Quentin Beck (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
bringing_sexy_beck) wrote2019-10-03 08:58 pm
bringing_sexy_beck) wrote2019-10-03 08:58 pm
Entry tags:
AU | for Peter}
It isn't the first time, and it won't be the last.
It starts with a text, like it always does. Not from him. He lets Peter come to him. The reasons vary. Boredom. Boyfriend out of town. Heat coming on. Quentin doesn't ask any more because the fact is that Peter keeps coming back and that's all that matters.
He supposes, this time, it might be a combination. It's about that time of the year where Peter gets so antsy that Quentin knows he needs something more than anyone else can give. Something that he's come to understand Quentin can give, and consistently. He isn't one of those young hair trigger kids, after all, barely knowing what he's doing. And Peter knows that.
But Quentin lets the first text stew, and even the second. The more desperate Peter gets, the more Quentin knows he can get out of him.
It's half way through the next day, a string of unanswered but definitely read texts sitting on his phone, that Quentin give Peter a little relief. Well, it's about his time of the year too. And he can't say no to that sweet, needy boy, no matter how much he ought to. He tells Peter to meet him at the bar of the hotel he's staying at--no reason to say why he's in town, that isn't part of this arrangement they've made.
And so he will. Quentin waits in the bar, sipping gin, keeping an eye out for Peter.
It starts with a text, like it always does. Not from him. He lets Peter come to him. The reasons vary. Boredom. Boyfriend out of town. Heat coming on. Quentin doesn't ask any more because the fact is that Peter keeps coming back and that's all that matters.
He supposes, this time, it might be a combination. It's about that time of the year where Peter gets so antsy that Quentin knows he needs something more than anyone else can give. Something that he's come to understand Quentin can give, and consistently. He isn't one of those young hair trigger kids, after all, barely knowing what he's doing. And Peter knows that.
But Quentin lets the first text stew, and even the second. The more desperate Peter gets, the more Quentin knows he can get out of him.
It's half way through the next day, a string of unanswered but definitely read texts sitting on his phone, that Quentin give Peter a little relief. Well, it's about his time of the year too. And he can't say no to that sweet, needy boy, no matter how much he ought to. He tells Peter to meet him at the bar of the hotel he's staying at--no reason to say why he's in town, that isn't part of this arrangement they've made.
And so he will. Quentin waits in the bar, sipping gin, keeping an eye out for Peter.
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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?"
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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.
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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."
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"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.
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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."
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"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."
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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."
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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."
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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."
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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.
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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."
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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."