bringing_sexy_beck | AU

The very worst part of all this? Peter knows he's being played. He knows that Quentin likes to let him work himself up with his texts, yet Peter can't recall a single time they've done this where he didn't fall into the same trap he always does. A casual text. Another casual follow-up. A slightly more irritated message. Irritation, but with a side of 'please'. He always feels especially foolish when he ends up begging via text, but this is just—

It's a hormonal thing, okay? That's what he tells himself. It's not something he can control.

Relief floods him when Quentin finally texts him a time and a place. It's dizzying, being kept dangling on the end of a hook like that, which explains why he doesn't think to fire back some smart-mouthed quip about taking his sweet time to get back in touch. Instead, he replies with a thumbs up emoji and confirms that he'll be there, before tossing his phone onto his desk so he can properly distract himself from feeling like the worst kind of boyfriend. The cheating kind of boyfriend. Peter likes Connor — really, he does — and they've been having a great time together for the last six months, but ...

But Connor's a Beta, he can't grow facial hair either, and sometimes Peter just needs something more. Maybe Peter could get it from someone who isn't Quentin freaking Beck, but he's just so good at giving him what he needs — even when he doesn't know he needs it.

"Hey," he murmurs, slipping onto the barstool next to Quentin. Peter's done his best to be on time (which means he's only running ten minutes late), and while he hasn't dressed up for the occasion? He hasn't exactly dressed down either. There's a hormonal tug in his stomach that wants Quentin to be pleased with him, maybe even to like the way he's parted his hair and opted for his natural scent over cologne, and Peter feels heat flushing his cheeks already as he fiddles with his sleeve before shooting a Look towards the Alpha. Man, he's still stupid handsome.

"Are you gonna finish that here, or can we go to your room?"

And if he sounds kind of sweetly hopeful? Well. That's neither here nor there.

The bartender paid no attention to Peter sliding into the next stool over. Quentin smirks a little bit, just focusing on the drink for right now. As if Peter's appearance didn't set off some feral heat in him, especially when Peter shifts on his stool and looks at him like Quentin has the answers to everything he needs or wants.

"I can take it up," Quentin says after a moment of consideration. He gives Peter a long, tracking look. "If you're in a hurry."

He knows that Peter isn't. This isn't the first time, and Quentin knows he can drag this out for a while, really make sure that Peter's chomping at the bit for it, before they get to anything too deep and heavy.

Casually, he puts a hand on Peter's back.

Peter can't disguise the way his scent shifts from needly to relieved when Quentin places that hand at his back. Not that he thought the other man was going to hold out on him, but the touch is like a promise of things to come, and Peter has to resist the urge to scoot his stool a little bit closer just so he can enjoy even closer proximity. The fact that they're both here, the touch, the knowledge of what they're going to do when they get upstairs ...

It's enough. For now, in any case.

"... No, we don't have to." He leans forwards just enough to rest his forearms on the bar, hoping to catch the attention of the bartender. "Could I get a water, please?"

Peter glances at Quentin's gin. He's snuck the odd beer here and there, sure, but when his hormones are in flux he prefers to keep his head clear and his body hydrated. It's not like he isn't going to be all messed up in a haze of sex later on, anyway, which has him sucking on his lower lip momentarily before flitting his attention back to Beck. Settling back a little, Peter shifts so that his arm is more firmly around him.

"... How long are you gonna be in town?"

One night? Two? How much time do they have together?

Quentin smiles, a little sly, a little teasing, as he catches Peter looking at his gin. He might offer him something out of the mini bar up in his room, but neither of them really need the drink. Not in a moment like this.

Across the room, a couple of other guys are watching them, and Quentin maybe sits up a little straighter, puts his hand a little more obviously around Peter. Peter isn't his, but he might as well be, and he is, right now. For this. He doesn't want anyone even looking at him, even if they are in public.

Then, at the question, his expression gets a little teasing. He clucks his tongue, a chastisement. "It's the National Science Conference, Peter. I'm here for a week." They might not have the whole week to spend together, because Quentin has round tables and workshops to attend, papers to present, arguments to get into. But he has the room for a week. Which means Peter does too.

