Fantastic

"How's this?" Jason waited, fingers resting over Colby's hands in his. "Helping?"

The hotel room wrapped comfort around them, in the quiet. It'd begun as nondescript, full of beige walls and simple white sheets, but had welcomed Colby's rainbow cascade of scarves and Jason's tidy unpacking. It was their home now, for the next month of filming on location, and it liked that idea. Of course it did: it got to have Colby's elegant scribbled writing-notes on the desk, and Colby's laughter in the mornings, and everyone, Jason felt, would be happy about that.

The mountains outside were distant mysterious shadows in the dark, but dazzling in daylight. They shaped rich fantasies of rocks and woods and leaping water and the old arched-up bones of the New Zealand earth. The window's long curtains were partly open, because Colby liked peeking out at the world.

Colby had regarded hills and cliffs with a historian's delight in ancient stone and a storyteller's joy at lush settings to play in. Jason had always vaguely liked mountains, in an outdoors sort of way. He thought now that maybe he'd never seen them before, not having seen them with Colby Kent at his side.

"You're very much helping, thank you." Colby obediently didn't move, holding both hands out. He was watching Jason, with a tiny smile lingering in lips and eyes and appreciation. The smile was presently winning, despite the edge of pain in his expression.

They were sitting on the bed, having come back late and wearily changed into pajama pants and comfortable shirts. They tended to sleep naked, but the air nibbled at skin with ice-teeth, and they'd be up for a while, taking care of this. Colby had borrowed one of Jason's shirts, green-checked and flannel against the chill of the night. It was too large, but in a cuddly flattering way.

Jason liked seeing that, a deep-seated possessive emotion bubbling up inside his chest. Colby was all wrapped up in him, like this. His shirt. His clothes. Yes.

Even these days, with a lot of time and certainty, that little sneaky thrill of emotion hadn't gone away. Intensified, if anything. The whole world got brighter, Jason's heart got brighter, every time he glanced over and found Colby right there with him.

"Want coffee?"

"Perhaps. In a moment. I'm warm enough, and you're occupied." Colby grinned at him. "Enjoyably so."

"You just like me fussing over you." Not that he wouldn't be doing that anyway. He liked it too. Himself, his big hands, cradling Colby's slender wrists. Doing something good, something gentle. Easing pain.

Sometimes he couldn't believe this was his life. Amazing roles, incredible roles, like that rock-and-roll drama they'd just wrapped, or this lush lavish old-fashioned epic fantasy. Actual awards, recognition, reviews that praised his acting and not only his biceps, though a lot of them still did that too. Most of all, Colby Kent at his side, on camera and off.

Film critics were starting to talk about them in terms of legendary screen couples. Famous, and famously linked. Jason didn't mind—he was overjoyed, in fact—and he knew Colby felt the same. They'd both had floods of offers coming in, prospective roles and projects, separately and together.

They'd honestly ended up being drawn to the same projects. That wasn't even planned, though they wanted to work together, as much as they could. Anyway, a couple of the prospective films had been with Jillian Poe and Andy Connors, and of course Jason and Colby would forever and always say yes to anything Jill and Andy asked. They'd helped launch Colby's career, way back when, and they were inarguably Colby's closest friends, not counting Jason.

Besides, between Jill and Andy and Colby and their commitment to getting Steadfast made, they'd all reinvented Jason's career. Taken him seriously. Let him show the world what he could do. Joining them to tell an epic historical love story.

Jason owed them. He always would.

So he and Colby had promptly signed on for Andy's directorial debut in his own right, that seventies glam rock musical, and also for Jill's proposed luscious original medieval-inspired fantasy. Colby had written the screenplays for both, which meant they were quick and lucent and sparkling and also kind and heartbreaking and full of deeply human emotion.

Colby was, in Jason's opinion, the best writer ever. Not that he was biased. He would've said so even if he wasn't waking up in Colby's arms every morning. He liked books and reading, and he knew at least a little about good words, maybe, he thought.

Colby was a genius. Inarguable. A fact.

They'd been talking, earlier, about Jason's proposed return to the John Kill franchise. The studio desperately wanted him back for at least one more, especially now, with his name floating around amid awards buzz.

Jason had had some thoughts. Had run them by Colby, while waiting for set-ups and cameras, on location.

He touched Colby's wrist with a thumb. "That looks rough." It did, pink and angry.

Colby did a head-tip, a shrug that didn't move his arms. "I've done stunt work before. Nothing like you have, but some romantic comedy silliness, tripping over things, falling off a table, and such. Tumbling down the stairs for Steadfast. And the whole historical getting captured by enemies, sword-fighting, scaling a castle wall bit for King's Court. Part of the job."

It was. They both knew. Jason loathing every scratch on Colby's skin—which had been through enough, in his personal assessment—didn't change that fact.

"Besides," Colby added, "I'll do it again, and more so, with you, if we're agreed on that. I'm looking forward to it; it's a new sort of challenge."

Jason had kind of planned to leave the guns-and-cars-and-superspies action-hero world behind, but he wasn't opposed to coming back one more time. It'd been fun, and it'd given him a role and an income and some sort of name that people recognized, even if mostly for the muscles and the increasingly elaborate stunt choreography. He could do a final farewell film, and he'd enjoy it.

