아프더라도 너만 있으면 돼

[beklemmt]

J doesn't dream. Or, if he does, it's nothing that registers as he starts to wake, nothing that lingers or haunts him. With that being the case, it doesn't much matter if he did or not; it's a relief, even to a mind not yet awake, not to remember.

It's confusing, a little, waking up here. Even before he opens his eyes, he knows things aren't what they were yesterday morning. The light is different. The bed is different, too, bigger and cleaner and much more occupied, though that, at least, makes perfect sense. He doesn't need to be alert to know this, to recognize how it feels to wake up beside S. That sinks in before anything else — that S is here, that he's safe, even before he processes what he needs to be safe from. Even as that comes back to him, it feels astonishingly distant.

He hasn't slept this well in a long time. As he shifts and sighs, fighting the urge to roll over and go back to sleep, he finds he's still exhausted, but in a better way now, the pleasant ache of yesterday's exertion, rather than the insomnia dullness he's grown accustomed to. Being rested is new. He shifts closer to S instead, burying his face against S's shoulder. He isn't even sure if his boyfriend is awake yet, only that that wakes him up a little. His boyfriend. If he doesn't open his eyes, in spite of all the differences, he can stay here, time unwound, back to where they're meant to be.

But he can feel S under him, the shift in his breathing, the tiny things that tell him instinctively that they're both awake after all. "Hi," he mumbles, eyes still closed, making an indignant little whine at having to be awake. Even that's nice, though, to be annoyed at having woken naturally, rather than breaking abruptly from a nightmare or not having slept at all, and to do so tucked against S. His presence is reason enough for J finally to open his eyes, his expression softening as he blinks to try and clear his blurry vision, his voice softening too. "Morning."

Comments

[hismelody]

For a moment, just a moment, it's like the act slips, and they're them again. Not that they haven't been throughout the rest of this anyway, all of it only working because of the bond between them, the wealth of love and trust that allows them to go to these lengths, but it's taken to an extreme, too, carefully twisted to fit certain roles for as long as this lasts. J calls him beautiful like that, though, his voice hushed and sincere, and in that instant, all the pretense falls away, leaving only the two of them, as they really are. And it isn't that S wants to stop. If he did, he would have had plenty of opportunities to do so, obvious outs offered to him; he could just say so, or straighten up, or give any indication that it isn't working anymore, and he knows J would call it off immediately. He chooses not to. He wants this, for as long as it lasts, wants to see it through now that they've started. Still, for that one moment, it's oddly touching, how the remark seems to just slip out, S's expression softening slightly for it, a gentler tremble running through him.

If it weren't so incongruous with everything else they've been doing, if J said that on its own, under circumstances that aren't these so different ones, S would probably disagree. He looks a lot of things right now. Beautiful, in his opinion, doesn't come close to being one of them. His cheeks are red, his hair a tangled mess, his pupils wide and dark with want; he's half-naked with four of J's fingers inside him, more than he usually takes, and while he's managed to keep still, he can't hide how that affects him. That only covers what he can see, too, never mind what he can't, the bruises left behind on his hips from yesterday, the new ones he'll have after today, the marks on his neck still visible, too, when he tilts his head just so. Really, he's a goddamn mess, wrecked and debauched, probably only going to be more so before they're through here. Still J says it like he means it, and right now, that's more than enough.

It has to be, anyway. That moment passes, the dominance from before easing back into J's voice, coming as a relief and a thrill, S's nerves alight again as he presses on. Something about that tone in particular, as J continues, gets under his skin, lands like another sweet blow. S doesn't know where it came from, really, this mix of embarrassment and arousal, each only increasing and increased by the other. If he's ever felt it before, it could only have been in flashes, fleeting little flickers of possibility, even less possible to decipher as such when he got on his hands and knees yesterday, never enough to dwell on or spare a second thought and certainly never like this. Mostly he just thinks that it's new, whatever it is, like the rest of what they've been doing. His stomach twists, some pleasurable sibling to shame burning through him as J calls out his desperation, repeating his words from earlier. Somehow, they sound so much more obscene like this, at least to him. It's still what he wants, though, if anything, all the more so for what they've done since he first said as much, and he can't deny it now, not when he wants that so badly, not when J frames it as a question like that.

"It is," he admits, grabbing hold of it instead of turning away from it. That shyness is visible, though, his teeth pressing to his lower lip again. "I still want that. All of it." The way J touches him now is good, so good, and necessary, too, at least to an extent. That part, gentleness giving way to roughness again, will be even better than this lull. He pauses just a beat before he adds one last thing, again just going with what feels right under the circumstances. "If you'll give it to me."

[beklemmt]

That's never been in question for a moment. It's occurred to J that an alternative would be fine if that proved to be what S wanted, if his ass hurt too much for what he initially said he wanted. Barring that, though, J never considered that simply not doing it was a real possibility, that he could hold out on S that much. That S could surrender that completely thrills and stuns him, and a part of him is, admittedly, curious what would happen if he simply said no, if he told S he hadn't earned that yet, as if it's some kind of reward.

But it is, isn't it? At least by the structure of this new game, it is, S getting what he wants contingent on his pleasing J enough to be deemed deserving, even if they haven't phrased it like that. It's just that J can't imagine actually doing it. He wouldn't be able to hold out for his own sake, really, and he doesn't think it would fall under things that would make S feel good. Actually doing it doesn't have to be part of it, though. They both know — he thinks they do, at least — that he just couldn't do it. If nothing else, they can both feel how he's getting closer to ready. It won't take much more to get him there, not least with S like this, so willing, so sweet.

He makes a soft sound, considering, his pace unrelenting. "I might," he says, as close as he can make himself get to pretending he won't. S is still so tight, though J is pretty sure that's because he's taking more than usual, that he'd be fine to take J already, and it's difficult not to think about that, not to want. But if S is going to put it like that, yielding all decisions in this to J, then he can't make it that simple. It wouldn't be nearly as fun or hot if he just agrees.

"You have been good," he muses, assessing S in the mirror. "Mostly." He can't hold that against S when they both enjoyed his misbehavior so much more than he would have imagined. All of this is so far beyond his fantasies, treading new territory without a map; there are aspects that are familiar and things that build on interests he already knew he had, but the farther they go, the more he wants this. He's not even been the one made to wait and wait, and still the anticipation has his skin buzzing and electric. "I did say I'd make you feel good. But this feels good, doesn't it?"

They both know it isn't enough. It's not enough for either of them, for that matter, when J aches to bury himself inside S, to pull him as close as they can get in this position. "And I could just use your mouth again," he says, carefully casual, as if it doesn't get to him just to say those words, even as he knows that isn't what he wants. It's still heady just to put that out there, to make S consider he might just do that, that he won't let S come at all. "So why should I bother? How much do you want it, darling?" Desire sparks through him as he waits for an answer. He's been wanting this himself for a lot of this time. Getting S to beg has always been enjoyable, but it's never been like this.

