beklemmt | (no subject)

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

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

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

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

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In spite of what they're already doing, S gasps when he feels J's teeth against his thigh, as much for the surprise of it as how it feels. It's still a bit strange, being able to see so little this way, not knowing what J is doing until he does it. But it's good, all of it, and maybe it's because he already feels so desperate or maybe because it's been so long, but he thinks anything that would enable them to have this is worth it. Besides, he tells himself again, they have time. Later he can climb into J's lap again, kiss him until they can't breathe, run his hands all over the stunning body that he once knew so well, and a host of other things that he's temporarily put aside for how much he wants this, now. It still isn't enough, even as it takes him a few moments to adjust again, even as he feels the pace of J's fingers start to change, but then, he always has loved J's hands, too. Now is no exception. S feels certain, probably nonsensically, that no one else would ever have been able to touch him half as well, and he wouldn't have it any other way.

"I'm sure," he says, groaning slightly at the way J sounds and the promise in his words, his eyes closing tight before he speaks again. "I missed that. You touching me, you inside me." He missed a hell of a lot more than that, too, but none of that is worth getting into right now, and half-dazed as he might sound, it's still true. "Keep going."

S doesn't really know how else to say it — that the way J's fingers move is so good, that getting more just makes him want more, as much as he can get, for J to make him utterly fall apart.

With every little sound S makes, every gasp and pant that punches out of him, the rest of the world fades a little further away. Someday J's going to have to figure out how to tell him all the things that filter through the haze now, lust helping to keep everything else out. He'll have to tell him how important he is, how beautiful, how loved, how sorry J is to have made him doubt it. How sometimes it feels like S drives him completely insane, and sometimes it feels like he's the only thing keeping J from slipping back into madness. How he never thought anyone could really love him, not truly, until S gave him that and more.

And he knows he hasn't deserved it. Even before the last few months, even before he left, he could be a shitty boyfriend, he knows that. He knew it then, too. Knowing isn't enough. But, god, how he wants to deserve it, to be even somewhat worthy of the love and trust S gives him.

Maybe that isn't possible anymore. But he's worth the effort. Someday J will figure out how to tell him that, too. Right now, though, words alone are enough to send a shudder through him, unable to help thinking ahead. "Missed this," he agrees. "You. Being inside you, god, I want it." He's almost dizzy with it, hungry, a hint of a whine in his voice and too eager to be bothered by that. Scissoring his fingers, he carefully adds a third. "Tasting you. I want that later, too." It's probably greedy to talk about later at all, but he doesn't care. He can't see much of S's face from here, but he watches him all the same, working him open, trying not to let impatience get the better of him. "I want anything," he admits. "Everything."

It's good, so good, at once too much and not enough in a way that's maddening and incredible. The stretch of a third finger, and maybe a little bit what J is saying, too, pulls a sound from him that's somewhere between a whine and a moan, all pleasure, any discomfort temporary and fading quickly, and worthwhile anyway for what he gets from it. J feels as good as he ever did, better, maybe, for how long it's been and how impossible this should be; his hands are as intoxicating as the prospect of later, leaving S dizzy and still breathless, overwhelmed, really, but in the best way possible. As much as he missed J, and even missed this specifically, though it hasn't exactly been on his mind of late, he'd forgotten just how good it felt to be touched, wanted, like this.

Then again, he's not sure it was ever really quite like this, either, not coming on the heels of so much time apart and so many awful things besides. He won't think about that much now, but it does occur to him distantly that at least if they had to go through all of that, they get to have this now.

"Me too," he says, choked and desperate and too far gone to try to hide that fact, though his cheeks burn hot again, self-consciousness filtering through desire. "Anything." It sounds pathetic, or he'd think it would if J hadn't just said the same. S wants him to know, though, how utterly he's J's, and wants J to take what's his. He can't quite find the words to say that, either, at least not in any way that would make sense, but it's there all the same, a pulsing constant in his mind and his racing heart. He's always belonged to J in some way, and though S isn't the one who left, all he wants is to be able to come home.

When he said it himself, J felt as if it might be too much, too desperate. From S, though, it's exquisite. If anything, it's that it is so desperate that makes it so perfect; his voice is ragged, and the way he moans rings out in J's head, and he wants more of that. It's getting increasingly difficult to stay patient. The last thing he wants to do, though, is rush and end up hurting S in the process, at least in any way he wouldn't enjoy.

Though judging by the way S reacts to his touch, maybe J won't need to be so patient for too much longer. Three fingers should be enough, and he's already adjusting. "Doing so well," he says. He wants to ask S if he thinks he's ready, but he's not sure S wouldn't just agree. He's usually pretty good about thinking these things through, but J's just cognizant enough to know that neither of them are at their most coherent or wise. Though, to be fair, he's pretty sure no one should expect him to be either of those things within hours of having died in a fire he set.