He had a couple of conditions, though. Colby as at least a co-writer: non-negotiable. Colby in some sort of role, whatever he chose, because Colby wanted to and thought it'd be a brilliant time. The studio had been ecstatic about that one: Academy Award winner Colby Kent asking them if he could be part of the franchise.

Jason's last condition involved himself getting to play John as bisexual, on camera, clearly so, nothing that'd be ambiguous or edited out. He'd told Colby he wanted that, if he was going to come back. Colby had listened, and nodded, agreeing.

Jason liked being out, himself, and open about it. The world needed more diverse action heroes. And anyway it was logical that a dashing secret agent would be prepared to seduce anyone and everyone, all sorts of action. As it were.

The studio was being less happy about that one, but he was reasonably sure they'd give in. They knew about him and Colby and chemistry on movie sets. And, yeah, some segments of the fandom might not be pleased, but others would be ecstatic, seeing themselves on screen in an action-hero spy thriller, front and center. And that mattered.

Also, that aforementioned chemistry would undeniably make a lot of money. Besides, the studio could always reboot the franchise after.

He held Colby's arm in one hand. Scooped cooling salve, pale green, up with a finger. Stroked it over a scrape. Watched Colby's eyes do their now-familiar small tightening, holding back a flinch. Probably trying not to worry him; Jason sighed internally and made his touch as careful as he could.

The day had been grueling, as expected. They'd been filming into the night, because Jill had wanted the specific light: dwindling away as Colby's young and clever magician character got imprisoned and bound by iron and tortured, refusing to give up and lead the villains to Jason's hero.

The chains and cuffs had been fake, of course. Hollywood movie-making magic. A vast distance from real iron.

But that didn't mean they were soft or forgiving. They'd had hard edges, angled in spots, heavy, with no real padding. Colby had had to struggle against them. He'd had to kneel while the villains shoved his hands to the floor and—cautiously, weight judged for performance—stepped upon them, pretending to shatter bones. The floor, and the impact, hadn't been soft either.

The bruises and scrapes and cuts were all too real. Colby visibly winced the next time Jason spread salve across a clearly painful spot. "Ow. Sorry, sorry, I know you're being careful, I'm not complaining."

"Tell me if it's hurting too much." He tapped a finger over Colby's forearm, finding an unbattered place. "And don't apologize for it. Are you sure you don't want me to get the medical people to check you out?"

"They did, right after. I know you know; you were there. It's fine, it's not—ow—serious. It'll heal."

"Might need some wrapping, though." Jason eyed the bruises, the nicks. They shuffled purple and blue and pink and red across Colby's skin, shame-faced. He didn't like them existing, though he knew they weren't anyone's fault. "Just for tonight, to keep all this on. Not too tight."

"Whatever you think works best," Colby agreed. "You'd know better than I would, as far as stunts and injuries. Ow, oh, drat, that one hurts a bit more."

That one was the worst, Jason judged: scraped raw, layers exposed, across Colby's left wrist. The edge of that cuff had been both rough and sharp. And obviously his touch hadn't been careful enough. "Shit. Sorry. Love you. Is the numbing part working, at all? It's supposed to be, by now."

"Oh yes," Colby said, obligingly. "It's already better. Thank you for doing this."

Jason sighed. Out loud, this time.

"It's true," Colby protested. "I honestly do feel better. I'd tell you if not." Hair tumbling past his shoulders in loose dark waves—not a wig, but extensions, designed for fantastical mystical effect—he was elfin and pretty and earnest, wearing Jason's too-large shirt, serious about the honesty.

"I know you would. But I also want to know if it's not better enough, okay?"

"Yes, of course. I'll say so if it's not working, I promise."

"Okay, then. Just checking." He tried to make every gesture as tender as possible. He tried to be as soothing as he could: a guardian bulk, not a threatening one. Hands offering care, not more hurt. Weight and breadth positioned harmlessly on the bed, no demands.

He knew Colby trusted him. He felt a small glow of pride that Colby did: enough to admit to being in pain, to wanting care. He loved Colby and would care for Colby with all his heart, all his strength, all his soul; not a question, not ever.

He still hated seeing Colby in pain. Always had, always would.

That'd be true for anyone he loved, of course. He'd had some discussions with their therapist about that, about grief and loss and Charlie and Jason's own desperate need to save people, to be strong. He knew that about himself.

It was worse, it was the worst it could be, when the person in pain was Colby.

Colby was the other half of his heart. The most radiant piece of his life, the piece that'd dived in and reminded him how to swim and that he liked cooking for other people. The piece that'd made him laugh and drawn him into whimsical chattering conversations about wizards and dragons and romance and coffee. The piece that liked violet shirts with sequins on the sleeves, and anchovies on pizza, and history and stories and words that could steal an audience's breath away.

And Colby had been hurt before, so very badly, for so very long.

Inside and out, physical and emotional bruises, day after day. Jason hadn't been there then, hadn't known the worst of it. But he knew now, at least as much as anyone could, after the fact.

