Being in control is somewhat relative for Peter. The truth is that he cannot imagine that what he does to Jason is tantamount to what Jason does to him. Peter has it in his mind that Jason chooses to lose control, whereas Peter gets pushed there by the perfect specimen that has no business being in the arms of someone as unworthy as Peter Simmonds. Then, there's Jason, barely able to talk in the face of a compliment on his Grecian appearance. Peter imagines that if Jason had a nickle for every time someone makes a comment about his incredible he looks, Jason could match is father's fortune dollar-for-dollar. So why should it matter that a boy that worships the ground he walks on should think the same as anyone else? It can only mean that his opinion means more to Jason than the others'; that's a thrill all of its own.
When words find Jason again, they seem to be making up for lost time, tumbling out on sheaves of the most tantalizing, eager, uncontrolled sexiness that Peter loses his own composure for a second. He's thankful that Jason's face in in his neck, that he's not standing or he knows his knees would have buckled. A few seconds pass after Jason's muted request; the white-heat that it provokes rushes out of Peter's mouth in a low, awed moan. He wants to hear it again, a hundred times, more. As it is, he takes his arm from around Jason and flattens his hand against Jason's chest, pushing him back just a bit. Loathe as he is to break the contact, he untangles his legs from around Jason, uncurls his other hand, and gives Jason a firm (but not forceful) shove back onto the bed. In the transfer, he grabs the supplies from the drawer he'd seen Jason retrieve them from mere hours ago. Languidly, he sprawls himself out on top of Jason -- this hadn't been part of the plan, but he needs to kiss him again -- before passing parted lips down the line of his torso.
"Jesus, Jason, you're perfect," Peter breathes once his lips reach the jut of Jason's hip bone. A quick nip of teeth there and Peter's off again, taking his time to mouth over to the head of Jason's dick. There, he rolls lips and tongue just barely over the skin as he palms some of the lube into his hand. He intends to keep busy, to take over and ease the constant burden of Jason's endless responsibilities. Anything, really, just as long as it keeps Jason right on the verge of losing his mind for however long he can keep the game up.
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When words find Jason again, they seem to be making up for lost time, tumbling out on sheaves of the most tantalizing, eager, uncontrolled sexiness that Peter loses his own composure for a second. He's thankful that Jason's face in in his neck, that he's not standing or he knows his knees would have buckled. A few seconds pass after Jason's muted request; the white-heat that it provokes rushes out of Peter's mouth in a low, awed moan. He wants to hear it again, a hundred times, more. As it is, he takes his arm from around Jason and flattens his hand against Jason's chest, pushing him back just a bit. Loathe as he is to break the contact, he untangles his legs from around Jason, uncurls his other hand, and gives Jason a firm (but not forceful) shove back onto the bed. In the transfer, he grabs the supplies from the drawer he'd seen Jason retrieve them from mere hours ago. Languidly, he sprawls himself out on top of Jason -- this hadn't been part of the plan, but he needs to kiss him again -- before passing parted lips down the line of his torso.
"Jesus, Jason, you're perfect," Peter breathes once his lips reach the jut of Jason's hip bone. A quick nip of teeth there and Peter's off again, taking his time to mouth over to the head of Jason's dick. There, he rolls lips and tongue just barely over the skin as he palms some of the lube into his hand. He intends to keep busy, to take over and ease the constant burden of Jason's endless responsibilities. Anything, really, just as long as it keeps Jason right on the verge of losing his mind for however long he can keep the game up.