#hoathemeweek

[potato-lord-but-not]

This’ll probably be the only day I participate in for @supermassivebigbang’s theme week, just bc of a lack of motivation BUT everyone else’s entries are so fun!!

[kolchekyourweapons]

Play Me Something, Mr Othman

Friday Prompt: Hands 

Inspired by this post (and @erzsebetrosztoczy encouraged it) I wanted to write Jalim in a period-drama setting so badly (because, of course, touching hands is basically sex in this kind of environment). 

But because I’m not talented enough to draw Jason and Salim in period dress, here you go: 

Me: I want Jalim in period costume

Mom: We have Jalim in period costume at home. 

Jalim in period costume at home: 

(Part 2 of this fic here)

***

The first time Mr Othman saw Mr Kolchek, he was brooding in a corner.

Mr Othman had been forced to ask Lady King, the host of the soiree, who the gentleman in black was that felt the need to stare everyone down.

‘Him? Ah, that’s Mr Kolchek,’ she’d replied.

‘Mr Kolchek?’

Lady King nodded. ‘I’m surprised he’s lasted the evening, truth be told. He usually drinks the entirety of the bar and has his coach collect him early.’

The next time Mr Othman saw Mr Kolchek at one of Lady King’s parties, he had migrated from the corner to a section of the chaise by the piano. Mr Othman had noticed how his eyes had trailed over the silent keys, before he had stood and knocked back his drink. As Mr Kolchek moved swiftly by the piano, one of his hands moved to allow his long fingers to drift across the top of the keys like a soft breeze.

And then he was gone.

The third time Mr Othman saw Mr Kolchek, he was back in the same spot on the chaise by the piano. This time, Mr Othman moved to seat himself at the piano, pushing back the tails of his green dinner jacket and clearing his throat as he made himself comfortable. He didn’t raise his eyes to Mr Kolchek’s as he began to play a pleasant tune, but he could feel the man’s eyes upon him as the gentle music began to fill the room.

After a moment, Mr Othman said pleasantly, ‘Do you enjoy music, Mr Kolchek?’

The man straightened in surprise. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘The hostess was kind enough to provide it.’

‘Of course she was,’ said Mr Kolchek gruffly, as he raised his glass of brandy to his lips. His eyes moved to trail over Mr Othman’s hands on the piano keys as the tempo increased.

‘But I fear you didn’t answer my question,’ Mr Othman continued brightly over the music.

‘Do I enjoy music?’ Mr Kolchek demanded. ‘What kind of question is that? Is there anyone who doesn’t enjoy music?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ Mr Othman mused. ‘Some may prefer the musical notes of poetry on a page.’

‘I’m not one for reading.’

‘But can you, at least, read music?’

‘I –’ Mr Kolchek hesitated, and tapped his glass with his finger. ‘I’ve been trying.’

‘Would you like me to further your education?’ Mr Othman asked, raising his eyes now as his fingers continued to play the finale of the tune. The final note sang out through the candlelit room, as the conversation continued lively around them. Mr Othman smiled and patted the space beside him on the velvet piano stool.

Mr Kolchek hesitated. Mr Othman maintained his gaze expectantly until the man stood with an audible huff and then slid onto the seat beside Mr Othman. Their elbows grazed while Mr Kolchek adjusted his black evening jacket.

Mr Othman smiled to himself as the man settled beside him, and then picked up another tune.

‘This piece is called Fidelis by the composer Semper. Have you heard it?’

‘No, I haven’t heard of Fidelis.’

‘The music, or the word?’

Mr Kolchek’s eyes rested on him. ‘The music,’ he said pointedly. ‘Just because I don’t enjoy reading doesn’t mean I don’t know what words means.’

‘I agree. You appear quite eloquent.’

‘Eloquent?’ Mr Kolchek asked, tilting his head quizzically.

‘Yes, it means –’ Mr Othman faltered as he saw the shadow of a smirk on the man’s face.

‘Ah. You are jesting with me.’

‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ said Mr Kolchek quietly, as his fingers drifted over the keys.

‘Would you like to play?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t.’

‘I could teach you.’

‘I don’t think the other guests would take kindly to the noise we’d be making.’

‘Or perhaps, together, we’d be an unstoppable force,’ Mr Othman remarked, the keys tinkling under his fingers.

Mr Kolchek drew his eyes slowly to him. Their arms were ever so slightly pressed together as they sat on the piano bench.

‘Yes,’ said Mr Kolchek softly. ‘Perhaps we would be.’