Quentin leans in until his mouth almost touches Peter's ear. "Maybe, if you're really good, I'll bring you with me one of the days. If you promise to behave yourself."

Something settles deep inside Peter when Quentin tightens his arm around him. He's always liked a little possessiveness: even Connor, who's a Beta, has a bit of a selfish streak in him, and his need to keep Peter close when they're out is actually something that works in his favour. Peter wants to be touched, marked, wrapped up in a scent that explains to other that he belongs, which is why he melts into the touch instead of trying to flinch away.

A week. A week. Peter swallows hard, his lashes fluttering just barely when the other man leans in to murmur against his ear, and has to ball his hands into tight little fists on his lap in an attempt to keep them to himself. He wants to reach out and touch him— more than that, he wants to climb up into his lap and push his face into his throat, but he somehow manages to calm himself enough to focus on evening out his shaky breath.

"Really? As like ... your assistant, or just a guest?"

Because he so, so desperately wants to attend the NSC, but getting involved is actually pretty difficult if you're not a genius, a tenured academic, or a celebrity. How could he have forgotten about it? Why didn't he realise that of course Quentin would be back for it? Peter huffs a little breath, then drags a hand through his hair before reaching for his water.

"We probably shouldn't go somewhere like that together, but ..." But he wants to. All thoughts of Connor fade to black at the back of his mind as he gives into a fantasy of being out with Quentin, which runs a shiver of pleasure down the whole length of his spine.

"I'll behave," he says softly, turning his head just enough so that their cheeks almost brush. "If you'll take me, I promise I'll be good, Sir."

"Oh, definitely as my assistant," Quentin says, because the idea of Peter having to not only control himself but do so professionally and for the whole goddamn day just sets off every little teasing thing in him. He shouldn't love teasing him so much. Peter's young and inexperienced and hormonal, and when he gets like this he can't help himself. But he does. He likes to think that he's helping Peter, training him. When he's older, he won't necessarily have someone watching out and protecting him. He'll need to know how to keep himself in check.

Really, Quentin's already thinking of all the ways he can set Peter up with little tripping points. Teasing touches and lingering stances and all the things he knows make Peter shake and melt. He'll be impressed if Peter makes it to lunch, if he takes him, before Quentin has to haul him off to some quiet, unused room to work him over and clean him up.

He sips finishes his gin, but doesn't move yet. His finger traces slowly up and down the seam on Peter's shoulder. Neither of them are here for small talk. They're both bad at it, and honestly Quentin just doesn't care enough about the little intricacies of teenage life to bother. He might later, in one of those quiet moments between bouts. But not right now.

Instead, he asks, "Anything you want especially? Anything you don't want?"

Peter glances around as he sips his water, attempting to gauge just how overheard they might be when he answers Quentin's question. Luckily for the both of them there's no one close — even the bartender isn't paying attention to them — but he still leans in a little closer as he brings a hand up to touch Quentin's chest.

"You already know," he huffs, his lips pressing into a thin line before he sighs and continues: "I want— your knot. Please. I dunno what's different this time, but I just ... I really need it. And I want the thing we usually do?" Peter doesn't like admitting it aloud, especially not when they're in public, but he always comes that bit harder when he's being called baby. When he's calling Quentin Sir.

He looks towards the back of the bartender again before continuing:

"I— um. I think my heat's really close, and Connor's never helped me with one before. I kind of don't want him too, since ... it's hard for Betas to keep up, y'know? I don't want him to feel bad, and I want— I wanna feel good."

Because riding out a heat without an Alpha can be pretty freaking awful, and Quentin's proven time and time again that he knows exactly how to fuck Peter the way he needs it. Hard. Deep. Sometimes barely moving, just making him feel all of it. Peter squeezes his thighs together at the thought, willing himself not to embarrassingly slick up while they're seated at the bar.

"Please?"

Half the fun sometimes are these little squirming moments, pushing Peter until he can be pushed no more. The admissions are lovely and sweet, and Quentin can't help the little ripple of a growl that works through him. Of course he knows what Peter wants. What else would this sweet little omega be here for than all those things he can give him.

He stood up from the bar and waited for Peter.

"Come on," he said, soft but commanding. "Let's get you started, sweet boy."

