beklemmt | (no subject)

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[From here.]

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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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 —"

Little details come back to J as they do this — not things he'd forgotten, exactly, because he's sure they must have been buried somewhere in his mind. It's more like he misplaced them, and now he gets to rediscover them all over again. The distinct way S tastes is one. Just how much he likes it when S says things like that is another. He's such a charming, amiable person; he's always been better at dealing with other people than J is. J gets to hear him say things no one else probably even imagines. J gets to be the reason he says those things, the cause of that bitten off fuck. Somehow it just makes S feel more his, knowing there are parts of him only J gets to experience.

He wouldn't say that this is a performance, exactly, every muffled moan utterly genuine, though he might, when he thinks of it, exaggerate a bit, knowing S will feel every bit of it. It's more like when they play together at home, J paying attention to S's cues, but still improvising, modulating, adjusting tempo or style to match or contrast. These things are coming back to him, too, variations to keep things interesting, now drawing back to suck at the head of S's dick, now taking him deeper, swallowing around him. With every sound that filters out of S, so low and raw and impossibly good, it gets more and more difficult for him to ignore his own desire. Even lightly touching himself is enough to make him moan.

Every sound J makes just gets further under his skin, brings S that much closer to unraveling entirely. It's such a small thing, and yet one he wouldn't have thought of at all, even when he did try to remember this. Now he doesn't know how he could ever have forgotten when it's so deeply satisfying in its own right. So is glancing down to see J touch himself, the sight of it, the idea of J being further aroused just by doing this, drawing another low moan from S. He did this, he thinks again; he's the person J wanted to do this for, and still the only one, as far as S knows, which is a remarkably appealing thought. It isn't as if he would have wanted J to be lonely in those months they were apart. Selfishly, he just likes thinking that they're still only each other's, and back now where they belong.

He tries to hold off as long as he can, to make this last. Finally, though, he knows he won't be able to do so much longer, and only somewhat swallows back a whine, biting down hard on his lower lip, as J takes him deeper still. "Getting close," he says, his voice hoarse, slightly apologetic but mostly a warning in case J wants to pull back before he comes. Just a little bit, too, it's a way of saying that he doesn't mind if that's the case. Having had this is more than good enough, incredible, dizzying; he isn't about to get particular about where he comes, especially when they're already in the shower anyway.

J considers his options briefly. It's been long enough since he last did this that swallowing might be overwhelming, and he's not always in the mood to do so, so the warning is distantly appreciated. Ultimately, though, it doesn't take much thought for him to keep going. Glancing briefly up, he stops touching himself to hold onto S's hip instead. He's going to need the help to stay steady in a moment.

With a moan that's equal parts desire and encouragement, J increases the tempo, just a little. He can't make this last forever after all, even if his jaw and throat would permit it, so he might as well make it good instead, pushing S closer and closer to the edge. He knows he said earlier that sex would be an incredibly stupid idea, but he knows now that he was wrong. This, he's pretty sure, is the best idea he's had in a year.

So close already, S knows there's no way he'll last when J starts moving faster. It's good, too, seeming like a tacit acknowledgment of what he's said, ensuring that he doesn't need to try to hold off any longer, not that he would have been very successful at it, J's mouth warm and so good around him. While he has just enough presence of mind to do so, S drops his hand from J's hair, not wanting to risk grabbing hold or pushing him too much. Even hazy and so close to the edge, he's dimly aware of how fragile this is; he doesn't want to hurt it, or J, because he got too far out of his head with desire.

As he'd warned, it doesn't take much longer, just moments. He gasps in a breath, chest tight and aching, and lets out a sharp groan as he comes, his hand instinctively flying out from his side to press against the wall in a halfhearted bid to help keep him steady. Even before they got in the shower, he was a little shaky on his feet; he's definitely more so now, as grateful as he can be while half out of his head for J's steady hand against his hip. "Fuck," he chokes out, a breathless whimper, his head tipped back again, though it doesn't provide much in the way of support. "Oh, fuck."

The way S sounds now is utterly captivating, something J wants to commit to memory, adding it to his mental file of things to treasure. He's heard it before, but it's been too long, and it's mesmerizing every time. His little whimpers and the taste of him together prove overwhelming in the best way, J swallowing what he can before he pulls off to take in the sight of S instead. He's panting himself, breathless, watching the heavy rise and fall of S's chest, the beauty of his expression now. There's nothing like this. There never could be.

It's hard to reconcile this sureness, this depth of love, with the equal certainty that he was right to leave, the part of him that knows they were miserable at war with the part of him that looks at S now and knows he was an idiot to try and give him up. He never could, he never did. He's never loved anyone like this. It still surprises him sometimes that it's even possible to love someone this much.

