[ For a long while, the only thought Peter has is holy shit on repeat. Holy shit, and her hips are pressing against his. He moans, head tipping back against the wall, but all too soon she's gone. Holy shit, and she's pulling him along by his jacket. He follows her lead eagerly, hands on her hips to guide her even as she's taking care to watch where she's going. Holy shit, as they make it to the bedroom, his jacket falling to the floor, and he's letting out a shuddering breath at the feel of her lips and teeth on his ear.
Just. Ho. Ly. Shit.
When her legs hit the bed, he moves instantly, maneuvering the both of them so that she's sitting on the edge of the mattress. He doesn't settle, though, opting instead to silence her with a kiss -- because, seriously, she is driving him fucking wild with that imagery (holy shit who knew her bibliophilia would come in handy like this? And he wonders if maybe she has some trashy romance novels she's been studying, tucked somewhere dark and secret so he wouldn't make fun of her for it). He tangles his hand in her hair (longer, now, longer than he remembers, and holy shit holy shit holy shit she looks good with this style, but she'd look good in anything.
She would especially look good in nothing).
The angle is odd for him, definitely, with the way he's bent to maintain the kiss, tongue teasing in and out of her mouth, swirling against her own tongue (and holy shit he's missed the taste of her), but it's worth it. He's really fucking missed this, missed being at her side. Sharing a bunk has spoiled him, he realizes, and he knows now that he cannot handle a month without waking up next to her, without waking up to her smile or her sleepy, murmurred "good mornings" (and how strange that is, when he it used to be that he would wake up to different faces nearly every day and never give a damn, but now, holy shit never again never ever ever).
His other hand is working at the zipper to her battlesuit, and maybe he's getting greedy now, but it has been a very. Long. Month. ]
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Just. Ho. Ly. Shit.
When her legs hit the bed, he moves instantly, maneuvering the both of them so that she's sitting on the edge of the mattress. He doesn't settle, though, opting instead to silence her with a kiss -- because, seriously, she is driving him fucking wild with that imagery (holy shit who knew her bibliophilia would come in handy like this? And he wonders if maybe she has some trashy romance novels she's been studying, tucked somewhere dark and secret so he wouldn't make fun of her for it). He tangles his hand in her hair (longer, now, longer than he remembers, and holy shit holy shit holy shit she looks good with this style, but she'd look good in anything.
She would especially look good in nothing).
The angle is odd for him, definitely, with the way he's bent to maintain the kiss, tongue teasing in and out of her mouth, swirling against her own tongue (and holy shit he's missed the taste of her), but it's worth it. He's really fucking missed this, missed being at her side. Sharing a bunk has spoiled him, he realizes, and he knows now that he cannot handle a month without waking up next to her, without waking up to her smile or her sleepy, murmurred "good mornings" (and how strange that is, when he it used to be that he would wake up to different faces nearly every day and never give a damn, but now, holy shit never again never ever ever).
His other hand is working at the zipper to her battlesuit, and maybe he's getting greedy now, but it has been a very. Long. Month. ]