He'd seen Colby flinch from an unexpected touch, get wide-eyed at a large body hugging too tightly at a convention, and—scariest of all—go silent and mentally someplace else, someplace distant and not present, at a drift of familiar cologne or a flash-flood of memory in the air. He knew what Colby had told him, which was enough to make Jason deliberately store up a lot of emotions and then go down to the gym and beat the hell out of a punching bag for long enough to get his reactions under control.

He knew about Colby's family, too. The layers of those bruises—not physical, but emotional, a slow brutal evisceration of Colby's sense of self and self-worth—went back decades. They were working on it; their therapist said that Jason being here and being present, not leaving or threatening to leave, not making Colby work to earn every tiny crumb of affection, was the exact best thing he could do.

Jason hoped so.

He wished he could do more.

He wished he could plow through all of Colby's demons. Like his character in this film, raising a sword. Lifting a shield. Fighting for a cause.

He knew Colby's hands pretty well, by now. He found more healing, spread it over a bruise.

He knew the way those slim graceful fingers felt in his, on his body—in his body, and oh that was always a wonder, Colby teasing him open and stroking him and pressing inside him.

He knew Colby's gestures on and off camera, the weight and shape of his palms, the backs of his hands, the old scars from period-piece sword-fighting lessons and some small-scale stunt work, romantic comedy pratfalls and in-role character clumsiness.

He knew about the short jagged line on the outside of Colby's little finger on the right hand, from hopping a fence while filming a scene for that high-school coming-of-age comedy.

He knew he didn't know every last detail—he didn't have a photographic memory—but he did have a decent idea of Colby's hands, and he adored them.

Which was why his fingers slowed and came to a stop, as they found something—as his gaze landed on something—that he didn't recognize.

Thin. White. Just above the heel of Colby's left hand, above and onto the edge of his wrist, across the lower part of his palm. Long-healed—no texture at all, only noticeable if someone was paying extremely close attention, but enough to have left a line.

Liam, Jason thought first, with a shock of anger like scarlet blood—but no, this was older than a couple of years, older than any injuries at Colby's ex's hands. Clearly so.

Colby hadn't seemed to notice—he'd been looking at Jason's other hand, which had scooped up more salve—but he noticed the pause now. His eyes came up to find Jason's, huge and flower-blue.

Jason turned Colby's hand more upward. Touched the line, very very lightly. His fingers shook.

"Oh," Colby said, soft with love, wry in the way of someone realizing, "no, it's not what you're thinking, and don't say you weren't thinking of at least two possibilities. It's not either of those. I, er…well, I was about eleven years old and I'd been trying to prepare dinner for myself and I had absolutely nonexistent knife skills with regard to chopping carrots. And my father's chef kept his knives very sharp."

"You were making dinner…for yourself?" He touched Colby's hand again, traced the scar. It must've been a clean cut, straight, but deep enough to leave a mark once healed.

Colby did that familiar nose-scrunch at him, the one that meant you won't like this story. "You won't like this story. But it wasn't that bad."

"Tell me? If you want," he amended. Not an order, not a command. Not for this. The freckle near Colby's collarbone winked at him, playing peek-a-boo with the loose neck of Jason's shirt.

"Of course I can. It's hardly a secret." Colby wiggled salve-smeared fingers at him. "So we were living in Paris then—Dad having been appointed as an ambassador and all, you know…"

The storied instrument of his voice became, for an instant, more American than anything else, on the word Dad; Howard Kent personified the type of politician who embodied privilege, money, and self-interest above everything, including his marriage and his son.

"…and my parents, being, well, my parents, did tend to do things like go on holiday without remembering that I existed, which meant the staff also generally forgot I existed, or took their cues from my mother and father, or assumed someone else had made some arrangements somewhere. So I was eleven and a bit, and I'd got used to making sandwiches and things from whatever was in the pantry, but I thought perhaps I'd try to cook on that particular night, because I was trying to learn, you know, so I wouldn't have to bother anyone."

Jason opened his mouth. Shut it.

Colby lifted both eyebrows, inviting. "Yes, go on, say it."

"You know everything I'm gonna say."

"I do. It's all right; I've got you now." Colby leaned against him, on the bed: easy contact, unremarkable, except for how it was remarkable; it was a marvel, given everything Jason knew.

He wanted to cry for the boy Colby had been, precocious and shy and so very alone.

He held Colby's hand, across healing and time. "I'm here. I'm always here. I'll chop all your carrots if you need me to."

"You would, if I asked, wouldn't you? Well, in any case, I managed to slice my hand open, as you might expect under the very unpracticed circumstances, and then I nearly passed out from the sheer shock of it, and then after a few minutes I pulled myself together and found a first-aid kit and attempted to patch it up, though that didn't work terribly well because I was trying to do it one-handed."

"Jesus, Colby." He could've demanded, why didn't you call someone, a member of whatever government-official security detail, the household staff, a doctor, an emergency number, your parents…?

He knew why Colby wouldn't. Not causing a fuss, not giving anyone a reason to disapprove or to not want him, not believing anyone would come or answer or care…

His heart cracked open and bled more. Like younger Colby, huddled on a kitchen floor with a first-aid kit. "What happened?"

"One of the junior secretaries had come over to the residence—he had a key, he needed some sort of document that my father had left behind in his office—and he saw the lights on, in the kitchen. He hadn't thought anyone was there, so he went to look. He found me."

