Chapter 2

Colby waited two entire days before asking what was on Jason's mind. He would've asked sooner, but he still felt a bit shaky. Better—far better, vastly so, mountains of better—but regaining balance.

The shuddery aftermath of a near-miss car crash. The ebbing of a bruise, purple to yellow-brown. The knitting of bone back together, to borrow Jason's metaphor.

He was all right, he thought. Or he would be. He got out flour, oats, cranberries, sesame seeds; he found yeast and milk and butter, and a bowl or two. Incoming sunshine striped the pale granite of the countertops, gold against grey, next to his hands.

Jason hadn't been subtle. No sex—nothing even vaguely along those lines—these last two days, though there'd been lots of cuddling and attentive kisses. Glancing at Colby, glancing at the shower. Looking up something on his phone, and then casually putting on a home-renovation show while they'd been washing dishes. It'd just sounded interesting, Jason had said. Simply that. For now.

Colby thought it was probably a good idea. He was a bit surprised he himself hadn't thought of it—he'd bought new furniture, after all, after everything—but somehow anything as drastic as renovating the flat honestly hadn't occurred to him.

Of course, at the time, he'd been about to leave for the start of filming, and he hadn't wanted to think about Liam ever again, and he hadn't been letting himself feel much. Not letting anything crack open, behind the enthusiastic and upbeat public persona. No matter how cold his hands felt.

Jason wanted him to never have cold hands. Jason wanted him to reach out, so that those large strong hands could enfold his. So that Jason could keep him warm.

He touched the sunlight on the countertop, thinking of warmth. He loved rain, but this was nice as well: clean brightness under his fingertips, lying there as if happy to be appreciated.

He gave his countertop a tiny pat, because he would like that, if he were a cuddly bit of sun-striped granite; and he smiled a little and set about conjuring up cranberry-oat bread, with sesame and flaxseed.

Jason came in from the small balcony while Colby's hands were buried in shaggy dough, and said, "Sorry, that took longer than I thought. Susan had a whole list of late-night shows she wants to see me on, for interviews. Can I help?"

"Just grab that bowl, would you? Light oil—perfect, thank you. Of course you'll be marvelous doing press. You always are."

Jason set down the oil. Blinked at him, a large perplexed foothill in worn jeans and a dark red Henley. "You've seen me do press before?"

"Er…I might've watched some things. Promoting new John Kill installments, and such." The dough had obligingly become a nice smooth ball; he tucked it into its bowl-bed. "About two hours, for that, I think….you're always so gracious. Praising your directors, co-stars, crew. Playing along with spy trivia questions or those how-well-do-you-know-your-castmates games. You're such a good sport about it. I always liked that."

Jason carried on gazing at him, and finally said, "I mean…you have to have fun with it, right? Even if it's not, like…I mean, in Saint Nick Steel I ran around wearing a Santa hat that made me into a reincarnated spirit of Christmas that rescued kids. By punching bad guys. Or shooting them. Or something."

"It's certainly original."

"Terrible. You mean terrible. But, like…people still worked hard on it. Our cast, our crew…we made something, y'know? So of course I'm going to be a good sport about the press circus. For them, and for me, because it's not like it wasn't fun. So, yeah, I'll say so."

"And there's definitely an audience for those sorts of stories, which, as it happens, includes me." Colby looked around for cling film to cover the bowl; Jason held it out. "I like fantasy, and I like you running around in extremely tight shirts while protecting people." Their eyes met, across dough and sunshine.

"Two hours," Jason said, a question, an invitation, a joy.

"Plenty of time for you to kiss me in our kitchen?"

Jason laughed, stepped in closer—carefully, not throwing looming weight around—and slid a big hand to the back of Colby's head, fingers threading through his hair. Their lips met, lightly at first. Jason tasted like hazelnut coffee and sunlight, having been outside; his tongue teased Colby's mouth, coaxing and gentle, not a demand.

