Turnaround
Title: Turnaround
Characters/Pairings: Plaude
Summary: Unrepentant PWP that is nonetheless...repentant. Also, my attempt to write sex that's a bit rougher than I usually write, so...you be the judge.
Rating: R...ish. Maybe pushing up to NC17 but I can't say for sure
Warnings: I feel it's maybe a bit more explicit than I usually get, but that's...really probably it.
A/N: A gift to two of my favorite girls (and I really do have so many). In specific, c_quinn, who has returned to us, in somewhat of a limited capacity but still, something's better than nothing. And also, to my lovely porn muse, lotus0kid. A million thanks.
“Turn around,” he feels Claude growl against his neck, and it’s about the first thing his brain has actually registered in the past couple of minutes, probably because Claude’s pulled away just enough to let him do that.
“You turn around,” he mumbles, because he half-remembers that he was mad about something, and whatever it was, he was probably justified. Definitely justified.
Claude pulls away even further, but his hands stay, heavy on Peter’s shoulders, a thumb pressing against his collar bone and fingers brushing against the base of his neck, making him shiver.
“Turn. Around.” And it’s half exasperated, half genuinely angry and Claude’s eyes go darker, more focused, a kind of intensity he knows he shouldn’t be pushing for, knows he should be out to avoid.
“Make. Me.” He hisses, and he realizes, distantly, hazily, that he’s a complete idiot, before reaching out to grab the back of Claude’s head and pull him into a kiss.
Claude surges against him, presses him tighter to the wall than before, leaves him desperate for the friction he can’t get leverage for.
Pins his wrists against his sides and bites at his lip, making him gasp and try and pull his head back, which he does manage, except that the end result is bumping his head against the wall, hard enough to startle a whimper out of him, because yeah, even though he can’t do permanent damage, it really does hurt.
He’s pretty sure he can hear, definitely feel, Claude laugh at that, against his neck, lips rough and teeth sharp, painful, and Peter gasps, tries to blink flashes of light out of eyes and ends up having to shut them because it really doesn’t seem to work.
Tries to move, can’t even really breath, is pressed that tight, but Claude’s too solid, too strong, and a hazy string of like a training exercise you could stop him if you really wanted to fades out of his head, as that mouth presses back against his, and he can feel the bruises on his neck ache and fade.
He can stop him, though.
Not stop him, stop him, doesn’t want that but at the very least, he can let this not turn into yet another situation where he does what someone else wants him to.
Stop depending on praise, stop being so eager to please.
Because that’s just what Claude’s been telling him, right?
Really, it’s kind of a taste of his own medicine that the man richly deserves, for him not to just go along with it.
And yeah, he’s kidding himself there, he’s just as eager to please as ever but he can triy to keep some control over this at least, right?
So he pushes back, his tongue pushing into Claude’s mouth, his leg between Claude’s thighs rocks up as much as he can.
Shoves, bites down on Claude’s lower lip, tries to yank one of his hands out of the man’s grasp, and manages, even as the real struggle turns out to be keeping himself from getting lost in the low groans and panted breaths, because maybe, apparently, Claude’s not entirely averse to him taking some initiative.
Which is kind of good to know, at least.
And for a moment, of confusion, with Claude not quite realizing, or being willing to ignore, the fact that he hasn’t really got the upper hand anymore, Peter manages to ease away from the wall.
Wraps his hand around the back of Claude’s neck and leans up, isn’t sure if he wants to push him against the wall, see how he likes it, having to fight for air, or pull him down the hall and to his room, with an actual bed and actual potential for this not to be just a different kind of particularly exhausting fight than they usually have.
Realizes pretty quickly that he can’t exactly stop to think about that, or anything, really, if he doesn’t want Claude wrestling out of his grip and forcing him back against the wall again.
But it’s not quite as hard this time, he doesn’t have to worry that his shoulder blades are actually going to go through the drywall, doesn’t have to fight to breath quite as much.
Well, he does, but it’s for somewhat more pleasant reasons.
Claude’s hand pressing against his chest, sliding, resting on his hip, fingers just barely grazing his skin where his t-shirt’s riding up, and he lets out a sound that’s low and impatient and a little more desperate than he maybe wanted, but there’s so much else he wants right now that it really doesn’t matter.
Claude pulls away enough for him to catch the grin, enough for Peter to have the space to reach up again, grab at the collar of his coat and drag him a little further down the hallway.
