(Going through and updating my bio info for the Snowflake Challenge ‘21)
Hi!
I’m unsettledink most places. On AO3 I’m just unsettled. You can find me on LJ, DW, Pillowfort, instagram, and Twitter, though I don’t use much of those anymore. I’m unsettledink#8910 on discord - feel free to message me but I check in infrequently.
- This tumblr is a mishmash of everything and anything that interests me. My interests are varied and my fandoms/ships are many.
- 98% of everything posted is queued, so if it looks like I’m active, it’s (probably) a lie.
- I tag sporadically and inconsistently. If you need something tagged, I’m sorry but this is probably not a safe tumblr for you to follow.
- I do not give two shits about who or what people ship. YKINMKATO. It’s fucking fiction, folks. I’ve almost certainly shipped or written ‘worse’ at some point.
- I’ve been here over five years and I still don’t know things work. Sorry in advance if I do something wrong or weird.
- I am shy but like to talk. If you get me started good luck shutting me up.
- Also I guess some people worry about liking/reblogging/commented/etc a bunch of stuff at once? So if you are worried, I 100% love it. Go wild. Blow up my inbox and make my day. :D
- Seriously feel free to send me any ask or message or tag me in whatever. Anon’s always on.
- I have several more tightly focused sideblogs
unsettledreads – anything I’ve read, generally as I read it.
brighterunsettled – cute, funny, or fluffy stuff only
mindurpsnqs – all peter/quentin (tom & jake also) all the time
unsettledfix – where I put most mental health stuff
duckystan – iron man, tony stark, and rdj stuff
I give blanket permission to play in whatever transformative way you fancy with any and all of my fic. Just link me so I can squee, ok?
“You fucking tease,” Quentin says, curling his hand in Peter's shirt and reeling him in. “Did you think you were being subtle?”
“Did it work?” Peter asks, blushing a little.
Quentin pulls him in closer, flush against him, Peter's thigh snug against his cock. “What do you think?” he says.
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Peter teases him the whole way home.
The prospect of sex has cheered him up considerably— it’s probably more accurate that he's focusing on it so hard to distract himself, but that's fine. The little looks Peter gives him, though, the way he bites his lip and leans in, how he slides his fingers just under the edge of Quentin's shirt, like he's allowed to do that in public like this— those are not as fine.
Fucking hot, but not fine.
It's enough to make him want to find a dark corner or a bathroom with a lock and just have at Peter, but he doesn't, because unlike some, he has self control. He does, and so he acts like he doesn't even notice how Peter's behaving, acts like everything is normal, takes his time locking the door behind them and taking off his jacket, when what he really wants to do is just shove Peter up against the wall and fuck him.
He turns, and Peter is right there, hovering behind him. “You fucking tease,” Quentin says, curling his hand in Peter's shirt and reeling him in. “Did you think you were being subtle?”
“Did it work?” Peter asks, blushing a little.
Quentin pulls him in closer, flush against him, Peter's thigh snug against his cock. “What do you think?” he says.
Peter smiles at that, outright grins, and wraps his arms around Quentin's neck as he kisses him.
He's impatient, has been, has wanted Peter under him since twenty minutes ago at least, and he kisses Peter like that, hard and a little sharp and demanding. Peter sighs against his mouth and just melts into him, and things— things slow, instead. Mellow, instead of igniting, everything going soft. He brings his hands up and cups Peter's head, spreading his fingers wide through Peter's hair, and fuck, Peter seems so small sometimes, like this.
He's so proud of him.
Is that the right word, he thinks, biting down so very gently on Peter's lip, is it? He's just— he's so pleased with how Peter performed today. So satisfied, that Peter hadn't simply done as Quentin had hoped—had expected—but had done even better. It had to have been hard for Peter to face that, to go to everyone he loves after they've told him he's fucked up, and try again. Try, knowing that they're mostly likely thinking the same things. It had to have been hard to stand up to that and not start to doubt, just a little. Quentin knows, he knows what it's like when everyone is telling you you're wrong, and you're not.
He'd been ready for Peter to come back uncertain, doubtful, and he'd been prepared to carefully soothe all that away. But he hadn't needed to, because Peter came back sad, and hurt, and furious. Furious, for Quentin's sake, completely dismissive of all the legit points brought up, and Quentin is just— Peter's exceptional, he knows this, but it's still a delight when that comes into play to his advantage. Of course Peter outperformed Quentin's expectations.
If he could, he'd tell Peter how good he'd been, tell him just how pleased Quentin is with him, but he can't, not like that; Peter wouldn't understand.
Still. He can find a way to reward him.
He pulls back, just a bit, cradling Peter's head. Peter's eyes open slowly, and he just looks at Quentin, like he's perfectly content to just stand there like this forever. Doesn't resist even the smallest bit as Quentin tips his head back, further, further, until Quentin can duck his head and kiss that pale, green tinged mark on Peter's throat, and that, that Peter does react to, a tiny indrawn breath.
Quentin smiles against his skin, and sinks down to his knees.
“Oh fuck,” Peter whispers, “Quentin—” his hands gentle against Quentin's face.
He doesn't waste any time getting Peter's jeans undone, shoving everything down, tangled around Peter's feet, caught on his shoes. Peter’s hard, of course, painfully hard and wet, and Quentin licks up the length of his cock, looking up as he does to watch Peter gasp and close his eyes.
That's not his goal, though.
He presses forward a little more, settling his knees between Peter's legs, on top of his clothes and just barely fitting, forcing Peter to strain a little. Sinks further down, his hands sliding up until he can dig his fingers into Peter's ass, and pulls Peter up, until he's almost on his tiptoes. Peter lets out a startled little breath as Quentin tilts his head back and nips at his balls, as he flicks his tongue against Peter's taint, and then fucking squirms, gasping, when Quentin turns his face up a little more, digs his fingers in and spreads Peter open, licking at Peter's hole.
It's an awkward angle; incredibly awkward, really, and Quentin's neck is probably going to make him regret it later, but fuck, it's ridiculously hot how Peter pushes up on his toes even more, his legs tightening against Quentin's knees, around Quentin's head, everything dark and hot and a little sticky, humid from his breath and Peter's sweat, the smell of him overwhelming. Peter's hands clamp down on his shoulders, digging in and twisting up his shirt, too tight, but Quentin's not going to stop him; it's only because Peter's so unbalanced like this, fighting to stay in place on nothing but his toes and Quentin's body, almost losing every time Quentin makes him twitch.
Which he does, over and over, so easily, with every time he sucks gently at the edge of Peter's hole, every little bite to Peter's ass, every time he has to pause and pant for a little, half suffocated like this, his breath huffing out over the wetness of Peter's hole. Every time he presses his tongue into Peter a bit; not that much, because this really isn't a great angle, but it doesn't seem to matter. It makes everything messier, slicker, Quentin trying to ignore that as his chin grows wetter and wetter, because Peter fucking loves that.
Peter's been letting out a steady steady of choked off moans, his fingers flexing against Quentin's shoulders with each one, one hand slowly creeping up Quentin's neck, sliding into his hair. They're good, but a distant second to the sound Quentin gets when he presses a finger into Peter, licking around it as he goes. Peter jerks at that, unable to help himself, legs tightening almost painfully around Quentin's head, the hand that made it into his hair clenching and shoving him forward as well, smothering him, trapping him.
Only for a second, and then Peter's jerking back. “Fuck,” he pants, “sorry, sorry, I didn't— oh god, fuck, Quentin,” and Quentin grins. Wonders if Peter can feel that, can distinguish it from anything else, but he knows Peter can tell when he laughs, as muffled as it is.
He stays there a little longer, pressing a second finger into Peter and licking along the rim where it's stretched a bit, smoother around his fingers; spreads them and licks into that space as well, Peter shuddering.
“Quentin,” Peter moans, after a bit of that, clenching around Quentin's fingers. “I can't— I'm so close, please.”
He almost considers letting it happen, staying like this and feeling Peter clench all around him, all over, letting Peter's come drip down into his hair, down his back. Almost, but that's a bit much even for a reward. Pulls back instead, rubbing his face against Peter's balls as he does so, up the length of Peter's cock, feeling the precome smear on his cheek.
“Oh god,” Peter gasps, “oh god, Quentin,” his hand catching in Quentin's hair, twisting.
Quentin smirks, and then leans back a little more, enough that Peter could sink back down off his toes, but he doesn't. “Well?” he says. “Where do you think you should do that?” and licks his lips, letting his mouth fall open. Doesn't move while Peter stares down at him, his own mouth open, and doesn't resist when Peter tugs him forward, gently, hands on the back of his head, guides him until Peter's cock is just resting on his bottom lip.
Doesn't move even then, letting it just rest there, tasting it, waiting.
Peter closes his eyes for a second, his hands trembling against Quentin's head, and thrusts forward. Just the head, and that's good enough for Quentin to close his lips around it, Peter huffing out a sharp breath. Does it again, just as carefully, sliding over Quentin's tongue and nowhere near to filling him up.
He pulls back, off Peter's cock, Peter letting him go easily, looking a little worried. Pulls his fingers out of Peter too, and narrows his eyes at him. “I think you can do better than that,” he tells Peter, and brings his other hand up, covering Peter's in his hair; Peter starts to loosen his, and Quentin tightens his, tightens both of theirs, pulling his own head back a little more.
Peter groans, his hand sliding off Quentin's shoulder, up the side of his face. Brushes his thumb across Quentin's mouth before he sinks that hand into Quentin's hair as well, and then does better.
He's hardly rough, still a little too careful, but it's better than he's managed before. More than Quentin's ever allowed him, before, and he makes himself as pliant as possible, unmoving aside from his tongue, his throat as he swallows around the head of Peter's cock, letting Peter just fuck into his mouth without any resistance, any effort. Closes his eyes and lets Peter drag his head forward, grinding it into his crotch, lets Peter fill him up and holds his breath and moans and takes it, like he's never bothered to before.
It's surprisingly easy.
Peter jerks, hard, pulling Quentin in, and then starts to pull him off again, just as fast; Quentin can feel how his cock twitched, can feel it now against his bottom lip, and he darts his hand up, wrapping it around Peter's wrist and guiding him back to where he'd had Quentin a moment ago.
“Fuck,” Peter gasps, chants, “fuck fuck fuck oh my god, Quentin,” and then he's coming, clenching tight against Quentin everywhere they touch.
He curls forward as he finishes, curls half over Quentin and shakes, his hands dropping from Quentin's hair to dig into his shoulders again, Peter finally coming back down onto his heels but still almost as off balance.
Quentin lets Peter's cock slide from his mouth—enjoying Peter’s whimper at that—and looks up. “You okay, honey?” he says, and shit, his voice is wrecked.
Which Peter notices, of course, his eyes going wide. “Are you okay?” he asks instead, bringing his hand up to Quentin's neck. “You— you sound— you've never sounded like that before.”
Quentin snorts. “I'm fine, baby. You've just never really fucked my face before.”
“Ahhh,” Peter moans, “don't say it like that! I mean!” He scrunches his eyes closed and tries to shuffle back a step, pulling his hands from Quentin.
“Peter,” Quentin says, extremely amused, “it's fine. It's good, even.” He reaches for Peter, curls his hands around Peter's thighs. “Come on, I know you liked it.” He grins up at Peter. “You know I did.”
“I— I mean,” Peter mutters, blushing. “I. I did, uh.”
Quentin shakes his head. “The things you can say,” he says, “the things you can do, and you still get so shy about some. Here,” he adds, sliding his hands down, “pick up your foot. You're gonna fall over if you try and move around like this.”
Peter does, pressing his hands back onto Quentin's shoulders as he lifts his foot, Quentin yanking his shoe off and tugging his pants and underwear off as well. “I'm not going to fall,” Peter huffs, “I'm sticky.” Quentin raises his eyebrows and gives Peter a little shove, and Peter immediately proves himself a liar by almost tipping right over, squeaking and grabbing tighter to Quentin.
“Shut up,” Peter says, blushing brighter. “And— ugh, you know what,” he adds, as Quentin pokes him to lift his other foot, “you know perfectly well why I don't get as, as embarrassed about saying things sometimes!”
“Oh yeah?” Quentin says, tossing Peter's clothes aside and sitting back on his heels.
“Yeah,” Peter says, taking half a step back as Quentin stands up. Tilts his head up a bit and gets that obstinate little set to his jaw. “You totally know. That's why you wait until after, when I'm not all distracted by being stupidly turned on.”
It should be a little worrying, that Peter’s caught on to that. But it’s not like it’s stopped it from working, and it’s not like Peter is really protesting.
Quentin grins at him. “Caught me,” he says. “But can you really blame me, sweetheart? You're just too fucking adorable when you get like this.”
“Adorable,” Peter mutters, slipping his hands up under Quentin's shirt. “Ugh.”
“Mm,” Quentin says, curling an arm around Peter's waist and pulling him closer. “I like seeing you blush. Like seeing that it doesn't go away, that it's not going to stop no matter how filthy you get.” Peter glares at him, then leans in and bites at his shoulder, dull through his tshirt.
“Really?” he asks, and Peter just huffs at him.
He grabs Peter's chin with his free hand, tilts it up. “I like knowing that's what it takes to make you talk a little dirty, that I do that to you. Like knowing no one else will ever get that.” He shifts, rubbing up against Peter, still hard, still wanting. “Yeah, it’s adorable, and it's fucking hot too.”
He kisses Peter, or Peter kisses him; it doesn't matter who started it, but it's hard and messy, pushing into each other.
“So tell me,” he says when Peter breaks away for a breath. “Tell me that you liked it. What you liked,” and he's being nice here, really, letting Peter get a little worked up again before he has to say it.
Next time, he won't.
Of course, there's a chance Peter still won't say it, that he'll still be shy, still stutter over it.
Peter looks down, and then leans back in, kissing him again, and Quentin supposes that answers that. Well, he can try again later; it's not that important right this second, and Peter's hand is creeping across his stomach, settling over the button of his jeans.
Peter pulls back as he pops it open, and looks at Quentin, looks straight at him. “Yes,” he says, and while it's quiet, low, it's steady. “I liked fucking your face. I liked it a lot, I liked the way you looked and sounds you made,” and he's pulling down the zipper, spreading apart the flaps. “I liked seeing the mess on your face, and I liked how you sounded after, and the way it felt, fuck,” Peter says, rubbing his hand over the fabric of Quentin's underwear, curling his fingers in the band. “I liked the way it felt and how it felt to just hold you in place like that and how you just let me, how you felt, just soft and unresisting,” pulling Quentin's underwear down, wrapping his hand around his cock, finally, “and it was so good and I can't wait to do it again.”
Fuck, when did Quentin turn into the unsteady one here?
He reaches down and gets his hands on Peter's ass, yanks him closer, Peter's hand trapped between them, and kisses him. Peter kisses back, squirming around a little until his cock is next to Quentin's—god, of course he's hard again already, this kid— wrapping his hand around both of them.
Quentin groans and thrusts against him, into Peter's hand. “Fuck,” he says, pulling Peter closer, he needs him closer, “maybe it's a good thing you can't say these things all the time.”
“Yeah?” Peter whispers, pulling his hand from between them, rolling his hips, perfectly aligned against Quentin's cock.
“You'd fucking kill me,” Quentin tells him, “you are killing me, christ,” and he can't— there isn't any closer, but he wants it, still.
“I'm pretty sure you'd survive,” Peter says, hooking his hands behind Quentin's neck. “Cause I said I wanted to do it again, and like, I know you're not going to let me down,” and then he just, hikes himself up, legs wrapped around Quentin.
“Jesus, Peter,” Quentin groans, tightening his grip on Peter's ass and thrusting against him, and it is closer, it is better, Peter clinging to him like this. Peter rolls his hips, his ass firming under Quentin’s hands, thighs tensing along his sides, so strong.
He's not wrong, Quentin thinks, because Quentin's not going to let Peter start to think he can't ask for things, can't want things. He's not going to allow any room for backsliding, not yet. He's not wrong, even if he doesn't know why, and that's a little disturbing, honestly, that Peter's picked up on that, that Peter sees.
“You're turning into such a goddamn brat,” he says, and he doesn't know why it surprises him, really; Peter's always been a sassy little shit, when he's not all shut down on himself.
Peter rocks a little harder against him. “You like it,” he says, and there's still just enough of a thread of uncertainty in there to be acceptable.
For Quentin to narrow his eyes and glare and tell him, “You wish.” To let himself show the slightest hint of a smile, and Peter's watching for it, eyes darting across Quentin's face until he catches that little tic Quentin's trained him to see, the little upturn, tension in the corner of his mouth.
Sees it, and Quentin can feel that tiny bit of tension leave Peter, as he darts in and kisses that very spot. “You do,” he whispers, not a question this time, cheerful
He doesn't, not really; he's never cared much for those toys whose base nature is to push at every boundary, fight every little thing. It's fun for a while, but he can never really relax, never really let his guard down a bit, because if he gives them an inch they'll take fucking mile.
Peter won’t.
Hell, he won't even take that inch, not without looking back to check that Quentin wants him to.
Peter's thighs flex as he rubs up against Quentin, cocks close but not enough to really get anywhere. He has to tilt his head back to kiss Peter like this, and they fall into that, Quentin kneading Peter's ass as they kiss, slow and messy. He slides one hand down to Peter's thigh, gripping it, and Peter laughs very softly against his lips.
“What?” Quentin says.
“Just,” Peter says, piecemeal between kisses, “you really like my thighs. I don't know why, but, uh, yeah, that's a thing you really like, isn't it.”
“Not gonna to deny it,” Quentin says. “But I like all of you, honey.”
Peter's eyes close at that, and then his arms are tensing, lifting himself up and out from Quentin a little, just enough for Quentin's cock to slip from between them and end up nestled in the cleft of Peter's ass instead. Quentin groans, thrusting forward himself, feeling Peter's ass along the length of him, and Peter moans back, grinding into him.
He brings his hand back to Peter's ass and splays them both across the full span, digging his fingers in and spreading Peter apart. There's a tiny little catch, now, when he thrusts along that space, as the tip of his cock catches on Peter's rim and then slides right past, Peter letting out these choked little whimpers every time.
“Don't tease,” he whispers, trying to squirm and failing, Quentin holding him too tight. “Please, just fuck me.”
“It's only fair, isn't it?” Quentin asks. “After what you put me through earlier?”
“Please,” Peter begs, “please, don't you want to?”
“Fuck, of course I do,” Quentin says, and gives in, slowing this time when his cock presses up against Peter's hole. Peter whines, rubbing against him, and then pulls one hand away from Quentin's neck, bringing it back down behind him to grab Quentin's cock, hold it in place as he sinks down onto it. He moans as it slides in, because he's such a fucking slut for this, always, and starts working himself on it, rolling his hips and clinging to Quentin, Quentin letting him put in all the effort.
Well, almost all the effort, he thinks, as he snaps his hips forward once, and Peter gasps, his head falling back and his hands tightening. Exposing himself, showing off that smudged, faded mark, and Quentin pulls him closer, fitting his mouth to the outline of it.
“Yes, please,” Peter says, but he can't really, not like this, not with how Peter's moving now, how he has to concentrate on too much, keeping his balance in more ways than one.
Peter’s cock is rubbing against his stomach, leaving wet smears all over Quentin’s shirt. “Go on,” he tells Peter, “get yourself off like this, I know you want to.” And then, when Peter starts to drag one hand away from Quentin's neck, “Not like that, honey.”
“I can't,” Peter says, faintly, “please, Quentin, I can't, not—” and Quentin knows the angle is all wrong for him to help Peter at all, but fuck, honestly.
“Don't lie,” Quentin says. “You know perfectly well you can. I've seen you come from so much less.”
Peter groans, and then he's wrapping himself around Quentin even tighter, fucking himself onto Quentin's cock even harder. “There you go,” Quentin tells him, “just like that, you gorgeous thing,” and helps Peter out a bit, digging his fingers in and raising Peter up along with Peter's efforts, lowering him back down, and Peter gives over, lets himself go uncoordinated, just pushing into how Quentin is moving him, using him as nothing more than a hole to fuck.
“Quentin,” Peter gasps, burying his face in Quentin's shoulder, panting harshly as he pushes himself to come. He's not even vocalizing any of it, really, just desperately struggling for air, clinging and bouncing on Quentin's cock. “I— I ca— Quen—” half breathless fragments of words.
“You can,” Quentin tells him, “because I want you to. Because I know you'll give me what I want, won't you?” Turns his head to the side and scrapes his teeth over the tense line of Peter's neck. “Won't you, treasure?”
And that does it, of course that does it, Peter shuddering and clenching down, as his cock twitches between them. He's silent, like he almost never is, not even breathing, his mouth open, leaving a damp spot on Quentin’s shirt.
Quentin gives him a second, and another, just long enough for Peter to suck in a huge, gasping breath, and then lifts him up again, almost off his cock entirely. Peter moans, his fingers digging into Quentin's back, the sound turning strangled as Quentin lets him just drop back down, sinking onto him. He fights, for another breath, another round of Quentin moving him, and then gives in, going limp in Quentin’s hands, easy, letting Quentin just use him however he wants. And he does; fuck, Peter clinging to him, offering himself up so entirely, relying on Quentin for even his balance, for every bit of support— god, it’s like he’s reached into Quentin’s head to give him exactly what he wants.
But now that Peter's not sharing any of the work, Quentin can feel the strain in his arms every time he lifts Peter, how his thighs are starting to ache. “Fuck,” he growls, “you're too heavy for this.”
Peter makes a sound into his shoulder, a protest judging by the tone, but accepts it easily when Quentin steps forward and pushes him up against the wall. Sinks back, away from Quentin a bit, letting himself be a little more supported by the wall, his head thunking back against it, eyes fluttering open. He pulls his hands from around Quentin's neck and presses his palms onto the wall instead, his arms tensing, taking more of his weight.
Quentin is so fucking— he's done, he's been patient and he's enjoyed playing with Peter, sure, but he wants to finish, he wants to fuck Peter until he can't think and finally come, god. He drags his hands down Peter's legs, closed around him, and hooks his thumbs under Peter’s thighs, pressing up at them. Peter gets the hint easily enough, unwrapping his legs and letting Quentin push them up, until his knees are bumping into the wall, his ass spread wide, perfect for fucking into.
It should be tempting enough, and fuck, it really is, but he wants more, he always wants more when it comes to Peter. Always wants to see how far he can push him, and so he slides his hands up further, up the backs of Peter's calves, until his hands are wrapped around Peter's ankles, ridiculously small. Spreads them out, further, and then pushes hard, flattening the whole length of Peter’s legs against the wall.
Peter lets out a startled little breath, but doesn't fight, his body not even resisting it at all; he’s so fucking flexible. So fucking good for Quentin.
He leans in and kisses Peter, and thrusts back into him.
He isn't— he isn't thinking, this time, there isn't a plan, there isn't a place he wants to get Peter to; he just wants to fuck him, as hard as he wants, as he likes, and so he does. It hurts, almost, the tension in his legs as he pounds into Peter, how his skin is slamming against Peter’s, loud, stinging. How his arms are shaking just a little, pressing hard against Peter's legs and already worn down from earlier. He's close, he's so fucking close— fuck, he needs to be braced better than this, needs something more to make it feel like things aren't spinning around him; he pulls one hand from Peter's ankle and flattens his palm against the wall next to Peter's face, presses his forearm into it and leans onto his elbow, closer to Peter, panting into his shoulder.
Peter doesn't let his leg fall, even with Quentin's hand gone; he does something, a little twist, and then there's a tension that wasn't there before, running down his leg and tightening everything, fuck, fuck. He's— he just needs—
He barely notices Peter's hand in his hair, at first, barely registering anything other than the feel of Peter around his cock, and then Peter yanks on it, pulls Quentin’s head back with that completely unfair strength. Pushes forward and sets his teeth over the pulse point of Quentin’s neck and bites and Quentin is fucking done for.
He’s fuzzy, unsteady, for far too long after, even after he's managed to stop gasping for air; Peter must have let go of his hair at some point, he thinks, because his forehead is pressed against the wall, tucked between Peter's temple and his own hand, splayed out on the wall. Both hands are, he realizes after a second, which means nothing is holding Peter open like this; he turns his head, slowly, and Peter—
He laughs, faintly, because Peter’s somehow managed to turn his feet enough to get his toes half onto the wall, and Quentin is pretty sure Peter's only staying like that because he's stuck himself to it. He reaches out and puts his hand over Peter’s ankle; it's shaking slightly. Or maybe his hand is. Or maybe both, god, he doesn't know.
“Shit, Peter,” he mutters, and wraps his hand the rest of the way around Peter's ankle, tugging it gently away from the wall.
“Mmm,” Peter says, dropping his legs, letting them settle loosely around Quentin's waist. Quentin sways slightly at the touch; fuck, he's not entirely sure he could move without falling, right now. Christ, his legs hurt.
Peter makes a startled little sound, and then wraps his legs tighter around Quentin, freeing one of his hands from the wall and curling it up under Quentin's arm, hooked over his shoulder. “I got you,” he says, sounding amused, and Quentin should really pull away, should drop Peter on his insolent little ass and walk off.
In a minute. He will in a minute, when he's a little more sure that won't end with dumping himself on the ground instead.
He drops his head a little further, arms still braced against the wall, and just breathes in the sweaty, musky smell of Peter, overwhelming and gross and still a little hot. In a minute. When it stops feeling so good, the way Peter has him caught, held close and steady.
(Talk about a throwback here, apparently I wrote this in 2016 and then never did anything with it. Good times.)
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It goes like this:
They – Omegas - tilt their head to the side, chin a little raised. Eyes on the floor, or your feet, or if they're pushy, on your collarbone, but always lowered. They expose that dangerously vulnerable spot, that sensitive little gland that needs nothing more than a bit of attention from an alpha to make them weak with need, saying as clear as words, 'I give in'. It's an apology, or an answer, or simply acknowledging their place; that is, lower than alphas. Lesser.
Omegas do it easily, all the time.
Roger's always tried not to take advantage of it. He's been … gifted with the ability to slide around on the spectrum a bit, passing for a beta or even, on rare occasions with a little chemical help, a damaged, medicated omega. It's useful for infiltration and gaining the trust of certain types, but it's exposed him to a level of attention that an alpha would never have to deal with. It's left him with too much empathy to be comfortable just taking the submission offered by that pose.
That doesn't mean he hasn't ever, but he's tried.
As with everything else, Hani takes that posturing and uses it as a weapon. By now, Roger can tell exactly how little Hani thinks of some alpha just by how far Hani's gaze drops, how high he tilts his chin. They don't see it, the mockery in the way he extends the line of his neck, tenses the muscles into something approximating fear, something incredibly tempting, something that makes even the most well controlled of alphas lose a few seconds wanting. Something that makes the less well controlled alphas give in to that want and attempt to take advantage.
Attempt.
Roger sees it. It doesn't stop him from wanting, though.
It should be a weakness, the exposure of that soft, tender spot, primed for need. A touch there is often enough to make an omega lose track of their thoughts; the weaker ones can go glazed just from being scented, just from the breath of air against their skin, but they all lose control when bitten, become mindless with desire when you set teeth to them. He's seen delicate ones pass out from an overenthusiastic bite, something common enough to be a joke, a term used equally in affection and mockery.
It should be a weakness, but if Hani has any such things, Roger has yet to find them.
Hani doesn't mock him with it, at least. "Roger, my dear." he'll say, standing a little too close, and when Roger turns, Hani poses, his eyes still meeting Roger's. It's not submission, then; it's a taunt, a tease. Come on, then , it whispers, come take me like the alpha you are. More than that, really, because it's Roger's fucking weakness. The moment Hani displays himself like that, it's Roger that loses his mind like some idiot knothead, Roger that can think of nothing else but the need to bury his face in the curve of Hani's neck and breathe in the thick, heavy, salt resinous scent of him, the mindless desire to bite down and claim Hani as his crashing into him like a wave. Most of the time he manages to grain enough control to stop, to simply rest with his mouth touching Hani's skin, panting, and then, then Hani is no help at all. He'll chuckle, raise his hand and clench it in Roger's hair, pulling him in tighter until Roger moans and gives in. Gives in and bites, bites that delicious spot hard enough that any other omega would be whining, begging to be fucked, and Hani–
Hani just –
Hani just sighs, contentedly, and presses closer, holds Roger against him as Roger shivers with want. Says, soft and amused, “lovely, dear”, or “good”, or very, very rarely, “yes”, before he disengages, leaves Roger swaying, unable to think at all as Hani straightens whatever damage Roger might have done to his ever pristine appearance.
He never attempts to cover the red livid mark of the bite, though, displaying it with an arrogance that is as distracting as any pose for most of the alphas he encounters. Roger finds his eyes drawn to it all day, keeping his temper sizzling until evening comes and he's ushered along to Hani's home.
Once, twice, and now, this third time, Hani has played him differently, his pose perfect, classic submission, even his eyes lowered to the ground, rich brown almost hidden by the sweep of his lashes. He is softer, almost pliant when Roger presses forward, letting his control slip away enough for him to be flushed, faintly glazed when Roger pulls away from his neck, enough to allow himself to be led to a suitable spot where Roger can keep marking him without interruption. He's even actually submissive, almost, but Roger isn't stupid enough to take it at face value.
Roger knows better, knows Hani better. He's aware, in the moment, between the flashes of bright, blinding desire, that Hani is taking any real alpha dominance from him with the same high handed entitlement he takes everything else, using Roger for what Hani wants as easily as breathing. It may look, may feel as though he is taking Hani, is using him and fucking him and marking him, spreading his come over the marks on Hani's neck and watching Hani's pupils shrink to next to nothing, but the truth is so much simpler; Hani is letting him take this. Hani is letting him have this.
And he knows now what comes after, what is waiting for him once he's … shown off for Hani, displayed his ability to dominate. Once he's taken every last bit that Hani allows, once Roger's scent is spread across Hani's skin, almost obliterating the tempting, heady scent of an unbonded omega, at least temporarily marking Hani as taken, once that fierce, sharp swell of possession screaming mine, mine, mine, has lodged itself firmly in Roger's chest.
What comes then, when Roger starts to feel a little self satisfied with himself, is Hani.
Hani will hum, will sniff almost delicately as he scents them, catching the claim laid onto his skin, and loosen the iron grip he keeps on himself. He'll lean up into Roger, rubs his cheek against Roger's, glands brushing, the sticky semen smeared across his sliding onto Roger's as well, there for anyone to smell, to know exactly what's happened. And they know, Roger knows people know, what with the startled, second glances they give him, the faint sneer he gets from traditionalists.
Mine, it says, stamped with Hani's scent, as good as any signature or seal or brand. Mine, streaked across Roger's neck like he's the omega, to be marked so. Mine, and it's the snarl underlying Hani's claim that leaves Roger weak needed and wanting.
Mine, it says, saturated with Hani's scent, as though Roger is the omega to be claimed.
Dark, Darker, Darkest - Kinktober 2024 Day 1: Bruises
Pairing: Peter/Quentin
Word Count: 6394
Summary: “It’s fine,” Peter says, “they’ll be long gone by tomorrow.” He brings a hand down and touches them, lightly, his fingers next to Quentin's. “I kinda wish they’d last longer, though,” he says, very quietly.
“Maybe next time,” Quentin says, “we can do better about that, hmm?”
(This is a scene from my larger work, Gotcha. No real spoilers. This takes place near the end of act two (so about… 10-15 scenes from the current chapter?).)
Read on AO3
“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.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
Long time no see. >.>
If anyone is still hanging around here and interested, I'm going to be extremely foolish and attempt a (modified) kinktober again!
By modified I mean these are mostly going to be parts of things I already have written or mostly written, and I picked through prompts a lot. Right now, the challenge aspect for me is going to be simply posting every day and trying to engage. I'm hopeful that by getting back into the groove of just putting stuff out there in a less than perfect state and getting some hype energy from others, I can start to feel like actually writing again.
Wish me luck, and please please say something if you like something I post! Talking with other people about fic/headcanons/writing is like 85% of my fuel!
The vulture capitalist hedge fund that bought and subsequently destroyed Toys R Us now owns Overdrive/Libby.
They have already begun making it worse/less usable and they have a chokepoint monopoly on the delivery method of ebooks borrowed from public libraries in the US.
A fun thing about capitalism is that rich people can buy something a lot of people love and depend on, and then destroy it for fun and profit, and there’s not really anything we can do about it.
Global investment vampires have positioned themselves to suck our libraries dry
i'm curious to know the ratio of writers to readers on ao3 so here's a poll. when i say writer, i mean people who have published works on ao3, doesn't matter if it's once, or if it was ages ago, or if it's a regular occurrence. when i say reader, i mean people who have never published a work on ao3. the reader vote still counts if you don't have an account on ao3. if you're a writer who is also an active reader, please still click on the "writer" option!
ao3 ratio
writer
reader
Voting ended onAug 15, 2023
please do boost this so it reaches a larger sample space!
[ID: Tweet from Joelle Garfinkel @/msjoellegarf that says, "The fund is down to $380.11 with 200+ waitlisted and 380 applications pending review. If you’re able to donate, now’s the time! Venmo info below (joelle-garfinkel) or email [email protected] for PayPal and Zelle options! #strikefund #mutualaid" end ID]
Hi, OP, great blog and I mean this sincerely. Now. Genuinely. What the fuck oh my god you can't just do this to people without warning oh my god i am literally sobbing this is round one? round one you bracketed these two absolute gut punches against each other and put them there for everyone and the devil to see? Round ONE?
I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There’s nothing more to say.
The poem ends,
Soft as it began,—
I loved my friend.
The second is "A Meeting" by Wendell Berry. It reads:
In a dream I meet
my dead friend. He has,
I know, gone long and far,
and yet he is the same
for the dead are changeless.
They grow no older.
It is I who have changed,
grown strange to what I was.
Yet I, the changed one,
ask: 'How you been?'
He grins and looks at me.
'I been eating peaches
off some mighty fine trees.'
The following survey is designed to determine exactly how people interact with writeblr, when, and how often. Answers here will be used to c
Hey, what's up, writeblr? Piggying back off this thread is a more formal attempt at getting an idea of who browses Tumblr's writing community and how.
All questions except the ones regarding the time are optional. The time questions are required because those are the three that kicked this whole shebang off, and it's probably the three people are most interested in. The rest are just to get an idea of what folks should best focus on and what's less important.
And yes, you read that correctly: answers are entirely anonymous (to the general public—there's a voluntary question at the end that will tell me who you are so I can tag you when the results come out), but answers will eventually be compiled into one post that will hopefully give writers an idea of when writeblr's actual peak hours are and who their audiences might be. This will hopefully help authors connect with readers—or at least reassure them that they do have readers.