[hismelody]

It shouldn't be surprising, really, that J takes what he says and runs with it. So much of what they've been doing here has been like that, S thinks, one of them taking one step, the other building on that, both of them going further and further until they've wound up here. There's something sort of satisfying about that in its own right, S thinks, how they can communicate and reassure each other without having to stop every step of the way to do so or talk it all out beforehand. If they'd done the latter, he wouldn't have known that he did want this at all, couldn't have predicted just how good it would be. Instead, it's all the more exhilarating for not knowing what's coming or where this is going, only that he wants it and that J will be good to him, will make it worthwhile. That's true even as J teases the possibility of doing otherwise, which shouldn't be surprising, but still, like so much else, steals the breath from S all the same. Knowing that won't happen doesn't change what it feels like to consider that, within these confines, it could, that J has enough control here that he could get four fingers inside S to work him open, have him so obviously desperate, and then not bother to follow through. It's a strange line to walk, but a thrilling one.

So S doesn't protest, even though he could. After all, a moment ago, he told J that he was his to do whatever he wanted with — promised, too, not to come until he's told he can — and that would extend to this. He nods instead, though he can't hold back an accompanying whimper. "You could," he admits, his mouth going a little dry at the thought of J leaving him wanting like that and at the way J phrases it, using his mouth, like he did earlier, as if S didn't invite that all the while. "And it is. It does. Feel good." That's still true, too. It's a strange sort of good, just coming up to the edge of being too much, especially with J's pace unchanging, while still not being close to enough, but still so good, what he would have wanted it to be. He isn't about to pretend otherwise, either, not when J sounds the way he does. It's unfair, really, how hot the pretense of not caring makes him, even if it only does so because S knows it isn't actually true. Softer and a little more desperate, he adds, "Feels so good."

Continuing takes more effort, though not because he's unwilling or uninterested or uncomfortable with where this has gone. It won't be the first time J has gotten him to beg, it's just the first time — maybe, maybe not the last — that it's been like this, and it's difficult to fight another surge of self-consciousness. He doesn't just have to plead here, after all. J has asked for more than that, wants to hear how much S wants it, and S has promised to be good, and that means saying what he wants and how much he wants it, facing head-on the way he's come to find embarrassment, in this context, to be strangely arousing. Even before he's started, he thinks this must be all the more humiliating even than counting out his punishment while J spanked him was, and he's not sure why any of that is a good thing, but it is, and he's much too far gone now either to try to make sense of it or to pretend that it's not.

"Ah, but please," he finally says, voice unsteady and faltering. It's difficult, too, to bring himself to look up at J in the mirror, but he makes himself do it, even if it means glancing at himself in the process. "Please, I want it so much. Want to feel you inside me. Want you to use me like that." As if it constitutes J using him when J would be giving him exactly what he wants, even though that is what he wants, in a way. Now isn't the time to untangle it or try to articulate it. There's too much else he needs to try to say instead. He could just leave it at that, but he already strongly suspects that it will be insufficient. Of course, he's not sure that wouldn't be enjoyable in its own right, for J to keep making him work for this, but that may yet happen anyway. And if he's going to have pushed himself this far, he may as well keep going with it, stubborn in his surrender. "I'll keep being good," he promises, words spilling out with at once both too much and hardly any thought. "I'll do whatever you say, whatever you want. Let you do what you want. I'll keep waiting for it if I have to. And I won't come until you say I can." Another soft sound escapes him. "Please, please. You were right. I —" Here, he falters, but only for an instant. A moment ago, all J really did was repeat his own phrasing, but somehow it feels that much filthier for being phrased not as something J will do, but simply something that will be done to him. "I need to be bent over and fucked senseless."

[beklemmt]

Considering that all of this has been unexpected, improvised, the two of them feeling their way through it bit by bit, J has, he thinks, done a good job of whatever this is. For the most part, he's been able to do this well, to play this version of himself who isn't so inhibited by how much he cares, who actually has some control of the world around him, and he's held it together. It wouldn't work nearly as well if he hadn't, if he'd let his adoration be too visible too often, or let slip how increasingly needy he's become himself.

It's hard, though, not to when S talks like that. Gaze dark and intent, he watches S in return, and it feels like every part of him is distinctly aware of being so very alive, of wanting, pulled tight as a string. As with so much else of this, he didn't know what he was asking for. Or, rather, he knew, but S, as always, exceeds anything he might have expected. The words tumbling out of him are utterly obscene, and they leave J reeling, putting to shame anything they called begging in the past. This isn't simply pleas for more, this is desperate persuasion, and it's searingly effective. J could make him wait that little bit longer, but he doesn't want to, as much for his own sake as for S's.

So he isn't sure if he does an even halfway decent job of concealing how fucking hot he finds this — not completely, he doesn't want S to think he isn't enjoying this, but if he enjoys it too much too visibly, he suspects that takes away some of the appeal. He can't hide, certainly, the effect it has on him or how his voice shifts with desire when he speaks again, finally regaining his ability to do so. "Well," he says, slow, drawing out even this, mostly to let himself find the right words, "since you've asked so sweetly... and since you need it..."

He slips his fingers out of S, once again moving to grab the lube, though it's difficult to do so and to open it while keeping an eye on S. "I wouldn't deny you anything you need," he says. His voice hitches as he touches himself, making himself slick, making sure he's hard enough, though that was evident to him before he did so. Everything about this is so intense, dizzyingly good, and he bites back a soft moan as he steps behind S again, forcing himself to take his time getting lined up. "Just be good and let me take care of you, darling." Except that there's nothing S needs to do to be good when he already is, when he's already so wonderful, so loving, so trusting, the best thing that's ever happened to J. There isn't much he's sure of anymore, or much he knows he can offer, but he can at least make S feel good for a little while.

He doesn't hold back his next moan, his breath catching as he enters S, not too rough, but without his usual caution, pushing until he's buried inside him, utterly overwhelmed — all the more so for the way he makes himself keep watching S as he does, taking in every single shift in his expression, every sound. One hand at S's hip, he leans over him, his other resting on the counter, too. "You can move again, darling," he groans, starting to do so himself. He can't go too quickly yet, letting himself savor this after all that build-up.

[hismelody]

Despite his most determined efforts at persuasion, as if J would actually need to be talked into fucking him, S doesn't know if what he's said will be enough. He is fairly certain that J will like it, since he's the one who essentially told S to beg to be fucked, but even then, he can't be sure how much J will try to draw this out. It's a relief, then, when he agrees, or seems to start agreeing. If pressed, S is sure he could have found a way to keep going, but he really doesn't know what more he could have said, how much more fervently he could have pleaded. It's an act, of course, but it isn't. The roles they're playing are, but his desperation is real. He doesn't even know how long he's been waiting now, only that, even with four of J's fingers deep inside him, it isn't enough, still just keeps him aching for more, all the more so for the way J has been goading him, toying with him. The sigh he heaves, a momentary release of tension, at the first thing J says, is entirely an earnest one, unexaggerated, if also short-lived. Anticipation for what's coming starts seeping back in after all of a moment, coupled with the immediate, necessary disappointment of J's withdrawing his fingers. Being aware of what's coming in this one slight way, and of the fact that he'll get something even better soon, doesn't change the way it feels, after all, especially when he's been taking more in that regard when he usually does.

