Chapter Text
“So I was thinking,” Peter starts as he steps through the door, slinging his backpack off. Quentin closes the door quickly, and grabs Peter by the shoulder, spinning him and slamming up against the door, Peter’s bag falling from his hand with a thump.
He presses Peter up against the door, places his whole body aligned with Peter’s, pinning him firmly, and takes Peter’s chin in one hand, tilting it up roughly as he kisses Peter, harder than he has so far.
Peter has gone stiff beneath him, his mouth open in a gasp, still, his hands half raised, and then they settle on Quentin’s upper arms. Tighten, and then Peter goes limp, pliant, kissing back and letting Quentin’s weight hold him up against the door.
He takes his time, kissing Peter.
When he pulls back, Peter is flushed, his eyes heavily lidded. “You were thinking, hmmm,” Quentin says, low.
“Uh,” Peter says, definitely not all there.
“I’ve been thinking too,” Quentin tells him, with a smile he knows is much to smug. So sue him, he’s about to finally fucking put his hands on Peter with the intent of hurting, because Peter asked him.
Or well, is about to ask him.
“About— about what?” Peter manages.
“I did say we’d see if we could do better,” Quentin says, and tightens his hand on Peter’s shoulder, tighter and tighter until his fingers are digging hard into Peter’s shoulders, painfully hard. Peter’s breath catches, and he looks at Quentin with wide, shocked eyes.
“Is it still yes?” Quentin asks.
Peter stares at him for a moment, another, his breath coming faster and faster, and Quentin can feel him hardening along Quentin’s thigh. “Yes,” he breathes out, finally. “I— yes.”
Quentin rewards him for that, releasing Peter’s chin and sliding his hand down to rest over Peter’s throat, lingering long enough for Peter to shiver, before he shifts it, curling it behind Peter’s neck and gripping him hard, pulling his head forward without easing up on his body at all. He kisses him, gentler, and sets his teeth in Peter’s bottom lip.
Bites, hard, and Peter whimpers, jerks against Quentin’s hold. Not trying to get away, just unable to help himself.
When he pulls away there are deep imprints left; no blood, but very near. “If you change your mind, honey,” Quentin says, needing to give Peter the option, the chance to choose, to remember that he chose, even though Quentin doesn’t want to, “all you have to do is tell me.”
Peter nods.
“I know,” Quentin continues, watching Peter carefully, “that you are stronger than me, that if you don’t want to, you don’t have to put up with how rough I want to be. I understand that, sweetheart. And I understand, too, that you can take a lot. That it’s going to take a lot, to give you bruises that last the way you want.” He pauses. “Do you understand that?”
Peter sucks in a breath, and closes his eyes. He doesn’t say anything, and Quentin wonders if he’s going to have to spell it out for Peter.
“Yes,” Peter says. “Do it.”
“Peter,” Quentin says, softer, one last, last chance, “I also understand how sensitive you are.”
Peter opens his eyes. “I can take it,” and fuck, that is just perfect to hear.
“Good,” Quentin says, and bites Peter’s neck.
Bites it hard, so har; Peter sobs out a strangled, shocked noise, his hands tightening on Quentin’s arms. Quentin tightens his hand around the nape of Peter’s neck and steps back, uses it to yank Peter with him, pull him, stumbling, over through the door to the bedroom.
He lets go of Peter’s neck and grabs one wrist, as hard as he can, and yanks it above Peter’s head, pins him against the doorway, slamming Peter so his spine hits directly on the corner of the jam. Peter hisses in pain, his eyes squeezing shut, and Quentin grabs his other wrist, brings it up so he can hold both of them one hand. He slides his free hand back down, and then up under Peter’s shirt, spreading his fingers wide as he sinks them into Peter’s skin, just at the curve of his waist.
Peter moans, and twitches, but his wrists don’t move a bit. Quentin rocks against him, his leg between Peter’s thighs, pressing hard against Peter’s cock, trapped in his jeans, and bends his head to sink his teeth into the soft, delicate skin of Peter’s inner bicep.
The sound Peter makes this time is even better, and he thrusts back at Quentin hard, but still, his wrists don’t move.
