With practiced ease, Peter leans his head down to escape the neck hole of his crew shirt and pulls the bottom up and behind his neck. The effect is silly, but exposes the firm sheets of his abdominals and pectorals nicely. If he had thought about it earlier he would have oiled himself up just for show.
He positions himself artfully on his chair and glances at the illuminated text on his holo-screen that heralds the incoming call from Ronan the Accuser, armor fashion mogul and baddass of mythical proportions. The Nova Corps had expected this call, had entrusted the infamous StarLord with the vital duty of distracting Ronan long enough to get a trace on the Kree's communication signal. They never mentioned how he was supposed to do it.
Grinning as he lazily sprawls across his chair, Peter picks up the communication remote and answers the insistently flashing blue beacon.
"Hey there, Tall and Terrifying. Long time, no see. You know, you couldn't have had better timing," he drawls as Ronan's angry visage fills his holo-screen with a static crackle. Once the channel finally opens, Ronan's grainy image exhales impressively, losing the wind that he had built up for his expectant megalomaniacal diatribe. Peter can't help but chuckle at the slack jaw and the little wrinkles that gather between the Accuser's non-existent eyebrows at his momentary confusion.
Setting down the remote, Peter casually slides one hand down his body and begins to undo his belt with quick, sure motions.
"What…what are you doing?" Ronan asks in a perfect replay of his reaction to the dance off that destroyed him in a prior life. Though, instead of sounding pathetically confused, this time he just sounds put-out.
Peter smiles coyly and sinks further into his chair, leather squealing against the cheap polyurethane upholstery as his legs naturally spread apart. Ronan's eyes widen as he scans the screen before him and momentarily lock on the tell-tale bulge beneath Peter's roving, then suddenly kneading, hands.
"Fuck," Quill responds with sharp emphasis on the final phoneme. "You know, it's a funny coincidence you called. I was just thinking about you," he continues, slipping the 180 degree zipper of his entirely practical space pants down enough to take his half-hard cock in hand. "The Milano can get awfully lonely." It takes everything in his power not to laugh aloud, settling for a lopsided grin instead.
Ronan awkwardly turns to scan the bridge behind him and motions for his troops to leave with the flick of a finger. The speakers on Peter's end crackle and pop with each synchronized footfall, until the room is clear and the Accuser turns back to face him.
"Surely you could have waited until my return, Quill," he states off-hand. The under-tones of complaint in his voice are entirely unconvincing.
Ronan stares pointedly from beneath the shadow of his cowl at where Peter's hand idly strokes his quickly hardening cock in a loose fisted grasp, purple eyes glowing from the darkness.
"Plaaaaay along," Peter whines. The change in Ronan's demeanor is instantaneous. He sweeps his shoulders back and stands at his full, looming height. Peter's cock throbs beneath his palm.
"Very well. You state that you where considering my person. And what precisely were your thoughts concerning me, Terran?" Ronan the Accuser growls, quickly regaining eye-contact and, with it, his composure. His Ronan would have been onto him in a heartbeat, but distracting this giant, villainous cliché from the Nova Corps' trace is child's play, Peter thinks absently as he keeps his fist stationary and rolls his hips instead. Ronan's eyes snap back down to where Peter's thumb swipes firmly across the angry, red head of his swollen dick.
"So, first, I was thinking that next time I see you, I'm going to make myself real comfortable on your throne. Do that evil leg-spread-wide sprawl thing. Then, I'll put those knee pads to work and order you to kneel. I'm gonna' grab onto that stupid headdress like a set of handlebars and just use your mouth until I've smeared that god-awful black paint off of your face with my thighs," Peter begins, throwing his head back and reaching down to gently cup the outline of his scrotum through his leathers. He smiles as he listens to Ronan almost choke on the communication line in an effort to stay in character.
"I'll make you take every goddamn inch until you can't help but choke on my dick. And just as I'm about to blow my load, I'll push into your throat so deep that breathing isn't even an option. Each pulse will be like a goddamn meal." With one final squeeze, Peter slides his hands back up his chest and instead pinches his nipples hard enough that the skin turns white beneath his thumb.