When they're just out of the bar, he leans down to Peter's ear. This time, his voice is all possessive growl, promise and heat. "Hope you don't like what you're wearing. It's not gonna make it very far past the door."

Edited 2019-10-05 00:47 (UTC)

The warmth in Quentin's voice when he says sweet boy pushes a flush of heat into Peter's belly.

"Just don't rip anything," he murmurs, glancing up at him through his lashes as they move through the lobby towards the elevators. It's a nice hotel — Quentin has good taste — but Peter's attention is so far from the polished foyer and elegant fixtures that it really doesn't matter. They could be in a fleabag motel and he'd still be looking at Quentin like he's everything he needs in the world.

"Do you ... d'you want something, too?"

Because for all Peter's aware that he's on the edge of his own heat, there's a tell-tale spice to Quentin's own scent that suggests he might be heading towards a similar situation. It's been a while since their respective heat and rut fell over the same few days, and while they still might miss each other ... Well. The lead-up is always enjoyable, too.

"You know I wanna make you feel good." Peter touches Quentin's forearm as the lift pings and the doors slide smoothly open. He doesn't know which floor they're heading to so he leaves that to the other man, all the while letting himself enjoy their close proximity as they stand together, elbow to elbow.

"I'll buy you something to replace it," Quentin says dismissively when Peter tells him not to rip anything. He's absolutely going to rip things.

The question sits between them and Quentin says nothing. The elevator dings and Quentin puts a hand on the back of Peter's neck. Possessive, guiding. They step into the elevator, and he swipes his keycard for one of the penthouse floors.

He bullies Peter toward a wall once the elevator is moving. He's not wrong at all; his rut is near, and Peter always makes him feel a little more possessive and feral than normal. It's hard to control himself, especially at times like this. He knows that Peter's here for one thing, and that's fine. He can give him exactly what he wants.

Quentin breathes in the scent of Peter, nose pressed against Peter's hair.

"It's a surprise," he said, though he thought Peter knew all the things that Quentin wanted. "But don't worry, baby. You'll get my knot as much as you want. Needy little thing."

Quentin puts a hand on the back of Peter's neck. Quentin herds him against the elevator wall. Peter feels his pulse quicken, then jump up even higher when the other man presses his nose against the curl of his hair. He was always too embarrassed to ask for this kind of thing before Quentin: so far his boyfriends and girlfriends have wanted to break from tradition, not play into the stupid roles, and while Peter gets that, it's also made scratching his kinkier itches a little ...

Difficult. How're you supposed to ask your Alpha, Omega-rights activist girlfriend to treat you like a possession? How're you supposed to ask your Beta boyfriend if he could pretend he's trying to get you pregnant? Peter sighs deeply, turning his own face into the front of Quentin's throat, then brings his hands up to smooth against the broad, hard planes of his chest.

"'Kay," he murmurs, feeling himself smile despite himself. He is needy, and he wants that knot stretching him open and filling him up over and over before the night is up. Beck might not be a real superhero, but he's always had enough stamina to keep up with Peter and his needs.

It's a blessing.

"I wanna kiss you." Slipping a hand up to Quentin's neck, Peter lifts his eyes to the smooth curve of his lips before wetting his own with a flit of his tongue. "Please, Sir."

The giving into it is one of the best parts, for both of them. Quentin acts like he's not going to give Peter exactly what he wants, but they both know he will. He does this sweet little dance, this thoughtful thing for a moment, where he smiles and considers the situation. And then, he puts a finger under Peter's chin and tilts his head back.

Just as he leans in to kiss Peter, the elevator stops and the door slides open. It isn't his floor. It's someone getting on. That doesn't stop Quentin from kissing Peter, but it does make him keep it mostly chaste and gentle, something that conceals Peter. People don't need to know who they are, what they do.

When he does pull away from the kiss, he doesn't move away from Peter. His gaze cuts over to the number display, watching them climb, and then to their unexpected guest.

Some little Beta woman. She glances at them, and then quickly away.

The next floor, she got off. And two floors later, Quentin hauls Peter off the elevator with him.