Quentin grins, knowing Peter can feel it, Quentin’s lips against his skin, still biting him. Releases his arm, and whispers, his lips brushing that wet, red mark, “Very good, Peter.”
Peter whips his head around to look at Quentin, his eyes opening and his expression so— Quentin doesn’t have a word for it, not one that can encompass all of what Peter seems to be feeling. Shocked, and pleased, and terrified. He leans back from Peter’s chest, just enough that he can turn his hand under Peter’s shirt and yank it up, all the way over Peter’s head, until it’s tangled around his wrists, until he can twist it around them, tightly, just below where Quentin’s hand is gripping, Peter watching him the whole time.
He brings his hand back down, and pulls at Peter’s jeans, undoing the the button and pulling down the zipper but not shoving them down at all, Peter moaning in the back of his throat, eyelashes fluttering. Quentin shoves his hand in, grasping Peter’s cock tight, and pulling it out, careless of how it catches against the elastic of Peter’s boxers, the fabric of his jeans, until it’s trapped, pinned in the small space allowed by Peter’s opened jeans.
Peter whines, jerking against his hold, slightly, and Quentin kicks his feet apart, presses in between his legs and up against Peter and back against the frame, until he can feel how Peter is straining to breathe, arms stretching out his torso, crushed against Quentin. He turns his head and bites again at Peter’s arm, just above the mark he’d left, partly over it, and Peter shudders, his arm tensing, but not pulling at Quentin’s hands this time.
He pulls Peter’s wrists up higher though, harder, keeps going until Peter is on his tiptoes, and then more, until finally, finally, Peter gets the idea and arches up, hooking one leg around Quentin’s waist and using it as leverage to bring the other up, tight around Quentin.
“There you go,” Quentin says, “you’re so good, honey,” and Peter’s eyes flutter shut, his cheeks going even redder.
Quentin reaches down, grabs Peter’s cock, hard, Peter almost squeaking at his touch, and starts pumping him, hard and fast and very tight, Peter’s legs twitching around his hips. He’s biting his lip, the expression on his face like he can’t decide if it if hurts or not. Doesn’t seem to matter much to his cock, though, because it’s still just as hard, pulsing with the beat of Peter’s heart.
He works it, ruthlessly, setting his teeth back against the mark he’d left earlier on Peter’s neck, until Peter’s whines go up in pitch, until his hand starts to feel a little wetter around Peter’s cock, and then he stops. “Nooo,” Peter moans.
“Yeah,” Quentin says, and reaches behind himself to grab one of Peter’s ankles, wrenches him away, off.
Peter’s feet hit the floor with a thud, and his knees buckle for a moment, nothing holding him up except the grip Quentin has on his wrists. Quentin lets go, and Peter’s hands come down, fast, reaching for Quentin’s shoulders, still tangled up in his shirt; he misses, starting to slide down the door jam.
Quentin grabs him around the waist, and turns them, takes a single step and half pushes, half throws Peter onto the bed, bouncing a bit as he lands on his back, startled, his limbs stretched out.
He looks almost ruined already, the dark marks of bites on him, faint blooms of bruises across his body, and Quentin’s barely gotten started. It’s going to be so, so satisfying to finally be able to just use Peter, to stop worrying about being gentle for once.
Maybe he’ll get lucky and this will spark something in Peter so it doesn’t have to be just once.
Quentin’s probably not that lucky, if he’s being honest. He’ll have to make this count, then.
He leaves Peter there for a moment while he strips out of his shirt, and then his pants, before he leans over Peter, holding him down with a hand on his stomach while he pulls at Peter’s jeans, shoving them down and off, yanking at his shoes.
Peter tries to help, a little, but Quentin doesn’t actually want him to; when he growls, Peter stops, his breath hissing out.
Quentin wraps his hands tightly around Peter’s ankles, once he’s gotten him naked, and jerks him to the edge of the bed, hard, Peter sliding easily across the covers. He gives Peter a moment to get his feet on the ground, once Quentin lets go of him, and then he flips him over, pushing him down flat over the edge of the bed, too high for Peter to rest on his knees, but too low to really get his legs under him, forcing him to spread them wide, unstable.