He stays put, though — being good, as he said he would — while he waits for J to get himself ready, all but holding his breath when he glances up at J in the mirror, trying not to tremble or to tense up. When he's expressly asked for this to be rough, if not in those exact words, he doesn't need to make it uncomfortable for himself. It's not like he's nervous, exactly, anyway. He knows — would have even without being told — that what J has said is true, that he'll take care of him. He has so far, in a different way than usual, yes, but still keeping S sure at every turn that he's made the right call here, continuing to push him just as far as he can go but no more than that, making it so easy for S to yield and submit, trusting that J will be good to him. Now is no exception.

This part, the waiting, isn't even unfamiliar. It seems as if it may as well be, when everything feels so stunningly heightened right now, but this, they've done countless times, only the mirror in front of them a new element in that regard. Still, when, after all of that, J pushes into him at last — not more than he can take at once, but still not taking his time about it like S thinks he usually would, like he did yesterday — S gasps in a breath, another soft sound of his own in his throat. All at once, it's relieving and enticing, giving him a moment to breathe even while it steals the breath from him, ending his anticipation and creating more of it at once. He knows, after all, what's coming, how good it will feel, how wrecked he'll be. With another faint whine, it isn't until J tells him that he can do so that S moves, some of the tension draining from his shoulders and upper back in a rush as he leans further forward onto the counter, letting it support more of his weight and leaving him more bent over all at once. "Fuck," he says, a ragged exhale. "You feel so good." He could encourage more, considers it briefly, but he thinks he was clear enough a moment ago about what J could do to him. Besides, just having J inside him, already beginning to move, leaning over him, feels incredible when he's been waiting so long.

[beklemmt]

J remembers, vaguely, saying earlier how stubborn S can be, how much he does actually like that when it doesn't mean the two of them clashing. He didn't know then he'd like it in this way, with S as full of determination as ever, not budging from his spot even as J sinks into him. Later, he thinks, he'll have to tell him. He's not even sure what exactly, his thoughts fuzzy around the edges, focused wholly on this, but something, how good at this he is, how J is genuinely impressed, and is that weird? It's hard to think about it or care, though, when he feels so fucking good. As thoroughly as he stretched S, he's still tight around J, though not so much so that J thinks he'll be uncomfortable. If anything, J's pretty sure he's more than ready for this. He's thankful for that, uncertain either of them could have waited much longer.

S is hardly the only one who likes praise, his words sending an odd thrill of satisfaction through J that feels more like contentedness than arousal, and J has to bite back a small smile. "So do you," he says, entirely in earnest, and he can hear it in his own voice, how he's half-drunk on how it feels to be inside S at last. This is a challenge for him, too, trying to maintain his focus even as part of him just wants to get lost in the sensations the way he hopes S will. "So good for me, darling, still so tight." He leans forward as best he can, pressing into S more firmly, so that he can reach the nape of his neck, leaving a soft kiss there.

Once he's given himself a few moments to adjust, though, he straightens up a bit more. Still bracing himself against the counter and at S's hip, he thrusts a little harder now, a little faster, moaning openly at the feeling of S enveloping him. He'll give him more in due time — he knows what S wants, he has every intention of giving him precisely that — but he needs a little time for himself first, just to savor this. It is, he realizes, a good thing he came already. He doubts he'd be able to maintain the pace he'll need soon if he hadn't, when this is already deliciously overwhelming.

"So good," he murmurs. "You feel how hard you made me? If you thought I was claiming you earlier, just wait." He picks up his pace now, hips snapping forward, though even now he hasn't reached last night's frenzied speed. It is, though, he thinks, rougher, sharp thrusts as he tries to get as deep as he can, tries to reach far enough to make S unravel entirely. "Won't even be able to think when I'm done."

[hismelody]

If he were able to think coherently enough to get that far now, S might consider that that's probably part of the appeal of this, not having to think for a while. They've done so much thinking, and talking, and crying today, and it's been good to get all of that out in the open, but they both said themselves that they deserved a break. There's an overwhelming relief that comes with not having to think for a while, being able to set aside all the heartbreak and fear and newfound insecurity. There would be, at least, if he were capable of thinking about any of that right now in the first place. Instead, while he may not be senseless yet, while they may still be working up to what was already decided, there's nothing but this. If it was a lot before, all-consuming, it's even more so now that J is actually inside him, thrusts picking up both speed and force, drawing a moan out of S and sending sparks shooting through him when he hits a spot deep enough, the sound only slightly muffled with S's head down on his forearms now.

"Fuck," he says again, more emphatic this time, desperate, a plea. Already this is so good, and better still for the promise in J's voice and the movement of his hips. Continuing to string together full sentences isn't easy, actually — he thinks it was need alone that had him saying so much just a few moments ago, that and an absolute stubborn determination to surrender and not let up in doing so — but hearing that, it's more difficult not to say anything. Besides, while he can, he wants to make sure J knows he still wants this, though he doubts there would have been any missing it after the way he begged. "I want that," he says, a little slurred but no less sure for it, glancing up at J in the mirror. "Want you to claim me. I'm yours, I'm yours."

Maybe that, too, is part of the appeal. It was yesterday, though unlike this then both in tone and in the fact that they hadn't yet actually decided to get back together. Still, having J get a little rough with him, really fuck him, was the clearest way of feeling wanted, his offering of himself accepted. He knows, after all, that he's J's. His certainty of that has never faltered. It would be true, too — it was — if it wasn't reciprocated, but being held tightly and fucked hard, it does feel like being claimed, like J wants S to be his just as much as S wants to be and already is. It's heady and addictive, his head already spinning, breathing shallow, nothing outside of this room, the two of them, needing to exist.

[beklemmt]

With everything happening right now, with J knowing he has to maintain his focus in spite of how intensely good this feels, knowing he's the one at least nominally in control here, he doesn't really have room to doubt that. He wouldn't anyway — S has made it abundantly clear with everything he's said and done since J arrived yesterday — but any voices in the back of his head that want to cast shadows on this, anything that might tell him that shouldn't be the case or he doesn't deserve it, is silenced entirely. None of that matters, not now, not with S bent over and saying it like a prayer or a promise. How could anything matter but this?

They've only ever been with each other, and so sex and love are inseparably intertwined for them. There's no need to claim what's already his, as much as J knows he belongs to S in turn. It isn't really about that. It's the way S keeps offering himself up, pledging himself, promising, proving things he doesn't need to prove. It's the trust and devotion and the desperation, too, all of which are so much a part of each other that he can't pull those apart either. He loves this man more than he's loved anyone, more than he thinks he ever could love anyone, more even than he knew. They've said it again and again since they were reunited, in more ways than one. This is another.

"You are," he says, affirmation and promise and, maybe, a little bit soothing. He pushed S away so much for so long. Now he just wants to stay. "All mine. Making me feel so good, darling, fuck." S is utterly entrancing like this, not even close to shameless, just so needy and trusting he'll push through the shame. Though J has told him he can move, he's also pretty sure S is using most of his strength just to support himself right now, every thrust jostling him visibly, and J can't stop watching, focus trained on S all the while. His grip on S's hip tightens — not enough to hurt, he hopes, distantly aware of yesterday's bruises, but enough to keep him steady, to draw S back toward himself as he thrusts forward.

