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How I Became a Morning Person
by Brian Kinney
vignettes? | PG-13 | schmoop (as usual) | ~1,400 words | unbeta’d
#28/50 for my fanfic50 table | Prompt: 044. Magic(k)
A/N: I’m dedicating this to pet0511. Thank you so much for the magic. <3
How I Became a Morning Person
by Brian Kinney
(and sakesushimaki)
Truth is, I have never been a morning person. Appearance might let it seem different, but it’s true.
I hate getting up, for example. It’s usually after too few hours of sleep and something always cracks when you roll out of bed. I hate the sound my alarm clock makes. I hate how puffy my eyes look before I get into the shower. I hate that first spray of water hitting me and how you’re never quite ready for it. I hate breakfast. Other than coffee I rarely can stand anything else before 11am. I hate commuter traffic and how the radio stations play the shittiest music and the most commercials then. I hate the smells. Shower gel, after shave, deodorant, perfume - everyone slathers themselves with fragrance in the mornings, me included. I hate how everyone says/mumbles/cheers “Morning!” at work and how you’re labelled as in a mood when you fail to return the greeting in the same manner.
You catch my drift.
How I have managed to change my attitude towards mornings I can’t be sure, but I figure it has something to do with him. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still not a fan of mornings. But some are better than others.
*
One Thursday, 7:28am
“You do know that we have to leave in twenty minutes, right?” I try to keep my annoyance at bay. This morning is too much work already.
“Yeah yeah. Come and sit down.”
“You know I don’t eat breakfast.” Everyone knows. Except Debbie and it’s hard to say no to her.
“Brian, I know how this goes. You will take in nothing but coffee all morning, work through lunch and then end up bitchy and hungry as hell in the evening.”
It’s true. “That’s bullshit.”
He throws me this annoying look over his shoulder and motions with the spatula for me to sit down. I’m about to explain to him in no uncertain terms that I’m not going to be ordered around by a fucking kitchen tool when I notice the steaming pot of coffee on the table and the plate with sliced avocado and fresh toast.
I eye the table suspiciously for a moment. Justin ignores me, busy with his egg project, and I decide to give into him this once. Grabbing two mugs, I head over to the table and sit down.
I adjust my tie a couple of times and throw occasional glances at his back. When he comes over, pan in one hand, spatula in the other, he smiles and shakes his head at me. He slides half the eggs on my plate and puts the pan aside. Suddenly he’s in my lap, holding onto my tie and kissing me of the most delicious brand. He pulls away and leaves the taste of coffee on my own lips.
“Eat,” he says, moving to the other side of the table where his plate is waiting to be loaded.
I watch him go and clear my throat.
The eggs aren’t too bad.
*
One Monday, 7:00am
I am going to kill the person who invented this alarm tone. Slowly. I punch it out and rub my hands over my face. Fucking Monday.
The linen sticks to my hip and it already feels like one hundred degrees. Getting the air condition fixed just moved to the top of my priority list.
Justin murmurs some mumbo-jumbo beside me and pushes damp hair from his forehead. I watch in horror as he slowly slides across the bed, his whole body inching closer to me. An arm moves up to wrap around my waist, a foot comes in contact with my calf.
“You’re not serious, are you?” I bitch. “It’s a sauna in here and you want to fucking cuddle?” As if the latter wasn’t offence enough.
He groans and I have no idea why.
I’m about to fucking push him away when his fingers start trailing down my body and rub in the crease of my thigh. “What the fuck are you…” I have to bite my lip. He knows how crazy it makes me when he rubs right there. “Justin,” I warn.
“Shut up,” he mumbles and moves down, spreading my legs and kissing my balls. I don’t think he ever opens his eyes.
After I come, I surprise myself by not caring how hot and sticky we are and lie on top of him, heavy and relaxed. His fingers are moving through my hair and I rub my thumb on his hip, with my sweaty cheek glued to his chest.
I’m going into work a little late this morning, but I’ll be damned if I care.
*
One Tuesday, 7:36am
He comes out of the bathroom, steam following him outside.
I’m sitting at the bar, searching through my brief case for the Eyeconic file, but look up to watch him. His hair is almost dry. I feel like it should bother me more than it does that he actually has to blow-dry his hair now because it’s gotten so long.
“Have you seen my blue sweater? You know, the one with that imprint?”