Forcing him to just take it, to have to rest on Quentin’s cock, and fuck, he’s already aching, wanting so badly.
He spits into his hand, Peter flinching at the sound, and then brings it down to Peter’s ass, pressing into his hole with little gentleness. He’s not going to hurt him too much, but he thinks Peter can take him easily enough, without as much prep as he’s used before. And if it hurts some, well. Peter knows he can say stop.
Peter won’t, but he could.
Quentin spits onto his fingers again, shoving two into Peter as Peter whimpers and spreads his legs further apart, seeking purchase against the floor, twisting and spreading them just to feel the way Peter clenches around them, so fucking tight. Yanks them back out and then, before Peter can catch his breath, Quentin wraps one hand around his cock as he lines up, pressing the head to Peter’s hole.
Peter’s breath stops, his whole body freezes for a moment, and Quentin can’t fucking wait for this, slowly sliding in until just the tip is fully in, Just until Peter is making this wonderful, keening little noise, and then he shoves in, hard and fast until he’s buried in Peter, Peter crying out, his hands clenching on the sheets.
He stills like that, and reaches for Peter’s wrists, wrenching them up and back, crossed over the small of his back, his hands gripping them hard. Quentin’s hands wrap all the way around them, making Peter feel so small, delicate in his grasp, even if Quentin knows it’s a lie. He pulls them a little harder, pushing forward a little more, until Peter’s face is shoved down into the bed, until Peter is up on his tiptoes, his feet sliding on the floor as he tries to bring them together, tries to support himself more.
Like Quentin’s going to let him, honestly.
He snaps his hips back, and sets to work fucking Peter, every thrust hard, slapping against Peter’s ass loudly, but not too fast, making him feel the full length of each withdrawl, of each push in, Peter whimpering and struggling under him. His sounds aren’t exactly happy sounds, but he’s not saying no, not trying to get away, just like Quentin’s wanted him for so long.
Not to mention Peter’s cock is painfully hard, dripping slowly down the edge of the bed, so yeah, Quentin does not give a fuck.
Peter’s pulling, ever so slightly, against the grip Quentin has on his wrists. Not really trying to get free, simply unable to stop himself, like he’s unable to stop trying to get his legs under him, so he doesn’t have to just take the way Quentin is fucking into him. He tightens his hands even more, feeling the way Peter’s bones shift under his fingers as Peter fights, and then Peter goes limp, his arms giving in as Quentin pushes them up even further, almost to his shoulder blades.
He’s shaking, his cock sliding forward along the sheets with every one of Quentin’s thrusts, trapped and teased. “Are you going to be good and come for me?” Quentin asks, and apparently Peter was even closer than he thought, because that’s all that’s needed, that little command, that little suggestion that he has an opportunity to be good, that’s all it takes for him to come, his hips thrusting forward, his body tensing, the muscles of his arms standing out as he fights not to break Quentin’s grip.
It’s very, very tempting to finish like this, the way Peter is shuddering and whimpering, overwrought, but it’s not enough, really, as perfect as the marks on Peter’s wrists are going to be. It’s not enough how Peter is over stimulated, it’s— it is just not enough.
Quentin pulls out, sucking in a breath at the sudden loss of sensation, of warmth, and lets go of Peter’s wrists. Peter barely moves, his arms spreading out a little, his hands still fisted and tucked into the small of his back, such a well behaved toy, instinctively. Quentin steps over to the bottom of the bed and reaches up, fisting his hand in Peter’s hair, tight, and yanks.
Peter yelps and scrambles up as fast as he can, which isn’t nearly fast enough, his hands just scrabbling at the bed as Quentin pulls him the rest of the way onto the bed, down on his stomach, his face pushed down into the cover, one arm trapped underneath him.
“Don’t move,” Quentin says, sharp, and Peter sucks in a breath, nods the small amount he can.
