Chapter Text
The morning after that first night, Jon wakes up because his ass is being – cuddled. Is the word for it. His ass is being cuddled. His ass also kind of hurts but for the moment he's stuck on the cuddling. There's an arm draped high on the backs of his thighs and at the small of his back is the weight of somebody's head – soft hair, stubble, oh, look, glasses on the nightstand.
Right. Stephen.
Jon remembers. Jon remembers and is suddenly totally fine with the ass cuddling as long as Stephen's the one doing it. The soreness is okay now, too. Really kind of nice.
The arm on his leg slides down and Stephen's hand – that is Stephen's hand, if Jon had had any doubts about his memory or about the identity of the body in bed with him they're gone now because Jon knows those hands, has known those hands, has had them all over his body, now – Stephen's hand cups the top of his thigh, at the crease where the swell of his ass begins and when his thumb sweeps slowly up and brushes the tender skin behind his balls he can't hold in a shiver. Stephen freezes. Which, given his hand stays right where it is, doesn't scream 'contrition' or even 'reassurance' but what the hell. Jon folds his arms under his head and glances back over his shoulder.
“Hey,” he says. His voice is morning rough and cracks mid-syllable.
Stephen shifts, rolls a little, and turns to look back. His hand moves, too, to curve over the full crest of one cheek. He squeezes like he can't quite help himself and gives Jon an almost embarrassed smile. He's different without his glasses and Jon has seen it plenty of times before but never in his bed in the light of morning, never with rumpled hair, body as naked as his face seems, never with his head held inches away from the hole he fucked sore scant hours before. Jon holds back the quiver of memory but something must show in his face because the embarrassment bleeds from Stephen's, replaced by joy and mischief and a whole lot of lust.
Jon clears his uncooperative throat (that's something they haven't done yet; Stephen went straight – irony so intended – for his ass and Jon is sensing a pattern here) and asks, “Enjoying yourself?”
“I am, thanks,” Stephen says. He flops over on his other side and puts his head where his arm had been draped before. His other hand rises to take over the place the first now lacks the mobility to maintain. He's less hesitant, now, following his own hand with his eyes as he squeezes one cheek and then the other, lingering, not quite massaging. “Do you mind?” He stops and meets Jon's gaze with worry in his eyes and a sudden flush to his cheeks. “Did I – hurt you?” he asks. “I know I – ”
“You didn't hurt me, Stephen,” Jon says, startled. “I don't think you've got it in you to hurt me. If you ever tried you'd probably violate some metaphysical law and then the world would end.”
Stephen's actually blushing, expression unconvinced. His hand is still on Jon's ass, moving, petting almost, an unconscious expression of concern. It's adorable and if Jon weren't already thoroughly enamored, that would have done it. He feels himself smiling as Stephen begins again.
He gets as far as, “I'm serious, Jon, I – ” before seeming to register the smile and falling silent. Then he goes redder and buries his face – well, in Jon's thigh, probably, but essentially in his ass. Totally adorable.
“You're in love with my ass,” Jon says.
Stephen grunts. Jon is delighted.
“You are. That's awesome. I knew the fangirls liked it for whatever godforsaken reason but – ”
“Like it?” Stephen says. He shows his face, still faintly scarlet, and says, “Jesus, Jon, you've got the Platonic ideal of ass going here. It's amazing.”
Jon giggles.
“Really!”
He giggles again. Not because he doesn't believe Stephen but because he does. And because he's serious, too. That's awesome. Their eyes meet and some of Stephen's earnestness melts away at whatever he sees there. He smiles and turns onto his stomach, freeing both hands to join in caressing. He leans down and lays a warm, soft kiss on one cheek.
“I am sorry,” he says, and Jon's pretty sure Stephen's talking to him for all it looks like his ass is being addressed directly. “I think I got a little carried away last night.”
Several more kisses follow, scattering the nearest cheek and trailing close to Jon's center, where the skin is soft and still achingly tender. His hands slide around and over both cheeks, squeezing, stroking, scratching, now and again, with careful nails and Jon – Jon is deeply turned on. He wonders why Stephen's hands are so much warmer than his own skin and how long he'll be able to resist grinding his growing erection down into the bed clothes.