He should probably be alarmed by how quickly he's able to push that thought aside now, but love and sex are powerful motivators, and S is both in one. "How do you want me, darling?" he asks, and it strikes him as silly to blush over using such a simple endearment, but it's been a long time since he used any sweet pet names for S at all. There was a time when the endearments came so easily and the dirty talk had to be learned, like all the rest of it, the two of them fumbling but enjoying every moment of figuring it out. He liked it better later, when both were so natural; it's odd for it to be reversed like this. "You want me like this, on your hands and knees? Or do you wanna ride me?" Both have their appeal for him. More importantly, though, both keep him from leaning over top of S. As much as he badly wants to, it's not worth trying yet. He's not sure he'd be able to handle it himself anyway, and he doesn't want to take any chances.

It's probably ridiculous, to be so flustered by a pet name. No, it's definitely ridiculous, S thinks, that hearing J call him darling feels so painfully intimate when he's got three of J's fingers inside him, but it's true all the same, making his thoughts short-circuit before he can try to formulate a response. On one hand, he can see how it sort of makes sense. Sex is just sex. Except it's never been just sex with J, and he's never had it with anyone else, so, really, that logic doesn't hold up either. Maybe it's just how long it's been, and how frayed things were at the end. Although even now, they're still all bound up in one another, being wanted physically is an easier thing to process than being wanted emotionally, even with everything that's already been said today. This speaks to something they haven't been in a long time, something he's not even sure they ever expressly decided to be again. He wants that, though, and he likes hearing it, something heady and addictive just in hearing J sound so sweet, maybe especially for what it's juxtaposed with.

Considering the question lets him mask his surprise a little, at least, and it isn't something he wants to rush into answering, anyway. "Like this," he settles on, stealing another glance over his shoulder in J's direction, though he can't see him well enough to try to gauge his reaction. As nice as it would be to be able to look at J, touch him, kiss him, he can do all of those things after. Mostly, though, he's just sort of relieved, if not entirely surprised, that J doesn't suggest being on top of him. S wants that, he does, but it has too much potential for one or both of them to react poorly. That isn't a chance he's willing to take just yet, not when they both want this so badly already. At some point, later, they can try it and see how it goes, but when this could far too easily break, it isn't the time.

"Please. If you want." It's a little contradictory, maybe a little nonsensical, but it feels right to add anyway — a sign of how badly he wants this and a way to make sure J does, too. His own desires aren't the only ones that matter here.

There is, he's pretty sure, very, very little S could ask for right now that he wouldn't be willing to give. There are promises he can't make or keep, but there's almost nothing he wouldn't do, and certainly nothing he can think of that S would want. This is easy to give him, to do just as he asks, all the more so for how sweetly he tacks if you want onto the end, always so considerate of J, like J isn't having to put in an effort to breathe normally and not touch himself for how badly he wants S. Position is next to meaningless right now.

"Please," he echoes, and he's pretty sure his voice actually shakes a little with how badly he wants exactly that. He's been half sitting the last few minutes, but he shifts onto his knees now, a little better able to see S from this angle. That's the downside of doing it this way, really, not getting to see him or kiss him during. They can make up for the kissing after, but he's always loved watching S during sex; he's beautiful like that, transported by pleasure, and, selfishly, J likes knowing it's because of him. "I want, very much."

That means he has to stop fingering S first, though. He slows his pace, giving S a moment before he carefully eases his fingers out of him. It's disappointing in the moment, he knows, but he'll make up for it soon. First, though, he crawls further up the bed until he can press his forehead to S's before kissing him on the lips, hunger tempered only by the awkward angle. "I love you," he murmurs, stealing another quick kiss. He has every intention of absolutely ruining S in a moment, but that makes it feel all the more important to make it clear how much he loves him. "You ready?"

More than, J knows — both of them are — but he still wants to check in, dropping a kiss to S's shoulder.

Necessary and expected though it is, S still can't quite manage to hold back a disappointed whine when J withdraws his fingers, already missing the contact, aching for more. He knows it will be worth it before very long at all, but at least for a moment, it's maddening not to be touched anymore. It pays off sooner than he would have thought, though, when J moves up the bed to kiss him, something S very much did not see coming. Brief as it is and strange as the angle is, it's so sweet that it sets his heart pounding all over again, his mouth curving into a faint, breathless smile as he tilts his head, trying to chase after that kiss just a little. He doesn't get very far, of course, but it's an impulse he can't restrain, or at least doesn't see the need in bothering to do so. They've kissed more times than he can count, and they've even spent plenty of time kissing today, in between bouts of crying and S trying to explain this place, but much like that term of endearment, it means something, albeit a bit strangely, for J to delay fucking him for a few moments to come kiss him instead.

"I love you, too," he says with a slight nod, soft and earnest despite how half-wrecked he already sounds. "I'm ready." He thinks that ought to be self-explanatory; in a less immediate and less specific way, he thinks he's been ready for this since J first walked out another lifetime ago. For so long, S just wanted him back. Having J here now, hearing him say that he loves him, it feels incredible every time he stops to think about it, in this case providing a fleeting distraction from just how desperate he is. "I'm ready."

