no_voice | Cause he knows he's taking chances. [Test post for Peter]

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Cause he knows he's taking chances. [Test post for Peter]

Jason arrives to St. Cecilia's feeling both as though he's about to take flight and he's about to sink into empty air with only the cold, cruel autumn ground to break his fall. He breathes in the oppressive humidity of the late August day as though he might steal some of the summer sun to keep himself warm on the inside. His senior year, finally. Everything comes down to this. All of those 'encouraging' family talks and hollow laughter about how he'll make the family proud and burn brightly on at Notre Dame. All of those discussions about how he'll meet his future wife and provide his parents with grandchildren soon enough.

He shakes his head, taking a stuttering breath to calm himself. He's only just arrived. No need to let the pressure of everything build quite that high up just yet.

His parents offered to help him unpack; he waved them off with the smile he'd gotten so good at faking, gently hinting that perhaps their assistance would be better off with Nadia, who rolled her eyes, but offered him an actual smile all the same.

His family ought to have left by now. He hopes. Regardless, with one last exhale, he's on his way back to his room. He needs to see Peter more than anything. He's the only person Jason wants to see in this moment; he's the only one who will understand.

But of course, he's Jason McConnell, and making his way back to his own room is never that simple. He winds up chatting with Matt for a few minutes, before gaggles of girls try and worm his number out of him. He endures about ten minute of it before excusing himself, nearly running to his room where, hopefully, he'll find Peter.

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The tenderness Jason practices even when need is tugging at both of them always blows Peter away. He's more or less in his lap anyway, and it's obvious they're on the same page. It's a fragile, incredible moment, though, so Peter positions himself fully in his best friend's lap and caresses his face from hairline to incredibly-shaped jaw.

"I want you," he assures him, unsure and unwilling to think about whether or not Jason understands exactly what he means. Now is perfect, but when he can stop and think about it, later is plaguing him. He didn't figure it would be so loud that it would bubble to the surface even in moments like that one--

He wants Jason to convince him. He wants to not need to feel convinced.

He lets out a groan as Peter climbs fully into his lap, never for a moment taking his eyes off Peter or the way his breathing hitches as they grow closer together, inch by inch. Need is the thickness of the air between them, spilling out both of their mouths in bursts and gasps. Jason can't help himself when he rolls his hips forward a little bit, trying to soothe some of his need for friction. Peter's hand on his face is so gentle and loving; like the caress of a wing instead of a hand. Jason's breath catches as he stares, bringing one of his own hands to cover Peter's. The moment is full and beautiful; alive as though it were its own being.

Jason lets out a shuddering breath at Peter's words, letting them sink beneath his skin. "I want you too," he says, leaning up to kiss Peter firmly yet tenderly, as he shifts to lower him to the bed. "I want you so much, Peter," he breathes into him, wishing he had the courage to tell his boyfriend that he loves him.

He pulls back to study the brightness of Peter against the dull, school sheets. His vibrant hair and eyes; the watercolor-quality to his cheeks. And those freckles. That beautiful, myriad of constellations across his skin that tugs at Jason's heart every time he looks at Peter. "God, you're beautiful," he tells him. Slowly, gradually, he drapes himself across Peter as he reaches clumsily for the supplies he's already packed away in the drawer next to the bed.

Thanks to the few moments to breathe that they've taken, some of Peter's senses have returned to him. He can't help but notice that he's shaking a bit; his preference was that Jason not notice, though there was no way he could miss it. The closeness, the sex: these were things only shared with Jason. In that moment, he feels the love, that crazy, shuddering need for forever. He's not sure it's ever been like this and it makes him dizzy. Incredibly grateful is how he feels when his back meets the unforgiving mattress again.

It really was just like being high, for all of the few experiences Peter had managed to convince himself to indulge in.

A light bell-like laugh rolls out of Peter's mouth when his eyes follow Jason's hand to the bedside table in the corner between the two beds.

"And you call me a boyscout," Peter quips, his voice still tinged dark as his throat hitches with the raw, naked friction between them. He makes sure to find Jason's face while Jason is busy digging in the drawer. His arms seem to float up independently of Peter. Hands flatten against his chest and he lavishly slides them downward, feeling the peaks and valley's of Jason's magazine-cover perfect torso, drinking it in. A few seconds' worth of that eyeful and his teeth have found the swollen skin of his own bottom lip, again.

Jason, staring intently as he is at Peter, can't help but notice the way he shakes. Trembles. Concerned, Jason leans in to press his forehead against Peter's, using his free hand to soothe down the side of one shaking arm. "Hey," he murmurs, looking directly into those sea glass eyes. "Everything okay?" He hopes he's done nothing to make Peter nervous. Jason still remembers their first time. The rush of limbs and tangling of bodies and lips. He remembers feeling as though he were falling, faster and deeper than ever before. He remembers the first time holding Peter in this way and the sudden memory inspires a sudden, overwhelming breathlessness over him. He feels as though they're both on the edge of a sort of precipice, on the verge of falling over said edge.

Jason has never felt more alive in his entire life than in this moment.

Peter's laugh, so lovely and lyrical, makes Jason grin in turn as he pulls out the lube and the condoms he'd made sure to sneak in when his parents weren't looking.