He kneels up onto the bed and crawls around behind Peter, digging his fingers into the muscles of his thighs, pulling them up until Peter is up on his knees, spread wide underneath him, still face down, his head turned to the side. Peter’s spread open, but not enough, and Quentin sets his hands to either side of Peter’s ass, presses his fingers in hard and pulls his cheeks apart, until Peter’s hole is exposed, stretched wide. It’s tense, clenched shut again as Peter’s gotten nervous again, and when Quentin presses his thumb to it, inside it, Peter whines softly.
“Oh, don’t fuss,” Quentin snaps. “I fucked you too well for that to hurt,” and he hooks his thumb as he pulls it out, tugging hard at the edge of Peter’s hole, before it slides out fully, only to be replaced by two fingers, Quentin shoving them in roughly. “No one would look at you like this,” he tells Peter, “and believe for an instant your little innocent act. It’s too obvious you’re begging for this.”
“Fuck,” Peter whispers, “Quentin—"
Quentin smacks Peter’s ass, hard, and Peter cries out and jerks away, almost pushing himself up on his elbows. “I told you not to move,” Quentin says, and Peter stills, lowering himself quickly. He stays still, trembling, as Quentin repositions him, pulling his ass back and up, pushing down on his back as Peter arches, more, and then more, because he knows perfectly well now how flexible Peter is.
He slaps Peter’s ass again, the crack of it loud, leaving a perfect outline of his hand, and while Peter shudders and sobs, he doesn’t move, even an inch. “Good,” Quentin tells him, and then smacks him again, and again and again, every one drawing cries from Peter.
But he doesn’t move. God, the fun he could have with this boy, if he allowed himself to train him up properly…
“Very good,” he says, and the shudder he gets from Peter that time has nothing to do with hurting. Peter’s so easy.
When he thrusts back into Peter, it’s like he hasn’t been in him before at all, tight and hot and goddamn perfect, Peter clenching around him, little quivers as he tries to stay still against the force Quentin is fucking him with, driving him forward with each thrust even as Peter tries to fight against it, bowing his back more and more. Quentin runs his hands down that tightly arched line of Peter’s back, scraping his nails over it, hard, raking them down the full length, and then again, harder, as Peter moans into the bed, muffled.
He slides his hands up, further, tangles one in Peter’s hair and yanks his head back, Peter gasping, and then wraps his other hand around Peter’s mouth, covering it completely, Peter’s breath huffing out against his palm. He can feel Peter’s mouth close, feel how he fights to breathe just through his nose, partly blocked by the side of Quentin’s hand as well, and he yanks Peter’s head back further, with both hands.
Peter doesn’t seem to be sure if he’s allowed to use his hands or not, what counts as not moving, and Quentin isn’t going to give him a hint, just keeps pulling him back until Peter doesn’t have a choice, his arms coming up and taking some of his weight, pressed into the bed. He arches his back even more, gorgeously, trying to give himself some room, and that’s no good at all; Quentin releases Peter’s hair and brings his other hand around Peter’s throat, spread wide across the span of it.
He doesn’t really want to choke Peter, like this, because that requires more careful attention than he wants to give right now, but he wants to leave marks, and he wants Peter to think he might, for Peter to feel a little scared, a little trapped.
No; he wants Peter to feel incredibly scared, helplessly, hopelessly trapped, but he’ll settle for this.
Peter whines and Quentin can feel it, under his hand; he tightens his fingers, pressing them into Peter’s neck, without pulling back, digging in his nails. Pulls back with his other hand, still wrapped around Peter’s mouth, every thrust sending Peter shoving forward against it, pulls back further and further, Peter shoving himself up on his hands, up and up, straining— not against Quentin’s hold, or he would break it, easily, but straining to stay in it, to flex enough to be able to hold the position Quentin’s forcing him into, his ass caught on Quentin’s cock, back bowed impossibly far, up on his fingertips as Quentin’s hand continues to pull back at his head, barely supporting his own weight at all.
“Fuck,” Quentin hisses, “I knew you’d take this so well, knew you’d be so fucking easy like this, just desperate for me to fuck you. Desperate for me to hurt you.”
