beklemmt | (no subject)

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For all that J has always had to be the one to urge S to be pragmatic and serious, he's the one who's driven entirely by his feelings and desires, by a mind he knows is warped and wrong without knowing all of why or how. It's hard to want things so badly and not to be able to trust that, or to trust the wrong thing, the wrong need. Finding a middle ground feels all but impossible sometimes, and he ends up pulled back and forth by a constantly contorting sense of logic — ruled by reason without knowing if it's actually madness, ruled by his heart while ignoring the things he loves.

Right now, in this moment, he feels sure of what he wants. There are doubts, there are fears, there's always a shadow cast over every damn thing he does, but he's sure of this much, at least. If he can't be steady, if he can't be fully certain of his own self, he can be sure of S. While that scares him a little, feeling himself trying to lean for support on the same person he tried to push away, the same person he tried to kill, it also feels like one of the more sensible things he's done in a long time. Judging by his willingness to take J back, S isn't all that much saner than he is, but he's a hell of a lot more trustworthy.

And he's sweet, and he's loving, and every brush of his lips, every place his body presses into J's, rings out with that. And maybe J isn't ready for this, because he's been through a lot today and he's worn out and emotional, and just being kissed like he's the most precious person ever to exist almost makes him feel like he might cry again. He knows he doesn't deserve this. It isn't the first time he's rushed blindly, though, into things he knows he shouldn't do or have.

"We," he breathes out, "we should —" He doesn't know. He isn't sure. He means to stop kissing S for a moment, but ends up kissing him elsewhere instead, lips trailing along his jaw, his cheek. "I don't know." Stop, his brain supplies, and slow down. Be careful. Instead he lifts his head again for another kiss.

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"You are touching me," S says, glancing down at where J's hands rest against his chest. Briefly, he lets himself wish that he didn't have to keep his shirt on, that he could let J touch more of him without wet fabric in the way, but there isn't anything to be done about that just yet. For right now, it's more than worth it to be able to stand here like this, in the casual, familiar intimacy of showering together, the mood so much lighter than it was just an hour or two ago. Eventually, they will have to figure out something they can do that doesn't involve him having to stay half-dressed while taking a shower, but right now, just seeing J smile makes wearing his shirt worthwhile. S doubts that he would really believe it if he said as much, but as beautiful as he always finds J to be, he doesn't think he's ever as much so as when he's smiling.

Simply because he can, S leans in for another kiss, soft but lingering, before he continues. "And you are making me feel good. So I guess it's time to start improvising," he teases. He doesn't really have any expectations; if anything, saying as much is meant to let J decide if he wants to keep going or just use their shower for its originally intended purpose, back off before they go too far. For his own part, S would be happy with anything that involves having J close and still in good spirits while they last.

He could, of course, improvise by grabbing the shampoo and washing S's hair, or he could keep on with the soap. But S is almost annoyingly attractive like this — more so, J thinks, because of how simple and domestic it is, how warm and intimate in the familiarity of the moment. So he presses into him and kisses him again instead, taking his time now. He didn't get to kiss him during sex earlier. He intends to make up for that now.

"I could make you feel even better," he says when he draws back, just a bit, to look at S again. It's low, a suggestion, leaving room for deferment or interpretation. They're both tired, after all, and S is the one stuck in a wet shirt. J wouldn't blame him for not being enough in the mood to make this worthwhile. Even as he can feel himself wanting this more and more, he reminds himself there will be time enough later for second rounds and whatever else they come up with. That's far from the point of the promise he's made, but it's certainly at least a little motivation to keep it. "Unless you have other ideas."

Vague as it is, S doesn't really need to consider that, but he gives himself a moment to do so all the same before he nods. They could wait and keep the shower just a shower, but that isn't really what he wanted when they came in here in the first place, before they decided to keep it quick instead. Really, that would probably just make it all the more likely that would wind up back here sooner rather than later anyway. And between the day they've had and how long it's been since they were able to just enjoy each other's presence like this, he can't see anything wrong with chasing the impulse to feel good and make each other do so, to make the absolute most of it.

