It isn't even the first time today that J has called him that, but still, the endearment draws a soft little whimper from S in turn, muffled as he tries to take J deeper still. He isn't sure, really, why it gets under his skin as much as it does — not even, this time, in an arousing way, just an emotional one. There was a time when calling each other pet names like that was common, nothing he would have needed to think twice about, either in using one or hearing one. So much has happened since then, though; so much has changed, except in the ways it hasn't, except in how right this still feels and how utterly he belongs to the man in front of him. He wants the same to be true in turn, thinks it might be, wants that always he said a moment ago to remain true. Doing this isn't any way to keep J here, either with him or in this city, alive, in the first place, but it can't hurt. He likes it, anyway, getting to be the one who does this, who makes J sound like that, who knows what he tastes like.

His hand curling around J's hip, a vague attempt at keeping them both steady, S increases his pace just slightly, cheeks hollowing, intent, though still not rushed. When he knows this can only last so long in the first place, he has no interest in hurrying it along even more. With as long as it's been since they were together like this, he would much rather make it worth the wait.