Peter’s breathing is harsh, short panting huffs against Quentin’s hand, his mouth having gaped open again even if he can barely breathe through it, and he brings a hand up, latching around Quentin’s wrist, the one at Peter’s throat, not pulling, not resisting, just clinging, so tightly, needing something to hold on to. He whimpers, and Quentin tightens his grip on Peter’s throat, most of Peter’s weight pressing forward into the hand on his mouth, letting Peter feel it, letting Peter think he might just go ahead and close his hand, choke him.
“I love it,” Quentin tells him, giving him just enough sweetness to remember later, “love how I can just push you like this, and you just take it, so perfectly, like it’s all you’ve ever wanted. You’re so fucking good, honey.” Peter moans, low in his throat, vibrating against Quentin’s hand, and then he’s coming, fighting to stay in position as his muscles tense, as he jerks and his cock pulses.
It’s too good, too much, and Quentin has to pause, breathe, think of something, anything else other than Peter, other than how Peter feels around him, in his hands, because he’s not fucking done with Peter yet, he’s not, fuck, fuck—
He's not.
Oh god, he wants to be though.
No, no, no; he pulls out, breathing deeply, his head bowed as he tries to get himself back under control, hands tight around Peter’s throat, his mouth, as Peter’s breath comes in hitching little sobs.
He lets go of Peter, and Peter falls forward, limply, not even catching himself, gasping loudly, his ass still high in the air, his back curved, presenting himself. When Quentin pushes back in, Peter moans, harsh, so loud, and Quentin almost comes, still so close to the edge.
“You’re gorgeous like this, baby,” he says, gripping onto Peter’s hips, holding him as tight as he can as he snaps his hips, drives into Peter fast and hard, still trying to hold himself back. “You’ve been so good for me,” and Peter shudders, stupid praise slut. “God, I can’t believe I get to have you like this, I could keep you like this forever.”
He laughs, short and breathless. “And you’d let me, wouldn’t you?” Quentin says, lower, harsher. “You want me to, don’t you.”
Peter clenches around him, his hands fisting in the sheets, stuttering out Quentin’s name, and Quentin is fucking done, he is done, sinking into Peter and coming so hard he can’t even think as he curves down over Peter, pushing Peter down, flat, their legs going out from under them.
He just lays there for a bit, spread out over Peter and trying to catch his breath, face buried in the warm, soft curve of Peter’s neck. He presses his lips to it, not really a kiss, just for the feel of it, just because he can.
Bites, a second later, though almost gently, just because he can.
Peter makes a tiny, tiny little noise when Quentin rolls off him and stands up; when Quentin glances over at him, Peter looks entirely done in. He’s spread out on the bed, exposed, one arm extended limply in front of him, hanging off the edge of the bed, the other curled up awkwardly, hand back over his shoulder, hiding his face.
There are dark bruises on his hips, his wrists, smaller ones dotting across his body, little spots Quentin dug his fingers in; a long red line follows the curve of his spine, from the doorway, and an assortment of mottled bite marks and red, angry scratches spread across his back, come slowly sliding out of his hole.
Fucking gorgeous. It’s too early, but what Quentin would give to take a picture right now…
He wraps his hand around Peter’s ankle, already marked with his handprint. “You were so good for me, Peter,” he says, and Peter makes a soft little sound in the back of his throat, not really quite a moan, his fingers twitching slightly. Quentin laughs.
“Yeah,” he says, “you just stay there, sweetheart. I think you can manage that.”
Peter doesn’t respond at all; he’s not going anywhere.
When Quentin comes back with a washcloth, Peter’s curled up a little, not quite on his side, but his legs are tucked up a bit, and his other arm has fallen forward, both draped over the side of the bed, hands hanging loosely from his wrists. Quentin sits down next to him. “Peter?” he says, softly, and there’s still no response. Hmm; shut down, overwhelmed, or freaking out a bit?
He slides his hand into Peter’s hair, lifting his head up a bit to get a good look at his face.
Peter looks dazed, completely blissed out, his expression soft, relaxed, his mouth lax. He opens his eyes, slowly, not really tracking, and blinks at Quentin.