He licks his lips, taking another deep breath before ducking forward to kiss S's thigh. It's the best he can manage right now, not yet ready to stand up, not sure if S will still want to kiss him like this. For now, he just rubs his hand soothingly along S's hip, pleasantly hazy as he gazes up at him, his own need temporarily pushed aside in favor of self-satisfaction and adoration.

Struggling to catch his breath, and a little bit to stay on his feet at all, it takes S a moment to be able to say anything more. At least, though, he feels a little freer to touch J again, his hand resting against J's jaw again, thumb brushing absently over his cheek. S keeps thinking about it, how beautiful he is — always, regardless of circumstance, but especially in moments like this, quiet and content and peaceful. Their current state of undress, J being on his knees and still hard, doesn't hurt in that regard, but it isn't just that, either. It's only that, for just a little while, nothing else has to matter, the world narrowed down to just the two of them, the way it so often felt in the time after their friendship first became something more, long before he knew what would become of the two of them.

That thought isn't one that belongs here yet. There's only so long he can keep it at bay, he knows, but the fact of that is all the more reason why S is determined to do so while he can. Everything feels too good for now. As dramatic as he knows it would sound, something that's generally been more J's domain than his, S thinks that he'd never expected to ever feel as good as he has this past little while again. He isn't in any hurry to move on from that yet.

He isn't in any hurry to move at all, despite his awareness that he'd wanted, and still wants, to return the favor. Switching positions seems like a lot of work for the moment, though, and he's still working on breathing steadily again. "Love you," he says when he feels like he can speak at all. "You good?"

J closes his eyes, leaning into S's hand. "Yeah," he says, voice rough but contented. Even with awareness of his own desire flitting around the periphery of his mind, he feels good, even peaceful. Happy might not even be a stretch. It's nice just to sit here, S touching him so gently, knowing he made S feel good, knowing he's loved. He's been so alone for months, trying not to think about S being alone, too. This, here, with the water streaming over him, feels a little like that loneliness washing away.

It's another moment before he opens his eyes again, tired but not wanting to look away for long. "Good," he says, just to be sure he's clear. Right now, it feels like an understatement. The last hour or so is the happiest he's been in longer than he can remember, even with the moments where his certainty faltered. And maybe, yes, deep down he knows that, after all he's done, he doesn't necessarily deserve to feel safe or loved, but that only makes him want it more desperately. Now he feels both, and satisfied to be the reason S looks so peaceful himself.

It occurs to him that he should stand up, if only because his legs are going to fall asleep if he doesn't, so he does, a little clumsy. With a soft laugh, he leans in to press a kiss to S's cheek, dropping his head to rest on his shoulder. "Fuck," he sighs, arms slipping around S's waist, "I love you. You good?" He knows S feels good, but he's less sure about S's ability to stay standing on his own for the moment.

Once J is on his feet, S shifts instinctively, arms wrapping around him in turn, one at J's waist, the other higher, fingers slipping into his hair again when his head drops to S's shoulder. Even just this feels good — kind of incredible, actually, for how naturally it comes, the easy affection a welcome counterpoint to the bursts of lust. He doesn't want to keep J waiting for too long, aware, still, of his promise to reciprocate, and all the more so now that they're standing close like this, but he gives himself a moment to keep catching his breath, to feel J warm and safe and whole against him, ducking his head to brush a kiss against J's temple.

"I'm good," he says, his voice still soft and a little shaky. He still feels slightly unsteady, actually, and becoming increasingly aware that this is the most exertion he's had in a very long time, the rapid beat of his heart serving as a reminder of that, but he doesn't feel like he's overdone it quite yet. It's for the best, too, when the last thing he wants is to have to bring that up at a time like this. Later, maybe, when they can ease into it, when everything hasn't been so emotional and intense, but not yet.

He exhales a quiet, unsteady laugh of his own instead, smiling against J's hair. "I don't know how I'm even still standing, but I'm good." S almost says it then — that this is the best he's felt in longer than he can remember — but he isn't sure if he's done so yet or not, and he can't quite find the right words for it. Right now, he doubts any could do this feeling justice, anyway.

It occurs to J that, after this, when they're clean and dry, he's absolutely going to sleep and, more importantly, that S might come with him, that he might get to fall asleep in his arms again. It's something he's missed fervently. He's hated himself for missing it, too, feeling weak for it, but in the middle of the night, exhausted and haunted and so very alone, it was impossible not to remember how good it felt to fall asleep with S tucked close beside him. There were times before when even that wasn't enough to keep J's thoughts from crowding his mind, cruel and insidious and holding sleep at bay. Today, though, he thinks it probably will be, if only because it's such a relief to be held by S at all.

