Hearing that, S wants to agree. It's always been J; he's always been J's, and even now, maybe, counterintuitively, even especially now, he wouldn't want it any other way. He would have to pull away to say so, though, and he would much rather continue what he's doing, gradually taking J deeper, lips and tongue slowly starting to work. Out of practice as he might be, there was a time when he wasn't, and this is familiar, too. As much as he wishes they'd never separated, there's a sort of thrill in learning each other's bodies again, in remembering sounds and tastes and different cues, and one in having confirmation that they're still the only people who've gotten to know each other like this. No one else has been where he is; he wouldn't have wanted to be here for anyone else.

This, though, he wants, humming approvingly in lieu of a response to what J says, and a little bit, too, to the hands in his shirt and hair, glad to be touched while he does this. Focused as he is, wanting to make it as good as he can, any awareness of the ache in his hips and legs starts to fade. It's worth it to get to do this again — an odd thing to savor, perhaps, but he enjoys it all the same, the visceral awareness of the effect he can have on J, the mutual vulnerability in it, the taste and feel of J heavy on his tongue.

Still not wanting to hurry this, not wanting to make it end too quickly, he sets a pace that's steady but not yet too fast, his attention more on depth and what he can work up to than speed.