They sat in companionable silence for a moment.

‘Where did you learn how to play?’ Mr Kolchek enquired.

‘My grandfather taught me.’

‘Hmph,’ said Mr Kolchek. ‘My granddaddy taught me how to drink.’ As though to demonstrate, he knocked back his drink smoothly. Mr Othman watched his slim fingers drift along the stem of the glass as he placed it down on top of the piano.

‘It’s a worthwhile skill to have,’ Mr Othman mused, his eyes still on Mr Kolchek’s hand. ‘Especially at functions such as these.’

Mr Kolchek laughed at that.

It was the first time he’d seen Mr Kolchek smile, his warm brown eyes crinkling at the corners. This close, Mr Othman could see the faint freckles on his skin. He found himself smiling, too. But as soon as the smile had appeared, it faded, as the man now looked solemnly down at the keys.

Mr Othman turned back to the piano.

‘Perhaps something a little simpler,’ he mused.

‘Simple, like me?’ Mr Kolchek pressed.

‘Now, I did not mean –’

He turned to see Mr Kolchek smiling again. Mr Othman rolled his eyes.

‘For someone who spends all his time with a smile on his face, you certainly aren’t too quick to pick up on jokes,’ Mr Kolchek observed.

‘How do you know I spend all my time with a smile on my face?’ Mr Othman asked pointedly.

Mr Kolchek’s smile slid from his face and he cleared his throat. ’I – from what I’ve observed, you seem to enjoy these parties.’

‘And you don’t?’

‘No.’

‘Then why do you attend?’

Mr Kolchek didn’t answer. He looked down at the keys and pressed one experimentally instead. A bright, tinkling note rang out.

‘Don’t stop,’ said Mr Othman softly.

Mr Kolchek turned to frown at him, but Mr Othman gave him an encouraging nod. Mr Kolchek pressed the key again, and then continued to play the note at a steady pace. Mr Othman then joined him with a deep chord from the opposite side of the piano. ‘Now press the key two above,’ he instructed. ‘At the same time.’

Mr Kolchek slid another finger onto the next key, as instructed, and continued to maintain the rhythm. Mr Othman’s other hand slid onto the piano to pay a chord close to Mr Kolchek’s arm.

‘Now your other hand,’ Mr Othman said.

Mr Kolchek raised his left hand and hovered it uncertainly over the keys.

‘Continue,’ said Mr Othman, stopping his own chords now to reach his hand up. His fingers wrapped gently around Mr Kolchek’s hand as he slowly directed his fingers where to press. Mr Kolchek fumbled on the note he had been maintaining but then swiftly brought it back. ‘There,’ said Mr Othman triumphantly in his ear. ‘Now play those two together. Keep going –’

Mr Kolchek continued with the very basic notes he was pressing on repeat, but his face had lightened, looking suddenly enraptured, as Mr Othman began a more complicated rhythm on his side of the piano. A few of the other guests had turned to look now, as Mr Othman and Mr Kolchek continued their piece. When Mr Othman declared the final note, Mr Kolchek continued to press his keys, so the former gently took his hand as indication to stop. Their eyes met as sparse applause rang out around them.

Mr Othman beamed at Mr Kolchek.

‘Not bad,’ he said. ‘Not bad at all.’

Mr Kolchek held his gaze. His warm golden hue blazed into the man’s own and then a small flush began to appear on Mr Kolchek’s cheeks. He cleared his throat and said quickly, ‘Please excuse me. I think I will retire early.’

Mr Othman watched in surprise as he pushed himself from the piano stool and swept from the room.

*

No doubt in some ploy to stop Mr Kolchek from leaving early this time, Lady King had been kind enough to provide rooms for all her guests so that they could stay the night. Mr Kolchek stood on the small balcony of his room, now, which was adjoined with the neighbouring room’s balcony doors. The two rooms shared the balcony, but Mr Kolchek was relieved to see that nobody else was outside when he moved to the stone balustrade and took a deep breath. He inhaled the cold night air, closing his eyes as he felt the gentle breeze tickle his dark hair. The evening was uncomfortably humid, the air thick.

Mr Kolchek sensed a storm coming.

A door opened behind him. Mr Kolchek turned quickly and saw Mr Othman move through the adjoining bedroom door. Their eyes met in surprise.

‘I did not know you were assigned the room beside mine,’ Mr Othman said, hovering with his hand on the door handle.

‘Nor did I,’ said Mr Kolchek.

‘What would you have done if you’d known?’

‘Requested a different room.’

