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Peter looks so small next to Drax. You love that; he's not a small man, strong and thickly muscled, but by the magnificent vee of Drax's torso he looks almost delicate. It makes it easier to believe, when Drax twists Peter's arm up behind his back, shoves him down on his knees.
Peter spoils a perfectly good piece of theater by grinning, and then trying not to grin. You sink down in front of him and take his chin in your hand; when you kiss him, he closes his eyes and leans into it; when you run your nails down his back, hard, he shudders and sighs.
You've had sex before Peter. Of course you've had sex before, you're three decades old.
You've never been loved before, not in this way, at least. It changes things in ways that you wouldn't have guessed.
You tangle your hand in Peter's hair and pull his head back, roughly; he gasps, brow furrowing. He's been hard since Drax first laid hands on him, probably before; his Terran reproductive apparatus stands up red against his stomach. You grasp it in your hand, not gently: there will be other days for gently. The sound that he makes is amazing. Drax grins at you over his shoulder. Drax you don't touch, not now, at least. Not like this. It's against the rules. His hands tighten on Peter's wrists, though, and Peter gives a sympathetic shudder. His head falls back against Drax's shoulder, which skirts the boundaries, but not quite, not quite, and Drax presses his lips to Peter's hair and then twists his arm hard, hard enough to hurt, and Peter screams and falls forward against you. His cock is throbbing in your hand, and he almost came, just then, just from Drax hurting him.
But he waits. If you were talking - which you're not, the three of you inevitably ruin the mood when you try to narrate - he'd say that it's because he's being good, because you haven't told him to yet. But you know him by now, and that's not it. You know that he loves this moment, held between the two of you, just on the cusp.
Your eyes meet Drax's; Drax inclines his head, chivalrous. Ceding the initiative. You tighten your hand in Peter's hair and kiss him, hard, biting at his lips, and he gives so beautifully, he relaxes into you so completely that you twist your hand on his cock in the way that you know will make him come, splattering human reproductive material all over his own belly and your thighs, cream on green.
You both hold onto him for a long moment while he shudders, body going limp against you. His forehead is on your shoulder; Drax releases his wrists, slowly, and his hand strokes Peter's back, soothing over the marks your nails left.
When Peter raises his head he looks wrecked, sweaty and red and with his hair sticking up five different directions from your hands. "Oh my god," he says, voice still a little cracky. "You guys. Oh my god."
Drax chuckles, brushing the sweaty hair back from Peter's forehead. "I enjoyed it as well," he says, with gruff earnestness. He waits until the two of you are situated on one of the bunks - Peter on the inside, his arm slung around your waist - before he takes his leave to find some privacy. You still don't know what relief he allows himself, within the terms of his oaths. You hope something.
"Some day," Peter says, sleepily, "One of us is going to spoon that guy so hard." He rubs at his wrist, muzzily.
"It may take both of us," you reply.
He yawns. "I didn't get you off," he says, mournfully.
You tug at his hair, gently, a little reminder. "I'm comfortable with you owing me," you say, and then you both drift off to sleep.