It's nice, really, that J stops to ask. Somewhere in the back of his head, he appreciates that, too, even with as obvious as the answer must be. It isn't that S would have expected otherwise, exactly. With as long as it's been, it's just that all of this is sort of like new again, and even half out of his head with desire, he wants to take in and savor all of it, not least how loving J is after all this time apart.

No one should get to be so many good things at once. S is. How he manages it, J doesn't know, but he's everything all in one — intensely attractive, disheveled, desperate, the whine that rises out of him utterly gorgeous; and yet, at the same time, something so endearing in the way he leans in after J, the sweetness in his expression. Swept up in the moment as he is, J can't help the way his heart aches, bittersweet, longing to be better. Even now, he knows it's absolutely absurd to think to himself that he wants to take care of S. He's done it in the past, but there are more than a few reasons S has been the one taking care of him for so long, whether or not J wanted it. But he wants it.

If nothing else, he can do this part, though. With one more quick kiss, he slips away, wriggling awkwardly out of the last of the clothing S loaned him. At least, he hopes he can get this part right. He's out of practice, but these things seem to come back to him pretty readily. Kneeling behind S, he strokes himself a few times, just to take some of the edge off. Even biting his lip, he can't suppress the needy moan that pulls out of him, but that's fine. Somehow that makes him less self-conscious than the endearments and confessions, not least because he knows S will like hearing him.

"So ready," he groans, reaching blindly for the lotion. He fumbles a little, hand shaking more than he expected when he finds it again. The lotion is a little cooler than he'd like as he preps himself, and he's not sure it's really going to be as helpful as they hoped, but it's hard to care too much about that when S looks so fucking inviting. He presses close, rocking his hips, so S can feel how hard he is now, his dick rubbing against S without coming anywhere close to entering him.

Even having just said that he wanted this, even wanting it still, S thinks again that it's a little strange not to be able to see J or what he's doing. There's a sort of thrill in that, too, in not knowing, in trusting J that much. Still, for just a moment, waiting for what comes next and hearing the way J moans, S wishes he had a better view. Later, he tells himself once more, remembering how good J sounded saying so a moment ago, too. They have time; it's not like they only get to do this once, no matter how surreal it still seems if he thinks about it too much. He might not know what will happen after this, and he does know that it won't all be this warm, safe haze of love and lust all tangled together and keeping everything else at bay, but whatever they're facing, he believes that they can at least face it together, and that's incredible all on its own, far more than he had any reason to believe they would ever have again.

The same is true of this, too, S's breath catching when he feels J press against him, his head instinctively turning back again, though it still doesn't do much good. "You're so hard," he says, low and approving, like he had any reason to expect otherwise, like he isn't, too, like it hasn't taken all the restraint he can manage not to start touching himself, held back mostly by the need to keep himself upright. Resisting that impulse is all the more difficult when he's still waiting for more, for what he knows they both want, but at least being able to feel J like this, he doesn't think he'll be waiting for much longer.

He almost, almost parrots J's words from earlier back to him, almost asks if J still wants him this badly, but S thinks better of it. Considering how quickly everything fell apart after that, it isn't worth invoking that moment. Besides, he can feel it for himself, even if that's a little surreal in its own right after having been pushed away for so long. "Want you so bad," he says instead, obvious though he knows that is.

For just a moment, J finds himself anxious again. It's stupid, he knows it is, to be nervous when they've done this so many times. He's out of practice, though, and he wants so badly to do well, to make this not just good enough but good. It's the sound of S's voice that pulls him out of it. He takes a moment just to look at him, the arch of his back, ready and waiting. "I know," he says, a hint of wonder mixed in with the need. It doesn't make sense, but who cares? Reason can wait.

He can't, not any longer. Steadying a hand against S's hip, he takes himself in hand with a quiet hiss, slowly, carefully easing into S, a little at a time. They both need that, he's pretty sure. Even being partly inside S after so long is overwhelming, but all that does is making J want more, barely restraining himself from slamming into him. "So good," he groans, breath hitching, both hands at S's hips as he settles inside of him. As tempting as it is to start moving immediately, he wants to give S time to adjust. Himself, too, really, letting himself acclimate to the way S feels around him. "You feel so good, fuck, so tight."

He had it in the back of his head that he wanted to wreck S, just absolutely ruin him, fuck him until he turned into a desperate mess, but now he's not so sure he's not going to be the ruined one, a needy whine rising out of his throat as he tries to keep his hips still. It's been too long since they had this — not just the physical intimacy, but the emotional, too, the way it feels to be buried deep inside of S, his heart skipping beats from both lust and love. "Can I — please —"

Even being ready for it, even with J so carefully, so torturously taking his time with it, S still feels all the air get knocked from his lungs, a shaky whimper spilling out of him before he can try to hold it back. He probably wouldn't be able to, anyway. J hasn't even started to move yet — or maybe in part because he hasn't started to move yet — but it's overwhelming, almost too much and still not enough all at once, making him tremble as he waits, as J settles. It's good, he knows, to have a chance to adjust, for any immediate discomfort to start to give way as he gets used to how it feels to have J inside him again. The pause, the stillness, they're good for the both of them; they just also make S feel like he can't breathe, one moment interminably drawn out, still so wonderfully impossible to get to have at all.

