J forgot, he thinks, how comforting sex can be. Good, physically — it's as if every bit of his body is focused precisely on the movement of S's lips and tongue and every soft sound that vibrates around him — but emotionally, too. The hand at his hip feels right somehow, gentle, steadying. In the middle of the intense desire running through him, there's a permanent pulse of love and wonder. Again it occurs to him that none of this makes sense, that none of it should be at all possible, but it flits through his mind and back out again. It's hard to focus on anything but how good this feels, soft moans and whimpers punching out of him again and again.

Even if it doesn't make any sense, it makes perfect sense all at once. How could they ever end up anywhere but together? For so long, S has been the person he most relied on, really the only person he felt safe relying on, confiding in, the only family he really had or needed. He meant it when he said he wanted to come home. That in itself feels incredible. That it comes with this is more than he could have imagined or hoped for, even had he dared to imagine up something as wild as this day has been. "Oh, like that," he murmurs, breathless, though there's really no way S could get this wrong at this point, a pleasant pressure building bit by bit. That part doesn't matter so much as letting S know he's doing well, out of practice or not, showering him with praise. "Making me feel so good."