Peter feels himself flush an impossible shade of scarlet when the elevator doors slide open, not just because of their sudden PDA, but because he really wishes the woman hadn't put herself in their space. While the scent of a Beta is largely uninteresting Peter is a hyper-sensitive Omega toeing the line of a heat, which means the sudden intrusion of an unfamiliar smell is just about the worst thing he could ask for.

Luckily for him, Quentin seems is still of a mind to put Peter's needs before anything else. The kiss distracts him from his discomfort — he doesn't think about the Beta again until she disembarks a few floors later — his hands fisting the front of Quentin's jacket as he pants softly against his lips. When they finally reach the penthouse floor Peter's pretty certain he's getting wet just from their proximity—

But he doesn't need to feel embarrassed by it anymore. They're alone again, and Quentin's suite is just up ahead.

"I bet she's gonna be thinking about us for the rest of the day," he snorts, doing his best to keep his hands to himself for all he wishes he were still touching Quentin in some way. "We uh— we smell pretty strong right now."

Which he actually looks pretty pleased about, but that's neither here nor there.

Quentin laughs, grinning, because Peter was right. The filthy, glorious reek of Peter was all around him now, building and building with every moment they were together.

They reach the door, and Quentin lingers for just a moment. His hand brushes the small of Peter's back, and then his ass. He presses deliberately against the cleft of his ass. His belly aches a little bit, a burning, desperate sort of arousal that hasn't quite turned into hardness yet.

"If you don't want me to rip everything," he said softly, voice low and promising, "you'd better strip as soon as we're through the door. Because I'm not slowing down once that door shuts behind us."

He opened the door and nudged Peter inside.

It's a fair enough warning. As soon as Peter's over the threshold he toes off his sneakers and begins working on the fastenings of his jeans, deciding that ripped tshirt is probably easier to fix than a pair of jeans with a broken zipper. His socks come of with them, then his light hoodie, which leaves him standing there in his shirt and boxers, which are ever so slightly damp with slick from where Quentin pressed into the cleft of his ass.

"Fast enough for you?"

Pulling his tshirt off over his head, Peter takes a hand through the tousled mess of his air before stepping in close to splayed his palms against Quentin's chest. Maybe it's the heat, but he's even more eager than usual to get his hands all over the Alpha's bare skin. Regardless of how their biology (or even how they feel about each other) there's no denying that Quentin is hot, and Peter is positively aching with need when the door finally snicks closed behind them.

That Peter makes quick work while the door is still swinging shut just makes Quentin hungrier for it. He reaches for him as the door finally clicks shut, pulling him in for a hungry kiss this time. Something possessive, something a little vicious. Teeth and tongue and hands in Peter's hair, holding him, tugging a little bit.

"You missed one."

Quentin takes his hands from Peter's hair down to his boxers. He twists his fingers into the fabrics and rips. He knows Peter's strong enough to stand there and take it, to be lovely and still for a moment as he rids him of that last bit of fabric.

And this time, Peter actually groans into the kiss. It feels so good to not have to keep up the pretence of being careful with one another: in the privacy of Quentin's suite they can finally, finally give in to what they want. Peter reaches for him again, his palms moving appreciatively over the flex and bunch of the other man's biceps, and he exhales hard against the line of his jaw when he gathers his boxers and tears them off.

... Duh. Peter should have planned for that.

"Y'know, I think you just like making a mess of my stuff," he accuses, although there's a hot edge to it that suggests he isn't actually complaining. Peter wiggles out of the torn fabric before kicking it away, which leaves him naked, hard, and wet for his temporary Alpha.

Temporary. It's just temporary. Even though they keep doing this, it's not— sustainable.

"Bedroom?" Peter skims his hands up to loop his arms around Quentin's neck. He likes how small he feels next to him — Peter's stronger, but it turns him on to pretend that he isn't — and he presses himself up against him so that his naked body is flush against Quentin's clothed one.

"Or do you wanna do it over the couch again?"

"Couch right now," Quentin says, because as much as he wants Peter in bed, he doesn't think he'll make it all the way to the bedroom until after he's given Peter a bit of what he wants. What they both want. The smell of him is intoxicating, heady and thick in the air around them, a needy smell next to the sharpness of Quentin's own smell. He wants more of it, wants to watch the slick on Peter's ass and thighs, and feel it on his own legs.