I know which one. He looks fucking eatable in that one. I get off the stool and head for the bedroom. It’ll be quicker if I just go pull it out for him instead of explaining. I stand behind him and reach up to pull the piece of clothing out when it hits me. The scent of his hair. I push the folded sweater into his chest and at the same time move forward to wrap my arms around him from behind and to bury my face in his soft hair. He squirms because I’m tickling him, sniffing around his hair and neck like a dog.
It’s not just the shampoo either. It’s the combination of him, shampoo, after shave and something else. Jesus. How can anyone smell so good?
On my way to work I find myself already looking forward to smelling him the next morning.
*
One day, 6:54am
So here I am, years later, just waking up from a somehow weird, but not disturbingly so, dream. I know that it’s almost 7am without looking.
I stretch my arms and press my palms lightly against the head board. The light crunch in my neck feels good as I turn and look to my left.
He’s lying in his playing-asleep pose that I wouldn’t buy from anyone else. It’s exactly how a kid would re-enact sleeping: lying on the back, head straight, hands resting on the stomach. It’s how he sleeps. Sometimes, anyway.
I turn my body over, put one arm plus one leg over him, fit my face into the space between his cheek and shoulder and kiss him there. He stirs slightly, but not enough to wake himself up. I press my mouth to his shoulder, slide my lips against the soft skin, and stroke my palm over his stomach, just below where his own are resting. He’s ticklish there, around his belly button, and doesn’t like being reminded of it. I love it there. I love touching him there when he’s aroused and feeling the muscles in his stomach tighten. I love that light trail of hair that finishes in dark blond curls. Sometimes, when I’m blowing him, I spend as much time on his stomach as I do on his cock.
He stirs some more and I know he’ll wake soon.
His body is ridiculously pliable this time of the day and I’ve learned to use that to my advantage. I move between his legs, then roll us to the side. With my hands on his back, I keep him wrapped around me while his body awakens and his eyebrows move into a light frown.
I reach behind me and shut off the alarm one minute before it blares off. Turning back to him fully, I push my fingers into his hair, press our bodies together until our noses are touching and wait for the frown on his face to seep away and for his eyes to open.
“Good morning,” I say and mean it completely.
by Brian Kinney
vignettes? | PG-13 | schmoop (as usual) | ~1,400 words | unbeta’d
#28/50 for my fanfic50 table | Prompt: 044. Magic(k)
A/N: I’m dedicating this to pet0511. Thank you so much for the magic. <3
How I Became a Morning Person
by Brian Kinney
(and sakesushimaki)
Truth is, I have never been a morning person. Appearance might let it seem different, but it’s true.
I hate getting up, for example. It’s usually after too few hours of sleep and something always cracks when you roll out of bed. I hate the sound my alarm clock makes. I hate how puffy my eyes look before I get into the shower. I hate that first spray of water hitting me and how you’re never quite ready for it. I hate breakfast. Other than coffee I rarely can stand anything else before 11am. I hate commuter traffic and how the radio stations play the shittiest music and the most commercials then. I hate the smells. Shower gel, after shave, deodorant, perfume - everyone slathers themselves with fragrance in the mornings, me included. I hate how everyone says/mumbles/cheers “Morning!” at work and how you’re labelled as in a mood when you fail to return the greeting in the same manner.
You catch my drift.
How I have managed to change my attitude towards mornings I can’t be sure, but I figure it has something to do with him. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still not a fan of mornings. But some are better than others.
*
One Thursday, 7:28am
“You do know that we have to leave in twenty minutes, right?” I try to keep my annoyance at bay. This morning is too much work already.
“Yeah yeah. Come and sit down.”
“You know I don’t eat breakfast.” Everyone knows. Except Debbie and it’s hard to say no to her.
“Brian, I know how this goes. You will take in nothing but coffee all morning, work through lunch and then end up bitchy and hungry as hell in the evening.”
It’s true. “That’s bullshit.”
He throws me this annoying look over his shoulder and motions with the spatula for me to sit down. I’m about to explain to him in no uncertain terms that I’m not going to be ordered around by a fucking kitchen tool when I notice the steaming pot of coffee on the table and the plate with sliced avocado and fresh toast.
I eye the table suspiciously for a moment. Justin ignores me, busy with his egg project, and I decide to give into him this once. Grabbing two mugs, I head over to the table and sit down.
