Can’t Get It Out Of My Head (Peter Quill x Reader)
For @ravingmadstark to whom I’ve owed this since January.
In which you slow dance with the one and only Star-Lord. (insp.)
He so desperately wanted to be called Star-Lord, but everyone called him Quill. Except for you. You preferred to use Peter, and maybe that was why he fell in love so hard. Rarely did anyone address him without a tinge of sarcasm or playful banter in their voice—something he was very guilty of reciprocating—but when you spoke to him, he felt validated in ways he never knew he could. You gave him a sense of responsibility. A feeling of warmth and excitement. A drive in life, fueled not by a desire for the admiration of others, but rather, a need to make you feel the same way he did. Happy.
Your initial glimpse of Peter was the day of Ronan’s defeat. Hair disheveled. Clothes torn. Face scratched up. He was dancing to a song you’d never heard, and your entire body reacted. It tingled and shook from your toes, to your heart strings, up your throat, to your brain where the sensation settled, leaving only one thought. Shit. You’d gone through life thinking love at first sight was nothing more than a myth. But there you were. In love. Or something like it. You were stubborn when it came to things like that, so you chalked it up to lust—somehow that felt more dignified.
There was alcohol involved in your first encounter. That was always how these things seemed to go. The big hero, off to celebrate at a local bar; you, the plain civilian, coincidentally at the same place, standing in a corner. Music was playing, but the melodies were foreign, and you could only assume that they were his. Most of them were upbeat, but occasionally things would slow down a little, and that’s when he shined the brightest. He’d move about the room fluidly, pulling the other patrons close. Dipping them, spinning them, pressing his body against theirs. Leaving a trail of longing eyes in his wake. You couldn’t help but feel jealous, but at the same time, you were grateful. Unless you were alone in the safety of your room, dancing was not your forte. And so you nursed your drink and watched.
He moved closer and you got a better look at his face, confirming that he was the most unrealistically handsome man you’d ever seen in your life. It was the sort of thing that held a hypnotic element, capturing your eyes and refusing to let them free of his spell. The sappiness of it all was enough to make you inwardly wretch, but as the gap in proximity closed, it became harder to deny fact.
You took a large gulp of your drink, polishing it off and welcoming the relaxing buzz it provided. Perhaps thirty seconds after the liquid hit the pit of your stomach, he was there, slowly pulling the empty glass from your hand and setting it on a nearby table. He made a point of introducing himself, giving you two options of name to pick from. Peter Quill—which had a very obligatory ring to it—or Star-Lord. You chose the latter as you returned the introduction, even managing to make a clever joke about how you wished you had a cool nickname. He seemed to appreciate this as he tugged you out to dance while promising to come up with something by the end of the night.
A year later, you’d swapped Star-Lord for Peter, who still hadn’t kept his promise, but you didn’t mind. Every time he said your name, you felt a fresh breath of life fill your lungs, and you were sure a nickname wouldn’t have the same sort of effect. But as the days went by, you wondered if he still felt the same. At one time there was a fire between you that refused to burn out. It was there during every instance of passion—in every spot in his ship—and stayed afterwards for the mundane things. You taught him how to cook and do laundry, and in return he showed you how to fly. You danced under stars on foreign planets whose names neither of you knew. Then you’d fall asleep, fighting over the bed sheets, eager to see what the next day would bring.
Now you couldn’t remember the last time you’d danced. Or if you could still fly a ship. Or what it was like to wake up naked and not alone.
Peter was busy, and you understood that. He was a celebrity for hire, and though he claimed to be in it for the money, you knew there was a sense of adventure he couldn’t live without. It was something that a quiet life in your little apartment couldn’t give him…something that you couldn’t give him. You’d accepted that on day one, and maybe that was a stupid thing to do. Being naive seemed like such an easier option.
He finally came home one night, and he greeted you with his standard smile. You returned it as you walked to him, arms stretched out for a hug.
“How was—“
Peter held a finger to your lips, silencing you before moving his hand to the side and giving you a deep kiss. You soaked it in, half enjoying it, and half gauging what was to follow. He had two modes that he slipped into whenever he’d return: fuck or sleep; and you could usually tell by the way he greeted you.
He wasn’t tired—though he certainly looked it—this kiss was lasting too long. There was too much emotion behind it. But it wasn’t fevered, either. You weren’t dipped down with his tongue down your throat, or tossed on the couch with your shirt already on the ground. This was different.
“Shit,” you cursed against his mouth, and he backed away in confusion.
“Sorry?”
“Do you know what I’ve been doing, Peter?” He quirked an eyebrow and shook his head no. “Instead of just kissing you just to kiss you, I’ve been thinking about it. Analyzing it.”
“I don’t really know what to say other than maybe try not doing that?”
You ran a hand down your face and sighed. “Peter, do you love me?” It was abrupt, but necessary.
“Yes.” His response was just as abrupt.
“Things feel different.”
“I know.”
“And you don’t see that as a problem??”
“No. This is how things are supposed to be.”