"No other ideas," he says, still smiling a little when he leans in for another, briefer kiss. "I like that one." He wants to do the same, too, of course, but he figures that probably goes without saying, and he doesn't know what, if anything, J specifically has in mind anyway. Whatever they do, though, he's sure the hot water will hold out long enough for him to reciprocate, and though he thought about the water bill earlier, he can't bring himself to keep caring about that. It's worth it to get to have this. Just about anything would be, to keep J looking like he does now.

The thing is, this works, at least for a little while. Maybe he can't keep the dark thoughts out of his head forever, or even for long, but J can keep them at bay when he focuses on S. After so long apart, it would be difficult to get into the shower with him like this and not be at least a little hopeful about sex, but it's all the more appealing for how thoroughly it helps J stay present and calm, plus the satisfaction of doing something for S.

So although he said they shouldn't linger, he does exactly that. "So do I," he says, ducking away long enough to set the soap down. When he straightens up, he runs his hands down S's chest, slipping under his shirt to rest against his stomach as he leans in for a kiss, longer this time, a little deeper. Sometimes just that is enough, really. Just kissing S, taking his time with it, feels good enough to get to him. Besides, there's no point getting on his knees yet in a wet bathtub until S is at least somewhat hard again, but getting him there is half the fun.

Even with a bigger shower, it's not like there's a ton of room, so when he nudges S back, there isn't far to go before they meet the wall.

Having now both decided to do this, whatever this winds up being, it's even easier than a moment before to lean into it when J kisses him. His hands settle a little more firmly on J's hips, in part to help keep himself steady as he steps backwards at J's prompting, and in part, too, just because S likes the way he feels, the soft warmth of J's skin under his hands, the familiar shape of him. It's not quite what he remembers — he thought, earlier, that J seemed slighter than he used to be, and he still believes so now — but that's sort of nice, too, the same but not, like everything else. This can't be exactly what it was before; there were reasons it didn't work, and neither of them is who they were then anyway. But the heart of it is unchanged, and the way he feels for J is, too, except in the way S thinks he understands him a little better now and loves him — wants him — all the more for thinking he would never get to have this again.

His back hits the wall, and he hums quietly into the kiss, content and encouraging at once. They probably can't, or shouldn't, spend the whole rest of the day kissing in the shower, but he doesn't feel as feverishly hurried as he did earlier, happy enough to savor this for a while, to drink it in. More will be nice, too, of course, but he's not as desperate to get there. It feels too good, J's hands and mouth and body against his; it feels like hope.

J could easily get lost in this, just kissing S lazily under the spray of hot water. It's so comfortable. Safe is what comes to mind. He feels safe here and loved, and even as he feels increasingly electric physically, the combination of lack of sleep and feeling so sweetly wanted has him relaxing into that more readily, less inclined to resist. If he were more awake, he might remind himself that simply doing things because he wants the end result, regardless of the moral implications, is probably a habit he shouldn't be indulging so much. With his mind feeling pleasantly distant, it's a bit easier not to be so combative.

It's less the thought of passing time or rushing this along and more the idle idea that he wants more that prompts J to draw back, ducking his head to mouth along S's jaw instead, pressing kisses down his neck. He should probably be more hurried, but he doesn't want to be. Before today, he can't really remember the last time he was held or hugged. It was S, he's sure of that. There hasn't really been anyone else who's wanted to for years now, much less anyone he'd be inclined to permit to do so. It's nice just to take his time, tasting the combination of clean water and faint salt, the slightly diluted familiarity of S's skin, enjoying the feel of S's hands at his hips. His own wander idly, smoothing down over his hips and along his ass, fingertips tracing down the rise of his hipbone.

He nuzzles against S's neck, pressing a soft kiss to his throat, not quite biting back a small sound of disappointment at being unable to progress much further. It's for the best, he knows, for his own sake, really, but it's still a shame. "Always so good," he says, muffled into S's neck, partly a reminder to himself, "just being with you like this."

It feels better than S figures it probably ought to, the way J's mouth trails along his neck, his own head tipping back as best it can against the wall to give him more room. Distantly, he remembers deliberately not doing that earlier, one small hesitation after what happened before, but so much has changed today even since they first started kissing on the couch. Thinking about it is sort of dizzying, actually, but with where they've wound up, mostly in a good way; so is the way J touches him, kisses him, as addictive as ever, his lips so sweet. As good as the sex was earlier, as much as he wanted that, S admittedly also missed this as a result, the easy affection in it, just being close to each other. There's a hell of a lot he's missed, most of it actually not physical, but this has to be near the top of the list.

