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An Indecent Proposal (NSFW)

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An Indecent Proposal

Gif sources:  1  |  2

You were living on love— working three jobs, putting off your own degree just to keep a roof over your heads, while Peter promised his unpaid internship at Stark Industries was going to pay off one of these days. Well, these days you almost hated that stupid internship of his, but you were foolishly, head over heels for Peter Parker. Had been since high school. Back in those days, life had been simpler. Your worries revolved around whether your father would ever care to notice you getting home late most nights, which he was typically too drunk to realize, and helping get Peter into college on scholarship.

You don’t think your parents even noticed you had moved in with him as soon as you became a legal adult, up until the second your room was empty. Working straight out of high school came easy. You could throw yourself into it, because you had to.

Rent was something you made on pennies and dimes, even in the days when Peter worked the night shifts, back before he had landed his internship. You had celebrated it over ramen and boxed wine, as Peter pulled you close.

“I’m gonna’ get us out of here, baby, I promise,” he whispered against your lips that night, right before you took him to the mattress, which rested against the dirty cracked hardwood of this studio apartment. And, of course you had believed him— oh, how you’d wanted to believe him.

Then, the bills started to become things you couldn’t make on your own. Landlords knocking at your door and eviction notices at your feet— within the week you would both be homeless, all because of that internship of his.

“We can get through this,” Peter had held you close; you had cried. “I can take another job.” You both knew he couldn’t, not with the way he was already working.

That Wednesday he met the Quentin Beck at work. Came home gushing to you about how amazing the millionaire’s ideas were, and that Mr. Beck had listened to some of his ideas. Things were finally facing up, Peter told you. By that Friday you were accompanying Peter to some fancy corporate dinner he had managed to get himself into, at the behest of his newfound mentor.

You wore the same dress you had worn to your grandmother’s funeral, black and classy and a little shorter with the height you had aged into over these last couple years. Your heels were maybe too high, but they were the only ones you had that were even close to fancy enough for this.

Quentin Beck was younger than you imagined, but still almost twice your age. Thick, dark brown hair and a groomed beard to match sat across from you at the dinner table, blue eyes flanked by important people and watching you in a way that set you on edge, urging your hand to reach for Peter’s. The way Mr. Beck talked was soft, with an edge of flirtation that wasn’t entirely playful as the night went on. You hadn’t expected for him to move to sit closer, while it got later and your boyfriend’s boss’ bosses eventually trickled out of the restaurant and on their ways home.

Peter stroked over your palm with his thumb as it rested in his lap, right when Mr. Beck leaned over the table towards the two of you, “You know, you really remind me of me, kid. Dedicated, hardworking…” his cobalt gaze slips to you, a cheeky smile biting at his perfect teeth, “great taste in women.”

Your eyes widen a fraction as Peter laughs beside you, forcing your attention to focus on his amusement, “That’s really nice of you to say, Mister Beck.”

Daring to look back, you try to make conversation, “The Missus Beck must be a wonderful lady, I bet.”

“Oh, this?” he leans back in his seat, holding up his left hand to show the silver band there as he chuckles, “I’m not married.” At the confusion in your eyes, he elaborates, “It’s easier if people assume, sometimes— especially at work. Makes me look uncomplicated and trustworthy to our clients.”

“That sounds like something that someone untrustworthy would say, Mister Beck,” you joke before you think, and Peter shoots you an almost warning glance that makes your smirk falter.

Mr. Beck, however, just laughs, running his ringed hand through his hair, “I suppose it does.”

“What happens if they find out you’re not married, though?” Peter tests slowly, curiosity getting the better of him. “Wouldn’t that be an issue for client trust?”

The older man just smiles at the two of you, before he answers, “I keep my arrangements well enough for our clients, by the time they figure out their assumptions were wrong. Earn someone enough money, and they’ll trust you with anything, kid. You’ll learn that soon enough.”

“Not anything, surely,” you wonder, Mr. Beck’s gaze slipping back to yours with a raise of his brow. “Maybe with business, but some things can’t be bought.”

He looks as if he can’t understand you, and his tone sounds like a dare, “Name one thing.”

An involuntary giggle slips from you, almost in disbelief, as you glance quickly to Peter for backup before you continue, “Well… People, of course. You can’t buy love, Mister Beck.”

With a lick of his lips, he corrects you, “Quentin— and of course you can buy love. You’re a lamb among wolves if you truly believe that, honey.”

“I agree with her,” Peter leans into your side, giving your hand a squeeze. He smiles in a way that warms you to your toes and has you leaning into his dinner jacket, “Love isn’t bought.”

“See, Quentin?” you beam at him, to which his eyes widen, “We’re proof— love doesn’t have a price tag.”

Quentin takes a drag from his wine, seemingly mulling over your words as he studied you over his glass. Sitting it down, you spot the spark of determination that wasn’t just the candlelight in his eyes.

“Why don’t we test that theory?”

“How do you plan to do that?” Peter asks, while Quentin gestures to you leisurely.

“What would you say if I were to offer you a million dollars,” he begins slowly, testing the waters, his eyes trained on you as he speaks to your boyfriend, “to spend one night with your girlfriend?”

Your mouth drops, a swirl of emotions simmering in the pit that forms in your stomach. Offense, embarrassment, a hint of disbelief that he would even joke about such a thing— they all left you speechless.

Peter fared better, as his tone becomes a bit more serious, though still trying to hold a lightness to it in an attempt to diffuse whatever situation was blossoming, “That’s a funny joke.”

Quentin finally looks to Peter, his lips quirking up at the corners. It’s not the same smile you’d seen through the night, there’s something missing. It takes a second for you to realize it’s missing the humor.

“For the sake of argument, say I wasn’t joking.”

“He would say, ‘no,’ of course,” you huff, squeezing Peter’s hand to snap him out of whatever stunned silence Quentin had put him into.

“Would you?” Quentin teases, and Peter stammers out his answer.

“Y-Yeah, of course I would.”

Quentin scoffs, a roll of his eyes, “You only say that because it’s hypothetical.” He reaches into his dinner jacket, retrieving a sleek checkbook, which he sits on the table between you, “What if it wasn’t? I’m serious— a million dollars. You know I’m good for it, Peter.” The room was spinning, a tunnel vision focusing around the checkbook as your breathing picked up, your palms starting to sweat at just what he was saying, “Just think of it, that kind of money could change your lives. What’s one night in the case of a lifetime?”

After Quentin realizes he’s successfully shocked the both of you into silence, he chuckles, tucking the checkbook back into his inner breast pocket and standing from the table, “Think about it. You don’t have to give an answer right now.” He shoots you a wink as he makes to leave, “Take it seriously, honey.”

Neither of you move until the waiter comes by to ask if you would like anything else, notifying you that your bill had already been paid by Quentin Beck.

The fight you had that night was one for the ages. Hurt and humiliated accusations flew from you to Peter and back, until the night ended in the early morning with you on your mattress and him on the couch. Still, you couldn’t sleep, not because of Peter’s light snoring, but because of the events at dinner. Sitting up on the mattress, you could easily see the bills marked Final Notice that littered your dinner table, even through your tears. By Monday, you were going to be on the streets at this rate. Evicted.

It feels as if it wasn’t you who crawled out of that bed, your feet moving you across the small apartment and towards the couch as if you were a ghost, grounded only when you finally forced yourself into Peter’s side. He stirs from his sleep with a disoriented grunt, feeling the couch dip with your weight as you nestle into him as best you can, up until his arms wrap around your waist to pull you closer.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Peter grumbles hoarsely, a whisper you would have wanted to hear two hours ago, “I should have told him to go fuck himself as soon as he suggested such a thing.” His thumb traces your jaw, forcing him to get a better look at you in the darkness of the night, before he wipes at the tears along your cheek. “Hey, you know I love you, right?”

You sniff, turning your face into the cushions and away from his hand, murmuring your acceptance there, “I’ve been thinking, Petey.”

He props up a bit, onto his elbows, a frown etching into his smooth features, “What about?”

It sounds wrong— dirty— coming from your mouth, tasting bitter on your tongue, “A million dollars is a lot of money.”

“You can’t be seriously considering what Beck said.”

Your mouth goes dry, “Aren’t you?” Tears well in your eyes again, threatening to spill as you feel the overwhelming sense of fear that had hovered over you these past months return, “We’re getting kicked out of here on Monday, Peter. Unless you have a plan, or a miracle, what else are we supposed to do?”

“I’m not pimping out my girlfriend to make rent!” Peter spits like it disgusts him, sobering from his sleep quickly enough, and you feel yourself recoil at the sound.

You would like to think that Mr. Beck found you when you were vulnerable— that maybe you just were worn and tired and didn’t want to struggle anymore the way you had become used to. This wasn’t your character, doing something like this. You hadn’t been raised like this, you knew that much.

But you couldn’t see any other way, “Peter, give me a better option.” You hate the way you sound— desperate, begging— and you hate the look it brings to Peter’s face. His own eyes looked red and bloodshot, as if he were near to crying, too.

Peter’s voice cracks as he admits, “I wanna’ give you everything, but I can’t.”

You reach up, fingers carding through the short buzz at the back of his neck that increased in length the further it rose to the crown of his head, a broken whisper escaping you, “You can give me your blessing, Pete.

He looks down at you, presses his forehead to yours, and shuts his eyes.

You feel a tear drop against your cheek, “I’ll support you, whatever you do.”

Chapter Text


Gif source:  1  |  2


With the sunrise came the numbness of the next morning. A grogginess akin to that of a hangover, somewhere between confusion and the idea that yesterday was a dream, clings to you as you push yourself up on the tattered couch you found yourself upon. The sound of water running in the bathroom alerts you to where Peter is, and you find he’s covered you with the quilt your grandmother had made when you graduated high school.

You push it off of you, kicking it down with your feet, feeling almost unworthy to have such an innocent thing brushed up against your skin in the wake of what you had resolved to do. Bare feet hit the cold hardwood, your hands finding the mess of your hair to push it from your face. You know you must look a mess right about now, as sleeping had been the hardest thing to find last night, even with Peter’s warmth around you.

What did Quentin Beck want you for? You couldn’t understand it. Maybe you were just convenient, or a challenge— something he was told he couldn’t have. Steeling yourself, you decide then and there that you were not going to try to figure him out, or dwell on whatever screwed up reason this man was willing to pay such a sum… to teach you some kind of lesson, maybe?

No, stop. You weren’t going to try to figure him out.

“Hey,” shifts your focus towards the bathroom, the word muffled around the toothbrush that hung from the side of Peter’s mouth. His eyes were tired, concerned as he watched you with a wariness you hadn’t seen before.