His mind gone all but blank, he hears J speak but barely processes any of it. That last word, though, please, cuts through the haze, lands like the sweetest of blows. S can only guess at what he's asking, though he thinks he has has a pretty good idea, but he also doubts that there's much of anything that he would say no to right now anyway. Instead, he nods, frantic and feverish, desperate for more, for whatever J will give him. "Yes," he says, gasps, really, shaky but determined to get at least that much out. There seems to be no possible way by now for J not to know how badly he wants this, but after everything, he doesn't want to leave any room for doubt. "Fuck, yes, please."

Still, or perhaps especially now, he doesn't know quite how to say just what he wants from J. Somehow, though, hearing that needy edge in his voice, he half-suspects that J might already know.

J sighs, actually sighs, in relief when S agrees. His head is already swimming, everything pleasantly hazy, as he starts to move, everything about this vaguely surreal. Distantly, he knows that, not very long ago at all, he was in terrible pain, feeling the worst he's ever felt. Even knowing he'd finished the sonata, the satisfaction of doing so didn't outweigh everything else, and it didn't lessen the physical shock of the pain in his arm and the blood loss. He's not entirely sure how he got to this point from there, but it's hard to care when he feels so fucking good.

He only half-hears himself, for that matter, soft moans and gasps spilling from him with every thrust. He's still taking his time — not slow, not drawing it out, exactly, but not fast either, not yet, and not quite as deep as he'd like. He wants to make sure S is comfortable, first and foremost, and maybe, too — no, definitely — he wants to hear how much S wants this, wants to hear him beg and plead. That, and he doesn't want to go too fast and come too soon. They've waited too long to end this so quickly.

Gripping S's hip with one hand, he lets the other roam, smoothing over his ass, up along his back, down to his waist. "So good," he says, breath shallow and shaky. He doesn't know now if he just forgot how incredible this felt or if it's just a matter of how long it's been since they slept together, but S is so tight, so hot, around him, it makes him dizzy. "You're so good, darling. Fuck, I missed being inside you like this." From back here, he can only catch a bit of S's profile, and it's really not enough, but he's still so devastatingly beautiful even in glimpses.

Most of the time they were apart, S didn't let himself think much about this. It didn't always work — he meant what he said earlier, that he always thought of J, too — but when he already felt half-crazy for missing J, unable to move on, unable to write, unable to stop worrying, it wasn't worth torturing himself. All of it was bad enough without dwelling too much on the particulars. Then, in the time after — well, he couldn't have had sex for a lot of that time even if he'd wanted to, and with J gone, there was no reason for him to want to. That loss was too fresh. Thinking about this, J inside him, his hands on his skin, his voice so sweet and encouraging, would just have been torture, and he was in a miserable enough state already.

Now that he's here, though, he's glad that he didn't, because it feels even better than he remembered. Still he wants more, but this is good, too, so good, his breathing still uneven and shallow as he continues to adjust, much too far gone to hold back his soft moans as J thrusts into him. Not for the first time today, it strikes him how this is at once both familiar and new, reminiscent of their early days together when they were first learning each other's bodies but with all the history between them, too, and so much better even than he let himself remember when he did think about it. He's pretty sure that, earlier, he thought this was a bad idea, and now he knows he was wrong. Nothing that feels this good, or that could make J sound like that, could be a bad thing.

"I did, too," he manages to choke out between unsteady breaths, closing his eyes for a moment as if to collect himself, though it isn't as if it makes much difference from here. He wishes so badly that he could see the look on J's face, but he likes this, too, the not knowing, letting J set the pace, the trust it makes him realize he still has a heady rush all on its own. "Missed this. You feel — fuck, so good."

He whimpers again, which would probably be embarrassing if not for everything else about this. "You can — keep going." It's not quite more or harder or faster, mostly because he can't decide which to say, partly because he doesn't want to rush this, or himself, too much. He thinks he could take it now, though, and, God, he wants that.

It would probably be absurd to say what immediately pops into J's mind, the words on the tip of his tongue anyway. He only just bites it back. When he's the one who chose to stay away for so long, when he knows he's the reason there was distance between them to begin with and all of this should have been impossible, it doesn't feel fair, but he can't stop thinking You feel like home.

But he does. Absurd, too, to think that at all in this position, S on all fours and half-clothed still, but it's true. The way he sounds, the way he feels — the warmth of his skin, the new-old sensation of being inside him, joined so intimately with someone he loves so much — it feels like coming home again after a long, long time. Things have changed so fucking much, more than he ever could have imagined, but some things — the most important parts — are as they always were.