Mr Othman stared at him, but then his expression grew soft.

‘Ah. You’re jesting again.’

Mr Kolchek grinned.

It was that, perhaps, that made Mr Othman close the door behind him and approach the balcony, rather than retreat back inside. He came to stand beside the man as they looked out into the night, at the beautiful colours of the gardens below, so vibrant even when lit only by a soft blanket of moonlight.

‘You left in quite a hurry,’ Mr Othman mused. Mr Kolchek was stood facing the night, both of his hands laying upon the stone balcony. Mr Othman observed them as he spoke from beside him. ‘I was concerned.’

‘Concerned? About me? Why?’

‘I was fearful our music lesson made you uncomfortable.’

It was a moment before Mr Kolchek replied, still maintaining his gaze on the clouded sky across from them. ‘Uncomfortable, yes, but not for the reasons you might think.’

Mr Othman turned then, frowning at him. ‘What do you mean?’

Mr Kolchek clutched the stone more tightly. Mr Othman could see his knuckles turning whiter with the force of it. He didn’t answer.

‘Is it because you do not wish to be here?’ Mr Othman tried. ‘Lady King remarked that you always leave early. As though you wish for nothing other than to escape.’ Mr Othman moved closer to the balcony – closer to the man beside him – and rested his own hands on the cold stone now. ‘Why do you always attend if you hate them so much?’

‘Because you always attend them,’ Mr Kolchek said smoothly.

Mr Othman stared at him. The man’s eyes were still fixed on the night sky, but he could now see his jaw tightening, a gentle flush on his cheeks. His long dark lashes lowered slowly.

Mr Othman said nothing. But he moved his finger, ever so slightly, to the left, to touch Mr Kolchek’s, to connect. He felt the man’s stance tighten beside him at the contact, but then his own finger moved to graze his in return. Slowly, his whole hand moved – the skin soft, warm – to slip over the top of Mr Othman’s and then he held it tight.

A flash of lightning illuminated the night sky and Mr Othman jumped as a crack of thunder unleashed around them. His hand shot on instinct from beneath Mr Kolchek’s and he took a hurried step back. Mr Kolchek turned to him, now, looking at him in concern.

‘Forgive me,’ he said quickly. ‘I should not have –’

‘No,’ Mr Othman breathed. ‘No, it was not that, it was –’

As though in response, the sky unleashed another crack of thunder and a small pattering of rain began to fall on their heads.

‘You’re afraid of thunder?’

Mr Othman nodded. The rain began to fall more heavily on them. Mr Kolchek stepped forward and removed his jacket; he brought it around the top of Mr Othman’s head and moved his body close against him beneath it. ‘Now there is nothing to be afraid of,’ he said quietly. Mr Othman looked at him in surprise. But then he huddled closer under the shelter of his jacket, as the heat from Mr Kolchek’s body met his own. Mr Othman raised his own hand to help Mr Kolchek steady the jacket above both their heads. He rested his other against the man’s chest.

As thunder shook the air once more, Mr Othman dared to rest his forehead against Mr Kolchek’s. He closed his eyes and breathed, ‘Stay close.’

Mr Kolchek pulled the coat tighter around them. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

[the-girl-who-flies]

I SWEAR i was gonna make something presentable but my third shot hit me like a fucking freight train. So. Yea just this. Maybe I’ll color it later.

[ill-heart]

Fears of the vicious whispers

        Here we go for the theme of the day. I hope your gonna enjoying even though... I must warn you, it’s not so long but full of hurt/comfort. 

Well, with insecurities as a theme... It’s difficult to do otherwise.

۩๑ ๑۩

 There were those mornings where Jason felt something bad coming. A intuition he inherited from his father, from what he heard in this family before.

He would wake with a pain in his chest, as if sugar was stuck in his heart and tried to suffocate him. It was odd, difficult to explain but nineteen percent of the time, his foreboding was proving to be right.

And this morning seemed to follow that awful path; as he awoke alone in his bed, eyes searching for his lover. Salim wasn’t in their bedroom, and the sheet were cold. He must have awoken hours ago. The younger man almost jumped at of bed as the sugar in his torso became bigger. He rushed into the house, checked every room in hope the Iraqi would be there, but he was nowhere to be seen. Jason started to fear the sun, started to be afraid of the ring bell and the news some folks would bring to him; then, he finally found his lover. Half of his body devoured by the obscurity, Salim rested on the couch as his eyes looked at the celling. He didn’t notice his lover crawling back to him, until a hand placed itself on his cheeks.