"Oh, you're still a boyscout," Jason assures him with a crooked grin, leaning in to kiss Peter's nose and cheeks quickly. "Cute as a button and with the doe eyes to match." Peter's hands then find their way on his chest, soothing downward. "Peter," he gasps, pausing a bit to lean into that hot touch as he meets those eyes, intoxicated and feeling as though he might float out of his skin at any moment.

God, when Peter bites his lip like that.

"Fuck," Jason swears, shuddering and leaning into Peter's touch. He has to take a moment to catch his breath; he feels as though he caught a fist to his gut, just from the expression on Peter's face.

"God, Peter," he groans, leaning forward to kiss those tempting lips while flicking open the bottle in his other hand. He pours some of the liquid on a couple of fingers before gently pressing one of them into Peter as he desperately tries to maintain control over himself. "Do you know what you do to me?"

He leans back down, kisses Peter soundly and madly as he begins moving his finger in a slow, steady motion.

"Yes," Peter repeats quickly, lest Jason back off; Peter knows he doesn't want that. A soft, reassuring kiss is pressed carefully centered on Jason's lips. Once his head returns to the pillow, he continues to watch Jason, then watch Jason watch him. It's insane how much eye contact Peter maintains with Jason and with nearly no one else. What if they saw how he felt? No doubt it was strong enough to be seen if either of them let it happen. If Jason would.

Serious Peter wrinkles his nose at Jason's gentle teasing, rejecting its presence and still reveling in it. How is it that he found this perfect person with whom he feels totally at ease in a place that is essentially a pressure cooker for misery? It is both in spite of and because of Jason that Peter still believes in fate, in destiny. In a power he cannot understand.

Even just the sound of the air escaping the bottle in the Jason's hand out of Peter's immediate sight sparks up that burning excitement within him. He can feel a string of pleases and mores and blasphemous curses curling around his tongue -- he literally has to press his lips together to keep the dam from breaking.

Once he can feel Jason's finger inside of him and all of the things the sensation promised, he forgets every one of them. White snow-like haze tints the corners of his vision. He wants to throw his head back, to lose it already, but instead, he tunes into Jason's voice again. Jason's perfect fucking voice.

"Tell me." It's meant to be a plea, but it comes out rougher, more insistent than he intends. He hooks his hand at the back of Jason's neck and covers his mouth hungrily before repeating, "Jason, tell me." It's softer when against his lover's lips, more desperate.

Peter kisses him, soft, reassuring, and quiet; a kiss so like Peter himself, in fact. Jason smiles, returning the kiss with a soft smile of his own. His gaze hardly ever breaks with Peter's; blue eyes boring into green. Here, in the safe space of their room, Jason can indulge in staring. He can gaze all he wants, pouring every unspoken truth out of himself for Peter to see. Their eyes do often meet, even in the hallways and in class. But Jason knows too well how to cover those gazes up as roommates merely passing each other by. It's the act of concealing himself away from the rest of the world. To hide the most vulnerable part of his life from the outside world.

God but Jason loves when Peter wrinkles his nose. It's somewhat rabbit-like, all scrunchy and adorable. It spurs on the warmth rapidly unfurling inside of him and makes him pause to consider how it is he's come to find someone like Peter. The question and answer to the looming, missing element in his life. Jason has been struggling against the idea of destiny all of his life; Peter liberates him from that. Makes him live in the moment and provides a place where he can be himself without the weight of expectation on him.

Peter's tightening lips and the way his voice comes out hoarse and rough draws a hitch of breath from Jason. He curls the first finger, adding to the friction as he waits desperately for more of Peter's beautiful noises. But then Peter's pulling him in for a crushing, hungry kiss and his insistent words.

"Hmm," Jason groans, his voice hoarse, moving to press another finger teasingly at Peter. "You make me nearly go out of mind. I can't stop thinking about your lips or your eyes. I'm supposed to concentrate in class and all I hear is your laughter. I think of you when I'm supposed to be praying. You and the way you graze your teeth across that bottom lip of yours." He has to pause as the heat tightens in his belly like a coil. He lets out a shuddering breath before starting to press wicked, hot kisses to Peter's neck.

"Do you even know how beautiful you are?" He nearly whispers. "How much you drive me crazy? Peter, you're perfect." He adds teeth to his kisses, pressing his second finger in more fully, desperate for more of Peter's reactions as he tries to ignore his own aching hardness.

Surprised by the reaction getting exactly what he wanted from Jason and the accompanying wildfire it starts in his entire midsection, Peter gasps. He's not sure (and he doesn't care) whether Jason's touch or his words that sends him past the point of clear thought. As much as he wants to lie below Jason as he worships him with his words and touch, but it's not enough, anymore. He clutches at the back of Jason's neck, tangling his slender fingers in the damp, tousled tufts of Jason's hair.

"Please," Peter all but whimpers, flexing his arm to tug Jason down to his lips again. He's frenzied, but he's all in one place, body and soul, and he's feeling greedy. "Please, God, Jason, please." Even through the haze this mewling turns his cheeks and ears red. Somewhere, floating about himself, he knows he's lost control, but either he can't pull the strings to get himself together or he doesn't want to.

Even the softness of Peter's fingers tangling in his dampened hair is enough to draw multiple, soft noises from Jason, halfway between whimpers and moans. Peter's eyes are wild and his touch is insistent as much as it is desperate; he's unraveling from his usual composure and Jason, addicted, can't get enough of the sight or sensation. He leans down as Peter pulls on his hair, presses their hot foreheads together as curls and works his fingers inside of Peter.

