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You Got The Peaches, I Got The Cream

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"I'm so glad you're here, Mr. Stewart. We're cleaning up as best we can, but...well, you know how Mr. Colbert can be."

"No need to explain, Tad. Just show me in. You got the tarp I asked for, right?"

The building manager led Jon onto the set, where a couple of janitors and technical people were milling about with mops and brushes and cans of Raid. In the middle of it all was Stephen, huddled on his desk with his arms around his knees, white streaks of sugar spiraling out around him.

"I warned them!" he proclaimed, upon spotting Jon. "I warned of the invasion! But none of them listened, the fools! And now, you see, they pay the price!"

"We never would have had an ant problem at all if you hadn't been secretly feeding them for months!" exclaimed Tad.

Stephen's dramatic expression collapsed. "I couldn't help it!" he protested. "They were so cute, with their tiny little legs and their wiggly widdle feelers...." He raised his hands above his head and waggled his index fingers to demonstrate.

Jon sighed and scanned the room until he spotted the clouded plastic tarp, folded in the arms of one of the roadies. "Ah! Killer! Good to see you, my friend. Can you come over here, please?"

"Now, let's not do anything rash," stammered Stephen.

"Of course not," agreed Jon. "Kick off your shoes; it'll make this easier."

Looking nervously between his boss and his significantly more intimidating employee, Stephen slipped off his shoes, which made little white puffs as they landed in the trails of sugar on the floor.

"Good." Jon smiled reassuringly. "Killer? Bag him."

Stephen let out a yelp of surprise as the tarp was thrown over his head.

Killer hefted his boss around the middle and flipped him over, plastic and all; Tad, at a nod from Jon, stepped forward and helped gather up the corners of the tarp; Jon grabbed one sticking-out leg and bent it into place; and within moments Stephen was entirely caught up, like a piece of fruit in a shopping bag.

Gently, Jon rested a hand on the back of Stephen's thigh (the most accessible part of him right now). "Can you breathe all right in there?"

"Uh-huh," came Stephen's muffled voice. "Jon? I don't like this."

Holding his hands over the top of the tarp, Jon brushed off a few stray grains of sugar. He would have to lose his own shoes before leaving the contaminated area of the studio. "Hang in there, Stephen. It's only until we get you to the shower."

 

*

 

Once he had deposited his burden on the office shower floor, Killer waited for a signal from Jon and then departed in silence, leaving Jon alone to help Stephen untangle himself.

"Now I know how a piece of candy feels," grumbled Stephen, shaking off his rumpled suit jacket and scattering a fine spray of white along the plastic in the process. "You're all wrapped up, and everything smells like sugar."

"Mm," agreed Jon. "If you pile your clothes in the tarp and bundle it up, I can take--"

"Ethen tasthes like canthy," interrupted Stephen, one finger now stuck in his mouth. He sucked on it experimentally for a moment longer, then held out his other hand to Jon. "Thy it!"

Jon nearly fell over.

There was no way Stephen could know how many times Jon had imagined his mouth on various bits of Stephen's anatomy. Or rather, caught himself imagining, and stopped -- and he always stopped, because the last thing Jon wanted to be was a creepy boss.

But there were Stephen's fingers, thrust insistently in front of his face, so there was nothing for it but for Jon to grasp Stephen's wrist and run his tongue up one of them, tracing a slow, sweet path from joint to joint. Before he realized what he was doing, he had taken two fingers into his mouth and was tenderly sucking the sugar from both.

When at last Jon looked up -- embarrassed, but not quite willing to let go of his prize just yet -- Stephen was peering down at him with an intense, unreadable expression.

"There's sugar on my neck too, you know," he murmured.

Cautiously, Jon leaned forward and took the invitation, tongue working its way under the tight, crisp collar. With a stifled gasp Stephen began loosening with his tie, and undid his buttons so hastily that one of them snapped off; it skittered across the tarp along with the ever-present sprays of sugar that accompanied every twitch.

When Stephen pushed him away, Jon began steeling himself for an apology; but Stephen was just wriggling out of his suit jacket. Then, crossing his arms, he gripped the hem of his shirt and undershirt and lifted them both over his head in one smooth motion -- which emptied their contents onto his head, shoulders, and chest in a fine shower of white. The dusting made him look like a powdered donut, or a slightly pinkish lemon square.

