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Ignatius is frivolous, and a fool, and Peter loves him significantly more than he ought to, really. His darling hair, his hands that hold him, his mind.
Peter would be well beyond salvaging if he neglected to mention Ignatius’s mind. Sharp, witty, and frankly so odd at times Peter struggles to follow his logic through and around to the end. Of course, whenever they get to the end, whatever eccentricity Ignatius has devised had been a stroke of genius, and he was, in fact, silly to doubt it.
Ignatius, his Ignatius, is nothing short of a genius.
Particular as he is, Peter cares for him. But those are thoughts of the daylight, right now. He is musing upon them as he waits in Ignatius’s bed for his fool. Now- why is Ignatius a fool, if Peter would wax poetic on his mind, would easily style him a savant?
The answer is simple enough. He had asked the man to bed what is ticking close to half an hour ago. At least according to the clock Peter made him, set up on the high shelf. And he has not arrived, which is ruinous, really. Truly despicable of him, to leave his lover to rot.
Whatever fleeting lust Peter had felt to him, which he had, nearly half an hour ago now, has gone near entirely. It seems his fool didn't pick up on the manner of which join me in bed this time around was less centralized around a misery of his mind necessitating his man hold him, and perhaps more towards a need of the flesh, which, last Peter did check, Ignatius tends to share.
That all stated.
Ignatius's bed. Certainly a location to wait in. He does not skimp on the bedding. Ignatius has… significant opinions on what constitutes proper bedding.
Large pillows, fluffed, down, for obvious. But he has a lovely heavy blanket, Ignatius. Wool, layered twice perhaps. It must have cost a significant amount. But it is a luxurious item, and Peter adores the thing. Its slight weight. The way he can draw it over himself folded and feel nearly like he has Ignatius’s arm over him with no one but him in the bed. He has thought to steal it several times now.
He thinks sometimes he should devise some sort of heavier blanket. Given his favorite aspect of this one is the fact it presses down on him. It's a comfort.
He needs those.
Though, it's significantly more of a comfort when the mattress finally dips beside him, and Ignatius decides to join him in the bed. Ignatius presses himself to Peter's back, layers a constellation of kisses across his head.
“My Peter,” he pulls Peter to his chest, curling around him, “Do my eyes deceive me, or are you dozing on your own?”
Perhaps Ignatius’s mind is his second-best trait. His voice may top it, in all reality. Low and lovely. Peter could hear it all day. All year, perhaps. Peter turns to curl into Ignatius’s arms, rolling opposite to tuck his face to his chest.
“Perhaps the bedding is nice,” he admits, “But I'd hate to leave you without conversation this evening by drifting early,”
“Is it?” Ignatius hums, “Wool and craftsmanship may be what defeats the sleeplessness? Perhaps I should invest in several more blankets, swaddle you like a child, perhaps that could be what finally cures your insomnia,”
Ignatius plants a kiss to his forehead.
Peter, perhaps, adores him.
“Hold me.” Peter instructs. “I have been left waiting for forever, perhaps, you must despise me for leaving me so long,”
“And now he gives demands. It was hardly twenty minutes you languished. Are demands what we need, Peter? Perhaps we would be better if—”
Peter exhales then, shoves his hands beneath Ignatius’s shirt, then beneath his drawers, fondling for his hips to hold, to steal warmth from.
“And now you reach beneath my belt, truly no tact with you, Walter,” but his arms are already around him, pinning him close, as Ignatius shifts them both, to how they often rest. Peter against his side, under his arm. Close enough to if he wakes in a state of awful fright he can claw himself into Ignatius’s chest, claim himself comfort if he needs it terribly.
“I had wanted you to join me,” Peter murmurs, “To seduce you, tonight, and I thought I made that clear, but alas. You are too busy grading papers to make time for me, so it seems.”
He trails a hand inward, trailing nails along to the inside of Ignatius’s thigh, nearing his center yet not quite, teasingly.
Ignatius’s breath hitches though, and Peter smiles to himself as he's pulled closer.
“You could have perhaps been more direct, Pet,” Ignatius dips a hand beneath his shirt, around to his back, fingertips pressing into his ribs, “I may have dropped everything if you said the word,”
“I would like to touch you.” He lets his fingers drift up, Ignatius shifts his hips, pulls his legs apart, inviting. “So ask me nicely. To treat you. After your betrayal.”
“Peter.”
“You left me languishing. Beg apologies and I may make your evening worthwhile.”
Ignatius sighs.
“I am quite sorry I-” Ignatius’s breath catches as Peter shifts his hand closer to where Ignatius would likely very much want it to be, trailing a finger from his stomach, down through his curls, “Pet. Do not tease when I am making my case.”