It's clear enough that S really does want more, that he can take it, and J meant it when he said he wanted to take care of him. Sometimes that comes in unexpected forms. Right now, it's this. A little steadier now himself, he leans forward again, nipping briefly at S's shoulder. "Mine," he says again, a soft gasp. "Always, always." He won't leave again, he means, not if he can help it. He won't be such a fool as to give up on them. When he has someone he loves so fiercely and that person loves him so utterly in return, always doesn't feel like nearly enough. Instead he just pushes himself to do more, trying to maintain the same depth and still go a little faster, moaning as he does. It's so much, and he can only guess that it must be even more so for S, who's been waiting so long and so patiently. "That's it, fuck. Taking me like you were made for me."

[hismelody]

Maybe he was. It's an absurd thought, absolutely nonsensical, hazy with lust, but fleetingly cutting through everything else is the notion that maybe he really was made for J. Not just like this, either, not by a long shot, though they probably got lucky that even their desires in this regard, even the ones he didn't know he had, align. It's so much more, though, than just the sex. Earlier, he thought as much, that it's supposed to be them, that they were meant to be, though he wouldn't have believed in such a thing before falling in love with J, all the more so for their having found their way back to each other. If that's true, though, then of course they fit like this, too. Of course there wouldn't be anyone else who could make him feel this good — who could fuck him like this — whom he'd trust enough to submit to the way he has here. He never looked, but he wouldn't have needed to. It's always been them. As far as he's concerned, it always will be, whatever happens, wherever they wind up. He doesn't need to be claimed to know he's J's.

He just also happens to like it, and to be so entirely wrapped up in what they're doing right now that it's impossible to resist the impulse to embrace it further, to stay in a state of sweet submission while J fucks him hard over the counter, offering semi-coherent reminders of what he spelled out so plainly, and meant so desperately, a few moments ago, that he'll be good and do what J wants, let J use him the way he did when he was on his knees earlier. By the end of this, he's sure he will have gone as far as he can go. Already he's not sure how he's even standing, though the counter and the hand at his hip help in that regard. Right now, though, it doesn't matter. Nothing does but this, the way J sounds and moves and calls S his, the last doing almost as much to make S moan again as the way his thrusts pick up more speed, the ache of it exquisite after all this time made to wait.

"Always," he echoes, a quieter sound leaving him this time. He can't even find it ridiculous now how much all of this gets to him, if only because of everything that's led to this point. "All yours." Likewise, he can't even pretend to sound halfway steady, not with J fucking him like this, pulling his hips back as he rocks into him. Now that he's been given permission to move — and there comes that creeping sense of embarrassment again, and he still doesn't know why he likes either that aspect of this or the way it makes him feel, but he sure as hell can't deny either — he goes easily, willingly, not sure he'd be stable enough to move like that on his own but encouraging it all the same. There's something sort of hot about that, too, as there was yesterday, J tugging S back against him. Then again, with as wound up as he is, anything would probably seem incredibly attractive right now, as long as it involved more of this. "Fuck, fuck, that's good."

[beklemmt]

It was true, J knows, almost from the moment they met. It was true even when he refused it, when he tried so hard to push S away, to forget what he's always known, whether he liked it or not. As much as S is his, he belongs to S in turn. For so long, they seemed inseparable. J certainly thought they were, until he started to fall apart, like parts of himself eroding, fading to nothing.

He doesn't feel, now, like he's crumbling anymore. Overwhelmed, yes, and a little shaky, but not in a bad way — in a good way, actually, one that leaves him panting and moaning, struggling to remain vaguely coherent even as he fucks S relentlessly. He has to keep some kind of a grip on himself, some small bit of presence of mind. If he loses himself in this too fully, it defeats the purpose of what they're doing here, of his being in control enough that S doesn't have to be. After this, the pair of them can collapse in the bathtub, but for now, anticipation and desire are enough to keep him going, rhythmic and intense, wishing he could kiss S.

"Good," he echoes, entirely in earnest, though more than a little breathless. He wants that, wants S to feel good — better than good — wants to give him everything he was looking for. "Feels so good being inside you." It feels right, in fact, this sense that it's how they're supposed to be — not like this, specifically, but in general, the two of them tangled together in one way or another. He was so stupid to think anything else could be true. All he can do now is try to enjoy the time they have, however improbably, and to be better for S than he was before.

That includes this, he thinks distantly. Somehow this feels like — and he thinks S understands that — proof of his love, his willingness to do whatever it takes to make S happy. "Does that feel good?" he asks, and he means it to prod S into talking, to overwhelm him a little more. This time he doesn't feel like he actually need to check in. S is pliant as a ragdoll, but even the pitch of his voice makes it perfectly clear he's enjoying this. "Is this what you wanted?"

[hismelody]

It's good, it's better than good. It's what S wanted and it isn't all at once — fitting, unquestionably, what he first said when they came in here, but he hadn't known then, couldn't even have imagined, what would wind up preceding it. Everything is that much more intense for it, his senses all stunningly heightened, each thrust and moan J lets out reverberating through him. He's that much more exhausted, too, fairly certain that it might be desperation alone keeping him even halfway upright like this, but the effort it takes to stay on his feet is worth it and then some for what he gets in return, just a little while longer to stay wrapped up in whatever they've started here. Just because he doesn't understand it, after all, doesn't mean he likes it any less. Even J's questions, he's fairly sure, are meant to be more of the same. How much he's enjoying this, odd as that word seems right now, must be obvious. If J wants to hear him, though, he'll find it in him to respond, increasingly difficult as it is to hold onto any measure of coherency with J fucking him like he is now.

"Yes," he gasps, desperate, his voice wavering as he glances at J in the mirror, though the sight of their reflection alone is overwhelming in its own right. "It does, it is." Hardly a moment passes, though, before he gives a quick little shake of his head, already reconsidering that answer. "It's better." That's truer, undoubtedly so. Had they not taken this turn, it's not like it wouldn't have been good, obviously. One thing that's been incredibly apparent in the last day is how well they still know each other in this regard. This has vastly surpassed any expectations he could have had, though. He knew how he wanted to be fucked, and he knew, for that matter, that being in front of the mirror was bound to make him self-conscious in a way he's quickly found not to be unpleasant at all, but still, he didn't know it would be like this.

Later, he can stop and try to make sense of it; the two of them can talk some of this through, though he thinks it is, at least, apparent enough that they've both been into it. Now isn't the time for sense or conversation, a ragged moan leaving him again, eyes closing for a moment as he tries and fails once more to catch his breath. He doubts he could manage either if he tried, and there's far too much else taking up all of his focus for him to want to try.

[beklemmt]

It leaves J a little torn. On one hand, all of this is incredible — better, like S says, more than he would have imagined, though he never imagined this. It's been, for lack of a better word, fun to figure this out together. This location alone would have been a change for them, at least as far as being able to see themselves in the mirror, and that in itself feels good, knowing there are still new things for them to try and discover together. This, though, has him reeling. With that being the case, it's hard not to want to keep going, to lean into this even more, to chase after the inevitable end just because he knows that, with how dizzyingly they've worked up to this, it's going to be so, so good.