“Hey,” you mimic, finding your voice small and hoarse, barely there. Clearing your throat, you try again, finding it more forceful this time, “Good morning.” But it doesn’t feel like one. Something has shifted in the winds, a change on them that you didn’t quite know if either of you would recover from any time soon.

Peter offers you a sort of smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, before turning back to the sink to spit and rinse out his mouth, returning to the door with a hand towel that he uses to wipe his jaw, “Do you still want to do this?”

“Unless suddenly we have enough to keep us from getting evicted in our bank account?” you sigh, rubbing your hands along your face to wipe the sleep from your eyes, “I’ve got to, Peter.”

“It’s only one night, right?” he sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than he is you, a hollow laugh following the question.

“I want you to promise me something,” you start, looking up to find him making his way to you on the couch. He sits beside you, pulling you against his chest, which you gratefully lean into, craving his touch right now. You grip at the white shirt he’s wearing, hearing the curious sound that comes from him as he waits for you to continue, “I want you there. I don’t want to go in alone.”

“What?” he swallows, before taking a breath that sounds just as shaky as he is, “Okay. I’ll be there for you.”

“And I want to make sure he isn’t gonna’ do something that will hurt me. We need like, something that will guarantee us the money after, and protect us.”

“Like a contract.”

“Yeah,” you look to his face, reaching to tilt his head to face you, “and I want us to never talk about it afterwards. It happens, and we pretend like it never did once we get the money. I love you, and nothing that I do with him is going to change that, okay? I need you to know that, Pete. And I need to know that you can go back to loving me after.”

“Baby,” it’s soft, a bit high-pitched as he tries to soothe you with his hand that cups your face, pulling your lips to kiss his chastely, “don’t even say that. I’m going to love you; nothing’s going to change that.” His own worry thickens his voice, catching it in his throat, “I just don’t want you to hate me.”

“What? Why would I hate you?” you shift, kneeling into the couch to get a better look at him. His gaze falters, unable to keep yours, instead becoming far too engrossed with the hem of your nightshirt.

“This— I know you’re doing it for us— for me,” Peter takes a stabilizing breath. “I don’t want you to resent me.”

“It’s my choice,” you shake your head, fingers tugging him back to you, holding him close as he buries his nose in the side of your neck, the warmth of his breath heating the skin there, “and I’m going to have to live with it.” You stay like that for a long while, until the oranges and pinks of the sunrise beyond your windows give way to bright blue, far too beautiful a day blossoming in the sky for your liking.

He leans back, his head resting against the couch cushions, and he smiles at you— a genuine one, this time, that slowly subsides, “I need to call him. Tell him our answer.”

“I want to be here when you do.”

You bite your lips, resting your head on Peter’s shoulder as you press your chest into his back, him sitting on the edge of the couch as he tries his call. Part of you almost hopes there won’t be an answer, your heart skipping a beat as the dial tone stops. Peter glances to you for the split second between sound and silence, an edge in his posture that you’re sure is mirrored in your own.

You weren’t so lucky.

“This is Quentin Beck.” he sounds so damn smug, and you can almost see the smirk you had become acquainted with last night in your mind’s eye, “How can I help you, kid?”

Peter’s brow furrows, a seriousness you were surprised to find in his voice, steadier than you felt, “It’s more of what we can do for you, Mister Beck— Quentin.” He pauses, taking a breath that seems to calm him, “We have an answer to your offer, from last night.”

The phone cracks in the silence, before you hear a deep chuckle, “What have you decided?”

“We’re in, but there are gonna’ be some conditions.”

By the end of the call, you could barely breathe. A total of five minutes, and your whole world had shifted. The person you thought you would never be, you finally were. Beck had agreed to nearly all of your requirements, before adding a stipulation of his own.

“I’m going to need you to sign a NDA.”

That was probably the easiest thing Quentin was going to ask you to do. Your silence, you could give freely.

“Then we have an agreement,” Peter clears his throat awkwardly, glancing to you for confirmation. You give a nod. “Just, uh, tell us a time and a place— before Monday.”

“I’m out of town this weekend, on business. Next Friday works for me, though,” your shoulders droop, worry causing your fingers to clench around Peter’s bicep. Before Peter can negotiate, Beck chuckles, “But if your time frame is due to your rent issues, consider that handled.”

“W-What?” you break, before sucking in a quick gasp at having verbalized it aloud. How did he even know about that?

“Well, hello, honey,” Beck addresses you, and you feel heat wash over you in a way that it definitely shouldn’t have. When you don’t respond, he sighs, “Check your account, Parker. I’ll wire a quarter of the agreed amount today. Consider it a down payment. You’ll get the rest after next Friday, and we can sign all agreed paperwork then.”

You’re almost shocked at how casual he sounds. Like this was just another business transaction to him. In the deepest depths of your heart, you almost envy that distance— you wished you could be as impersonal when it came to this.

“U-um, thank you,” Peter manages, not quite knowing what to say.

Beck ignores the gratitude, “You will meet me at the Four Seasons. Penthouse. Eight o-clock. Understood?”

“We’ll be there.”

“Oh, and,” Quentin calls your name, voice laced in anticipation and a smile, “I look forward to seeing you again.”

When the line disconnects, you find yourself still clinging to Peter. A single thought, like a mantra, passes from you to him in an attempt to soothe the rigidity that’s wrecked him, murmured softly against his tense shoulders.

”It’s just my body. My heart’s always yours, Peter.”

Chapter Text


Gif source:  1  |  2


By Friday, your life had already changed. You gave your notice at two of your three jobs, because even the down payment itself was enough to make you cry when Peter had confirmed the amount. It was more money than you had ever seen, and it was yours. Your landlord hadn’t even needed convincing to lift your impending eviction, and you had half a mind to wonder if Quentin had done more for you than just placing his money into your account, because no way should it have gone so smoothly.

The pressure was still there, weighing down your shoulders, but it was a different pressure than before. It wasn’t the same impending doom of your finances and debts, crushing and suffocating, but instead a pressure to perform. To keep up your part of the agreement that had formed between you, Peter, and Beck. It set you on edge and jittery, a nervousness that you’d never felt before forcing you through the week, until it became a blur.

You and Peter didn’t talk about it until Friday came, but you could tell he was different, too. His eyes watched you carefully when he got home from work, setting his coat on the back of your couch as you scrutinized the few things you had in your closet. Nothing you had seemed to be appropriate for this, but then again what was appropriate when it came to exchanging sex for money? Of all people, you certainly didn’t know.

Peter clears his throat, and you acknowledge him with a small smile, letting your mind clear when he returns it as best he can.

You keep it up as you ask, “How was your day?”

“Uh, normal, surprisingly,” Peter’s eyes fall to your bare legs. You had shaved them. His brow furrows, his voice nearly a whisper in the quiet room, “I don’t know how he can be so normal at work. He’s been so normal all week— If I didn’t know better, I wouldn’t expect…” He trails off, seemingly at a loss for words.

You look back to your closet, sighing as your clothes just hang there, same as ever, alongside Peter’s, “Who would even expect it at all, anyway?” You catch a glimpse of him in the floor length mirror propped against the wall— it’s a pretty little thing framed in brass that you had managed to save out of your grandmother’s things, right before your parents sent the rest of them to the dump. Yet another thing you would probably regret until the day you died. Peter settles his chin on your shoulder, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you into his chest as if this were the last time he could do it. It makes your heart twist painfully, and you lean into him in a way that you hope reminds him you weren’t floating away any time soon. His chin rests on the soft cotton of your robe, the warmth of him at your back something you take comfort in.

“You look pretty, you know,” he murmurs softly, kindly peering at your profile and getting an up-close view of the makeup you had applied. It’s not much more than you usually put on, when you put it on at all, but it was there in a way that was noticeable. You can’t help your laugh.

“I’m not even dressed yet, Peter,” you squeak at the way his breath tickles your neck, urging you to squirm away, but the need to be held by him is so much stronger.

“Still, you are,” he insists, and somehow he always has a way of making you believe him. He watches you push through the clothes on the rack, going over them again as if you didn’t already know your options. Your hand brushes over the black dress you wore the night this had all been set into motion, and you hear Peter sigh against your ear, “You should wear that one.”

You pause, ready to protest, before you take a better look at it. Plucking it from the rack, you nod firmly, half because you were sick of looking through your clothes for a piece of you that just wasn’t there, and half because you realized you weren’t going to miss losing this from your wardrobe after tonight. It was way past time to retire this dress.

“Alright. I’ll wear this one, then.”

You dressed mindlessly, on autopilot, while Peter lounged on your mattress, scrolling through his phone and paying little attention as you tugged the dress over the lingerie you had purchased for tonight with some of your newfound wealth. None of the underwear you usually wore seemed appropriate for this, and it was something that made you feel like a different person— it made you at least look like who you were supposed to pretend to be tonight, even if you didn’t quite feel like her. As the sun dips on the horizon, Peter slips from the bed to replace his suit jacket for an overcoat, and offer you your own as you slip into your shoes.


Glancing at the clock, you find your heart rate picks up at the nearing deadline ticking closer, “We better go, or we’ll be late.”

The Four Seasons is beautiful and bustling, oozing of class and exclusivity in every way that could possibly appeal to its wealthy clientele. You could practically see yourself in the shine of the marble floors, as guests donned in suits and dresses far more expensive than your own moved about the lobby. It was ridiculous and gratuitous and far more than you could ever hope to afford— you didn’t even want to know how much Beck was paying for the penthouse suite, with the prices you heard the regular rooms could boast.

Peter’s hand in your own is the only thing keeping you from stopping in the middle of the lobby to stare at the ceiling, vaulted and imposing, like it was announcing you don’t belong here for everyone to see. You’re grateful he has the sense to at least pretend he knows where he’s going, but even still you earn a few questioning glances from the staff that seemed ever present, ready to jump at any need you should require.

You’re surprised he sounds as confident as he does when he gathers the attention of a hostess, who scrutinizes you with a raised brow, “Excuse me, we are Mister Quentin Beck’s guests. He should be waiting for us in his room, if you could just point us in the right direction.”

Her eyes widen a fraction, and you figure the whole staff got the memo when someone occupied the penthouse suite, “Of course, may I ask your name, sir, to call up and confirm?”

“Peter Parker.”

“Thank you. One moment, please,” she hums, practiced, with a hospitality that could only ever be manufactured. The phone she holds to her ear doesn’t remain long before she is speaking into it. Maybe one, two rings at most, you guess, a hint of amusement bubbling within you. Had Beck been sitting by the phone, waiting? “Good evening, Mister Beck. Would you like for me to send Mister Peter Parker and his guest up to your room? He says you are expecting them.” You glance at the clock, letting the low murmurs of the lobby soothe you as best it could, while you watched it tick past the hour and into the next, “Yes, sir. You can expect your guests right away.”