“I will do what I please with you, while you ‘make your case.’”
Ignatius laughs, softly, shakes his head, “You are silly. Regardless. I apologize for leaving you alone in bed. But I am not going to beg,”
“You will.” Peter hums. Retracts both his hands to properly pull Ignatius’s clothing off, undo buttons, shift the fabric off his hips and toss it to the floor.
Then he doesn't reach forward again. Elects to keep his hands to himself.
“Peter.” Ignatius says, “Peter this is wretched of you. You are aware this is wretched?”
“Yes Ignatius?” He says innocently, sitting up to face him, reaching for his own dick, mockery perhaps? As he strokes himself, staring at him, “Something to say?”
Ignatius's mouth opens a bit, then he sighs. Peter can see he's hard already. Good.
“....Please.” Ignatius says, dull, and Peter hums, evaluating.
“You know, I fear if one of your students did an assignment so unenthusiastically, you may be forced to fail them. You must be able to beg more sincerely than that, ‘Natius.”
“You propositioned me, Walter, you should be glad I am entertaining the idea at all.”
“Perhaps I'll revoke it, then. I won't touch you. I'll just have you watch me finish, then I'll steal your hands all night so you're left in lonesome misery.” He shifts his own legs apart, still slowly stroking his own length. Ignatius shifts, eyes following his hand, then back up to his face, squinting. Hungry.
Peter knows he’s already won, when Ignatius leans forward.
“...Peter. Please?” He says, still somewhat resigned, truely! and Peter makes a show of debating, still slowly stroking himself, but taking his chin, humming, dramatic, because… no. No.
No he would like more than that.
“More genuine, Ignatius. And I'll consider it.”
Ignatius sighs. Then, dramatically, a tad, theatrically even, rests a hand across his forehead,
“Please, dear,” he makes his voice crack a bit, plays it up, and, “I am begging, now, please touch me, forgive me for my transgressions against you, amen, and all that.”
Well. Points for drama, he supposes.
Peter leans forward and onto him, capturing his lips with his own, one hand on his chest, the other between Ignatius’s legs.
Ignatius kisses up at him. A sort of desperation Peter is glad to have instilled, as he presses fingers into Peter's back.
Peter adores him.
Peter adores him.
He wraps his fingers around Ignatius, pumps him slowly, as he kisses him breathless, as whenever Ignatius tries to breathe in he touches him quicker, more friction, makes him gasp for breath, press up against him, needing, needy.
He trails kisses down Ignatius’s neck, down to his collar, where Peter feels bold enough to nip lovebites into his skin, where they’d be safely hidden by shirt, but still, still present, still bruisy proof that Ignatius is his.
“Say thank you,” Peter instructs, as Ignatius gasps into the air, “Tell me how much you like me, how much you need me,”
“You're perfection,” says Ignatius, which is none of those things, but well enough. He curls his fingers into Peter's hips, holding onto him, “and— and you are beautiful, the loveliest thing I've ever seen, truly a perfect specimen, delicate, pretty, seductive—”
Well.
Perhaps not well enough.
None of that is ‘thank you; or ‘I need you.’
Though Peter does preen on it, a bit.
Still.
Not exactly what he asked.
So Peter stills his hand. And Ignatius whines - gasps. Presses up into him. “I said, Ignatius, to thank me, and to tell me how much you need me,”
He watches Ignatius's face- the way his expression screws up, desperate on an entirely animal level, wanting more, and not getting it.
“Please?” Ignatius tries, and oh, oh that's good, an actual please, those are hard to wring out of him, and his own dick throbs at it, but—
He slowly, agonizingly slow, starts moving again, “Good try, perhaps. But not quiiite what I'm looking for.”
“For the love of- Peter, oh my god.”
“There’s a simple solution.” He very lightly rubs his palm over Ignatius’s head, feels the way his hips buck up. But it’s only lightly, and not nearly what he wants.
“Fine. Fine. Peter— I need you, I do need you,”
“To do what?” Perhaps he's being cruel, but he feels he deserves it, a bit of cruelty. He stops his hand entirely again, leaving Ignatius gasping, whining. It's beautiful, really, the helpless way Ignatius squirms there, and the way his face reddens, flustered, embarrassed, at Peter wanting him to say it is worth it
“To— touch me.” Ignatius manages.
