fic: asylum (I will not take these things for granted, anymore) (part five of five)
And part five. In which Michael takes his role very seriously, James enjoys this fact, happy endings and delicious coffee exist, and this whole epic story comes, pun intended, to a close. More or less. For now. Thank you again; it's been a glorious adventure...and the next one will be, too... *grin*
Title: Asylum (I Will Not Take These Things For Granted, Anymore) (part five of five) (part four here) (part three here) (part two here) (part one here)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: explicit sex, D/s dynamics, mention of non-con in the past, healing, wedding-day emotions
Word Count: 24,722 total; 5,341 for this part
Disclaimers: boys’re not mine, only doing this out of excitement and affection. Title from Toad The Wet Sprocket’s “I Will Not Take These Things For Granted”: how can I hold the part of me that only you can carry/ it needs a strength I haven't found/ but if it's frightening, I'll bear the cold/ and on the telephone you offer warm asylum/ I'm listening/ music in the bedroom, laughter in the hall…
Summary: James and Michael, the wedding day and wedding night, after everything, at last; happy endings that are real, and deserved.
Notes: The last one, finally, of the Epic Universe of Porn and Hurt/Comfort and Emotions and everything else too. Thank you, thank you, to everyone who’s stuck with this ’verse, from the beginning when I’d no idea what it’d eventually turn into, through the brutal first stories of the Continuation, all the way to this happy ending. This is for you: thank you. (And, you never know-there might be snippets in this ’verse, from time to time, if requests or the ideas turn up. It’ll be hard to leave them behind, even with the next Epic Thing on the horizon…)
He traced the outline of that invitingly tight space with one finger, but didn’t push. Yet. “James?”
Another breath of sound; but it might’ve been unconnected to the question, simple reaction to the impression of words in the air.
“You can hear me, can’t you? My voice?”
A blink, this time. Michael wasn’t certain what that was supposed to mean. “James,” he tried. “I need you to tell me. At least-nod, please, if you can hear me?”
James blinked again, eyes refocusing enough to find his. Then smiled, heartstoppingly beautiful, and nodded, once.
“Thank you,” Michael said, and then stopped for a second to gather all his self-control back up into a properly dominant attitude. James wanted that, from him; he wanted that too, that drawn-out delayed release, the self-command that would let him focus on James, push his husband-his husband! said a tiny gleeful voice at the back of his mind-to those spectacular heights, shimmering undiscovered peaks.
And also he’d have to not stop and repeat those particular wonderful words too often. They were distracting. They made him just want to sit there and grin. At James, his husband.
His, he thought, one more time. All right, then.
“I told you once that I’d do anything I wanted to, to you, in the bedroom. And you agreed. Anything, you said. Whether I want to make you wait, until you’re begging me to take you, begging for release…or if, and I think you should be paying attention to this one…” Not that James could, exactly, at this moment; but he’d also said that he could still hear the words. Liked being talked to.
So Michael would talk to him. Every time.
“…if I want to watch you come, over and over. Screaming my name, I believe I said.” James quivered everywhere, head to toe, at that. Full-body tremors, as if the voice, the promise, were nearly enough to push him over on their own.
“The screaming…that’s up to you. Anything you feel like, love. But I am going to make you come. For me, on my fingers, from me fucking you, James, until you come for me, and again, and again, until you can’t, until you’re sobbing my name, until you beg me…” He wouldn’t, in reality. At least not the last one of those. But James did like the voice; they both knew that.
“It is our wedding night, after all. I think that calls for…indulgence. Don’t you?” He demonstrated that one with the first push of fingers against that slick little bud, as James whimpered and moaned and responded so beautifully for him, muscles fluttering and giving way to penetration. Slow. Inexorable. Inch by inch, listening to all the ragged sounds, tiny panting noises and pleas for more.
More, because James wanted it. Two fingers, stroking inside him, working to stretch him wide, exposed and wet with lube and displayed for decadent enjoyment.
And then, to highlight the ecstasy with a touch of exquisite frustration, the chiaroscuro of desire and denial, he slid the fingers away, barely resting inside. Stopped, not moving.
James breathed in, twisted yearningly, tried to ask; Michael kept him waiting, and watched those lips move, shaping words, sounds, Michael’s name and please, please, sir, I need to, need you, sir…
He plunged the fingers back in. James cried out, voice desperate and cracking, body opening up around his hand, no resistance at all.
“So beautiful,” Michael told him, and then slipped the hand out, repositioned, one more long finger. Three, now, keeping James full and stretched around him.
He found that spot. The spot that made James gasp and go rigid, jerking helplessly against him. Drips of sticky wetness were pooling over that freckled stomach, leaking from James’s cock, drawn tense and likely aching for relief, that low dull throb of pleasurable pain, by now.
He flicked his fingers over that electric bundle of nerves-those hips arched up into his hand-and then did it again, and again, until James was sobbing with need, not begging out loud any longer, all instinct and craving and need.
“I want you,” he said, to those splendidly inarticulate eyes, “to come when I tell you to. Not before, not after. On command, James. For me.”
James shuddered again, everywhere, hips pushing back against his hand; but Michael knew he was listening, because there was a very faint outline of a yes, sir in the air, sketched by bitten-red lips.
“Good,” he agreed, and crooked fingers again at that specific angle, and stroked-vigorously, because James needed that, they needed that, past all the scar tissue, the new roughnessnes and smooth places and sensitive spots that they’d been relearning together-until James squeezed his eyes shut, hiding the blue, and water-droplets glittered in long eyelashes like crystal.
“James,” Michael said, and then, when James opened eyes like wet sapphires and focused on him without waiting for the spelling-out of the order, “I love you. I love you, I want you to come for me, like this, now.”
James did scream his name, after all, at the peak.
And then collapsed, shaking, into the bed, eyes closed.
Michael reached over with his free hand. Closed fingers around James’s dripping cock; stroked there, too. James made a sound he’d never heard before, a kind of high-pitched helpless cry, and jerked straining hips up into the touch, and a few final pulses of white spattered across the freckles, painting pale skin with erotic splashes of heat.
When Michael traced an inquisitive finger over that shining tip, the response was more like a real sob, oversensitive now, pain beginning to outweigh the pleasure. James didn’t say no, or ask him to stop, but Michael took the hands away regardless and got up and found a washcloth and warm water and cleaned him, very gently, while James trembled softly with aftershocks, with release, with unthinking bliss, and let out uncomprehending tiny noises every time Michael’s hands, or the surface of the cloth, brushed tingling skin.
He stretched out beside all the exhausted freckles, after. Trailed fingers over the closest cheek. James hadn’t been talking, still wasn’t talking; Michael wasn’t worried yet, but might be soon.
“James,” he whispered, leaning over to nudge that beloved nose with his. “Are you awake?”
James blinked, startlement at finding another face millimeters away actually making it past the weariness. Then smiled; and Michael’s heart skipped a beat, performing one joyful somersault in reply. “Yes, sir.”
“Are you…all right?”
The blue eyes went all dark and thoughtful, for a pair of heartbeats, and then James said “Yes, sir?” again.