“You should know,” Stephen continues and now – oh, god, he's licking, now, tongue darting out, a damp velvet caress, close by the cleft. He says, “I've been jerking off thinking about your ass since we met.” The scrape of teeth is unexpected and so hot and between that and the images being planted in his head, Jon whimpers.
Stephen stops, hands tightening where they are, and his head drops. Jon, trying desperately to keep from panting aloud, hears him take a deep breath and, long seconds later, feels the slow outflow of air against his hip. After a moment, composure regained, Stephen sits up on his knees, continuing worship with his hands and Jon realizes that Stephen is finding is necessary to exercise a lot of self-control just to resist – what? Fucking him again? Sore or not, Jon's pretty much cool with that idea.
Because he might actually be psychic, the next thing Stephen says is, “I really, really want to fuck you right now. And finger you. And fist you. And see how far up your ass I can get my tongue. And bite a bruise down there because now that I've had it, I am claiming it and how else can I be sure you'll remember it's mine? And the fact that right now I'm pretty sure you'll let me – ” He looks at Jon through the hair that's fallen in his eyes, one eyebrow raised.
Jon feels himself go red. Plenty of blush to go around, today.
“I – uh – ” He swallows again, notices how Stephen's gaze flickers to his throat when he does. Which is – hot. And also oddly comforting. At least it's not only his ass Stephen's into. “We'll have to – uh – negotiate,” he says. “About the fisting. But as for that other stuff – go for it.”
Stephen's eyes fall shut. Jon watches his throat, this time, sees him swallow, then looks down at the hands still resting possessively on his ass. Stephen has beautiful hands.
“Yeah,” Stephen says. “That's – pretty much what I expected.” He opens his eyes and grins. “I mean, not that the rest of you isn't smokin' hot, too – ”
Jon laughs and is startled by a quick slap to Stephen's favorite part of his anatomy. He gapes and begins to demand what the hell but Stephen is using that smile and anyway – he wonders if Stephen can do anything he wouldn't find hot, right now. His cock is hard, eager for the festivities to progress, and one smack on the ass – especially from so appreciative a source – isn't going to dissuade it.
“As I was saying,” Stephen says, “while I have a profound appreciation for the whole of your delectable form – ”
Oh, there's no way he can be expected to hear that with a straight face. Jon drops his face to his arms, giggling. He feels the bed shift and then the touch of tongue and teeth – Stephen's mouth, licking, sucking, biting down on the underswell of one cheek, working on that bruise he mentioned and, yeah, it hurts but mostly – mostly – A shiver goes through him, a current down Jon's spine. He moans and feels Stephen shudder, too.
Stephen lingers until his mark is a certainty but doesn't pull away, just moves on, kissing, licking, hands still moving, not so shy of the crack in between, now, and Jon can't help but think, Stephen is making out with my ass. It will probably be funnier when it's not turning him on.
Stephen's thumb comes in contact with Jon's entrance (still tender – and, Jon realizes with a shock, damn near tingling with anticipation) and oh, fuck the tip just breaches him, barely, and he groans again, loud, out of all proportion to the stimulation and pushes back into Stephen's questing mouth and hands, then down, into the sheets. His cock is throbbing, his pulse rising, and he hasn't even moved since he woke up, jesusfuck.
Stephen's thumb moves away and his mouth lifts, which is a tragedy and even more a tragedy is that Stephen has clamped down a hand on each cheek and is holding Jon down, what the hell.
“Stephen.”
“Jon.”
It's not the Other Guy's voice but it's close and startles Jon into looking around, again, lifting up on shaking elbows for a clearer view. His heart is pounding, breath coming in ragged gusts and Stephen's is, too, but he's also smiling, sunshine bright, straight at Jon, into his eyes and Jon can only return it because, hell. There are some things you really can't resist.
Stephen shifts, urging Jon's legs apart so he can kneel between them. This is best described as promising.
Stephen says, “I'm hope you've had your insulin today.”
Insulin?
He goes with it.
“When would I have had time for that?”
“Hush.” Stephen clears his throat. Jon feels himself tensing. Sometimes – rarely, but sometimes – he both knows he should shut up and actually wants to. A disproportionate amount of those times already involve Stephen and that number has just gone up.