“Well I might need better instructions than that. Touch you where?” He lets go of him, pulls back his hand, sets his hand instead on Ignatius’s thigh, slowly trailing down, “Here? I doubt it. Aren't you a professor now? I’d have thought you could give better instructions than that,”
“You are evil,” Ignatius squeezes his eyes shut, he's trembling a bit, in the legs, in the hips, “I— I need you to please take me in your hands, Peter, if I must say it,”
“Good man. One more thing, though. I did give you quite clear instructions. Again, how can you students be expected to listen to a man who can’t even follow—”
“Peter.” Ignatius interrupts, his voice breaks a little. Adorable, really.
“It's only two words, Natius.”
“Thank you.” Ignatius finally says, gasping into a proper moan as Peter sits up and starts properly taking care of him, then. Taking him, stroking him up, and down.
Peter presses his free hand down on his navel, keeping him right where he is. Ignatius falls back into the pillows, grabbing desperately at Peter's hip where he can reach it, for something to hold onto.
“I believe between the two of us you might be the more beautiful right now,” Peter hums, “Your hair haloed out like that, your body on display, there's never been someone more handsome than you, I don’t think.”
Ignatius’s fingers dig into his hips, breath shaking, desperate as he gets closer,
“Peter I'm— I'm close.”
Oh.
Oh good.
Now he can have proper fun with him.
“And what would you do if I stopped? If I made you take me first, before letting you?”
“No—” Ignatius’s eyes snap open, to him, desperate, a tad wild, “Peter I am so close, I need to.”
“But keeping you so near to it is rather fun. And hearing you beg is pretty.”
“I'll— don't please.” He's begging properly now. Peter just keeps his hand moving. He likes when Ignatius begs. “Please? Please,”
“And I had to work so hard for just one single please earlier. Maybe I shouldn't let you yet, just so I can hear more of them?”
Ignatius bites his lip, hips rocking up with every stroke Peter takes.
“I— I'll,” Peter can all but see the gears struggling to turn in his head, trying to manufacture a bargain, perhaps a threat, but none of his blood is up in his brain, fortunately, so all he manages is: “Oh my god, you are wretched, I'm so close Peter please don't. Please.”
“Hmm.” He slows his hand again. Ignatius makes a sound so miserable Peter can't help his laugh. “I think I may need some time to think about it, perhaps an extension on the assignment may be asked for, extenuating circumstances at all, my grandmother died, perhaps, funerals to attend,”
“Peter.”
“I'm not stopping yet, but I haven't decided.”
“Peter.” Ignatius grasps at him.
“You take me so well when you're worried I won't let you finish, and you’re so needy right now,”
“I— please, please, please? I'm saying please, you— I'll worship you, I'll— please, Pet, I need you? Thank you?”
He's so pretty like this.
“Thank you?” Peter echoes, stops moving at all, “Oh well you’re very welcome! Is that all you needed then? Well I'm fine being done, I suppose, if that is all you want,”
Ignatius’s thighs are shaking, a bit, as he presses up desperately into Peter's hand.
“No— no. No. No. I— I need to, I need to finish, please please, you are evil, Peter, where did you— who taught you this? It was not me. I—”
Peter lets go of him, a moment, lets him gasp, tremble, a few seconds.
“Complaining won't help you.” He is… beginning to take pity on his poor lover though.
Ignatius tilts into the air, seeking something, anything to touch him, to grind against. “I need you. Peter please.”
Oh alright.
He moves down the bed, leans down, then trails his tongue down Ignatius’s length.
“Oh my god, thank you. Thank you, Peter.”
Peter wraps his lips around him, ravishing him with his tongue, stroking him at the same time. He can feel Ignatius getting closer, and he was already nearly there, the way his legs start to tense, can hear the way his whines get higher, near hysteric.
Ignatius grabs his hair, holding him where he is, words beyond them both now as Ignatius thrusts up and into his mouth, desperate.
And then Ignatius groans, and Peter pulls off, moves his hands to replace his mouth as Ignatius shudders, strokes him through it as he finishes, white mess on his hands, Ignatius trembling under him as Peter keeps stroking him, even as he softens. He doesn't stop until Ignatius is writhing under his hands, too sensitive and groaning, batting at his hands.
He lets him go, wipes his hands on the nearby towel he snagged in preparation for this sort of mess.
Ignatius sits there, hands covering his face, shoulders shuddering as his breathing calms down.
A little bit oversensitive, maybe.
“You are evil, Pet,” Ignatius finally murmurs, as Peter sits back next to him. Ignatius reaches for him, pulling him back to the bed, horizontal.
Peter kisses down his jaw, as Ignatius finds his mind again, as sense retreats from his dick and back to where it more likely belongs.
“Have you considered you are pretty, when you beg?” Peter asks, as Ignatius breathes.