When Peter pulls him down into a kiss, Jason groans, parting Peter's lips with his tongue as he kisses back more fervently. God, the noises Peter makes. He shudders, the sound of Peter's cries and pleading jolting all the way down through his belly, nearly driving him mad. His own, blue eyes are as clouded and glazed as Peter's lips parted in obscene prayer.

He adds a third finger then, curling and twisting, aiming for that spot he knows will send stars across Peter's eyes. As Jason feels himself falling apart as well, he manages a smirk as he moves into kiss Peter again, long and hard and greedy. "Please what?" He asks, eyes alight with mischief and teasing.

There's a veritable symphony of gorgeous noises coming from Jason's mouth, and the noises fall whether Peter is dampening the sound with his own mouth or not. Jason's curling, twisting, insistent fingers are winding him tighter and tighter and he too feels like he may go completely mad.

He knows what Jason wants, knows that all he has to do is say it and that Jason will, the way he always does, bring fantasy into reality. He's also sure he's given Jason enough satisfaction in this encounter alone that he's not sure he wants to stroke his ego more. There's his lover's hand again, though, searching and pushing and Peter can't take it anymore.

"Fuck me," he hisses, the sound of the desperation and boldness in his own voice closing his lips, eyes, and then he's moaning, loud, frustrated, frenzied. "God, please." He's twisting his hips and ass down now, trying to get the most out of Jason's touch, whimpering and shuddering breath after shallow breath. "Jason, I need you." The desire has mounted to shuddering, quivering basic need.

Even when they're both quieting each other with their mouths, Jason feels the echoes of their shared noises sliver through him, serpentine and warm and alive in a way no such sounds have a right to be. He can sense the way he winds Peter up further with the increasing intensity of said noises spilling into his mouth; he replies with passionate kisses and moaning of his own.

Though he is very much near the edge of going beyond coherency, Jason can see the reluctance in Peter's eyes at saying what he knows Jason wants to hear out loud. He smirks in response, delighting in it. He does so enjoy provoking and teasing Peter. People tend to assume Peter is always quiet and thoughtful; that he never talks back. But Jason knows Peter, and he knows him well; he loves when Peter sasses him back, when he goes along with Jason's teases and teases him right back. It's one of Jason's very favorite things about him.

Jason's hand jerks at Peter's hissing, the fire in his belly growing more incendiary at the sound. Peter, beneath him, flushed and desperate; his eyes closed and moans falling from him helplessly. No matter how many times Jason dreams about this, and he dreams of Peter a lot, the images in his mind can never live up to reality. Peter starts moving his hips to meet his fingers, and Jason moans, feeling his own sense of poise and control slip.

"I need you too," he promises, leaning in to kiss him reverently as he slowly eases his fingers out of him. As quickly as he can, Jason reaches for the foil packet and the bottle of lube, unwrapping the condom as fast as his trembling hands will allow. He slides it on and opens the bottle, taking care to spread the liquid liberally. Once that's accomplished, he settles more thoroughly between Peter's legs, easing them a part a bit for a better angle.

"Peter," Jason moans, unable to help himself, as he begins pushing into him. Peter is hot and tight and gradually enveloping him; Jason can't control the noises falling from his lips or the way he watches Peter beneath him. Need, desire, everything gleams in his eyes as he stares at Peter as though he were the only wonder in the world.

As Peter suspected he might, he comes completely undone the moment Jason slides slowly, lovingly into him. He remembers in a flash of incoherence how the first few times had gone: the pain as they figured the logistics out, but the persistence for all the right reasons. Since he was a boy, Peter hadn't thought he would ever get to experience the kind of love he wanted: the sort that he's been raised to believe doesn't exist. Before he met Jason, before Peter could really put into words what he felt, all he could feel was like there was something wrong with him. Here, underneath the only person he's ever loved, could ever imagine loving, that's the only time he ever feels right.

Hot, sweating already from the frantic build-up, Peter finds his hand at Jason's shoulder again, coming in hard nails first, but he catches himself and smooths his hand out. Focusing on this grounds him enough that he manages not to cross the finish line the moment he feels Jason inside him, and this is just another reason he's grateful for the care Jason takes with him, now and always.

Eyes wide again, Peter watches Jason, listens to his constant stream of obscene, tantalizing sounds. He can feel the overwhelming heat he feels spreading through his boyfriend, as well, and while he has his wits about him enough to challenge Jason, he begins to move. A sound works its way from deep in his throat, but he stifles it in favor of hearing just how Jason feels about this new development.

God, Jason thinks. He will never tire of watching Peter fall apart. The way he abandons all semblance of the poise that normally defines him; the noises he makes and the way his freckles and eyes grow more vibrant surrounded by such a bright, heated flush. He, too, remembers their first few times: the awkwardness and the pain as they tried to work things out for themselves. The limbs accidentally colliding and the sloppy kisses that missed. Jason remembers it all, memories forever embedded in his thoughts, as permanent as tattoos. Jason never knew love could be like this. He never thought to think to look for love like this, until he met Peter. The moment he saw Peter, something in his heart clicked into place. Suddenly, Jason could begin to understand the world. Understand that he didn't fit into the world as he originally thought. Glancing into Peter's eyes that first time, Jason finally began to understand himself.