I adjust my tie a couple of times and throw occasional glances at his back. When he comes over, pan in one hand, spatula in the other, he smiles and shakes his head at me. He slides half the eggs on my plate and puts the pan aside. Suddenly he’s in my lap, holding onto my tie and kissing me of the most delicious brand. He pulls away and leaves the taste of coffee on my own lips.
“Eat,” he says, moving to the other side of the table where his plate is waiting to be loaded.
I watch him go and clear my throat.
The eggs aren’t too bad.
*
One Monday, 7:00am
I am going to kill the person who invented this alarm tone. Slowly. I punch it out and rub my hands over my face. Fucking Monday.
The linen sticks to my hip and it already feels like one hundred degrees. Getting the air condition fixed just moved to the top of my priority list.
Justin murmurs some mumbo-jumbo beside me and pushes damp hair from his forehead. I watch in horror as he slowly slides across the bed, his whole body inching closer to me. An arm moves up to wrap around my waist, a foot comes in contact with my calf.
“You’re not serious, are you?” I bitch. “It’s a sauna in here and you want to fucking cuddle?” As if the latter wasn’t offence enough.
He groans and I have no idea why.
I’m about to fucking push him away when his fingers start trailing down my body and rub in the crease of my thigh. “What the fuck are you…” I have to bite my lip. He knows how crazy it makes me when he rubs right there. “Justin,” I warn.
“Shut up,” he mumbles and moves down, spreading my legs and kissing my balls. I don’t think he ever opens his eyes.
After I come, I surprise myself by not caring how hot and sticky we are and lie on top of him, heavy and relaxed. His fingers are moving through my hair and I rub my thumb on his hip, with my sweaty cheek glued to his chest.
I’m going into work a little late this morning, but I’ll be damned if I care.
*
One Tuesday, 7:36am
He comes out of the bathroom, steam following him outside.
I’m sitting at the bar, searching through my brief case for the Eyeconic file, but look up to watch him. His hair is almost dry. I feel like it should bother me more than it does that he actually has to blow-dry his hair now because it’s gotten so long.
“Have you seen my blue sweater? You know, the one with that imprint?”
I know which one. He looks fucking eatable in that one. I get off the stool and head for the bedroom. It’ll be quicker if I just go pull it out for him instead of explaining. I stand behind him and reach up to pull the piece of clothing out when it hits me. The scent of his hair. I push the folded sweater into his chest and at the same time move forward to wrap my arms around him from behind and to bury my face in his soft hair. He squirms because I’m tickling him, sniffing around his hair and neck like a dog.
It’s not just the shampoo either. It’s the combination of him, shampoo, after shave and something else. Jesus. How can anyone smell so good?
On my way to work I find myself already looking forward to smelling him the next morning.
*
One day, 6:54am
So here I am, years later, just waking up from a somehow weird, but not disturbingly so, dream. I know that it’s almost 7am without looking.
I stretch my arms and press my palms lightly against the head board. The light crunch in my neck feels good as I turn and look to my left.
He’s lying in his playing-asleep pose that I wouldn’t buy from anyone else. It’s exactly how a kid would re-enact sleeping: lying on the back, head straight, hands resting on the stomach. It’s how he sleeps. Sometimes, anyway.
I turn my body over, put one arm plus one leg over him, fit my face into the space between his cheek and shoulder and kiss him there. He stirs slightly, but not enough to wake himself up. I press my mouth to his shoulder, slide my lips against the soft skin, and stroke my palm over his stomach, just below where his own are resting. He’s ticklish there, around his belly button, and doesn’t like being reminded of it. I love it there. I love touching him there when he’s aroused and feeling the muscles in his stomach tighten. I love that light trail of hair that finishes in dark blond curls. Sometimes, when I’m blowing him, I spend as much time on his stomach as I do on his cock.
He stirs some more and I know he’ll wake soon.
His body is ridiculously pliable this time of the day and I’ve learned to use that to my advantage. I move between his legs, then roll us to the side. With my hands on his back, I keep him wrapped around me while his body awakens and his eyebrows move into a light frown.
I reach behind me and shut off the alarm one minute before it blares off. Turning back to him fully, I push my fingers into his hair, press our bodies together until our noses are touching and wait for the frown on his face to seep away and for his eyes to open.
“Good morning,” I say and mean it completely.