“Stop,” Michael said, “just for a second, please,” and kissed him, before any insidious doubt could worm its cold way in. “Use my name, if you need to say something, there. And tell me again. Please.”
The smile hovered behind all the jewel-blue brightness, sweet and satisfied, when James kissed him back. “I’m all right. I promise. Michael.”
“Yes?”
“No,” James said, “you asked me to say your name,” and then started laughing, brilliant, exhilarated, worn out and lovely, and then put both arms around him and hid his face in Michael’s neck, for a while.
“Shh,” Michael whispered, and offered a careful backrub, soothing, reaffirming, sketching lopsided circles and parabolas over all the clusters of colorful freckles, nutmeg and ginger and gold and cream, dancing in farflung spirals under his touch. “You’re all right, we’re all right, you’re here, I’m here, I love you…”
The words didn’t matter as much as the tone. As his presence, anchoring them to the world, this bed, the antique wood and honey-hued light, and the satin of the sheets.
“-love you,” James whispered back, after a minute, into his chest.
“I know. Better?”
“Yes. That was…you were…”
“Good?” Michael suggested, just to hear that laugh again.
“I don’t think that entirely covers it…”
“Oh…I think it does. For now.”
“For now?”
“You didn’t think we were done, did you?” And then, when James just lay there and stared at him, “I did tell you what I had in mind, you know.”
“You-” James said, eyes huge. “You were-you were serious. Oh god.”
“Still me,” Michael said, and ran a hand down to cup the curves of that delectable backside, still hot to his exploratory caress. “Are you all right with that?
“With you not being a deity? I think I can live with that, yes.”
“Seriously, please.”
“Seriously yes, then.” James shook hair out of his eyes, stretched out one leg, curled it up again. “Anything you want, with me, you said. Until I beg you to stop. Ah…that part of it wasn’t honestly-”
“No, it wasn’t.” He found James’s throat, with a fingertip. Felt the cadence of a pulse, speeding up again, just above the clinging black line of the collar. “Does this hurt?” This, or anything else.
“No. I…might…oh.”
“You might like it?” He’d tested something new, this time: his hand wrapping around the back of James’s neck, heavy possessive weight over the leather. His own heart had sped up, too, thumping madly beneath his ribcage. He’d been so cautious, they’d been so cautious, about anyone’s hands reaching for James, there… “James?”
Those summer-ocean eyes blinked at him, from very far off, and then James said, sounding somewhat dazed, “Yes, sir?”
“Is that a question, or are you answering me? Do you…” He tightened the grip, fractionally. Not enough to hurt, not ever. Only letting James feel the pressure. “…like this?”
“Yes.” Practically a gasp. “Yes, sir-Michael-”
“And you…” He hesitated. Uncertain how to ask that question, if James didn’t think of it himself. “Is this…not physically, I mean…”
“You want to know if I’m all right.” One more slow blink, eyelashes sweeping like tumultuous clouds over blue-black seas. “If I…if there might be…memories.”
“Yes. James-yes.”
“There might be. But this…this is you.” James looked at him, all unshakeable confidence and unmistakable desire. “Your hands, on me. I like your hands on me, sir.”
“You said,” Michael said, after a minute, “you wanted me to tie you up. That first time. Can I…”
“Yes, please.” James stretched out on the bed, amid all the reckless pillow-scatterings. Lifted arms over his head, and waited. Michael sprinted across the room, dove into their bags, came back with the silk scarves that’d made James laugh earlier, luxurious onyx-black and midnight-blue.
When he finished securing James to the headboard-the delicately carved mermaids proved astoundingly convenient in this regard, outstretched arms holding restraints as if they were meant for that purpose-he tucked the spare ends, whisper-fine fabric, into James’s fingers. James smiled again, quick and wistful, acknowledging the gesture: he could let go, if he needed to, and the knots would slide free.
“I love you,” Michael told him, looking down at those eyes, that hair, spread out over the sheets, white linen and dark waves and sea-spray gaze; and James tipped his head to one side and breathed a kiss into the air, minus the use of hands, from inches away.
“Is that a suggestion,” Michael said, cheerfully, and then, while James was visibly trying to figure out what to answer, slid down the bed and took the length of him into his own mouth, lips and tongue and teeth; stopped to look up and say, “This time I want you to come when you need to, you don’t need to ask me, and by when I mean whenever you need to, all right,” and then went back to what he’d been doing, plus two fingers working their way into that sensitive space, where muscles remained loose and slick and easily entered with a single thrust.
James, given this openended permission, came almost instantly, gasping and crying his name, hips snapping upwards as Michael swallowed him down, every last burst of orgasm. Too fast, really, Michael decided, and promptly tied his ankles down, too, for the next round. Patience, in the face of overwhelming desire, was a virtue, after all.
After the third earthshattering climax, James was moaning at every touch, every flick of fingers over his skin, his empty cock, wrung dry now but still twitching helplessly when Michael touched him. He tried to curl up in the bed, whimpering, when Michael kissed his stomach; the restraints kept him in place, and Michael wondered briefly whether he remembered that he could free himself, or if he’d forgotten, or if he simply didn’t know anymore.
“James,” he murmured, fingers brushing over swollen lips, the redness a memento of searing kisses, of James’s own biting into them in uncontrolled ecstasy. “Still here?”
He got a little hum of gratification in reply; James opened his mouth and nibbled at Michael’s fingers, from somewhere far away and rainbow-hued and saturated with sensation.
“Good. I want to ask you something. Can you answer me?”
There was an extended lack of reaction, at that, and Michael almost gave in to the abrupt icy fear-too much, too far, too fast, and he needed James to be capable of consent, always-but then he saw the nod, and that was real, even if it did appear that James was having to think about each movement.
“I know you’re tired. I know I’ve pushed you. And you’ve done so well, love, everything I’ve asked…” James breathed in, just once, at the compliment; he couldn’t tell whether that was the old deeply-buried streak of self-doubt surfacing now, or genuine acceptance of Michael’s conviction, comprehension of the truth of the words. But he hoped it was the latter. Thought that maybe it was. “Can I ask you for one more thing? If you say yes?”
He was kneeling over James; he leaned forward, let James feel the length and breadth and weight of his own arousal, throbbing between them, rocking up to make those desires incontrovertibly known. “I’d like to come inside you, love. Like this, with you like this, so beautiful, opened wide for me and wet and probably a little sore, and I’m sorry, I’ll be gentle, I swear, James, but I want to feel you like this when I come. You letting me have this, have you. Mine.”
James whimpered, eyes closing; tried to move his legs, ankles tugging against the bonds. Michael wove a hand through his hair, then down to the collar, and curled one finger through black leather, a reminder: possession, but also security. He was here. Holding on.
“I need you to tell me.” He rubbed his cock along James’s hip again. So good, even that brief indulgence; and if James said no he could get off just like this anyway, himself kneeling over James’s exhausted body, covered with the visible marks of ownership, the sticky-sweet residue of orgasms, the scents of salt and skin and themselves.
But he did want to feel that body around him, when the climax came.
And he had to ask.