She hangs up, and you notice her nails are perfect. Just like this place.

She gestures to another employee, who offers you just as pleasant a smile as all of them seemed to have, “If you will follow Matthew, he will escort you to the private elevator to Mister Beck’s room.”

“Right this way.”

“Sounds good,” you give Peter a look, which he returns, mouthing subtly to you as you follow Matthew. Private elevator? You bite down your lip, to keep yourself from giggling at the look on his face.

You would have ran right into poor Matthew when he stopped abruptly, if it weren’t for Peter quickly jerking you back by the hand.

Matthew presses the elevator button, and swipes a key card when you enter, pressing the highest floor before stepping off, leaving you both with a polite smile, “Have a good night.”

“Uh, you, too,” you manage, right before the elevator doors close, blocking the chatter of the lobby to leave you with the soft music within. You feel the upward movement, but the elevator doesn’t lurch up like so many do. It’s smooth, unassuming and gentle, like the calm before the storm. You glance to Peter, finding he’s gripping the side rail and staring far too intensely at the numbers as they tick off above your head, counting up the floors in your ascension to the top.

It announces you with a ding, high-pitched and cheery. You actually jump at the sound, alerting you to just how wound-up you were.

Peter is stiff beside you as you exit the elevator, the sleek doors closing to leave you in a hallway. Modern art adorns the wall, dark wood under your feet. You glance to your right and spot the corner of another hallway, before the sound of glass clinking against crystal guides your attention to your left.

“Did you have trouble finding it?” Beck sits on a couch, fingers slipping from the wine glass he abandons on the coffee table before him, facing the hallway you emerge from. The room is huge, big enough for you to fit your whole apartment into, and equally as pretentious. A fire burns in the fireplace to his right, casting a shadowy, orange glow along the darkness of his form. It’s all black, from his turtleneck to his dress pants, crossed one leg over another as he lounges there, among the creme pillows. The fire seems to warm his otherwise cold appearance, adding a deceptive openness to him that threatened to lure you in.

“Um,” it comes out soft, small, until you swallow the lump in your throat, as you tear your eyes from Quentin, “no. We had an escort, so…” Trailing off, you find the view behind him. It’s spectacular— the lights of Manhattan standing tall against the nightline, the sun having long died behind the horizon and marking the beginning of the night. Truly, you had never seen New York from a view like this, even after all your years having lived in it.

You’re startled from your reverie when you hear Quentin over your shoulder, “It’s nice, isn’t it, honey?”

When had you moved across the room? The angular windows were not so far as they had once been, and you realize your distraction had forced you further into the living room. You hadn’t even noticed Quentin’s approach, but you certainly were aware of his distance now, leaning against the modern dining chairs between the couches and the windows with a smug quirk to his lips.

You hate that it’s the truth. That you enjoy anything about this. Instead of answering him, you look to Peter, who stands with his hands shoved into his coat pockets as he peers at the two of you, jaw set despite the blank expression on his face. His eyes, though— he was not so good at keeping his emotions out of. They were cautious, bordering on worried, as he watches the interaction between you and Quentin.

“We should sign the contract,” you say, desperate to break the entrancement the room had seemed to cast over you, and interrupt the way Quentin was admiring your form so openly.

“All business,” Quentin sighs, standing to his full height to gesture towards the couches and the large coffee table between them. “After you.” You turn, claiming your space beside Peter on the couch opposite to the one Quentin settled himself in. You watch as Quentin takes hold of the stem of his wine glass, retrieving it from the table to drag a long sip, gesturing openly for you to freely read the papers set on the table before you.

Peter reaches for them, and you read over his shoulder as he flips through the pages of the contract. It was all there, every stipulation, every agreement— written in legal terms that were far too complicated and proper for something like this. In all honesty, you don’t understand all of it, but Peter seems to pour over the contract, up until the last word. The final page is your non-disclosure agreement, and you find Quentin to have already scrawled his signature on the required lines. It was in large loops, confident and unwavering, pressed into the paper with a slight indentation that seemed to suggest its writer demanded control, even from his own handwriting.

“Is it agreeable?” Quentin breaks the silence, making you and Peter glance up to find his raised brow and relaxed posture. His glass was almost empty.

“Does it look good to you?” Peter murmurs, glancing to search your eyes for a problem— a protest. You know he’ll call this off at your first word, money and financial security be damned.

You don’t dare say anything other than, “Yeah.” You reach, taking the papers from Peter’s hand to place them on the coffee table, leaning forward to take the offered pen that Quentin holds out for you. You ignore the way deep blue eyes dip to your cleavage appreciatively, and the brush of his warm fingertips against your own— you would not enjoy this.

Maybe if you said that to yourself enough, it would be true.

Your name looks silly beside his own, you think. Your penmanship is nowhere near as fanciful or bold as Quentin Beck’s, your name scrawled on your appropriate lines far smaller and unconfident compared to his. A shake in your hand punctuates your last name in a squiggle, before you hand off the weighty, firm pen for Peter to take.

He takes it, but only signs the nondisclosure, rather than the payment agreement itself, to which you tilt your head at him, “It’s okay. I don’t need to sign it.”

“What? Why not?”

Pink blossoms on his cheeks when he manages, after a second, “I don’t want the money to go to me, because I’m— I’m not the one doing the work, baby.”

The bark of Quentin’s laughter has you filling with heat, a flush down to your toes, it felt like. You glare at him, earning a playful widening of his eyes in return, as he raises his wine glass one final time. You barely have the time to give Peter’s hand a reassuring squeeze before Beck’s laughter dies in the room.

“I’ll drink to that.”

When he successfully drains the red from his glass, you steel yourself, asking, “So, how is this going to go, Quentin?”

“How?” he draws out the word, tasting it on his tongue, before he grins, wide and predatory, at you, “However you like, honey. Nothing’s going to happen that you don’t want. I’m not in the business of fucking unwilling women.”

You stand up, sparing one last glance at Peter as you round the coffee table slowly, the rug dampening the weight of your heels, until you stand before the waiting eyes of Quentin Beck. It’s easy enough to stand between his knees, but keeping his gaze and the façade of your confidence is much harder.

You swallow, placing a hand on his shoulder to push him back into the couch as you wordlessly straddle his hips, “Tonight is about what you want, isn’t it? You’re the one paying for my time.” Quentin lets out a chuckle, his hands finding your thighs easily enough and blazing just beneath where the hem of your dress has rode up.

His tongue wets his lips, and he leans closer, “I thought we could both get something out of this, maybe. You might even enjoy yourself.”

“Doubt it,” you shoot back reflexively, denial on your tongue before the squeeze of his hand on your thigh forces a gasp from your throat, and your manufactured confidence cracks, showing him a glimpse of the uncertainty beneath. It was so clear you had never done anything like this before, but you wouldn’t dare give him the satisfaction of knowing he would be the only man aside from Peter to have you like this.

“There she is,” it almost sounds taunting, like the devil himself, and you want to wipe the smugness right off Quentin’s irritating lips, “the girl from dinner, who thought love didn’t have a price tag.”

“It doesn’t,” you huff against his lips, annoyance lacing your tone despite how out of your league you felt right now, with him staring at you the way he was— touching you the way he was. “This isn’t love.”

“Then what is it?” his lips trail along your jaw, forcing your head to tilt back, allowing him access to your neck. You swallow back any sound that you would have otherwise made when his lips kiss there, along your throat, determined not to give him the gratification of your moans.

“It’s just,” you take a steadying breath, spotting your reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows, and inadvertently catching Peter’s eye from where he sat on the other couch, watching it all, “sex.” Your fingers slip from Quentin’s shoulders to his stomach, feeling the curves there and the unexpected firmness of his body against yours. He was more built than any of his suits or sweaters would let on.

He hums against your neck, and it takes all you have not to whimper when his teeth drag just below your ear, “Isn’t that the same thing? People call it love— say that four-letter word— but it’s just something people say to one another to justify a physical relationship. What, are you going to tell me it’s different with Peter?”

You scoff out a laugh— it’s so ridiculous, what he’s saying. Did he really think that love didn’t exist? That there was only sex and nothing else? You don’t know if he’s serious, or just trying to get a rise out of you, but you probably give him the reaction he wants, either way.

“Of course it is,” you grip at his brown hair, hating that you notice how soft it is, as you tug his head back gently, but with enough force for him to have to look up at you. “I would love him even if we didn’t have sex. Peter doesn’t have to buy his women.”

Quentin’s laugh sounds acutely like your own, as he looks up at you in mildly offended amusement, “You really think I have to buy women?”

“Isn’t that what this is?” you shoot back at him.

“Honey,” his voice lowers, sounding condescending, like your mother would whenever she was about to talk down to you, “I don’t have to buy women.” His hand slips up your thigh, further under your dress, taking you by surprise. Your grip in his hair slacks, and he leans forwards to murmur at your ear, “I only bought you, since you were so sure you couldn’t be bought.”

You fail to swallow your whimper when his hands squeeze at your ass, urging you into him as he rises his hips up against yours in a slow, torturous grind that betrays how wet you were. He was grinning, annoying, cocky— you hate that you ever found him attractive— that you still think he’s attractive.

“I can’t be bought,” you insist, despite the reality of it all, clinging onto the technicality for all it’s worth. “I don’t love you— we aren’t making love. We’re just going to fuck.”

He purses his lips at you, remaining condescending even with the position you had him in, your fingers at the back of his neck dig in a bit, but his amusement with you only seems to increase, “Whatever helps you rest that pretty little head of yours at night, honey.” He looked like the cat who caught the canary, grinning up at you like that— all teeth and boyish ambition.

You hate him, you could believe, in this moment.

You kiss him— if only to get him to shut up. You can feel his smile, taste it; it makes you rougher, your hand flattening against the side of his neck, fingers brushing the beard accenting his jaw as you pull yourself flush against him. He groans, and you try not to think about the way his hands felt along the edges of your underwear, or just how the sound curled your toes. You nip at his lip just enough to shock him, making him pull back with a surprised look that is far more wrecked with lust than a man who was truly offended would have had. If you were going to do this, he was going to have a few marks of his own by the end of the night, too.

“You want your man to watch this, honey?” Quentin breathes against your lips, slicing through your heart like butter, and you spare a glance over your shoulder, to Peter.

The worst part, was how deep the idea hits you. It knocked the wind right out of your lungs, forcing your breathing to hasten, and you were certain you soaked your panties right through at the thought of Peter watching you be taken by another man. The idea even scared you a bit, at how much you liked it. Certainly, you had gone into this not wanting Peter to abandon you with him, but you had always thought he would have been in another room— just within shouting distance if need be. This, though, you hadn’t considered, until Quentin placed the seed of the idea in your head.