"Well, great," he muttered. "Now you're just going to have to lick me all over."

That was all Jon needed to hear. Shoving Stephen against the pale-salmon tile, he laved at the sprinkling of sugar across the other man's shoulders. He couldn't resist nibbling on the crook of Stephen's neck; the plastic crinkled around Stephen as his body shuddered, while Jon leaned over him and sucked at his clavicle with gusto.

"I knew it," breathed Stephen, heels jammed up against the frame of the shower, knees knocking into Jon's sides. "I'm -- ohgod -- I'm delicious."

"You have no idea," said Jon wryly, now swiping his tongue in broad strokes over Stephen's chest.

"Big White Chocolate." Stephen's voice was dizzy with distraction. "The original Charleston Chew."

Jon began licking a trail down Stephen's stomach, making him squeal ticklishly and try in vain to wriggle away. "Just don't start -- mmm -- making cracks about fudge-packing."

"Jon!" burst out Stephen, with all the horror he could muster in between inadvertent giggles. "I wouldn't try to make something dirty out of this!"

Stephen's face fell, the laughter dying out, when Jon's attentions ceased.

"I really wouldn't," he repeated insistently. "And I'm definitely not having filthy deviant thoughts about you because of all this! And even if I did I would bury it so far down that you'd need spelunking gear to reach it! Don't stop!"

Bracing his elbows on the gritty plastic, Jon brought their faces to the same level. After disposing of the man's glasses, he daubed at the corners of Stephen's mouth before shutting him up with a sticky kiss.

"Ummm," assessed Stephen. "This...doesn't taste dirty."

"I would hope not."

Stephen nibbled on Jon's sugary bottom lip. "Tastes like Grandma's honey pie."

That was approximately the second last visual Jon had ever wanted to associate with half-naked heavy petting. But then Stephen snaked a hand between them and cupped Jon's, well, Junior mints, and all other images flew out of his mind.

Okay, there was no way Stephen hadn't done this before. Determined to make the most of every second, Jon tried at first to keep applying his tongue to the planes of Stephen's cheeks, but then Stephen was bringing him off hard and fast and he bit his lip so sharply that he tasted copper along with the sweetness as he went crashing over the falls.

"Goddamn, Stephen," he gasped, trying not to collapse onto the man's sticky chest. Not that his T-shirt wasn't ruined with sweat by now anyway. "You couldn't -- nnh -- take it slow?"

Ignoring Jon, Stephen brought his hand to his lips and licked experimentally at his palm. His brow furrowed. "This doesn't taste like pie."

Jon's shoulders quaked with a burst of breathless hilarity. "Serves you right," he giggled, shaking his head. "Didn't your mother -- ever tell you -- only to take what you could eat? No -- finish it! And don't worry," he added, starting to move himself backwards, as Stephen pouted. "I'll make it worth it -- here -- lie down."

Obediently Stephen slid down onto his back, sucking on his hand all the while, until Jon could prop his hips up on the tile-and-plaster lip of the shower and haul off his pants, inch by inch.

Naked and glistening, nestled in a fine layer of sugar and surrounded by crumpled plastic, he looked like nothing more than some kind of novelty pastry. For a moment Jon paused, just catching his breath and admiring the view.

"Jonnnn," protested Stephen through his fingers, nudging Jon's sides with his heels. "Eat me."

"With pleasure."

He couldn't resist sinking his teeth into the soft peach expanse of Stephen's inner thigh on the way down, making Stephen cry out and spasm against him. Satisfied, Jon gave the bite mark a soothing lick by way of apology before descending, applying his lips and tongue with no less intensity than he had to the rest of the man, until Stephen shuddered one last time beneath him and collapsed with a hearty sigh.

(It didn't taste like pie for Jon either, but he swallowed quickly and lapped a stray trail of powder from the hollow of Stephen's hip, and it was almost as good.)

"Mmmmm," sighed Stephen with sated contentment. "Okay, you helped make this mess...you have to help me shower now."

Thoroughly spent himself, Jon leaned against the stall door. "Sure."

Still, Stephen didn't seem in much of a hurry to move. "Will you do that every time I pour sugar all over myself?" he asked lazily.

"I think I could be convinced, yeah," murmured Jon. "Hey, how do you feel about chocolate sauce?"