[he doesn't mind. The small, subtle gestures are enough to keep him going, not encouragement, just justification. He isn't running after all. He isn't punching him again or aggressively denying there was ever anything between them. There's no denying it anymore. He's here, lips wet from the kiss, heart beating just a little faster in his chest.
And immediately Petre wants more. It's a lazy want, though. He doesn't act on it, instead imagines crawling onto the bed to press himself between John's legs. More kissing. More touching. Making him draw out sounds he can't control from that gorgeous mouth. They barely fit together on the bed, but he just needs enough room to straddle him. Roll his hips, make him come without even taking his clothes off.
It's a wonder Petre isn't hard. But then he is hopelessly drunk. And part of him tells him that's wrong. To want something is wrong. Who knew?]
I didn't do that, did I? I didn't make you.
[it's a genuine question, like suddeny Petre wants to remember he didn't cheat and force John to stay still.]
no subject
And immediately Petre wants more. It's a lazy want, though. He doesn't act on it, instead imagines crawling onto the bed to press himself between John's legs. More kissing. More touching. Making him draw out sounds he can't control from that gorgeous mouth. They barely fit together on the bed, but he just needs enough room to straddle him. Roll his hips, make him come without even taking his clothes off.
It's a wonder Petre isn't hard. But then he is hopelessly drunk. And part of him tells him that's wrong. To want something is wrong. Who knew?]
I didn't do that, did I? I didn't make you.
[it's a genuine question, like suddeny Petre wants to remember he didn't cheat and force John to stay still.]
It was real.