Well, drag him as much as he’s really capable of dragging someone several inches taller and a hell of a lot stronger, anyway, and what little momentum he gets out of the action just makes him lose his balance.
And they’re close enough that they both stumble, Claude steadying himself with a hand flat against the wall and Peter bumping against his chest, and he can’t help but laugh.
Glances up to see that Claude’s on the verge of laughter too, and he leans up again, whispers a quick, “Bedroom. Gotta be less awkward. C’mon,” into his ear.
Doesn’t neglect letting his tongue flick against the man’s ear as he does so, and manages a smirk at the shiver it brings.
And if trying to walk backwards, hands tangled in Claude’s coat, doing his best to toe off his shoes in the process, isn’t going to turn out to be his most graceful of moments, the fact that every time he trips he ends up with Claude’s hands on his hip and the small of his back, holding him up, he’s really not going to be that embarrassed about it.
Getting his watch caught as he tries to push the heavy coat off Claude’s shoulders, though, that’s a bit embarrassing, but with Claude trying to pull his shirt off at the same time and only managing to get it about halfway over Peter’s head because of it, it’s mostly just kind of absurd.
“Wait, just-“
“No, you’re-“
“Okay, okay, stop,” his attempts at any kind of authority, with his shirt halfway over his head, fall short, but Claude’s not exactly in a position to question him. “Just take the coat off and than I can…there we go,” he can breathe again, as his shirt slips off and his hair flops back into his face.
“Less awkward, then?” Claude raises an eyebrow, but looks a good deal more flustered than he probably realizes, for all that he’s trying to be as patronizing as ever.
“Shut up,” Peter mutters, and is sure to rush up against Claude before the other man can do otherwise.
Long fingers running through his hair and a rough palm pressing against his back, and he pushes, would like to think forces, the man onto the bed.
And maybe he’s not kidding himself there, because Claude does look genuinely surprised and he does have the chance to straddle the older man, force his hands down against the mattress.
He grins, leans down for a kiss, lips barely brushing, hips rocking slightly. Teasing, he hopes.
Drops his lips to the lean, arching neck, tasting, trying to gauge Claude’s reaction, through his own haze of heat and want and more, because it matters.
Because that’s the more that he wants.
It’s harder than he figured, hovering, letting his lips and tongue and teeth scrape along skin that’s warm and salty and softer than he’d expected, feeling Claude’s chest rise and fall, hips thrust up against him, wrists straining against his hold.
It’s hard to keep track off, all of it, hard not to get lost.
It’s even harder to pull away.
But he does, a lock of hair falling across his face that he can’t push back, hips grinding against Claude’s and godgodgod, it’s…fuck…it’s impossible for him to do anything but pant and squirm and that just makes it…worse, or better, or something but Claude’s managing to smirk up at him and he’s got to go somewhere with this.
“Want me?” he manages to pant out, tries to smile, and tosses his head back, sends already damp hair falling across his cheek.
Feels Claude’s pulse race against his palms.
And there’s another flash of darkness from before, in those eyes that have been deep and intense but…normal, at least as normal as he’s seen them, as Claude hisses a low, “I’m not…begging…you…”
“I didn’t…want you…to...” he leans closer, tries to smile, confused. Concerned. “I just--“
He’s not quite sure how he would’ve finished, though.
Isn’t sure what he wanted, isn’t sure if he’s got any chance of getting it.
Doesn’t have the chance to find out, with Claude pushing him off, almost making him fall to the floor.
But catching him, pushing him back onto the bed, breathing hard against the back of his neck and before Peter has any chance to complain, kissing down his spine, quick and wet and capable, apparently, of stifling any really coherent thought.
A hand pushing between his stomach and the bed and he shifts up, can’t stop himself.
Forearms braced against the mattress and rough fingers pulling his pants open, down past his hips.
But not all the way, he notices, far enough but not all the way and Claude’s still, from the rough brush of cloth down his back as the man rocks against him, completely dressed and he’s not quite sure if he wants that.
But there’s Claude’s hand on his cock, brisk and rough and the man thrusts against him from behind, setting his rhythm, realizing that he’s too far gone to fight against him.
Then the thrusts stop and the rhythm of Claude’s hand slows, and he can think, about how uncomfortable this is, his face pressed to the comforter, his body holding up most of Claude’s weight, until he pulls away a bit, breath and beard prickling against his shoulder.
“Want me?” and it’s low, mocking, with an undercurrent he barely has time to think about, before the first finger presses into him, slick and abrupt.