On the other hand, S has repeated several times now what J said offhand about not coming until he allows it. He doesn't even know why he said it, just messing around really, playing around with that new demeanor S seemed to enjoy, but it's clearly gotten under S's skin. If he enjoyed just thinking about it, saying it, then J's not about to end this without bringing it into play. Besides, though it takes him a little while to focus, watching the pair of them together, stunned and entranced by the sight of S under him, he can see that, however much S might like this, he's struggling a little. J doesn't want to push him past the point of exhaustion, but it's better, he thinks, if he eases up a little, letting S catch his breath, teasing this out just a little longer.

So he does, hand sliding up to S's waist, under his shirt, trying to give him some support, even as he slows his pace. It isn't by a lot, still steady, still doing his best to get as deep as he can, but enough that, he hopes, S can breath a little easier, and to give him a moment to build that desperation even more. "Good," he murmurs, not quiet for any particular pretense but because he's breathless himself, and his ability for coherent thought is wholly focused right now on doing right by S. He'll give more when it looks to him like S is ready. For now, though, he concentrates on keeping a decent rhythm, biting back a groan. "Being so good for me, fuck."

[hismelody]

Of all the ways J could have responded to that, S wouldn't have thought that he would slow down. Instinctively, he whimpers at the change in speed, not quite a protest, but something close to it. He can't really complain, after all, when he told J he would be patient, when he probably should have expected J to find a way to draw this out longer, and when it does, admittedly, give him a chance to catch his breath just a little, at least after the initial surprise of it. Besides, he likes that this has been unpredictable, if only because it is so within reason. He doesn't need to know what J is going to do to be certain that J will be good to him. That just, apparently, also involves driving him absolutely insane, easing off from what he'd worked his way up to, at least in terms of speed.

Difficult as it is to string clear thoughts together, a few possibilities immediately flit through his head. He could ask for more, beg for more, and see if J will give it to him. He could pretend to be utterly unfazed by the change in pace, though in all fairness, he may have already ruined his own chances of that. Or he could see what happens, press a little but not much, gauge J's response that way. S already doesn't know what that will look like for him, but that seems like the best option — not to pretend to be collected when he's clearly anything but and not to fight the control that he so willingly offered J here and is, really, eager for him to make the most of, but splitting the difference somehow. With as far as they've come leaning into these roles already, he isn't about to surrender his now, so close to the end; he would much rather keep surrendering to J and see where that takes him.

"Said I would," he replies, a hint of a plea in his slightly mumbled words. He thinks he has lived up to it this time, too, which is really one more reason not to ask for more yet or try to seek it out for himself. It's all a game, really, but he promised to play by its rules, and as fun as it was to break them, he means to keep his word for now. Instead, he returns to what he said before, somehow desperate in his resignation, as if to make clear that he knows he allowed this, invited it, but wants more all the same, when what he really wants is to see what J does next, and, yes, to keep being good. "Said I'd be patient," he continues, "and wait if I had to. That I'd let you do whatever you wanted."

[beklemmt]

"Mm-hmm," J hums in agreement, always watching. Even after all this time apart, he's finding, he knows S's body as well as he ever did, that all these signs come back to him, that he can read him. He thinks he can, at least. He hopes he can. The way he feels around S, the way his body responds, feels like a truer measure of what he can handle now. Though J still trusts that S will tell him if anything is too much, this new tone, this quiet, pleading submission, is one he's still learning to decipher in some ways, and he's not yet sure if S would ask for more without prompting.

This seems like that, in a roundabout way, as if he's protesting J going slower when he's been good enough to deserve more. Still, if that's the case, giving in immediately wouldn't be as satisfying, he thinks, for either of them. "You did," he says, "you did say that, and you have. Been so good, darling." It's a strange thing, finding himself taking on a tone that might almost be considered soothing even as he continues to thrust into S again and again, just as deep if much less frantic. "And what I want is to take care of you." Even as he speaks, another idea occurs to him, a way for both of them to get what they want, for him to be sure. "I can't do that if I break you, can I? I don't know if you can take more."

Rough as they've gotten in the past, J doesn't think they've ever dragged it out this long, not with that kind of intensity. Their longer sessions tend to be the sweeter ones, when they can really go slow and enjoy every moment of it. It's difficult, after all, to maintain this kind of pace for him for an extended period of time. It isn't even that he gets tired, though he does; it's just impossible to get that much friction and heat, to feel S clenching tight around him, and last for nearly as long as he'd like. He's already come once himself, which makes a difference, makes it much easier for him to hold out longer. S, on the other hand, has to be absolutely exhausted. Maybe that's all the more reason for J to push him harder, to get him to his climax, get him off his feet again, but he doesn't want to rush this unnecessarily. It feels too fucking good for that, and he doesn't know if it's what S wants. At least this way S can tell him if he's doing the right thing or if he needs to pick up speed again.

[hismelody]

Somehow, in stark contrast to everything else, it's how sweet J sounds that hits S hard now. It isn't the first time he has in this past while, but that doesn't make the contrast of it any less potent. Even what he says just makes sense, too. S has thought it over and over, that he knows J will be good to him, that J wouldn't push him any further than he could actually go. It's self-explanatory, and yet it's also a little touching and hot in its own right for the way he phrases it, a quiet reminder of what, hypothetically speaking, within these pretenses, he could do. That it wouldn't come to that is beside the point. While S doubts that he could handle much more than he has been, he isn't so far out of his head that he wouldn't be able to stop J if it felt like he was approaching a point that genuinely felt like too much. He may be breathless and barely steady, but he wanted this, just as much as he could take.

Then again, he also wanted for this not to be over too soon. Wanted, he thinks, for J to toy with him some more, to tease, to draw it out. He wouldn't have offered to be patient and wait in the first place if that weren't so, and past the initial surprise of J slowing down, it's no less good, J still thrusting hard and deep into him — if anything, better, in a strange way, for coming so close to what he asked for but not quite getting there, keeping him waiting, wanting, for a bit longer, the feeling of it downright fucking electric. He's held out this long. He can hold out a little longer, continuing to yield, to stay enveloped in this heady state of surrender. To let J take care of him, though he would never, before now, have considered anything like this would fit that description. It's not wrong, though. Leaving all of the control here in J's hands, trusting J to make it good for him, being proven right at every turn, that's really what it is.

Especially given all of that, he doesn't want to give J the wrong idea in any regard — not that this isn't good, isn't enough, and not that it's too much, either. It takes him a moment to be able to speak again, his mouth dry, but he glances up as he does, trying to ignore his own reflection in favor of looking briefly at J. "You won't break me," he promises, meant to be a quiet reassurance, a way of conveying that he's alright, in case it's only for fear of hurting him that J has slowed down. S doesn't think it is, but still, he would rather be sure. His breath shudders a little when he exhales, head lowering a little again. "But this — this is good, too. So good, fuck."

[beklemmt]

That's all J really needs to hear. He doesn't go any faster yet, but at least now he feels more certain that, once he does, S will be ready for it, that he wants it. Given a little space to breathe, he sounds a little bit more collected, which makes J more comfortable pushing him into incoherence. At every opportunity, S has made it clear he wants this, and J knows he'd push back if there was anything he disliked, but there's a grey area here that comes with the pretense he has any more control over this situation than S does. He may be the one making the decisions, but it only makes sense to him if he's checking in with S before diving too far into anything. It's a difficult line to walk when he doesn't want S to feel he has to make the choices himself, yet also to feel that he always has a choice.