“Hey, darlin’.” Jason said as he caught the older man’s attention. “Ya had a bad dream?”

Salim’s mouth opened but not a single word escaped it. He tried to speak; however, his voice wouldn’t get out of his lips. He remained silent before he pushed his lover’s hand away, and looked at the celling once more.

Somethin’ ‘s bad. Jason felt it; in his heart and in his soul. He knew something terrible was about to be said, and he couldn’t stop it.

“Jason, do you…” Tears grew under the Iraqi’s eyelash. “… Don’t you ever think our relationship was a mistake?”

The sugar stuck in the American’s heart made him want to vomit.

**

“What’s gotten into ya, Salim?!”

“There is nothing wrong with me, I was just asking if you…”

“Nothin’ wrong?! What kind of bullshit is that?!” Jason’s teeth ground as anger flowed in him like a hurricane. “I woke up this mornin’ without ya in bed, and when I finally found ya, ya just ask me if we weren’t wron’ since the beginnin’! So, stop fuckin’ lyin’ to me!”

Maybe it wasn’t wise of him to freak out like this, but Salim’s interrogation hurt him more than he could express it. When the words dove into his mind and chest, he felt sick and wanted to scream. He wanted to smash everything, all the furniture and stupid items in the living room. He wanted to brutally shake his lover, in hope that his fears would be kicked out of his body. He wanted to destroy everything as the Iraqi only looked at the floor, with a mix of pain and shame dancing in his glance.

“It’s just…” Salim sighed and his whole body trembled. “I am sure it was a stupid joke but I can’t…”

Jason’s eyebrows raised as the rage substituted with incomprehension. A joke? What kind of joke could bring such a thought to the older man’s mind?

“Tell me.” An order he whispered with a commanding voice. He saw his lover shivering but he didn’t back down, nor excuse his sudden harshness. Salim couldn’t get away after such a behavior, the younger man wouldn’t let him. Not before you answered me.

“It’s just Eric…”

“Eric?’ What did this fuckin’ bastard said to ya? It wasn’t a secret that him and Jason didn’t get along; thanks to the man’s arrogance in the ruins and Jason’s comments on his tactics and coldness about the men who died because of his precious Caelus. Both of them tolerated each other presence because they had Nick and Rachel, but it was no pleasure cruise to be around someone you wanted to punch every time. “What did he told ya?”

“He just…” Salim looked like a child caught after he made something stupid. In other circumstances, Jason would have found him cute and might have teased him about his sudden silence or his littles shivers, but not now. Now, he only needed answers. “Tell me what he said to you, Salim.” Another order, growled with a low and menacing ton.

“He didn’t tell me anything!” The Iraqi looked upon him, eyes full of fatigue and tears. “I just happened to hear what he said about us to Rachel and…”

“And?”

Salim’s breath speeded up and his hands grabbed his pants roughly. He seemed to contain the anger and the despair rising in him. “He just… He just said that we would betray each other one day. He said we never loved each other, that we only did what was best for our survival and now… Now that we don’t need each other… He said you would find someone younger, someone more desirable to love and so you would just…” The older man’s voice broke as he confessed, tears rolling on his face. “You would just leave me alone.”

Jason’s body froze. For a moment, he only glared at his lover crying below him then fury took over him. Without a single word, he went to the corridor, grabbed his shoes and cap, and he left the house, rage boiling inside him.

**

“What the fuck are you doing, Kolchek?!”

Eric fell on the ground, nose and mouth bleeding as Jason stood over him. Nick rushed to hold him between his arms as the young lieutenant heard Rachel screaming something to him. I don’t care. I don’t fuckin’ care.

“Who are ya to judge my relationship with Salim?! No one, Colonel! Ya ain’t anyone so shup the fuck up!” He yelled, tried to get closer but his best-friend kept him still. “Jason, stop! I think he got it!”

“Ya don’t know shit about me! Ya didn’t back then, and ya still don’t! I would never betray Salim, I ain’t like ya! So shup the fuck up about us! ‘Cause if you make my man cry again… I will fuckin’ kill ya.”

And without saying more, he turned his back on Eric, made Nick let go of his grip and vanished in the fog reigning on the city.

**

When he came into his house again, Salim run into him, hundreds of apologies going out his mouth. He stayed close, but never touched him. He only excused his stupidity, how cold he had been to ask such a question and how sorry he was for making Jason angry.