"Good," he says instead, both praise and reassurance. Keep going isn't much in the way of direction, but it's enough; it tells J he's on the right track, at least, and that he can do more, which is what he wants anyway. They both meant it, he thinks, when they said anything. As long as it's them, they'll take what they can get. Right now, that means more. Hands slipping up to grasp S's waist and keep them both steady, J rocks his hips a little harder. Just a little faster, too, but he's more focused on getting deeper for now, trying to find the angle that makes S feel best. "Just want you to feel good," he says, a little slurred, "make you happy." Even distracted from his own words by the way S feels, he suspects he knows what S will say, but he's pretty sure he stopped making him happy a long, long time ago. There's a lot of lost time to make up for now, and sex won't be enough, but it's a start. With his grip at S's waist, he pulls S's hips back into him just as he thrusts his own forward, trying to get deeper still, a broken little moan spilling out of him.

Even having asked for this, however obliquely, S still gasps, surprised, when J's thrusts get harder, that breath leaving him on a ragged moan, louder than a moment before. However irrational it may be, he feels like he couldn't possibly get enough, and it just makes him want more, as much as he can have, as much as J will give him. It still feels desperate, sort of pathetic, to think so after so much time spent reaching out and being turned away. The way J sounds, though, and the way J touches him, make S think that it might not be just him anymore, J thrusting deep inside him and his fingers gripping his waist like he might be able to keep him that way. Absently, he wonders if it will be hard enough to bruise; he hopes that it is, wants marks left behind, proof that this was real, that it happened, that J wanted him again. Even if this was all J wanted, S thinks he could manage to content himself with that. At least it would be better than being shut out again. At least it would keep J sounding like he does now, such a far cry from the way things were earlier today or the last time they saw each other before this.

He doesn't really think that's the case, though, not with everything J has actually said. Some of it may have just spilled out in the heat of the moment, but it seems more like the way they were before than anything strictly physical, the warmth of those words something he'd want to hold onto if he had remotely that kind of mental capacity. Instead, he nods, or tries to, the movement too unsteady to really be considered such, swallowing hard as he attempts to speak again. "I do," he says, "I am," and he's not sure if it makes a single bit of sense, but he means it all the same. He feels better than he has in longer than he can remember; he's happier than he has been, too, as odd a word as happy is to describe being fucked like this by someone who was until a few hours ago his very dead ex and still wanting more. No one has ever made him as happy as J does. Probably no one has ever made him as unhappy, either, but that was another time, relevant now only for the fact that they've made it here from there.

Still half-nonsensical, his voice still strained, he adds without thinking, "I want that too." He's never been half as good at making J happy as he's wanted to be, tried to be, but that doesn't mean he'll stop trying yet.

I am, he says, and it feels a little like something untangling in J's chest. Not you do, which he'd expected, which he wouldn't really be able to believe — I am. That he believes, that he can accept as true. Here, now, in this moment, he makes S happy. Everything inside him is all messy and confused still; he spent so long trying to make himself believe he didn't want this anymore, any of it, that it feels like his whole world keeps shifting again and again — being alive, being loved, feeling how badly he still wants all of it. It would overwhelm him entirely if he didn't have something to focus on to pull him through. It makes sense that would be S. He's so often been J's anchor, when J has felt steady enough to allow it. He is again now, J gripping his hips perhaps harder than he means to in his desperation, holding on for surprisingly dear life.

He could say he knows, because he does, that S wants to make him happy. Sometimes that was the very problem. And it's hard to say that he is happy, because he kind of is and he kind of isn't. Happiness is complicated. Today is complicated. He doesn't know — wouldn't know, even if he weren't swept away in the heady haze of sinking into S again and again — how to say that it's enough for him. Right now, at least, it's enough that S cares enough to want that still.

"I love you," he says instead, a ragged gasp, hips snapping forward. It occurs to him briefly that they haven't actually decided to get back together; he's just kind of been assuming, which is crazy, given that he also assumed S would want nothing to do with him. The notion that it might be too much to keep saying he loves S passes quickly, though. It isn't like S hasn't said it, too, and he wants to say it. "You do, you do, fuck, feel so good." He nudges at the inside of S's thigh, encouraging him to spread his legs wider so J can shift his angle, a whine in his throat before he even notices it enough to hold it back. "Always so good for me, take me so well."

Just hearing that pulls another broken moan from S, one that comes out almost as a sob, though it's all pleasure and longing. They've said so several times today; J told him as much just minutes ago, though everything feels hazy now, anything outside of this difficult to think too much about. Still, it hits differently, somehow, hearing J tell him he loves him while also thrusting so hard into him, holding on so tightly. Maybe it's that, just a moment ago, he was considering the possibility that this might be all there is, or maybe it's how long it's been since he was able to feel J like this, or how emotional today has been, or any combination of things. Now doesn't seem like the time to examine it; S feels too good for that, and it's too hard to focus on anything that isn't the sound of J's voice or how he feels, how deep his thrusts are, how his fingers dig into S's hips, everything pure, electric sensation.