"Yeah," he agrees, the word not much more than an exhale. Not being able to reach anything else yet, he brushes his lips against J's hair, his own hands starting to roam a little, though not out of any desire to rush this. It just feels too good being able to touch J, something he didn't get as much of a chance to do earlier. They'll have time now, though. How much of it, he doesn't know, very much not wanting to think about it now but knowing that he shouldn't assume J trying to stay means J will stay. Still, it's something. With that being the case, it's easier not to try to surge too far ahead too fast. Having already had sex not very long ago helps temper that, too, getting some of his earlier desperation out of his system.

Everything feels pleasant and relaxed instead, even that spark of want that he let flare to life when they decided to keep going a steady warmth rather than something bright and sharp. "Feels nice. It always does." It feels nice, too, to be able to say that in the present tense rather than the past.

It's often the little things that get to J. Sometimes that isn't the case, when he's too focused on something he's working on or too out-of-sorts to pay attention, and he'll need to be nudged more firmly, but most of the time, it's the details. It's the way he feels the softest brush of lips against his hair, and it's the way S speaks, low and relaxed and hushed. It's the warmth of their bodies pressed against each other and how the way S touches him is familiar even after so long. It's all the little things that feel like home, that speak to how long they've loved each other, how well they know each other that get under his skin.

It's nice to be back, he thinks absently. They're in an unfamiliar bathtub in, apparently, an entirely unknown world, his having somehow survived death or been brought from it, having nearly killed S. There shouldn't be a back, because this isn't what it once was, and yet that's exactly how it feels, like returning to comfort and safety. There's little as intoxicating as being this loved and wanted, let alone by someone he loves so much in turn.

He lifts his head to seek out another kiss. "You alway feel nice," he murmurs, and he's not sure if that actually means anything or not, but it feels true. Reaching down between them, he curls his fingers loosely around S's dick, which he thinks just proves whatever point he might have had.

Until today, S wouldn't even have been able to say how long it had been since someone touched him like this. Months, surely, and probably longer; it isn't as if there was much of this easy intimacy in the time leading up to J leaving. He ought to stop thinking about it, really. It's just difficult to do otherwise when the prolonged lack of this, even without being at all rushed now, makes him all the more pliant and responsive now, instinctively leaning into it when J kisses him again, his hands still absently trailing over J's back and hips and ass, mapping out the way his body feels mostly just for the sake of being able to do so.

Just this would have been good enough — easy to get lost in, everything that isn't this, them, starting to fall away again. J touches him, though, and while it isn't exactly unexpected, S can't help the way his body reacts in turn, breath hitching, hips canting just slightly forward. It isn't even much in the way of contact yet, but he has always loved J's hands. Besides, with as good as he feels, all caught up in the man he loves, he doubts it will take very much to get him hard again.

"Feels good, too," he says, soft and encouraging, before he draws J into another kiss, gently parting his lips to deepen it.

This has always been a kind of music, too, the two of them together. Even as he takes the lead, he follows S, too, all but melting under his touch, lips parting readily. Maybe that's part of why he enjoy this so much; it's give and take for both of them. So often in their relationship, he feels like he asks for more than he gives, even he doesn't mean to. He needs attention or space by turns, he needs to be watched over and handled just right, and he's sure it's annoying, no matter how much S loves him. In his dark moments, it leaves him feeling petty and selfish. There's no room for that here. At least when it comes to sex, things feel balanced.

So he follows S's lead, the way he kisses and the way his body reacts to J's touch so heady, he's almost dizzy with it. He nearly gets entirely lost in it, a few moments passing before he remembers what he was doing. His grip firmer now, but still gentle, he starts stroking, smiling into S's mouth for a moment before he deepens the kiss again. S reacts so beautifully to every touch, which brings its own kind of pleasure, though the way his hands wander over J's body certainly doesn't hurt. With a little sound of agreement, he slips his free hand into S's hair.

At times like this, when they're soft and happy, he knows there never could have been anyone else. Now, though, having this again for the first time in so long, it occurs to him that was always the case. Even when they were apart, there wasn't anyone else he wanted. Even had he lived longer, there couldn't have been anyone. He would have lived a lifetime alone rather than love anyone else.