“And how do you know that?”
“Drax told me.”
You blinked in disbelief. “Drax told you?”
“Yes,” A sheepish look began to wash over Peter’s features.
“Drax?”
He shrugged. “The dude was married. I asked for a little insight. Granted…I regretted it instantly. He went off about war dances and the birds and the bees and—” Peter stopped his tangent to clear his throat, “the point is that you and I have reached a phase where we’ve grown comfortable.”
“That doesn’t seem like the sort of advice Drax would give,” you muttered.
“He didn’t phrase it like that. Hell, I don’t even know if that’s what he was trying to say. I had to grasp at straws a little so maybe I figured this all out on my own? Huh. Damn, I’m good…”
“Focus, Peter!”
“Right, sorry,” he shrugged off his knapsack as he walked to the makeshift stereo he’d rigged up in your living room. It was an eyesore, but he loved it, so you did, too. As he moved, he simultaneously fumbled with his walkman. “I got some new music.”
“How’d you do that?” There was relief in your voice that you tried to suppress. Hearing the same dozen songs over and over again was beginning to gnaw at your brain.
“We passed by Earth…close enough to pick up some radio waves. Rocket managed to record a few of them…the DJ kept calling them oldies,” Peter added, looking rather offended. He shook his head and sighed as he popped the tape in the player. A soft melody began to play. “Do you remember the name of this instrument?” He asked as he approached you with flowing steps that matched the song’s rhythm.
“Um…” you searched for the word. It was in there somewhere. It had to be. Peter had spent too much time trying to teach you about Earth instruments for you to forget—that being said, the names were so odd sounding. They were hard to grasp. “Pine-go?”
“Close,” he laughed, “It’s a piano.”
“Piano! Right.” His fingers were wrapping around your palms, and instinctually, yours did the same.
“1974. Can’t Get It Out Of My Head. It’s by a group called ELO.” This was Peter’s standard introduction. Even if you’d heard the song one hundred times before, he would always remind you of the name, the band, and the Terran year it was made. “Electric Light Orchestra. One of the greatest Earth bands to ever exist.”
“You say that about all your music.”
A new instrument made itself known, adding a gentle complexity to the song. “Because it’s true.”
He led you in what he called a box step, and pulled you closer every time you stepped on his feet so he could count in your ear. One…two…three…four…follow my lead…just like that…one…two…three…four…
It helped, but you were still clumsy by nature. He didn’t seem to mind, though, even telling you once long ago that it was one of the things he loved most about you. One…two…three…four…
Gradually his counting stopped as you grew more comfortable, and he grazed his lips over your jaw. “I love you.”
“I love you, too,” you replied. He kissed the corner of your mouth before resting his forehead against yours.
It was dark outside, and stars were beginning to appear one by one in the night sky. They glittered and illuminated the moons in a way that managed to take your breath every time you looked up. Even after living where you did for years, their luster never faded in your eyes.
Except for now. Now they all seemed dull in comparison to this present moment in time, where all that mattered was you, Peter, and Earth’s Electric Lights.
As requested by anon: Can you make a smutty fanfic of Peter x reader in which the reader takes advantage of Peter after he flirted another girl at the bar? And when I mean advantage I do not mean to slice him in half. B3
IMPORTANT: I feel that the term “taking advantage” implies a date rape setting, which I am not okay with by any means. Please know that in this fic, everything is consensual and positive.
The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.
The words echoed through your mind as you nursed a rather large drink. You weren’t sure what was in it, as you’d just sat down and pointed to a random cocktail on the menu when the bartender approached you, but it was strong, and it was working. All the thoughts were slowly seeping out of your head. The memories of being abandoned that morning were fading. The stress of work was going away. Everything was leaving, except for those words.
The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.
Your friend had said it to you that morning as you sobbed into a pint of ice cream, and you’d been repeating it to yourself ever since. As you forced yourself to get out of bed. As you showered reluctantly. As you spent an hour in front of the mirror, dabbing on makeup and dousing yourself in hairspray. As you took your place on the barstool and scanned the room, looking for the perfect guy.
You’d picked a rather scummy bar on purpose. Your goal wasn’t to find Mr. Right who’d sweep you off your feet and marry you on his private island. You weren’t ready for another relationship. All you wanted was the type of man who wouldn’t even bother asking your name as he ripped your clothes haphazardly off your body. But that was surprisingly hard to find, even in the dump like this. Everyone seemed to be coming in with a significant other or a drunk girl that had gotten to them before you had the chance. It was irritating to see that everyone had someone and yet here you were, alone when in your mind, your needs were more important than others’.
But then he walked in.
Perhaps “strutted” was the better word, for he came in, shoulders back, playful smirk on his face, acting like he owned the place. His hair was slightly disheveled and his clothes worn down, but he still looked put together, in a rugged sort of way. It made all that liquid confidence you’d been chugging down immediately vanish. There was no way a guy like that would have any interest in you, and frankly, you weren’t up for any more rejection. So you just settled on watching stealthily from afar.