“I love your body,” Stephen says. “All of it. First because, whatever you think, it's hot – ” He smiles, giving Jon leave to laugh. “ – and second because it's you and – ” Jon drops his head, giggling again as he feels yet another surge of blood to his face. “And I'm pretty fond of you,” Stephen says and the softness of his tone makes Jon's laugh catch in his throat. “You're my best friend, Jon. Even if you weren't fucking beautiful – ” he shivers and shakes his head as Stephen goes on “ – you'd still be – important. You'd still be the most important person – the most important thing that's ever happened to me.” Stephen is quiet for a moment, long enough for Jon to remember how to breath and lift head, again, just for a moment, just to see –
Their eyes catch and what Jon sees is an expression of such warmth, such affection, that he kind of forgets for a second that he has an erection drilling a hole in his bed, that there are hands wrapped around his aching ass, and that sixteen hours ago he hadn't been laid in six months. He kind of forgets everything except that this is Stephen and that, yes, he's got eyes invented for the bedroom and a throat that might have been designed for Jon to put his mouth all over and hands sexier than any common-use body part has any right to be, but take all of those things away and he's still – he's still Stephen. Jon likes Stephen. Adores him. And it's for that, far beyond admiration for his body, just for being Stephen that Jon has spent something like a quarter of his life resisting the urge reach for him.
Jon's heart is in his mouth, keeping his breath away, and it's over the pounding he hears Stephen say, “But Jon?”
His voice bends but doesn't break as he replies, “Yes, Stephen?”
That smile, jesus, the things he would do for that smile, what wouldn't he do for that smile? He's wondered that for years and still can't think of a thing when Stephen says, “I really, really like your ass.”
Something Stephen doesn't like is cats. Jon was not aware of this forty-eight, or even thirty-six hours ago, but it's something he knows now. He learned it fifteen minutes before midnight on the evening of June twenty-fourth. Gay marriage had been as good as legal in the great state of New York for all of ten minutes and Jon was still basking in the lovely warm feeling of democracy well-done when his cell phone rang.
The caller ID said 'MITHRANDIR' so he answered, “Hey, Stephen.”
The conversation had started without him.
“So you know how cats are horrible, spiteful, disgusting creatures whose vile countenance withers fruit on the vine, whose very touch brings about untold destruction and misery?” It sounded like it ought to be rhetorical but Stephen paused as though he expected some response.
“Let's assume I do,” Jon said.
“Oh, good.” The next thing he said was, “Motherfucker, I'll destroy you!”
Jon chose not to be offended. “That's probably the one thing your Nation would object to.,” he said. “I hear they like me.”
“Not you, Jon,” Stephen replied. “This thing. It destroyed my cupcakes.”
“Bastard.”
Jon flipped from Rachel to Anderson, who had no personal investment in gay marriage, of course not, nope, none, no opinion at all. He certainly wasn't trying to kill that preacher dude with his mind.
“Where'd you get a cat, Stephen?” he asked, when nothing more than mumbled profanity was forthcoming.
“Neighbor,” he said. “He'll be back tomorrow. He better be back tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh. Why the cupcakes?”
There was another pause and a rattle of crockery.
“Aren't you watching the news?” Stephen asked.
“Yes?” What else would he be doing? “Are you – Are they gay marriage cupcakes?”
“Retroactively, yes.” A slight crash. “Ha! I was a little nervous,” he admitted. “It seemed like the thing to do. You want some?”
“What, now?” Jon wasn't wearing pants. Not that Stephen would care, but –
“Of course not right now.” He sounded scandalized. “I haven't even made the icing, yet!”
“Oh,” Jon sad. “Of course.”
“I'll bring them over tomorrow,” Stephen announced. “We can glory in the triumph of the gay agenda. They're red velvet,” he added. “Or pink velvet which – wasn't intentional. Ran out of food coloring.”
“Okay.” Jon wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with that. “I guess they'll taste the same?”
“Of course! Hey! Little turd.”
A slapping sound. Jon bit down on his free hand to stem his rising giggles.