Out of everything that's happened today, S isn't sure if it makes the most sense or the least that they've fallen so easily back into this, as if their bodies and their instincts remembered how to be together, still drawn to each other, even before they managed to have a coherent conversation about it to decide to take that step. At least they've done that now, too, but S knows it wouldn't make any difference if they hadn't. He would still want this, still be pulled into J's orbit, longing for what he went so long without, at once satisfied and made hungrier by the steady stroke of his hand. Then again, this part has always come easily, at least once they first took and navigated this step, what feels like so long ago now. It shouldn't be surprising at all that that sense memory is still there, at least on his end. That J still wants him too — that he never stopped — is more so, something S is still working on processing, but it's at least easier to believe that with J's hand on his dick and J's mouth against his.

He hums into the kiss, not needy yet, exactly, but approving, wanting. His own hands keep moving until they don't, and he keeps kissing until he doesn't, his breathing a little shallow when he draws back, fingertips gently resting over one hipbone. "Wanna touch you too," he murmurs. "Can I?" Really, he doubts he needs to ask, smiling a little as he does, but he wants to say it, and wants to hear J's response, too. It always felt good — incredible, really, surreal in the best sort of way and yet making perfect sense, too, like pieces slotting into place — to be wanted by J, but it's even headier now than it ever was before. Just that in itself is a feeling S wants to hold onto.

It's a silly question, really. The answer is rarely no. Even so, J makes a soft, wanting sound as he nods. Whether or not the question is pointless doesn't matter. He likes hearing it. It's sound as much as touch that gets to him. Maybe that's part and parcel of being a musician, or maybe it's just that S always sounds so good saying these things. "Please," he says, a touch breathless himself. He doesn't really need to say it either, but he likes that, too, likes knowing that S enjoys hearing it.

Just touching S, kissing him, is enough to make him want more, too, anyway. For all his teasing, he's every bit as insatiable once they get started, all the more so now. How could he not be when S is like this? Whatever he may or may not deserve, S deserves to feel loved and wanted and good. Feeling him get harder in J's grasp only makes J respond in kind, vividly aware of wanting. At least it's gentler now, warming, not the intense need of before. As enjoyable as that was, it's these quieter moments he always remembers best.

It's just about the response S is expecting, but that doesn't make him like it any less, his expression just the slightest bit more self-satisfied before he kisses J again. His hand slips lower as he does, wrapping around J's dick in turn to start slowly, steadily stroking him. S doesn't even realize, at first, how naturally he matches J's tempo, reading the cues in his voice and breath and body like they're playing a duet. Certainly he can't think of any music more beautiful than the way J sounds like this, all the more so for the knowledge that he did this. Like so much else today, it's even better than he remembered, maybe in part because of how long it's been, and the fact that they were never supposed to be able to do this again.

At least that much is easier not to dwell on with too much seriousness — to register, but then move past — when having J touch him feels so good. S almost says so, but he's dimly aware that he just did, so he tries to say it without words, kissing J just the slightest bit more intently for it, another soft sound in the back of his throat. Of course, it's probably obvious anyway, the way he's getting harder rather impossible to miss with J touching him like this, but still, he wants J to know, to hear it.

It hasn't been long at all since they decided to focus on this instead of getting clean, but still, J feels like he's been waiting forever, absurdly relieved just to have S touch him. His plan, inasmuch as he ever had one here, was to get S off. Doing so, though, is a process that's guaranteed to get him worked up in turn; it would be impossible, he's pretty sure, not to get hard listening to the little sounds S makes and the way his breath catches.

Not that he isn't make noises of his own, moaning quietly once S finally gets his hand on him. The intimacy of being able to kiss and touch each other like this is all the more heady after not getting to earlier, more so still for the way they instinctively match each other. It's nice to be reminded of how well they can work together when he's willing. And he is now, more than, tension curling around and up his spine. "Fuck," he sighs, slightly tremulous, and for all that he's enjoying this less urgent pace, he also wants so many things at once. "Can I —" He doesn't want S to stop, really, but if he lets this go on for long, he'll get too distracted. Gently nudging S's hand away, he ignores his own tiny whine as he draws back to get down on his knees, pressing a kiss to S's hip. "Is this okay?"

