Every touch, however slight, is a pinprick of pleasure, overwhelming after spending so long in a haze of pain. He tips his head back and moans as his hips twitch up eagerly into Peter's touch, leaning in as best he can with undisguised greed. He's never had any shame about wanting things, happy to steal anything that catches his interest or seems like it might be useful, or spend a few minutes covetously eyeing anything too big or heavily-guarded to make off with; that's no less true now he's decided that what he wants is Peter. And sure, maybe right now Peter's being a little uncooperative about being wanted, out of 'concern for his injuries' or whatever. He'll work on it. He's gotta play the long game a little here, but it shouldn't take too much. He's got a realistic idea about Peter's good judgement and willpower when it comes to having ill-advised sex.
"All you gotta do is say the word and I'm all yours," he murmurs, tilting his head to bare more of his neck to Peter's mouth. Fuck, it's true. It feels so good that he almost forgets, sometimes, just how new this all is in the grand scheme of things. It doesn't seem it. It's been so comfortable, so fucking easy. There was a time not all that long ago when he would have viewed being wanted like this as a threat and reacted accordingly; the thought that any part of him would want to encourage it would have sounded insane. But what it comes down to — what it always does, in the end — is the simple fact that he trusts Peter completely. There's just about no-one else in the universe whose hands he'd be willing to put himself in like this.
He's dimly aware that if they're doing this for real, what they are to each other is supposed to change. He doesn't know what exactly that looks like— it's not like they've talked about it, and some wary part of him doesn't want to ask too many questions in case it breaks whatever weird magic is letting this happen at all. But fuck, it's hard to picture how there could be more. After everything that they've been through, the home they've all made together, Peter means fucking everything to him.
That sharp nip of teeth is a sweeter note of pain than the all-pervading ache he's been living with. He moans again, louder and more heartfelt this time, the rocking of his hips settling into a rhythm with it as Peter strokes him with maddening deliberateness. He lifts his hand and reaches back to wind his fingers into Peter's hair, water cascading down onto Peter's bare shoulder with the motion. His gaze moves with lazy appreciation over the way that it beads on the skin and traces the lines of muscle as it trickles down, greedy to follow the same path with his tongue whenever he next gets the chance. He tightens his grip, tugging lightly on Peter's hair, and pulls him into a deep, hungry kiss. "Fuck, that's good."
When Peter was younger, he didn't develop a reputation for no reason, and the supposed 'pelvic sorcery' that Gamora once accused him of had some foundation of truth. He liked people, and he liked to have a good time in bed, and so he always made sure their partners were enjoying themselves as much as possible. Being different species made that risky at times, but what was life without a little bit of excitement?
Sex had also made him feel less lonely as he desperately sought a connection with someone. Rocket acting so responsive to his attention and touches after Peter has gone so long without a partner who wanted him that much sometimes becomes dizzying for how hungry it makes him in return. So, yes, Rocket makes it very clear when he wants something, and now it's Peter's attention that he seeks; he's more than happy to give it to him, his touch becoming bolder, the dragging of his hands more firm. That's Peter for you; positive reinforcement does wonders for him.
He would love to do more, get into that bathtub with his partner—if they both fit—and take advantage of their time together. But it's exactly because his interest in Rockets goes beyond mutual gratification that he is doing his best not to give in and do something that will leave his friend even more bruised. Peter is more than happy to end up covered in hickeys and scratches and some possessive bruises, too, but that will have to wait another day.
Now he murmurs a 'fuck, Rocket…' against the exposed skin of the man's neck, which is Peter's lingo for 'You keep saying these things that turn me on immensely, and it's hard to stay in control'. Since he doesn't immediately trust his brain-to-mouth filter, he doesn't say anything out loud, instead latching his lips on the side of Rocket's exposed throat and sucking. It's only once he's dragged out some more broken moans out of his best friend that he relents enough to murmur;
"I know." Peter doesn't sound smug about it; it sounds like he trusts what Rocket's said as a fact. It's nice that the other man has gotten to this point with him, that they can be honest and vulnerable with each other. It has taken them a lot. "Which is why you are so damn tempting, you asshole."
Too tempting, in fact, and it's going to eventually erode Peter's determination, which is why he's cursing out Rocket. It's also why he's going to let his hand speed up, taking advantage of how the water makes his fist slide smoothly over Rocket's cock. Peter almost wants to babble and wax poetic about how good the man's dick feels in his hand, how firm and thick and perfect it is, but his mouth is busy. The other greedy hand is also pressing down on Rocket's chest, tracing patterns on his skin and circling one of his nipples before flicking it.
He likes the banter; it's something they always had going on, and Peter can use it to mask some of the things he would like to say that would be either too sappy or veering too much into confessing his feelings. He doesn't want to scare away Rocket even if practically everything he says to him is filled with badly hidden affection.
Oh, ohh, playing with his hair and tugging at it is not fair play! Peter can't voice that complaint, busy moaning at the tug to his curls and pressing his mouth to Rocket for that hungry kiss. Okay, he might be getting a little bit sidetracked, his own cock now jumping to attention and getting half hard. Damn it, Rocket.
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"All you gotta do is say the word and I'm all yours," he murmurs, tilting his head to bare more of his neck to Peter's mouth. Fuck, it's true. It feels so good that he almost forgets, sometimes, just how new this all is in the grand scheme of things. It doesn't seem it. It's been so comfortable, so fucking easy. There was a time not all that long ago when he would have viewed being wanted like this as a threat and reacted accordingly; the thought that any part of him would want to encourage it would have sounded insane. But what it comes down to — what it always does, in the end — is the simple fact that he trusts Peter completely. There's just about no-one else in the universe whose hands he'd be willing to put himself in like this.
He's dimly aware that if they're doing this for real, what they are to each other is supposed to change. He doesn't know what exactly that looks like— it's not like they've talked about it, and some wary part of him doesn't want to ask too many questions in case it breaks whatever weird magic is letting this happen at all. But fuck, it's hard to picture how there could be more. After everything that they've been through, the home they've all made together, Peter means fucking everything to him.
That sharp nip of teeth is a sweeter note of pain than the all-pervading ache he's been living with. He moans again, louder and more heartfelt this time, the rocking of his hips settling into a rhythm with it as Peter strokes him with maddening deliberateness. He lifts his hand and reaches back to wind his fingers into Peter's hair, water cascading down onto Peter's bare shoulder with the motion. His gaze moves with lazy appreciation over the way that it beads on the skin and traces the lines of muscle as it trickles down, greedy to follow the same path with his tongue whenever he next gets the chance. He tightens his grip, tugging lightly on Peter's hair, and pulls him into a deep, hungry kiss. "Fuck, that's good."
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Sex had also made him feel less lonely as he desperately sought a connection with someone. Rocket acting so responsive to his attention and touches after Peter has gone so long without a partner who wanted him that much sometimes becomes dizzying for how hungry it makes him in return. So, yes, Rocket makes it very clear when he wants something, and now it's Peter's attention that he seeks; he's more than happy to give it to him, his touch becoming bolder, the dragging of his hands more firm. That's Peter for you; positive reinforcement does wonders for him.
He would love to do more, get into that bathtub with his partner—if they both fit—and take advantage of their time together. But it's exactly because his interest in Rockets goes beyond mutual gratification that he is doing his best not to give in and do something that will leave his friend even more bruised. Peter is more than happy to end up covered in hickeys and scratches and some possessive bruises, too, but that will have to wait another day.
Now he murmurs a 'fuck, Rocket…' against the exposed skin of the man's neck, which is Peter's lingo for 'You keep saying these things that turn me on immensely, and it's hard to stay in control'. Since he doesn't immediately trust his brain-to-mouth filter, he doesn't say anything out loud, instead latching his lips on the side of Rocket's exposed throat and sucking. It's only once he's dragged out some more broken moans out of his best friend that he relents enough to murmur;
"I know." Peter doesn't sound smug about it; it sounds like he trusts what Rocket's said as a fact. It's nice that the other man has gotten to this point with him, that they can be honest and vulnerable with each other. It has taken them a lot. "Which is why you are so damn tempting, you asshole."
Too tempting, in fact, and it's going to eventually erode Peter's determination, which is why he's cursing out Rocket. It's also why he's going to let his hand speed up, taking advantage of how the water makes his fist slide smoothly over Rocket's cock. Peter almost wants to babble and wax poetic about how good the man's dick feels in his hand, how firm and thick and perfect it is, but his mouth is busy. The other greedy hand is also pressing down on Rocket's chest, tracing patterns on his skin and circling one of his nipples before flicking it.
He likes the banter; it's something they always had going on, and Peter can use it to mask some of the things he would like to say that would be either too sappy or veering too much into confessing his feelings. He doesn't want to scare away Rocket even if practically everything he says to him is filled with badly hidden affection.
Oh, ohh, playing with his hair and tugging at it is not fair play! Peter can't voice that complaint, busy moaning at the tug to his curls and pressing his mouth to Rocket for that hungry kiss. Okay, he might be getting a little bit sidetracked, his own cock now jumping to attention and getting half hard. Damn it, Rocket.