Fic: Memorial Day (NC-17, Jon/George/Anderson)

Author: linaerys
Title: Memorial Day
Characters: Jon Stewart/George Clooney/Anderson Cooper
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~1900
Disclaimer: This is TOTALLY FICTIONAL.
Notes: So bethynyc requested Anderson/Jon and I wrote this Untitled Ficlet, and she wanted sex, so here we are. Many thanks to lasergirl for beta services. Darling, where I didn't take your suggestions, it's only because I had to post this right away or lose the nerve.
Summary: I think NC-17 about sums it up, but there's a beach and some ice cream too.

“Well, this is awkward,” says George. “The last time I saw you, I was waking up in your bed on a big screen in front of three hundred million people.” He takes Jon’s jacket, and gives Anderson a quick kiss on the lips. They have similarly bow-shaped mouths that fit together beautifully.

“Well, aside from the blowjob at the Paramount party,” says Jon.

“Right, aside from that,” George deadpans. “I wouldn’t really call that seeing, so much as . . .” He puts his thumb and forefinger on his lips, and looks at Anderson. “It’s a joke, honey,” he says. Anderson doesn’t look like he thinks it’s very funny.

So that’s how it is, thinks Jon. Maybe that George and Brad stuff wasn’t all talk.

Their beach house is South of Bridgehampton on the less fashionable side, but there is a wide porch in front and one in back, and a sloping grass covered hill going down to the beach. The late afternoon sunlight filters in through the big plate-glass windows in the back, painting the room gold. George is wearing a polo shirt, loose khaki shorts and loafers that are falling apart. He looks relaxed with a beer in his hand, and he beckons for Jon and Anderson to follow him into the kitchen.

“Nice,” says Jon when he sees it, an old farmhouse-style kitchen retrofitted with the latest equipment. “Who cooks?”

Anderson and George look at each other and at the same time say, “he does,” and it’s so unbearably cute they have to kiss again.

George pulls covered platters out of the big stainless steel fridge and uncovers kebabs of huge shrimp separated by golden and red grape tomatoes.

“You’re not kosher, are you?” he asks, before putting the shrimp and steaks on the grill.

“I can tell you don’t watch the show,” says Jon.

“It could be an act,” says George, and Jon reminds himself dangerous this is for George, being here with Anderson, and maybe Jon is just here as the chaperone.

Anderson goes into the house to make the salad and hors d’oeuvres, but comes out every so often with snacks and things for George to taste. He feeds George little canapés that George eats off his fingers without a hint of self-consciousness. When they’re standing next to each other, Jon can see how slight Anderson is in comparison, features, hands, stature, everything more diminutive.

They sit on the back porch watching the sun set over calm water, drinking beer and Anderson and George compliment each other on their cooking. The salad Anderson made is something precious with walnuts and goat cheese in it, but at least it tastes at least as good as it looks.

They laugh at Jon’s jokes, not as much as he’d like, but instead of upping the ante, he starts talking less and listening more. George and Anderson don’t talk about work or politics, just little Hamptons things, like a new restaurant and how the tow planes for the gliding school keep flying too low and interrupting everyone’s naptime.

George and Anderson lean together as they drink more. They have Ben and Jerry’s in the freezer, but say that they’re saving it for after a walk down on the beach.

George cleans up the plates from dinner and Anderson fetches some blankets from the linen closet. “Did you bring the . . . ?” says George in an undertone to Anderson, who nods.

They all walk out to the beach, through the waist-high grass. The sun still sheds a slight purplish glow above the horizon. Anderson spreads out the blankets, and George takes out a joint, and they pass it around, as the darkness on the beach deepens even more.

Then George and Anderson start making out, and Jon has to watch, because when else is he going to get a chance to see this? They’re mind-bogglingly attractive men, and he likes thinking about them together, he wasn’t lying about that.

A breeze comes up the beach and makes him shiver in his shorts and button-down shirt, even though the scene in front of him should be plenty hot to keep him warm. Then George surprises him by leaning over and kissing him too. Jon’s too astonished to do anything.

“That’s why you came, isn’t it?” George asks. Jon shrugs. It’s not that the thought didn’t cross his mind, but it’s not one that seemed like it might actually happen.

“Yeah,” he says, pot and sex making him stupid. “All we need’s Bill Clinton,” he says, as if that joke was funny the first time around. Anderson rewards him with a smile, though.

A smile and a kiss of his own. His kiss is completely different from George’s, a kiss like he expects Jon to take the lead, and so Jon does. The smile that Anderson gives him with when he pulls away is totally different from any other he’s seen. Unlike George, Anderson usually keeps his languid, sensual smiles to himself.

George is a slut with them, though, and the smile he gives Jon is the same one he’s turned on thousands of adoring fans and movie-goers, thousands of times. He starts to understand Anderson’s jealousy a little more.

“There’s ice cream back at the house,” says George. He stands up and brushes the sand off of his khakis.

Anderson gives Jon a very readable, look, which says something like “he leads and we follow,” but he doesn’t verbalize anything as he stands up too, and gives Jon a hand. “See, I told you I was old,” says Jon as he stretches out his knees.

