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Jason hums absently to himself—his own, unique melody, blending the song his mother used to sing while doing dishes with the one Alfred hums, occasionally, in the kitchen, or whistles in the garden. Sauce bubbles in front of him. The scent of it tickles his nose, making his stomach gurgle inaudibly. He lifts the spoon to his mouth, tasting.
Hm.
Needs more spice.
He sets the spoon aside. Tim is perched on the counter, right in front of the spice cabinet. Jason arches a brow at him. “You plannin’ on movin’?”
He gets a small, cheeky smile. “No.”
Jason rolls his eyes—the effect ruined by the way his lips twitch—and steps between the spread of Tim’s knees, reaching around him. Tim moves his head just enough to let Jason open the cabinet door, shifting back into place as Jason rises up, one hand on Tim’s hip.
Their lips brush in a brief, fleeting kiss; breath mingling.
Jason finds what he’s looking for through memory alone. It’s not hard. He has a strict organization system for his spices, to his boyfriends’ endless amusement.
As soon as he lowers, he sets the cayenne aside in favor of splaying both hands on Tim’s sides, nudging Tim’s head back with his nose before kissing him again, on purpose this time. Tim’s hands bunch into the front of his apron—a silly, frilly thing Kon bought him as a joke but which has become one of Jason’s favorites. It pulls taut around Jason’s neck, the pressure making him melt, fingers tangling in Tim’s shirt.
Kon enters the kitchen. Jason is aware of it, distantly, his hind brain picking up on the distinctive sound of his step but categorizing it as a non-threat. Neither he nor Tim acknowledge it—not until Jason starts, a little, as Kon presses up against his back, strong arms locking around his waist.
He melts again immediately, sighing into Tim’s mouth as Kon kisses up the column of his neck, and as much of his jaw as he can reach.
Tim is the one to break away. Jason is breathless, a little weak in the knees, the solid press of a boyfriend on either side of him feeling like all that’s keeping him upright. Kon presses one more kiss behind his ear—and then he presses tighter against Jason’s back, pushing him further into Tim’s chest. Kon kisses Tim over his shoulder.
It’s a gorgeous sight.
They kiss lazily, like they’ve got all night; like Jason isn’t sandwiched between them. It’s— There's something… Jason doesn’t know if he can call it hot, because honestly, he thinks he’d be perfectly happy if it didn’t turn sexual at all, but—
There’s something appealing about that, about the idea of being held between them for hours, as they trade slow, lazy kisses over his head.
A thought to indulge later, maybe. If he finds the courage to ask for it.
When Kon and Tim finally break apart, Jason finds himself pulled into another kiss—this time by Kon, his torso twisting to make it easier. He’s got one hand fisted in Tim’s shirt—the other in Kon’s.
Tim is the one to kiss his neck, now, and everywhere else he can reach.
It’s overwhelming in the best of ways. Kon pulls away—and then there’s Tim again, stealing what little breath he has left.
Kon bites into his shoulder, worrying a mark there. Jason moans embarrassingly loud against Tim’s mouth. Tim grins, slipping his hands behind the apron and under Jason’s shirt to toy with the curls on his belly.
Jason’s head spins, dizzy with desire and the sweet, heady feeling of being loved. He sinks into it, into them—
A loud hiss breaks the reverie; all three of them tensing at the sudden sound. He flinches away from Tim, jerking his head toward the sound so quickly he hears his neck crack.
His sauce is splattering; droplets hissing and burning on the stove.
Jason swears. Fuck. He forgot about the sauce!