He reaches down and lifts Peter under the legs, holding him close and carrying him to the couch. He's warm, so deliciously warm, and Quentin wants nothing more than to rip off his own clothes and fuck Peter senseless.

All in good time.

He at least got them as far as the couch, spreading Peter out on the cushions so he could admire his flushed skin and how hard and slick he was already. Quentin groaned softly, running his fingers along the cleft of Peter's ass, pawing at him a little, sliding one finger, and then two, into him.

Peter tucks his nose against Quentin's hair as he's lifted and carried over to the couch, soaking up as much of his scent as he can while they're pressed so close to one another. He feels hazy and dreamy, the way he always does when they meet up to strip down and fuck, and he runs both hands down to the nape of Quentin's neck as he's set down and spread out for him.

He likes it like this. He likes being watched, likes being moved around and opened up for someone else's pleasure, and he spreads his knees just that bit further when Quentin slinks over him to do just that. The first finger is always a little difficult — Peter's sure he could be slick as anything and still have trouble taking it — but by the second? He's positively purring, his back pulling into an arch as a hand skids down to settle between his legs.

"Can I ... ?"

His fingers wrap around the small rise of his cock, but he doesn't stroke it. Instead, he looks up at Quentin through the fan of his lashes and leans up for another dirty-hot kiss.

"... Please, Sir."

Quentin scrapes his teeth against the kiss, settles into it for a moment, and then pulls back to look at Peter. He pulls his fingers out for a moment for just a moment, takes off his jacket and shirt, and then puts his fingers back. Sinks them in deep. Really feels him and groans at the heady glory of it. Peter feels perfect around him, and Quentin knows it will be even better when he's got his cock in him.

"Do it," he says. He wants to see Peter touch himself, tease himself, make a mess.

With his free hand, he opens his jeans, pulling his cock out. Just that for now. He's only half hard for now, nowhere near his knot, but it's still large and heavy, a needy thing that he could fuck Peter with.

Peter's eyes rove over the suddenly bared skin of Quentin's chest, greedy and obvious in the way he appreciates being able to see just that bit more of him. He's a gorgeous Alpha - fit, strong, dusted with hair in all the right places - and Peter let's his free hand slide down the curve of the other man's ribcage and grip tight when he presses in again. He feels himself squeeze around him, his hole clenching on his fingers like it would around his cock, which pulls another low groan from Peter's throat as his body tricks itself into thinking he's being fucked.

"Mmh ..."

Peter gives his dick a few leisurely pulls while he watches Quentin open up his jeans. Even half hard, his dick looks positively delicious, and he rolls his hips down onto his hand as he let's his mind wander to how it'll feel when it's slick and stuffed inside him.

"S'good," he manages, reaching down with his free hand to stroke and squeeze at the heft of it. Peter twists his fist around his own dick while he thumbs at the head of Quentin's, his colour hectic and his lips open around a couple of wet little pants.

"C'mon, just-- fuck me, I wanna feel you get hard in me."

Quentin brings his hand up, away from Peter's ass, and gives him a short, mostly gentle slap against the cheek. It's wet, and loud because of that. He loves hearing Peter be filthy like this, but there's rules that they both know they want to play with.

"Beg for it," he says.

He grabs Peter by the legs. Peter's more than strong enough to fight him, but he won't. Quentin moves to flip him over, put him face down on the couch.

"You want it so bad, you can beg me for it, baby."

The slap doesn't sting, but Peter ends up shivering like it does. He'd asked MJ to slap him once, back when he'd thought they were really settling into the sexual side of their relationship, but in hindsight he now recognises that moment as the beginning of the end. She'd been different after that - hadn't wanted to have sex as much, tried to spend more time talking to him about Omega liberation - and then things had just ... fizzled. They broke up. She started dating Helena from iFemSoc, and Peter accepted a date with Connor.

Life goes on.

Freshly slapped and flipped over onto his front, Peter's feeling better than he has done in weeks. He arches back instinctively, spreading his knees for a little leverage against the couch, and drops his forehead against the cushions for a moment as he wets his dry lips again.

