Title: "the dyke, the whore, his twink, and his mother"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: QAF-US
Rating/Classification: 'R' for language, drug use, humor, badfic, Brian POV.
Disclaimer: I really can't take responsibility for this. I can't.
Summary: This is what happens when you've just woken up, gotten a jolt of coffee, and can't get the movie title "The Cook, the Thief, his Wife, and her Lover" out of your head. Takes place in the second season.
Notes: This is bad, bad, bad. I have no shame.

"Craig...Craig was a lousy lover. He never wanted to give me head," she slurs, lounging upside down on your chaise. The sickly-sweet smoke is rising from the joint in her grasp in little spirals, giving her the appearance of some demented psychic friend. "But YOU." She opens one eye and looks at you in an unholy contemplative manner. "I bet you're great at it. I bet you studied head in college."

You take a hit off your own joint, grinning. "Got my MBA, Mrs. Taylor. Masters in Blowjob Administration."

"Jennifer," she corrects, waving one hand around, artlessly. "It's Jennifer, dammit. You're not The Beav. You fucked my son, the least you can do is call me by my first name."

She makes an awful lot of sense when she's high. You make a mental note to give her weed more often. Maybe a little E. Some K. "Okay. *Jennifer.*"

"That's better!"

***

"Oh, no. Brian...Brian, tell me you DIDN'T!!!!"

"I didn't." And you focus on Justin's sunny face...not so sunny this afternoon... brows furrowed in consternation. "What didn't I do?"

"Give my mother POT!!!!"

"Hey!" you protest, sitting up from your comfortable sprawl on the couch. "She came looking for you. Told her you were buying art supplies and she wanted to wait. I couldn't be a bad host."

Paintbrushes and a sketchpad are, ceremoniously, spilled onto the counter. "You're Brian Kinney...you THRIVE on being a bad host!!"

"Jennifer had a rough day at work," you inform, loftily. "She showed a house and they HATED it."

"They HATED it!" Justin's mother agrees, from her spot under the chaise. At some point in between the first joint and the second, she'd wound up underneath, claiming she needed a nap.

Pretty soon, the munchies will set in. You just hope Mel shows up to take care of the urges...being that she's the Munchie Queen of Pittsburgh. Or would that be the MunchER Queen? King?

Your lost youth does not look satisfied by your words...not that you remember what you said. "That is no excuse for giving her drugs! She's my MOTHER, for fuck's sake!"

"I'm still a woman!!" Jennifer announces from her personal purple haze. "I have needs!!"

You waggle your eyebrows, suggestively. "Apparently, your dad *sucks* at cunnilingus."

"EW." He turns this oddly becoming shade of green and you think "if I were on you, I'd be coming, too". Starts backing up until he hits the fridge. "Ew. Ew. Ew."

You sigh, gesturing with your smoldering blunt. "Isn't he a whiz with words? You must be so proud."

Jennifer laughs, coming out and settling herself, properly, on the chaise. At least for the moment. "Don't look at me. You're the one who gets mileage out of his tongue."

"Oh my God." Justin goes from green to pink. "You...you...you corrupted my mother!" he accuses, coming towards you.

"Yeah. Yeah, certainly did." It gives you a tingle of pride and accomplishment. "Working my way through the Taylor family," you assure, grinding out the spent joint in a shot glass.

He shakes his finger at you...which just makes you think of all kinds of lewd uses for it instead of making you feel contrite. "Just stay away from Molly, okay?"

His mother laughs again. Sounding a little drunk. Did you give her any Beam? You don't remember. "For once, I'm thankful he only preys on MALE children!"

"Mooom!" If Justin turns anymore colors, he's going to be his own rainbow Pride flag. It's so fucking cute...you think you might have to experiment, later...can you make his entire body blush?

As you drift off into X-rated teen porn land, the loft door slides back with a resounding thump. You think announcing "The Dyke has landed!!" might be a bit rude...but you do it anyway...watching how Jennifer's eyes actually move to where Mel is standing with her uber-butch hands on her uber-butch hips.

"Why am I here, Brian?" she glowers, flipping you the bird.

"Why are we ALL here?" you shoot back, waxing philosophical as Justin finally gets over his Oedipal horrors and flops down beside you. Apparently, you're forgiven and he plans to take advantage of having a high mom...because he starts licking your neck in the sweetest way...

"I don't really give a fuck why you're here. I AM, however, slightly worried about why Mrs. Taylor is dancing on top of your chaise longue."

On TOP of the chaise? Fuck. Maybe the weed was laced? Oh, well.

You arch, shuddering. "Is she barefoot?"

Mel cranes her neck. "I think so."

"As long as she doesn't leave footprints, I don't care if she table dances and sings 'Super Trouper'!" You begin to slide your hand down the front of Justin's tight jeans, working the button-fly like an expert.

"Brian!!"

"Mhmmm...? What?"

"Why. Did. You. Call. Me?????"

It's her lawyer voice. You groan, detaching yourself from your boy's hot little mouth and pointing at the grooving blond on your furniture. "'Cause Jennifer has NEEDS. I figure you could be of service."

"What?" Mel's dark brows furrow. And then the realization dawns. "OH." You wonder if you should tell her that excessive opening and closing of one's mouth makes them look like a fish. You decide against it when she stalks across the room and helps Jennifer down from her perch.

"Where are we going?"

"I'm taking you home." And Mel looks at you meaningfully. Disgusted. "YOUR home, Jennifer. Not mine."

Your closeted pseudo mother-in-law doesn't look all that crushed. She actually sways a little, twirling in half-circle. "Yee-ha!"

So THAT's where Justin gets it from.

***

You can tell it's morning because of the sunshine pouring in through the slats on the windows. And the Sunshine pacing around next to the bed with a cell phone attached to his ear.

"The fuck aren't you next to me?" you demand, rolling over and staring at the way his cute ass kind of bounces as he moves.

He ignores you. He actually ignores you.

Maybe he's mad about the pot? Maybe the marathon sex really didn't take his mind off things? Maybe you're losing your touch...? Oh, fuck. God, you hope not.

And then he stops. Stock still. Middle of the floor. And the phone hits the bed...narrowly missing your chest.

"Hey! Ow! What was THAT for?"

"You made my mother a LESBIAN."

"Hey...the joints weren't laced!"

"She woke up with Mel AND Linds this morning!!!!"

"Okay...maybe they WERE laced..."

"This is all your fault. Just last week, she was this perfectly normal, sexually-repressed, neurotic, straight, Mom...and now she's a dyke! She's a full blown dyke!"

"I'll just BET she's been blown," you laugh.

"Ew. Ew. Ew."

"Hey, stop 'ewwing' and come here..." you crook your finger at him, urging him back into the sweat-sticky sheets. "Have you ever thought that maybe it's my calling to bring the Taylor family to their true gay selves?"

"Brian....!" His inner drama princess is showing in his whine. You might just have to fuck it back into submission.

"Whaaat?" you whine back, into his lips.

"You're crazy. You're depraved and sick and crazy and you'd better--"

"I know, I know! I'd better stay away from Molly."

For *now*, you think to yourself, as you move over him.

But in six years or so....?

Heh.

 

--end--

January 26, 2002.



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