“That's it,” Stephen announced. “The cupcakes are sleeping in my room, tonight. Shitbag just attacked the Tupperware.”
“You could lock him in the bathroom,” Jon suggested.
“Or,” Stephen said, “I could do both. See you tomorrow afternoon?”
“Sure. Want me to spring for Chinese?”
“That is entirely unnecessary,” Stephen said, “but very nice of you. I accept.”
Jon laughed.
“See you tomorrow, Stephen.”
“Bye, Jon. Happy gay marriage day.”
“Happy gay marriage day.”
How far up Jon's ass can Stephen get his tongue? Pretty damned far, it turns out.
Jon thinks he screams in that first instant but he'll never remember for sure and, if he ever abandons his dignity long enough to ask, it won't help because all Stephen will do is bypass helpfulness, proceed directly to over-whelming self-satisfaction, then begin plotting to recreate the salient points of that moment at the earliest possible opportunity. Because why would Jon bring it up if not as an invitation?
In any case, Jon will never know if he screams at once or if he drops into his pillow first, arms suddenly unable to hold his weight because god, oh my god hot, wet, velvet, satin, flesh, whateverthefuck he doesn't care so long as it doesn't stop, glorious slickness flexed to a point pressing, requesting, demanding, taking entrance into his body. He is breached, first by questing tongue, agile and enthusiastic, and then by a finger, god, Stephen's fingers, solid and strong, a delicious counterpart to the insistent pliancy of his tongue. The outer ring of muscle, still stretched from before, is penetrated before Jon realizes that hand has moved, pushing deep within him, going in dry and that should maybe sting or something but Stephen finds his prostate before his body remembers what the protocol is for outside invasion. And then Jon's not feeling anything but ecstasy, spikes of it, Stephen's finger rubbing just right, right there, holy shit, right there, and his tongue's still swirling around where he penetrates and Jon – Jon can hear himself, vaguely, over the rush of blood, the rasp of air through his parched throat, his inadequate lungs, gasping and moaning, cursing, not begging because the pleas shatter on his lips, turn to wordless need.
He's moving, or trying to, his burning, leaking dick demanding attention but Stephen is still holding him down, one hand spread, thumb and forefinger parting his cheeks, keeping him still but for the tiniest irrepressible tremors, denying Jon means of release even as he shoves him bodily up against it. Jon can feel every fiber of the sheet, the most minute friction sending bolts back against the tidal wave of sensation Stephen is wringing from his ass. And when a particularly violent wave hits, one that would have him coming, more than coming, half-catatonic if his cock could get any satisfaction at all, actual words are shocked loose, like he's passed through incoherence and out the other side.
First and most obvious, “Stephen, Stephen, fuck, Stephen, oh god – ” He's cut off by a gasp as Stephen gets just the right angle on the next hard pass over his prostate. “Stephen, please, fuck – ”
The finger withdraws so suddenly he chokes, thinks he might actually cry, but then there's that tongue thrusting back in and it's not hitting his prostate but jesus fuck it's Stephen's tongue fucking his ass and Jon never beat off thinking about that but why not holy –
“god, Stephen, Stephen, please, fuck, fuck me, please, fuck me, need, need you, your cock, in me, now, fuck me, dammit Stephen, fuck me now – holy shit!”
He's dragged up, suddenly, roughly by the hips – by the ass, really, which is now in the air, and his dick scrapes along the sheets for a half an instant that's just not enough, dammit, please and Stephen's tongue is still inside him, thrusting deep as it can reach and his begging gives way to a hard, heartfelt moan that – jesus shit he is actually going to cry as Stephen pulls his tongue out and then – then – then he fucking tickles, flicks over the hole so light and gentle it's a physical pain and Jon is going to kill him just as soon as he figures out how the hell Stephen's strong enough to hold him still and hold him together when he's so fucking desperate and his whole body is about to break apart, please –
“Stephen, please, I need – ”
A smack, sudden, hard to the left cheek, sting incongruous and welcome to a body tortured by the delicacy of those parting licks and Jon groans for it.