"Please? Please, Sir, I want it--" God, but he can feel slick running down over his balls. Peter swallows thickly before continuing with his pleae: "Want your cock so bad, want you to fuck me 'til I cry from it."

He chances a glance back over his shoulder, brown eyes dark with want.

"Need you, Sir."

Quentin scrapes his nails across Peter's skin, watches the needy flush on the welts. He slides onto the couch behind him, tangles their legs together and rubs the head of his cock obscenely against Peter's balls and hole.

He sank his fingers into Peter's hair and guided the head of his cock into him, sinking in slowly. Still only half hard, it made it easier to sink into Peter, but it was still an effort. It had been months since they'd done this, and Peter was slick, but he wasn't worked up to it yet.

Quentin works at it, slow, until he's buried all the way in. He presses his nose against Peter's shoulder and breathes the smell of him in, growling softly.

"Good boy," he sighs. "Oh, you feel good. Oh, you feel so fucking good, Peter."

Peter might not be worked up, but he's still trembling with anticipation by the time he feels Quentin settling in behind him. It feels like an age since he last had the kind of sex that's left him satisfied - completely, bone-deep satisfied - and the rub of an Alpha's cock against the slick of his hole is almost too much for him to bear.

It's slow going, and later Peter might that him for taking his time. He hasn't slept with too many Alphas but Peter's pretty sure Quentin is the biggest he's had, and even half hard, it's a struggle to take him down to the very base. He whines on it, his breathing ragged as he tilts his hips to find the best angle, his heart pounding in his throat by the time Quentin leans in to nuzzle at his shoulder.

Man, he's missed this. He's really, really missed this. The words 'good boy' hum against his shoulder and Peter moans again, louder this time, and reaches back with one hand to stroke and grip at Quentin's thigh.

"F-For you ... just for you," he breathes, his eyes screwed shut as he clenches and throbs around the heavy weight of his dick. "No one does it like you do."

"For me."

Quentin scrapes his teeth. He'll leave marks later, little ones and big ones and all sorts of things that will live under Peter's shirt. He'll probably leave even more if he does get that pass for Peter and bring him along to the conference. Leave his marks, let Peter live with them and think of them all day long.

He starts to move. It was slow sinking in, but he doesn't go slow now. It's easy to set a pace, to cradle Peter's hips and pull him back to meet each hungry thrust.

Quentin doesn't go slow, and a ragged groan melts into the cushions beneath Peter as he tries to spread his knees just that bit further. He loves it when his partners really try and make him feel it: sometimes Connor can be persuaded to fuck him good and hard, which Peter always enjoys, but there's nothing quite like laying with his face down, his ass up, and being made to take an Alpha's cock. The slap of their skin join his heartbeat and panting as one of the few things cutting through the haze of pleasure, and he briefly squirms his hips against the couch just to chase a little friction.

"God, yeah, c'mon ..."

The scrape of teeth pulls another shiver through Peter, from the top of his spine right down into the space behind his balls. It tightens him up around Quentin, his hole clenching and fluttering as he arches to bear down on his dick, his nails pressing little red half-moons into the other man's thigh as he grips at him just shy of too tight.

"Can I touch myself?" Peter likes the permission, and he likes being denied as much as he likes being given it. "Please, please let me, Sir."

"Not yet," Quentin says, a growl of it, because Peter's not there yet, still a little smart-mouthed, still a little demanding instead of pleading, a little glib. Quentin likes all those things, adores them, and especially in Peter. Sometimes Peter is really stupid, for such a smart kid. He's got no filter. Quentin likes when that lack of filter just gets to absolute desperation.

He scrapes his teeth on him, finds good places to leave filthy red marks on his skin where they'll rest under clothes for the next couple of days. He's really all the way hard now. At least hard enough to get off once, though maybe not quite enough to knot. He'll get there. They will. He knows Peter will get him there, and wants to give him that, and the two of them combined have stamina enough to make some of the filthier porn stars jealous, he thinks.

"Put your hands on the arm of the sofa," he says. "Let me see you all stretched out."

He grabs his ankles and pulls his legs back slightly, changing the angle, getting in deeper. Groaning as he sinks into him. "Christ, baby. You take me so good."

AU | for Peter}

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject