by R. J. Moray
“See, the trick to not being surprised is in expecting the worst of everyone.” Her smile brightened. “Have you ever listened to the Decemberists? You really should look them up.”
It took him a few seconds to switch gears, by which time Nate had reappeared with Sadie’s drink.
“Oh, you left the top on,” she said, clearly pleased. She took a cigarette lighter out of her cleavage and popped the lid with a practiced motion.
“Yup. Rohypnol free,” Nate said, and then he knocked their drinks together. “What are we talking about?”
“The Decemberists,” Jack said.
Sadie smiled. “Jack’s going to look them up.”
Nate snorted, shoving his hair out of his eyes. “He’s gonna regret that. So much melodrama. Jack should stick to the classics.”
“Says the man who was playing the Backstreet Boys earlier,” Jack mocked.
“And I’d do it again, if it wasn’t for these meddling kids.” Nate waggled a finger at Sadie. “No more fucking with my playlists. It gives me wrinkles.”
Sadie laughed. Jack watched, feeling somewhat detached from the moment, like somewhere along the line Nate had gone and made friends with Ewan’s friends and left Jack behind. He seemed content. No, he seemed happy. Jack wished for a giddy moment that he knew how to make Nate this happy, but…maybe that was a ship that had sailed years ago.
“So, Sadie is basically a weeaboo,” Nate said. Sadie elbowed him viciously in the ribs, which made him laugh so hard he lifted a hand to cover his eyes. He peeked through his fingers, his grin bright and lovely, and Jack remembered that, no matter what, Nate still loved him. Even if he didn’t deserve it. “Tell her about Kyoto.”
Jack eyed Sadie sidelong. “Have you been to Japan?”
She made a face. “No. I know it’s more than just sushi, Gameboys, and ninja cosplay, though.”
“Very true.”
Nate smiled, a little drunk, and thoroughly adorable, and Jack felt his heart expand to fill the cold space in his chest.
“I really like Gion,” he said.
Sadie asked him a lot of questions, and Nate provided hilariously inappropriate commentary. It felt…better. Almost good. It could be better still with Channon, and maybe Ewan scowling alongside.
Even Ewan, awful as he was. Maybe Ewan wasn’t so bad after all.
Chapter Six
Ewan was sitting up on the bathroom counter, his thighs spread around Channon’s hips, looking down at him from only inches away. “You’re a right bastard,” he said.
Channon sighed. “I know.”
“You coulda told me. Look up.” Ewan narrowed his eyes. “I wouldna said anything. Blink.”
Channon blinked carefully and then again as Ewan sat back to admire his work. “I didn’t tell anyone. It just happened.”
“You just happened to get engaged and then happened to out yourself on Twitter like a muppet.”
“It’s not like I did that on purpose,” Channon grumbled. “It just happened.”
“And you’re sure you wanna marry him.”
“Why doesn’t anyone believe I could want that?” He gave Ewan his best sarcastic look. “He’s fucking loaded, you know.”
Ewan snorted and leaned in with the mascara wand to do the other eye. “Oh, aye. That’s why you said yes. Not because you always say yes to him. Blink.”
It took an effort to blink and not yell at Ewan for saying something like that. “I want to.”
Ewan eyed him critically. “Even with all this fuss?”
“Yeah. Absolutely.”
He wasn’t sure he liked the way Ewan was looking at him and leaned around him to examine himself in the mirror. Ewan had put the mascara on thick and black, and it made Channon’s lashes look about twice as long as they normally did. There was liner smudged around his eyes, like he’d slept in it. It made him look a little debauched.
Ewan tightened his ankles behind Channon’s hips to hold him still. “Whadda you think?”
“I look like you.”
That earned him a snort. “Maybe juiced up on steroids. Okay. You’re good.” He kicked Channon in the butt with one booted heel. “Get off me.”
Channon figured that meant he’d been forgiven. That was why they were doing this, right? Why Ewan had decided painting him up would be ‘fun’? It was a penance, where Channon suffered some sort of humiliation and Ewan got to gloat.