Colby tried to get even closer. Pressed up against Jason, hands roaming the broad expanse of Jason's back, such muscle and strength and kindness. The feeling of Jason's body against his, exquisitely male and powerful and aroused.

He wanted Jason to kiss him more, harder, deeper. He wanted to be Jason's, to know that he was: beyond any question, belonging to and cherished by the man loved. He wanted to feel that everywhere; he attempted to beckon Jason further, a hopeful question of tongue and parted lips and shifting hips.

Jason smiled—Colby felt it—but drew back, though he kept both big arms around Colby, holding fast. "Just checking, that's what you wanted, right? You know I'm fine with whatever you say's okay."

Colby felt his own eyebrows go up. "Was I not being clear enough about you and fantasies and our kitchen?"

"You asked me to kiss you." Jason hugged him more tightly. "If that's where we're at, today, that's perfect."

"Oh." He recalibrated his reactions for a second. Not him not being clear enough; not his fault. Simply Jason being careful. Because Jason was that, at heart: built of care. "Thank you. But in fact I was hoping you might ravish me on the kitchen table? Or a chair. Or these countertops. They're in favor of ravishing. Which sounds a lot like radishes, so of course they'd be in favor, we're in a kitchen, that somehow seems appropriate. Or inappropriate, as it were. But not being inappropriate with radishes, please."

Jason burst out laughing, though it was a gentle thunderclap, softened by emotion. "God, I love you. And the radishes."

"Please," Colby said, and traced a heart over Jason's back, behind a shoulder blade. "I want you. Here, in sunshine."

"Sounds like a plan." Their eyes caught each other, and held on tightly. Jason's hand snuck up under Colby's shirt, against his bare skin. Colby's skin tingled with delight.

He curled a finger into the waist of Jason's jeans. Tugged. Then, after a second's consideration, just opened them right up, button and zip, tugging denim and boxer-fabric down.

Jason stayed considerately still, though his arousal was obvious: enormous, of course, because Jason was entirely proportional, and the thick dark head was wet-tipped and massive, like the shaft below. Colby had always previously found himself wanting large men, large and dominant all over; these days the wanting was a bit complicated, tangled in memories, but his own responses were still there. And he loved Jason with everything he was, and everything he wanted to be.

Right now it wasn't complicated at all. Right now it was him and Jason. In the sunlight.

He ran both hands along Jason's thighs. And then he knelt down on the kitchen tile, looking up.

Jason's breath skipped, an audible wondering happiness. "You don't have to, baby."

"I know. I want to." He did. So very much.

He took Jason's shaft in one hand, leisurely pumping, enjoying the feel and the girth. He leaned forward and kissed the tip, licking up a drop or two. Jason groaned, hand on the countertop for balance. Colby loved everything in that moment: the sound he'd made Jason make, the sensation and the sight of his fingers caressing Jason's length, the taste of male desire on his tongue.

He knew that Jason was watching him. Was gazing down at Colby on his knees at Jason's feet, mouth nuzzling Jason's cock.

Colby paused to murmur again, "I want you," while glancing up, words brushing heated skin. He had a pretty good idea of the effect that'd have, and he was right: Jason groaned again, and his hips jerked hard, pushing more of his shaft against Colby's lips.

Jason hesitated, after that, as if trying to apologize. Colby kissed his tip, and then leaned in and took more of him, most of him, thickness and heat sliding deep.

Jason felt wonderful. Being filled up like this felt wonderful. Colby still wasn't terribly confident about his own sexual prowess and ability to please, but he knew he did please Jason. He was sure about that. Jason didn't lie to him, and was looking down at him with that expression, awe and need and tenderness and ecstasy commingled, and Colby knew that all was true.

He wanted to laugh, or to kiss Jason everyplace, or to touch himself out of sheer glee. His own cock, neglected, throbbed abruptly. He'd only thrown on soft at-home sweatpants; even that felt too confining. Fabric rubbed against his arousal, perilously close to too much and not enough, aching for reprieve.