“You’re not doing too badly,” says George.

Jon thought ice cream might be just a ruse to get them off the beach and into the relatively sand-free sanctuary of a bed, but when they get into the house, George goes into the freezer and gets out the ice cream. “Wavy Gravy, or Cookie Dough?”

Jon giggles, because that’s what pot does to him. “Wavy Gravy does seem more appropriate,” he says.

“Just ‘cause you’re stoned,” says Anderson. He smiles like a little kid when he wants to, all teeth and good-will. “I say both.”

George inclines his head slightly. “Both it is.”

They do end up going upstairs to the bedroom that has a king bed and a plasma TV. George leaps on the bed and pats it for Jon and Anderson to sit down. He fans out the spoons like a deck of cards and Jon and Anderson each take one. George hits a button on the remote and Crosby, Stills and Nash’s “Woodstock” starts playing, music they were too young to remember when it was new.

George takes his shirt off, and he’s still looking pretty good, but Jon feels a little better about his baby belly knowing that those Syriana pounds aren’t coming off like he’d like.

Still, the music fits the mood, and they all sing along, more and less on key. George, it turns out, can’t carry a tune for shit.

“Would have been great to be doing something back then,” says George.

“Back when someone actually gave a flying fuck?” asks Jon. He doesn’t mean to, but pot makes him maudlin after the giggles pass.

“Someone does,” says Anderson. James Blunt’s “Out of My Mind” comes on next, and Anderson intones solemnly, “I’m a puppet, not a whore” along with the lyrics. Pot must make him maudlin too.

“Damn right,” says George. He feeds Anderson a bite of Wavy Gravy and then kisses him to get a taste of it. “Mmmm.” Then he’s tugging on Anderson’s shirt, and licking up his chest. He pulls Anderson’s shirt off entirely and starts putting ice cream the exposed skin.

Jon can guess what pot does to George. “Here, you have a taste, too,” says George, just as Jon starts to wonder if he’s the third wheel here. Making out on the beach is one thing; this is something different.

“I feel like I’m at a WASP buffet,” he says, and Anderson gives him a smile for that, and shrugs as if to say “what are you gonna do?” He doesn’t join George in licking Anderson off, but kisses Anderson instead, and the kiss gets long and involved.

They end up spilling the half melted ice cream all over the sheets, because George wants everyone to get a taste, and it’s a race to take off pants and socks before they get covered in chocolate and caramel. Jon’s high on sugar and endorphins when George pulls off the messy top sheet and blankets and puts them in a corner, and the sheet underneath is clean enough for anything else.

“You okay with this?” he asks Anderson under his breath while George is occupied with the bedding.

Anderson gives him a half-smile that borders on a smirk. “It was my idea,” he says. Jon makes an “O” with his mouth, and Anderson kisses him again, still tasting of chocolate.

“The Paramount party, huh?” says George, and Jon knows what’s on his mind. Jon looks at Anderson, who shrugs and makes shooing motions. Then he’s going down on George, while George and Anderson kiss some more, and Anderson plays with Jon’s hair. Good thing he doesn’t wear product on Fridays.

Anderson kisses him again, like he really wants to know what George’s come tastes like in Jon’s mouth. Good he guesses, because now it’s Anderson’s turn to suck on Jon as they lay crosswise on the king size bed. Anderson does something obscene to Jon’s nipple, before tugging off his pants and giving Jon a phenomenal blowjob made all the better by George sitting there and watching, like he’s never seen anything more fascinating.

Jon always knew he had some voyeuristic tendencies, and being a comedian, he supposed it shouldn’t have been a giant surprise that he has exhibitionist tendencies too, but it’s a bit of a shock when it’s meeting George’s dark eyes that gets him right to the edge. Then he watches Anderson’s pretty mouth on him to get him to the end, and that’s really hot too.

Anderson is still wearing his Nautica boxers, and that’s a shame, Jon thinks. It looks like George thinks the same thing, because he tugs them off. Jon gets to watch as he slowly and tenderly fucks him, all steady concentration and goofy faces that he doesn’t ever make on a big screen. Still, he knows he’s being watched, because his eyes meet Jon’s and he bites his lip—it’s a subtle performance, but still. Anderson looks like he’s in some kind of heaven; Jon’s in his line of vision but Anderson’s not even seeing him.

Then it’s over and they each take turns in the shower, washing off sand and sex and ice cream, and the music still plays in the background, segueing into Billie Holliday and Frank Sinatra. It’s a little too much, this Rat Pack thing, but George makes it work. Jon starts to look for the guest bedroom, but George says the bed is plenty big enough for all of them, and there’s fresh bedding in the linen closet. The sheets are white, thousand-count Egyptian cotton, just like the last set, bleached so you’d never see any ice cream that might have been on them.

It’s a good way to celebrate Memorial Day, thinks Jon as he settles off to sleep. George curls possessively around Anderson, and Jon knows he’s just a guest star, but sometimes, that’s the most fun.

End.