Was that weird? It wasn’t sexual, Channon thought, or even kinky. A bit of eyeliner wasn’t going to worry him anymore, especially not at a party with Ewan’s weird friends. Still, it occurred to him that this was the sort of thing he should maybe ask Jack permission for.
Or not. He didn’t know. Jack said the rules hadn’t changed, but they had, in some indefinable way.
He followed Ewan out to the patio. Several people were smoking or vaping, and Ewan dropped in among them like he belonged there. Channon hesitated, but Ewan had already made space for him and patted it, like Channon was some kind of pet to be invited up on the furniture.
Channon sat. It seemed appropriate.
He didn’t really get Ewan’s friends. They had so many opinions, and they argued too loud. It seemed inappropriate for a social event, where people were supposed to be having fun, but by the look of it this was how they had fun. Some of the things they argued made sense, and some were too confusing.
“So you don’t agree,” a girl in very dark lipstick said to him, and Channon frowned.
“I don’t think that’s the definition of ‘violence’ that everyone else uses.”
“It’s the definition I prefer.”
“But words have meanings because we agreed on them, right?”
She made a dismissive sound. “So you believe in prescriptivist dictionary definitions.”
“Huh?”
Ewan leaned up warm against Channon’s shoulder. “She means you think we have to agree with the dictionary definitions of words because dictionaries are some kind of authority.”
“Um, no? Dictionaries just…I thought dictionaries just told you what words are used for. They don’t make up the rules.”
Ewan snickered. “Yeah, they ‘reflect contemporary usage’. Which is why ‘literally’ now has the dictionary definition of ‘figuratively’.”
“And you don’t think that’s a political agenda,” the girl said, but Ewan flipped her off.
“God, someone get me a drink! I’m dying of dictionaries and their political agendas!” Channon opened his mouth to offer, but Ewan just sprawled over him. “Not you, you’re keeping me warm.”
Someone went. Someone else sat down on Channon’s other side.
“Hi!” she said. “You must be Channon. I’ve been dying to meet you.”
It was a woman in a blazer and jeans, a lavender scarf wrapped up high around her throat. She had a lot of curly blonde hair and freckles, and her smile was blindingly white. Not one of Ewan’s friends, he thought.
“Um, hi?” He offered his hand and she took it, squeezing warmly. “I’m sorry, I don’t—”
“Corinne Jones, What’s Up Online,” she said. “I went to college with Jack and Nate. I was hoping you could answer a few questions about your engagement.”
Channon hesitated. “What?”
She smiled brightly. “How did you and Jack meet? Have you known each other long?”
“Hey!” Ewan had leaned over Channon’s lap, scowling like a devil. “Are you a journalist? You can’t just ask him stuff.”
“Channon doesn’t mind, do you Channon?” Her smile felt like it could swallow him whole. “We’re just having a chat.”
“Naw, you’re digging. Let him alone.”
She ignored Ewan, holding up her phone. “Is it okay if I take a photo?”
“No, it’s not fucking okay!” Ewan yelled, holding up a hand like he was going to snatch the thing away from her. “Piss off!”
She pulled back, tucking the phone into her blazer. “You’re very protective of Channon…Ewan, am
I right? What exactly is the nature of your relationship? Friends? Or more?”
“None of your bloody business,” Ewan hissed, dragging Channon out of his seat and back into the house. “Nate! Nate!”
Channon didn’t see what happened after that. One moment Ewan was hauling him out of the way, the next Nate and Jack were in the doorway. Jack’s arm went around him, firm and reliable, and Channon leaned into him.
Ewan let him go. Jack pulled him into the kitchen. “Sweetheart?”
“Your friend’s a reporter,” Channon told him. “The blonde lady?”
He saw Jack’s expression ice over, his jaw firming up. “What the fuck?”
“It’s okay,” Channon told him, “I didn’t say anything.”
But Jack looked like a thundercloud, ready to rain down lightning if necessary. “That’s not what I’m angry about. Corinne should know better.” He squeezed Channon hard for a moment. “Are you okay? Do you want to go home?”
“It’s only ten,” Channon protested. “I’m fine.”
Jack eyed him for a long moment, and then— “When did you decide you liked eyeliner?”