He liked the feeling. The waiting for permission. He was Jason's; he wanted to be Jason's. He knelt, heartfelt, and worshiped Jason's cock as best he could, sucking and licking and taking as much of the size as he could manage.

"Oh, Colby…" Jason's voice drifted, a murmur. "Can I touch you, baby? Just a little, nice and easy, but God, you look so fucking good, you feel so good…can I…?"

Colby pulled back enough to say, "Yes, please, I would like that," and licked Jason's cock, root to tip, for good measure.

Jason mumbled something like, "Oh thank God—" and one big hand landed in Colby's hair: not tugging, but stroking, petting, encouraging. "So good, so sweet—your fucking mouth, Colby, God—" His hand roamed as if unable to stay still: cupping Colby's cheek, thumb pressing at the corner of Colby's mouth, feeling his girth and the stretch and the plunge in.

Colby shivered with pleasure. He could come like this, he thought; or he could not, because he didn't have to; this was enough. The thick all-encompassing billow of belonging swept up, rising like his bread dough, sweet as berries. This was everything he'd needed, everything he'd always needed. Anything else, any old bruises, went peacefully away.

Jason was here and large and kind. Colby could make him happy. The world was safe and simple and radiant and honeyed.

He wasn't the most practiced at this, and Jason was massive by any definition, but he liked being down here, and he liked Jason touching him, talking to him, telling him how good he was being. He tasted Jason on his tongue, eager and leaking and heavy and hot. He felt molten with it, liquid.

Jason tugged at his hair, not hard. Colby looked up, a bit fuzzily.

"I want you," Jason said. "God, I want you—can I—"

"I want you to," Colby told him. He heard his voice with some surprise: distant, dreamy, star-sparkles in hushed velvet. "However you want—in my mouth, on my face, I'm yours, I'm all yours, make me feel it…"

"Mine," Jason said, and thrust, harder and deeper, but not too much so, still careful the way Jason always was careful. But doing exactly what Colby'd asked. Making him feel it.

Jason thrust and drew back and pushed in again, faster, messier, and Colby took it, surrendered to it, yielded and accepted and thrilled to the pounding. Jason shuddered out his name, shaking—and stiffening, gasping, hot pulses coming down Colby's throat.

So much, so much, and so deep and so forceful; he tried to swallow, choked on the rush of it—loved it, though, in this headspinning glorious haze of sugar—and tried again, even as Jason pulled back—

Jason's cock slid past his lips, slick and sticky; and then jerked again, hard, and a final spurt painted Colby's cheek with white heat.

He moaned, trembling. So good, so right, yes—himself full of Jason, marked with Jason, messy and filthy for Jason—oh, yes, this, claimed by Jason forever—

Jason was talking. Saying his name. Colby whimpered. Rubbed his cheek against Jason's cock, the head, the shaft: unembarrassed and happy.

"Oh," Jason breathed, "oh, sweetheart…so good, so sweet, so gorgeous…baby, if you could see yourself…and you wanted this, you asked for this, you want me and I'm so fucking—here, come here, come here, let me make you feel good—"

"But," Colby protested, fizzy as the stars. "I do. Feel good. So good. My bread. All full and soft and warm…big and fluffy…with cranberries…"

Jason was laughing quietly. "Might have to have a talk about how much you love bread, later."

"No. You. You're my bread. Home. Cozy. Oh…" Jason had picked him up, very literally scooped him up, and set him on a bar stool. "But…I like touching you."

"Yeah," Jason said, "my turn," and got down on both knees between Colby's spread legs. And tugged down Colby's soft wet-fronted sweatpants.

"Oh," Colby breathed, "oh—" and then couldn't talk.

Jason steadied him with a hand, which was good, because otherwise he'd collapse and slide right off the bar stool into a heap of divine sensation. This felt so new every time, in so many ways. He'd never known a dominant partner who wanted to do this, to give him this, to kneel and devote attention only to Colby's pleasure. He'd never imagined his body could feel this.

