beklemmt | (no subject)

Entry tags:

(no subject)

[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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only | Expand All

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."

It's enough to satisfy J's concerns, sure that S means what he says. He huffs, smiling, as S nudges at him and lets himself be guided, turning to lean back against the wall. "As long as you're sure," he says lightly, ducking forward to give him another quick kiss. He's hardly about to argue about this. He can't help it if getting S off turns him on. There's just something deeply fulfilling about being able to make him feel good like that, not to mention knowing no one else could or has. S hasn't explicitly said so and they were apart for a long time, so J knows, if he's wrong about this, he couldn't fault S for finding other company, even if he'd also be incredibly jealous. He doubts he is, though. It's not like breaking up put an end to their feelings, clearly, and he can't really imagine S seeking out someone else so soon. It's a comforting thought, if bittersweet to know they were both so alone.

He lifts a hand to sweep S's wet hair back, lingering against his cheek. Now that he knows what's coming, now that they're both sure, he can't keep his need entirely in check, anticipation curling low in his abdomen before S is even on his knees, but that's part of the fun.

Careful as they shift, not wanting to overestimate his own stability, S smiles in turn, leaning in for yet another kiss when J's hand rests against his cheek. Little touches like that mean as much as any of the rest of it, as much as being able to see and feel how hard J is and know that it's for wanting him, almost as much as how steadying it is to consider that they'll have time ahead of them now. He still doesn't know how much, and he isn't just going to pretend that everything will suddenly be fine, but still, it's something. It's everything, the world still shrunk down to just the two of them, J's skin damp and sweet under his mouth as S ducks his head to kiss down J's neck to his collarbone.

"I'm sure," he murmurs, muffled but certain, continuing what he's doing for a moment before finally, carefully, he sinks to his knees. His hips and thighs protest the movement a little, but he tunes it out easily enough, pressing his lips to the jut of one hipbone, gently but insistently sucking a mark onto it, pointedly avoiding J's dick for the moment. He doesn't really think he'll be able to drag this out too long, but even so, he wants to make it good, not rushed and perfunctory, wants them both to enjoy it.

It's with that in mind that he finally takes a breath and says what he's been just barely holding back for a while now. "I haven't..." he says, softer now, but trying not to be too self-conscious about it, nosing at the inside of one of J's thighs, pressing absent kisses between words. "Done this. In a while. Since you."

It's so completely not enough, and still, it feels so good, every brush of S's lips making J want more. It's gentle and teasing and possessive all rolled into one, and he could get lost in this so easily. He wants, a little, to lean back into the wall, head dropping back, but he won't let himself, not yet. He wants to see this, a faint whine pulling out of him as S sucks at his thigh. He's so, so close to where J wants him, and they both know it.

So he's a little distracted when S speaks again. Even having just been thinking about it, something about his words both makes J flush and leaves him wanting. As sure as he was, it feels good to have it confirmed. He placed his hands behind his back for a moment there to keep from doing anything just yet, but he relaxes now, reaching out to stroke S's hair again. "Me neither," he says. He doubts S would expect otherwise — he might be fairly voracious himself, for all that he teases S about his insatiability, but he's never been inclined to stray — but it feels important to say so. Just because he was certain doesn't mean it isn't a relief to hear. He suspects S will feel the same, since he's brought it up. Hand dropping to his cheek, he traces his fingertips over the curve of his cheekbone, down along his jaw. "There's never been anyone else. Just you." Even if there were times when he wanted sex, seeking out someone else didn't feel like an option. They wouldn't have been S, and he's the only one J's really wanted.

Although S might have guessed as much, if he had to do so one way or the other, it's still good, gratifying, relieving to hear. It isn't as if he could have faulted J for being with someone else while they weren't together, for trying to move on, however unlikely the prospect might have seemed, if only in light of everything that's been said today. Still, no matter how sad it might be, how pointless, really, the two of them both alone when they could just have been together instead, he's selfishly glad that it wasn't just him still hung up on what they had before, unable or at least unwilling to look for another partner, even just as someone to go to bed with. This isn't exactly picking up where they left off, it can't be, with everything that's happened, but at least in this particular regard, it is. It's hard not to be appreciative of that.

Maybe one day, there would have been someone else. S knows he can't rule it out entirely, that he can't swear he would have been alone for the rest of his life, not knowing how long that might have been, but he feels certain that it would never have been like this. No one else could ever have made him feel the way he does for J. He wouldn't have wanted anyone to, his heart still so loyal even with J gone, the bond he feels as permanent as the scars on his chest. He's just J's, indelibly, always has been, for better or for fucking worse.

A part of him is tempted to say all of that, too, but S doesn't. Now, on his knees in front of J and determined to make good on his earlier offer, doesn't seem like the time. He can't quite bring himself to do anything but lean into J's touch, anyway, hungry for that gentle affection, leaning back just enough to look up at him. "Just you," he echoes. It's like he said earlier: for him, it's always been J, from the moment they met, before he knew what that meant or would come to mean.

He holds J's gaze for a moment, long enough to make his sincerity clear, and then finally, he leans back in. First, he presses a few more soft kisses to J's thighs, but this time, he inches closer, until he drags his tongue slowly along J's length, taking him in hand as he wraps his lips around the head of J's dick.

There is a very long list of things J doesn't like about himself, ranging from the absurdly unimportant to a lifechanging kind of terrible. Leaving S is hardly his most egregious fault in life, but right now, with S looking up at him like this, reaffirming that he was faithful even when J gave him no reason at all to be, even when there was nothing to be faithful to, it feels monumentally stupid that he ever thought doing so was a good idea. Whatever was wrong between them, whatever ridiculous fights he picked or problems he had, he should have known. He could never love anyone else like this. He wouldn't want to.

Any traces of self-doubt flicker away, though, entirely forgotten in the next instant. He can't think of anything else when S is kissing his thigh, the first drag of his tongue enough to pull a low moan from J. God, he wants, grateful that S doesn't keep him waiting much longer. It isn't quite enough, but it is, too, his mouth and fingers blissfully familiar. J's hands hang in the air a moment, not quite sure where to go. Eventually he steadies one at S's shoulder, curling lightly in his shirt, the other resting against the side of his head, toying absently with his hair. He could say he's glad, that he doesn't want anyone else to have this, to have S, but the words don't quite make it out of his mouth, and anyway, he's not sure how to put it without sounding like a complete asshole. He has no right to be possessive about what S did or didn't do after he left him, he knows that. He is, all the same.

"Always you," he says instead, voice still rough from earlier, but unabashedly affectionate. "Always."

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.

It's all J can do not to buck his hips as S sinks down further, the wet heat of his mouth almost unbearably good. His fingers grip S's shirt tighter, careful not to do the same with his hair, and he focuses on staying steady and still, at least mostly. With as long as it's been since they last did this, he doesn't want to be rough with S. He doesn't want to rush through this either. With how much doing the same for S got to him and how long he's been celibate before today, he knows he's already wound up enough that this won't last nearly as long as he'd like anyway.

That doesn't really matter. Nothing much matters except this, how good S is, even when it's been so long, and the way J can feel every little noise he makes, the focus he lavishes on J now. It's surreal to be the center of such utter affection, and he lets himself relax into it, pressed back into the wall, eyes falling shut as he groans. "So good," he sighs. "You feel perfect, fuck." With some effort, he opens his eyes again, gazing down at S. He's obscenely pretty, always, but there's something so heady about watching him like this, beautiful lips wrapped tight around J, looking like he's enjoying this — not as much as J is, certainly, but even so. Just knowing he wants this, too, makes J shudder a little, letting out a whimper. "So beautiful, darling."

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.