Jason looked at him. He stared at his weeping face, his shivering shoulders and lips, then he grabbed his wrist and hugged him; like he never hugged him before. He held him for a minute or two, one hand on his back and the other on his neck; so Salim could cry on his collarbone.

After a while, he whispered against his ear: “I need ya, Salim. I need ya to survive here.” He felt his lover trembling in his arms, crying louder as he held him back. Salim’s arms closed on his back as he found the strength to murmur: “Me too, Jason… I need you. I really need you and if you leave me, I will…”

“I will never leave you, Salim. Never.”

Jason gently grabbed his lover’s chin, looked at his pleading eyes and promised once more: “Mark my words, Salim, ‘cause I will never go.”

And Salim kissed him. They kissed each other like they never did before. It was full of passion and despair, only broken with honest promises and caresses on their cheeks.

They fell on the couch, and the sugar stuck in Jason’s chest vanished.

[supermassivebigbang]

House of Ashes Theme Week Coming Soon!

(graphics by the talented @thewolfmanny )

Howdy, beautiful people of HoA fandom! We (that is, me, @the-girl-who-flies and several of my horny jail cellmates accomplices) thought it would be a fun idea to run a community-wide event (a là Big Bang and Reverse Big Bang) that all creators can participate in; to start off with something that doesn’t require too heavy a commitment, we decided to propose a House of Ashes Theme Week! This is going to be a one week event where each day will have a one-word prompt; on this day, you will be able to submit your creations based on said prompt, be they fics or art.

To make this a bit more participative (and maybe see how many people would actually like to be part of this kind of thing) we thought we’d ask everyone to pitch in with prompt ideas. You can send them either as an Ask on this Tumblr or email them to [email protected]. If you send them as an Ask, we'll publish them, giving everyone a chance to get an idea of what kind of thing might be in store for them. 

On March the 15th - that is, one week from now - we’ll pick 7 prompts at random and announce them. HoA Theme Week itself will begin on Monday, March 28th, which hopefully will give everyone who wants to participate a chance to create something.

I’ll add a small FAQ below while we get all the other parts of this blog up and running, and ask you to check back and spread the word/reblog - both this tumblr and the event are just a tiny baby bird right now and there’s a slight chance the admin might not have a clue about what they’re doing but we’re hoping it’ll grow into something that everyone likes.

MiniFAQ:

What exactly is a theme week? 

It’s an event where artists and writers make creations based on prompts, and post/submit them on the days that correspond to said prompts.

Do I have to register to participate?

No registration will be necessary, anyone who wants to participate can do so.

Do I have to commit to the entire week?

Absolutely not! You can post as many submissions as you like, for as many of the days of Theme Week as you like.

How will I be able to submit my creation?

Use the submit function to: either submit a post or send us a link to your own tumblr post so we can reblog. Don’t forget to tag your post #hoathemeweek so it’s easier to find!

What kind of fanwork will I be able to submit?

Any genre (fics, digital art, traditional, vids, collages, etc) is good, as long as it’s something that can be posted.

Are NSFW submissions accepted?

Honestly, being the happy bunch of horny feral rats that we are, we're looking forward to any kind of smut/erotica/porn. We only ask that 1) you tag responsibly 2) if your art is nsfw, post it with a preview, and hide the full view under the cut/read more. Alternatively, you can put it up on a different platform and simply link it in your Tumblr post.

What are you going to do with all the fan works submitted for this event?

Reblog them, tag them, and link to them in a single post so they can be displayed for everyone's viewing/reading/listening pleasure.

Can I make a suggestion?

Yes, you can. I'm personally new at this, so all constructive input regarding the organization of this event is welcome. Feel free to use the Ask for any suggestions or questions (which we'll probably add to the FAQ).

Anything else I should know?

A few more things to come, stay tuned.

And please, send your one word prompts! We look forward to reading them.

[thewolfmanny]

hello sinners, i finally got off my ass and pulled something together for @supermassivebigbang and hoa theme week. today’s theme is domesticity~ more thoughts, full image of bruised bottom maid jason, and a link to the full image of the OTHER maid jason + special hairy guest below the cut

you find the rest of their good time at my twitter here

i’m gonna say this takes place in my home with you universe, because that’s where all the kinky sex is happening. also, i’m in love with the idea of jason having to clean up after salim, cuz this divorced dilf doesn’t know how to fucking do his laundry on a regular basis except sometimes jason doesn’t do house chores to make a point (or just to be a brat) and he’s gotta be shown what happens when you misbehave 8)

[aislinnsulien]

Wednesday, March 30th: INSECURITIES

Salim the lovebirb: *insecure*

Jason the lovebirb: BUT YOU MY SNACKSNACK 😍

Salim the lovebirb: 😊😊😊

(this was, in its entirety, done for and inspired by my muse @kolchekyourweapons who makes my days brighter simply by screaming at me)

[erzsebetrosztoczy]

Domesticity

Jalim fic

"Jason, are you coming already?" Salim shouted, turning back to the living room from the kitchen counter.