Jason truly loved doing it, he knew. And that did not mean Jason wasn't in charge; the opposite, in fact. Jason could and would wring him dry with bliss. Colby gave himself over, gave up control, with gladness.

Proving the point, Jason lifted his head to say, "Don't come until I say, but tell me when you're close."

Colby whimpered. Jason kissed his inner thigh, authoritative and amused, enough pressure that Colby moaned inadvertently and then instantly wanted more.

Jason bit at the same spot again, gently. "That wasn't a word, baby, talk to me."

An order, and also a check-in. Colby understood. "I…ah…oh, green, very, very…so green, forests, please."

"Good boy," Jason approved. "You like me leaving marks on you, don't you? Here…" He licked the shimmering spot on Colby's thigh. "And all over you. Your pretty face, covered in me."

"Yes!"

"I love hearing you say that," Jason said, "remember, tell me when you're close, and don't come yet," and got back to it.

Colby couldn't begin to process. Too many sensations, hot, wet, suction, friction, the right hint of roughness—Jason taking his body, claiming his cock, and commanding it, conquering it, every aching vulnerable inch—

He was shuddering and twitching and dimly aware of hair in his face, damp with sweat, and of Jason's come drying on his cheek, and oh, oh—

"Close," he managed, amid the onslaught of rapturous waves. "Jason—I—I'm—"

Jason stopped everything. And put a hand on his shaft, and squeezed: not quite enough to hurt, but enough to bewilder him, to confuse all his sensations, to make him sob and cry out.

Jason said, "I'm going to let you, baby, I want you to feel good, I always want you to feel good." His eyes were intent, and dark brown, and serious as earthworks and old hills unshaken by any quaking. "And I want you to feel this, too. I know you like being good. Letting me make the decisions. Being mine. Because you are. No one else's, you never were, you couldn't be. Because you are mine. My Colby. And I love you."

Colby could feel himself crying, tears loose and easy and full of emotion. Yes, yes, yes; and he realized he was saying it aloud when Jason answered, "Yeah, yes, see, you know you are. All mine. And now I'm going to make you come for me."

"Please," Colby begged. "That, yours, yes, please…"

Jason bent down, and took him into that wondrous mouth, and sucked and caressed and moved up and down, inexorable and demanding, drawing it all up and out, and Colby was gasping and shaking and flying apart and outright screaming, head tipped back, as every firework in the universe exploded—

Jason held him, licked him clean, drank down every drop. Colby twitched and shivered and sobbed, incoherent. All of him had become diffuse and rain-grey and pillowy, drifting tipsy fluffy clouds full of twinkling diamonds.

He wasn't very awake and he knew it. He noticed when Jason collected him from the bar stool and carried him out to the sofa, because that felt nice. Jason had cleaned them up, and tugged both Colby's cozy pajamas and his own boxers—though not the jeans—back on, though everything'd need a wash. But that was nice too.

Jason held him, and kissed him, and told him he was wonderful, he was loved, he tasted delicious. Colby let the words wash over him for a while, and eventually resurfaced with, "I think you mean you. Oh, that was fun. Oh yes."

"Yeah." Jason kissed him again. "You looked like you were having fun. And I totally was, too, before you ask. You telling me what you want, when you want me, right here on the spot in our kitchen…hell yeah."

"You like that."

"I do. I'm all yours, y'know. At your service, any time."

In Jason's lap, hazy and happy, Colby rubbed his cheek against Jason's chest, liking the firmness and the snug fabric. "Mmm. Yes, please. All the services. So nice. Definitely better than a radish."

Jason shook with laughter like the joy of deep ground, laced with gold.

"Jason?"

"Yeah?" One hand stroked Colby's hair. "Something you want, babe?"

"This. You. Have you been trying to ask whether I'd want to remodel our shower?"

Jason's hand paused. "Maybe."