James swallowed. Breathed, “Michael,” tartan-folds of that glowing voice almost worn into nonexistence.
“Good,” Michael whispered back, “good, yes, thank you, I know it’s hard, thank you for talking to me,” and kissed him again, on the lips, less erotic and more tender, for the effort.
“You…want me to decide? I can’t…”
“Yes, you can. It’s always up to you.”
“I can’t,” James whispered, voice cracking. “Sir. I’m yours, please, I can’t-I can’t tell you what to do, not now, please-”
“Oh,” Michael said, swiftly, and kissed him again. “No. I’m not asking you to tell me what to do. I know you don’t want that. I’m only asking you to say yes, or no. All right?”
He waited. James breathed. In, and out. Then, unexpectedly, said, “Legs, please.”
“What-oh, no, fuck, sorry, sorry, here-” He could barely breathe, himself, looking at James after. Oh god. Oh, god. “Is that-are you-I’m so sorry-”
“Michael,” James murmured, and he must’ve been shaking, because he felt himself go still at the butterfly kiss of those fingers on his cheek.
Fingers?
“Did you-you let go of the-are you all right?”
“Yes,” James said, simply, straightforwardly, hands running up and down his back now, finding his shoulders, pulling him closer. “I am. I only wanted to feel you, for this, sir.”
“You-wait, you aren’t-”
“I’m spectacular. I want you to fuck me. I want your hands on me, and I want you to come inside me, so that I can feel you, all of you, filling me. I want you spilling out of me when I move, and covering me with you, and kissing me when you fuck me, so hard I’ll feel it for days. I love you. Sir.”
“…oh god,” Michael said, weakly.
James wrapped a newly freed leg around his waist, and added, “Please,” and Michael’s last shreds of self-control imploded. James was fine. More than fine. Absolutely obscenely erotically perfect.
And he wanted it all, too.
“You want me to make you feel it,” he said, hearing the scrape of his own voice, low and intense, “and I want you to,” and then grabbed both of James’s wrists and pinned them to the bed, on the bare mattress because all the pillows had fallen off somewhere, and positively reveled in the consequent thrilled gasp.
He shoved James’s legs up and apart, not that they needed much coaxing, and lined their bodies up; glanced one more time at beckoning blue eyes, and then thrust. Hard, as requested.
James cried his name, luscious accent splintering and fraying over the syllables as Michael took him, cock buried deep in unresisting heat; when Michael grabbed his hips and lifted, finding that angle, the voice dissolved into wordless sobs and pants of rapture. The next time he moved, the noise was nearly a scream, James’s wrists twisting in his grasp, not trying to escape but asking for more, the sensation of Michael’s body against his, holding him.
He caught one of those hands. Then the other, and the closest scarf, and got those wrists bound together without looking, which he’d count among his better accomplishments, later. Right now he needed his fingers.
He withdrew, sparking a moan of complaint, deprivation, need; plunged back in, feeling all those muscles surrender and give way. James made that sound again, almost a scream but too hoarse and broken for that, and Michael reached up and laid fingers, firmly but kindly, across his mouth.
James stopped panting, shocked. Went very still. Michael stopped everything, too, and tried not to think about the enormity of what he’d just asked for, tried to only think about James and not the rush of his own trepidation and desire, thundering in his ears.
And then James smiled-he could feel the curve of lips, against his hand-and looked right at him, deliberately. And nodded.
“You’re so fucking incredible,” Michael said, “honestly, you are, I love you, so much,” and then moved again, himself inside James, and incredible was the right word, because he got to have this, because James wanted to give him even this, because they were married and they were in love and the whole damn universe was perfect, unbelievably so.
He wasn’t cutting off all of James’s air, not quite, he couldn’t bring himself to do that, but the tiny gulps James could manage wouldn’t be enough, either, not with all the other sensations, overwhelming and concentrated and ceaseless. He pressed the fingers over those lips a bit more decisively, the gold of his ring shining up at them, and James tried and failed to inhale, behind his hand, and then shivered all over at the physical recognition of that fact.
And that motion, the expression in blue eyes at that realization, the unquestioning love and trust and submission and joy, exploded through him like the exuberance of fireworks, and he’d meant to make it last longer but suddenly he was right there, and those fireworks were racing along his spine and down to his toes and turning the whole world into prisms of light, and he felt himself coming deep inside James. Who moaned, under his hand, Michael’s collar around his neck, and tightened impossibly around him, exquisite slick clenching that pulled the last drops out of him with a groan.
For a while, he just clung to James, in the wreckage of the bed, both of them sweaty and sticky and shivering, and tried to recall how to get his lungs to work, through the fading eruptions.
James. Yes. Who wasn’t talking, though Michael had at least remembered to move the hand, in the immediate aftermath. Who wasn’t moving, either, wrists still bound by Michael’s hasty disaster of a knot, legs tangled up with his, head on his shoulder, eyes invisible. Breathing too fast.
“James,” he panted, and pushed himself up on elbows, and then cradled the closest cheek in one hand, awkwardly rubbing his thumb across tear-marked freckles. “James. Love. Please.”
James sighed, barely perceptible, and nuzzled his face into Michael’s hand.
“Okay. Okay, don’t move, you don’t have to…” As he slid out, James’s legs fell open across the bed; a trickle of wetness, himself, the lube, the intimate reminders of everything they’d just done, followed, limning the pink and silver streaks of old wounds.
Michael swallowed. Felt the lump in his throat, his heart: so sweet it was painful, heartbreakingly right. After everything, this was right.
He unfastened James’s wrists, after a few complicated seconds of puzzling over his own knot-tying prowess. Fortunately the scarf was cooperative, and James pliant, enough that he didn’t have to unravel it completely. Might be a problem for later; not for now.
He touched James’s face again. “Can you sit up?”
This earned a small headshake; “Okay,” Michael said again, and slid down on the bed and held him, simply held him, until the trembling, both visible and not, went away. Arms, and legs, and his own body as a grounding-point; kite-strings, he thought again, drawing James back down.
Eventually he heard the faint exhale, the sound that was next-door to his name, winging its way over bare skin, flying between them. He kissed James’s forehead, softly. “Back, yet?”
Another sigh, this one containing a slight hint of amusement. “I think so…” One more quick shiver, though, belying the words; Michael draped a leg over his hips, extra anchorage if needed, and sensed more than saw the answering smile.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Oh…still?”
“Mmm…for now.” James repositioned that head against his chest, yawned, closed his eyes. “Love you.”
“Love you.” He let his hand wander down to reddened curves, experimentally. James didn’t object at first, but winced, noticeably, at the first hint of pressure. “Sorry. Is this…”
“…that bad? No. I’m only not used to it, anymore…I could be used to it again, sir. Oh-did you want me to use your name? Sorry…”
“No,” Michael murmured, gazing down at all the hair, the sleepy eyes, the bravery, “anything you want, love, ever,” which James might or might not’ve heard, falling fulfilled and sated into sleep.
Michael put both arms around him, and closed his own eyes, and didn’t quite sleep-he’d have to get them up, should get James into the shower, at some point-but allowed himself to drift, thinking about dreams and lost-and-found gloves and perfectly matched other halves.