Then another, and it’s not gentle, and it’s not careful, but it’s adequate, and he’s breathing hard, and is biting at his neck and growling another, “Want me?” and he pushes back, throws an elbow into Claude’s ribs.
Knows Claude’s balance isn’t what it needs to be, to keep him in that position, but still, he’s surprised that it works, surprised that the man rolls off and slides off the edge of the bed and he’s a little sorry, a little concerned, but mostly desperate and dripping and struggling to finally get out of his pants as he follows.
Kneels by Claude’s side and his quick, breathless, “Are you okay?” is cut short, swallowed, as a hand snakes around the back of head and pulls him into a kiss, mouth open and hot and tongue slick and heavy against his, and yeah, Claude’s probably fine.
And he can’t pull back, doesn’t want to fight against the long fingers tangled in his hair, and he presses closer, straddles his lap, leans up into Claude’s still shirt-clad chest and he can feel the heat underneath but it’s distant, cotton rough and wrong against his skin.
But the hand he tries to slip under is pushes away, and a nip on his lower lip is both a retribution and a shock that sends his senses buzzing and his hips thrusting for some, any kind of friction, and after a moment, he settles.
Drops his hands to Claude’s fly, feels him groan against his mouth at just that and works as quick as he can, fingers clumsy in their hurry but effective, finally, curling around Claude’s erection and Claude’s head falls back.
Which lets Peter breathe, and think, and realize, quickly and now because otherwise…yeah, neither of them’s going to…last much longer.
And he pulls himself up, knees digging into the carpet that he’s suddenly very grateful for, one of Claude’s hands on his hip and the other, still, twisting through his hair and he glances up.
The man’s eyes are shut and he’s breathing hard, lips parted and swollen and he did that.
He’s doing that, as he brings a hand up to card through sandy hair, damp at the back of his neck.
Breathes a “Claude,” across his lips, close enough to kiss but not, bumps his nose against the other man’s and that’s an accident but it makes him smile, and he whispers it again.
“Claude,” and it’s stronger this time, as he shifts closer, one hand guiding and the other brushing the back of the man’s neck as he stills.
“Please,” and it’s only because his voice is so low to begin with, that he doesn’t have to choke it out, that he’s not too breathless to say it. “Look at me.”
And he does.
Peter should be surprised that it’s that simple, that he just had to ask but he’s not, and those eyes, those ocean-in-the-winter eyes, look at him, still not completely open and still not seeing only him but…but he smiles, and it’s a start.
It’s harder than he expected, guiding Claude into his body, and it’s tight and not a little painful and the position isn’t turning out to be one of his best ideas ever but god, once they’re kissing again and he has the presence of mind, or, really, instinct to move his hips, and Claude’s hands settle on the small of his back, warm and solid and almost making those muscles just…just melt as they strain to get him faster closer deeper it really doesn’t matter as much.
And it really couldn’t have lasted very long, after the struggle just to get that far, but when Claude thrusts up against him one last time and goes still, and Peter throws his head back a few seconds later and lets out a low, choked moan before coming all over Claude’s shirt, it’s like an eternity’s gone by in a moment.
More moments pass; not eternity filled ones, just normal ones, with heavy breaths and a reluctance to move through aftershocks and clinging that Peter half-worries Claude won’t exactly be comfortable with but he’s too tired to move and the man hasn’t pushed him away, so it’s fine.
It’s mostly fine, and then it’s uncomfortable again, cold air on warm skin and Claude’s still inside him, and that’s awkward, even more awkward when his reaction to realizing that is to…well. It’s awkward.
“How old’re you again, Pete?” Claude murmurs against his shoulder, and Peter can feel himself blush.
“Uh,” he winces, easing back as carefully as he can. “Twenty-six.”
“Right,” Claude chuckles, and that’s really what it is, fond and quiet and soft. “Youth.”
“I’m not that young,” he mutters, a little more defensive sounding than he intended, but a quick glance to Claude and he doesn’t regret it. “Almost thirty.”
“You could try actin’ like it. Just for a change.”
“Yeah, well,” and there’s so much he could say, so much about at least not being closed off and paranoid and mean but really, at this point, the only thing his mind’s capable of contributing is a quick, apologetic, “Was that your only shirt?”
As if he doesn’t know the answer, and as if Claude wouldn’t be able to…get himself another one.
And yes, that makes Claude laugh, but…it’s with him, and not at him, for the most part.