Oh. “Ewan was mad at me for not telling him. It cheered him up. Is it okay?”
Jack nodded. “It suits you.”
That seemed impossible. “I don’t want to make you look bad in front of reporters.”
“What did I tell you about worrying?” Jack said, and Channon had to give in, because he’d promised.
❧
Later, though—after Nate’s drunken midnight kisses—Jack took him home, and Channon had to ask.
“Sir?”
Jack paused in the act of taking off his shoes, glancing up, and Channon felt guilt wash over him. Jack looked so tired. Sure, it was one in the morning and all, but still. Jack was tired because of Channon. There were lines around his eyes that were Channon’s fault, without a doubt. Because he was worrying for both of them, and Channon couldn’t do anything to help him.
But what he said was, “What is it, sweetheart?”
“You asked if I needed something to distract me,” Channon said. He was conscious of the weight of Jack’s grandfather’s ring, and the responsibility he had for Jack now. Not just as Jack’s boy; he was going to be Jack’s husband. And more than ever that meant taking care of Jack when he needed it. “Is there something I can do to distract you?”
“That depends.” Jack loosened his tie one-handed, his eyes tracking over Channon like a caress. “What are you offering?”
“Anything you want, Sir,” Channon said, meaning it. “But if you want me to choose, then I’d really like to worship you with my mouth.”
It was, it seemed, the right thing to say. Jack’s mouth curled into a smile, and he pulled his tie all the way free. “I think I’d better sit down for this.”
They ended up on the sofa, Jack still dressed, Channon standing between Jack’s knees. Jack made Channon undress for him. “Slowly,” Jack said, and Channon did it as slow as he could. He couldn’t make it sexy, had no idea how to even start, but the way Jack’s eyes darkened, Channon thought maybe Jack found it a little sexy anyway. He dropped his clothes on the floor and let Jack stroke his thighs, let him slip a hand between them to cradle Channon’s balls in his palm. How humiliating this had once felt. Now it was simply Jack’s right and Channon’s pleasure to please him. How things had changed.
It was still arousing, deeply so, but the reasons for that had shifted. In the beginning, Channon hadn’t fully trusted Jack. He’d let Jack do whatever he wanted, sure, but those games had been laced with fear—the fear that Jack might betray him, might hurt him too much, might humiliate him and leave him broken. He’d enjoyed that fear, and sometimes when they played now Jack managed to bring it out in him again, just like when they were new. But the thrill of play had matured into something so much better. Trust. Total trust in Jack and love for him. Channon didn’t need to ask if Jack would take care of him because he knew Jack would.
And now Jack had given him a ring, as proof to the world that he would take care of Channon forever.
“Please, may I worship you?”
Jack tugged Channon’s balls just hard enough to hurt, and he nodded. “Go on.”
Channon knelt. He bent to press his face to Jack’s crotch, inhaling the scent of him. This was part of the ritual for him, to scent Jack and know it was him. No one smelled like him. No one tasted like him. No one’s hands felt like his did on Channon’s skin. No one wanted Channon like Jack did, and Channon wanted no one else in the way he wanted Jack.
They belonged together. He felt it lump up in his chest, a tightness that drew all his emotions to the surface, and he put his hands on Jack’s belt, unbuckling him with all the reverence he deserved. Button, fly, boxers, and there he was, cut and thick, darker than the rest of him, clean waxed in a nest of neatly trimmed black curls. Jack’s cock, awake but not alert, and Channon dropped his head to kiss the tip of it.
Jack smelled so good, heavily masculine, and Channon lapped at him with careful flickers of tongue that broadened to wider strokes, licking him up slick and shiny. The first time he’d had Jack in his mouth, Jack had taken it so slow, had shown him with such care how to worship, and Channon did it now. He tugged Jack’s trousers down to get at his balls, taking one into his mouth and massaging it with his tongue before treating the other with the same lingering tenderness. He loved the taste of it, the sound of Jack’s breath humming in his throat, the pressure of Jack’s hand stealing up the side of Channon’s neck to tease his hair. Channon licked back up Jack’s cock, scraping his teeth over the spongy head of it before covering Jack with his mouth and sliding his lips down. He took a deep breath, relaxing as well as he could to fit as much of Jack in his throat as he could make room for. Still not enough. But he could try, and that was all Jack had ever asked of him.