James, by the time they finally got to the shower-once Michael’d caught a glimpse of the time and run through a few choice profanities in his head, especially after that spontaneous gasp when James first tried to sit up-seemed to’ve forgotten how to talk. Silence, despite a flash of luminous smile when Michael’s arms supported him; silence when Michael asked whether he was all right, whether anything hurt, his throat or otherwise.
James nodded emphatically to the first question, shook his head at the second, and just shrugged a little, smiling faintly, and leaned into Michael’s taller strength, under the cloud of cleansing water and heat.
It might’ve been the collar, he thought. James had parted those lips, about to speak, when he’d unfastened it, stripped it off. Hadn’t said anything after all, had only lifted one hand to discover naked skin, eyes full of some indecipherable emotion.
“Too fast?” he’d asked, because that happened, he knew it did, and he could leave a hand on a wrist or a foot pinning James’s to the floor if necessary, to let him surface more slowly, no perils of changing pressure too soon.
James had shrugged again, with both expressive eyebrows; nodded, but only after seeming to think about the question for longer than usual. Then had picked up Michael’s hand, the one that’d been over his mouth, and kissed it.
“I’m happy,” he tried now, in case that was what was going through that head. “I don’t think I said. After, I mean. That last time. You were…that was…I did say incredible. For me, too, you know that, right? It was. You were. You always are, you’re so good, for me, but that was…I love you, James.”
James smiled at him once more for that. Then dropped to his knees, and Michael’s first instinct was to reach down and help; and then he felt hands on his skin and figured out that James had also taken the soap.
“Oh…um. James? This is…new…”
The hands didn’t pause, occupied with soap and lather and cleaning Michael’s thigh. But James did look up, and the incandescent happiness in that expression took his breath away.
James blushed, still without saying anything, and went back to lavishing attention on a hairy calf.
“I…don’t normally spend that much time washing my ankles…” Testing; it worked, because James let out a small huff of amusement, and then leaned into his leg, kneeling on the shower tile with his cheek pressed against Michael’s hip, eyes closed and wet hair sneaking up over Michael’s skin as if it wanted to hold on too, under the steady fall of the shower’s rain. Michael put an arm around him, because it seemed natural, the right thing to do, and held him there.
Eventually, James lifted his head, left a kiss behind, imprint searing its way up to Michael’s heart. Looked up, and, when Michael held out a hand, let himself be tugged to his feet. “Thank you.”
“Me? I think you were the one washing every inch of me, just now. Are you…”
“Good. I love you.” James didn’t offer, and Michael didn’t ask for, the whys and the reasons. No need.
After the shower, soap-clean and scalded pink from the heat, he settled James in the closest chair, under a pile of blankets. James considered this gesture, eyes intrigued, hair drying in unlikely loops and crooked waves. “Not the bed?”
“Um. Hang on,” Michael said, and went to wrestle the sheets off and new ones on, with ruthless efficiency. James started to get up; Michael fixed him with a purposeful stare. “Don’t even think about it.”
“But-”
“I asked them to give us extra sheets for a reason. For this reason. Stay put.”
“You do like to plan ahead.”
“You like me planning ahead. I said stay put. You don’t need to help. Anyway, nearly done.”
“You’re impressively good at that. Are you trying to take care of me?”
“My father worked in a hotel. I know you know that. And…yes.”
“As a chef, you said. Nothing related to bedsheets, unless you were chasing the maids around. You don’t have to, but thank you.” James rested his chin on one hand, under a snowdrift heap of blanket-fluff. “I think I like this hotel. It likes you.”
“No comment about the maids. It likes you, too. Everything does. That pillow, the headboard, those curtains…” He came back over to James’s fabric-swathed throne. Offered both hands, knight to liege lord; James laughed, and took them.
“Oh, wait, one more thing, sorry-”
“There’s more? I’m already having the best day of-well, of my life. Ever. I love being married to you.” James sat up, adorable and rumpled and baffled, and a dandelion-wisp of lint-fuzz caught in a loop of hair. Of course even the blankets would hold on to him with all their might, Michael concluded, amused, entertained, in love. He opted not to mention the piece of fuzz.
“And I love being married to you. Here.” He’d stocked the room with certain amenities, earlier. Was gratified to discover that the single-cup coffee-maker did indeed work quickly. The scent of raspberries and cream and mocha filled the room.
“All right,” James said, taking the cup, “now I might love being married to you even more.”
“You taste like raspberries.”
“Not there I don’t. Don’t make me spill this; you made it for me, and I’m going to appreciate it. Every sip. Caffeine? Or not?”
“Not, actually. I thought…”
“…I might want some rest?” One more smile, an adventurous sunbeam somehow straying into their room in the depths of night, over the edge of the mug. “You do realize it’s already morning. Well into morning. Practically sunrise. Want to watch the sun rise, with me?”
“Always.” He joined James under the blankets, tucking the freckles in under his arm, at his side where they belonged. Ran his hand along the back of that neck, naked now, damp from the shower. Toyed with all that hair, loving the way it coiled pertly around his fingers. “But…if you were tired, if you are…”
“I’d tell you. You know that.”
“I know. I was just thinking…you did say you liked the hotel. And I know we’ve not-we haven’t spent much time out, away from-from home, and this is-we’re not that far away, we could go home any time, so if you wanted to we could…stay an extra day? Or two?”
James took another sip of decadent coffee, quietly.
“Or…you know, not. If you want to go home. Like we planned. It was just an idea. It was just-no, never mind, all right, I know hotels aren’t-”
“At least three.”
“…what?”
“Days,” James said, grinning, licking whipped cream from satisfied lips. “At least three. We’ve not even properly slept in this bed, yet, and it wants us to.”
“James-”
“Besides…I could get used to this. Hotel rooms, with you. That first hotel room, with you…I wonder if I’d still fit into any of the X-Men costumes, for the sequel…”
“For the-oh my god.”
“Not promising anything, and not any time soon. We’ll see how that first try goes. And this hotel room. But…”
“James,” Michael managed, through all the disbelieving shock, the astounded joy, “yes. You-this-the next three days, and everything, and I’ll be there with you, forever, you know that, and-and yes.”
“Well, then.” James put his head on Michael’s shoulder, contented and blanket-cradled, coffee secure in both hands, raspberry steam meandering idly up to flirt with dark eyelashes. “Forever.”
“That first hotel room,” Michael said, leaning his head to rest on top of his husband’s. “I should’ve just asked you that night.”
“Hmm?”
“I told you, back then, that I wanted you in my hotel room every night. In my bed every morning. So that you’d be the last thing I saw before I fell asleep, and the first thing I saw waking up, and also I’d want to make coffee for you every morning and hold you when you’re cold. And you know-you should know-that’s always going to be true, it was true then-I think I was proposing to you even then.”
“You barely knew me,” James observed, amusement rippling through the complex currents of that voice, eyes laughing up at him like merry oceans, “you’d not even told me you loved me, yet, back then…”
“Still,” Michael said, meaning it. And James met his gaze, through the skyward drifting swirl of heat and sweetness. Smiled, the warmth of it tangible everywhere, and said, “I mean it, too. Then, and now, and always. Yes.”
