Home is Where the Heart Is, PG-13. Jason/Ivy, Peter. Everything feels wrong and it's supposed to feel right but it can't feel right without Peter.
Everything feels wrong like this, with Ivy pressing herself against him, tiny fingers tangled in his hair. It feels so fucking wrong and he hates himself for it, hates hates hates himself because this is supposed to feel right, this is supposed to be his fantasy, man, this girl and her boobs pressed up against him.
He isn't sure where to put his hands. He isn't sure if she's breakable, if she likes the feel of his fingertips skimming over the small of her back. He hasn't felt this awkward since the locker room freshman year, and that's supposed to be so far behind him, now.
Jason isn't used to soft curves and long, knotty hair and brilliant green eyes. He wants (hard planes of skin and short, dark hair and warm brown eyes and goddamn, that perfect mouth and perfect nose and perfect hint of something tugging eyebrows up) Peter more than anything in the whole fucking world.
Jason knows it's Peter calling him, knows because the tinny instrumental version of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" is Peter's ringtone, knows because he can just feel it, that Peter would be calling now. His hand stretches out towards his phone, reaching.
Ivy's fingers tangle with his. Her fingernails are still saying goodbye to a coat of red polish and they press half-moons into his skin.
She asks him if he's nervous. His voice catches in his throat and she smiles at him. She has a beautiful smile, and beautiful emerald eyes. She's beautiful, but not the kind of beautiful he's used to, not the kind of beautiful that shared his bed and a smile across Sister Mary Frances' classroom. He's trying, God, he's trying so fucking hard, to want Ivy, to want Ivy.
His heart goes pitter-patter pitter-patter pitter-patter peter-patter peter-peter.