Two months after the worst day of his life, Wesley Kim knows that he and his boyfriend Finn Ransom are doing better than ever. They’re even more sure of each other, Finn’s mostly recovered from his injuries, and they’re talking about plans for the future. About Finn going back to work, and Wes visiting his movie set. About building a life together.
But that’s the future. Today, Wes needs to make sure Finn knows exactly how much he’s loved. And he’ll do it properly. Thoroughly. Deliberately. With kisses, and silk ties, on a sun-drenched golden afternoon.
Wes, enchanted, ran his tongue along Finn’s arm, and then bit, lightly, which made Finn say, “I know I’m delicious, thanks --” and then stop, because Wes had kissed the edge of his wrist, beside the loop of blue.
Wes paused to look. His boyfriend’s eyes had gone softer, surprised, dreamier; Finn blinked and admitted, “I liked that one.”
“You like me reminding you,” Wes said.
“Something like that. Kiss me more?”
“That was the idea. Which you said you liked.”
“Love,” Finn said. “I said I love you.” He was breathing slightly faster, cheeks more pink: a portrait of want.
“Here and mine,” Wes said, an echo. “I love you, Finn Ransom.” He leaned down to cradle Finn’s head, this time: to hold Finn in place and bring their mouths together, sweet and deep. His hand in Finn’s hair, against the bed. His tongue teasing Finn’s mouth, plunging, licking. His lips drinking in the feeling, the joy, the small sound Finn made when arching up against him. Like nothing else, not ever; and he could’ve lost this, or never known it, but instead he was kissing Finn on a molten late-springtime afternoon, playing with a tie and Finn’s willing surrender, and feeling laughter like sweet-sharp scalding sugar in his heart.
He kissed Finn harder for that, more devotion, more need. More weight atop him: Finn moaned softly and moved against him again, free hand clinging to Wes’s arm. “I love you kissing me --”
“Good.” Finn’s pretty throat, again: a line of kisses, beginning at the sensitive spot under his jaw. Trailing lower, and with more pressure, friction, a scrape of teeth: he knew it’d make Finn gasp, knew the way their moods matched and fit and slid into each other. That one would leave a mark, though not too badly.
But he could leave marks, just now. Finn wasn’t due back on set, wouldn’t be filming, for another three weeks, yet. He’d had some meetings, a table read or two -- joining his superhero television show castmates virtually from home, because they’d told him not to get on a plane just for that -- and he’d been working in the sense of going over scripts and preparing for heroic self-sacrifice and last-minute rescues, his character emerging from seclusion to help save the team. But he did not need to be on camera for the preparation work; and therefore Wes could, with unrestricted pleasure, indulge himself.
So he did.
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