Glancing up at the screen, he watches as Ronan covers his mouth with one broad blue hand and simply stares. It takes a long moment for the Kree to assemble anything close to resembling his typical aloof composure, but he finally manages to straighten his spine and remove his perfectly manicured fingertips from where they were digging into his jaw.
Even so, the tiny crescent indentations remain.
"You have quite an impressive imagination, Terran. Will you perhaps have me call you 'Starlord' as I struggle to clear my airway? Grovel in awe at the wonder of your sexual prowess and beg you to take me?" Ronan asks sardonically. Despite the placid façade, Peter can tell that he's actually shaken the Kree. This certainly isn't the first time they've done this, but every time there is a nervous thrum just beneath Ronan's skin if the slight tremor is anything to go by. Maybe dirty talk is strictly a Human thing, he ponders absently while flicking his nipples.
"Cute. Maybe next time if you ask nicely. But this time I think I'll have you call me Captain," he says casually, receiving a baleful glare in response.
"And, after you catch your breath, I'm gonna lean back and pull my legs up tight like a goddamn gymnast." Ignoring the quick twitch of confusion on the Accuser's face at the word 'gymnast,' Peter licks his lips and plows on with the scene regardless.
He releases the now red and swollen buds of his nipples and returns his hands to where they feel best, one firmly stroking his cock with deft, pistoning motions, and the other circling the still clothed indentation just below the bulge of his scrotum. Ronan's armor screeches as he scoots forward along the rough-hewn stone of his throne.
"Fuck. I want to feel your tongue pressing into me. Your fingers too, stretching me open slow and good enough to make my thighs shake. Then I want to feel the warmth of your body as you make me take inch by fucking inch of that monster cock," Quill states, finishing the line with an exaggerated, but entirely convincing moan.
On the holo-screen, Ronan leans back and scowls. "Your weak Terran body could never possibly take the girth of my phallus so meekly, nor the true force of my lovemaking," he says quiet gravely.
"Yeah, well, you forgot that I'm the fuckin' Captain of this fantasy," Peter snaps back, annoyed at the interruption.
"Your fantasies are as weak and puerile as your mating dance," Ronan retorts with a snarl, setting his shoulders in challenge. His affected characterization comes back in force, as it always does around this point.
"I will ruthlessly throw you against my thrown and pin you so forcibly that your weak flesh gives beneath my fingers. Your throat will wear the bruised collar of my strength for weeks," Ronan states, initially hesitant to engage, then growing in confidence.
Peter gently glides an open palm to the stubble of his jaw and down further to settle above his bobbing Adam's apple with a moan of approval.
As alluring as the thought of simply being watched is, Ronan's active engagement is something that Peter can really get into. His cock absolutely throbs as the Kree's deep voice washes over him once more.
"And I will squeeze until your insolent Terran voice is forcibly strangled into no more than the suggestion of a whisper. You will beg for reprieve with silent lips and you will writhe fruitlessly beneath my strength," Ronan states, voice rough.
Trying in vain to suppress a grin, Peter makes a show of pressing his own throat into the padded back rest. He arches his spine and spreads his legs wide, showcasing the sweat-slick lines of his chest and stomach where they artfully dip down to the base of his quivering, exposed cock. The motion spreads the 180 degree zipper further open until he can just begin to feel the crisp cabin air caress his scrotum and cool some of the fire raging in his blood.
Ronan devours every newly revealed inch of skin with his piercing purple gaze, lips parted.
Off-screen, Peter can hear the tell-tale rustle of armor being rearranged and leather parting.
"Then, I'll…" Peter begins, still spread and slowly undulating his hips, only to be abruptly cut off.