And that’s really kind of fantastic.
Characters/Pairings: Plaude
Summary: Unrepentant PWP that is nonetheless...repentant. Also, my attempt to write sex that's a bit rougher than I usually write, so...you be the judge.
Rating: R...ish. Maybe pushing up to NC17 but I can't say for sure
Warnings: I feel it's maybe a bit more explicit than I usually get, but that's...really probably it.
A/N: A gift to two of my favorite girls (and I really do have so many). In specific, c_quinn, who has returned to us, in somewhat of a limited capacity but still, something's better than nothing. And also, to my lovely porn muse, lotus0kid. A million thanks.
“Turn around,” he feels Claude growl against his neck, and it’s about the first thing his brain has actually registered in the past couple of minutes, probably because Claude’s pulled away just enough to let him do that.
“You turn around,” he mumbles, because he half-remembers that he was mad about something, and whatever it was, he was probably justified. Definitely justified.
Claude pulls away even further, but his hands stay, heavy on Peter’s shoulders, a thumb pressing against his collar bone and fingers brushing against the base of his neck, making him shiver.
“Turn. Around.” And it’s half exasperated, half genuinely angry and Claude’s eyes go darker, more focused, a kind of intensity he knows he shouldn’t be pushing for, knows he should be out to avoid.
“Make. Me.” He hisses, and he realizes, distantly, hazily, that he’s a complete idiot, before reaching out to grab the back of Claude’s head and pull him into a kiss.
Claude surges against him, presses him tighter to the wall than before, leaves him desperate for the friction he can’t get leverage for.
Pins his wrists against his sides and bites at his lip, making him gasp and try and pull his head back, which he does manage, except that the end result is bumping his head against the wall, hard enough to startle a whimper out of him, because yeah, even though he can’t do permanent damage, it really does hurt.
He’s pretty sure he can hear, definitely feel, Claude laugh at that, against his neck, lips rough and teeth sharp, painful, and Peter gasps, tries to blink flashes of light out of eyes and ends up having to shut them because it really doesn’t seem to work.
Tries to move, can’t even really breath, is pressed that tight, but Claude’s too solid, too strong, and a hazy string of like a training exercise you could stop him if you really wanted to fades out of his head, as that mouth presses back against his, and he can feel the bruises on his neck ache and fade.
He can stop him, though.
Not stop him, stop him, doesn’t want that but at the very least, he can let this not turn into yet another situation where he does what someone else wants him to.
Stop depending on praise, stop being so eager to please.
Because that’s just what Claude’s been telling him, right?
Really, it’s kind of a taste of his own medicine that the man richly deserves, for him not to just go along with it.
And yeah, he’s kidding himself there, he’s just as eager to please as ever but he can triy to keep some control over this at least, right?
So he pushes back, his tongue pushing into Claude’s mouth, his leg between Claude’s thighs rocks up as much as he can.
Shoves, bites down on Claude’s lower lip, tries to yank one of his hands out of the man’s grasp, and manages, even as the real struggle turns out to be keeping himself from getting lost in the low groans and panted breaths, because maybe, apparently, Claude’s not entirely averse to him taking some initiative.
Which is kind of good to know, at least.
And for a moment, of confusion, with Claude not quite realizing, or being willing to ignore, the fact that he hasn’t really got the upper hand anymore, Peter manages to ease away from the wall.
Wraps his hand around the back of Claude’s neck and leans up, isn’t sure if he wants to push him against the wall, see how he likes it, having to fight for air, or pull him down the hall and to his room, with an actual bed and actual potential for this not to be just a different kind of particularly exhausting fight than they usually have.
Realizes pretty quickly that he can’t exactly stop to think about that, or anything, really, if he doesn’t want Claude wrestling out of his grip and forcing him back against the wall again.
But it’s not quite as hard this time, he doesn’t have to worry that his shoulder blades are actually going to go through the drywall, doesn’t have to fight to breath quite as much.
Well, he does, but it’s for somewhat more pleasant reasons.
Claude’s hand pressing against his chest, sliding, resting on his hip, fingers just barely grazing his skin where his t-shirt’s riding up, and he lets out a sound that’s low and impatient and a little more desperate than he maybe wanted, but there’s so much else he wants right now that it really doesn’t matter.
Claude pulls away enough for him to catch the grin, enough for Peter to have the space to reach up again, grab at the collar of his coat and drag him a little further down the hallway.