He held Jack there as his oxygen ran out, glancing up to ask the question with his eyes. Please, Sir, may I suck you?
Jack’s eyes were half-lidded, his mouth bent with an emotion Channon couldn’t place, and the fingers in Channon’s hair rubbed gentle whorls on his scalp. “Go on, baby. You can have it.”
Channon closed his eyes and let his mouth close around Jack, making a tight, wet hole for him. Jack groaned, and Channon’s heart fluttered to hear that tiny loss of control. He worked his way up Jack’s length, tonguing him with all the skill he could muster. He’d learned this. He was getting better. Jack said so. Even Nate said so. But he wasn’t thinking about Nate right now. The only person he was thinking about was Jack.
His husband. Not yet, but it was going to happen. Channon would worship him and take care of him always, and no one could ever take it away from him. God, how much he loved Jack. He tried to show it with his mouth, with the suck and suction, tried to write it into Jack’s skin with his tongue.
“God, sweetheart…I love you.”
It burst in Channon’s chest like a firecracker, and then Jack’s hand gripped his hair, and he felt the hot pulse of Jack’s come on his tongue. He tried to go down, to get Jack deep in him, and Jack held him there, flooding his mouth with salt. Then Channon was pulled up, off, the last of Jack’s spend spilling across his lips.
“Channon,” Jack breathed, and he tugged Channon toward him. Channon followed, climbing into Jack’s lap and straddling him. Jack curled a hand around Channon’s hip, easing him up. “I want you in my mouth. Do you want to come?”
Fuck, did he? “Yes,” he said, his lips sticky, and Jack smirked for all of a second before bending his head to Channon’s belly. He nipped Channon’s foreskin with his teeth, tugging on him in a way that made chill fingers run down Channon’s spine. Then Jack pulled him into his mouth, his lips hot and hungry, his tongue so wet. Channon grabbed the back of the sofa, and Jack sucked on him mercilessly, his poor cock so ready for it that he knew he couldn’t last long. “Sir! Fuck, I—”
“Do it,” Jack growled, releasing his mouthful. There was an obscenely wet sound as J
ack licked two fingers slick before he sucked Channon down again, his fingers sliding between Channon’s cheeks to press up to his rim. Channon gasped, bucking into Jack’s mouth, and Jack moaned around him, and those fingers drove at him, not inside but so close Channon felt like the top of his head might come off.
His grip on the sofa slipped—Jack had him safe, would never let him fall. Jack’s tongue worked against Channon’s cock, and Channon could still taste Jack on his lips. It was too much. The hot gush of orgasm took him like a flood, and he clutched at Jack’s head in delicious angst, his body racked with pulses as the pleasure of it coursed through him.
White-hot, supernova bright, more than he could ever ask. Jack’s mouth drained him dry and then let him go, and he sank, boneless, into Jack’s lap. “Sir,” he moaned, “Sir…”
“Channon,” Jack breathed, his voice gone rough. He clutched Channon to his chest. “You’re mine.”
“Always,” Channon promised, knowing this was one promise he could never break.
He was Jack’s, and Jack was his, and everything would be alright, no matter what anybody else might think.
❧
“I called Corinne,” Jack said over breakfast. “She tried to argue that you’re a public figure now, and she has no reason not to talk to you about our relationship, but in the end, she backed down. I think she knows she overstepped. Do you want me to get an apology from her, or is that enough?”
Channon made a face. “I don’t want her to apologize to me. That’s weird.”
“Then I won’t,” Jack said. He looked better this morning, rested and fresh, still warm and mussed from their bed. “I should probably issue some kind of statement. Maybe get one of Damiano’s friends to do a fluff piece on us. We can control the narrative, if we start now. Make people believe whatever we want them to.”
It sounded kind of seedy. “What do we want them to believe?”
“That we are a private couple, who are privately engaged, and it’s none of their business.” Jack took Channon’s hand, holding it in both of his. “Or did you want to tell them something else?”