This survey will be open until August 6, exactly one month from now.
If you have any questions, please don't hesitate to ask. My askbox is anon-friendly, and my DMs are open to mutuals, if you don't wish to ask publicly via comments/reblogs.
Thanks so much for your responses!
(Also, yes, please feel free to boost this post to increase sample size.)
Strike Support Declining - Here's how you can continue to support the writers
Since the WGA strike started on May 2, the public has shown immense support for the writers—sending food, snacks, drinks, and encouragement from across the world all the way to Los Angeles, New York, and other picketing locations.
But loud and vocal strike support—in the news and in public spaces—is notably declining the longer the strike goes on. So we're bringing you a few ways to show writers, studios, and fellow fans: we're still here, and we still stand with the WGA.
1. Post on Twitter (and other social media sites)
You might think social media noise won't be noticed by the studios, but it CAN encourage individual WGA members—and slowly but surely put pressure on the studios to make a fair deal.
If you follow WGA members such as Adam Conover (Adam Ruins Everything), John Rogers (Leverage, Librarians), Gennifer Hutchison (Breaking Bad, Better Call Saul), Javier Grillo-Marxuach (Lost, The Witcher) [and many many more you can find through their following lists], tell them you support them! Hashtag #IStandWithTheWGA #DoTheWriteThing and tell them that you and your fandom are prepared to support them as long as the strike lasts; that they deserve to have their demands met and you're with them all the way. Boost morale however and whenever you can!
Likewise, actively push back against misinformation/disinformation. See a TikTok claiming that all Hollywood writers are filthy rich and we shouldn't vocally support them? Correct it with well-sourced citations from the WGA, published news articles, and stories from those affected (like the time a writer on FX's The Bear attended the an awards show with his bank account balance in the negative, only to then win an award for Best Comedy Series—proving that good writers on award-winning shows still cannot make a living!)
Remember you can always link to Adam Conover's excellent explanation of WGA demands versus studio refusals, tweeted here.
2. Donate or boost fundraisers
You might be surprised to learn that the picketing locations are not always parties! Sometimes themed pickets are fun, and fandoms and celebrities occasionally are able to fundraise for a food truck or ice cream truck at picketing locations. However, that is the EXCEPTION and not the norm. Writers are asking for food & drinks at many locations.
There are many funds to donate to, and it can be overwhelming to pick one! But one that could use your support RIGHT NOW is the CBS Radford picket line:
-If you're in LA, you can bring food and snacks directly to that picket line (or get food deliveries sent there, with instructions to be given to the strike captain on duty.) Strike locations are available on the WGA West website and are updated there.
-Or there's a pizza fund for the strike locations (unfortunately Venmo is a US-only donation option)
-If you're not in LA, donate to the Entertainment Community Fund to support TV and film workers affected by the strike.
-More tips on donating to the strike in this great article!
-Lots of fandoms are organizing donations on their own, for instance the Our Flag Means Death fundraiser on Paypal (available internationally). Check to see if your fandom has started a fundraiser... or start one yourself to show your support! We're happy to give tips on organizing your fandom!
As always, please boost this post and any and all well-sourced information that comes from the WGA or its members. We're happy to fact-check anything you send our way too.
The writers' strike is ongoing and the studios are still not returning to the negotiating table. Unfortunately a lot of the coverage has tapered off because we're on 50+ days of striking and it's not new anymore. The last strike in 2007 lasted 100 days, so don't be surprised if this strike lasts as long, or even longer.
The biggest recent news is that the Directors' Guild of America (DGA) voted to ratify their new agreement with the studios (article from June 23), and it appears likely that the actors' guild (SAG-AFTRA) will also take a deal instead of striking (article from June 24). Although this is disappointing news, it's completely expected. During previous strikes, the WGA held its own without other unions going on strike. Which is to say—don't be disheartened by the news that there won't be a triple strike. The WGA is strong enough!
Please keep vocally supporting the WGA online to keep the pressure on the studios & to keep WGA members motivated and encouraged! There are many ongoing donation drives, such as the Star Trek fan snack squad (Twitter account required to DM the organizer) and the Our Flag Means Death snack squad (opens the PayPal fundraising page—no Twitter required). There's a longer list of ongoing donation drives here.
The Entertainment Community Fund is also always accepting donations to support entertainment workers affected by the strike. Please boost and encourage your friends to keep supporting the strike. Hashtag #IStandWithTheWGA #DoTheWriteThing to boost the cause!
It's sad to see the DGA go the way they went. SAG-AFTRA are still, I think, waving in the wind.
But for the WGA, this strike is currently at (borrowing a metaphor) Helm's Deep. We have to take the stand that will allow us to—in a month or two, or three (argh), when shit starts to get serious at the AMPTP's end—roll up in front of Minas Tirith and let the other side hear the horns in the morning.
They think they're going to successfully wait us out. They are now slowly (so slowly) beginning to realize that we're waiting them out. Writers are USED to one form or another of the Great Hiatus. They're not. Their stockholders are going to get restive.
We can wait, though it hurts. It's what writers do.