Title: Asylum (I Will Not Take These Things For Granted, Anymore) (part five of five) (part four here) (part three here) (part two here) (part one here)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: explicit sex, D/s dynamics, mention of non-con in the past, healing, wedding-day emotions
Word Count: 24,722 total; 5,341 for this part
Disclaimers: boys’re not mine, only doing this out of excitement and affection. Title from Toad The Wet Sprocket’s “I Will Not Take These Things For Granted”: how can I hold the part of me that only you can carry/ it needs a strength I haven't found/ but if it's frightening, I'll bear the cold/ and on the telephone you offer warm asylum/ I'm listening/ music in the bedroom, laughter in the hall…
Summary: James and Michael, the wedding day and wedding night, after everything, at last; happy endings that are real, and deserved.
Notes: The last one, finally, of the Epic Universe of Porn and Hurt/Comfort and Emotions and everything else too. Thank you, thank you, to everyone who’s stuck with this ’verse, from the beginning when I’d no idea what it’d eventually turn into, through the brutal first stories of the Continuation, all the way to this happy ending. This is for you: thank you. (And, you never know-there might be snippets in this ’verse, from time to time, if requests or the ideas turn up. It’ll be hard to leave them behind, even with the next Epic Thing on the horizon…)
He traced the outline of that invitingly tight space with one finger, but didn’t push. Yet. “James?”
Another breath of sound; but it might’ve been unconnected to the question, simple reaction to the impression of words in the air.
“You can hear me, can’t you? My voice?”
A blink, this time. Michael wasn’t certain what that was supposed to mean. “James,” he tried. “I need you to tell me. At least-nod, please, if you can hear me?”
James blinked again, eyes refocusing enough to find his. Then smiled, heartstoppingly beautiful, and nodded, once.
“Thank you,” Michael said, and then stopped for a second to gather all his self-control back up into a properly dominant attitude. James wanted that, from him; he wanted that too, that drawn-out delayed release, the self-command that would let him focus on James, push his husband-his husband! said a tiny gleeful voice at the back of his mind-to those spectacular heights, shimmering undiscovered peaks.
And also he’d have to not stop and repeat those particular wonderful words too often. They were distracting. They made him just want to sit there and grin. At James, his husband.
His, he thought, one more time. All right, then.
“I told you once that I’d do anything I wanted to, to you, in the bedroom. And you agreed. Anything, you said. Whether I want to make you wait, until you’re begging me to take you, begging for release…or if, and I think you should be paying attention to this one…” Not that James could, exactly, at this moment; but he’d also said that he could still hear the words. Liked being talked to.
So Michael would talk to him. Every time.
“…if I want to watch you come, over and over. Screaming my name, I believe I said.” James quivered everywhere, head to toe, at that. Full-body tremors, as if the voice, the promise, were nearly enough to push him over on their own.
“The screaming…that’s up to you. Anything you feel like, love. But I am going to make you come. For me, on my fingers, from me fucking you, James, until you come for me, and again, and again, until you can’t, until you’re sobbing my name, until you beg me…” He wouldn’t, in reality. At least not the last one of those. But James did like the voice; they both knew that.
“It is our wedding night, after all. I think that calls for…indulgence. Don’t you?” He demonstrated that one with the first push of fingers against that slick little bud, as James whimpered and moaned and responded so beautifully for him, muscles fluttering and giving way to penetration. Slow. Inexorable. Inch by inch, listening to all the ragged sounds, tiny panting noises and pleas for more.
More, because James wanted it. Two fingers, stroking inside him, working to stretch him wide, exposed and wet with lube and displayed for decadent enjoyment.
And then, to highlight the ecstasy with a touch of exquisite frustration, the chiaroscuro of desire and denial, he slid the fingers away, barely resting inside. Stopped, not moving.
James breathed in, twisted yearningly, tried to ask; Michael kept him waiting, and watched those lips move, shaping words, sounds, Michael’s name and please, please, sir, I need to, need you, sir…
He plunged the fingers back in. James cried out, voice desperate and cracking, body opening up around his hand, no resistance at all.
“So beautiful,” Michael told him, and then slipped the hand out, repositioned, one more long finger. Three, now, keeping James full and stretched around him.
He found that spot. The spot that made James gasp and go rigid, jerking helplessly against him. Drips of sticky wetness were pooling over that freckled stomach, leaking from James’s cock, drawn tense and likely aching for relief, that low dull throb of pleasurable pain, by now.
He flicked his fingers over that electric bundle of nerves-those hips arched up into his hand-and then did it again, and again, until James was sobbing with need, not begging out loud any longer, all instinct and craving and need.
“I want you,” he said, to those splendidly inarticulate eyes, “to come when I tell you to. Not before, not after. On command, James. For me.”
James shuddered again, everywhere, hips pushing back against his hand; but Michael knew he was listening, because there was a very faint outline of a yes, sir in the air, sketched by bitten-red lips.
“Good,” he agreed, and crooked fingers again at that specific angle, and stroked-vigorously, because James needed that, they needed that, past all the scar tissue, the new roughnessnes and smooth places and sensitive spots that they’d been relearning together-until James squeezed his eyes shut, hiding the blue, and water-droplets glittered in long eyelashes like crystal.
“James,” Michael said, and then, when James opened eyes like wet sapphires and focused on him without waiting for the spelling-out of the order, “I love you. I love you, I want you to come for me, like this, now.”
James did scream his name, after all, at the peak.
And then collapsed, shaking, into the bed, eyes closed.
Michael reached over with his free hand. Closed fingers around James’s dripping cock; stroked there, too. James made a sound he’d never heard before, a kind of high-pitched helpless cry, and jerked straining hips up into the touch, and a few final pulses of white spattered across the freckles, painting pale skin with erotic splashes of heat.
When Michael traced an inquisitive finger over that shining tip, the response was more like a real sob, oversensitive now, pain beginning to outweigh the pleasure. James didn’t say no, or ask him to stop, but Michael took the hands away regardless and got up and found a washcloth and warm water and cleaned him, very gently, while James trembled softly with aftershocks, with release, with unthinking bliss, and let out uncomprehending tiny noises every time Michael’s hands, or the surface of the cloth, brushed tingling skin.
He stretched out beside all the exhausted freckles, after. Trailed fingers over the closest cheek. James hadn’t been talking, still wasn’t talking; Michael wasn’t worried yet, but might be soon.
“James,” he whispered, leaning over to nudge that beloved nose with his. “Are you awake?”
James blinked, startlement at finding another face millimeters away actually making it past the weariness. Then smiled; and Michael’s heart skipped a beat, performing one joyful somersault in reply. “Yes, sir.”
“Are you…all right?”
The blue eyes went all dark and thoughtful, for a pair of heartbeats, and then James said “Yes, sir?” again.
“Stop,” Michael said, “just for a second, please,” and kissed him, before any insidious doubt could worm its cold way in. “Use my name, if you need to say something, there. And tell me again. Please.”