"I love you," he echoes, just barely managing to choke the sentence out. He can't not say it back, though, not even with as difficult as it is to catch his breath or string words together or think clearly at all. At J's prompting, he shifts, parting his legs further, though it isn't easy to do with as shaky as he feels, his arms barely supporting his weight anymore, fingers clutching uselessly at the sheet underneath his hands. He's desperate and aching and it's incredible, just what he wanted, or at least getting close to it, a whine of his own leaving him unbidden at the last thing J says. It gets under his skin more than he would have expected it to, though he's also so far gone, so lost in this, that probably anything would. Still, he likes hearing it, breath shuddering a little.

Once he's sure that he's still steady, though he thinks J's hands are probably doing more to accomplish that than his own limbs are, he risks a brief, momentary glance over his shoulder before he gasps out, "More, please, please."

Edited 2020-12-29 10:22 (UTC)

Pretty probably shouldn't be the word that comes to mind right now. Looking down at S, though, it's all J can think. He's just barely peeking up over his shoulder, cheeks red, eyes bright and dark all at once, hair a mess, shirt rucked halfway up his back; he's shaking, a little, and making these beautiful noises, a fucked out mess asking for more, and it's the best thing J's seen in years, the best he's felt in longer than he can put a name to. S is so pretty like this — always lovely, always, but seeing him like this just gets under J's skin, heightens the already incredible pleasure he feels. He did this. No matter how much else he's fucked up, at least he can get this much right for S. More than that, S trusts him enough to let him still, wants it as badly as J does. Loves him. He can barely get the words out, but he still does, and it makes J wish he could lean down and kiss him.

"More?" he echoes, checking in, though it's pretty clear what S wants in spite of his shakiness. Already he feels so good around J, pulling him in, every thrust feeling like sparks crawling along his skin; there's a hot tension burning down his spine, and he's torn between wanting to ignore the request so he can draw this out longer and chasing that. In the end, though, it's really what S wants that matters, though it conveniently aligns with what J wants too. "Since you said please." It doesn't come out nearly as playful or confident as he intends it to be, his own voice ragged with desire, words punctuated with a sharp moan. Still, he means it. He wouldn't say no to S, least of all like this, and he's never pretended he doesn't like it when S says please like that, half-broken.

So he gives him what he wants.

He's trembling a little himself, trying hard to keep both of them vaguely upright, running on pure adrenaline and desire. It's enough to keep him going, though, that and S's voice and his little whimpers and moans, as he picks up the pace, fucking him harder, faster. "So good, doing so good. I've got you, fuck, fuck," he gasps, and he's babbling a little, and he really doesn't care. It feels too good, utterly exhilarating; he can't be bothered to care about anything that isn't this, how good he feels and how good he can make S feel.

It's perfect.

It isn't, really, because nothing is. His boyfriend — well, probable boyfriend, he thinks J is his boyfriend again — the man with whom he's so desperately in love is a fucking serial killer, and not an hour ago, S was trying to convince him not to kill himself a second time. He has his shirt on because J can't stand the sight of the scars he put there, and S got on his hands and knees in the first place to try to avoid one or both of them having an adverse reaction to being in a position too similar to the one they were in when J was attempting to murder him. All of those things are still true. None of them will go away just because the two of them are having good — no, okay, frankly fucking spectacular — sex. Right now, though, it doesn't have to matter, not any of it, and S thinks a little clumsily, a little deliriously, that if they can make this work, after everything, then they've got to stand a good chance at dealing with all the rest of it, too. He already lost J twice, the first time when he left, the second when he died, one more thing that S isn't going to think about much right now. No matter what it takes, he doesn't want to lose J again.

This is the best he's felt since they were together, sometime before the end, and only partly for how easily J gives him what he's asking for. Turning his head into his shoulder is only slightly effective for muffling the way he cries out, a desperate, uninhibited moan; he thinks it's just as well when J probably wants to hear him, and with J giving him just what he wants so well, he ought to do the same in turn, make sure J knows just how good he feels. The sex itself is good, and being wanted again like this at all is possibly even better, and his whole body aches with the effort to keep himself upright and the force of J's thrusts, and it's incredible, so present and real and all-consuming. If he still had any doubts about this being real, he wouldn't now. J could vanish again tomorrow, go up in smoke, and S would still know that he really got to have this. At this rate, he'll probably still be able to feel it then anyway.

"Fuck, yes, yes, that's —" he says, but he can't quite manage to finish the sentence, his head too empty to find a word that works well enough. He thinks, or at least hopes, that it will be encouraging enough anyway, some half-dazed way of making sure that J knows that this is exactly what he wants, even as he can tell his elbows are on the verge of buckling, his body trembling more than before. Torn between wanting to make this last as long as he possibly can and touching himself to probably too quickly push himself over the edge, he stays put for the moment, attempting to nod again in a belated assent. "Don't stop."