“You are evil. Talented, I will give you, but cruel.” Ignatius takes a long breath, wavering, a bit, before he pushes himself up. “Lay down. Get— comfort yourself. I am going to make you scream for all that.”
Peter arranges the pillows, settles down against them, spreads his legs. “...And because I chose mercy on you, I have nothing to hold over you to make sure you treat me well. Do note I chose mercy, Ignatius.”
Ignatius shakes out his hands, grins down at him, sharp, a tad threatening, and Ah.
“If that was mercy, Peter. I'll show you heaven.”
Ah.
Ah. Well, he…. may perhaps be in trouble then.
Ignatius looks a tad a mess. Which— well, Peter did just have him begging. He strokes his fingertips up Peter's inner thighs, arcing towards his dick, not quite touching yet.
Peter closes his eyes, lets his head fall back. “Be kind to me,” he murmurs, “I did choose mercy for you, Natius,”
Ignatius hums, and he kisses Peter's leg, against just the inside of his knee, and Peter exhales, shakily.
Ah. So it'll be like that, then, hm.
Ignatius kisses up his leg, slowly, slowly, marking kisses up his thigh on one leg, thumb twirling circles up his other, cold kisses left behind to the air, as Ignatius presses love into him.
So making him wait is his game, it seems.
“I am not above begging if you want it,” Peter hums, “My pride isn't so large I'm above doing what's best for me—” he inhales sharply, cutting himself off, as Ignatius pulls back from his thigh, licks a stripe up his dick.
“Oh,” Peter gasps, pressing his head back to the pillows, trying to keep his hips firmly on the mattress, and not seeking touch that isn't above them.
It is a tad futile, though, trying to stay still.
“What's best for you is sitting quietly, Peter,”
Sitting quietly.
Oh he is evil.
“Should I try and stay quiet then? Soundless? Not even a gasp, or a whine? The instructions are unclear, I thought you hoped I'd scream? I will scream if you'd like, you're—” Ignatius reaches up, pinches one of his nipples, cutting him off, as Peter gasps.
“Make sounds, not words, Pet.”
Peter finds his breath, continues.
“But I do like talking, ‘Natius. You—” Ignatius rolls his chest between his fingers, and Peter has to swallow a whine, “You just keep, keep doing that, and I'll give you commenta—” Ignatius pulls then, at his chest, and Peter can't stop the sound that pulls out of him, cuts himself off, instead, pain sparking a bit of good. And— “and— and I'll,” he takes a shaky breath, “I'll provide commentary?”
Ignatius squints at him, from down there.
“I told you to make sounds not words. I could fail your grade for that, Peter,” Ignatius says,
“Oh so that’s a fail, then, if I talk, but when your instructions are—”
Ignatius flicks his dick.
Peter jolts, a bit, shouts or— well shout is generous, he squeaks, really, presses back, would have crossed his legs if Ignatius wasn't between them. He presses his head back into the pillows, takes a ragged gasp.
Oh so he is in trouble for all that. Okay. Okay.
“You'll be good, Peter. Because you know what happens when you're not.”
“Why are you in charge now?” Ignatius goes back to kissing up his other thigh, then, free arm keeping Peter pinned down into the bed, crossed against his stomach, “This, Natius, is exactly why I never let you cum until after you're nice to me. You get cocky. I like you when you're needy. And begging. You're so nice to me when you want me.”
“You like this.” Ignatius says.
He does.
He really does.
He can't say that though.
“So— perhaps let me fuck your throat?” Peter tries, that sounds fun, and would get Ignatius under him again. “I would like to, you could kneel and—”
Ignatius nips at his thigh and Peter falls into a whine,
“Let me make love to you. And shh.” Ignatius kisses where he just bit, soothing, “Or I'll do a lot worse to you than this.”
He shuts his eyes, then, just breathes, focuses on Ignatius, and he— mnmnn. He needs more than kisses everywhere but where he wants.
“Please?” he tries, which earns him a swat to his thigh, which stings a half moment before Ignatius kisses over it, soothing, and—
and he is in trouble.
He—
How to push this along, quicker, then? Begging does not work with Ignatius, not unless he’s been told to beg, and—
Perhaps being disobedient will help. Maybe it will spur him forward, quicker. He reaches for his dick, or tries to, if Ignatius won’t touch him, perhaps getting his hands closer will help.
As he expected, he's intercepted by Ignatius's hand catching his. But his hand is so close to him, and—
“And what were you doing? If I wasn't allowed myself, you're not.”
Peter groans, shifts his thighs open wider, “Pl-lease, Natius, I'm— mnmn. You are going to kill me? I'm — please?”
