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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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.

J forgot, he thinks, how comforting sex can be. Good, physically — it's as if every bit of his body is focused precisely on the movement of S's lips and tongue and every soft sound that vibrates around him — but emotionally, too. The hand at his hip feels right somehow, gentle, steadying. In the middle of the intense desire running through him, there's a permanent pulse of love and wonder. Again it occurs to him that none of this makes sense, that none of it should be at all possible, but it flits through his mind and back out again. It's hard to focus on anything but how good this feels, soft moans and whimpers punching out of him again and again.

Even if it doesn't make any sense, it makes perfect sense all at once. How could they ever end up anywhere but together? For so long, S has been the person he most relied on, really the only person he felt safe relying on, confiding in, the only family he really had or needed. He meant it when he said he wanted to come home. That in itself feels incredible. That it comes with this is more than he could have imagined or hoped for, even had he dared to imagine up something as wild as this day has been. "Oh, like that," he murmurs, breathless, though there's really no way S could get this wrong at this point, a pleasant pressure building bit by bit. That part doesn't matter so much as letting S know he's doing well, out of practice or not, showering him with praise. "Making me feel so good."

Every sound J makes, every pant and moan, cuts right through him, spurs S on all the more. It isn't as if he'd expected not to have an effect like this. Some things just feel good, no matter what, and while he hasn't done this in a long while, it isn't as if he's completely clueless, just figuring it out for the first time. Hearing it, though, and knowing that he's the cause of it is a different matter entirely. It's all he wants, really, to make J feel good, and like this, he can actually accomplish it, even if it's temporary, even if it's a little clumsy, even if it's something anyone else could have done. He's still the one who's here, just this side of overwhelmed but in the best, most beautiful way, taking J just as deep as he can, trying to repeat the same motion that got him to say like that.

It occurs to him briefly that he could slow down again, tease and drag it out a little longer, but even without being in a hurry, he doesn't want to keep J waiting, either. There will be other times — and that's still a stunning thought all on its own — to make it last and drive J crazy, to see just how long he can drag it out. Something to look forward to, he thinks, and realizes only fleetingly that he doesn't remember the last time he really had anything to look forward to at all before he banishes that thought in favor of keeping his focus on the here and now, J occupying all of his senses.

As much as J would like to stay in this moment longer, lingering in the warm, hazy space between tensely poised on the edge of orgasm and relaxed from how good he feels, he knows he can't. For one thing, S can only keep this going for so long. Mostly, though, it's been way too long since he had this. Even having come once already, and not that long ago, he really isn't used to this anymore. Between that and how well S is taking him and how good it feels to have this kind of love and attention focused on him, he knows an end is imminent.

It would be disappointing if he didn't feel fucking wonderful. And, too, there's the prospect of tomorrow, of the day after that, even. It seems possible now, which is more than he could have said an hour ago or even this morning. That in itself feels incredible, just knowing he has something to hold onto, something to want that won't, hopefully, hurt anyone else. Some kind of future, maybe, with S.

"Fuck, so close," he moans, pitching up into a whine. "So good." He's really not coherent enough to voice more of a warning than that, hoping distantly that S heard in case he's not in the mood to let J come in his mouth.

S hears, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't even consider it, really, though he doubts J would mind if he drew back now. Being here, he would just rather see this through to the end. Trying to clearly convey that is largely impossible, though, without counterintuitively stopping to outright say so. He tries to make it as clear as he can instead, continuing without faltering, his hand still steady against J's hip, as much to help keep him supported as just for the sake of touching him. Even his mouth around J's dick doesn't really seem like contact enough; there's no way he could keep his hands to himself, not now that he gets to have this again, as if he needs further reassurance to know that this is still real, that J is solid and whole and warm and safe.

Whatever it takes, S means to try to see to it that that remains the case. Preoccupied as he is, the thought doesn't stay with him for long, but it's true all the same.

Ignoring how his jaw and throat are starting to feel, he keeps his head bobbing steadily, trying to make the way his mouth and tongue work insistent. If J is that close to the edge, then S wants it to be as good as possible when he falls over it.

J isn't entirely surprised that S doesn't falter. Different as they are, they're the same, too, in so many ways. Minutes ago, he didn't flinch; he wanted it, wanted to feel every second, to taste everything, utterly intoxicated by the chance to get to do so again. And as difficult as the last several months have been for him, S is the one who never turned away from their relationship. It stands to reason he's all in even for the smaller details.

Not that this feels small. On the contrary, this is all-encompassing. If being out of practice makes any difference to S's skills, J's hardly in a frame of mind to notice. If anything, it's better than he let himself remember, a pleasure that threatens to undo him entirely, and he doesn't think he'd mind for a moment. He doesn't try to fight it or hold it at bay, not when S is clearly certain. He just surrenders to it, lets the feeling envelop him until his orgasm crashes over him. Vision going briefly white, he cries out, barely enough presence of mind left to keep him from pulling S's hair, even as his hold tightens slightly. There's nothing else he can hold onto, nothing left in his world but S.