Jason groans at Peter's hand on his should, shuddering at the way he first digs his nails into his sweaty flesh. As Peter burns underneath him, Jason burns too, perspiration coating his skin like paint and rendering his dark curls into their own kind of artwork. He lets out a gasp when Peter's hand sprawls out from his initial grip, savoring the gentleness of touch as it helps ground him as well.

"Peter," he half-gasps, half-moans, caught up in the world he finds in those wide eyes. Those eyes that can take his breath away and stoke the building heat inside of him all at once. And then Jason realizes that Peter's beginning to move; his own eyes widen, and he shudders, leaning down to seek solace in the crevice of Peter's neck. Moans escape in between the sloppy kisses he places all along Peter's skin. "Fuck, Peter."

He almost falls apart there, caught by surprise as he is by Peter's movements. Jason, suddenly dizzy with love and wanting, begins to move himself, needing suddenly so much more of Peter.

It is only after Jason has buried his face in Peter's neck that Peter allow his eyes to close; he refuses to miss a moment of the was Jason looks over him, inside him, all around him, especially straight at him with those big, blue eyes. Yeah, he can remember buckling under the first glance from those crystalline pools. He can still see their warming, soothing shade of blue when his eyes finally shut against the weight of Peter on top of him.

Every contact point feels independently alive to Peter, from caress to intrusion to soft lips and hot breath, each seems to warm to a glow, like a map of all of the territories of Peter's body that are Jason's, only.

The fingers of his left hand have, unbeknownst to him, been curled tightly in the top sheet for an unknown period of time. He slides his hand from the back of Jason's knee, up to his thigh, and over the tight, maddeningly soft skin there. He doesn't squeeze or slap, but just spends some extra time there on his way up Jason's entire body.

"Jason," he whispers, mirroring his lover's ecstasy before volleying it back to him. Their bodies are slick, now, and it facilitates movement well. He's bucking underneath Jason, palming his damp shoulder, his toes curling and uncurling with every move.

Jason's eyes prove torn, unable to decide whether they want to remain open or close. His eyelashes flutter against the delicate skin of Peter's neck as he kisses lower and lower, moving on to his flushed chest. He can no longer see Peter's eyes, but he can feel their intensity, even closed. Jason remembers the first time glancing into them; the first time he felt whole in his entire life. He remembers the way his breath caught in his throat the first time he saw Peter; he remembers chalking it up to nerves, back then.

Every point of touch between them singes Jason like lightning. The heat rising from Peter's skin as he brings his lips down near his nipples only further helps steal his breath; the feeling of Peter all around him feels as enveloping and as right as a blanket. With their bodies entwined, Jason finally feels fully at ease in the world. This, he knows, is when he truly becomes a 'golden boy.'

Jason catches sight of Peter's left hand bunched in the sheets and instantly, his right hand snakes out to meet it, winding their fingers together as tightly as their bodies. He squeezes their hands together just as he feels Peter's hand move from the back of his knee up his thigh, lingering there. He moans, leaning into the touch as much as he's able to between thrusts.

"Peter," his voice cracks, entirely ruined already from their lovemaking. He leans in to steal a heated, fervent kiss from Peter's lips, panting and groaning into it. The slick friction of their bodies only further spurs him on, as does Peter's bucking beneath him, pulling more obscenities mixed with variations of Peter's name.

"Peter," he gasps again, squeezing their hands together where they still lay entwined. He wants so badly to find that one, perfect angle that he knows will send Peter spiraling into oblivion, but he won't do anything without asking Peter, first. Peter's wants and desires are all that matter to him, in that moment. "Peter," he manages, even as he continues thrusting and shivers run through him. "Can I lift your hips?"

Now their hands are another affected area on the map of slick, burning touch. It seems like every time Peter's just about to cool off a little, Jason's there with another perfect twist, grab, lick or caress. With his arm outstretched to maintain their palm-to-palm contact, he can more easily arc his back into the feeling of Jason's hot, insistent breath. He's close, now, desperate, rock hard and straining to be touched. Every time Jason snaps his hips into Peter, he's delivering shock after shock of near-paralyzing pleasure.

Jason's voice cracks and Peter chokes out a moan that doesn't ever really become a sound. How is it he can do this to Jason? It makes perfect sense that Jason does it to him -- perfect, brilliant, straight-A's, always-first Jason with his model physique, heartbreaking smile and molten-hot voice -- but Peter? He doesn't see himself as in Jason's league, and that's just another reason he feels terror creep up on him in those quiet moments when he's alone in their room. It's just another reason Peter keeps himself as busy as he does with AP classes, theatre, and TAing. He'd go out for sports if he didn't hate them so much.

Peter's eyes snap open at the question -- had they been closed that whole time? -- and he gently pushes Jason back. He wants to kiss him, wants Jason to touch him, and he wants to see that way Jason looks up at him when Peter's on top of him. He kneels between Jason's legs and kisses him hungrily until his lover is sitting.

"You can do anything you want to me," Peter rasps against Jason's lips. He only pulls away from his lips long enough to straddle his legs and brace himself on Jason's shoulder as he lowers himself down, too eager to drag it out like he originally thought he might.