Knowing that he does is strangely moving, J finds. He can barely even trust himself, and yet S has such faith in him, and all J wants is to make him happy and to prove him right. The way he sounds now, at least, makes J feel he's on the right track. "Head up, darling," he says, soft, "look at me."

There's always something so electric about being able to see S's expression during sex, something he didn't realize he'd miss so much. He's just so beautifully expressive, J finds it hard to look away. Like this, desperate and utterly lost in the sensations, it's like he can't hide how he feels at all, and it's entrancing and gratifying and arousing all at once. It's become clear, too, how much S flinches away from the sight of himself and yet he seems to enjoy it, obvious in how he reacts whenever J calls him on how badly he wants this, like he's squirming with both the need to escape it and to get more. The more he sees of it and the more J thinks he's picking up on what S enjoys about this, the more he wants to test it, to push and coax and tease and see what works. It helps that they figured out sex together, that he knows it isn't ever perfect. There's plenty they've tried that just didn't work as well as they expected or that needed practice to feel as good as it does now. It's one way in which he never really needs to worry about being perfect. If anything, he prefers it messy — like this, really, desperation reaching a fever pitch.

"Is that what you want?" he asks, gentle, though he could probably sell this better if he weren't so goddamn turned on himself, distracted by how good it feels just to move inside of S. "Just like this?" And maybe he moves just a little slower yet, hand sliding from S's waist to rest against his stomach, keeping him close, knowing S has to be intensely aware of how easily he could take him in hand. The angle would make it way too uncomfortable to be worthwhile, J's pretty sure, but he could. "Or," he says, dragging out even his words, and not simply for want of breath, "are you just so desperate you'll take whatever I give you and you don't want me to stop?"

[hismelody]

The request is such a simple one, milder than a good deal of what's been said already. All the same, S feels his breath catch again, his mouth going dry, when J tells him to lift his head. He listens, of course, obedient as he has been, as he said he would be, but the effect of it is no lessened for how long he's been able to glimpse his reflection now. Being able to see himself like this — being able to see J fucking him — is overwhelming, mortifying. He doesn't know why his instinct is to lean into the discomfort of that, why it's somehow a turn-on, but it's clear enough that J has caught onto the fact that it gets under his skin, and S can't refuse him. Or, really, he could, if it was actually going too far, if he really wanted to. Instead, he likes fighting his instinctive slight resistance, likes making himself comply, pushing himself that little bit more. So he does, teeth pressing against his lower lip as he looks up again, trying to ignore his own reflection, the pink in his cheeks and the unmistakable need in his eyes, in favor of looking up at J instead. Even that is still so much, but at least it's better than looking right at himself.

Between that and J's question, the excruciating gentleness in his voice — the proximity of J's hand to his dick, for that matter, not touching, but just close enough to be all the more enticing — it takes him a moment to answer. He doesn't really know what he wants, anyway, slower or faster, to have the relief of coming sooner or to make this last, to be able to give J some kind of cue or just leave it utterly in his hands. Then again, J seems to have all but predicted that uncertainty anyway, even if he phrases it differently than S would have himself. Being called desperate like that has a similar effect that seeing himself in the mirror does, leaving him awash in embarrassment all over again, still surprisingly into the feigned undertone of judgment in it.

"Yes," he finally admits, voice faltering, head moving slightly in an unsteady nod, though he doesn't lower it again. Not for the first time throughout all of this, there's something vaguely ashamed in his expression, the natural response, really, to J's choice of words, all part of the same game. Already he's certain that won't be enough, that J will want to hear him say it, but it takes him a moment longer to build to that. "I am. I will, I'll take whatever you give me." Although it's an echo of J's phrasing, it isn't entirely disingenuous. He is desperate, having been so worked up for so long, and he meant it when he said, back when they'd just made it inside the apartment again, that J could do whatever he wanted to him. Really, it's fascinating, or it would be if he could think more clearly about any of it, the overlap between what's pretense and what's real, nothing here false, exactly, just played a certain way to fit a certain role, his surrender only because he knows it's safe to do so, that telling J to do what he wants will result in his getting the same, even when he isn't sure exactly what that is. Part of him, having been kept wanting for so long now, aches for more, speed and force and the ensuing release. Part of him, though, impossible to ignore, the part that seems to be winning out, wants more of this instead, for J to drive him crazy and make it last until he can't stand it anymore, to be able to keep doing whatever he wants rather than meeting some specific need of S's, since S can't settle on anything specific anyway. "Just, please, don't stop."

[beklemmt]

Sometimes one or both of them will say something to that effect, gasping out don't stop when, realistically, there's no chance at all that they would. Except this is different. It's possible — not really, not actually, J knows he wouldn't do that to S unless he clearly wanted J to stop — but in theory, at least, there's that option, that he could stop and leave S wanting. It gives those words even more of an edge than usual, and J is utterly weak to whatever S wants, to whatever will make him happy. He denied him too long, pushed him aside. He doesn't want that, not anymore, refuses. If he's going to treat S with any cruelness at all now, it'll be like this, soft and sharp and entirely in service of S's own pleasure.

"Needy little thing," he murmurs, and he's flushed and disheveled himself, eyes dark and wanting and utterly fascinated as he watches S in return, meeting his gaze in the mirror. He loves that, he really does, both the hypnotic sight of the pair of them like this and how much S needs this, craves this. He's always liked it when S gets all worked up, gets lost in his need. "Pretty even like this. Especially like this, all mine."

And though he said he didn't want to break S — though that is, really, still true — it would be a lie if he tried to say he didn't want to wreck him. "I won't stop," he says, a soft promise, "unless you want me to." He doesn't think S does or will want that, and he's sure S knows it, but he still feels more certain of this if he makes sure he's put that out there. They both know this is just a game, but it's good, he thinks, to have a reminder of that once in a while, and not to get so lost in this part that he forgets why he's taken on this role. Granted, that's in large part because it's much, much hotter than he anticipated, and because he's stubborn as hell, and if S pushes, so will he. But it's also about S, about making him feel good. Like he said, about taking care of him.

"Since you said," he continues, breath catching on a soft groan, "you won't break..." Dragging this out doesn't have to mean slowing down, not always. Again he starts to move faster, sharp, deep thrusts of increasing speed, and it's hard to talk again for a moment, halfway choking on a moan. S just feels so good around him, everything heat and friction and the way S is always so responsive, how sweetly pliant he is now, and J could easily get lost in this himself. "I can just..." He keeps pushing himself, and he knows they're both going to be too exhausted when this is done to do much of anything until dinner, if then, and that's fine. They have nowhere to be, nothing else to do. He gasps, tugging slightly where he holds onto S. "Ruin you a little."

