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Peter isn't sure how they got here, again. Not that he minds in the slightest of course, to be naked on his back under Juno's powerful form, swallowing treacherous noises at the back of his throat as Juno kisses down the sensitive skin of his stomach, hands following the path of his lips. They don't always end up in bed (figuratively) of course. Sometimes they'll talk until the small hours, or work side by side in a companiable quiet, or one of them will need an evening of solitude to work through some private grief. Much more often than not though - and thank the stars, he thinks, head tipping back as Juno licks the sharp jut of his hipbone - they will come together, the gravitational pull of their bodies growing with each passing second, until one of them breaks the distance and brings the other close. Peter thinks they were having quite a fruitful discussion on the best way to clean various fluids, bodily and other, out of car upholstery, and it had got a little suggestive, and then -
His train of thought breaks quite abruptly when Juno's tongue runs up the crease inside his thigh and something he would never admit to being a grunt falls out of Peter's mouth. The sensation of wetness between his legs is filthy in the best way. Juno repeats it on the other side, then kneels back and hums curiously.
"Will you let me take my time and try something?" says Juno.
Peter lifts his head again, propped up on his elbows, and regards the detective kneeling between his open thighs with hungry curiosity.
"Of course, my love."
Juno nods, and licks the pads of each thumb, looking thoughtful. Then he places a thumb on each side of Peter’s clit and massages down along the twin ridges, two steady but soft strokes, then back up in tandem to almost, almost but not quite reach the pearl of him. And then he repeats. And he keeps going.
It’s a novel sensation, not bright and captivating like the usual delicious pressure directly on the button. It's confusing as his body anticipates each motion as preamble to a more powerful contact that doesn't come, like he keeps tripping on air at the top of a staircase. But it’s good, and with an angle and double sensation unlike anything Peter can achieve with his own hand. His spine melts a little and he hums in appreciation.
Juno seems remarkably unhurried and Peter takes a few minutes to revel in the bewitching feeling. It’s interesting to be touched with passion but no urgency, as if getting him to orgasm is not even the goal. He lies back and basks in it, running his hands across his own chest and purring sporadically. As Juno works him, never changing from that dual slide, his tongue pokes out the corner of his mouth in concentration. Peter watches his face lazily until another sigh bubbles up and escapes him, and his eyes flutter closed.
It’s not the right touch to bring him off, he can tell. It’s half a beat harder and faster than pure teasing - intentional, insistent, good but not enough. His hips writhe gently, attempting to urge Juno’s ministrations a little higher. Juno responds only by shuffling back on his knees and bringing his arms down to rest on Peter’s thighs, holding him in place.
"Mmm. Faster, please."
"No. We’re gonna stay right here."
It’s a surprise to be shut down so nonchalantly in bed - Peter opens his eyes at once but Juno isn’t even looking at him, eye fixed intently on his cunt (and that does make his stomach swoop hotly) and looking for all the world like his only focus in the world was keeping up that gently pleasurable pace. It thrills Peter a little to be denied. He half laughs and drops his head back to the covers.
"I’ll take your lead, dear detective."
So he does. And it's funny that it didn't seem at the outset this was going to affect him, thinks Peter what must be a few more maddening minutes later, with his breath coming harder and his chest and shoulders starting to squirm. It’s wonderful. June’s thumbs never waver from their delightful pattern, except a few times momentarily elongating his strokes to gather more wetness from his cunt, which is starting to tighten and ache deliciously. It's still just a fraction too slow to get him there. He lets out a small groan on the edge of his breath.
"I would - ah, I want to -"
"You will." This time June does meet his gaze, and his mouth is cracked in a smile of genuine happiness alongside the haze of desire. "Just enjoy it."
"I’ve been enjoy-y-ying it rather long enough, don’t you think?" Peter grits out.
"You got a prior appointment to get to?"
Peter huffs out a fond-exasperated laugh, which immediately turns into a breathy gasp, then another. The toes on his left foot are starting to flex and curl. When did he start gripping the bedsheets in both hands?
When did he last have a lover - have any encounter in bed - like this, like they would stay between his legs and chase his pleasure surely and steadily as if they would do it for hours? As if they would do it for ever?
He groans and relaxes the tension that had been building in his shoulders, lets them twist a little as the heat keeps pooling within him. Like he could just savour this. For as long as he liked. It felt luxurious.
"Getting it now?"
Peter is getting it now, and he lets out a wet breath with a smile, eyes closed again, just feeling . The quilt against his back and fingers. That gorgeous rhythm against his clit. The way his breath is coming short and sweet in his own ears. The thought of Juno’s hands in their inexorable ministrations - would they be tired, aching after so long at work? - drifts over his mind and he bids it away, feeling his feet starting to scrabble slightly against the bed. It keeps going. And going. It would be torturous if it wasn’t so fucking delightful.