S is, at least, grateful for the warning, glad that he's ready for it when J comes, not least because it lets him look up, wanting to take in the view. It's an odd angle from down here, and he can only see so much, but still, J is stunning like this, lost in pleasure, the lines of his body pulled taut. Still S can't stop thinking that he did this, that he's the one who wrung that beautiful sound out of J, even as he swallows hard, shutting his eyes for a moment to collect himself as he does, breathless and a little overwhelmed but welcoming it. Maybe it's strange to think so, and it isn't as if this, specifically, has been on his mind in quite some time before today, but he missed it even so. He missed everything, really, when it comes to J; it's all that much better for it now.

Slowly, he eases back, though he doesn't go very far when he does, brushing the back of his hand over his mouth as he does, the other still resting over J's hip. Even trying to catch his breath and with his jaw a little sore, he smiles, faint and adoring and slightly awed, too hazy to keep his expression in check. It's incredible, really, and keeps hitting him, over and over, how lucky he is to have this again. He always knew he was, when they were first together, but if that was the case then, it's infinitely truer now.

It takes a few moments — maybe more, he's not sure — before J catches his breath enough to do anything at all, his heart still racing. "Fuck," he says, a wrung out exhale, and sinks slowly down to join S on the floor of the bathtub. He's exhausted and boneless and might be glowing, sated and blissful and achingly content, leaning forward to pull S into a kiss as soon as he can. That he can taste himself on S's lips is beside the point. It's strange, especially after so long, but not enough so to register in any real way, not when he has S to focus on.

Not that he's doing a very good job of focusing on much of anything, but if anyone could keep his attention now, it's S. He knows, vaguely, that sitting on the floor isn't going to help either of them get clean enough to get out of here and into bed, and now that he's come twice, he's at once hyperaware and very ready to sleep. It's not enough to get him to move quite yet, beyond resting a hand on S's thigh. "You're amazing," he says, soft and hoarse and utterly fond. He should have told S that sooner and more often and for a thousand other reasons, but this will have to do for now.

There are so many reasons, too, why it's strange to feel this happy on a day like this, but he's too gone in too many ways to think about that now. S is beautiful, rosy-cheeked and red-lipped, bright-eyed, with an expression J hasn't seen much of in longer than he can even name, which he loves with all his heart. Shifting forward enough to get closer still, limbs tangling, he kisses S's cheek. "How did I get so lucky?" He doesn't even know when he last felt lucky at all, but he does now, a distant, fuzzy bewilderment at that notion floating through the back of his mind and into nothingness.

It isn't at all what S is expecting, for J to sink down to the floor of the tub with him, and his smile pulls a little wider for it, a soft, breathless laugh escaping him. At least it means he doesn't have to try to get up yet, leaning into J instead, touching him just for the sake of it, fingers trailing over arm and shoulder and cheek, forehead resting against J's. He's exhausted, but for the first time in a long time, it's a good exhaustion. They can't stay down here forever or probably even for very much longer, and he thinks that they must look ridiculous, sitting in the tub, the shower still on, himself half-clothed, but right now, he doesn't much care. It's worth it to be close like this, S tucking his legs to his side so he can give his knees a break, his palm settling against J's jaw when J kisses him.

"I've been asking myself the same thing," he says, still a little awestruck, shaking his head slightly without pulling away. This shouldn't be possible. He knows that, hasn't been able to lose sight of it since he first spotted J on the sidewalk earlier, but here they are anyway, and it feels better even than he would have imagined, if he could have imagined something like this at all, which he couldn't. And he knows, too, that it won't always be like this, but even just for it to sometimes be like this, even just to have it now, makes all the rest more worthwhile than it already would have been.

The very fact of that is why he doesn't say any of it, not wanting to bring the mood down so soon. S thinks knowing is enough, though. For as long as they have, he doesn't want to lose sight of how lucky he is, and he doubts he ever could. Eyes half-shut, he kisses J on the lips again, figuring that J having done so first serves as an implicit permission of sorts. "I love you so much."

There's a part of J that instinctively wants to protest. S can't be lucky, not like he is, not when what he gets is J. But then that doesn't actually make sense, because the reason J is lucky is because S loves him. Both things have to be true, they both have to be fortunate right now, and it's confusing, or would be if he let himself dwell on it. He would at any other time, probably, or he'd just go ahead and protest, but right now, it doesn't matter. S's hand is so soft against his cheek, soft against his aching jaw, everything about him soft and gentle and good.

"I know," he says, awestruck himself. There were times when he doubted it. Or, more precisely, he knew that S loved him, but he worried that he'd fooled him somehow, that S loved who he thought J was, as if there could be anyone in the world who knew him better than S. Now he might question how S could still love him, but he's more certain of that love than he thinks he's been since the first year of their relationship. More certain, too, of his own love, of the way his heart almost hurts when he draws back just enough to look at S, so full of love he doesn't know how it fits. Nothing about today makes any kind of logical sense, but this, this makes more sense than anything else ever has. It was always going to be them, from the moment they met. They could never have imagined then how it would turn out, this shouldn't be possible, and yet it's precisely how it should be.

"I love you," he whispers, leaning in for another kiss, hand coming up to cover S's. They need to get up and finish here; S can't possibly be comfortable in that shirt. Still, J can't bring himself to move quite yet. He just wants to stay here in this moment a little longer, savoring what it's like to be actually happy for a change.