The smile hovered behind all the jewel-blue brightness, sweet and satisfied, when James kissed him back. “I’m all right. I promise. Michael.”
“Yes?”
“No,” James said, “you asked me to say your name,” and then started laughing, brilliant, exhilarated, worn out and lovely, and then put both arms around him and hid his face in Michael’s neck, for a while.
“Shh,” Michael whispered, and offered a careful backrub, soothing, reaffirming, sketching lopsided circles and parabolas over all the clusters of colorful freckles, nutmeg and ginger and gold and cream, dancing in farflung spirals under his touch. “You’re all right, we’re all right, you’re here, I’m here, I love you…”
The words didn’t matter as much as the tone. As his presence, anchoring them to the world, this bed, the antique wood and honey-hued light, and the satin of the sheets.
“-love you,” James whispered back, after a minute, into his chest.
“I know. Better?”
“Yes. That was…you were…”
“Good?” Michael suggested, just to hear that laugh again.
“I don’t think that entirely covers it…”
“Oh…I think it does. For now.”
“For now?”
“You didn’t think we were done, did you?” And then, when James just lay there and stared at him, “I did tell you what I had in mind, you know.”
“You-” James said, eyes huge. “You were-you were serious. Oh god.”
“Still me,” Michael said, and ran a hand down to cup the curves of that delectable backside, still hot to his exploratory caress. “Are you all right with that?
“With you not being a deity? I think I can live with that, yes.”
“Seriously, please.”
“Seriously yes, then.” James shook hair out of his eyes, stretched out one leg, curled it up again. “Anything you want, with me, you said. Until I beg you to stop. Ah…that part of it wasn’t honestly-”
“No, it wasn’t.” He found James’s throat, with a fingertip. Felt the cadence of a pulse, speeding up again, just above the clinging black line of the collar. “Does this hurt?” This, or anything else.
“No. I…might…oh.”
“You might like it?” He’d tested something new, this time: his hand wrapping around the back of James’s neck, heavy possessive weight over the leather. His own heart had sped up, too, thumping madly beneath his ribcage. He’d been so cautious, they’d been so cautious, about anyone’s hands reaching for James, there… “James?”
Those summer-ocean eyes blinked at him, from very far off, and then James said, sounding somewhat dazed, “Yes, sir?”
“Is that a question, or are you answering me? Do you…” He tightened the grip, fractionally. Not enough to hurt, not ever. Only letting James feel the pressure. “…like this?”
“Yes.” Practically a gasp. “Yes, sir-Michael-”
“And you…” He hesitated. Uncertain how to ask that question, if James didn’t think of it himself. “Is this…not physically, I mean…”
“You want to know if I’m all right.” One more slow blink, eyelashes sweeping like tumultuous clouds over blue-black seas. “If I…if there might be…memories.”
“Yes. James-yes.”
“There might be. But this…this is you.” James looked at him, all unshakeable confidence and unmistakable desire. “Your hands, on me. I like your hands on me, sir.”
“You said,” Michael said, after a minute, “you wanted me to tie you up. That first time. Can I…”
“Yes, please.” James stretched out on the bed, amid all the reckless pillow-scatterings. Lifted arms over his head, and waited. Michael sprinted across the room, dove into their bags, came back with the silk scarves that’d made James laugh earlier, luxurious onyx-black and midnight-blue.
When he finished securing James to the headboard-the delicately carved mermaids proved astoundingly convenient in this regard, outstretched arms holding restraints as if they were meant for that purpose-he tucked the spare ends, whisper-fine fabric, into James’s fingers. James smiled again, quick and wistful, acknowledging the gesture: he could let go, if he needed to, and the knots would slide free.
“I love you,” Michael told him, looking down at those eyes, that hair, spread out over the sheets, white linen and dark waves and sea-spray gaze; and James tipped his head to one side and breathed a kiss into the air, minus the use of hands, from inches away.
“Is that a suggestion,” Michael said, cheerfully, and then, while James was visibly trying to figure out what to answer, slid down the bed and took the length of him into his own mouth, lips and tongue and teeth; stopped to look up and say, “This time I want you to come when you need to, you don’t need to ask me, and by when I mean whenever you need to, all right,” and then went back to what he’d been doing, plus two fingers working their way into that sensitive space, where muscles remained loose and slick and easily entered with a single thrust.
James, given this openended permission, came almost instantly, gasping and crying his name, hips snapping upwards as Michael swallowed him down, every last burst of orgasm. Too fast, really, Michael decided, and promptly tied his ankles down, too, for the next round. Patience, in the face of overwhelming desire, was a virtue, after all.
After the third earthshattering climax, James was moaning at every touch, every flick of fingers over his skin, his empty cock, wrung dry now but still twitching helplessly when Michael touched him. He tried to curl up in the bed, whimpering, when Michael kissed his stomach; the restraints kept him in place, and Michael wondered briefly whether he remembered that he could free himself, or if he’d forgotten, or if he simply didn’t know anymore.
“James,” he murmured, fingers brushing over swollen lips, the redness a memento of searing kisses, of James’s own biting into them in uncontrolled ecstasy. “Still here?”
He got a little hum of gratification in reply; James opened his mouth and nibbled at Michael’s fingers, from somewhere far away and rainbow-hued and saturated with sensation.
“Good. I want to ask you something. Can you answer me?”
There was an extended lack of reaction, at that, and Michael almost gave in to the abrupt icy fear-too much, too far, too fast, and he needed James to be capable of consent, always-but then he saw the nod, and that was real, even if it did appear that James was having to think about each movement.
“I know you’re tired. I know I’ve pushed you. And you’ve done so well, love, everything I’ve asked…” James breathed in, just once, at the compliment; he couldn’t tell whether that was the old deeply-buried streak of self-doubt surfacing now, or genuine acceptance of Michael’s conviction, comprehension of the truth of the words. But he hoped it was the latter. Thought that maybe it was. “Can I ask you for one more thing? If you say yes?”
He was kneeling over James; he leaned forward, let James feel the length and breadth and weight of his own arousal, throbbing between them, rocking up to make those desires incontrovertibly known. “I’d like to come inside you, love. Like this, with you like this, so beautiful, opened wide for me and wet and probably a little sore, and I’m sorry, I’ll be gentle, I swear, James, but I want to feel you like this when I come. You letting me have this, have you. Mine.”
James whimpered, eyes closing; tried to move his legs, ankles tugging against the bonds. Michael wove a hand through his hair, then down to the collar, and curled one finger through black leather, a reminder: possession, but also security. He was here. Holding on.
“I need you to tell me.” He rubbed his cock along James’s hip again. So good, even that brief indulgence; and if James said no he could get off just like this anyway, himself kneeling over James’s exhausted body, covered with the visible marks of ownership, the sticky-sweet residue of orgasms, the scents of salt and skin and themselves.
But he did want to feel that body around him, when the climax came.
And he had to ask.
James swallowed. Breathed, “Michael,” tartan-folds of that glowing voice almost worn into nonexistence.