"Thank fucking God. If he hadn't—"

"Oh, well…it wasn't as bad as it looked. Or even as bad as it felt. He called a doctor, who came right over, and it healed perfectly well. Though the poor man did say later—not to me, I overheard him telling someone else—that he'd nearly had a heart attack, seeing the blood, thinking the ambassador's son was about to expire on the spot in the kitchen. I felt awful about that, and I didn't know how to apologize to him, because it wasn't as if he'd admitted it to me. I did apologize at the time, when he came in and found me, but obviously that wasn't enough."

Jason wondered briefly what that man must've thought. Coming in, seeing a knife, seeing younger Colby's hands and arms splashed with red, realizing Colby had been left all alone in an empty house…

He guessed it was close to what he would've thought, one or two or more pretty damn ugly possibilities, on seeing that.

But it hadn't been true. None of those worse possibilities had been the case. Not that bad, Colby had said. Not as bad as it would've looked.

"But you were okay. I mean…no permanent damage." He traced the line of it, watched Colby's fingers curl to meet his in reply.

"No," Colby said. "I mean, yes, that's right. It all worked out. And I eventually learned how to handle knives, and how to cook for myself." Lamplight tangled in his hair, limned the edge of his jaw, when he tipped his head.

"Your parents…" Jason exhaled. Even with all the stories Colby'd told him, he ended up surprised by the awfulness every time; his brain just kept wanting to hope it hadn't been as bad as he knew it had. "They didn't even notice, did they?"

"No. They came back from Switzerland about a week later, but I didn't see them for, oh, perhaps three days after that. We had some sort of family photo portrait session scheduled. I remember Mother made me change my shirt, not because she cared that I liked wearing pink, but because it was a shade of pink that she considered garish. No one except the photographer mentioned my hand being bandaged." Colby's eyebrows tugged together. "I believe we ended up hiding it. Hands behind my back. Formal and serious."

Jason could see it, for a moment: eleven-year-old Colby, thin and grave and quiet, well-behaved as ever, hoping that being good would mean somebody might approve of him, might praise him, might remember his existence. Wearing pink because he liked it, but changing into a new shirt because that might earn a nod. Doing as asked, trying to please. With a bandage on one hand.

That younger self peeked out from behind Colby's present-day movie-star gaze, sometimes. Like now.

Jason held onto his hand, lightly but with a hint of pressure, presence, not enough to hurt but hopefully an anchor. "How're you feeling?"

"Better." Colby looked at his hand, too. "That works wonders. Nothing even hurts much anymore."

"Good." Jason found cloths, wrappings, loose bandages—between his own former stuntperson experience and tendency to fret, plus prior occasions involving Colby getting hurt on set, he always brought along his own kit—and got back to work. Nothing tight, nothing restrictive. Just enough to cover injuries up and keep healing salve in place.

Protected. Secure. Cared for.

He put an arm around Colby after, settling on the bed. Colby nestled in closer without hesitation, practically climbing into Jason's lap, pressing a small kiss against Jason's throat. Flirtatious, with intent.

"Hmm." Jason ran a hand over his head, playing with dark waves of hair. "No hurting your hands, but…you up for a little more being taken care of? Nothing too big."

"It's always big," Colby observed, wriggling helpfully against Jason's dick, which was happily stirring to attention. "And yes, that was entirely me asking. You doing that for me was, well, rather fantastic in many ways, in my head. What'd you have in mind? The bodyguard role-play, or you being my doctor, or my valet, or something new this time? Or we could probably manage tying me up; I know you're marvelous at doing that with precision, and you could be careful. You always are, with me."

"Not really role-play, right now." He paused, thought this over, amended, "Maybe a little. Some. But still us. And no, I'm not doing anything to your hands or arms. Not tonight."

Colby did plaintive kitten eyes at him. Jason said firmly, "No," and found Colby's left nipple through the loose shirt, and pinched, flicked, tugged at the taut bud: hard enough to earn a gasp. "You knew what I'd say to that, didn't you? You just wanted my attention." He did it again, rougher: not quite a scolding.

"Yes." Colby was breathing faster, leaning back against him; Colby's dick was also visibly hard, pressing against pajama-pant fabric. "I want you. The way you feel, taking charge of me…when I'm yours, so completely, because you've chosen me, you want me, for yours…"

"Yeah," Jason told him. "That. We're doing that."

"Er…tell me what we're doing, exactly?"

"I'm getting you naked, first." He was: easing Colby's borrowed shirt off—without jostling bandages—and then cradling Colby against him, a bundle of long legs and sweetness, while pulling down those pajama pants.

He played with Colby a little along the way: fondling the stiff length of him, rubbing a thumb over his tip, smearing moisture over silken skin. Colby moaned softly, squirming against him, still in his lap.

"Shh," Jason said, "I've got you, you don't have to do anything, you can't do anything, you're just here to feel everything I'm doing to you," and rolled them over, tumbled Colby into the bed, settled between those beloved legs as they parted for him.

He took most of his own weight, not making Colby feel trapped, but made sure he was on top: they both liked that. Colby was only an inch or so shorter, and had those long lean swimmer's muscles, but felt smaller like this: slender under Jason's breadth, pliant and yielding.