Edited 2020-12-29 11:26 (UTC)

When this is done, J is pretty sure, he's just going to collapse next to S. They're probably both going to collapse, actually; he's not sure how much longer S can stay even somewhat upright. Truthfully, even that's absurdly arousing. At this point nearly everything is, yes, but there's definite appeal in knowing he's almost literally fucking S into the sheets, until he can't complete a sentence longer than two words.

Not that he's all that much better off on that front. S moans loud enough J thinks they might get complaints from his neighbors, and it just sets him off in turn — a little quieter, but only because the whimpers and groans that go with every thrust are so breathy at this point. He kind of wants that, he realizes, wants S's neighbors to hear, just enough for other people to know S is his, which is absolutely absurd since no one even knows he's here, and he knows he's a little delirious now, but he wants it.

"I won't," he gasps, though the pace he's set is punishing enough he knows he won't have much longer in him. It doesn't matter, he'll keep going if that's what S wants from him. He'll figure it out. They'll figure this out, whatever this is. He's come home, finally, to stay. He doesn't know for how long and home is somewhere entirely unfamiliar, but it doesn't matter, because he's here and S wants him to be. That's the only thing that matters now.

He's breathing hard and closer than he'd like, and all he can make himself do at first is stammer out, "Love you." He doesn't want to stop, S told him not to, and he doesn't want to come yet and leave S unsatisfied, and thinking of a solution to that is hard when he's having trouble thinking clearly at all. "But I — getting close," he says, sounding a little guilty for it. He's not sure how he can help it when S feels so fucking good and he's been on his own for so long, but that doesn't make it any less disappointing. Uncertain if he'll be able to manage it for long, he runs his hand along S's stomach and then down, reaching blindly to wrap his fingers around his dick. His strokes are clumsy, he's pretty sure, but relatively in rhythm with his hips, and he hopes, at least, that it will be enough.

Clumsy or not, it's still better than S could do for himself right now when moving one arm would probably just result in him collapsing on the bed too soon. It's still good, too; he's so desperate, so oversensitive, that anything would be right about now, his hips jerking just slightly forward at that first contact. There's no way he'll be able to last much longer like this. He's halfway disappointed for the fact of that, wanting to feel this good for as long as he can, and halfway convinced that the rest of his body wouldn't be able to hold out for very long anyway. Everything hurts, but it's a good hurt, the ache of exhaustion and exertion and intense arousal, of being so stunningly wanted. After all this time, there likely wasn't any way they could drag this out for too long anyway. If that's the case, then, he thinks, at least they've made the absolute most of it, and he still means to try to hold out just as long as he can, or at least as long as J can.

Even half-wishing this could last a little longer, it's sort of gratifying, anyway, hearing J say that he's close. He did that. Granted, he may not have had to do much, but even so, he's the one who's here now, whom J's been fucking like this, and it feels just about as good as anything else does to know he still has that kind of effect on him after all this time. Each inhale a gasp, another, quieter moan escaping through his teeth, he bobs his head in strained acknowledgment. "I know," he says, somewhat nonsensically. He does, but he knows because J just told him. That's less important, though, than what he adds next. "Me too."

It's meant to be, though not quite permission, exactly, a way of telling J that it's okay, that he doesn't mind, that he's close, too, all the more so for J's hand stroking his dick. Everything is just too much in the best way possible, his senses all heightened, and as good, as incredible as it feels, it isn't something that could ever have been sustainable for very long. Words are too hard to come by, though. It's easier just to keep making desperate, involuntary sounds and to trust that J knows his body as well as he ever did.

There's something bizarrely comforting about this — a lot of things, actually. S says me too, and it's a relief, both because J doesn't have to feel bad about not being able to last as long as he wants and because he thought that was the case. Even if a lot of the details of the past have gone hazy with time and distance, a lot of them stay sharp, vivid, and it's nice to know he can still recognize the signs, the little ways S's body signals how close he is. He still knows him, knows how to read him and how to make him feel good. Whatever has changed about them — about him — as people, some things don't change.

Even the sounds in the room are soothing in their own weird way. The rhythmic slap of skin against skin, the bed shifting, the little noises S makes, they'd be the same in any room in any world. Against the odds, they're still them.

He wants to hold out longer, at least until he can get S off first, but that feels increasingly unlikely. He can't say he's entirely sorry about that when he feels so goddamn good, pleasure seeping through him, and he's just this side of feeling even better, but he has a distant sense that he meant for this to be about S. Still it won't be the first time something like this has happened, and he hopes it won't be the last, if only because that would mean more of this in their future. And it's good, everything about this, down to the way he's sweating and exhausted and electrically aware of every nerve in his body and every place their bodies meet and connect. It's good just to feel so alive.