“I did say I was going to make you scream.”
“I won't scream if you're not touching me.”
“Perhaps a scream of pleasure wasn't what I was aiming for, Pet?”
Frustration. That's what he's aiming for. That's not fair. Making him scream out of frustration.
“Ignatttius.”
“You made me beg. I'll make you cry for it. It's as if you've never had consequences before.”
“Next time I simply will say no, Ignatius, and then I'll fuck your throat, and go to bed, or I'll fuck you properly and if you don't finish untouched then you won't at all, and—” Ignatius pinches the inside of his thigh, twists, and he— He'll be quiet. “Okay, okay, okay, I'll be quiet?” Ignatius kisses over the hurt, again, and, “I'll be quiet, Ignatius, just—”
“Saying you will be quiet is not quiet, Peter.”
He groans, shifts his legs apart further, and Ignatius still doesn't touch him.
Just kisses hickeys inside his thighs, painting him colors he's sure, kisses up and around to his stomach, sometimes licking so close his heart jumps against his ribs, anticipation ripped horribly away as he just goes back to nothing and—
and as Ignatius again, again, circles the base of his dick with a finger, breathing hot hair against him, he—
He can't be quiet.
“I'll— Ignatius it's been minutes. You already left me waiting for a half hour, I—AH.” he screams, he does, as Ignatius flicks his dick again, not hard, not enough to even hurt, really, but startling, and his nail hits him, stinging, sensitive and Peter tries to shut his legs, halfway, involuntary, at the sudden not-quite-pain, and—
He breathes out, shaking legs, shaking, as Ignatius's tongue follows after his fingers. Warm and soothing, on him, actually fucking touching him, thank fucking god. Ignatius presses his legs back open again, rubs small circles to his navel, soothes him back down as finally he starts kissing love to him.
Ignatius is very very good at this. At sucking dick.
Ignatius takes him into his mouth, deep, swallows around him, warm and good. Peter presses up into his mouth, or tries to, or would, but his hips still are pinned to the bed by Ignatius’s arm.
He's making plenty of loud sounds now, as Ignatius finally makes him feel good.
“Thank you, good, thats— good,” Peter gasps, “You're perfect.”
Ignatius’s free hand finds his, entwines their fingers as he gasps.
Ignatius wrings sounds out of him, and Peter can't do anything but cling to his hand, tilt his hips up into him as best as he can, gasp and whine, as Ignatius squeezes his hand.
It doesn't take long, really, for his hips to start stuttering, for his breaths to come shorter, harsher, Ignatius squeezing his hand, assuring, loving, and—
Well.
He does finish all but screaming he's so loud.
So… well. Perhaps Ignatius won in the end, as Ignatius pulls himself up, kissing final pecks to him as he finally lets Peter turn his hips away, to recover, as Ignatius fumbles for the water on the bedside table.
When Ignatius lays back down, several moments later, Ignatius scoops him up, boneless, settling them more comfortably together. Peter presses his face into Ignatius’s chest.
Post sex cuddling is nearly as good as the act in itself, perhaps. Ignatius holds him tightly, and Peter presses as close as he can. Ignatius’s fingers trail through his hair, as he peppers bonus kisses across Peter’s crown.
“You are lovely,” Peter says to his chest, “Was that— ideal?”
“It was lovely, Pet. You weren't too mean. Don't fret on it. I, on the other hand, know I have nothing to worry about. I was exactly as mean as necessary."
“I do like when you beg.” Peter mutters, takes a moment to adjust the blankets, to pull the nice heavy one so it's over them both. He shoves his cold feet between Ignatius’s legs, cuddling close, “I have to do a number on your pride, sometimes, Ignatius, lest your ego grows so large it gains consciousness and runs away from you.”
“I simply like when you scream.” Ignatius squeezes him close. “...Perhaps I will partition off a day to see how loud I can get you, hm?”
Peter presses closer to him. “Perhaps I will partition off a day to tell you no all the while, and keep you so firm your brain runs out of blood. It would only be fair, for us both to have a go at it,”
Ignatius kisses tilts up his chin, to kiss him, gentle, and,
and he is happy here.
He is so happy here, with him.
Ignatius pulls back from the kiss, guides his head back to his chest.
“We can discuss it.” Ignatius has a smile to his voice, and—
And Peter loves him. Properly loves him.
“Hold me.” Peter instructs. “And I might just get some sleep tonight.”
“...and yet, of course, right back to the demands. As you wish, Peter.”
Ignatius was, of course, already holding him about as close as someone could. Peter settles though, and this is everything.
There is not a single place he would rather be.