Jason kissed his shoulder. "I'm taking care of you. That's what we're doing. That's all you need right now, okay?"

Colby got it instantly, because Colby was a genius and because they were generally on the same wavelength as far as sex and kink. "Ah. Yes, of course, I'm utterly helpless, like this. I certainly can't use my hands, and I can't do anything, without you." He watched Jason through long eyelashes, smile dancing like the lamplight. "Wholly, thoroughly, completely…dependent on you…"

"All mine." Jason caught Colby's arms, guided them up so his hands rested on a pillow, above outflung dark hair. "Mine to take care of. And you need me to do that, don't you? You need someone helping you, because you can't do anything for yourself right now, so you need me."

"Oh, yes," Colby agreed. "Please. I can't do anything, Jason, and I need you to take care of me, I need you to take over, I need that so very badly, please." He was smiling, not breaking character but entertained and intrigued. His cock, pressed up against his stomach, was full and dripping: wetness shone there, eager.

They didn't do role-play every time—in fact, they maybe didn't more often than they did,or at least it was fairly evenly split—but it pretty much always worked well. Jason ran a hand along Colby's bicep, appreciating the muscles under his touch.

He liked knowing they fit together in every possible way: in terms of fantasy and pleasure and kink, along with everything else. Complementary tastes. Matching. Needs that met and entwined and slid together, slick and sensual and satisfying.

Sometimes leather. Sometimes scarves around Colby's elegant wrists. Sometimes pirate captain and virginal captive scenarios, in which Colby got to experience every drop of pleasure that merciless hands could wring from his body.

Sometimes flirting with the edges of Colby's theoretical exhibitionist kink: he wouldn't want it in real life, he'd said, and Jason respected that, but fucking Colby atop the low bench seat under the window at home—no one could see in, at that angle—or in front of a giant mirror, or in bed while murmuring words about how beautiful he looked, how everyone would love to see him like this, how much Jason would love to show him off, put him on his knees or spread him open in front of a room full of people and show them all exactly how much Colby was his, how good Colby was for him, how sweet Colby was, coming all over himself at Jason's touch and command, only Jason's…

That one always made Colby do exactly that, sobbing with pleasure, gasping that he was Jason's, all Jason's, yes, please.

This one, right now, was slightly new but mostly a variation on a theme; they'd done some similar versions before. Colby needed to feel loved, like he belonged to someone, surrender offered and accepted with tenderness; submission wasn't about pain for him, though a certain amount—spankings, denial, clamps for those sensitive nipples, forced climaxes, stretching his pretty pink hole open wide—was fine and even welcome, sometimes. He liked intensity: reminders that he did belong to Jason, every inch of him.

Which was perfect, because Jason wanted, needed, ached to take care of him, to claim him, to give him everything he needed. To be everything he needed: to be good for Colby, just right for Colby, while Colby was kneeling or begging or being good for him.

The night sang with anticipation. His pulse pounded.

Colby, spread out naked and trusting across creamy sheets, waited for him.

He stroked a hand over Colby's stomach. "We're still us. You and me."

Colby nodded.

"But…you did say dependent on me…" He trailed a finger along the line of Colby's hip. "That sounds good. You just lying there, while I take care of your every need…everything you need. I'll give it to you. I'm all you need."

I can be all you need, he thought. I can be every safe harbor, every bandage, every rescue you never had. Please let me, for now, just for now.

He knew Colby wasn't helpless. Hell, Colby had saved him, and kept on saving him, over and over: in a swimming pool, staring down clawing fears and black-edged memories. On a film set, believing in him, loving him.

Letting him have this fantasy of rescue, here and now.

He touched Colby's hip again. "Remind me that you know your safeword."

"Cherries," Colby answered instantly, no argument. "And yours is crocodile, I remember."

Of course he did, and of course he'd think of saying it; Jason gulped down a snarl of emotion, a knot of love and awe like gilded weight in his throat. "Thanks. Love you."

"Love you. And the usual stoplights if either of us needs that, especially if I need to tell you to slow down or stop what you're presently doing or carry on, go right ahead, it's lovely. Which is currently the case, if you had any doubts. Er…do you want me to ask you for things, or should I not be able to think much for myself, as it were?"

"Um…more the second one. I'll tell you what you need, because you don't know, you can't make those decisions, without my help. But if there's something specific you want, and I'm not getting it, then yeah, ask me."

"Got it." Colby relaxed into the bed more, serene under Jason's touch and clear instructions. "So, then…I do need you. I need…something. But I don't know what. I feel so…so much, and it's so confusing, and I just need you to make it all feel good for me, please."

"Oh, nice one." He ran a hand along Colby's inner thigh, appreciating the smoothness of all that bare skin, the way Colby's cock jumped and dripped at the caress. "My poor sweet boy. I know it's so much, I know it's confusing…you don't have to know anything, though, it's all right. I'm here to take care of you, and you don't have to think about anything at all, anymore. All you need to do is lie right here, and let me make you feel good."

"You want to do that," Colby breathed, eyes all big and pleading. "You would do that…for me? You'd want to take care of me?"

"Oh, sweetheart." He did touch Colby's cock, then: hand fondling him, stroking him, squeezing gently. "Of course I do. You're all mine, and I take care of what's mine. You belong to me, and you need to remember that. I chose you, I want you, and I'm all you need."