"A minute Sugar!" He heard Jason's voice from upstairs, right before something rattled above. Salim shot an unsure look to the stairs, wondering what idea might have gotten his husband, but after a moment he turned back, cutting potatoes. 

"Dinner won't make itself…" He mumbled to himself. "I was the one doing breakfast too…" 

In the oven, a golden brown chicken was getting its well earned tanning-time, slowly but surely the Basra soup was heating up with the spices. 

Salim originally planned a simple meal for dinner, maybe just some soup or meat, but Jason insisted on making multiple dishes, because he wanted to learn more recipes from Salim.  

“He was the one who wanted to cook, now who’s actually making everything?” Salim continued his little rambing to the potatoes on the counter.

Shortly after he was done with the vegetables Salim heard the quick footsteps of the younger man, almost jumping down from  the stairs.

He looked back above his shoulders and saw the American, smiling like an idiot, holding a bottle of champagne up. 

Lowering his gaze Salim shot an annoyed look at the younger man. 

“What’s that for?” He asked, knife pointing at the glass. “You know that–”

“I got some kiddo champaign.” Jason explained, his voice low and sweet, which made Salim’s heart ache. “It’s not like the real stuff, but if I’m determined enough I can still get drunk even from this.” He added with a chuckle, stepping closer to the Iraqi.

Salim turned back to the cutting board, while Jason placed the glass beside them, hooking one arm around his lover's waist. 

“Ready for duty, Lieutenant.” Jason sneaked up beside Salim, hips touching, he tightened his hold on the older man for a moment, kissing him on the cheek. 

“Glad to hear it, because the soup needs more seasoning and you can start chopping some onions.”

“Wasn’t here for half an hour and ya already wanna make me cry?” 

“You did this to yourself Jarhead.” Salim grinned, watching Jason huffing as he searched for another knife. 

“Ya know I’ll put on some music, this silence will kill me, with the onion chopping.” He said, jogging back to the living room. A few moments later a melody filled the room with jingling and a slow guitar play. 

Salim tilted his head up, listening closely to the song; to Jason’s humming. 

“I think I know this song.” He pondered. 

Jason came back to his side, standing at the counter, but the slight swaying of his torso let Salim know, his husband was already distracted from cooking. 

“...from the day on I made a vow…” Jason sang quietly; shoulder inching closer and closer to Salim’s warm skin. “I’ll be there when you want me some way, somehow.” 

When the next line came, Salim caught himself mumbling the words along with Jason. 

“‘Cause baby, there ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough, ain’t no river wide enough…” 

As Jason said the words he turned to Salim, gently taking his knife holding hand, leaving the vegetables. He brought the older man’s hand to his face, soft lips grazing the skin on his knuckles as he mumbled into the warm flesh. 

 “To keep me from getting to you, baby.” 

Salim only saw Jason’s brown eyes, the tenderness and adoration in them, as he pulled him from the counter to the wider ally, one hand holding Salim’s, the other on his middle, he pressed the older man to his chest, leading him on the beat. One leg, then another, then another, swaying, and spinning to the music.

“.. My love is alive, way down in my heart, although we are miles apart.” Jason leaned down to Salim’s shoulder, pressing his forehead under the Iraqis jaw. Salim almost melted to the gesture right there, his arms locking around Jason’s neck. “If you ever need a helping hand I'll be there on the double, just as fast as I can…Don’t you know…” 

Salim leaned back, hands rising to cup Jason’s face as he murmured into his lips.

“ That there ain’t no mountain high enough, ain’t no valley low enough, ain’t no river wide enough to keep me from getting to you, baby. I love you Jason.” He whispered, tilting his head for a final kiss, gently holding Jason’s head, as he kissed back. 

“And I love you, Salim.” Declared the younger man, smiling into the kiss. “Now let’s get back to work, before the dinner is officially burnt to coals.” 

“Good idea Jarhead.” Salim nodded, giving another peck at last, before they turned back to the kitchen. Maybe Salim won’t be so angry at Jason, for being late from helping, after all.