“Alright, honey,” Quentin says, and Peter really is so, so pretty like this. “You can just stay there, that’s fine,” and gently lowers Peter’s head back to the bed before he untangles from Peter’s hair.
He lies down beside Peter, propping himself up on one elbow so he can trace his fingers over the marks on Peter’s back. All the little scratches and softer bites will be gone by tomorrow, he knows, but the bruises should last a few days at least. He slides his hand up, pressing his fingers against the largest, darkest of the bite marks, just enough to indent Peter’s skin. And that, that should last a little longer, surely.
Peter sighs, tilting his head forward, exposing the nape of his neck, and Quentin trails his fingers over it. Peter’s proven again and again to be so sensitive to touch there, so responsive; it’d been fucking gorgeous the last time Quentin took advantage of it. He shifts, sliding the arm he’s leaning on under Peter’s, letting Peter take a bit of his weight, and pressing his palm to the back of Peter’s head, tilting it forward, down, more. Stretching out the line of his neck, until that long tendon is standing out, tense.
He kisses the first few knobs of Peter’s spine, moving down until his face is nestled between Peter’s shoulder blades, and then back up, softly, takes his time on Peter’s neck, keeping his lips and tongue and breath as gentle and delicate as his fingers had been last time, teasing him along so carefully.
Peter shifts, little tiny movements, and when Quentin reaches down, Peter’s hardening again, stiffening against his fingers, but he barely thrusts forward into Quentin’s hand, just the faintest of tremors along the length of his body. Quentin reaches behind him, instead, presses his fingers to the slick wetness of Peter’s ass and slides in, so easily, Peter letting out the tiniest of whines, vibrating against where Quentin’s lips are pressed to his neck.
He’s slow, so slow, not even really working towards Peter getting off, not even really thinking at all, just feeling, taking, playing with the way Peter is so, so limp beneath him, so accepting of Quentin’s touch, so easy, fuck, so, so easy, just giving himself over to Quentin like he really believes Quentin won’t take more than Peter can give, like Quentin would never, ever hurt him.
So trusting, so sweet, so stupid.
Maybe he’s not wrong, though; Quentin scrapes his teeth over that ridge of muscle, not quite biting. Maybe he isn’t, maybe Quentin can’t take more than Peter can give. Maybe it just isn’t possible, the way Peter has just given him everything Quentin’s demanded so far, given him more, and more, Quentin not even coming close to the edge of it. Maybe Peter will be able to just keep giving, until Quentin is finally, finally satisfied.
God, he wants to find out. He needs—
Peter shudders beneath him, ever so slightly, and clenches around his fingers, coming almost silently, almost without moving at all, just taking what Quentin does to him.
Quentin sighs against the back of Peter’s neck; it’s very tempting to just stay like this, not moving at all, forever, but he’ll regret it if he does. Slowly, he sits up, stands up, Peter motionless behind him. The washcloth is still sitting on the nightstand where he’d dropped it, and if it’s cold, at least it’s still damp enough to get the come off his fingers.
He turns and hooks his arm under Peter, turning him over, and Peter just sprawls, spread out and flushed, ruined, stunning. He doesn’t move, even when Quentin wipes off his stomach, his cock, the cleft of his ass, just whimpers a short, nearly silent protest, probably against the cold. He does move slightly when Quentin starts to step away, though, his fingers twitching, flexing, reaching for Quentin and brushing against his arm.
Quentin looks down at him, and, well. He probably shouldn’t have done that last bit, because he’d already pushed Peter so far down into himself, down into that sweet empty space that Peter doesn’t understand, that Quentin hasn’t given him words for yet. That Quentin isn’t planning on explaining any time soon. He hadn’t needed to push him further, and now he was going to have to cuddle Peter until he came back up.
But fuck, Peter made it so hard to resist. He just made it so easy to keep taking, when he never protested or showed any restraint or a shred of self preservation, and Quentin is only human at times, okay?
He sighs, swiping Peter’s phone before settling himself sitting back against the headboard, pulling Peter up to lay limply along him, curled into his lap, with his head nodding against Quentin’s chest. Peter’s not going to be going anywhere tonight, so he takes a minute and sends off a few texts, setting things up for Peter to stay the night.