Colby's lips parted, soundless. His eyes were darker, less focused: something about that phrasing had worked even better than Jason guessed it would. Colby in subspace tended to talk a lot, rambling, babbling; but not every time, and this might be one of the quieter profound times, voiceless and luminous.

He stroked Colby's luscious cock—not as thick as his own, which was so hard it hurt, aching for relief, but long and curved, a nice weight in his hand. "Does this feel nice, sweetheart?"

"Yes," Colby gasped. "Yes, yes, please…"

"Good. You like this, don't you? Being touched like this, played with…mine to use, however I want. You know you need that. My help, because you can't do it on your own." He stroked faster, a demand: Colby whimpered, and more wet drips slicked Jason's hand. "But I can take care of you."

"Please," Colby begged. "Please, please…I need…"

"I know. I'll give you what you need, I promise." He took the hand away, though: cupping Colby's balls, for a moment, then trailing leisurely behind them, a skim of a touch. Teasing.

Colby gasped his name, hips arching up, blindly seeking more, impatient. Jason stopped touching him completely. "Oh, no, sweetheart. That's not being very good."

"Oh, no," Colby said, on a sudden shakier breath: uneven, though not too badly so. But noticeable. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I—wait, one second, yellow, hang on."

Jason didn't panic—that was what the words were for—but put the hand back on his hip, rubbing lightly: reassurance. "Sorry. Heard it when I said it. Didn't mean to make you apologize." He knew better. Especially in the wake of stories and old scars, behind new bandages. Nothing that'd push too hard against threads and bridges of gold, across deeper chasms of inadequacy.

"Yes, thank you." Colby exhaled, blinked, shook his head. "I'm fine, it was just a hint of starting to go the wrong direction, I think. You caught it, we're splendid, go ahead."

"You want another minute or two? Some water?"

"No, don't stop." Colby grinned up at him. His arms hadn't stirred, relaxed atop the pillow. "Tell me again I'm all yours and you'll take care of me."

"You are, and I am." He sat up to pull off his own clothing, tossing it over to join Colby's on the chair. "Okay. You trust me, and I've got you, and I'm going to make you feel good, baby. You don't have to worry, you don't have to think about anything, you just have to feel what I want you to feel, understand?"

"Yes, please." Colby's eyelashes fluttered: down and up. "I don't want to think. I just want to be yours."

"You are. So soft and so good for me, so easy, everything's easy, just like that…" He had his hand back between those endless legs, rubbing his thumb over the entrance of Colby's body, that pink furl of muscle where Colby welcomed him in. "Does this feel nice?"

"Yes," Colby murmured hazily. "So nice."

"Good. That's how it should feel. Because you need someone to take care of you, to fill you up right here, to help you feel good inside. The way you need." He pushed in, a fraction: he'd never hurt Colby, not ever, but his fingers were wet enough from Colby's desire, and he knew Colby liked the intensity.

Colby moaned his name, legs spreading even more; but that was involuntary, Jason guessed, so he didn't comment. He just played with Colby some more, knowing the sensation would be almost too much and not enough, friction and teasing hints of penetration.

Colby was practically sobbing now, head tossing against the pillow; but he hadn't moved his arms. The bandages shimmered in the light; Jason's heart turned over, impossibly full of love for this man, who trusted him with everything.

He bent to kiss Colby's stomach, above the drips and smears and evidence of desire. It was a vow, a promise, made and offered here in the quiet. Witnessed by lamplight and a hotel bed and the scent of cooling salve in the air.

Colby's body was warm against his mouth, muscled and smooth and firm and tempting to lick; Jason did exactly that, just because he wanted to. And then he sat back up. "I think you could use some more taking care of. More of those nice good feelings, letting me help you with that. How does that sound?"

Colby peeked up at him, gaze blue and limpid as flower-petals in sun. "Yes, please. Make me feel good. You know what I need, and I can't manage anything for myself like this, nothing at all, so please help me, Jason. I need you."

Jason broke character enough to tell him, "You're actually really fucking good at this, like, I'd believe you if you were some completely helpless eighteenth-century convalescent, you know," while diving for the lube choices he'd tossed in the bedside drawer while unpacking. "Heating kind? Warming you up inside?"

Colby twitched a shoulder, deliberately not a shrug. "I do like that one. But it's up to you, at the moment. And thank you; I am an award-winning actor, you know." He even batted those famous eyelashes, and then gave up on trying not to laugh at himself. "So. Where was I? Oh, yes, please. Take care of me. You do that so very well."

Jason paused again, to look at him. Colby looked back, and that was a different sort of expression: entirely serious under the teasing and the role-play.

Colby meant it. Every word.

Colby believed in him. Believed that Jason could take care of him, could be good for him, could adore him and cherish him and keep him safe and make him feel incredible. Colby believed that beyond any doubt, and clearly wanted Jason to see it and know it.

You do that so well,Colby had just said. About Jason taking care of him, being here for him. Here for all the stories and scars and unfolding future horizons.

That was everything Jason needed to hear, to know. Everything he was made of and made for: caring for Colby, the man he loved.

Colby knew that too, of course.