As time went on, though, you found that his guy wasn’t as put together as you thought. His balance was slightly off; just enough to tell you that he had probably been bar hopping that night. The girls he picked to hit on were also questionable. Some of them had come in with men; some of them were just downright trashy looking. All of them rejected him. It was beyond you as to how anyone could turn down a guy looking like that, but then that little lightbulb flickered on over your head. It was clear that his intoxication made him go after anything with a pair of breasts. Why not you?
There was a barstool next to him, newly opened after a man had angrily led his girlfriend away, and you slid down to it. He noticed you immediately and smiled.
“Well hello there.”
You’d only met a few Terran men before, but this one sounded different than the others as you picked up on the subtle pang of an accent that was foreign to you. But it was sexy. You introduced yourself.
He tilted his head to the side and took a sip of his drink. “Name’s Peter Quill, or Quill, or Peter, or Star-Lord.” He was stumbling over his words a bit, but he managed to get them out nonetheless. “What’s a pretty lady like you doing in a place like this?”
“Oh, you know, just looking to get laid,” you replied. If you’d been anywhere near sober then you would’ve run out of the bar, horrified after a slip up like that, but the alcohol in your system had essentially turned you brain to mush. Very confident, very horny mush.
He nearly choked on his beverage and had to put it down. “Shit. You get straight to the point, huh?”
You nodded.
“Well,” he paused thoughtfully. “I know a very romantic back alley behind this bar.”
***
Surprisingly, you only fell one time on your way back to Peter’s so called “alley”, leaving you with what would probably turn into a large bruise on your knee. But you couldn’t dwell upon such trivial things when you were pressed against a wall with a stranger’s hands up your shirt. You leaned your head back and enjoyed the feeling of his fingertips running all over your most sensitive areas, and a small groan escaped you.
“Fuck, Peter,” you breathed as he latched his mouth onto your neck, and you could feel him smile against your skin.
“Pretty much,” he mumbled between his small nips at your earlobe. “I’m gonna fuck you so hard.”
“I—“ you stopped suddenly and took a brief look around. Yes, you had a beautiful man ready to ravish you, but even through the alcohol and your raging hormones, you saw that this place was unsanitary. Everything looked dirty and greasy, and frankly, you didn’t want your vagina anywhere near that. And so you compromised with yourself and dropped to your knees, wincing a bit as your bruise hit the pavement.
Undoing his belt and pants was possibly one of the most difficult things you’d ever done in your life in your current state, and the way he weaved his hands through your hair, pressing you forward excitedly didn’t help. You managed to shoot him a frustrated glare and he held his hands up apologetically, mumbling something about giving you help if you needed it. But eventually his belt was clinking to the ground and his pants were pull every bit of cloth and leather off of him.
After a yearlong relationship, it was nice to see something new, and it was especially nice to see something that was new and bigger. Had you been sober, you would’ve been intimidated as hell—just like you basically would during the entire situation—but you were ready to take on the world. And by world you meant Peter’s dick.
You stroked him a few times, getting a feel for him and which spots were most sensitive. He seemed to respond most when your fingers brushed the underside of his head and you mentally sighed in relief, as your life had just gotten much easier. But as you moved forward with every intention to take him in slowly and teasingly, you found that your usual precise movements were distorted by your cocktails, and instead of making him beg for more, you were sloppily licking him up and down. He didn’t notice, however, as his hands had resumed their place on the back of your head, gently prodding you forward.
You coughed once, though it was more from a dry throat than anything else, but he pushed you away and looked down at you with troubled eyes. “Are you okay? Was that too much?” his words were even more jumbled than before, but the gesture was still very sweet, and as you assured him you were fine, you couldn’t help but let your mind wander a bit. Here you were, drunkenly giving a random guy head, and he had the courtesy to look out for you. It gave you this warm feeling in your gut that you hadn’t felt in god knows how long. Or maybe that was just the alcohol seeping further in your bloodstream. Nonetheless, he was shifting and groaning and breathing heavily as you ran your tongue over and under his tip, and it was all very satisfying.
Quill looked down at you with hooded eyes and swallowed thickly, opening his mouth to say something, but then leaning his head back uselessly as you took his entirety into your mouth. He cursed out loud and attempted to grip at the wall to keep his balance, and you sucked harder, loving every last bit of his ecstatic reactions. It was funny. Even though he was technically the one receiving all the pleasure, you’d never felt so turned on in your life. Little jets of adrenaline surged through you each time he’d make any sound, and your panties grew soaked when he’d squirm about.
And then, with a mixture of a grunt and growl, he came. It took you off guard, but you regained your composure and swallowed nonetheless, taking the time to look up at him so he could watch the enjoyment that crossed your face. In turn, that seemed to satisfy him even further, and he patted your head affectionately.
“Shit…that was…that was—“
He stopped in mid-sentence when you leaned over and threw up.
