Work Text:
“Wait, wait, wait,” You hold up your hands to railroad the track of conversation. Peter’s mouth, the eponymous Pandora’s Box that has let the first transgression fly out into the open air, snaps shut so hard that his teeth click.
“Peter,” You turn to him, leaning across the intimate space that his small studio apartment couch provides, “You’ve never been kissed before?”
Peter opts for diplomatic retreat and gives himself a deep swallow from his beer, the amber liquid sloshing down the glass neck in heady swirl. You can watch the locomotion of thoughts, make torrential progression over what part of his face isn’t obscured by the bottle.
It is removed from his mouth with an audible pop that you feel you have to fight a laugh at, lest the turtle retreat further into the shell of his hunched shoulders.
“Well,” Peter ambles forth bravely, “Lots of people don’t get kissed until their twenties.”
You can't argue with this reasoning, but you still make casual shrug of your shoulders, allowing yourself a swallow of beer. “But it’s so surprising.”
It must be the genuine curiosity in your voice that makes Peter draw to stillness, look sidelong at you, assume perfect posture.
“Why is that?” He asks in such cautious bearings.
You lower the bottle, balancing the heel of it in the incline of your knee. When you look at him, you think that his gaze seems so alert, so very precise upon you.
“Because, I would think you would have popped your kissing cherry—”—How bright his cheeks bloom with flush at this—“—so much earlier than that.”
Peter makes an attractive snort through his nose as the bottle ascends through the air; there’s a wry self-deprecation in his voice. “I, uh, don’t exactly have people breaking down the door to get a taste.”
This is when you feel the need to affix Peter with a most dubious look, met only by silent incredulity.
“I doubt that.” You return; this appear to leave him even more flummoxed for words. Peter does as the non-melanated do and turns an even deeper shade of red, which, given the conversation in vogue, is understandable.
“Well—”—Peter’s voice rises and falters in startling, cracky crescendo, “Also, because I’ve only wanted to kiss a few people.”
Now this is interesting development; far too late, Peter realizes this is inopportune admission. His jaw clamps shut again, but it’s far too late.
You’re already leaning closer into the bubble of his proximity; he appears to be both appreciative and intimidated by the advances that you make towards him.
“Like who?” You press, trying to squeeze him for details. You actually watch Peter’s adam’s apple bob in the column of his throat, the locomotion of internal thoughts whirling in overdrive.
“Uh.” He offers eloquently. “I plead the fifth.”
You throw up your free hand and the one that wields alcohol—this causes a near-disastrous dousing, but thankfully, Peter is careful to guide the bottle out of your hand into his. You’re far too heated about this topic and far too invested to truly care.
“Oh, fuck you do, Peter—”—Your smile is vicious as you scoot closer, putting him on the spot, “Who have you wanted to kiss?”
Peter realizes that he will have to concede information, the pulse of his heart thrumming in the shallow skin of his neck—his eyes search the ceiling as he looks for an easy out.
“Black Widow.” He provides, and stammers on the next two. “Queen Ororo. Captain America.”
You make loud, irritable sigh as you collapse back on the couch, your arms drawing in cross over each other—there’s an entertained chuckle that escapes him at this.
“Ok, but that’s so fucking obvious, who wouldn’t?” You demand of him, indignant at this parry that he’s deflected with. “What about people we know?”
“Uh—”—Peter presumes that second time is the charm—“—I plead the fifth.”
You’re not letting him off the hook, as you push yourself back up again to proper seating on your elbow. “Is it Ned?”
Peter splutters around a sip, coughing out the liquid that clots his trachea. “No!”
You squint, your most obvious candidate knocked off the list. “Is it MJ?”
Peter shakes his head, amused smile taking prominence. “No.”
You frown, feeling vestige of frustration and desperation taking forefront on your face. “Then who?”
Peter shrugs, giving you a placid smile with restraint you rarely see him provide. “I don’t think they know.”
Half a second paces stolidly by before he ducks his head, the track of his eyes, back down to the floorboards beneath you both. “And I’m too much of a coward to say anything.”