“Shit,” he hears Stephen say, feels his hands go tight again, like he's trying to resist going all out and spanking him and why does that sound like a good idea, what the hell is Stephen doing to him and how long will Stephen make him wait, he needs, he needs, oh god –
He feels the tremor of hands, warm and strong against his over-sensitive skin, holding fast to his hips, and a sudden thick heat, familiar from the night before, Stephen's cock sliding between his cheeks, and Jon honest-to-fuck whimpers, the wet head at his entrance, and it's pressing, pushing in. They've got no lube but spit and leaked semen and it's the burn he expected, and the stretch, and it's so good, so hot, so perfect and Jon needs it so bad.
“Please,” he's saying without meaning to say, “please, hard, oh god, Stephen, fuck me hard, don't do this to me, don't make me, god, please, don't make me wait, Stephen, please”
There's a moment of blind need when Stephen is poised, only the head of his cock inside, and Jon would have promised him anything, absolutely anything if he would just move, please and he hears his own voice breaking -
“Stephen, please – ”
“Oh, god, Jon – ”
He shoves in deep and Jon knows he does scream, his voice will be rough all day, he screams as Stephen shoves in, balls deep in a second and at just the right angle and he doesn't stop, doesn't make Jon wait again, just pulls out and back in again, rough and needy and exactly right.
Stephen's hands are on his ass, kneading fingerprints into his flesh and if Stephen's agony-ecstasy groans are anything to go by they aren't going anywhere and Jon understands this, sympathizes, unclenches a fist and remembers how to make his hands work, how to do anything but beg, just enough to make a grab for his cock and sweet jesus. He moans again, loud, and begins to jerk himself off, harsh and unsteady as Stephen's thrusts continue, heavy, so hot, throwing all his weight behind the hard flesh shoved up Jon's ass, fucking him deep, so deep. Jon strokes and pulls and feels, Stephen, perfect, so right, shoving right up against his prostate every time and he feels himself talking, making words, again, and it's fucking embarrassing, he's saying, “thank you, thank you, oh god, Stephen, thank you” until a groan drowns it out and Stephen is riding him impossibly harder, clutching his hips and yanking him back to meet every thrust and it's good, it's so good –
He comes with his whole body, hard and shuddering and shedding broken, gasping moans. His muscles close around the dick inside him and with one final shove, one that hits Jon's sweet spot one last time, makes him gasp aloud and spasm again, Stephen lets go, buried down as far as he can go.
Stephen got there around two the next day – the day before that morning – with a dozen cupcakes in a large plastic container and a separate tub half-full of icing.
“What, was icing them yourself too much effort?” Jon asked, covering a smile with his fingers as Stephen brushed past him towards the kitchen.
“I considered just bringing the cream cheese,” Stephen said, “and having you make it yourself. But I wasn't sure you'd have powdered sugar.”
Not quite willing to admit that this was a fair suspicion – there was something embarrassing about not having basic baking supplies on hand, even though he'd never baked in his life – Jon said, “Why not bring that, too?”
“Do I have to do everything myself?” Stephen settled his offerings on the kitchen counter then turned to smile back at Jon. “The romance is gone.”
He leaned back into the edge of the counter, arms folded across his chest, and there was something about seeing him there, so comfortable, so at home, that raised a flutter of sensation in Jon's stomach and he found himself smiling back.
“I don't know,” he said and moved to stand closer, looking past Stephen's shoulder to where the cupcakes sat. “Red velvet is pretty sexy.”
“So glad you think so.”
Jon flicked his eyes up and found Stephen watching him with the kind of lingering curve to his lips you only find in the truly content. It was a good look for him. Jon glanced at the cupcakes, all plump and moist and pale red (and it did sound kind of sexy when he thought about it), then back to Stephen, gazing up at him through lowered lashes.
“Stephen,” he said. “You wouldn't be coming into my home with impure intentions.”
“Of course I would!” Stephen made a grab for him and Jon jumped back with a yelp he'd never admit to. “Never leave home without them,” he added, smile blossoming into a full-faced grin as Jon backed up a few more steps, one hand pressed to his mouth to stem the flow of giggles.
“Thank god for that,” Jon said and, though his focus was centered on Stephen's answering laugh, he heard the doorbell buzz.
“Food,” he said and turned towards the entryway with something almost like reluctance. “Grab some plates, would you?”