"That's—"

"No, fuck, sorry, I know you want me to be clear about what I'm asking you." Jason made a face at himself, absurdly adorable with that once-broken nose and action-hero chin. "Sorry. I know that, I swear, I know it's easier."

"It's fine. Everything's perfect just now. And…I think the answer's yes, though I wouldn't know where to start. Home renovation lies, unfortunately, outside any of my areas of expertise. Although I did read a lot about medieval architecture, once upon a time. I appreciate a good flying buttress."

Jason made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a throat-clearing. And then kissed Colby's forehead. "I was going to ask if you'd want that. The remodeling, not the flying buttresses. But I thought maybe you needed some time to rebuild that armor, before I made you think about it more."

"I did. And thank you." Colby let his head rest on Jason's shoulder, comfortable, sated, contented. Warm from his fingertips to his toes, and pleasantly lightly aware of his body and the thrum of use. "It's healing, I believe. The armor, or not that, exactly, because I don't want to hide inside a shell. But what you said about rebuilding…I feel much more balanced. Better foundations."

"Really?"

"Mmm. I've got you, and you've got me, and now we know something that's a—a specific stress point, so it won't be as much of a shock, and also we can do something about it, to an extent. So we should. Er…do you know how one finds a bathroom remodeling contractor sort of person? And at least we've got a full spare bathroom; we can use that, if the renovations take time. Or we could stay in a hotel. How long does something like that take? I've no idea. Would a contractor person want tea breaks? With scones? Or proper lunch? I could do some baking. Or throw together a shepherd's pie."

"Have I told you," Jason said after a second, "that you fucking amaze me? Every day."

"Because I said yes to your idea?"

"Yeah, that too. But really I was thinking about the way you make things happen."

"Having money does help," Colby pointed out, and then, even more wryly, "as does a rather insistent need to please people, I'm afraid."

"No putting yourself down." Jason tapped his cheek, but lovingly: an admonishment, with a murmur of dominance, with love. "That one's an order."

"Oh, really…oh, fine, I'll try. Remind me. What did you mean, then?"

"The way you love the world." Jason caught Colby's chin, tipped his head up: made sure their eyes met. "The way you want to make everything work out right. If there's something you can do, you jump right in and do it. Making plans about hotels. And feeding contractors. Thinking about people."

"That's just being nice, isn't it?"

"It's what you did," Jason said, "for me." His eyes, warm as chocolate, held all those memories: old haunting ghosts, the tastes of chlorine and water and grief and mourning, the fear of certain stunt dives and of being not good enough, as an actor, as someone they depended on to get through a scene.

They also held the knowledge of the night Colby coaxed him into a hotel swimming pool, and splashed around with him, and distracted him with chatter about character motivations. And the days on set, the two of them falling into rhythm, relying on each other. Getting it right, getting it all right, together.

"I do try," Colby told him, and meant it. "Though you did most of that yourself. I'm here to…well, to be here. For you. Always."

"Yep." Jason touched Colby's mouth this time, a fingertip like a kiss tracing his lower lip. "You are. I might have an idea. I sort of know some people—friends of friends, haven't talked in a while—some guys who worked on set construction back during the second John Kill movie, when we were shooting in London. I think they do some contracting work now. I could ask."

This time his eyes said even more, dark and kind and protective and hopeful. Colby understood all the layers of that question, and adored him for it.

Of course Jason knew people. Jason, he knew, had made a habit of—and still did, to this day—walking round locations and film sets, inspecting construction and set-up and stunt rigging. Part of that was experienced stuntperson caution, part of it was pure curiosity about storytelling, and part of it was the years-ago loss of a friend during a very particular stunt, a pain and grief that Jason tried to ensure never happened again.

Jason also was thinking about Colby, and strangers in the flat, and whether that'd be at least a little easier if they were somewhat known beforehand. Colby understood that too, and his entire self broke open with overflowing love for this man.

He kissed Jason's fingertip, as it teased his mouth. "Yes. Please do ask. I'd like that."