Stifling a laugh against S's shoulder, he nods. "I don't know how you are either," he says, ignoring how hoarse he still sounds as he lifts his head again — slowly, not wanting S to move his hand yet. "I must not have tried hard enough." It's a joke, at least. No matter how harsh he can be on himself, he's generally more relaxed on this particular topic; it's hard to argue he failed something when there's such an obvious positive outcome. Seeing S like this, there's no doubting he did well. In the grand scheme of things, he knows, it's a small achievement, a drop of happiness against a vast ocean of injustices, but it feels good all the same.

It occurs to him, though, that S is tired, too, and perhaps too unsteady to follow through on his earlier offer. "Maybe we should hurry up," he says, "and get you off your feet."

It's a little strange, really, how he can feel so good while also being so exhausted and sore. Lately, those things haven't gone hand in hand for him at all. Granted, he also hasn't felt good very often lately in the first place, never mind like this, but it's an odd and welcome change of pace to be worn out from what they've been doing and not just because his body couldn't handle much physical activity yet. His hips and thighs still ache, and he's sure he'll have a smattering of bruises later from how tightly J was holding onto him when he was in bed; his knees feel a little weak from supporting himself in spite of that, though the wall behind him helps, and holding onto J does, too. All of it is so good, though, that it's impossible to mind. It just makes this feel all the more real.

As much as he appreciates the offer, then, he has every intention of following through on what he said before. "There's no rush," he says, his fingers still threaded into J's hair. "I'm okay." Besides wanting to get J off, he still needs to finish washing up anyway, and a few minutes more won't make a huge amount of difference. Briefly, his expression turns just the slightest bit sly, suggestive. "And if I'm on my knees, then I'm off my feet, anyway."

First, though, he wants to kiss J, so he does, leaning forward to let their lips meet again. It's always a little strange, being able to taste himself on J's mouth, but it isn't nearly enough to make him hold back now. Clearly teasing, then, he adds, "Definitely don't think it's for any lack of trying on your part."

J smiles, almost smirks, though being pleased with himself is secondary to leaning in for another kiss. Now that he has tacit permission to do so, he sees no reason to resist the urge. Just because S has been okay with it in the past doesn't mean he'd be in the mood to kiss now, but since he is, J is perfectly happy to oblige.

Besides, now he's thinking about S on his knees, and kissing him, even lightly, serves as a brief distraction. "I'll try harder next time," he teases. It's nice to think about — not so much as something he wants to do immediately, his jaw already feeling a little sore, but just the idea that there's going to be a next time. They're here, together. Somehow, in spite of the odds, in spite of everything — impossibly, somehow, they're here and they'll have time now.

His tone turns soft when he speaks again. "You don't have to, you know. It's okay." As badly as he'd like to feel S's lips wrapped around him now that the offer is out there, he's not going to insist. There will be other opportunities. While his hand — or even S's — isn't quite as satisfying, it would still be enough to get the job done, and he's not about to make S stay upright any longer than he needs or wants to be. Granted, he knows that look in S's eyes well enough to be pretty sure he's just going to go for it anyway, but J knows he'd feel bad if he didn't at least offer S an out.

Despite having no interest in taking it, it's still nice, S thinks, that J offers him a more explicit out. If he had changed his mind, or if he really didn't think he could keep going, he would say so — wouldn't push the matter, would probably just reach between them now and finish J off that way — but still, especially while they're just feeling their way back into this, no matter how naturally it comes, he appreciates it. With a quick shake of his head, he then leans in to kiss J once more, soft and brief and mostly just pleased. Everything is a little hazy still, and this is so surreal, despite also being so viscerally real, and it's a feeling worth chasing and holding onto. As tired as he is, that's all the more reason to keep going. He suspects that, by the time they're done and dried off and in clean clothes, he'll have no energy left whatsoever, but he can't think of anything better on which to expend it all.

"I know," he says, drawing back just enough to hold J's gaze when he nods. "I want to." He's wanted to since before they got in the shower in the first place. Granted, he didn't know then that J would want to get him off first, but even so, he isn't about to give up on that idea. His only real concern is that, with J so worked up already, he might not be able to make it last very long, but even that doesn't really matter. They have time. He can always give this another try tomorrow. That might actually be the best thing about all of this — that despite the desperation of their reunion, they'll have time together to do anything they don't get to today, even as he knows they're going to have a lot else to contend with, too.

Giving J a gentle nudge, trying to encourage him to turn with him so they can switch places and leave J with the wall behind him, S smiles. "Come on," he says, making a point of keeping it apparent that he's teasing. "Before I do get too tired to keep going."