As pleasure overwhelms his senses, for a moment he can forget the tinny, electronic edge to that voice and almost imagine he can feel Peter's lips brushing over his ear, breath stirring his hair. Every word is hooked straight into a live wire in his spine, sparks shivering under his skin for the images they provoke. He wants every murmured promise and more: wants the slide of skin and the heat of their bodies pressed against each other, wants a strong grip leaving fingerprint bruises over his hips and to get lost in the feeling of Peter moving inside him instead of having to make do with his own fingers.

"I want you so fucking bad," he breathes, low and ragged, the words tumbling gracelessly over each other all thoughtless need as the lust under his skin builds and builds until he doesn't know if he can fucking take any more. "I wanna come on your dick, I wana feel you come inside me, fuck, fuck—"

In an instant not enough tips over into too much and he arches up with a sharp cry as he comes in a hot rush over his curled fist, grinding down greedily onto the fingers buried inside him. It's shocking in its intensity,the sweet ache of it throbbing through his entire body as he goes tight around them, pleasure prickling over his skin in feverish waves. There's a long, low moan on his lips as he melts back into the mattress, catching sharply on a hitched breath as any slightest movement sends fresh aftershocks rippling through him.

And then the moment passes, and once again he's alone, sprawled out on the sweat-damp sheets with nothing but come cooling stickily on his skin and his wrist starting to cramp from the awkward angle. He gives a low breath of a sigh and eases his fingers free, staring sightlessly up at the ceiling as he wipes them off thoughtlessly on some random discarded piece of clothing. He closes his eyes.

"...wish you were here," he admits, almost inaudibly soft.