Quentin’s hand reaches up, brushing along your throat as he teases, a mocking endearment in his tone, “Aw, honey, you do, don’t you?” 

When your guilty eyes capture the dark brown of Peter’s gaze, you spot something that isn’t so familiar in them. He wasn’t looking at you with betrayal, or the disgust you had anticipated, but rather an intrigue that you hadn’t expected— an openness to the sight unfolding before him. He shifts his position on the couch, looking just as confused and uncomfortable as you were with this newfound feeling within him.

You don’t get the chance to answer, before you feel the rumble of Quentin’s chuckle pass from his chest to your own, his breath ghosting at your cheek before they press against your temple, the scrape of his beard setting your nerves on fire, “It’s okay, honey. It sure looks like the kid likes to watch… and I don’t mind having an audience.”

Throat tight under Peter’s heated gaze, you manage to breathe out a soft, “I want you to stay, if you want to stay.”

“I want—” Peter rushes, before rethinking whatever he was about to confess, and clearing the emotion from his throat as he leans back into the couch cushions as casually as he can manufacture, “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

Quentin’s lips blaze his trail along your jawline, urging your attention to return to him. You don’t take much convincing, before you’ve turned your head to meet his kiss, finding his hand at your throat tangles along the nape of your neck, in your hair. His other is just as distracting as his lips, grasping and rubbing along the curve of your ass as you melt into the intensity of his kiss. You feel the heat rolling beneath your skin as your knees flank his thighs, the feeling of him beneath you all firm and warm and large in a way that Peter was not. It was different, new, exciting, if you would just get out of your head enough to let yourself enjoy it.

It feels like a betrayal to admit that you like the way his lips taste, the way he groans into your kiss when you sit yourself flush against the growing bulge in his trousers, but it also turns you on beyond all belief. The feeling of doing something like this, as Peter watched, flipped a switch inside you that you hadn’t known existed until now, and you realize for the wonderful first time that, maybe, this would be the easiest money you ever made, instead of the sacrifice you had thought it to be.

“Come on, honey, take off that little dress,” he growls against your lips, right as his hand finds the zipper in the back of it. A shiver chases his hand as it tugs the zipper down slowly, forcing you to arch into him as he stares into your soul. The blue-eyed devil beneath you smirks, right as the zipper ends, and the dress goes slack with the loosening of its confines. You tilt your head to the side as he leans close, brushing his open-mouthed kisses against your collar bone as he pushes the straps from your shoulders.

A sigh escapes you, heated and shuddering, at the feeling, and your hands hold up the dress at your breasts until he shoots you a look when the straps reach your elbows. You relent to him, wordlessly standing from his lap to strip yourself the remaining way.

With a lick of your lips in a vain attempt to wet your dry mouth, you shrug the dress the rest of the way off, pushing it down where it catches at your hips, until you stand there for him in the lingerie you had worn specifically for tonight. It does it’s job well, you manage to think, as you watch Quentin’s eyes widen a fraction at the sight of you, slipping down your form appreciatively and with just enough scrutiny to leave you on a self-conscious edge that you dare not show him.

You hear Peter’s breath hitch behind you, as he murmurs softly, in a way that was certainly involuntary, “When did you get that?”

You swallow thickly, turning your gaze to him and prepared to give an answer before Quentin clicks his tongue at you, “Don’t look at him. Eyes on me, princess.” And he’s standing up, pressing his long form against you as his hands find your bare waist to slip up to just beneath your breasts, admiring the feeling of you through the sheer silk adorning them. “These are nice,” Quentin compliments, far too sweetly for the way he looks at you, like he wants to devour you until there’s nothing left.

“Thank you,” is your automatic response, but even you can hear the breathiness to it.

You let out a quick squeak when his thumb slips into the hem of your panties, just to tug and let the elastic smack, stinging against the arch of your hip, “Did you get these just for me, honey?” You must have looked like a deer in the headlights at that, because he just grins at you and tacks on, “Tell the truth, now.”

“Ye— I got them for this.”

“How sweet of you,” his fingers trail back up your skin, sending goosebumps in their wake, until you find his hand unsnapping the clasp at your back, “I like them, but I would like them far better on the floor. Don’t you agree with me, Peter?”

You could tell he was getting off on this, on dangling you right in front of Peter and only allowing engagement when he pleased. Part of you felt like it wasn’t right, but the far more dominant part of you— the part that was insane, out of her head with lust, found it kind of hot, too.

Peter seems to be as much on the same page as to stammer his answer from behind you, “Y-Yeah.”

“See, honey? Won’t you be a good girl and take those panties off for us?” Quentin’s hands ease your bra off of your body, coaxing slow, like he was easing you into a hot bath. Oh, how you want to please, get him to call you a good girl again. It’s visceral, the urge to do whatever he wants right now. Your fingers hook in your panties, slipping them off with a simple push that ends them at your ankles, bending at the waist to retrieve them from your feet in a way that was only for Peter’s benefit behind you.

What you wouldn’t give to see his face right now, with the view you just gave him.

You’re about to toss them off to the side, discard them like Quentin had discarded your bra to hang over the end of the couch, when he holds out his hand, “Thank you, honey.” You can’t believe you place them there, in the palm of his hand, his long fingertips brushing against yours and curling around the fabric as his teeth bite his bottom lip, “Follow me.”

He grasps your wrist, tugging you to follow as he tucks the lace into his back pocket. Your stomach flips, and you struggle to walk with the desperate need for friction between your thighs. He had hardly touched you, and you were already dying for it, wet against your bare skin as the air you catch walking nude through the penthouse sends a shiver down your spine. You didn’t care where he was leading, so long as he touched you at the end of this journey.

He pulls you deeper into the penthouse, and you find yourself in a bedroom just as luxurious as the rest of this ridiculous place. You don’t get long to admire it, because Quentin’s turning, tugging you into him as he backs you up towards the bed.

“Come here,” he huffs, right before his lips come crashing down into your own. He’s insatiable, now, all unfiltered passion and hands against bare flesh as he delves his hand between your thighs. You feel your breath hitch as you whine into his mouth at the feeling of his index finger brushing against your clit, his own heady chuckle tasted on your tongue at the feeling of how wet you were. You unbuckle his belt, unbutton his trousers, pushing at his hips in an effort to remove them. He kicks them off and breaks the kiss, just long enough to leave you protesting the loss of his touch and allowing him enough time to rip the sweater over his head, until you collide against each other once again, this time with considerably less separating you.

“Tell me what you want,” he rasps at your throat, fingers delving into your wetness as your thigh curves at his hip, steadying yourself with his body and the one foot you have planted on the plush carpet.

A moan escapes you as his beard scrapes down your chest, his lips kissing along the valley of your breasts and his hand grasping your thigh at his hips to grind the length of his covered erection against you— you can’t think of anything, other than cursing the dark underwear that still gripped at his hips.

The hand that wasn’t at your thigh comes to your jaw, focusing you as he repeats, “Tell me what you want, honey. Don’t make me ask again.”

“I want—” you begin, licking your lips to muster your voice as you continue, a little louder than the whisper it had originally been, “I want you to fuck me, Mister Beck.”

He groans against your breast, abandoning his grip at your jaw to make your heart jump as he forces you to lose your footing when he grasps your hip and pushes you back to the bed. It’s all luxurious sheets and soft mattress, but the wind is knocked out of you nonetheless. Your heels push you up the bed as he looks down at you, mouth open and eyes lidded. His hands push his underwear the rest of the way off, freeing the length of him. You salivate at the sight of him, as he knees into the bed to crawl his way up, over you, reaching for your knees to tug you by a firm grip back down to him.

“You want me to fuck you, while he watches?” Quentin rasps, nodding over to where you finally notice Peter standing in the doorway. Your head falls back onto the duvet as Quentin kisses at your inner thigh, lingering dangerously close to your aching cunt.

Could Peter see the lust glazed in your eyes? Because you were sure it was there.

“Yes,” you breathe, watching Peter as you admit it. Watching the way he admires you darkly, brown eyes slipping down the length of you, before settling on the man between your legs. He stands a little straighter, moves further into the room. You realize he’s shed his coat somewhere along the way, leaving him in the dress shirt he’d worn to work earlier in the day, rolled up sleeves making him look delicious against the light swirls of the wood-accented walls. “I want you to take me, Mister Beck, while Peter watches.”

You follow Peter’s gaze down to find Quentin, and the sight of him takes your breath.

He watches you with a raw, carnal stare, and the way the corner of his mouth quirks up against the skin of your inner thigh as he turns it upon the other man in the room is enough to make you keen beneath him, “Find a seat, kid, the show’s about to start.”

Chapter Text

Gif source:  1  |  2


A sigh escapes you as you feel Quentin’s lips edge closer to the apex of your thigh, along the sensitive skin of your bikini line, his fingers urging you to give into him as they tease against your clit, rubbing gently but with not enough determination to leave you anything more than bothered by the feeling. Unsatisfied.

“Please,” you whisper down to him, earning a nip to your thigh in return that has your feet slipping up against the side of his rib cage in an attempt to urge him closer.

He pushes them down with his shoulders, “Please, what? Ask nicely, like a good girl, and I may give it to you.”

You glare down at him, before the feeling is smothered by another annoying drag of the pad of his thumb at your clit, before they abandon it entirely to slip through your glistening folds, teasing, but never giving you more, “God, Quentin, just make me cum!”

He chuckles at you, but leans back onto his knees, hand abandoning your core in favor of rubbing your thighs, “That didn’t sound very nice to me, honey. Only good girls get what they want. Maybe you aren’t a good girl?”

Your stomach drops, heart hammering in your chest in a way you’d never experienced before as he leans away from you, like he would leave you here, tortured, “What? No, no, I can be good! Please, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t know,” he tilts his head, looking down at you in all scrutinizing amusement, enjoying the slightly panicked look on your face as you prop yourself on your elbows to get closer to him. He ignores the way your calves rub against his hips, and the frustrated whimper on your tongue as you try to arch your way back into his touch, keeping you just out of reach purposefully. His damnable smirk only widens, showing teeth, “You didn’t sound like a good girl just then.”

“Please, I am! I can show you,” you plea, as an idea comes to your mind— something just as enticing as you scramble for a shred of control over the situation, reaching to gingerly stroke at the length of him. Quentin’s lips part, breathing deep at the feeling of your fingers grasping him gently, stroking tantalizingly along his shaft. He was warm, the ridges of his veins causing your insides to clench around nothing as you desperately tried to think about anything other than him planting himself within you right now. For the instant, you had the upper hand, and you were determined not to lose it yet, as you give him the most innocent look you can muster and purr, “Please, let me show you how good I can be, Mister Beck.”

You watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, his brow furrowing just slightly as his hips involuntarily give to the rhythm of your hand against him, and you know you’ve got him— scrambled his thoughts, despite how subtle the change was, just like how Peter would get sometimes, though he was an easier read than the man against you.

“How can I say ‘no’ to that?” he manages to keep his voice smooth, and you mentally commend him, as you do your own very best to shift your position on the bed while still appearing as much the seductress as you had to be right now. You bend before him, and his fingers tangle into your hair as you position his dick to allow your lips to kiss along the head of him. He groans as you lick him, tongue flattening against him as your eyes flick up the length of him to catch the sight of him looking down at you, kneeling into the bed as your elbow props yourself up, “I’m counting on a good show, honey.”

You smile against his tip, before slipping him into your mouth and earning a strangled moan in response. Oh, you were going to give him a show, alright.

It’s slow and torturous, but it leaves him dizzy in the head. His hips sway into your patterned movements, as your mouth slicks him and makes it far more difficult to keep his focus than he had anticipated from someone like you. If there was one thing you knew you were good at, it was giving head, and the way Quentin’s head drops back, elongating his neck as he groans when you take him deep, lets you know that Peter hadn’t been exaggerating his praise.

Fuck, honey,” he rasps, and you try your best not to smile too wide with how he was filling your mouth, for fear of scraping your teeth along him. You swallow around him, and he lets out a gasp, a deep groan in the back of his throat that was so perfect to your ears that you nearly cum at the sound of it. His hips jerk, and for a moment you see stars with the way he hits the back of your throat accidentally, your nose nearly pressing into the flat base of his abdomen and you find yourself acutely thankful he was well-groomed. “That’s so good— you’re doing so good for me— Such a good girl.

You shudder at the praise, a moan muffled by his dick down your throat as you look back up at him, following the dark trail of trimmed hair that leads from the base of him up his abdomen to erupt along his heaving chest, finding him watching you with an interested look through the almost pained expression on his face. If you didn’t know better, you would say he was in some sort of distress, but the expression disappears as cockiness tugs at the corner of his sighing lips, like he had figured you out.

“You like that, honey?” he purrs, pushing your hair back from your face as you suck him off, his thumb trailing down the edge of your cheek, where the outline of him could be felt, “You like when I tell you what a good girl you are, with my dick down your throat?”

You whimper again, as your nails grip into his inner thigh. God, you were so wet.

“Do you wanna’ know what real good girls do? They make me cum,” he taunts, gripping at your chin and stilling your work on him. You huff against him, the puff of air through your nose hitting his abdomen. He grins. Challenge accepted.

His thumb and forefinger fall from their grasp at your chin, instead favoring the tangle of your hair as you return to your effort to work him over. You were annoyed, determined, and possibly dangerously turned on at this point. You wanted him to cum, if only it meant having him praise you some more, the way his voice would hitch when you took him particularly deep— urging you on with grateful sounds and heated praise.

Even more than that, there was this deep, primal urge to prove something to him— but even you couldn’t decide just what it was you wanted to prove to him. Maybe it was the need to prove that you weren’t just some silly girl in over your head, coming here tonight? Maybe that you were using him as much as he was using you?

Who knows.

What you did know was that his breathing had quickened, and his thighs clenched under your hands in the effort to not force his way down your throat as your pace intensified, drawing out his pleasure on your tongue and leaving him putty in your hands. Quentin Beck gasps when he cums, you discover— hearing the strangled way his throat closes for the moment it takes for his whole body to seize up with the intensity of it all. His eyes close, a curse slipping from his lips as it wracks through him, his hand in your hair gripping, near painful, as you feel the salty taste of his cum burst against your tongue.

Fucking,” he chokes out, broken and needy, and it’s nearly the hottest thing you’ve ever heard, “don’t— don’t swallow it yet.” He huffs, catching his breath, as he tugs you off of him and to your knees, grasping your jaw with his hand and forcing you to face where Peter had found purchase in a tan seat in the corner of the room. Quentin’s lips burn against your cheek, his nose breathing hard into your flesh as his beard scrapes against your temple erotically, “Show him.”

You whimper, it felt degrading— filthy, and yet you found yourself opening your mouth for him, as instructed, while Quentin’s fingers press between your thighs— for real this time, pressing pleasuring circles against your soaking clit that sends shock waves through you with how much you had needed them.

Peter clears his throat, eyes wide at the sight, and there’s no denying the tent in his pants, that no shifting of his position could hide.

Quentin bites against your jaw, groaning as you arch into his hand, “Swallow it, now, honey.”

God forgive you, you do it. The taste lingers on your tongue, and you open your mouth again when it’s through, to show proof of the act’s completion.

“Fuck,” you hear Peter whisper.

Quentin turns you back to face him, grip on your jaw just as harsh and demanding as the fingers he delves between your thighs, rubbing along the length of you, against your entrance, before pressing his abuse against your clit once again, “Good girl.” He kisses you, tasting himself on your greedy tongue, and groaning into your mouth. You buck your cunt into his fingers, choking back a wanton sob as he slips a long digit within you. It’s like every fiber of your being collectively sighs with relief.


You’re a mess, as he works you over on his fingers, and you’re certain you’re so wet that it’s dripping down his hand, smearing on your inner thighs as he presses the palm of his hand rough against your clit, letting you ride his hand. You grind against it, arching into him as you desperately grasp at his shoulder, his neck, feeling the scrape of his skin against your own as he swallows your moans.

He leaves you panting, grasping onto him as he slips another finger within you, curling them deliciously as he chuckles praise against your lips, “That’s right, honey, ride my fingers. You deserve a reward, for being so good.”

“Quen,” you break off, breathy gasp of air choking the word, “Quentin.”

What little lipstick that hadn’t been smeared along his dick had undoubtedly been smudged along your lips at this point, painting the edge of your mouth in a way that was certain to fade by the time he was through with you. Quentin wets his lips with his tongue at the sight of it, at the sight of you, wrecked against him, thighs trembling with the way his fingers played you like an instrument in the hands of an expert musician. You spot a smudge of color, fading into his beard against the skin beneath his lip— your lipstick, making as much of a mess of him as he had of you.

He breaks his consideration of the pleasure displayed plainly on your face in favor of glancing towards where Peter sat, leant forward in the lounge chair and resting his upper lip in the crook of his index and thumb fingers, his hand shading the lower portion of his jaw as he tried to contain the flush along his cheeks to no avail. Quentin spots it, though, the pink against the pale cream, and the smile that winds along his lips is laced with mischievous intent.

“How does she taste, Peter?” your breath catches in your throat, a wave of heat laced with embarrassment rushes through you, sending you jolting in Quentin’s hand when his thumb presses hard, electrifying circles against your clit, his fingers curling within you as he plunges them deep.

Peter makes a strangled sound, and you can practically see the heat radiating from him as his flush spreads to his ears. He blinks, once, twice. Three times before he manages to stammer out an answer, running his hand through his dark hair and messing the curls that can’t seem to stay tamed anymore.

“She— I—” his eyes slip to yours, watching you like a man starved, as Quentin retrieves his hand from between his legs, studying the slick remnant of you as you catch your breath, resting your bare ass on your heels when Peter finally admits, “She tastes good, Mister Beck.”

“I bet,” Quentin hums, considering his fingers as he watches your slick trail from index to middle, before he presents them to you, pressing them lewdly against your lips. You part them, taking his fingers with a grateful whimper, as your own bunch the sheets into your fists, desperate to grasp something as your tongue cleans him of you. He pulls them from your mouth when he’s satisfied, tracing the wet digits along your waist as he pulls you back into his chest, and you feel the half-hardness of his length stir at your thigh once again, “Do you taste good, honey?”

“Why don’t you find out for yourself?” you dare to ask him boldly, getting a raise of his brow in return, as you kiss along his chest, edging your lips near his nipple as you hum temptingly, “I’ve been good, haven’t I?”

“You have,” Quentin agrees, before his gaze returns to Peter. “Would you say she’s been good enough?”

Peter’s hands grip at the arm rests, before he gives a quick nod, “Yeah, she has.” You moan, as Peter repeats, “She’s been real good, Mister Beck.”

“You heard him,” Quentin growls, tugging you up to his lips by a grasp at the nape of your neck, you arch into him, brushing your chest against his and earning a groan in response. “Get on your hands and knees, and thank your boyfriend like the good girl you are, honey.”

You swallow thickly, as Quentin releases you to allow you to follow his instructions, and you do it eagerly enough. Facing the end of the bed, giving Peter a perfect view up your body as you plant your chest into the duvet, presenting yourself, ass up, to Quentin like a dog in heat and swaying slightly just to tease him.

Your voice is soft, but filled with the heavy lust that lowers it slightly, as you capture Peter’s gaze with your own, licking your lips before, “Thank you, Pete.”

He palms himself through his trousers at the sight, unable to hold back anymore, as his own lust consumes him, “You’re welcome, baby.”

Quentin’s hands press at your ass, parting your folds as he buries his tongue within you, releasing a groan there as he licks from your clit to your entrance and all over again. You can hear your heart hammering in your ears, as you watch Peter unzip his pants. Your toes curl, Quentin teases your clit with the pad of his middle finger, as his tongue swirls against you. Peter strokes himself leisurely, and you feel like a woman possessed. In a trance, watching him get himself off to another man getting you off.

All you can manage to think, in the haze of your overstimulated mind, is how thankful for the turn of events you were.

Quentin relents, only to flick his fingers along your clit and you nearly cum right then, his chuckle hot and heavy against your cunt, “Yeah, you do taste sweet.”

“Like,” you gasp breathlessly, a tease of a smirk at your lips as you manage your joke, “honey?”

Quentin laughs, the vibrations buried against you with his tongue flush against your cunt, his mouth kissing you in ways that make your head spin. Peter’s moans find your ears, as you writhe into the duvet, dissolving into your pleasure as your orgasm comes closer and closer, forced upon you with each stroke of Quentin’s tongue and fingers between your thighs.

“Does it,” Peter gasps, calling out to you from across the room, his hand firmly planted around the base of his dick as he watches you, “Do you feel good?”

“Yeah,” you shudder a breath, whimpering softly as Quentin groans into your cunt once more, “it feels really good— Oh, don’t stop. Please, Quen!” He had you right there, right on the edge, as every inch of you felt like, with one simple push, if you just kept chasing it, you could implode into your orgasm.

Quentin just pushes his face further into your cunt, nose edging the skin of your perineum as he eats you out like a man who had been starving and you were his first meal in days. You’re so warm, all over, and you don’t care that the skin of your inner thighs is probably getting rubbed raw by the scratch of his beard.

You don’t quite know why, but in the haze of your impending orgasm, all you can think to beg is, “Can I cum? Please? Please, let me cum!”