It isn't much longer before he's choking out, "Gonna come, fuck," thrusting a few more times before he does, letting out a low moan, vision going blinding white. He lets go of S's dick, grasping at his thigh instead, as he trembles through it, heat and light and good pulsing through him. Even almost entirely incoherent, he's aware of not wanting to keep holding on in case his grip tightens too much. Bruises on S's thighs are vastly preferable to risking harming him. Panting, he leans forward, propping himself up with one hand on the bed, forehead pressing into S's back. "Fuck."

It doesn't take much more than that. Far gone as he is, there's no way it could have. S is sort of relieved for that, in a distant, abstract way, inasmuch as he's capable of coherent thought at all, not wanting J to have to focus on getting him off after getting off himself. But already so close, those last few thrusts are all it takes to push him over the edge, too, S groaning, nearly crying out, as he comes, teeth pressing so hard to his lower lip that they nearly break skin, his head spinning and chest heaving, body shaking under J's. It already was anyway, but it's unmistakable now, the sudden bright, taut rush of it brilliant but only lasting so long before his limbs remember how tired they are. He's a mess, or at least his shirt and the sheet are, but his arms finally give out, and he doesn't try to stop it, half-slumping onto the bed, his forearms and face against the mattress. Only the warm weight of J leaning against him keeps him from collapsing entirely, and that — the fingers clutching his thigh so hard he thinks that might bruise too, the way he can just barely feel J's breath against his skin through the fabric of his shirt — is too good for him to want to pull away from.

They'll have to move soon anyway; there's no way they can stay tangled up like this for much longer. He's still trembling, though, and gasping for air, and short of S actually pushing him away, which he really doesn't want to do, then he thinks J is probably the one who'll have to move first anyway. S stays put instead, trying and mostly failing to catch his breath, his eyes heavy-lidded. He doesn't know what happens next. He might be worried about that if he were capable of that much coherent thought yet, but he isn't, still feeling too good for that, shaky and exhausted and warm. Loved, too. That might be the best part of all, the one that he was convinced he would never have again.

"Fuck," he echoes belatedly, his voice sounding a little distant to his own ears, like he hasn't quite settled back into his body yet. He told J before that he'd forgotten how good this felt, but when he said that, he hadn't even yet realized he would feel this good. "That was — fuck."

It takes more effort than J would like to straighten up, but he doesn't want to crumple on top of S entirely. "Yeah." He doesn't know how to articulate it any further than what S has already said, and he's still trying to catch his breath. He barely has it in him to be relieved S came, too, the exhaustion of the last day catching up with him all at once. He would have figured something out if he had to. It's not like he hasn't had to before. It's better not to need to when he's not sure how much energy he has left after that.

Pulling out carefully, he rubs at S's thigh before he slips higher up the bed, sighing as he lets himself fall onto the bed next to him. Tired though he is, he reaches over, hand coming to rest on S's back. He just wants something, however small, a little physical connection as he slowly comes down. He'd be tempted to close his eyes, but he doesn't want to fall asleep yet, not least when he could be looking at S instead. He should probably apologize for holding onto him so tightly; past experience suggests he left some bruises. He's not sorry, though. It's not like anyone else is going to be looking at S's legs closely, and it's kind of nice to be able to mark him, both possessive and hoping to write over the past a little, leaving nicer bruises.

"Yeah," he murmurs again. "Fuck." He might be a tiny bit more coherent mentally, but that doesn't yet extend to speaking aloud. What he really wants is to pull S closer, drag him into his arms, but he settles for curling his fingers in S's shirt, tugging gently. "Not too rough?" He's pretty sure of the answer to that one, too. Given how hard S came, his body, at least, definitely approved.

Thinking of anything right now as sweet seems completely incongruous with what they've just been doing, but it occurs to S as such all the same. Disappointed as he instinctively is when J pulls away — he can't quite help the faint, exhausted little whimper that escapes him — he's so gentle now in contrast to a few moments before, the way he pulls on S's shirt strangely endearing. What S really wants to do is get up and change, but he doesn't have that kind of energy yet, and it's hard to resist coming closer after that. Moving at all is a little difficult, actually, but carefully, he manages to shift up and over on the bed, getting his legs out from under him so he can relax, slumped and boneless, at J's side. He wants to move closer still, but he wants to look, too, taking in the sight of J lying there, naked and beautiful and, he thinks, his. Earlier, he felt like he had to try not to look; after this, though, he's pretty sure he gets to.

Still struggling to catch his breath as he settles, he gives a slight shake of his head before he even tries to speak again. "Not too rough," he answers when he does, his voice hoarse but soft. "I liked that." Even if he were better able to breathe, or think clearly, he doesn't know that he'd be able to explain it, how he wanted that, how he savors it now, the ache in his hips and thigh where he's bound to have bruises later, the exhaustion coursing through all of him, how he can still feel all of it even now that they're both coming down. He missed it, feeling so wanted. He missed J, and he's said that today more times than he can count, but his heart is still full to bursting with it, maybe especially now, in this pleasant, post-sex haze.

With all the energy he can summon, he shifts closer, leaning in so he can gently kiss J. "I love you."