They sit like that, for a bit, Quentin holding Peter and petting his hair gently, and then— then Peter shivers. No, not really a shiver, it’s— a little tensing of his stomach, a twitch of his shoulders, a little huff of air.
A laugh?
It happens again, and he can feel, this time, how Peter’s mouth has turned up, still pressed against his chest. He pulls Peter away from him slightly, and Peter turns his head up, looking at Quentin. There’s this huge, silly grin on his face, his eyes crinkling shut, and he’s shaking with almost silent laughter.
“Something funny?” Quentin asks, somewhere between amused and irked.
Peter shakes his head the barest amount and then convulses with giggles, still soundless aside from the huff of his breath, still grinning. He falls back onto the bed beside Quentin, staring at him and curling his fingers around Quentin’s wrist, tugging it down until Peter can kiss it, pressing his lips to the underside and nipping, lightly, Quentin jerking his wrist back.
“You odd little thing,” Quentin says, softly, and Peter smiles up at him, looking ridiculously, insanely happy. That’s—
Peter wiggles down further, then wraps his arms around Quentin’s thigh, pressing his face into the side of Quentin’s ass.
“Honey?” Quentin asks, and Peter just nuzzles in, sighing, still with that big, stupid smile on his face.
Quentin gives in, shaking his head, and runs his hand through Peter’s hair, slowly, thinking.
On the one hand, it’s getting old, having to take care of Peter after every time like this, having to ignore what he wants and instead be so very, very gentle, and patient, and careful. Ugh, he’s never been one to bother with fucking aftercare, but he can’t avoid it with Peter, not this early at least.
On the other hand, it is an excellent base for conditioning. Bring him down far enough often enough — he’s already gotten a good start on that— and Peter’s subconscious feelings of trust and safety, that association of Quentin being able to handle him easily will be unchallengeable, sunk into his core.
He curls his fingers in Peter’s hair, slow, nails barely catching Peter’s scalp: Peter sighs. On the other other hand, even though he’s never wanted or looked for it in his previous toys, and never felt the lack of it, there is something about the way Peter goes so… sweet, in these moments, that drags something up out of Quentin, some sensation that is so, so satisfying. Something that hits a little different than the rush of seeing some laid utterly bare and vulnerable, and he’s finding he wants it, more and more. Maybe it’s just something about Peter, or maybe he has been missing out on this all along.
Maybe it’s a really, really bad idea.
Quentin lets himself roll his eyes, since Peter isn’t paying attention. Maybe other other hands don’t get a say, and since he’s already putting himself out for this plan, a little more to condition Peter is completely reasonable.
Peter’s not sleeping, his eye still open, if just barely. He’s just drifting, and it seems like it’s going to be a while before he’s back this time, quieter than usual. Quentin sighs. This is so tedious.
Actually, maybe he can— he stretches a little, reaching, and Peter barely shifts, doesn’t even react when Quentin manages to snag his own phone off the nightstand. Doesn't seem to mind, at all, when Quentin starts using it, though he glances up briefly before clinging a little tighter.
That’s better; at least he’s not completely trapped and bored out of his mind.
He works through a couple of emails from his team, fusses a little with one of his ongoing spec tests, trades a few pointed texts with William; all in all, probably a good forty minutes or so worth of work, before Peter really stirs again.
Peter rolls his head back, enough that Quentin can actually see his face, his goofy smile having faded a bit into something calmer, content. Quentin watches as Peter slowly unwraps one arm from Quentin’s thigh and brings it up, laying on top of Quentin’s leg instead, in front of Peter’s face.
Peter looks at it, still distantly, at the underside as it lays, fingers curled towards him. Turns it to the side, away, and then back, slowly, twisting it, like he’s caught by the sight of it, fascinated.
Fascinated, by the dark, deep purple bruising wrapping around his wrist. In a good way. Well. Quentin’s pretty sure it’s a good way.
Actually, make that very sure; Peter’s smile blooms again, not as wide as before but even sweeter, satisfied.