Well, drag him as much as he’s really capable of dragging someone several inches taller and a hell of a lot stronger, anyway, and what little momentum he gets out of the action just makes him lose his balance.
And they’re close enough that they both stumble, Claude steadying himself with a hand flat against the wall and Peter bumping against his chest, and he can’t help but laugh.
Glances up to see that Claude’s on the verge of laughter too, and he leans up again, whispers a quick, “Bedroom. Gotta be less awkward. C’mon,” into his ear.
Doesn’t neglect letting his tongue flick against the man’s ear as he does so, and manages a smirk at the shiver it brings.
And if trying to walk backwards, hands tangled in Claude’s coat, doing his best to toe off his shoes in the process, isn’t going to turn out to be his most graceful of moments, the fact that every time he trips he ends up with Claude’s hands on his hip and the small of his back, holding him up, he’s really not going to be that embarrassed about it.
Getting his watch caught as he tries to push the heavy coat off Claude’s shoulders, though, that’s a bit embarrassing, but with Claude trying to pull his shirt off at the same time and only managing to get it about halfway over Peter’s head because of it, it’s mostly just kind of absurd.
“Wait, just-“
“No, you’re-“
“Okay, okay, stop,” his attempts at any kind of authority, with his shirt halfway over his head, fall short, but Claude’s not exactly in a position to question him. “Just take the coat off and than I can…there we go,” he can breathe again, as his shirt slips off and his hair flops back into his face.
“Less awkward, then?” Claude raises an eyebrow, but looks a good deal more flustered than he probably realizes, for all that he’s trying to be as patronizing as ever.
“Shut up,” Peter mutters, and is sure to rush up against Claude before the other man can do otherwise.
Long fingers running through his hair and a rough palm pressing against his back, and he pushes, would like to think forces, the man onto the bed.
And maybe he’s not kidding himself there, because Claude does look genuinely surprised and he does have the chance to straddle the older man, force his hands down against the mattress.
He grins, leans down for a kiss, lips barely brushing, hips rocking slightly. Teasing, he hopes.
Drops his lips to the lean, arching neck, tasting, trying to gauge Claude’s reaction, through his own haze of heat and want and more, because it matters.
Because that’s the more that he wants.
It’s harder than he figured, hovering, letting his lips and tongue and teeth scrape along skin that’s warm and salty and softer than he’d expected, feeling Claude’s chest rise and fall, hips thrust up against him, wrists straining against his hold.
It’s hard to keep track off, all of it, hard not to get lost.
It’s even harder to pull away.
But he does, a lock of hair falling across his face that he can’t push back, hips grinding against Claude’s and godgodgod, it’s…fuck…it’s impossible for him to do anything but pant and squirm and that just makes it…worse, or better, or something but Claude’s managing to smirk up at him and he’s got to go somewhere with this.
“Want me?” he manages to pant out, tries to smile, and tosses his head back, sends already damp hair falling across his cheek.
Feels Claude’s pulse race against his palms.
And there’s another flash of darkness from before, in those eyes that have been deep and intense but…normal, at least as normal as he’s seen them, as Claude hisses a low, “I’m not…begging…you…”
“I didn’t…want you…to...” he leans closer, tries to smile, confused. Concerned. “I just--“
He’s not quite sure how he would’ve finished, though.
Isn’t sure what he wanted, isn’t sure if he’s got any chance of getting it.
Doesn’t have the chance to find out, with Claude pushing him off, almost making him fall to the floor.
But catching him, pushing him back onto the bed, breathing hard against the back of his neck and before Peter has any chance to complain, kissing down his spine, quick and wet and capable, apparently, of stifling any really coherent thought.
A hand pushing between his stomach and the bed and he shifts up, can’t stop himself.
Forearms braced against the mattress and rough fingers pulling his pants open, down past his hips.
But not all the way, he notices, far enough but not all the way and Claude’s still, from the rough brush of cloth down his back as the man rocks against him, completely dressed and he’s not quite sure if he wants that.
But there’s Claude’s hand on his cock, brisk and rough and the man thrusts against him from behind, setting his rhythm, realizing that he’s too far gone to fight against him.
Then the thrusts stop and the rhythm of Claude’s hand slows, and he can think, about how uncomfortable this is, his face pressed to the comforter, his body holding up most of Claude’s weight, until he pulls away a bit, breath and beard prickling against his shoulder.
“Want me?” and it’s low, mocking, with an undercurrent he barely has time to think about, before the first finger presses into him, slick and abrupt.