He hums into you, pulling back only to answer, low and husky, “Fuck, yes, honey,” before he delves back into your cunt.

Quentin presses onto your clit, hard, rubbing intensely and making you just completely lose it as his tongue laps at your entrance as you cum hard against him, shuddering in his grasp and biting into the sheets as you muffle your own moans. It was breathtaking, and you barely have time to register that he’s stopped kissing you before you feel the heated press of his blunt tip, running against your folds as he slicks himself with the aftermath of your orgasm.

Quentin leans over you, dragging his tongue across your shoulder as your legs tremble, barely keeping you propped up, caring little for the way ragged breaths wracked your lungs when he teases, his hand brushing the hair from your face, deceptively gentle for how cruel his taunt sounds, “Such a good girl— you even asked for permission. Now, what do good girls say when they’re allowed to cum?”

You barely get it out, “Thank,” in two soft pants, “you.”

“That’s right,” he coos, pressing himself into you gently, and you forget to breathe for the second it takes between this thrust and the next, until he’s sheathed within you and you feel the stretch that his size forces you to accommodate to. You’re too sensitive already, and the way he huffs breathlessly at the feeling of you squeezing him is enough to make your head spin. “Oh,” he moans, soft, lips at your ear and hands slipping around your rib cage to grasp at your breasts, squeezing gently as he bottoms out in you once more, “honey.”

You shift against him, letting him pull you up and into the kiss he manages, open and heated, over your shoulder, as his fingertips graze the hard buds of your nipples and his hips force another needy sound from your throat. Your own fingertips brush the duvet, steadying yourself as best you can as his gentle thrusts turn more desperate, harsher, rocking you onto the palm of your hands as he fucks into you.

“Harder,” you urge him on, feeling the scratch of his chest against your back and the curve of his dick as it hits you deep, in all the right places, sending jolts of pleasure all the way to your toes in each thrust. “Quent-in, please, please!” Your pleas were broken, jolted by his hips smacking against yours, the sound of it sending a shiver down your spine, as he abandons his grasp on your left breast to reach up to your throat, holding your jaw and urging you up until he was fucking up into you and all you have to hold onto are his arms around your chest.

“Fuck, fuck,” he huffs at your ear, along with countless other things you don’t entirely catch. You moan openly, whining high in your throat with a particularly harsh thrust that almost has your eyes rolling back in your head with the pleasure it sends through you. You can stare at little else other than the reflection of yourself in the windows on the other end of the room, directly across from the bed, and then your attention is drawn to Peter, who had shed the buttons on his shirt, leaving it open along his chest, as he dragged his hand along his dick leisurely. His bottom lip was drawn into his mouth, his brows drawn together in the concentration it took not to cum right at the sight of you.

You hear Quentin as his hand tightens at your jaw, and you relish in the idea there could be fingerprints there tomorrow, “Tell me— Tell me how grateful you are— that I’m fucking you.” It sounds just about as needy as you’d ever heard him, low and desperate in your ear, and you’re too far gone to do anything but babble whatever he wants to hear back to him at this point.

“I’m so,” you gasp, hoarsely, gripping your nails into the flesh of his arm as he holds you to him while leveling you with the feeling of his thrusts, pushing you so close to another orgasm with each smack of his hips into your own, “so grateful, Quen— thank, thank you— thank you— fuck me— please, please— I’m so close—” You knew you weren’t making any sense, as your voice dissolves into a chorus of pleas for him to just make you cum again.

You clench around him, desperate to cum as he pinches your nipple and digs his teeth into the skin of your neck, just hard enough to ground himself as he groans deep there, murmuring something that sounds like a plea for your own release into your skin, right before you feel him plunge himself deep inside you as hot spurts of warmth fill you from within. You choke on your pleas, a moan ripping through you as he triggers your orgasm with the feeling of his own, your whole body tensing up and clenching down around him, determined to keep him where he was and milking him for all he was worth.

“Oh, shi— fuck, fuck,” Quentin gasps at the feeling, falling back onto his heels and taking you with him, barely keeping his sitting balance as you collapse with him, still buried in your cunt. He takes a second, before pulling out, and feeling his cum escape onto his fingers as he pushes two of them inside you for good measure. His lips kiss along the side of your throat, his chest rising and falling with the labor of his breathing against your back, but you fare no better, especially with the feeling of his fingers within you, overstimulating you, until you can barely stand it.

“Quinten,” you breath hitches, and you grasp at his arm in an attempt to get him to stop.

He pulls them out with a chuckle, wiping them off against your thigh as he buries his nose behind your ear, whispering, “Thanks, honey.”

You lean forward, collapsing into the duvet as you turn over to get a better look at him. He looked completely fucked up in a way that could only happen during sex. His skin glistened with that after-sex glow that seems to come, flush at his cheeks as he runs a hand through his hair— the same hand that had been buried in your cunt a moment ago.

You clench your thighs together at the idea, as he sits off the side of the bed, before standing and moving across the room in all of his nude glory, not caring in the least for it, “I’m going to take a shower.” Quentin looks back at you, “Feel free to join me, honey,” before his eyes flick to where you had nearly forgotten Peter was sitting, that damn cocky edge to Beck’s lips returning as he teases, “after you handle your boy toy.”

“Huh?” you question dumbly, still out of it after your last orgasm, but as you manage to lull your head to the side just enough to see what Quentin was talking about, your breath catches with realization.

“You don’t,” Peter breathes, looking quite scandalized to be placed in the spotlight so quickly, as his hand paused in working himself over. “You don’t have to, baby. Just— give me a second.”

He hadn’t cum yet.

You push yourself up on shaky arms, crawling less than gracefully to the edge of the bed before crooking your finger at him, barely registering the heavy wood door shutting behind Quentin and the sound of running water from the en suite.

“Come here, Peter.”

Chapter Text

Gif source:  1  |  2  |  3


The way Peter says your name, like it’s all that grounds him to this earth, strained and needy as his eyes trail after you desperately— it’s enough to make you want to throw yourself into his arms. It makes you want to bury the length of him deep inside you and keep him there, until you both find yourselves wrecked in each other.

Despite the exhaustion that clawed at the back of your mind and the fact that you had already been thoroughly fucked by Quentin, you still need him. Greedy, you want more. You want the softness in his eyes and the way you know he makes you feel with every kiss and touch he leaves in his wake. With all his wealth, it was the one thing Quentin Beck could never give, because no one had ever looked at you with the same doting reverence that Peter Parker did.

Your legs protest when you stand from the bed, wobbly and not at all helped with the extra height of the heels that still clung, strapped at your ankles, to the soles of your feet. The last evidence of your outfit forcing you to stand tall and shaky as you move towards Peter, and he reaches out when you get close enough, the warmth of his fingertips intertwining with your own as he guides you to his lap. It feels like home.

Even after everything, he still looks at you with a consideration that suggests compassion, like he didn’t want you to overexert yourself, “You really don’t have to, if you’re tired.”

“I want to, Peter,” you murmur, the low pull of arousal urging you to sit flush against his straining erection, and causing his head to fall back in his seat, a shaky breath escaping him. You lean forward, scraping your nails down the blushing skin of his flushed chest, just enough to send a shiver through him, as your lips kiss along the curve of his neck, “I want you.” You grind your hips softly against his, feeling the length of him settle against your clit, “Do you want me?”

“God, yes,” he breathes, and levels you with the desperation swirling in his chocolate irises, “I want you, too.”

“Let me make you feel good,” you kiss at his Adam’s apple, feeling him swallow against your lips, before you trail your tongue along his collarbone, earning a guttural moan when you curl your hips, grinding down against him, desire burning through your veins, “okay?”

He struggles a nod, his hands squeezing against your own before you release them in favor of wrapping your arms around his neck, breathing hot and heavy against his lips as you feel him hitch his hips. It was just enough to send him perfectly against your entrance, a practiced dance that had you sinking down onto him as he held you flush against him, gasping along your back with his hands.

When you sheathe him fully inside you, it feels like coming home, and the way he kisses you— softly, slowly, like two people who hadn’t seen each other in a long time, getting to know each other all again— it takes your breath away.

You rock your hips against him slow, neither of you eager to finish quite yet, and knowing that if you were to go much harder it would be over before it truly started. He had already brought himself near the brink of an orgasm, and you were far too spent to stand much more stimulation without falling into your own.

So instead, you kiss him. Soft gasps and whimpers filling the room, your knees press firm between his thighs and the arms of the chair, just barely enough room for you to fit there. To use the position as leverage to rise up, your thighs screaming with protest as you take him deep with each slow, torturous grind.

“I’m not,” Peter gasps at your lips, thumb caressing circles against your cheek as your forehead presses into his, “gonna’ be able to last much longer, baby.”

“It’s okay,” you assure him, tasting his lips again as you relish in the feeling of his body against yours. He swallows your moan as his hand slips between you, his thumb gentle at your abused clit, but pressing firmly enough to have your pace entirely falter as a wrecked sound comes from your throat. “Pete, oh, my god.”

“You’re not gonna’ last either, huh?” he rasps at the way you clamp down around him suddenly, and your hips jerk against his own involuntarily, so his own rise up to meet your interrupted pace. You nod your head, not trusting your voice to be steady enough to get out anything other than an incoherent noise. He abandons your clit, gripping at the fleshy curve of your hip as he tilts his head, nose brushing your own as he licks up into your mouth, your head swimming as he consumes your thoughts and your senses. He pulls back just enough to brush your lips with his own, squeezing your hip as he whispers, like a secret between you, “I want to have you properly. Let me do you right.”

You hardly know what he means, but you hum your agreement regardless, “Whatever you want, baby, give it to me. I’ll take it.”

Peter nods, kissing you deep as his hands come to your thighs, gripping firmly and easing you both from the chair to the floor, until your buried between the weight of him and the plush carpet that you are sure is about to leave an uncomfortable burn in the morning with the way his hips snap to yours once you’ve settled. You let out an inhuman sound against his lips, but far be it from either of you to break the desperate kiss, as he fucks himself into you at a pace that was certain to result in both of your quickly approaching ends. Peter’s arms flex under your grip, your hand fisting in his hair as he moans with every drag of his cock within your clenching walls. You pull him down, tasting his tongue with yours, as you whimper desperately and feel yourself tense up unexpectedly, unable to hold back at all as your orgasm sneaks up on you too quickly. Peter only breaks the kiss to cry out your name, strangled and hoarse as his cheek presses against your own and his breath fans at your ear, pace faltering with the hastened chaos of his own chasing climax.

You feel him cum, twitching within you as he empties with your name on his tongue and his hands at your knees, keeping you wrapped around him until he softens and shudders against the warmth of your hands trailing down his back.