“Good,” Michael whispered back, “good, yes, thank you, I know it’s hard, thank you for talking to me,” and kissed him again, on the lips, less erotic and more tender, for the effort.
“You…want me to decide? I can’t…”
“Yes, you can. It’s always up to you.”
“I can’t,” James whispered, voice cracking. “Sir. I’m yours, please, I can’t-I can’t tell you what to do, not now, please-”
“Oh,” Michael said, swiftly, and kissed him again. “No. I’m not asking you to tell me what to do. I know you don’t want that. I’m only asking you to say yes, or no. All right?”
He waited. James breathed. In, and out. Then, unexpectedly, said, “Legs, please.”
“What-oh, no, fuck, sorry, sorry, here-” He could barely breathe, himself, looking at James after. Oh god. Oh, god. “Is that-are you-I’m so sorry-”
“Michael,” James murmured, and he must’ve been shaking, because he felt himself go still at the butterfly kiss of those fingers on his cheek.
Fingers?
“Did you-you let go of the-are you all right?”
“Yes,” James said, simply, straightforwardly, hands running up and down his back now, finding his shoulders, pulling him closer. “I am. I only wanted to feel you, for this, sir.”
“You-wait, you aren’t-”
“I’m spectacular. I want you to fuck me. I want your hands on me, and I want you to come inside me, so that I can feel you, all of you, filling me. I want you spilling out of me when I move, and covering me with you, and kissing me when you fuck me, so hard I’ll feel it for days. I love you. Sir.”
“…oh god,” Michael said, weakly.
James wrapped a newly freed leg around his waist, and added, “Please,” and Michael’s last shreds of self-control imploded. James was fine. More than fine. Absolutely obscenely erotically perfect.
And he wanted it all, too.
“You want me to make you feel it,” he said, hearing the scrape of his own voice, low and intense, “and I want you to,” and then grabbed both of James’s wrists and pinned them to the bed, on the bare mattress because all the pillows had fallen off somewhere, and positively reveled in the consequent thrilled gasp.
He shoved James’s legs up and apart, not that they needed much coaxing, and lined their bodies up; glanced one more time at beckoning blue eyes, and then thrust. Hard, as requested.
James cried his name, luscious accent splintering and fraying over the syllables as Michael took him, cock buried deep in unresisting heat; when Michael grabbed his hips and lifted, finding that angle, the voice dissolved into wordless sobs and pants of rapture. The next time he moved, the noise was nearly a scream, James’s wrists twisting in his grasp, not trying to escape but asking for more, the sensation of Michael’s body against his, holding him.
He caught one of those hands. Then the other, and the closest scarf, and got those wrists bound together without looking, which he’d count among his better accomplishments, later. Right now he needed his fingers.
He withdrew, sparking a moan of complaint, deprivation, need; plunged back in, feeling all those muscles surrender and give way. James made that sound again, almost a scream but too hoarse and broken for that, and Michael reached up and laid fingers, firmly but kindly, across his mouth.
James stopped panting, shocked. Went very still. Michael stopped everything, too, and tried not to think about the enormity of what he’d just asked for, tried to only think about James and not the rush of his own trepidation and desire, thundering in his ears.
And then James smiled-he could feel the curve of lips, against his hand-and looked right at him, deliberately. And nodded.
“You’re so fucking incredible,” Michael said, “honestly, you are, I love you, so much,” and then moved again, himself inside James, and incredible was the right word, because he got to have this, because James wanted to give him even this, because they were married and they were in love and the whole damn universe was perfect, unbelievably so.
He wasn’t cutting off all of James’s air, not quite, he couldn’t bring himself to do that, but the tiny gulps James could manage wouldn’t be enough, either, not with all the other sensations, overwhelming and concentrated and ceaseless. He pressed the fingers over those lips a bit more decisively, the gold of his ring shining up at them, and James tried and failed to inhale, behind his hand, and then shivered all over at the physical recognition of that fact.
And that motion, the expression in blue eyes at that realization, the unquestioning love and trust and submission and joy, exploded through him like the exuberance of fireworks, and he’d meant to make it last longer but suddenly he was right there, and those fireworks were racing along his spine and down to his toes and turning the whole world into prisms of light, and he felt himself coming deep inside James. Who moaned, under his hand, Michael’s collar around his neck, and tightened impossibly around him, exquisite slick clenching that pulled the last drops out of him with a groan.
For a while, he just clung to James, in the wreckage of the bed, both of them sweaty and sticky and shivering, and tried to recall how to get his lungs to work, through the fading eruptions.
James. Yes. Who wasn’t talking, though Michael had at least remembered to move the hand, in the immediate aftermath. Who wasn’t moving, either, wrists still bound by Michael’s hasty disaster of a knot, legs tangled up with his, head on his shoulder, eyes invisible. Breathing too fast.
“James,” he panted, and pushed himself up on elbows, and then cradled the closest cheek in one hand, awkwardly rubbing his thumb across tear-marked freckles. “James. Love. Please.”
James sighed, barely perceptible, and nuzzled his face into Michael’s hand.
“Okay. Okay, don’t move, you don’t have to…” As he slid out, James’s legs fell open across the bed; a trickle of wetness, himself, the lube, the intimate reminders of everything they’d just done, followed, limning the pink and silver streaks of old wounds.
Michael swallowed. Felt the lump in his throat, his heart: so sweet it was painful, heartbreakingly right. After everything, this was right.
He unfastened James’s wrists, after a few complicated seconds of puzzling over his own knot-tying prowess. Fortunately the scarf was cooperative, and James pliant, enough that he didn’t have to unravel it completely. Might be a problem for later; not for now.
He touched James’s face again. “Can you sit up?”
This earned a small headshake; “Okay,” Michael said again, and slid down on the bed and held him, simply held him, until the trembling, both visible and not, went away. Arms, and legs, and his own body as a grounding-point; kite-strings, he thought again, drawing James back down.
Eventually he heard the faint exhale, the sound that was next-door to his name, winging its way over bare skin, flying between them. He kissed James’s forehead, softly. “Back, yet?”
Another sigh, this one containing a slight hint of amusement. “I think so…” One more quick shiver, though, belying the words; Michael draped a leg over his hips, extra anchorage if needed, and sensed more than saw the answering smile.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Oh…still?”
“Mmm…for now.” James repositioned that head against his chest, yawned, closed his eyes. “Love you.”
“Love you.” He let his hand wander down to reddened curves, experimentally. James didn’t object at first, but winced, noticeably, at the first hint of pressure. “Sorry. Is this…”
“…that bad? No. I’m only not used to it, anymore…I could be used to it again, sir. Oh-did you want me to use your name? Sorry…”
“No,” Michael murmured, gazing down at all the hair, the sleepy eyes, the bravery, “anything you want, love, ever,” which James might or might not’ve heard, falling fulfilled and sated into sleep.
Michael put both arms around him, and closed his own eyes, and didn’t quite sleep-he’d have to get them up, should get James into the shower, at some point-but allowed himself to drift, thinking about dreams and lost-and-found gloves and perfectly matched other halves.