The way pleasure plays so wonderfully across Peter's face, in bursts of breath between those full, beautiful lips and those sparkling eyes, inspires even more pleasure in Jason. Jason hopes Peter is aware of just how wonderful he looks like this; all debauched and innocent all at once. The way he arches his back is both lovely and absolutely sinful at the same time; the slight shivers running through Jason increase at such a juxtaposition; his thrusts grow more frantic, and he groans at the sensation of their hips snapping together.

The moan Peter makes that dissolves into something unintelligible entirely is enough to remind Jason how close he is. He groans in response, his blue eyes glazed as they study Peter's response. Peter, brilliant, responsible, charming, and perfect Peter, who makes Jason's heart stutter merely by virtue of existing. Peter, so beautiful with his hair like copper and the constellation of freckles across his skin. With his luminous eyes, like those of a saint. Peter, who doesn't recognize the power he wields. Peter is light and the wind and the stars above. Peter is the closest Jason has ever come to reaching God. If Jason didn't fear the future and if he didn't hide from the depths of life Peter studies so passionately, Jason would be able to confidently say he believes in soulmates, because no one touches his soul the way Peter does. When he's sober of sex and love and Peter, he'll dwell on this and allow it to haunt his every thought again, like the ghost he sometimes feels he is.

Jason's so distracted by all of Peter's warmth and skin and everything, really, that when Peter gently nudges him back, he gasps in surprise. His chest tightens and his heart leaps into his throat as he moves into a sitting position. The way Peter kisses him, so feverishly and so full of his heart, makes Jason sway. He glances up at Peter, wonder, awe, and sheer admiration in his reverent gaze. He adores Peter no matter what position they're in, but there's something about Peter's confidence like this that humbles Jason.

And then Peter's bracing himself on Jason's shoulder, and Jason nearly forgets to breathe as he feels Peter all around him once again. "Peter," he moans, unable to hide the longing in his voice or keep one hand from grabbing at Peter's ass. He drags the other hand down his chest, lingering over the most sensitive parts of his skin, hoping to provoke a reaction out of Peter. He lifts his hips to meet Peter as he moves on top of him, nearly rendered motionless by the beauty of this turn of events.

And then his hand makes its way to Peter's cock, and he begins to stroke.

"Peter," he cries out again, against Peter's lips.

When Peter prays, he sometimes wonder if the strength and forgiveness he asks for isn't sent to him because of Jason. However, in pouring over scripture and theology (the latter when he can -- the St. Cecilia's Library isn't too stocked with literature on opposing religious theories), it's not their illicit encounters that troubles him as much as he's pretty sure he's set up a false idol in his best-kept secret. The fact is that he's heard Jason tell him he loves him just as many times as he's heard God's voice declare the same thing by way of a choir of angels tap-dancing. It's easier to love what you can see, touch, hear, and it's harder to resist the more you're told that you have to. His love for Jason is unwavering, even when it's painful; sometimes, he thinks he and God are going to need some couple's therapy.

Of course, until the guilt about the doubt settles in and Peter's on his knees for God instead of Jason.

An arm rests on Jason's shoulder for a moment for balance -- Jason's impossibly soft, strong hand has wrapped around him and he knows he's not going to last much longer. He whispers his boyfriend's name against his lips. The arm draped on Peter's shoulder unfurls Peter crosses it over the back of Jason's neck. He has to brace himself with his right hand palm down on the bed behind him, but then he can trace his fingers through the wet, exhilarating curls near Jason's forehead. A strangled sound grips his throat and he hisses Jason's name again, head tipping back to enjoy the opposing sensations of hands, hair, and dick.

Jason wishes he could share in Peter's devout faith. But with all of its demands and expectations, Catholicism is essentially another extension of his family's aspirations for him. Jason prays, and he sits through Mass, like a good Christian. But while the priest recites the homily, or while he's standing and mindlessly wording the lyrics to the current hymn, Jason's mind wanders - to what he really wants from his life, to what he would do if he felt he could escape his family's disappointments. But almost always, his thoughts in church drift to Peter, and how much he wants to simply hold him in his arms and forget about the rest of the world.

Peter's face while he balances himself, caught between pleasure and determination, is a fragile, lovely thing; it reminds Jason of the veins in the stained glass windows in church. He feels his own name pressed into his lips like an obscene prayer. His hips jerk in response, and his thrusts increase in frantic energy as Peter's arm drapes it across his neck, bringing his fingers through Jason's hair. Jason's breath catches, and he nearly sobs from the sheer pleasure of it as he leans into the touch.

He maneuvers his own arm to better hold Peter in his lap, tightening his hold a bit as he pulls Peter's hips down against him to meet his thrusts, his other hand increasing its pace as he does so, twisting and tugging in the ways he knows Peter likes. Their touching and kissing is fast becoming their own secret language; they are scholars in translating their own desire. The sight of Peter with his head tipped back provokes a desperate need in Jason, and he winds up pressing his lips incessantly to the sweat-soaked skin there, letting his teeth graze against it and letting out all sorts of encouragement.

"God, Peter," he says between biting kisses. "Do you know how beautiful you are like this? God, you're so gorgeous. So beautiful. Peter." His sense of coherency is faltering, and his words are gradually dissolving into desperate whimpers and moans.