“Peter,” you nudge his face with your nose, turning towards him and earning a soft kiss to your lips that has your chest swelling with the words you mumble against him, “I love you.” He smiles softly, slipping from you with a gasp, and you take the hand he offers when he stands from the ground. Your fingers curl around his own, gripping and keeping him so close that your chest brushes his own with each breath until, finally, he glances towards the en suite, not with quite as much conflict in his eyes as there had been the beginning of all this.

“You better take that shower. Your night’s not up yet.”

You squeeze his hand, a glint in your eyes as you smirk up at him, “Come on, you deserve a good bath, too, after that.” His eyes widen, but there’s no protest from his lips as you tug him along with you towards the en suite.

The steam and heat of the water hits you in the face as you open the door, and you’re acutely aware of how it sticks to you like the sweat that shimmered along your skin. Peter follows you inside, and when you release your grip on him to bend and unclasp your heels, he shuts the door.

“Took your sweet time, honey.”

Quentin lies beyond the glass of the shower, water pouring over him from a large head like rain, drenching his words in a muddied lull that pulls you closer to his misty form. Your fingers grasp the handle, dragging it open for you to step in, Peter at your back, his fingers pressed into your hip.

Quentin shakes his head, droplets falling on your bare skin as his hands push his soaked, inky hair to slick back, before his eyes open to land on the sight of you. Water drips from his eyelashes, framing the dark blue of the eyes that widen slightly with amusement as he notices there’s more than one new addition to his shower.

“Sorry,” but you weren’t in the least, as you dare to step far too close to him in order to get under the spray of water yourself, relishing in the feeling of the hot water along your skin and forcing him to wait until you were good and wet for a proper explanation. He doesn’t back away, holding his position and forcing you to slip right up against him, until you’re wiping water from your eyes and your hair is just as soaked as his. You taste the fresh water on your lips as you offer, “Had to make sure Peter was taken care of.”

Quentin’s finger comes to rest under your chin, tilting your head up to look at him, as he spares a glance behind you at your boyfriend, “So you got him a little dirty, huh? Is that why you invited him in?”

Peter slips behind you, shooting a smile at Quentin that was far too friendly for the situation you were in between the two of them, before wetting his own hair under the spray, “I could use a shower after that.”

“Oh? Did she take good care of you?” Quentin raises a brow as his hand slips down your chest, grazing the side of your ribs in a way that almost seemed half-minded, but the way his teeth cut into his smile betrays how much he enjoys having you squirm at his touch. And when his eyes slip to yours, without giving Peter so much as an instant to answer, you know he’s got something else in mind that was certain to leave you wrecked far into the morning, “Were you as good a girl for him as you were for me, honey?”

“Even better,” you shoot back, earning a gruff chuckle from his chest as he dips his head, capturing your lips with his own. He smells like shampoo, and soap, but there’s still the smell of sex that clings to your skin in the mix, making you melt against him as your feel yourself clench with need as it settles heavy in your stomach.

Peter’s fingers graze at your throat, down the side of your neck as you feel Quentin start to harden along your hip, until you feel Peter’s kiss at the back of your shoulder, “You were such a good girl for me, baby.”

Quentin’s fingers snake between your legs, making you whimper into his dominating kiss, as he gets a good feel of the wetness along your thighs, trailing up to your cunt and making you squirm into his hand. Peter was nearly hard again at your back, youth and your proximity leaving him pressed, just as desperate as you were for more.

Quentin’s teeth drag, sharper than his fingertips at your clit, along your bottom lip when he breaks the kiss, leaving you gasping for air between him and the water pouring over your face. You think you can barely breathe.

“To be such a good girl, you’ve become so filthy,” Quentin’s tongue clicks on his teeth, a faux disapproval in his tone as his hand slips from between your legs and leaves you frustrated. He moves slightly, around you until you find he’s circled you, and Peter has taken his place in front of you, “We better clean her up, huh, kid?”

“I think that’s a good idea,” Peter agrees, and your eyes widen at him. At the lust in his eyes and the way he looks at you with a confidence that could only have been cultivated in this situation, before his eyes glance towards Quentin, “What do you have in mind?”

Quentin’s arms encapsulate you, wrapped around your waist as his chin rests at your shoulder. It’s soft, but the press of his cock along your skin is far too much of a reminder to fool you into thinking his gentleness was anything more than a ploy, as the wet hairs of his chest press into your skin. Keeping an arm firm around your waist, he allows one hand to slip, lower and lower, until he’s pressing two large fingertips into your clit and rubbing until you feel like you’re going to die between them.

“I think you should clean up your mess, Parker,” Quentin blazes against your cheek, and you gasp as Peter, far too obediently for something else to not be behind it, gets to his knees before you.

You’re head is spinning when Peter hikes up one of your legs, to throw over his shoulder, splitting you with two words before his tongue delves between your folds, “Yes, sir.”

“Oh, my god,” you can only manage to gasp, as Quentin’s fingers on your clit never relent, while Peter’s tongue thrusts deep within you, only to lap up to your clit, and you know he must be tasting Quentin’s fingertips, too, because there’s only so much room between the three of you.

Quentin’s arm tightens around you when you start to buck and tremble, his beard at your neck as his lips bite at your ear, “Going to get you nice and clean, honey, just you wait.” Water rushes down your chest, and you wonder for a hot second how Peter is managing not to drown as it pours around you, with the way his tongue presses into your core and his nose nudges the knuckles of Quentin’s hand, forcing the circles he was making at your clit to become much tighter.

It’s only when Peter pulls back for a second and takes a breath that you realize he’s holding his breath.

His fingers dig into your thigh, as your legs tremble and Quentin murmurs praise into your ear. It’s all so strange, so foreign, and something you never thought yourself capable of doing—- of loving every second of it.

“You like it? Tell us,” Quentin growls, before he laps open-mouthed kisses along your neck, and between the two of them and the hot water, you feel like you’re going to combust with how hot you’re getting. It was almost suffocating.

But you manage a soft, hoarse, “Yes. I like it—- Peter…” You mewl and whimper, as Peter slips a finger into you alongside his tongue, and Quentin’s teeth graze along the skin of your throat. Your nails dig into Quentin’s arm, as you reach one hand behind you to tangle into the slick hair, finding it’s the coolest part of him as you hold his lips flush against you.

Quentin rocks his hips into your skin, between the curve of your ass, fully hard and straining as Peter hits you even deeper with a second finger added to the first. It’s too much, all too quickly, and with the added factor of your already stimulated body, you find yourself on the brink of your orgasm with a gasp and a flick of his tongue.

“Can I—-” you choke, coughing on water and your own needy gasps of air.

“Can you?” Quentin taunts slowly, rocking his hips into yours and forcing you to rock into Peter’s face.

Fuck,” you whimper, “please—-”

“Are you trying to ask if you can you cum for us, like a good little slut?” Quentin purrs, soft and sweet like the devil, and part of you wants to punch him square in the face for calling you that, but you’re far too preoccupied with the moan Peter lets vibrate against your cunt and just how harshly Quentin presses the pads of his fingers to your clit to care. “You can, go on, cum all over his face, honey. Show him how much you like it.”

Your moans claw up your throat, spilling as you clench harshly around Peter’s fingers and rock into his tongue as Quentin pushes you, rolling again and again, off the fragile precipice from which your orgasm had built. You swear you can’t breathe at all, now, and for a moment your lungs forget how to work, leaving you to gulp down fresh air the instant after you come down even a bit from the high they had taken you to. You’re hot all over, and Peter leaves one last leisurely kiss between your folds that has you nearly crumbling on your shaky legs as Quentin tortures you far longer than necessary with his fingers.

Your hand is around the back of his neck, you find, as you release the undoubtedly painful dig of your nails into his skin when Peter stands before you. You’re spent, utterly and completely, but they’re still hard, and you know this isn’t the end of it.

“I can’t, I can’t cum again,” you whine, a whimper, before Peter’s lips crash to yours, his hand cupping your jaw gently and swallowing your mild protests. You moan against him, at the taste that lingers on his tongue, until he breaks from you to urge you with a gentle voice and a kind hand.

“Yes, you can. I know you can.”

“Don’t you dare think we’re through with you yet, honey,” Quentin murmurs, thumb tracing your jaw as he leaves a kiss at your temple, when you turn to spot him in the corner of your eye. You feel his arm’s grip on you loosen, as Peter rubs the skin of your thighs gently, coaxing you into running one along the side of his leg, until it’s latched at his hip, while Quentin distracts you with the kiss he presses against your lips. It’s hot, and needy, and fucks with your head in ways you had sworn you were immune to before falling into bed with him.

You dare to think that maybe Quentin Beck isn’t so bad after all.

Up until the moment he breaks the kiss, and with a casually cruel tone to his voice and a hand in your hair, he urges Peter, “Go ahead, kid, you can have another turn.”

Peter presses into you, and you desperately want to look at him, but Quentin keeps your head turn towards him as he crashes his lips to yours again. Peter’s hips snap and he’s easily flush against you, grinding into your clit and taking your breath away as Quentin’s tongue becomes just about the only thing you can focus on.

“Baby, you’re taking me so well,” Peter praises, and you reach for him when Quentin lets you out of the kiss to take a heated breath of air, steam filling your lungs and smothering you in the haze that fills your head. Quentin shifts you, and suddenly Peter’s supporting the majority of your weight, while you feel Quentin poise his cock where Peter had nestled between your thighs.

“What are you—-?” you gasp, eyes wide as you feel him press gently into your cunt, alongside Peter. “You—-! God, Quent-in,” your voice hitches, and Peter groans into your neck at the feeling. Quentin doesn’t get too deep, with the stretch that he provides, pressed against Peter inside you, you can’t seem to catch a break. You’re honestly surprised he managed to get as far as he did, but you’re so wet and so fucked out already, that you can’t help but to lean back against him and urge him further, despite the slight sting to it.

“Honey,” Quentin breathes at your neck, as he fully takes you off your feet as you find him and Peter using each other as leverage to hike you up between them, “just relax.” All you can do is hold on for dear life, as you feel on the brink of them splitting you open, but, god, does it feel incredible.

Peter’s speechless, a mess of moans and whimpers as Quentin moves a bit more for a more comfortable position between your thighs, eyes shut tight and forehead pressed against your own, until, finally, he manages to take a breath, “Are you—- are you okay?”

You nod frantically, begging, “Ye-ah, please, move, please, fuck me, both of you—-!”

The rumble of Quentin’s chest as he groans and rocks his hips a bit has your pleas dying on your tongue, “You heard her, Parker. Let’s give her what she wants, since she’s been so good for us tonight.”

The way Peter glances towards Quentin betrays him, and you’re suddenly acutely aware of how he craves permission when he chokes out, “Can I fuck her, now, sir?”

“Yeah, you can,” Quentin grins, a wolf among sheep, and you nearly lose your damn mind as they move together and separately all at once, filling you in a way you could never have felt before. For all his bravado and posturing, Quentin’s cracking behind you, just as much as you and Peter were, if the shuddering breaths and bitten back moans were anything to go by. His fingers dig into you, all blunt nails and harsh grip, while Peter takes your lips with his own as soon as Quentin manages to murmur a demanding, “Kiss her—- right, fucking, now,” between his breathy pants.

It’s messy, but so are the three of you, as you dissolve into your own skin against skin and lips against teeth. You can barely tell who’s touching you where, but at some point Peter accidentally slips out of you, and in the brief second it takes him to right himself, Quentin hits you so deep you’re seeing stars, and screaming into Peter’s mouth in pleasure.

Quentin’s teeth are at your shoulder, as he buries himself into you over and over again, smothering his moans against the wet strip of your skin that is undoubtedly thoroughly abused with his love bites by now. It’s the most quiet he’s been tonight, but you knew it couldn’t last, because soon enough he’s groaning into your skin and releasing you in favor of murmuring into your ear while Peter picks up his own rhythm once again.

This guy, just likes to hear himself talk, you manage to think.

“So good—- never had such a pretty pussy, as good as yours before,” he growls, words dissected with each thrust, and you’re so out of it that for a sharp instant you dare to believe him. “Taking me, and him—- you’re such a, fucking good girl, honey. Such a good, little, slut, for us.”

Water drips from Peter’s curls onto your cheek, the only coolness to extinguish the burning of your own skin, as each kiss breaks only to earn another in its place. And you can’t tell the running water from the tears in your eyes, as you’re utterly consumed by them.

“I can’t, I can’t,” you babble, as your head falls back against Quentin’s shoulder and you dare to look at him, finding his hair falls, disheveled, into his face, inky black with the water drenching it. His gaze burns you like a match, all brazen lust and a hint of something that was far too dangerous to acknowledge. You ignore it easily enough, focusing on the lust and the feeling of his breath against your temple, “I can’t—-”

He seems to understand whatever pathetic excuse for a sentence you’re trying to get out, because he snaps his hips up, burying himself deep as Peter’s pace falters, the younger man quickly pulling out of you with a choked moan to spill himself against the flesh of your abdomen, while Quentin’s hand comes to your jaw, nodding gently as he rocks up into you again, “Don’t worry, you can cum. Do it for us, honey. You’ve been so good, cum for us.”

Another pointed thrust sends you quivering against him, the sorry excuse for your energy causing you to whimper and clench around him, desperate as his nose and lips press hard into the side of your cheek, kissing and nipping the skin there as he rides through your orgasm only to pull out just before the crux of his own. You feel it, warm against your thighs as you flounder weakly in their grasp, feeling Quentin twitch and moan behind you until you’re all leaning on each other for support. They set you down, and it takes everything you have to not completely collapse, even with the aid of their arms around your body.

“That was,” you manage to breathe, after a second of catching your breath, chest still heaving up into where Peter had rested his head into your shoulder.

“Yeah,” you hear him respond.

But Quentin’s fingers run down your thighs, washing his cum away with the now lukewarm water than rained down upon the three of you, his lips at your skin far too gentle and practiced to make you think that he hadn’t done something similar in the past, “You did great, honey.”

Peter steps away, leaving you to lean against Quentin for support, as he grabs the bottle of shampoo to scrub into his hair before passing it off to Quentin for him to scrub into your own. It’s far too masculine smelling for your liking, but you’re far too tired to protest, and simply want to be clean in the short remainder of whatever hot water was remaining.

You reach out, helping Peter clean himself as Quentin cleans you, and before you know it the only evidence of your time together is the ache growing between your legs and your memories.

When Quentin shuts the water off, and offers you some towels that Peter doesn’t hesitate to wrap around your shoulders, along with his arms, you can’t help but think that you earned every penny of that million dollars tonight. Stepping out of the shower, a grin lingers on your lips as you follow Quentin back towards the bedroom, while Peter scrubs his own towel through his hair.

Quentin glances back at you, as he tucks his towel around his hips and makes his way towards the closet on the other side of the room, shooting you a wink, “Why don’t you order us some room service, honey? I’ve worked up an appetite. Menu’s in the nightstand.”

“Yeah, I’m kinda’ hungry, too,” you giggle, sprawling over the bed and fishing into the nightstand for the luxurious looking menu there, flipping it open only to feel the bed dip as you pick up the phone to dial the number.

Peter kisses behind your ear, humming as you complain about his weight squishing you into the mattress, “What do they have that looks good? I’m hungry, too.”

“Here,” you shove the menu forward, giving him a better view from over your shoulder, while the phone rings the service, and Quentin drops a white button-up on the bed beside you, earning a raise of your brow in response.

“Can’t have you going to the door in a towel, can I, honey?”

“I’m not wearing that,” you huff, and he grins at you.

“Oh, order me the Wagyu filet,” Peter chuckles, smirking at Quentin, “since Mister Beck’s paying tonight.”

Quentin dips into the bed, leaning down beside you to press his lips against your jaw, “Only if she wears the shirt to the door…”

You’re about to say something snarky back, but the phone clicks and you hear a pleasant voice on the other line, while Peter’s hands trail down your sides and you try to keep your breathing steady as you glare at Quentin.

“Hello! You’ve reached Room Service, how may I help you?”

The night was far from over.

Chapter Text

An Indecent Proposal (Epilogue)

Gif source:  1  |  2  |  3

The cardboard is heavy in your hands until you deposit the last box on your newfound kitchen counter. The apartment was littered with labeled boxes and wrapped furniture, but was hardly full. Going from a studio apartment to this only accentuated how little you owned until now.

It still felt like a dream, almost, how much your life had changed in so little time.

Your shoes echo on the hardwood, and you take a breath of the fresh air. It smelled like the kind of clean that only came with a new apartment, industrial almost. You almost want to pinch yourself, to prove it was really yours.

December had been good to you, and with January came a truly new year. Your stomach churned just thinking about it, a nauseous mixture of apprehension and excitement, as you thought of what was to come. Peter’s internship had ended, and he had accepted a proper position under Quentin Beck’s most recent project, which only helped solidify your decision to apply to college for the fall.

It was your turn to start your life, and Peter was more than supportive of your decision, but Beck had more to do with that decision than you would admit to anyone other than yourself.

You had barely seen him after the night you traded your body for his pocketbook, but even at the few company events you accompanied Peter to in the wake of it, you could feel his attention on you. He always balanced the edge of appropriate, just careful enough with his words that any underlying meaning was left unknown to anyone other than the three of you.

In all honesty, you found yourself nearly disappointed with his regression to the harmless flirtation— you had spent more than one night clinging to the memory of what you had done to find release. You couldn’t help but be curious if it had affected him the same.

Not that you dared tell Peter. You agreed to never speak of it again. That had been what you wanted to begin with. Now, though, you weren’t so sure.

The sound of a knock on your open apartment door turns your head, bringing your attention to the man standing in the doorway, draped in a dark, tailored overcoat. Speak of the devil.

He still wears his same smirk, as he watches the confusion flash across your features, “I see Peter’s good taste extends to his choice in real estate.” Quentin runs a hand through his dark hair, dispelling the few flakes of snow that still clung to him, and you hate to admit how amazing he looks with the slight dampness to it.

“I picked the apartment, actually,” you correct him, hearing the sound of his footsteps echo, much the same as your own, as he moves further into your apartment. “What are you doing here, Quentin?”

“I invited him,” Peter answers instead, drawing your attention towards the hallway leading towards the bedroom. He emerges, pulling his sweater a little further along his shoulders as the nip in the air seeps through the windows and into your home.

“Oh?” a curious hum settles on your lips, waiting for the explanation as your fingers rip at the tape of your box for want of something to keep your hands busy.

Quentin stops your fidgeting with a hand that covers your own, keeping you from opening the cardboard entirely, and drawing your eyes up to meet his own. He was looking at you like he always did, laced with amusement and a hint of something more dangerous. You recognize it as lust.

“I think you should pay more attention to what Peter has to say, honey.”

“What’s going on, Pete?” you turn to stare at him, cursing the way your body heats to Beck’s pet name for you. It was just as you remembered, coming from his lips, but you can’t help to remember that it sounded even better when he had that hint of passion mixed in his voice. It had sounded so much better when he was moaning it.

Peter leans on the island counter, crossing his arms with a knowing smile, “I know you still think about it.” Your first urge is to protest, or feign ignorance of what he was talking about, which is what he must read along your features, because he simply shakes his head, “I know you. Don’t try to deny it. You still think about that night, don’t you?”

You look back to the box you were still gripping, knuckles white, Quentin’s hand along your own, keeping you there as you confess your sin softly in this room between them, “I’m sorry.” Did you sound as guilty as you felt?

You must have, because Peter moves closer, smoothing his hand along your jaw to urge your gaze back to his own, “It’s okay.” You frown, confusion filling you, as you nearly dare to ask him how he can possibly be okay with the fact that you can’t get Quentin Beck out of your head? But he just smiles, and admits his own confession, “I still think about it, too.”

“You do?”

Quentin’s hand comes to your shoulder, and you almost find yourself leaning into his grip as he bends to murmur into your ear, “I can’t stop thinking about it either— about how good you were for us that night.”

A gasp escapes you, as Peter’s lips find your own, kissing you brazenly as Quentin caressed your shoulders. You felt hot— too hot with this oversized wool sweater Peter had given you for Christmas hanging along your body, overheating you with the press of their bodies against your own.

You’re near breathless when Peter pulls back and says, “Let’s do it again.”

Quentin’s breath fans hot along your neck, his hand pulling your hair away for his lips to blaze a trail at the crook of it, “Consider it a housewarming gift.” He chuckles at his joke, but it only serves to make your eyes flutter shut at the feeling. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip as you hold back a moan, Quentin’s hand squeezing your hip while Peter intertwines your fingers temptingly with his own. “What do you say, honey? Want to make it more than a one-night thing?”

Swallowing, you work your way through the shock and the lust clouding your brain, trying to think at all clearly enough with these two men pressed against you, but every ounce of your body was screaming at you to go along with it. It was something you’d never considered before Beck had weaseled his way into your life, but a deep, primal part of you eagerly wanted them both.

You could figure out what it all meant in the grand scheme of things later, because right now, all you wanted was exactly what they were willing to give.

So, you take a breath, and look Peter in the eye as you manage a soft nod, “Yeah, I do.”

Peter’s smile widens, and he glances towards the man at your back. When you turn your head to do the same, you spot the cut of his teeth through his grin, like the cat who caught the canary.

“Good girl.“