There isn't a metaphor more apt than Peter's carefully-chosen outfit now crumpled. His shirt is discarded, hanging from the desk by the door, and his pants are now pooled only just below the bed on the floor -- it all happened so fast. That's the whirlwind of them, he thinks for a second, but it's the last clear thought he has. Now, he's just thinking Jason over and over; like a chant, a prayer.
He tries to answer Jason, to tell him that he wants more but he's unsuccessful. His neck strains for another kiss, he's reaching hungrily for Jason, one had splayed and gripping his lover's shoulder for dear life, the other stroking its way through the soft perfection of Jason's hair as he moves to worship Peter's neck.
Another earnest attempt at speech fails when Jason stokes the fire with his promises, and all of these verbal misfires culminate in a desperate, strained, "yes." He doesn't even have his wits about him enough to be embarrassed by his loss of composure; in fact, he doesn't even want it, anymore. He doesn't ever want to have to be composed again.
When the fire that's spreading from Jason's practiced, knowing touch threatens to tip him over the edge, he finds his hand has moved from Jason's hair to his forearm to steady the motion. Words to describe what's happening are sometimes easier to speak than others, and he's not really able to do much else at the moment, so he locks eyes with Jason by way of communication. That sea glass color that Jason tends to get lost in is cloudy, now, and Peter's eyes are wide and desperate.
When he's sure he can move without passing out or getting off, he gently, suggestively pushes Jason back. It's a bit of a balancing act, since Peter is not at that moment incredibly dizzy and in a half-haze. Thanks to the loss of his tight jeans, he can settle more easily between Jason's legs. He makes quick work of this and slides down his body to put his mouth back where it belongs.
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He tries to answer Jason, to tell him that he wants more but he's unsuccessful. His neck strains for another kiss, he's reaching hungrily for Jason, one had splayed and gripping his lover's shoulder for dear life, the other stroking its way through the soft perfection of Jason's hair as he moves to worship Peter's neck.
Another earnest attempt at speech fails when Jason stokes the fire with his promises, and all of these verbal misfires culminate in a desperate, strained, "yes." He doesn't even have his wits about him enough to be embarrassed by his loss of composure; in fact, he doesn't even want it, anymore. He doesn't ever want to have to be composed again.
When the fire that's spreading from Jason's practiced, knowing touch threatens to tip him over the edge, he finds his hand has moved from Jason's hair to his forearm to steady the motion. Words to describe what's happening are sometimes easier to speak than others, and he's not really able to do much else at the moment, so he locks eyes with Jason by way of communication. That sea glass color that Jason tends to get lost in is cloudy, now, and Peter's eyes are wide and desperate.
When he's sure he can move without passing out or getting off, he gently, suggestively pushes Jason back. It's a bit of a balancing act, since Peter is not at that moment incredibly dizzy and in a half-haze. Thanks to the loss of his tight jeans, he can settle more easily between Jason's legs. He makes quick work of this and slides down his body to put his mouth back where it belongs.