[hismelody]

Again, something curls hot and enticing through S at the way J sounds, leaving him swallowing hard around the way it feels like his heart is lodged up in his throat. It's not an outright insult, really; he doubts he would enjoy that half as much. This, though, having attention drawn to how desperate he is with that quiet sort of judgment, almost as if it's something he ought to be ashamed of, is good, makes him sink further into submission, aware that what J says is entirely deserved. Of course he's needy, anyway, with as good as J feels and as long as he's been working him up. It's just framed a little differently like this, when he's made a point of admitting his own desperation, leaning into the idea of doing whatever J will want, taking whatever he'll give. Besides, whatever he says and however he sounds, there's no hiding how into this J is, too, an unsurprising but welcome juxtaposition. After all, there's no point to this otherwise. As much as he's leaned into this dynamic they've taken on here, he wouldn't if it seemed for a second like J was uncomfortable with it.

Instead, as with so much else of their past experience, they've fallen into it together, or so it seems to him, meeting each other halfway, taking each other's cues as they go further and further down this road. There is, or there would be, if he were inclined to give it that much thought right now, something comforting about it, really, having this proof of how well, at least in this one regard, they can still read each other, how much they trust each other, enough to wholeheartedly try something so new like this. Now, as he's thought before, isn't the time to try to analyze it. It isn't with J moving more slowly than he was a few moments ago, and it sure as hell isn't when he speeds up again, catching S by surprise, pulling a moan from him — a cry, really, short and sharp and hoarse, not pained but so fucking desperate.

If the goal is to ruin him, J's words sinking in a moment later than perhaps they should, then S thinks he's already accomplished that and then some. That hardly means he's going to discourage more. He wanted that, really, for J to take him apart entirely, the way no one else ever could or has. At the time, he couldn't have expected this, but somehow, that just makes it better, the fact that he didn't see this coming.

"Fuck," he chokes out again, the word leaving him between ragged, shaky breaths. "I — yes, that's —" It's not much of an agreement, an approval. Trying to be particularly eloquent while J is thrusting so hard into him is next to impossible. He thinks it's enough anyway, acknowledgment both of what J has said about ruining him and his current means of doing so. It isn't just because he told J to do whatever he wanted, though that's true, too, something he could repeat again now but doesn't think he needs to. It's just good — incredible, really — having J fuck him like this, giving him total control, being pushed so far but still not too much so.

[beklemmt]

Bits and pieces of this feel familiar, in the midst of a lot that isn't, little things they've always enjoyed taking on new forms, building and building. Another time, perhaps, J could overthink it. Probably will, really, though at least it will help that they'll talk about it, so he won't be doing so on his own. In this moment, though, there's nothing but them, the same as always and utterly new, and it's exhilarating. The sounds S makes are gorgeous. Even if he can't finish a sentence, it's clear enough that he likes the choice J has made. If anything, the fact he can't get anything else out is proof J's getting this right.

Staying coherent himself is difficult when he feels lit up and alive, heat rolling over him, getting enough both to feel really fucking good and to want more and more and more. Whatever his tone might be, he means it when he says S is pretty. He isn't, he's a mess, but he is, something incandescent about him as he lets go entirely, lets pleasure guide him, lets J guide him. He's so beautiful. It's a good thing, J thinks distantly, that he only has the breath to say so much, or he'd let little declarations of love slip from his lips instead, and he doesn't know if that's the right thing here and now. Figuring that out requires a presence of mind he currently lacks, something to discuss later, for if they do this again. He hopes they do this again.

For now, he just lets himself go, enough focus left to try and angle himself just right to make S feel as good as possible. His hand leaves the counter, both moving to S's hips, holding both of them steady as he fucks him as best he knows how, as hard and fast and deep as he's capable of, at least after such a long period of celibacy. It's enough. It is for him, at least, and he thinks it is for S. Broken moans and little whimpers float out of him, desperate himself, chasing after another orgasm even as he knows he won't let himself have it, not yet. He's got to get S close first, got to see this game through. "Good boy," he gasps, a little dazed as he looks at S, "fuck, so good. Oh, fuck, that's it."

[hismelody]

It's almost, almost too much. It's not, but it very nearly is, which, really, is what he wanted, surpassing anything S might have had in mind when he first told J he wanted to be fucked senseless. This, when he can barely string coherent thoughts together, never mind sentences, when there's little he can do but stand here and take it and find other ways of making clear how good it is. The sounds he makes, whimpers and moans and cries, become increasingly rough and desperate; with one thrust, the air punches out of his lungs in what's very nearly a sob, and it's unrelenting and incredible, his shoulders trembling a little with the weight of trying to keep himself upright now. Were it not for the counter and J's grip on his hips, he's sure his legs would be doing little to support him, and there's something strangely appealing about that, too, about J fucking him so hard that he can barely stand, leaving him secure in his helplessness, trusting J entirely even when he's half out of his head and then some. Obviously it's paid off so far.

"Fuck, right there," he gasps when J's angle shifts slightly, his eyes closing tight for a moment before he remembers, hazily, J telling him to look at him and does so again. It's absolutely obscene — the filthiest thing they've ever done, probably — to be able to see them like this, but he can't fight it now, not what J has told him to do and not their reflection in front of them, not when they've come this far. He doesn't even know how far they still have to go, halfway desperate to get off at last, still with the distinct but distant awareness that he's left even that in J's hands. It's a good thing, probably, that he needs his arms to keep himself braced on the counter or he'd be too tempted to touch himself and hurry this along, when that isn't really what he wants; he didn't offer J such utter control, himself along with it, only to take it back this close to the end. He could have, at any point, if he felt like he needed to or like this wasn't working. Instead, it's been even better than he could have imagined, and that's worth sticking with.

Chest heaving as he takes a breath, he lets out another little whine, barely even aware of it himself. "Feels so good, fuck."

[beklemmt]

In his usual, admittedly predictable fashion, as soon as S expresses approval, J is all in. Once he's sure of the angle S means, that's exactly where he aims, utterly focused. Hip snapping forward again and again, between this and getting fucked earlier, he's not sure he'll be sitting easy tomorrow for that matter, and he doesn't care. If that's what happens, it'll be completely fucking worth it. Holding onto S like this, sinking into him relentlessly, he feels at once so good he could float away and so completely tethered to where and when he is. Nothing else matters. There's no room in his head to think about the past or the future, no room to focus on anything he's done wrong. All he can think about is what he's gotten right, what he needs to keep doing, and how intensely good this feels, not holding back in the least.

It's all the more intense for being able to see it in front of him. He's still not thrilled with his own appearance these days, but that's surprisingly easy to cast aside. His looks don't matter so much as the chance to see S unraveling so beautifully, or how utterly filthy it is, being able to watch every reaction, involuntary or otherwise, S has to every thrust, sending of sparks of arousal whenever he manages to take in the sight, mostly focused as he is on S's face. By the time they're done here, he thinks fleetingly, he doesn't even know if S is going to have much of a voice left. The sounds he makes now are so good, though, spurring J on. Even that little sob nearly undoes him. It's just hot, knowing S is so affected by all of this, that he wants this that badly, that he feels that good, that he's taking such rough treatment and getting off on it. It feels increasingly like something J should have known but never pieced together, something new that still feels strangely right.