Peter's no longer thinking, barely breathing save for hungry sips of air between shuddering moans that punctuate smacks of skin and sweat stretched over hard, tightly-wound muscles. With Jason's arm around his middle, he can focus a little less on not falling and more on the way it feels to be pumping his hips and ass between Jason's cock and his hand. He's not caressing Jason's hair anymore so much as tugging, gently twisting his curls in restless handfuls.

And God, his voice. He remembers one time that he, Peter, Ivy, and Nadia were hanging out at a picnic table out at the far end of the boys' dorm when they were years younger and that Nadia told Jason that no one could possibly like the sound of Jason's voice more than Jason. He almost told her that she was wrong. Sometimes, when they're in class (while Jason is, apparently, being haunted by Peter's laughter), Peter is fantasizing about Jason's voice on his neck. In Chem Lab their junior year, all roommates were paired off as lab partners. Peter can still remember some of the things he heard that gorgeous voice say under the whir of a centrifuge or the high-pitched emission of a Bunsen burner. He also thinks that they've been able to get away with a lot (like leaning on each other at the picnic tables or taking a little too long to get back from lunch) by playing the roommate/best friend card.

It takes him two tries to actually speak, and he doesn't even really bother removing his mouth from Jason's when he chokes out, "Make me come when you do, Jason." His teeth bear down on Jason's pouty lower lip, swollen as it is and forming around incoherent sounds between moans and whines. A (much too loud) gasp chokes Peter as Jason finds just the right spot. He tips his head back down to press his forehead against Jason's to bring his teeth down hard on his own lip. He's working hard, sweating and panting to keep from losing it before he gets what he's asked for.

Edited 2015-09-22 05:03 (UTC)

Peter's little bursts of breath between moans are their own sort of music, and Jason nearly loses himself in the melody. His own gasps stutter against Peter's slick neck as he tightens his hold around Peter's waist and cock, pouring himself into each grip and stroke. Peter moves hot and tight against him with each bucking of his hips, and it only serves to set Jason more on fire. "Jesus," he groans, voice cracking as Peter tugs on his hair. His touch is gentle, but Jason can all but taste the desperation in it; he shudders, leaning into the touch and jerking his hips up harder.

God, he will never forget the first time Peter touched him. They had math together, all of them - Nadia, Ivy, Matt, Peter, and himself. He and Peter sat in the back, smiling at each other in between taking notes and giggling at the sight of each other. Jason, in his laughter, knocked his pencil off the side of his desk. Peter, ever trying to be helpful, reached for it the same time Jason did. That first time, their hands brushed, and Jason remembers all too clearly how it sucked the air right out from his lungs. He remembers his face burning, and he remembers the same flush mirrored in Peter's own expression. Throughout the years, they've found ways to 'accidentally' brush against one another; feet meeting under picnic tables and desks, shoulders glancing against one another in gym, hands pressing together as briefly as fleeting kisses in shop class, and running into one another in arched entryways. Together, they've managed to steal so many moments and make the world their own.

Rendering Peter nearly speechless makes Jason smirk, even if it does require more effort than normal, given how much he is already falling apart. And then Peter says that and bites down on his lip, and Jason jerks, both his arm and hand tightening even further as his back arches and he nearly comes just from that alone. He moans, having to concentrate so as to avoid losing control entirely then and there. "Jesus, Peter," he groans, burying his head against Peter's chest.

And then he feels the way Peter chokes on his own breath, and, this time, he doesn't fight his rising orgasm. He changes his angle to snap his hips directly against that one spot, using his arm around Peter as leverage to pull the other boy against him. Jason's whole body trembles, as he strokes and twists Peter's cock with a determined edge. All the while, moans and shudders and obscene, sweet nothings fall from his lips.

His eyes snap open at the press of Peter's forehead against his just in time to see Peter biting his lip like that. And that is the exact moment Jason comes undone. He feels it rush through him; the heat in his chest and his belly exploding like a thousand shards of glass-lit light within him. Sweat drips off him as he arches his neck, twisting and turning as though he were a restless dreamer. Only Peter can reduce him to such a sweaty and incoherent mess; he nearly sobs, overwhelmed as he is, and, with Peter, he doesn't try to hide that fact.

"Peter, Peter, oh God, Peter," he moans, body jerking and trembling. He keeps aiming for that one spot, even as pleasure nearly renders him delirious. "Come with me Peter, come on, oh God."

The force of his own thrusts, wild and unraveling as pleasure washes over him like a tidal wave, knocks Jason on his back, pulling Peter more fully on top of him.

God, Peter cannot count how many times he's heard his name groaned, whispered, moaned in this encounter alone, but he wishes he could go back and do so. No, really, he just wishes that the equality he feels on their first days together would stretch on for forever. By the end, Peter feels like Jason is too worn-down from his parents' ridiculous expectations, the church's stance on their relationship, and the pressure he puts on himself to meet any and all of these things, and it puts strain on their private world. Now, though -- and he was right, this particular reunion has definitely taken the number one spot in Peter's mind -- he feels like their delicate act is as iron-clad as the gates that surround St. Cecilia's, not to mention Peter's heart, and Jason is the only person to have ever crossed its threshold. There's a laundry list of things that are Jason's only and he wishes so much that he could talk to someone about any one of them.