Then another, and it’s not gentle, and it’s not careful, but it’s adequate, and he’s breathing hard, and is biting at his neck and growling another, “Want me?” and he pushes back, throws an elbow into Claude’s ribs.
Knows Claude’s balance isn’t what it needs to be, to keep him in that position, but still, he’s surprised that it works, surprised that the man rolls off and slides off the edge of the bed and he’s a little sorry, a little concerned, but mostly desperate and dripping and struggling to finally get out of his pants as he follows.
Kneels by Claude’s side and his quick, breathless, “Are you okay?” is cut short, swallowed, as a hand snakes around the back of head and pulls him into a kiss, mouth open and hot and tongue slick and heavy against his, and yeah, Claude’s probably fine.
And he can’t pull back, doesn’t want to fight against the long fingers tangled in his hair, and he presses closer, straddles his lap, leans up into Claude’s still shirt-clad chest and he can feel the heat underneath but it’s distant, cotton rough and wrong against his skin.
But the hand he tries to slip under is pushes away, and a nip on his lower lip is both a retribution and a shock that sends his senses buzzing and his hips thrusting for some, any kind of friction, and after a moment, he settles.
Drops his hands to Claude’s fly, feels him groan against his mouth at just that and works as quick as he can, fingers clumsy in their hurry but effective, finally, curling around Claude’s erection and Claude’s head falls back.
Which lets Peter breathe, and think, and realize, quickly and now because otherwise…yeah, neither of them’s going to…last much longer.
And he pulls himself up, knees digging into the carpet that he’s suddenly very grateful for, one of Claude’s hands on his hip and the other, still, twisting through his hair and he glances up.
The man’s eyes are shut and he’s breathing hard, lips parted and swollen and he did that.
He’s doing that, as he brings a hand up to card through sandy hair, damp at the back of his neck.
Breathes a “Claude,” across his lips, close enough to kiss but not, bumps his nose against the other man’s and that’s an accident but it makes him smile, and he whispers it again.
“Claude,” and it’s stronger this time, as he shifts closer, one hand guiding and the other brushing the back of the man’s neck as he stills.
“Please,” and it’s only because his voice is so low to begin with, that he doesn’t have to choke it out, that he’s not too breathless to say it. “Look at me.”
And he does.
Peter should be surprised that it’s that simple, that he just had to ask but he’s not, and those eyes, those ocean-in-the-winter eyes, look at him, still not completely open and still not seeing only him but…but he smiles, and it’s a start.
It’s harder than he expected, guiding Claude into his body, and it’s tight and not a little painful and the position isn’t turning out to be one of his best ideas ever but god, once they’re kissing again and he has the presence of mind, or, really, instinct to move his hips, and Claude’s hands settle on the small of his back, warm and solid and almost making those muscles just…just melt as they strain to get him faster closer deeper it really doesn’t matter as much.
And it really couldn’t have lasted very long, after the struggle just to get that far, but when Claude thrusts up against him one last time and goes still, and Peter throws his head back a few seconds later and lets out a low, choked moan before coming all over Claude’s shirt, it’s like an eternity’s gone by in a moment.
More moments pass; not eternity filled ones, just normal ones, with heavy breaths and a reluctance to move through aftershocks and clinging that Peter half-worries Claude won’t exactly be comfortable with but he’s too tired to move and the man hasn’t pushed him away, so it’s fine.
It’s mostly fine, and then it’s uncomfortable again, cold air on warm skin and Claude’s still inside him, and that’s awkward, even more awkward when his reaction to realizing that is to…well. It’s awkward.
“How old’re you again, Pete?” Claude murmurs against his shoulder, and Peter can feel himself blush.
“Uh,” he winces, easing back as carefully as he can. “Twenty-six.”
“Right,” Claude chuckles, and that’s really what it is, fond and quiet and soft. “Youth.”
“I’m not that young,” he mutters, a little more defensive sounding than he intended, but a quick glance to Claude and he doesn’t regret it. “Almost thirty.”
“You could try actin’ like it. Just for a change.”
“Yeah, well,” and there’s so much he could say, so much about at least not being closed off and paranoid and mean but really, at this point, the only thing his mind’s capable of contributing is a quick, apologetic, “Was that your only shirt?”
As if he doesn’t know the answer, and as if Claude wouldn’t be able to…get himself another one.
And yes, that makes Claude laugh, but…it’s with him, and not at him, for the most part.
And that’s really kind of fantastic.