“Oh god,” you moaned pathetically as you wiped your mouth. “I-I’m so sorry…I must have…I drank too much…I…” you trailed off and put your head in your hands, trying not to cry. You’d done a lot of stupid things when you were drunk, but none of them ever involved throwing up all over the place in front of an incredibly attractive man.
You could hear the crinkle of clothes and click of his belt as he redressed, and you figured he would just walk away, perhaps while stifling laughter. But instead, he squatted down beside you and stroked your hair. “Don’t apologize,” he said kindly. “It happens to the best of us.”
“But we’re drunk!” you wailed and put your face in your hands.
“Yeah, and sometimes drunk people puke. Trust me, I’ve seen worse. Now let’s go get you cleaned up.”
You finally mustered to courage to look at him and was surprised to see that he was actually being genuine. You wiped your mouth once again before attempting to smile. “Thanks Peter…” you mumbled.
“It’s the least I can do after you…you know.”
You giggled and rose to your feet. “I’m glad you liked it.”
“Oh, I more than liked it. I think we should find some coffee too. Something to sober us up before I reciprocate,” he said with a playful wink, and all you could do was blush and take his outstretched hand.
That was probably a really weird way to end a fic like this...but I saw the opportunity and went for it.
Credit to the gif maker, and please excuse any typos.
As requested by anon: Your starlord reader inserts are sheer amazing beautiful genius. Do you think maybe sometime you could do one where the reader is taken captive by the guardians for some reason and Peter's in charge of "interrogating" her? (But in a smutty way)
Warning: NSFW
After the green woman slapped you for the tenth time, you were sure of two things: the first being that your face was probably half torn off and bleeding, and the second being that you weren’t going to be leaving this ship any time soon. If you even left at all.
No, don’t think like that, you’re getting out of here. Somehow.
She slapped you again.
Maybe not.
“Look,” you tried desperately. “I don’t know who Ronan is. I don’t know what the orb is. I don’t know what an infinity stone is. I don’t even know what planet this is. Please just let me go!”
“Spare us your lies, thief,” a tattooed man grunted from the corner. It was the first time he’d said anything since your interrogation began, but one look at those bulging muscles made you thankful that it was the green woman smacking you around and not him.
“This is takin’ too long, we ain’t got time for this!” Rocket—the only one of your captors whose name you had picked up on—snapped angrily as he paced around the green woman’s feet. His tail swished back and forth, and if you weren’t currently tied to a chair surrounded by a bunch of psychopaths, then you would’ve been compelled to reach forward and scratch him behind the ears. You usually had a weakness for furry animals.
“I am Groot.”
Oh shit. Did that tree just talk…? You were fucked. You were completely and utterly fucked.
“No, Groot. We shouldn’t let her go,” Rocket spat and your ears pricked up. You had no idea how he got ‘let her go’ from ‘I am Groot’ but you could roll with it.
“Please, I didn’t mean anything by it. I swear I’ll never bother any of you again if you just let me leave now—“
“What is going on here!?”
Simultaneously, everyone’s heads turned towards the door where a figure wearing a red leather trench coat stepped forward. His face was hidden by a mask with glowing red eyes and small breathing tubes…or perhaps it wasn’t a mask and he was just a robot, in which case you were prepared to break down and cry. Robots were never good news. But then he pressed his fingers behind his ear and the mask began to fold away, revealing not a robot, but a very, very, very attractive man.
“Quill we’re interrogating—“ the green woman began, but she was cut off as he threw his satchel to the ground much rougher than needed.
“Interrogating!? Since when are we interrogating people on my ship!?”
“Since we found a lead on getting to Ronan,” she replied through gritted teeth. He pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.
“Jesus Christ. I leave you all alone for an hour and I come back to you interrogating random girls.”
“Did you not hear the green whore? She can help us get to Ronan!”
You nearly burst into laughter at the sudden, and completely uncalled for, insult that came from the one with the tattoos, but the woman in question also happened to be the one who was beating you senseless and you felt that irritating her more probably wasn’t exactly smart. Besides, everyone around you had now erupted into one large, jumbled argument that you saw that a potential chance to escape. But just as you began to formulate a plan, mask-guy puffed out his chest and jabbed his finger towards the door.
“Out. All of you. Out.”
“But—“
“Can it, Gamora. You might be all high and mighty out there, but in here this is still my ship and in my ship, I get to make the orders. So get. Out.”
There was much grumbling and muttering and even a few curses in languages you couldn’t understand, but soon enough you were left alone with Mr. Attractive-robot-face-mask-man.
“Thanks,” you mumbled as he pulled a chair in front of yours and sat down.
“Don’t thank me just yet. My friends might be idiots, but they also don’t just go around kidnapping random chicks for no reason. Why are you here?”
“They got me on a misunderstanding that was completely my fault, Mr….?”
“Peter Quill. People call me Star-Lord,” he replied in complete seriousness. “But what’s more important is who you are—but don’t bother,” he held a finger up when you opened your mouth to introduce yourself. “I already know.”