A little confused at first when J pushes his hand away, S furrows his brow, but the reason for it becomes apparent before he gets a chance to ask. Somehow, it isn't what he's expecting, despite the fact that, minutes ago, he was considering doing the same thing. This, though, is impossible to object to, the sight of J on his knees in front of him stealing the breath from S's lungs, making it difficult, for just a moment, to formulate a response to what's really a very simple and self-explanatory question.

"Yeah," he finally says, sighs, really, reaching over with the hand that wasn't just stroking J's dick to rest it lightly, briefly against his cheek. He's so beautiful, S thinks — has always thought, but he's especially struck by it now. "Very okay." He almost adds if you're sure, but J seems to be, and S doesn't think he would be doing this if he weren't. Instead, a flicker of a smile crosses his face as he lets out a breath that's very nearly a laugh. "As long as I get to go next."

Clearly, they've given up on any notion of making this quick. With that being the case, S thinks he might as well do what he wanted to in the first place, as eager for that as he is what's being offered to him now.

J smiles then, leaning into S's touch, huffing out a laugh of his own. "If you must," he teases. "I'd be okay with that." He's certainly not about to object to the idea of reciprocation, though he would have been fine with just a hand, and he's trying not to think ahead to how good that's going to feel. He doesn't want to let himself get impatient for it, not when he's been wanting to do this for what feels like hours, though it can't possibly have been that long. He has no idea now how long it's been since he arrived, the heightened emotions and bewildering timeline of the day refusing to coalesce in his mind. It's too much to make sense of still. Even the things that do make sense to him, like being with S, seem a little surreal. This morning he wouldn't have imagined they'd ever get back together, even had things gone entirely differently, even had he not attacked S nor killed himself. The difference a single day, even an hour, can make is unsettling if he lets himself consider it.

He doesn't, not yet, pushing it out of his mind to focus on S instead. No one should look good from this angle, but he does, in no small part because of the expression on his face. There's amusement and excitement and need there, but there's also such a depth of affection. J thinks again how he'd forgotten how it felt to be so loved; he remembered just enough to hurt all the more for having pushed it away. It's almost overwhelming now, as he leans forward to brush kisses across S's hips and thighs, gentle and adoring. "I've been wanting to do this since the couch," he admits, almost laughing at himself, fingers curling around S again. He licks lightly at the head of his dick, almost experimental, before he takes him into his mouth, relearning the way he tastes and feels.

Just the way J kisses him, so soft and affectionate, is enough to make S's breath catch. The anticipation, too, probably doesn't hurt on that front, but he swallows hard, his hands flexing and curling in on themselves and flexing again at his sides as he watches J, grateful for the wall behind his back. The last thing either of them would need is for him to lose his balance, and although he knows he isn't going to be able to resist touching J in some way while he does this, he wants to wait, just long enough that it won't read as pushy. No matter how much he wants this, and he really, really does, aching now that the prospect is in front of him to have J's mouth on him, he wouldn't have asked for it. Earlier, he could barely ask J to fuck him without offering him an out, making sure he wanted to do so, and like that, too. As easy as it's been to rekindle the physical part of their relationship, he supposes it's just for how long it's been, the comfort in asking and giving and taking still needing a little longer to build itself back up. Anyway, it isn't as if he minds asking, or offering; there's something enjoyable in that in its own right, in saying it despite suspecting what the response will be.

When J mentions having wanted to do this since they were on the couch, S laughs, and that feels good, too, being able to laugh about something that so quickly came crashing down around them. That laugh quickly gives way to a choked-off groan, though, when J takes him into his mouth, S's head falling back a little again, though there isn't very far it can go. "Mm, you feel good," he says, a little thoughtless. A little repetitive, too, but he can't bring himself to care about that when it's just true. It's hard to keep still, not to rock instinctively into the warmth of J's mouth, but he manages, not wanting to hurt him or push this.

There have been times when even a little bit of praise from S did him more harm than good, but it's been a long time now and the context is wildly different. Add to that a shift in his mindset, and J finds he really likes hearing that. It doesn't really matter how many times S says it, he wants to feel good for him, wants to be good for him. That it's like this makes it all the better, a chance to focus entirely on S's pleasure instead of his own for a little while.