"You will stay silent beneath my hand or I will remove your tongue! Do I make myself clear?" Ronan roars loudly enough to make the Milano's com speaker crackle and hiss angrily. Quickly aborting his surprised laugh, Peter nods and makes a show of pressing himself harder against the chair and moaning silently. It's no act when he absently rakes his teeth along his bottom lip and a pearl of precome slips down his un-touched shaft. On the screen, Ronan closes his eyes briefly to compose himself and continues.
"If you wish to survive this coupling you will prepare yourself quickly, Terran, for you are not worthy of my consideration," he states, feigning cold detachment.
With practiced ease, Peter reaches blindly into the side console of his chair and retrieves a small vial of lube, uncapping it one handed. He lazily rubs the lube between his fingers with a wet squelch, making sure to emphasize the motion with slow, exaggerated care. Ronan watches the movement closely.
Finally removing his hand from his own throat, Peter slides his fingers down his abdominals in a playful tease and finally arches forward to unzip the remainder of his flight pants. The sound is loud in the heavy, expectant silence of the com speakers. Peter makes sure to lock eyes with the grainy image of the Accuser on the Milano's out-of-date communication screen before spreading his legs even wider and displaying himself as intimately as possible.
Ronan says nothing, but undeniably leans closer to his own screen, eyes watching predatorily.
With a single dexterous finger, Peter massages the tight pucker of his anus and presses in abruptly. He doesn't have to fake the sharp intake of breath at the burning ache of it. Too quickly for the pain to recede, he abruptly presses in a second, then third finger and lets out a moan that is half pleasure, half agony, and everything good.
"Enough! Every burning stretch that you feel in this moment is but a flame compared to the sweeping conflagration of my phallus. I will hold your calves against my chest and fold you in twain as I force myself into the slick heat of your body. You will scream and balk at the intrusion, but your pleas will fall upon deaf ears," Ronan growls, bicep rhythmically flexing as he subtly works himself off screen.
Peter takes a moment to reposition himself more fully onto his back and pulls his knees against his chest. The mass of his muscular quads and the challenge to his balance make it difficult, but he manages regardless. He quickly returns his fingers to where he needs them most and begins to thrust in earnest, heedless of the ache in his wrist. Within moments he's panting and maneuvering his other hand to wrap firmly around his neglected cock. The intensity of rustling of fabric on the other line increases.
"Shit, what next?" Peter gasps.
"You will lie all but helpless beneath me, falling apart piece by piece with each cacophonously loud impact of my hips against your buttocks. Your sweat will stain my throne as it is flung from the force of my thrusts," the Accuser growls, voice dropping in register as he attempts to master the challenge of talking despite the scene before him. Pleasure mounting, Peter returns his feet to the chair seat to brace himself, heels pressed up against his half-clothed buttocks.
"Fuck, I'm so close. Ronan, please," he moans while struggling to figure out whether to buck into the lube-slick hand tugging on his cock or press back onto the fingers that he imagines to be much thicker and much more blue. On the screen, Ronan is watching every undulation and every jerking movement grow uncoordinated by the throes of pleasure.
"Release for me, Quill. Picture my rough palm stroking you to release as I forcibly drive myself into the core of you. Paint your seed across the planes of your chest with the hymn of my name heavy on your tongue," he says, eyes half lidded and lips slack.
With that, Peter screams Ronan's name without restraint and splashes hot come across his stomach and chest in a handful of stuttering pulses. Ronan too closes his eyes and gives into the call of release singing in his veins with a last firm stroke. His blue seed splashes across his armor plating and pauldron in an almost artful wash.
For a long moment they simply stare at each other and breathe.
"So, just a heads up, but the Nova Corps are onto you," Peter says almost conversationally. Ronan's reply is nothing more than a disparaging grunt as he eyes the white ropes of come dripping down Peter's chest.
"I'm aware."
"Yeah, pretty much. So, same time next week?" Peter asks. With narrowed eyes, the Kree finally nods sharply and his line of communication ends abruptly with a dolefully flashing communication terminated.
Peter laughs and sprawls across his chair, one arm slung over the back.
"Computer, scramble tracking signal and store recording," he says with a grin.