“I promise you that you don’t,” you replied and frowned. “I’m not really anybody, just a—“
“Junker,” he cut you off, finishing your sentence. “Yeah I can tell a thief when I see one.”
Your face turned red. “No, I honestly have a—“
Peter cut you off for a third time, but this time he rose to his feet and paced about the room slowly. “I used to be in your shoes, you don’t have to justify yourself to me.”
“What?”
“I’d steal things and sell them and if I got caught I’d get “confused” and say I was a Junker and I didn’t realize that I was stealing something. So what’d you take from us, Miss Junker?”
You sighed and stared at your feet as your eyes traveled to the metal orb that was sitting on a table across the room. “That.”
He followed your gaze and frowned. “Who commissioned you to take that?”
“It’s not like that, I’m just broke. I swiped it on Knowhere when your friends were all arguing about it. I figured they were fighting over who gets how many units because trying to sell it themselves, so it must’ve been worth something.”
“Cut the crap. How much was Ronan asking for?”
“I don’t know who the fuck Ronan is, okay!?” you could feel tears coming, and try as you might to hide them, there was no stopping it. You hadn’t eaten in days. You’d been sleeping on a cardboard box for god knows how long. You were trapped in a spaceship with a bunch of whackos that were probably going to kill you. You’d had enough.
“Hey,” Peter’s tone had completely changed from harsh to soothing, and to your surprise he wiped a tear away softly with his thumb. “Don’t cry. I believe you, but if you understood what that was then you’d know why…we’ve been treating you the way we’ve been treating you.”
“I just want to leave,” you wailed and hung your head.
“I think that can be arranged,” Peter replied in that same soothing voice as he began to untie the ropes binding you to your chair. The moment your arms were free you rose to your feet and smiled.
“Thank you so much. I don’t know how I can ever repay you.”
Just as quickly as his demeanor had changed before, it evolved once again, but this time a coy smirk appeared on his face and he let his hand fall to his waist. “I mean…there is one way.”
Before you knew it, his fingers were tangled in your hair and his teeth had clamped down on your neck. You squeaked and instinctually tried to pull away, but his grasp was firm and you were forced to stay right where you were. “I don’t…” you squeaked, but trailed off when you felt him slide his hand under your shirt to cup your breast. He twisted your nipple slowly and you groaned.
“You don’t what?”
“I don’t…know…you…” again you moaned as he ran his hand teasingly over the skin right above the waist of your jeans.
“Does that mean you don’t like when I do this?” he whispered and moved to twist your other nipple as his other hand played with your belt buckle. Before you could respond, he ripped it off and slipped his hand downwards. Your knees weakened and your body began to ache with want. “Or this?”
It was as if you’d completely forgotten your entire vocabulary, and all you were able to manage was a small whimper of approval. And then he backed away and tucked his hands in his pockets.
“Well that’s a shame, but no means no,” he shrugged and walked towards the door. “I’ll show you out, sorry about that.”
“No!” you cried out.
Peter quirked an eyebrow and smiled sweetly. “Hm?”
“I’ll stay.”
“But you just said no,” he sauntered over towards you and cocked his head to the side. “Why on Earth would you want to stay all of the sudden?”
“I want you.”
“What was that? You were mumbling, darlin’.”
“I want you,” you repeated a bit louder this time.
He was a smug, cocky asshole, and it pissed you off more than anything that he was so easily making you beg. But you loved it.
“Much better,” Quill whispered.
Things then were a blur. Both of your clothes ended up in disheveled piles on the ground and your bodies quickly accumulated scratches, bruises, and hickeys that you were sure would throb like hell tomorrow morning, but for now you didn’t care. All you could focus on was the way your bodies collided in a sweaty mess as he threw you around like a rag doll, fucking you in every position you could think of, plus a few that you didn’t even realize were possible. And the best part was that he had so much stamina.
You thought for sure that he would be like past guys who fucked you for a few minutes, came, and then dressed as fast as they finished, but not Quill. He refused to let up until he was satisfied with how many times you came, and then a few more after that. He’d pause and take a moment to watch the way you arched your back and gasp for air every time the waves of pleasure rippled through your body, and then smile that cocky smile you’d so quickly grown accustomed to, and do it all over again until finally, he let himself succumb to his own release all over your chest.
You frowned at the mess as he tossed you something to clean it with.
“Sorry. I’m not really looking to have kids,” he shrugged and planted a chaste kiss on your lips. You rolled your eyes, but smiled nonetheless.
“I think I can let it slide just this once.”
“I appreciate that,” Quill grinned and moved to nibble on your earlobe. “And you can consider your debt repaid.”
To the anon: I know this isn't exactly what you had in mind, but my mind is already fried from school and I didn't even realize I wrote it wrong until it was already done and for that, I am deeply sorry and I hope you enjoy it anyways!
As requested by anon: All I want for Christmas is more StarLord Smut! Maybe you almost get hurt and Peter gets mad then admits he was scared?
Influenced by: “I’m Not In Love” by 10cc
Warning: poorly written smut lies ahead.
It had been almost a week since Peter had spoken to you. At first you understood. After all, you’d completely gone against his instructions. You wandered away from him on a rather sketchy planet after he’d warned you countless times to stick by his side, resulting in some unidentifiable creature slamming you against a wall and sinking its teeth into your arm as you lost consciousness. Luckily he’d gotten to you before it was too late, leaving you with only a few shallow puncture wounds and the wrath of Star-Lord.
And so because you were not dumb, and because you truly felt bad, you let Peter give you the cold shoulder. It went against everything in your nature, as you tended to be the type of person who went straight to wailing and groveling whenever you fucked up, but it was a small ship and a long journey to your next destination. There would be plenty of time for blubbering apologies. Or at least you thought.
Peter had grown irritated with everyone on the Milano at least once, and while he’d spit out a few snotty remarks, he was never one to truly yell. Instead, he would lock himself in the cockpit and then emerge a few hours later as if nothing ever happened. For those reasons and the fact that it’d been a whole week, you were beginning to rethink your “just leave him alone” approach, and on the eighth night of being ignored you found yourself knocking on the door to the cockpit after everyone was asleep.
“Yeah?”
It’d felt like ages since you heard his voice, and with that one word your body half relaxed and half tensed up. There was always something soothing to you about his Terran accent. It was just so smooth. Nothing at all like the grunts and gurgles of your native language. But the fact that his ‘yeah’ was very calm and relaxed told you that he probably didn’t realize it was you who was knocking, and you dreaded hearing the way it would probably change when you announced yourself.
“It’s me,” you called out weakly. “Can I come in? I really think we need to talk.”
There was silence on the other end and then, to your surprise, the doors shifted open to allow you entrance.
Peter didn’t take his eyes off the holographic screen that he was poking and prodding as you sat down in the chair opposite him and folded your hands in your lap.
“What are you doing?”
He turned to face you and shrugged. “Research. I think I got some good leads on some good stuff.”
“What type of stuff?”
“What do you need?” Quill asked curtly, ignoring your question completely.
“To talk,” you mumbled and stared at a small dent in the floor. “I know I screwed up and I feel terrible, but do you really have to ignore me?”
“I haven’t—“
“Oh shut up, yes you have and it’s starting to get really old. I’m not saying you shouldn’t be mad. You have every right to be…but you also shouldn’t take away my chance to make it right. Besides, I don’t just have to apologize to you, Quill. I have to thank you, too.”
“Thank me?” he raised his eyebrow and you felt your pulse begin to speed.
You’d known Quill for years through the shared occupancy on Yondu’s ship, but it was a big ship and you didn’t communicate much save for the occasional head nod of acknowledgment as you passed one another in the halls. It wasn’t until you ran into each other on Xandar that you became friends. You’d helped in that battle against Ronan, and while it was a small part—especially compared to what he did—he still stopped you on the streets to give you a genuine thank you. Naturally you repaid the comment—though much more profusely—and small talk soon followed. He’d just gotten a new ship. You’d just had your ship destroyed. He’d decided to travel permanently with the other “guardians”. You had decided to permanently leave Yondu and his crew. It was inevitable that he invited you to come along, and seeing as you had nothing better to do, you agreed.
During the short months with him, you became friends. Not best friends or pseudo family members. Just friends. But you were okay with that because the more time you spent around him, the more you realized how attractive he was, and frankly, you knew for a fact that being platonically close to someone you find attractive never ends well.
“Yes. Thank you.” You rose to your feet and tried to ignore how good he looked in that tight shirt he was wearing. Right now he had to be your friend and not your fantasy.
“For?”
“For saving my life. Or are you too focused on my fuck up to realize that you’re sort of my hero?”
Peter pursed his lips together. “It was nothing.”
You groaned and pinched the bridge of your nose. “I’m really trying hard here, Quill. You gotta cut me a little slack.”
“I told you, it was nothing,” he grumbled.
“Then why are you so pissed off at me?”
“I’m not.”
“You are! Just admit that you are,” you were on your feet now, and realizing that somehow you’d ended up in his face shouting. His eyes were narrowed and his jaw clenched, but though his eyes were meeting yours, he seemed to be hazily looking past them.
“Okay, yeah. I am.”
“See? That wasn’t hard.” You moved back to a normal distance away from him and placed your hands on your hips. “Now could you accept my apology and go back to being normal?”
“Not until you understand why I’m mad.”
“Well…why are you mad?”
“Because you scared the shit out of me, and frankly, scared is not something that I enjoy being. I’ll take hurt or upset…hell, I’ll even take paranoid. But scared? No.”
“Okay,” you said slowly, not knowing what the hell he was talking about.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that I like you,” he leaned against the wall casually and ran a hand through his hair. “Now, I’m giving you this information with the confidence that you aren’t gonna come back and confess your undying love for me because I’m not into you like that. I just happen to really like your personality and your ass at the same time.”
“Wait,” you rubbed your temples as you tried to process what he was saying. “So you got mad because you got scared because you like my ass?”
“And your personality,” he corrected.
“But you also don’t want me to be in love with you?”
“Not at all.”
“Well I’m not.”
Peter looked genuinely relieved and he smiled gently. “That’s good to hear.”
“Quill,” you huffed. It seemed it was your turn to be mad at him. “What are you trying to say to me?”
“I’m not in love, so don’t forget it…but,” he put emphasis on the ‘but’ as he moved to take your hands in his. “I like to see you. I like being around you, and I’d like to have sex with you.”
Your jaw dropped. How the fuck was he dropping this bombshell so casually?
Because he’s ‘Star-Whore’, that’s why. You realized bitterly. He’d probably used those lines a million times before. But even though you’d usually shoot down anyone who spoke to you like that, you were more distracted by the fact that you had the chance to sleep with a very attractive man after going through a rather long dry spell. It only took a little bit of thought until you realized that the fact that you were now kissing him meant you were accepting his offer. Now all you could really do was enjoy yourself and hope things wouldn’t get weird.
He didn’t bother scooping you up in his arms and carrying you to his bed, though he didn’t slam you against anything either. Instead he grabbed your hips and lifted you carefully to the top of the table, followed by the thump of his jacket hitting the floor. Quill then shifted his attention back towards you—specifically the zipper on the front of your fitted bodysuit that he was slowly pulling down.
His eyes lit up when your breasts were exposed and he wasted no time in running his tongue over one of your nipples. Between your gasps and groans you mentally thanked yourself for opting out on a bra that day.
He worked your zipper further until it reached its end just below your bellybutton and he fell to his knees and kissed you there. Your fingers latched around the collar of his shirt and, with a little help on his end, you managed to pull it off and whip it to the side. Your short gasp at the sheer magnificence of his body didn’t go unnoticed and he looked up to give you a cocky wink as he peeled your suit off the rest of the way.
Good thing you didn’t wear underwear either.
The look on his face told you that he wanted to make a comment, but instead he settled on eagerly rubbing his hand over the sensitive area while he simultaneously undid his belt and fly with the other. Between the ripples of pleasure running through your body at the sensation of his touch and the way he essentially had the body of a god, you could hardly wait to see what else he had to offer and oh—you were definitely not disappointed.
“Don’t,” you murmured as he licked his lips and moved to press his mouth where his fingers once were, and he furrowed his brow in confusion. “I’ve been wanting this for a long ass time. Don’t make me wait any longer.”
Shit. Was that the wrong thing to say? Did that make it seem like felt the way about him that he was clearly so opposed to?
Apparently it wasn’t, because you barely had the chance to properly panic before he was thrust inside you. It was sudden and it took your breath away, as you hadn’t had time to adjust, but he kept things slow at the beginning and your brief pain soon became nothing but ecstasy.
You wrapped your legs around his waist and clenched your fists as he went faster and harder, and it took every fiber of your being not to come when he leaned down and nibbled on your earlobe.
“Oh god, Star-Lord,” you moaned. It felt silly to say, but you were currently a pile of goo underneath him and it was the only method you had of maybe returning the pleasure he gave you.
Peter chuckled lightly and grabbed onto your hair, now pounding into you harder than you’d ever been fucked before. But despite his rough treatment of your southern regions, he still lay delicate kisses on your neck and collar bone.
And then he spoke.
“I’m not in love…but I think I will be.”
You felt ridiculous in every way that hearing those words was what finally threw you—and seemingly him—over the edge, but nonetheless it happened, and as you slumped over in a useless, panting heap, you smiled because for the first time you’d gotten a clear glimpse of your future, and it involved great sex, witty banter, and Peter Quill.
In Which Peter Braids your Hair (Star-Lord Fluffy Reader Insert)
Once I regained my composure after seeing Chris Pratt braid that girl's hair I managed to write this.
Today was not the day for uncooperative hair and distractions from Peter. Yet there you were; unable to fix your tangled tresses while a very antsy Peter Quill paced around behind you. You’d already informed him multiple times that today was the day you’d finally get to remedy your status of unemployment and that his antics weren’t helping the fact that you were running incredibly late. But you should’ve known better. This was the almighty “Star-Lord” who welcomed the way any sort of instructions given to him would flow in one ear and out the other.
It started out innocent enough. He walked past you once and you figured he was just heading to his bunk. Five minutes later he passed behind you once more; this time to the bathroom, you thought. But as soon as the music filled the ship—much louder than it needed to be— you knew you were screwed. His trips past you became more frequent. His humming became louder, and soon you found that he was pacing leisurely behind you. You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose.
“I just…I can’t do this right now, okay? I’ve got an interview in twenty minutes and I’m not even close to being ready.”
“I’m not sure what you’re talking about. All I’m doing is exercising,” he replied innocently.
“You’re exercising.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“By walking around in circles?”
“Studies say that walking is better than running,” he shrugged.
“And where did you learn that, exactly?” you grumbled as you went back to angrily brushing your hair. There was a pause both in his footsteps and his smart ass excuses for why he decided to bother you. The silence was quick, however, and you soon felt the sensation of a pair of strong arms snaking themselves around your waist from behind. Your heart stopped and everything around you seemed to melt save for you and Peter. “W-what are you doing?”
He rested his chin on your shoulder and shrugged again. “I figured it was a good time to shamelessly confess that I’ve got feelings for you.”
Your knees went weak and you were almost positive that you were about to become a watery pile of goo on the floor. There had been sexual tension between the two of you since day one after rescuing you from a drunken man in a dark alley. He’d snatched you away from your assailant as a green woman appeared out of nowhere, wasting no time in holding a curved knife to his throat. You weren’t sure what happened next, as Quill had whisked you to a safe area after he saw the tears streaming down your cheeks. Without missing a beat, he pulled off his leather jacket and wrapped it around your shoulders as he began whispering gentle words of encouragement. It was heavy on your shoulders and engulfed you completely, but you felt safe. Funny how a near sexual assault became the best thing that ever happened to you.
After that, he brought you to his ship as he told you that you were welcome to stay for the night. But that night became two nights. And then a week. And then a permanent home. You didn’t have any special skills or abilities, but—to Gamora’s relief—the Milano suddenly became very clean for it was the only way you knew how to pull your weight.
It didn’t take long for the flirting to begin. Quill took great pleasure in teasing you. He loved the way you’d squeak when he snuck up behind you and pocked your sides. He was forever grabbing your wrist and twirling you around when he’d strut about the ship to the beat of his music. The two of you had even almost kissed once or twice—or perhaps it was just your imagination because what started as his lips nearing yours always ended in a tousle of your hair or a light flick of the nose.
Rocket always seemed to be around when things of that nature happened, and he was quick to make sarcastic comments while Drax would hover over his shoulder to offer his typical blunt input. Even Gamora would join in every now and then. It was absolutely terrible, the way everyone dangled the idea of dating Peter—even Peter himself did it—but nothing ever coming from it save for growing feelings on your part.
It was for that reason that you decided it was time to leave. You’d get a job. You’d get a life. You’d get away from Peter Quill. It was an easy conclusion to come to and even easier to announce, but since that day, Quill became antsy and attached to your hip. It was a regular occurrence now for what started as a mischievous smirk that would turn into a puppy dog gaze when you brushed him off.
Now here he was, being his typical asshole self and ruining your attempts to escape. You’d seen the girls filter in and out of his ship. You’d heard the things he’d say to them to get in their pants. Things that sounded exactly like what he was telling you know.
You reluctantly shimmied out of his grip and snatched up your brush again. “Don’t do this, Peter,” you mumbled, holding back tears.
He cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips together. “Yeah I figured you’d say something like that.”
“Then why tell me. Especially now.”
“Because I don’t think I’d be able to get over you leaving.”
“You’re selfish as fuck, Quill. Don’t you already have enough girls pining over you? Fueling your god damn ego? Why do you need me, too? Why do you…why…” you trailed off and hung your head as you lost the battle against the tears pooling around your eyes. They trailed slowly down your cheeks in thick drops. The type that actually made a noise as they hit the porcelain sink making it impossible to hide from him.
For once in his life Peter didn’t know what to say. He’d only been rejected once before by Gamora but it didn’t sting as bad for at the time she was just another piece of ass. But now here he was dealing with not only the unfamiliar territory of being pushed away, but having it done by the first girl he’d ever loved. Perhaps he’d read her wrong. Perhaps he should’ve prepared himself for this. But he didn’t and that was that and the only thing he could do now was try one more time.
He reached forward and plucked the brush out of your hand only to tangle his fingers in your hair. You wanted to resist. You tried to resist. But shit. The feeling of his careful maneuvering lit a fire within you that you thought you’d finally put out.
His eyes were narrowed in concentration as he worked his way down your hair in what you recognized as what the Terrans called a “French braid”. The intricate twists and folds of the style were quite beautiful, actually, and cured you of your bad hair day.
When he finished he spun you around and smiled weakly.
“There. You look beautiful. There’s…there’s no way you won’t be able to get that job.”
“Yeah.”
And then before you could do anything, he was kissing you. It was deep it was long, it left you wanting more when he finally pulled away.
“In case you didn’t know, there’s nothing more powerful than a good luck kiss. So just in case the braid doesn’t work—which I’d be shocked because frankly I did a pretty damn good job on it—you’re unstoppable now.”
“That was a really shitty thing to do,” you breathed as you lightly touched the bit of braid that hung over your shoulder. “I don’t want to get the stupid job anymore.”
“What?” Peter raised his eyebrows.
“I wanna stay.”
“Oh really now?” there was that cocky grin—or at least you thought it was at first, but the harder you looked, the more you saw that it was a rare, genuine smile. He pulled you close to him again and pressed his forehead to yours. “Wanna know a secret?”
“…sure.”
“That good luck kiss was more for me than for you,” he whispered and kissed you again.
