, and up I come, all the way up. Turgid as a hose on full bore.

"You're an asshole, Valmont!" I throw my head back on the pillow.

"You screwed me over..." he sing-songs.

My mouth wants to open and say "I didn't," but it doesn't. Somehow, somehow, he hasn't made his point yet. He keeps tickling.

"Sebastian," I manage to get out, some time later.

He leans over me, looks right in my eyes.

"Yes, Blaine?"

"I imagine the plan is to make me beg till I cry, then laugh at me, then leave."

His dimples appear. His finger continues on its merry way, without missing a beat.

My ribcage heaves. "Well, anything I can do to help..." I catch my breath again, and stare hard at him. "Cause I gotta tell you, I'm ready to skip straight to the crying, you just tell me when."

Oh, he likes that. There are crinkles in the corners of his eyes.

"That's a tempting offer. You know, this is so much more fun than I could ever have imagined."

And I'm pumping all my decimated attention into processing the idea that he's imagined this before, when I get my reward. Two fingers now. Just trailing up and down the goddamn underside.

It goes on.

"Valmont!" I say.

"Hmm?"

"Begging. Is that what you want? You want me to beg?"

"I wouldn't say no."

His fingers make their way all the way up, and all the way down again.

"You wouldn't say no to begging, or to what it is I'm likely to beg for?" I say.

"We're getting ahead of ourselves, don't you think?"

His fingertips linger just under the rim, walking on the spot.

"Any kind of head I can get," I say.

The thing he does with his eyelashes and the bridge of his nose -- it begins to bloom across his face, and he has to still himself to do it, and that's my chance. I sit up and grab him by the upper arms. "Are you going to fuck me, or am I going to tie you down and hurt you *really* good?"

He blinks. "Alright, alright, don't get so huffy," he says -- he says it slowly, totally dead-pan, almost without tone.

And I stare at him, because I don't know what to do. And then he smiles. Like the sun coming out.

And kisses me. Softly, on the lips.

"No way!" I'm scooting right up the bed, until my back is against the headboard.

"Why not?" he demands, the humour back in his voice.

"If you're telling me you don't want to..." His gazes dips. "I don't think I'm going to believe you."

"What the hell do you want?" I say.

"Oh, come *on*," he says. "You screw me, I screw you. You know how it goes."

I look at him in silence for a humiliatingly long time.


-continued in 2/2-