It's also been a long time, though, since he did this. As much as what he said is true and he's been thinking about this half the day, he makes himself take it slow, not wanting to push himself too far too fast. It won't be fun for either of them if he does. Steadying his other hand at S's hip, he works at just the head first, tongue sweeping over him with a soft moan. While the main objective is to do something for S, he wouldn't offer to suck him off if he didn't also like doing so. The taste of him is still so familiar, the feel of him hot and heavy against J's tongue as he takes S a little deeper, starting to bob his head, and it's intoxicating, at once arousing and oddly nostalgic, to have his mouth full of S like this again. It's only once he's adjusted a bit to the feeling, though, that he glances up at S, eager to see the look on his face.

It's so beautifully agonizing, how slowly J moves, a faint little whine in S's throat for it. Keeping himself still takes just about all the effort he can manage to make, but there's no way he would do otherwise, and it's better for it anyway, his trembling breath leaving him in a moan when J takes him deeper, hands curled so tightly that he can feel the imprints of his fingernails in his palms. He would've missed this, if he'd thought about it in any kind of detail. Like so many specifics, he had to push it aside, especially these last few months. Missing an ex he wanted to get back together with was one thing; missing someone dead was another entirely, memories of anything like this more miserable than arousing. That's as far from the case as it's possible to get now, though, J's mouth warm and sweet and feeling that much better for how long it's been.

Finally, trusting himself more to keep still as J starts to fall into a rhythm, S wills some of the tension out of his back and shoulders and arms, his eyes heavy-lidded, head still tipped just a little back. "So good," he murmurs, lifting his hand again then to thread into J's hair. He doesn't push or pull or hold him in place, doesn't put any pressure on him; it's just a ghost of a touch, contact purely for the sake of it. He doesn't think there's really any way he could just stand here and not touch J in some way, not least when J is making him feel so fucking good.

He's beautiful. There are other words J could use, so many, and he probably will sometime and he has before, but right now, it's the only one he can think of. S is beautiful, relaxing visibly now, eyes half-closed. With his head back, his throat exposed, J can see a couple small patches where his skin is darker there, bruises starting to form, and even that's beautiful. He knows, distantly, there must have been other bruises there in the time between his death and whenever, however, S got here. These ones are much better. Though he's already said as much today, J wants to tell him again how unbelievably lovely he is. He just doesn't want it quite enough to stop.

Closing his eyes, he hums appreciatively at the way S's hand feels in his hair, so gentle and fond. He wouldn't mind more, but this is still nice, every point of contact keeping him grounded even as his mind goes pleasantly hazy. He's probably — definitely — done better at this in the past. Somehow he doubts S cares. Trying to keep his lips tight around S as he works his tongue over him takes effort and he's out of practice, but it's not like S is going to be particular about technique, and it's not like he only gets one try at this. Today, maybe, possibly, but for as long as he stays alive, there are opportunities. At least life has that going for it. For now, he just lets himself relax, too, sinking down to take S as deep as he can manage, openly moaning.

With J's mouth around him, S can feel that moan as much as he hears it, and that prompts another from him in turn, a little fuller than before. It's good, so good, and even if there's some imprecision, it hardly matters for the very fact of it. Like so much else, it's old and new again, anyway, something that he remembers, that they've done plenty of times before, but that he couldn't have conjured up the feeling of even if he tried, and that they now get to relearn together. It feels, he thinks absently, like sitting at the piano to play an old favorite song, the precise notes no longer committed to memory but the melody impossible to forget. He expects the same will be true in a few minutes when they switch positions; he has, he realizes, gone even longer without doing this than J has, making him wonder again if he should say that, that there was never anyone else.

Right now, though, he can't think clearly enough for that, can't hold onto that thought for very long. He's far too focused on this and how good it feels, how deep J takes him, how good he looks like this when S glances down at him. Resisting the temptation to touch him more is difficult, but there's only so much he could do from this vantage point anyway, so he keeps his hand lightly in J's hair, a gentle anchor. "You feel incredible," he says, soft and ragged and encouraging. "So good for me, so good to me."

