Quill normally wasn’t one for being curt and brusque with his commands. Normally he shrouded them with jokes and quips, laced them with in-jokes, made it seem more like a friendly suggestion than the order of a superior. It was just the way he was. Normally, authority didn’t come to him naturally. But under the circumstances, a steady tone with no room for ambiguity and no space for doubt just seemed like the best option. Partially it was for Parker’s sake – most people did not want their first time peppered with cheesy jests and tricky-to-navigate sarcastic barbs. But also it was for his own sake. Quill was, for once, the undisputed authority, the unchallenged expert, a hot twink begging to be made into a submissive before him, eager to acquiesce to his every whim and master the techniques that brought him the most pleasure.
When the cold night air washed over his cock, Quill couldn’t resist another shiver, his cock primed and ready to be acutely sensitive. Somehow the alcohol seemed to have heightened his senses there, even when everything else was blurred and slurred. Peter Parker didn’t take a firm grip straight away. At least at first, Quill’s desire for more intimate contact had had to make do with the brushes of skin, first against his clothed length, then against his own bare flesh, as Spider-Man fumbled to pull the older man’s cock out into the open. But when Peter started to stroke his length in full, with a steady rhythm and a firm grip and that coquettish look on his face as he savoured the sight, Quill let out a moan. It was a long, guttural release, completely unguarded and leaving his lips too fast for him to temper the thirst and need apparent in its timbre.
“Fucking hell, Parker,” he finally was able to say, surprising himself with every coherent word he was able to say. “You’re a damn natural.”
Quill swallowed, feeling that little bead of precum beginning to trickle down his shaft. It was on the underside of his cock, but he could imagine it glistening and shimmering in the moonlight, catching the eye of the horny teenager pumping his dick. He could see Peter’s gaze following it, could see the young man fighting a disobedient temptation to swoop in and lick it up. Quill made sure to commit this sight to memory, because as enticing as it was, he knew that sooner or later, that rivulet of precum would be swept away by Parker’s regular strokes, and the opportunity to have Parker taste the first drop of precum ever spilled for him would be lost.
Straightening his back and steadying his voice, imitating all those for whom authority came more naturally, Quill spoke coolly. “You see that drop of precum?” A rhetorical question; Quill knew the answer. “Kiss it. Let me see it on your lips.”