James, by the time they finally got to the shower-once Michael’d caught a glimpse of the time and run through a few choice profanities in his head, especially after that spontaneous gasp when James first tried to sit up-seemed to’ve forgotten how to talk. Silence, despite a flash of luminous smile when Michael’s arms supported him; silence when Michael asked whether he was all right, whether anything hurt, his throat or otherwise.
James nodded emphatically to the first question, shook his head at the second, and just shrugged a little, smiling faintly, and leaned into Michael’s taller strength, under the cloud of cleansing water and heat.
It might’ve been the collar, he thought. James had parted those lips, about to speak, when he’d unfastened it, stripped it off. Hadn’t said anything after all, had only lifted one hand to discover naked skin, eyes full of some indecipherable emotion.
“Too fast?” he’d asked, because that happened, he knew it did, and he could leave a hand on a wrist or a foot pinning James’s to the floor if necessary, to let him surface more slowly, no perils of changing pressure too soon.
James had shrugged again, with both expressive eyebrows; nodded, but only after seeming to think about the question for longer than usual. Then had picked up Michael’s hand, the one that’d been over his mouth, and kissed it.
“I’m happy,” he tried now, in case that was what was going through that head. “I don’t think I said. After, I mean. That last time. You were…that was…I did say incredible. For me, too, you know that, right? It was. You were. You always are, you’re so good, for me, but that was…I love you, James.”
James smiled at him once more for that. Then dropped to his knees, and Michael’s first instinct was to reach down and help; and then he felt hands on his skin and figured out that James had also taken the soap.
“Oh…um. James? This is…new…”
The hands didn’t pause, occupied with soap and lather and cleaning Michael’s thigh. But James did look up, and the incandescent happiness in that expression took his breath away.
James blushed, still without saying anything, and went back to lavishing attention on a hairy calf.
“I…don’t normally spend that much time washing my ankles…” Testing; it worked, because James let out a small huff of amusement, and then leaned into his leg, kneeling on the shower tile with his cheek pressed against Michael’s hip, eyes closed and wet hair sneaking up over Michael’s skin as if it wanted to hold on too, under the steady fall of the shower’s rain. Michael put an arm around him, because it seemed natural, the right thing to do, and held him there.
Eventually, James lifted his head, left a kiss behind, imprint searing its way up to Michael’s heart. Looked up, and, when Michael held out a hand, let himself be tugged to his feet. “Thank you.”
“Me? I think you were the one washing every inch of me, just now. Are you…”
“Good. I love you.” James didn’t offer, and Michael didn’t ask for, the whys and the reasons. No need.
After the shower, soap-clean and scalded pink from the heat, he settled James in the closest chair, under a pile of blankets. James considered this gesture, eyes intrigued, hair drying in unlikely loops and crooked waves. “Not the bed?”
“Um. Hang on,” Michael said, and went to wrestle the sheets off and new ones on, with ruthless efficiency. James started to get up; Michael fixed him with a purposeful stare. “Don’t even think about it.”
“But-”
“I asked them to give us extra sheets for a reason. For this reason. Stay put.”
“You do like to plan ahead.”
“You like me planning ahead. I said stay put. You don’t need to help. Anyway, nearly done.”
“You’re impressively good at that. Are you trying to take care of me?”
“My father worked in a hotel. I know you know that. And…yes.”
“As a chef, you said. Nothing related to bedsheets, unless you were chasing the maids around. You don’t have to, but thank you.” James rested his chin on one hand, under a snowdrift heap of blanket-fluff. “I think I like this hotel. It likes you.”
“No comment about the maids. It likes you, too. Everything does. That pillow, the headboard, those curtains…” He came back over to James’s fabric-swathed throne. Offered both hands, knight to liege lord; James laughed, and took them.
“Oh, wait, one more thing, sorry-”
“There’s more? I’m already having the best day of-well, of my life. Ever. I love being married to you.” James sat up, adorable and rumpled and baffled, and a dandelion-wisp of lint-fuzz caught in a loop of hair. Of course even the blankets would hold on to him with all their might, Michael concluded, amused, entertained, in love. He opted not to mention the piece of fuzz.
“And I love being married to you. Here.” He’d stocked the room with certain amenities, earlier. Was gratified to discover that the single-cup coffee-maker did indeed work quickly. The scent of raspberries and cream and mocha filled the room.
“All right,” James said, taking the cup, “now I might love being married to you even more.”
“You taste like raspberries.”
“Not there I don’t. Don’t make me spill this; you made it for me, and I’m going to appreciate it. Every sip. Caffeine? Or not?”
“Not, actually. I thought…”
“…I might want some rest?” One more smile, an adventurous sunbeam somehow straying into their room in the depths of night, over the edge of the mug. “You do realize it’s already morning. Well into morning. Practically sunrise. Want to watch the sun rise, with me?”
“Always.” He joined James under the blankets, tucking the freckles in under his arm, at his side where they belonged. Ran his hand along the back of that neck, naked now, damp from the shower. Toyed with all that hair, loving the way it coiled pertly around his fingers. “But…if you were tired, if you are…”
“I’d tell you. You know that.”
“I know. I was just thinking…you did say you liked the hotel. And I know we’ve not-we haven’t spent much time out, away from-from home, and this is-we’re not that far away, we could go home any time, so if you wanted to we could…stay an extra day? Or two?”
James took another sip of decadent coffee, quietly.
“Or…you know, not. If you want to go home. Like we planned. It was just an idea. It was just-no, never mind, all right, I know hotels aren’t-”
“At least three.”
“…what?”
“Days,” James said, grinning, licking whipped cream from satisfied lips. “At least three. We’ve not even properly slept in this bed, yet, and it wants us to.”
“James-”
“Besides…I could get used to this. Hotel rooms, with you. That first hotel room, with you…I wonder if I’d still fit into any of the X-Men costumes, for the sequel…”
“For the-oh my god.”
“Not promising anything, and not any time soon. We’ll see how that first try goes. And this hotel room. But…”
“James,” Michael managed, through all the disbelieving shock, the astounded joy, “yes. You-this-the next three days, and everything, and I’ll be there with you, forever, you know that, and-and yes.”
“Well, then.” James put his head on Michael’s shoulder, contented and blanket-cradled, coffee secure in both hands, raspberry steam meandering idly up to flirt with dark eyelashes. “Forever.”
“That first hotel room,” Michael said, leaning his head to rest on top of his husband’s. “I should’ve just asked you that night.”
“Hmm?”
“I told you, back then, that I wanted you in my hotel room every night. In my bed every morning. So that you’d be the last thing I saw before I fell asleep, and the first thing I saw waking up, and also I’d want to make coffee for you every morning and hold you when you’re cold. And you know-you should know-that’s always going to be true, it was true then-I think I was proposing to you even then.”
“You barely knew me,” James observed, amusement rippling through the complex currents of that voice, eyes laughing up at him like merry oceans, “you’d not even told me you loved me, yet, back then…”
“Still,” Michael said, meaning it. And James met his gaze, through the skyward drifting swirl of heat and sweetness. Smiled, the warmth of it tangible everywhere, and said, “I mean it, too. Then, and now, and always. Yes.”