It's almost too much — J's mouth stretched almost too full, taking S almost too far, as he steadies both hands at S's hips now. He likes that, though, just shy of overwhelmed, S occupying every sense, the whole world narrowed down to just this small strip of a shower, this one man, the way his heart leaps in his chest, rabbit fast. In a way, it combines two things he's good at, though not always in such a positive way, passion and a desire to do things well. Even knowing with perfect certainty that S would say that regardless, even guessing that, so soon in their reunion, S might not want to direct as he otherwise might if there was something he wanted, it's good. Though he hopes sex will be only one of the things he gets right for S this time around, it's a start, a visceral way to show S how devoted he still is, in spite of everything.

He glances up again, pulling off of S just for a moment to catch his breath. It gives him a chance just to look, too, nudging instinctively into S's hand, even as he draws the back of his own across his mouth. S looks about as far gone as J feels. That's enough to spur him on, taking S back into his mouth, a touch faster now, though he's trying not to be overeager.

It isn't like it's new at all, and yet it strikes S as odd in an amusing sort of way all the same, to be so deeply, utterly fond in the middle of something like this. He is, though, affection as much as lust making his chest tighten as he looks down at J in the moment he draws back. For an instant, in that pause, he almost tells J that it's okay if he doesn't want to keep going — but he can't find his voice yet in that time, and then J is leaning back in again, and S thinks, he hopes, that there wouldn't be any sense of obligation to it, that he'd stop if he wanted or needed to. With his quicker pace, it at least very much doesn't seem like he does.

S groans for it, his shoulders and head leaning back against the wall, his free hand coming up to rest over J's where it sits against his hip. He's stunning, and there's no way this is going to last terribly long, but S has every intention of savoring it while he can. "Love you," he chokes out, breathless and largely at a loss for words, but able and wanting to tell him that much. Saying it, he's finding, is just about as addictive as hearing it, and both of them more so than he would ever have expected them to be, even in the heady rush of first letting their relationship become something more than friends and then adding sex to it. Now that he can say it, now that he has this impossible chance to do so, he means to make the most of it. "So much."

Feeling like this again is going to take some getting used to. Even when they were still together, J had trouble with it sometimes, wrapping his head around the fact of being loved. He wanted it so much, but some part of his head kept fighting it, getting his thoughts all turned around. There was too much doubt in his heart — not just for S, but for everything, himself above all. Even if he had the presence of mind to think about this, really, at all, he wouldn't be able to pretend he doesn't still carry an absurd amount of doubt and insecurity. Now, though, with his whole world turned on end and reduced back to the part that matters most, he's not pushing back against it, not yet. He just lets it wash over him instead, warming him, coaxing a sound from him that's at once needy and appreciative.

Even the way S touches his hand gets to him. Every word, every touch, every glance is so utterly suffused with love, J hardly knows how to process it. What he does know is much it spurs him on, wanting to show S how much he loves him, too. If he can't use his words, or when his words don't seem quite enough, as is often the case for him, he can at least do this, cheeks hollowed slightly and lips pulled tight around S's dick as he works his tongue over his length. Keeping rhythm is something he's good at, taking cues from the sounds S makes, resisting the urge to go faster yet, if only to make this last.

Getting lost in him has always been easy. Somehow, though, inexplicably, S thinks that might be even more the case. With everything that's happened today and everything he still can't get out of the back of his head, he ought to be more distracted, but even when other thoughts occur to him again, they get drowned out by this, the hazy warmth of want, the familiar, steadily building pressure. The latter, he tries not to focus too much on. He doesn't want J to have to stay on his knees longer than is comfortable, but he doesn't want this to be over too soon, either. It feels far too good for that, and anyway, J said he'd been thinking about this since earlier today, so it seems unlikely that he's in too much of a rush. As eager as S is to reciprocate — a whine rises up in his throat at the thought of that — he isn't so much so that he'd want to see this over too quickly.

Without pulling back from J at all, S leans a little more heavily against the wall behind him. He was a little unsteady even before they got in the shower; he's even more so now, nearly overwhelmed by how good J feels, his breathing shaky and eyes half-shut. "Doing so good," he says again, absent praise, mostly just for the sake of saying something, though he sounds more strained than before, and it isn't as if he's otherwise quiet, not bothering to hold back any gasps or moans or whimpers, suspecting that J will want to hear them. "Love how your mouth feels, fuck —"