It hasn't really occurred to him what's just fallen from his lips, but if he had been embarrassed in the first place (and he hadn't), he was justified and satisfied by Jason's response. A little heady laugh -- a burst of breath, really -- bubbles up spills over. Knowing what Peter likes wouldn't be enough to drive him crazy like this, but his self-assured, amazing ability to congratulate himself even in the throes of passion tickles Peter. Nadia rolls her eyes about it, and Peter nearly has to cover his face to keep the other's from seeing him beam when Jason is amusing Jason. It's cute, and that's a part of Jason that feels like his, a kind of his like he feels in these moments when the only thing they need is to see a pleasure so complete that they could drown in it reflected back in one another.

Jason," he warns, but feeling Jason so close to the edge and hearing his request echoed in the voice of the only person Peter has ever, could ever, will ever love, it's enough burning that's propelled his mouth and hips and anywhere else Jason wants bursts forth. He's coming in paralyzing waves as Jason's delivering straight-up perfection to him at every point. Now, his hand is balled up in fists of hair at the back of Jason's head. He crushes his lips against Jason in an attempt to stifle what he's sure will be loud, total loss of control.

Jason's completely lost track of how many times he's moaned, whispered, and groaned Peter's names. He know it's a lot. At least the number of 'Hail Mary' and 'Our Father' prayers as dictated by a particularly grueling confession. Except that nothing about anything with Peter is like a grueling confession; being with Peter is where Jason can finally be himself and expose the part of him he normally has to keep hidden from the rest of the world. He doesn't have to be ashamed of his own soul, the time he spends with Peter. He only wishes they could stay this way forever; that they didn't have to go to class or work or sports or auditions. Jason needs nothing but his love for Peter.

Peter, usually always so careful with his words, is positively charming and enticing when he appears to only just realize what it is he's said. Especially when combined with that heady laugh, which makes Jason's already struggling breath catch in his throat. Again.

He hears the way Peter's voice falters and he groans again, taking care to stroke him and thrust into him to best ease his orgasm along. He loves him so much, glancing up into those sea glass eyes and seeing the same passion and desire he feels mirrored back in them. He moans, both at the hair tugging and the kiss, losing himself entirely to their mutual coming undone.

Jason keeps pumping and thrusting, savoring every point of contact between himself and Peter. Flushed, covered in sweat, and with all sorts of noises falling from his lips, Peter looks every bit the debauched angel, and it sends shivers down Jason's spine.

When they're both spent, and the hazy aftershocks begin filtering through them both, Jason pulls Peter down on top of him, bringing, too, his hand, and licking it clean right in front of Peter, just to see his reaction. His blue eyes narrow and sparkle with provocative mirth.

"So how was your vacation?" He asks, his voice raw from wanting and their lovemaking. "Mine ended with a bang."

The guilt doesn't usually set in until the last light is off and they're settled in their separate beds. Sometimes Peter tries to stave this off by requesting they share a bed that night, but he knows that it's too risky. So many nights, after Peter and Jason have spent a never-long-enough night in their private world, Peter's heard the master key in the lock. It's just a curfew check, but Peter feels like it's also a decency check. Which isn't to say Peter and Jason are being singled out, as the dorm checks are random and they do a complete sweep of the floor every time, but he knows the Catholic church and has been properly raised to fear repercussions, both tangible and not.

That night, though, Peter feels especially confident -- however falsely -- that he will dodge the demons. What's just happened is more loving, more desperate, more alive than they've ever been together. He feels like this year is finally going to be different.

Yet guiltless and light in the fuzzy afterglow, Peter shifts his weight off of Jason to his own hip. He's still pressed firmly against his boyfriend, half-atop him with one leg tangled up in Jason's. Their slick bodies seem to expand and contract in unison as Peter huffs out breath after amazed and dazed breath. He's ready to lift his clear, sharp gaze to Jason, but when he sees Jason's mouth on his own hand, tongue greedy laving from palm to fingers, Peter flushes deeply, though any semblance of innocence in it is exposed as false by the hungry little growl that rumbles in Peter's throat. His tongue licks along Jason's lips, insistent and basic.

Many, many kisses pass before Jason finally speaks. Peter's cheek rests on Jason's shoulder, mouth nearly at his jaw, eyes tilted up to give his lover his full attention. He laughs.

"You thought of that before you even left Connecticut," Peter accuses, but there is no malice in it. He's simply just sure he's right. He can picture Jason there in the back seat, silence stretching between the McConnell tribe as he smirks to himself about some little wordplay he's going to save for his reunion with Peter. It thrills him to imagine Jason thinking about what he's going to say after some lovemaking, because that also obviously means he was thinking about it, as well.

He goes to answer the question, but three months of limited contact and doubt has him wondering if it was an actual question or a setup for a joke. He's instantly mad at himself for fucking up the vibe so soon and pushes the doubt away with a gentle kiss to Jason's jaw. "Tell me about yours." Its a request, a soft one, and he's just going to punctuate Jason's tale with kisses.

Jason, for his part, shoves the guilt down under his thoughts the way he usually stuffs his dirty clothes under his bed. His philosophy being that if he doesn't acknowledge said guilt, it doesn't exist. A small voice inside of him often likes to remind him that this is totally going to bite him in the ass one day. A small voice that sounds like an odd combination of Nadia and Peter. But Jason usually manages to ignore it. After all, this room is their world, and the outside world can't take that away from them. Not yet. Even with the amount of near heart attacks he's suffered because of the sound of keys twisting in locks, Jason is defiant in this secret place; the only space in which he can fully be himself without consequence. Even as he knows Catholic rules and societal expectations loom large outside the door.