“Have you got beer?”
Jon stopped to stare back at him and Stephen held out his hands in surrender.
“Mea culpa.”
“Damn straight.” Jon turned again.
“Not even close.”
Jon really should have expected the slap that landed on his ass. Another buzz at the door interrupted his flailing stab at retaliation.
“Go!” Stephen said, waving him off. “Shoo!”
“I'll get you, Colbert,” Jon shot back. “Don't think I won't.”
As he left the kitchen, he heard Stephen say, “I am simultaneously intimidated and aroused.”
Ten minutes later, as Jon settled beside him on the couch, Chinese cartons arrayed on the coffee table before them, Stephen asked, “When can I expect that great and terrible vengeance to be wreaked?”
Jon – distracted by the realization he hadn't actually eaten anything since, what, four o'clock yesterday? – blinked.
“What?”
“Vengeance,” Stephen said as he occupied himself trying to open the garlic broccoli without making a giant mess. “For my showing appreciation of your sexy, sexy ass. I assume it'll be great and terrible, otherwise what's the point of making dramatic proclamations about it?”
Jon hummed an acknowledgment and began to pry at the rim of the dumpling container.
“How do you know this isn't it?” he asked.
“You avenge your ass's honor with delicious food?”
“Delicious,” Jon said, “and toxic. This shit's got to have a lower nutritional value than those cupcakes.”
“Mm.” Stephen's agreement melded into satisfaction around his first bite of lo mein. “Sugar and flour,” he said, after a moment, “are found in nature. I notice you're taking part in the revenge feast.”
“Obviously.” Jon had managed, somehow, to keep from killing himself on the steam rising from the dumplings and celebrated by burning his mouth on one. “Once you're dead, my life won't be worth living. So I might as well come along.”
“Let us die,” Stephen said, “and never part.” It sounded like a quotation. “Together for the rest of time.” He swallowed another bite of lo mein. “Tasty.”
Stephen admitted he tended to get a little over-enthusiastic with icing, and had brought it separately so they could apply it to their own taste. The cupcakes were pretty fucking delicious and by six-thirty they were all gone – as, mysteriously, was all the surplus icing. Seeing as only children would eat icing straight from the container and they were both grown men and therefore not children, it was difficult to account for.
“Weird,” Jon said, when Stephen made note of this.
“Bet it was the cat,” Stephen said as he made room for leftover Chinese in the fridge.
“There is no cat,” Jon told him from the sink, where he was piling the dishes. “Not here.”
“You never know.” Stephen kept talking as they wandered back into the living room. “It could have followed me. Slipped in. It could even now be skulking in the shadows. Waiting.”
Jon yawned and flopped back onto the couch.
“Did your neighbor show up?” he asked.
Stephen abandoned his narrative and dropped beside him, close enough that their sides touched. “I bribed him with baked goods to take the little hellbeast back.”
Jon made some affirmative, less interested in what Stephen was saying than in where he was, warm and inviting at his side. He found himself sinking closer as Stephen slouched against him in turn and it was nice. Comfortable. Jon was always comfortable with Stephen – intellectually comfortable and, more remarkably, physically comfortable. The deficiencies of his own body mattered less, whatever attention he generally paid them focusing instead on Stephen, on the space he filled and how Jon fit in around it.
They stared at the TV, still tuned to Fox though Jon had long since lost the thread and had no idea what they were babbling about. Maybe because it was muted.
Sound might help, he thought but made no move to correct it. Nor did Stephen. It occurred to Jon that he had been sitting in almost this precise spot when his phone rang, the night before. He was wearing pants, now, which might have been a minus, but there was also Stephen, which was always a plus.
The thoughts connected and he smiled. His brain was not subtle, these days.
“What?” Stephen asked. He sounded amused. When Jon looked over, he was smiling, faint and warm, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Jon laughed.
“Gay marriage passed,” he said.
It wasn't what he meant to say. He hadn't meant to say anything. But now that it was out, he was okay with it. Especially as Stephen's smile grew wider and brighter, still all on him.
“Yeah,” he said. “It did.”
They started kissing about then. Like the cupcakes, it seemed like the thing to do.