If only Peter knew how easily Jason loses control around him; all it takes is one glance from those glassy eyes, or one brush of fingertips from that freckled hand, and Jason's whole world tilts on its axis. Jason swaggers around with a confidence groomed from years of suppressing himself and who he really is; he takes his cues from Matt and Lucas and smirks and struts, 'like some goddamn peacock,' Nadia, rolling her eyes fondly, always says with a snort. The truth remains that such a projected image is just that; a canvas to disguise the way Jason is so prone to lingering stares and near swooning when it comes to Peter. When it comes to Peter, one little kiss is all it takes to make confident Jason lose any and all semblance of control he's ever mustered. He stumbles and he shivers and he adores it.
Jason feels the way Peter loses his grip on his own composure for a second, and he manages to smile sloppily at the thought. Here they both are, perfect messes rendered even more immaculate and intense by their intimacy. And then Peter lets out that moan, a moan that shoots right through Jason and renders him breathless as he lets out a groan of his own, mouth pressed against the juncture of Peter's neck and collarbone. Jason feels the serpentine way Peter slides his arm from his neck to prod against his chest; he feels the strength in that other hand as it unfurls to help push him back. He falls onto the bed shuddering and letting out little gasps that turn into wanton whimpers; he misses Peter's touch keenly, but God. The sight of him grabbing the supplies from earlier makes Jason's hands grip the tangled bed sheets and hips sharply buck in Peter's direction as he lets out an obscene, elongated attempt at Peter's name, unable to close his parted lips between the noises and panting coming from his mouth or his legs, opening further and quaking from anticipation. Gradually, he feels himself seeping into liquid for Peter, and God, does it feel good.
Peter crawls over him and Jason brings his hands to grasp at every inch of bare skin he can reach, smoothing his hands across Peter's shoulder blades before moving them into his hair, tugging as they kiss, heated and increasingly insistent. And then Peter's moving down his stomach, pressing his hot, parted mouth against his abs; Jason tries to both watch this happening and arch his neck against the pillow. The result is him nearly hitting his head against the wall, and he lets out a breathless laugh, which quickly transforms into a moan and another jerk of his hips as Peter nips at the skin before taking Jason into his mouth.
"Fuck," Jason hisses, arching his entire body towards Peter, desperate for more. Jason feels nearly delirious with the sweat glistening across his body and the slight aching in his legs as he spreads them for Peter. He keeps shivering, one hand still in Peter's hand while the other curls into the sheets again, gripping and clutching at the fabric as he tries to hold himself together.
When Peter tells him how perfect he is, Jason lets out a choked sob before he can help himself. He turns his head aside quickly, to hide the tears that sneak out at the strength in those words. Such compliments feel so empty, spoken by other people. But Peter. God, Peter telling Jason he's perfect means the world. No. More than the word. It means everything, and Jason finds himself so overwhelmed with love in that moment. The polar opposite of how he felt during the phone conversation with his father.
But Peter and his mouth and those lips, those beautiful, wide lips, spur Jason on in spiraling into incoherence and pull him back from his tears; the sight of the lube spilling into Peter's hands makes Jason moan and thrash his head against the pillow, desperate words falling from his lips.
"Fuck, fuck, Peter, please, please. I need you," he pleads, lifting his head to meet Peter's gaze, chest tightening at the sensation of watching Peter sucking on his cock. "Fuck. Peter." And then he moans, toes curling, letting out a plea that would absolutely embarrass him otherwise. "Fuck me through the mattress," he hisses.
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Jason feels the way Peter loses his grip on his own composure for a second, and he manages to smile sloppily at the thought. Here they both are, perfect messes rendered even more immaculate and intense by their intimacy. And then Peter lets out that moan, a moan that shoots right through Jason and renders him breathless as he lets out a groan of his own, mouth pressed against the juncture of Peter's neck and collarbone. Jason feels the serpentine way Peter slides his arm from his neck to prod against his chest; he feels the strength in that other hand as it unfurls to help push him back. He falls onto the bed shuddering and letting out little gasps that turn into wanton whimpers; he misses Peter's touch keenly, but God. The sight of him grabbing the supplies from earlier makes Jason's hands grip the tangled bed sheets and hips sharply buck in Peter's direction as he lets out an obscene, elongated attempt at Peter's name, unable to close his parted lips between the noises and panting coming from his mouth or his legs, opening further and quaking from anticipation. Gradually, he feels himself seeping into liquid for Peter, and God, does it feel good.
Peter crawls over him and Jason brings his hands to grasp at every inch of bare skin he can reach, smoothing his hands across Peter's shoulder blades before moving them into his hair, tugging as they kiss, heated and increasingly insistent. And then Peter's moving down his stomach, pressing his hot, parted mouth against his abs; Jason tries to both watch this happening and arch his neck against the pillow. The result is him nearly hitting his head against the wall, and he lets out a breathless laugh, which quickly transforms into a moan and another jerk of his hips as Peter nips at the skin before taking Jason into his mouth.
"Fuck," Jason hisses, arching his entire body towards Peter, desperate for more. Jason feels nearly delirious with the sweat glistening across his body and the slight aching in his legs as he spreads them for Peter. He keeps shivering, one hand still in Peter's hand while the other curls into the sheets again, gripping and clutching at the fabric as he tries to hold himself together.
When Peter tells him how perfect he is, Jason lets out a choked sob before he can help himself. He turns his head aside quickly, to hide the tears that sneak out at the strength in those words. Such compliments feel so empty, spoken by other people. But Peter. God, Peter telling Jason he's perfect means the world. No. More than the word. It means everything, and Jason finds himself so overwhelmed with love in that moment. The polar opposite of how he felt during the phone conversation with his father.
But Peter and his mouth and those lips, those beautiful, wide lips, spur Jason on in spiraling into incoherence and pull him back from his tears; the sight of the lube spilling into Peter's hands makes Jason moan and thrash his head against the pillow, desperate words falling from his lips.
"Fuck, fuck, Peter, please, please. I need you," he pleads, lifting his head to meet Peter's gaze, chest tightening at the sensation of watching Peter sucking on his cock. "Fuck. Peter." And then he moans, toes curling, letting out a plea that would absolutely embarrass him otherwise. "Fuck me through the mattress," he hisses.