"Good," he gasps again, "keep — keep looking. Fuck." He'd emphasize his point, prod S to keep looking, pretty sure S would be into it if he just reached out and pulled his hair now, but that would require him to move one of his hands, and he's not entirely certain that S doesn't actually need the help. Better not to risk it this time. Instead he keeps going, chasing the thrill of this and the pleasure, breathless with exertion and anticipation. "Already..." He lets out a small, strangled sound that would be a laugh if he could manage it, albeit a fond one. "Already senseless, aren't you?"

[hismelody]

Even now, in spite of everything else — including the fact that he definitely is senseless, or something like it — there's part of S that wonders what would happen if he lowered his head again, shut his eyes, looked away. If J would make him do it somehow, a thought that really shouldn't be as appealing as it is, especially when all of this is so new and undiscussed. That it is makes it all the more thrilling, though, to test the boundaries of it, to figure out what will happen if he reacts a certain way, to push just a little without knowing what the result will be. Despite knowing they must be close to the end now, both of them only able to hold out so long, the temptation to disobey what he's been told to do in that one small way remains. It sure as hell was worth it before, and that was far more significant than just not looking would be.

It's difficult, anyway, to see himself in this state, flushed and desperate and being fucked hard, though only in the same way that it has been through the rest of this, where there's something appealing about the embarrassment of it, something all the more so about J's taking advantage of that and telling him to keep looking. For now, though, he listens, even if he tries to keep his gaze more on J than on himself. At this angle, it's not very easy to do so, but that hardly matters when it makes everything else so fucking good, S all the more unable to hold back any of the sounds that escape him, the whimpers and moans, the desperate, shuddering breaths as J continues thrusting into him. A moment ago, S meant it when he said that J wouldn't break him, but this, he thinks, will come close in the best way. There's no way he'll be ruined just a little when they're done here; he'll be utterly fucking wrecked. Maybe it is largely because he's so far out of his head right now — he doesn't really think so, coherent enough just to know what he does and doesn't want, to be able to tell what would or wouldn't actually be too much, but maybe — but he wouldn't have it any other way.

"Yes," he answers, an agreement and an admission and a plea all at once, the word a heavy rush of air, trembling and abrupt enough to be nearly a sob again. Finally he gives in then and lets his head drop again, breathless and exhausted, absolutely exhilarated, feeling alive and electric even while knowing he can only last so long. It's true, though; he is senseless, he must be, incapable of thinking about anything outside of this for more than a moment, aware only of the two of them and how fucking good this feels. "Fuck. Yes. Sense — senseless."

[beklemmt]

If part of the rules here, unspoken though they more or less are, is that S has to do as he says, then his not looking is probably something J should at least scold him for. He doesn't have it in him, though, more than a little distracted. Besides, there's something strangely appealing about this, too, S too far gone to hold his head up or do anything but echo his words in broken fragments. And yet even now, J can see he feels good, almost as if in spite of himself.

It's not something J can make sense of right now, really, his liking that so much. He loves who S is, even if he's said things to the contrary in the past, and he loves how smart and strong he is, how clever and perceptive and adept, his passion, his stubbornness. Why then he should be so incredibly turned on by this, S reduced to incoherence, he really doesn't know. It's not about that part, he's pretty sure, but he doesn't know for certain and he can't even begin to parse it now. All he really knows right now is that it's intensely arousing to watch as S all but clings to the counter, small, shaky noises drifting out of him, even as he makes it clear he wants more of the same.

There is, of course, still a part of J that wants to soothe him, to brush his hair back and shower him in kisses and praise and adoration, to be gentle with him. But that can wait until they're done, and he has a strong feeling that to do so now would be unfair to S. Pushing him this much, even if he very much wanted that, only to give up at the last minute would be disappointing for them both. "It's okay," he says anyway, words rough and breathless, but he pushes through. "Senseless is okay." He's not even sure that makes sense in and of itself, but he thinks S will get it, in as much as either of them are coherent enough to get anything. S doesn't need to think too much about anything, just needs to feel for now.

J can feel the tension building, the heat and pleasure coiling in himself, not quite there but a kind of distant warning. He doubts S has much left in him either, and that's all the more reason to see this through. "So beautiful," he mumbles, more of a gentle nudge to look up than an order. He has to remind himself, too, of what really started this ball rolling, of what he needs to do. "But you — fuck — aren't gonna come yet, are you? Ah, without asking me?" If S likes the embarrassment, likes giving J all control, then that's what J will give him. Not that it's selfless, when the very idea of it is enough to prompt another whine from him, small and wanting and entirely at odds with the image he's trying to project. It's hard to maintain any kind of role or façade when he can barely keep a grip on his ability to speak even somewhat coherently, but he'll be damned if he fails now.

[hismelody]

He agreed to this — minutes ago, hours, he doesn't know, he doesn't care. Hell, he encouraged it, brought it up again when he could have let it drop. There's something heady about it, really, something unexpectedly but irrefutably hot in yielding so completely that he'll even give J control over when he can come. S is no closer to unraveling any of this than he was when J first said as much — if anything, he's further from it now, much too far gone to make sense of either of their motivations — but he knows he likes it, knows he wanted this. All of it has been the same, really, since they started this, sparking in him desires he had no idea he had, prompting stronger reactions than he could ever have expected. He doesn't need to understand it to know it's true. On some level, he already suspects that the same is true for J. Whatever they may have tried before, they never went remotely this far, and he has no reason to believe that J would have held back then. They must have both stumbled into this, figuring out they both like it and continually leaning into it at the same time. He might not know where this came from, but he does know that much, that it's really fucking good, that it's what he wants.

And still, J's words somehow take him by surprise, prompting S to look up again already. Inasmuch as he considered it at all, he assumed J would just tell him when he could come, give permission and let that be that. He didn't count on having to ask. With the way this has gone, he doubts it will be just asking, too; if J wants him to ask first, then S thinks he probably means to make him work for it, too, that he won't make it easy. Even that, he likes, really, in keeping with all of this. That doesn't change the way, though, that his eyes go wide and pleading, S left unable to breathe for a moment.

He'll do it, he already knows that much. He'll beg if he has to, and sooner or later, J will relent; whatever he might have teased the possibility of earlier, he wouldn't, S knows, actually leave him in this state. Still, pushing himself that little bit more, making himself say it, isn't exactly easy, self-consciousness and anticipation surging through him again. Without having said anything yet, he feels a little like he did earlier — like he has through all of this, really, but especially a little while ago, when J instructed him to count and he knew he would listen, somehow both fighting and savoring the humiliation of it. He suspects the same will be true of something like having to ask for permission to come. "I won't," he promises with a quick little shake of his head, sounding about as wrecked as he looks, his voice faltering, broken. "Not — not until you say."

That's not all of what J said, though. S has to take a stuttering breath before he continues, bracing himself, though even then, he doesn't go all the way, just barely starting to work up to what he wants, even as he knows that prolonging this part won't be easy. "Getting close, though," he adds, bright red in a way he wouldn't normally be when saying such a thing. That part is just commonplace, really. "Ah, please..." It's barely a request yet, faintly cajoling, nowhere close to pleading or begging. Reasonably certain as he is that he'll have to, it wouldn't be half as fun to start with that.