He managed, voice rough around the edges, "God, I love you…"

"I should hope so, since I'm lying here absolutely at your mercy, and also thoroughly in love with you?"

"So fucking perfect. Speaking of…I'm pretty sure that's what you need. Thoroughly, you said."

"Oh yes. That sounds like precisely what I need."

"Good." Jason kissed him, only half staying in character, letting it go and not caring. Colby didn't move his arms—they both knew Jason didn't want him to—but kissed back enthusiastically, opening up for Jason's tongue and mouth and nibbles at his lower lip. Jason also got back to opening him up in another way, lube smooth and welcoming as sunshine against his hand. Colby made very satisfactory noises and plainly thought about moving, pushing back, physically begging for more; but he didn't, in the end. His cock was lovely and hungry for attention, dripping across his stomach.

Jason, two fingers deep inside him now, said, "Oh, so good, you're being so good, sweetheart, not moving, letting me do what I want with you…" Colby blushed, which wasn't in fact the reaction Jason had been expecting.

He paused, fingers not stopping—making Colby whimper—but slowing. "Still okay?"

"Ah…yes, I…you talking about doing things to me, and that that's good, you want that…"

"I love doing things to you." He did. So he did exactly that: fingers stroking in and out, and his other hand caressing Colby's shaft, thumb rubbing over the head and the slit, until Colby was panting and quivering with the effort of not moving or not coming or possibly both.

Jason paused again, this time just for effect. "You like this, too, don't you, baby? Just lying here all soft and sweet, while I make you feel all sorts of good things…all mine, whatever I decide to do with you, whatever I want to make you feel…and you're just being so good, taking it, because that's all you can do, like this…being mine, like this…"

"Jason," Colby begged, expression and voice desperate, accent plush and frantic, hair tumbling into his left eye, "I absolutely need you to fuck me right now, please," which was a message in and of itself, because Jason could count on about one hand the number of times he'd actually heard Colby swear out loud.

"Hell yeah," he said promptly, "everything you need, exactly, thoroughly, I said," and moved: fingers sliding out, himself right there, his body meeting Colby's, himself pressing forward and in and deep, while Colby yielded for him, so hot and tight and slick.

He wasn't going to last long, with Colby so beautiful and responsive and glorious around and under him. He drew back, thrust—hard and fierce, plunging in—and heard as well as felt Colby's reaction, arching up, crying out Jason's name, body gripping him.

Colby still hadn't moved his hands. They lay stretched up above the outflung sweep of his hair, obedient to Jason's directions. The bandages adorned his skin, his wrists, like jewelry: pale glimmering tokens of love and care and trust and the life they'd built together, amid movie sets and bookshops and shared steampunk romance novels, over pots of lemon risotto and fresh-baked bread, with Colby's calligraphy pens and Jason's motorcycle.

Colby loved him. And Jason loved Colby, and they could handle every scar and every scrape and every bruise, together.

That feeling built up and swelled outward, huge as joy, electric as a burst of rain, golden as the lamplight.

Jason had to move, couldn't not move; couldn't not fuck Colby with everything he was, fast and pounding and wild with emotion. Colby was right there too, making fabulous desperate sounds, moving with him—so close, they were both so close, Jason could feel it like the edge of a thunderclap, the brink of lightning—

He braced himself with one hand. Took Colby's luscious dripping length in the other. Stroked, grip slick and firm and in time with the next thrust. Panted, "You feel good, don't you, baby…so good…show me how good you're feeling, let it out, let it come for me, sweetheart, Colby, my Colby…"

Colby did, shuddering and gasping Jason's name and coming apart, white heat spurting from his cock in Jason's hand and landing all across himself, covering his chest and stomach in pure ecstasy. His body tightened around Jason's length, buried in him; his eyes were huge and dazed by bliss, but he managed to focus on Jason, gazing up.

Jason groaned, stiffened—tensed—and fell over the brink with him, collapsing into heat and light and release. He felt himself pouring out inside Colby, into that wonderful velvet heat; Colby moaned again and trembled under him, and Jason recalled how much those big blue eyes loved that sensation, being filled up with and claimed by him.

He flopped down atop Colby—mostly; making sure to take some weight on his elbows—because he knew Colby liked that sensation too and also because his muscles had turned into wobbly clouds. Colby's spent cock and flat stomach were sticky against his skin. He considered that with satisfaction.

Colby was still breathless, getting air back; but his eyes sparkled. "Definitely…extremely thorough…good heavens…"

"Good, though?" He dropped a clumsy kiss to the corner of Colby's mouth. "Good taking care of you?"

The night lay calm around them, painted in black and blue and silver and gold, lamplight and starry skies beyond the window and the discarded heap of Colby's pajama pants. The bed was warm, and Colby was warm, and every piece of Jason's heart felt like smiling.

"So good." Colby laughed quietly: simply happy, and comfortable beneath him. "I like that one, I think. Not all the time, but sometimes. I like being all yours."

"Agreed, and you are." He kissed Colby's chin this time. "You're like the opposite of helpless. But the fantasy sort of version, sometimes, that works. How're your hands?"

Colby blinked at him. "…I'd entirely forgot I could move them!"

Jason tried not to laugh too much, and then gave up; the bed shook with it. But Colby was laughing too, under and against him, so that was perfect.