The good spirits are fading to something much more mollified and introspective—you realize pushing this line of interrogation might make him fully retreat. It seems now is the time to switch gears: you opt for alternative tactic.
“Well,” You scoot closer: how he drinks up the movement with such consumptive stare, “How about this? While you wait for Larry Light-Lips to come along—”—He makes inelegant chortle at your choice of words—“—Why don’t we get your first one out of the way?”
And at this, Peter goes entirely still. His eyes flick up from the interior of his bottle to you with such startling alacrity you think you miss the passage of motion entirely. “What?”
The question isn’t delivered in flat cadence. Surprise clouds it above all else—he wets his lips on instinct, letting you see the pink of his tongue drape in balm, seeking out moisture he has suddenly lost.
“You—”—You know that you’re not imagining the crescendo of delight in his voice, his hand extending out to you—“—You wanna kiss me.”
It’s like he can’t wrap his mind around it, as though there’s mental roadblock that prevents him from truly being able to internalize the truth staring him down the barrel. Seems like you have to sweeten the deal while you still have the liquid courage to fortify this.
You sniff primly, though the smile you bear carries all of the sincerity that you can muster. “I consider it an act of charity—”—Peter chuffs laughter—“—Also—won’t lie.”
His eyes dart back up to you, those honeyed eyes made soft in the shitty lighting bright. You proceed with all the stability that you can produce. “I’ve thought about kissing you before.”
Silence once more reigns supreme, as he processes this piece of information, mulls over the confession you’ve tried to deliver so casually.
The beers are entrusted to the care of one hand, placed on the nearby coffee table, condensation winking down the neck. Free of burden, he levies an upturned hand your way, as though to clarify something.
“So—if i had asked before—”—Peter tries to piece together the puzzle—“—You would have kissed me?”
“Maybe.” You suggest, feeling as though the heat that burns under your skin is the same one that seems to make his face flush scarlet. And that gaze that you have grown so ultimately fond of comes to internal decision. “Why don’t you come here and give these lips a spin?”
“Well, I, uh,” He waffles about, hedging syllables—and then finds your eyes. “Okay.”
You smile, closing in for the kill: how he is captivated by your progression into his space; a shudder passes through parted lips as you draw your hand up the apple of his cheek. He scalds to the touch, a slight tremble in his hands as they search for appropriate place to settle upon, deciding upon the curve of your hips.
“Like this, Peter.” You smile at him, your voice gentle as they brush against his mouth. There’s a subdued moan that he fails to conceal, his eyes fluttering close with the fan of thick lashes casting deep shadow on the slope of his cheeks. And your decision is made that much easier, as you lean in to close the distance.
His mouth works against yours in perfect fit, his lips warm and soft. There’s another moan that he makes against the interior of his mouth that hums against you, sucking in taut breath through his nose as he commemorates the feel of your body under his hand, clenching tight.
You work to fix the angle, let your teeth tease in razing scrape against his bottom lip; the shiver he produces delicious, making you ravenous for more—from the way that he presses against you, it’s clear that he wants more. He seems to be an eager, fast learner.
You decide to reward him—your tongue presses against the seam of his lips, which part open; you drag the muscle against him, tasting the same beer that you’ve shared, made that much more intimate, that much more erotic for the flavor.
The groan he makes is deep-seated, is yours to swallow, his fingers working against you, yearning up your body. Your own are already seeking him out, pulling him tighter to you as you run the interval of his teeth. Let them click against yours, the pain edging out the pleasure that you’ve yet to satisfy; it’s clear that he seeks similar means.
You only pull away for air, to let you and Peter regroup—the heave of shoulders, of adrenaline, of lines being redrawn in the sand reflected in you both. What electric heat that gathers in such needful means between your legs is reflected in those eyes that need to see you like this, that mouth that needs to taste you once more.
“You wanna pop your real cherry too,” You assert in sly wiles, “While we’re at it?”
It’s like you read his mind. The smile that breaks over his face carries that boyish charm—but such carnal quality that you’re eager to research with him together. Maybe Peter will get top of the class in this one, too.
“Sure.” He grins. And your next lesson begins.