Peter tilts back, more, stretching, and glances down the length of his body. Picks his head up a little more and then brings his hand down, brushing it lightly across a bluish mark on his thigh, where Quentin had grabbed him to flip him over. Not a deep bruise, but still marking; he runs his fingers over it, lightly, again and again, and then trails his hand up, twisting his head as he does so, until he reaches the much darker bruise on his hip.
Pauses, there, and moves his hand, turning it until he can lay it flat, aligning his fingers with the marks Quentin had left, even his hand is smaller, not quite covering the entire mark, and presses down into it, his breath catching.
He stays like that a moment, before he lets go of himself, twisting his body around and reaching for Quentin’s hand, tugging at it. Quentin lets Peter have it, and Peter pulls it down until it’s resting over that same bruise, covering it completely in a way Peter’s hand hadn’t.
Peter presses his hand over Quentin’s, there, and Quentin presses down as well, digging his fingers into Peter’s skin. “Oh,” Peter says, softly, the first thing he’s said since Quentin got off.
That’s… probably a good ‘oh’. Considering the way Peter’s reacted to everything else, that’s most likely, right? It sounds good, it’s just— it’s just that he’s having a slightly harder time reading Peter than usual, for some reason.
Peter lets go of Quentin’s hand and twists himself around again, flat on his stomach, propped up with one arm on the bed and one poking into Quentin’s leg. He reaches for Quentin, and then pauses, again, staring at his wrist for a second before he brings the other up, hurriedly, setting them next to each other, staring at the matched set of bruises.
He looks up at Quentin then, and—
Oh. Yeah, that had absolutely been a good ‘oh’. Fuck, even a delighted one, apparently. This is fantastic, better than he could have hoped.
“Happy, precious?” he asks, softly.
Peter nods, over and over, until Quentin takes his chin in hand and pulls him up a little more, enough to kiss him, Peter still smiling into it.
Still not big on words yet, and that should not be as cute as it is. Quentin runs his hand down along Peter’s neck, pressing gently against one of the bites near his collarbone. Peter’s eyes go a little wide, and then he’s bringing his hand up to touch that spot as well, craning his head back to try and look at it.
Quentin laughs, but actually— now there’s an opportunity. “Hey,” he says, catching Peter’s chin again, tilting his head back and up as far as it will go without making Peter move. “Look at me for a second.” Peter does, blindly trusting, not even tensing at all when Quentin brings his phone up and takes a picture of him, of his neck and shoulders, the light mark wrapping around his throat, five darker pinpoints of mottled red on the side, of the bites and hickeys Quentin had given him.
He brings the photo back up and turns his phone so it’s facing Peter; Peter’s eyes go very wide, his mouth dropping open a little. He reaches up and presses his fingers to the side of his neck, seeking those bruised points, and then, still looking at the photo, brings his fingers down, pressing into the largest of the bites, low on the curve of his neck, where it meets his shoulder.
Peter reaches for his phone, then, and Quentin surrenders it for the moment, Peter cradling it in his hands and staring at that photo, fixated. “Wow,” Peter says, softly, and fuck if Quentin can’t help but wonder what Peter might do, how Peter might react, if Quentin really focuses on that some time, spends some serious time on just marking his neck. It’s… definitely turning into a thing for Peter.
Peter stares at it a little longer before shivering and offering the phone back to Quentin. He takes it and sets it aside, sliding down himself until he can rest next to Peter, and wraps his arms around Peter, pulling him in. Peter comes easily, sighing, begging for kisses, and Quentin gives him them, presses Peter back into the bed and curls over him as he kisses him, one leg flung over Peter, both his arms trapped beneath him.
“Can I stay?” Peter whispers, his hands clinging to Quentin’s biceps, and god, Quentin fucking loves that he’s asking that, that he wants that.
“I already made your excuses, sweetheart,” Quentin says. “You’re mine, for the night.”
“Quentin,” Peter breathes out, his hands tightening, looking at Quentin like he’s worked some fucking miracle, as he rightly should.
Yeah. Peter’s his.