There were few moments in life as pristine, as galvanising in Quill’s awe and wonder at the universe, as that moment when Peter’s pouting lips made contact with his precum-glazed cock. “Ga-ahhh.” Quill couldn’t help but let out an incoherent gasp, his capacity for rational and coherent statements shattered (or more shattered than usual, he could still imagine one of his friends saying). Quill tried to stay cogent. Tried to maintain that whole steely aloof demeanour, that of the nurturing and mentoring dom, that he imagined Parker so craved. It was hard, though, when even a single kiss, the sensations from his precum being smeared and lathered over his tip, rendered him dumb.
And it was all but impossible when Peter Parker, in a spurt of unrestrained impudence, went above and beyond what Quill had commanded. Just as Quill was looking down, keen to revel in the sight of Peter Parker with Quill’s precum defiling his virgin features, Parker’s tongue just shot out, slurping up the evidence of Quill’s arousal. The sight was hot enough that another jet of pre all but shot out of Quill’s slit.
The panting against his stomach was the icing on the cake, the final straw, that made any attempt at a teasingly drawn out foreplay an exercise in futility for them both. Just Peter’s breath, harried and wanton, washing over his cock was a pleasure Quill had never before known. “Fuck, man. Fuck.” Quill sighed, forcing himself to open his eyes, just to savour this sight, giving himself a second so he could compose his words. He wanted this moment to be perfect, after all. Something that they could both go back to, time and time again.
“Peter Parker. Please, suck my dick. I need it too, man.”