He offered, "You can, you know…" and Colby's left leg moved to twine around his hip, affectionate.

Jason added, "Tell me if you're sore, though, hands or anywhere else," and pushed himself up more, pulling back, watching. He also eased out of Colby's stretched and satisfied body, with tenderness; and then looked at Colby like that too, spread out and open and messy with him.

Well taken care of. Thoroughly.

Colby blushed but didn't hide from being looked at. He tested fingers, wiggling them; and then brought his arms down, glancing at bandages before propping himself up on both elbows. "They feel splendid, in fact. I'm sure I'll feel it a bit tomorrow, but you've worked miracles. Which is how all of me feels. Miraculous. Wouldn't that adjective describe you, in fact, though, if you did the actual miracle-working? If I'm merely your subject? Is it a good descriptor for both of us? I suspect it is. I like being miraculous with you. Is there coffee? I was thinking about warm things that're also entirely miraculous, sorry, I know I'm rambling."

"You're you." Jason was cleaning him, gently, with the sheet. They had spare sheets; he'd handle that in a minute.

He bent to kiss Colby's hip. God, he loved Colby after sex: open and talkative and elated, hair getting into his face, words tumbling all over the place, giddy and tipsy on submission and sweetness and pleasure. "I love hearing you talk. And yeah, decaf, or you won't fall asleep tonight."

"I might be tired enough no matter what, after today, but yes, fine." Colby yawned, as if to prove the point. "Do you want me to assist with, er, anything?"

"No," Jason said. "Just get up for a sec, I'll grab the other sheets—don't even think about helping. No hands."

Colby made a face at him, fleetingly, but stopped eyeing the sheet-corner and put both hands behind his back, penitent.

"Well, if you're going to do that," Jason said, "you could get on your knees," which made Colby's eyebrows go up; but then he laughed and knelt, carefully, beside the bed. Flawless submissive posture, too, except for the way he looked up at Jason through long dark brown eyelashes, amused.

That was another thing they didn't do much, at least not too intensely; but some, playing with it, if the mood was right for actual orders and poses and protocols. Colby honestly did want to belong to Jason, and had a certain amount of previous experience with kink, and was genuinely submissive in bed—he loved being Jason's, surrendering control, so completely—but there was a hell of a lot of trauma and cruelty and pain to unpack, on that side, and Jason flat-out refused to hurt him, and Colby agreed.

That didn't mean they didn't sometimes wander that direction, though. Affectionately.

He finished with the sheets. Ran a hand over Colby's hair, across long waves and extensions. Rested his palm at the back of Colby's head. "Nice pose." Colby had kept both hands behind his back, not folded together because that probably would've hurt, but neatly crossed above the bandages.

"Thank you, I did make an effort." Colby batted those eyelashes at him again. "You know I like being good for you. And I know you know I like you telling me to wait, and then rewarding me."

"Is this about the coffee?"

Colby laughed. And gave him a small head-tip, eyes dancing: yes, then, at least in part. Plus the pleasure of it.

"Stay right there," Jason said, "and be good," and went over to turn on the machine.

He came back with the mug and with a couple of the fresh-baked cinnamon-sugar cookies the hotel kept delivering to their room. Someone on the staff had remembered Colby liked both baking and cinnamon; not that that was any kind of secret, these days, since it'd come up in interviews, commentaries, talk shows. Little pieces shared with the world.

Colby looked up at him and caffeine hopefully, but didn't move.

Jason set everything down on the bedside table, in easy reach, and hopped back into bed, sitting up against the pillows. "Okay, come here. Still no using your hands, unless you really have to."

Colby waved the hands at him theatrically, getting up. "I promise. Love you."

"Love you. And also, yeah, agreed, you're pretty miraculous." He adjusted a leg, got Colby nicely settled, curled up against him. Neither of them was exactly short—movie-star height, plus Jason's shoulders and Colby's legs—but they fit each other, and managed to compromise with the bed.

He held Colby close, and gave Colby sips of coffee—decaf, with vanilla creamer, because that'd been the only option, but Colby liked vanilla, so that was okay. He fed Colby little bites of cinnamon cookie, by hand, alternating with the coffee.

Colby leaned against him, contented and cozy and trusting, head on Jason's shoulder, both of them naked. They'd fall asleep that way too, naked and tangled into each other, after this. And in the morning they'd wake up together, and kiss each other every chance they got, and go off to work together, making fantasy and magic and happy endings come alive for cameras and audiences and the world.

Colby's hands rested lightly on his lap, healing and covered and protected. Something deep in Jason's chest sighed and exhaled and shook itself out, also healed.

Colby inquired, drowsy, "Is the food because of the story about me and the kitchen and learning to cook, or simply you making sure I eat something?"

"I mean," Jason said, and fed him another bite. "Maybe both, a little." It was.

"I'm not arguing," Colby said, swallowing. He licked Jason's finger after. "I'm happy."

And that was everything Jason needed, all he needed: the last soft warmth burrowed into his bones. He'd made Colby happy, safe and secure and well-loved and adored. He'd done that.

He let the feeling sink in, and become part of him, and glow.

He picked up the coffee again so Colby could have more, and said, "Good, me too."

THE END