He’s almost starting to accept this is just how he lives now, this is his reality, there would be no change and no escape from this delicious state of not-quite-enough pleasure. But there is finally something building, something deep that he can’t see the shape of, like a great bubble rising through deep water. He can feel it as if somewhere outside his body, languid and inescapable, but do nothing to hurry it along and it feels too far out of reach.
"Juno -"
His cunt throbs once, hard, and his chest is starting to heave. He sounds quite wrecked but can’t find any space to be embarrassed, the intensity of sensation filling his whole mind and lungs and the marrow of his bones. He pulls at his own hair, squeezes his nipple, anything to try and tip himself over into familiar release.
"This is the part where you speed up darling, please."
"I promise it’s worth the wait." Juno is grinning even wider, and Peter whines, he actually whimpers and throws his head back and feels his cheeks tingling and hot with blood. He must look a state but it couldn’t matter in this moment.
The balloon of sensation is growing still, tantalising. And Peter realises with a shudder that he is going to come, but his orgasm isn’t going to break cleanly upon him like a wave, not this one, it would simply swell and swell in an escalating flood. It threatens to overwhelm him entirely and he is sweating from anticipation of the intensity. He releases the vice grip on the bedsheets to throw one arm over his forehead, and still the tide keeps rising. Every identical swipe of those damn thumbs is pulling something up from deep within him, or rather building it - a painting made stroke by stroke whose image can only take shape in the fullness of all those hundreds of movements. Peter is moaning freely now, and his blood is starting to fizz like champagne, and his cunt is clenching of its own accord, and he’s still not quite there, and his feet suddenly feel funny, and his face is so hot and he - he -
He doesn’t feel the moment when his orgasm finally hits so much as hears it, when his moaning becomes an all-out shout, though the ringing in his ears makes it hard to know if any words are making it past his lips at all and not just an animal yell. His feet scrabble wildly at the bedsheets and his back arches so hard his breastbone pops. The fingers on him are still unrelenting, that same tender rhythm as when they began now unbearably powerful. Peter is coming in slow-motion and being pulled apart cell by cell with white-hot pleasure, it just keeps going and he’s half delirious, afraid that there’s no ceiling to this sensation, that he’ll just keep rising through it until his soul is ejected from his mortal body and he dies by fingering.
Judging from Juno’s breathless laughter maybe some of that did make it out of his mouth after all.
Peter feels like he’s strung out for full minutes on that knife edge until he’s not sure if it’s even pleasure anymore - his fists are beating the bed beside him and the shouting has collapsed into babbling whimpers. The rippling fingers on his clit finally start to slow, start to bring him back down, and Juno works him carefully at diminishing pace until his finger pads are just resting against Peter’s clit, a grounding pressure.
After a few long moments of darkness, Peter opens his eyes.
He feels like he’s simultaneously run a mile and been awoken from a deep sleep. Groggy, with his chest rising and falling unevenly, he raises his head to look blearily at Juno. Even without his glasses the expression on Juno’s face takes what remains of his breath away - but only in indignance, because June is wearing what may be the most shit-eating grin of his life.
"Some-" Peter’s voice cracks completely, throat dry from crying out and panting. He swallows twice and manages, as dignified as he can, "Someone looks pleased with himself."
"That makes two of us I hope." The smugness would be unbearable if Juno didn’t look absolutely thrilled, and Peter feels so fond, so warm and wrung out. His blood still sings in his ears. Peter flops back and stares at the ceiling while Juno sucks his fingers clean and climbs back up the bed to settle against him. After taking this long to build the comedown is elongated too, shocks still zipping across his skin. Against his thigh Juno’s cock is half-hard. Peter takes in Juno’s contented face, pressed into his chest. Before he’s opened his mouth, the detective mumbles, eye still closed, "I’m good. You can make it up to me another time."
Many times Peter has had to file away the tingling suspicion that those Martian mind-reading powers never completely went away. He trails fingertips down Juno’s bicep instead, revelling in the firm swell of muscle. Peter takes Juno’s hand that he can reach in his own and starts to massage the knuckles, the meat of his palm. There’s a hot huff of breath against his pecs as Juno smiles.
"I saw that, on a porn-stream once." Juno says gruffly, which is Juno’s attempt to not sound shy. "Always wanted to try it with someone."
"I hope it lived up to expectations?"
"You and expectations are two things I stopped putting together a long time ago. Amazing. Better. Of course."
Peter doesn’t usually get sleepy immediately afterwards but he’s not surprised to feel himself drifting now, as his breathing finally evens out, and his fingers have stopped their flexing to lie still, cradling Juno’s hand. Outside the porthole the sky is a watercolour smudge of purples and blues. He can feel Juno's heartbeat thudding soothingly against his chest, the beginnings of a rasping snore at the edge of his breath telling him Juno is slipping under. Peter lets himself go again, this time into dreamless sleep.