Jason feels especially reckless and daring tonight. The love they've made between them is the stuff to move mountains, he thinks. It gives him courage, and pushes back the reality of Notre Dame and family dreams and all of the other bullshit framing his life.

Jason grins, basking in the afterglow as Peter moves to settle on his side. The late afternoon light casts an ethereal glow around Peter's entire body. Even naked and shining with sweat, he looks all the world like a subject in a classical painting, with those lips and cheekbones jutting out at angles that makes Jason's stomach twist into knots and butterflies fly loose in his chest. Jason does enjoy the way their sweaty bodies move in unison even know, both trying to catch their breath. He smirks around his fingers, watching the way Peter's flush turns him from saint to heathen in a flash of a second. That growl makes Jason shiver, a slight whimper falling from his mouth in turn. And then Peter's pushing his tongue against his lips, and Jason's smirk falters at the sensation.

God, he could lose himself just in the kisses they exchange alone. In the wake of sex, their kisses are sweeter and less feverish. Yet insistent all the same.

Jason grins again at Peter's astute observation, his cheeks aching from the strain of it across his faces. His eyes nearly burst with brightness as his nose wrinkles in Peter's general direction. "You found me out," he replies, voice soft and just a little bit teasing. He brings one of his hands to find one of Peter's, clasping their fingers together. "I definitely spent time working on that one. But less time than I spent thinking about that," he waggles his eyebrows meaningfully, "and you. God, Peter. I haven't gotten you out of my head since last year." His voice turns more gentle than normal; this is as close as he can get, for the moment, to admitting that he loves Peter.

He lets out a pleased sigh at the kiss to his jaw; these soft, assuring touches and kisses are Jason's favorite. They remind him that he's whole and alive and with the most lovely person he's ever met in his life. He tilts his jaw into it, silently requesting more. "Not much to tell, really," he says, letting his head fall against Peter's. "Mostly spent it listening to Nadia's aspirations and, of course, the Notre Dame pep talks from dear old dad." He tries to keep the bitterness from his voice, especially in such a tender moment as this. But it shows, because Jason's spent too long this summer suppressing it already. "And missing your dumb face every day, of course."

He leans down to steal a kiss from Peter, sighing against his lips. "Now," he murmurs. "Tell me about your summer. Please?"

Peter rather thinks that it's Jason that looks to be illumined by divinity. The looming twilight is being staved off by sharp, direct rays through the slit of the tacky dormitory blinds, and it casts this disc of light that touches only Jason's jaw, lips and the line made by his collarbones; it's like a spotlight on the parts Peter wants to put his mouth on at any moment of any day. He's all about his lips, though. As enticing as those other parts are, he wants the part that can kiss him back, justify his presence, answer the questions that keep him up so many nights.

And then that smile, wide and full. And it's for him, that's the astounding part. He's searching his memory for a time he might've seen that smile of Jason's out on the field of one of the various sports he's tried to drown his feelings in, or that one time that they took a drama class together and Peter caught Jason enjoying himself, or after one of his numerous meritorious achievements at school. Nope. Nothing that could even come close to the brilliance of that particular smile. His smile.

Jason's voice admitting his forethought snaps Peter out of his trance and he lifts his eyes to his lover's face once again. There, he sees a stark truth that he doesn't often get to see from Jason, even in their stolen moments. He looks like he's been aching, Peter thinks, to see him, to touch him, maybe even to tell him what he's just said. The fact that it's so important to him that Peter know it, not to mention the fact that he feels it at all, humbles Peter like religion. Only when Peter hangs on Jason's words like scripture, he doesn't fall flat with the guilt in his interpretation.

"I love you," Peter says simply, but the truth of it warms the edges of the statement and he covers Jason's mouth with another gentle kiss before he can be devastated by the lack of reciprocation.

He recovers with a sort of giggle at Jason's insistent nuzzles of jaw to lips. It's not like he was going to be able to refuse even playfully, so he makes quick work of pressing slow kisses along his jaw while he talks: it's the best kind of hurry-up-and-wait.

"I hope she gets cast in a better role this year." Peter sympathizes with Nadia on that. For years, they've been having quiet meetings about how they're overlooked and how the best actors always get pushed to the periphery because the show needs support. It makes no sense to either of them, but it's landed them some quality bitching time between Sister Chantelle's sassy rants and biting quips. When Jason moves on, instead of addressing the stress he knows Jason is avoiding, he pads his thumb softly over Jason's, sympathetic and supportive. "You know they're too hard on you." Another kiss, this one at the juncture of Jason's neck and collarbone, then they're kissing proper, once again.

"Mm, it was okay," Peter hums against his lips. He steals another kiss and then settles his head back on Jason's shoulder. "Lots of empty promises from my dad. Mom worked most of the time. I got this part-time job at a grocery store, saved a little money up." He shrugs. "And then my mom reminded me that we hadn't heard from Notre Dame yet and that it would mean sooo much to my father if I went there." He huffs a sigh. "So I spent my time watching movies and thinking of you, listening to music and thinking of you, and bagging groceries and thinking of you." A slow smile spreads over his face, warm as the butterflies twitching their wings around in his chest and stomach.

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