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“I’m going to ride you hard and put you away wet,” Quill says.
He is running his hand over Drax’s back, and it is not unpleasant, but Drax frowns. “I am not a mode of transportation, Quill,” he says, turning on his side. “And I do not want to be put away wet. That would be uncomfortable.”
Quill is rolling his eyes, and the petulant look on his face is oddly attractive. Before Drax can pursue this development further, however, he thinks of something else. “Where would you put me?” Quill’s ship is not the smallest Drax has ever traveled in, but neither does it have extraneous cupboards. He does not think he could fit in one of Quill’s cupboards anyway.
“I meant,” Quill says, bending his head to bite Drax’s shoulder – well, he must have meant it as a bite; it was truly only a nip – “that I’m going to fuck you into next Friday.”
Drax threads his fingers carefully into Quill’s hair (carefully, because of the accident last week which led to thunderous orgasms, but also an unscheduled stop to acquire hair renewal cream) and pulls his head back in order to look down at the frustrating Terran face. “You would grow tired before next Friday.”
“You make dirty talk really hard, d’you know that?” Quill complains, but Drax is no longer listening. He rolls them so he is on top, letting enough of his weight press Quill down into the mattress until Quill stops trying to talk and winds his legs around Drax’s back instead.
“There are other things I make hard,” Drax says, and kisses the reluctant grin off Quill’s face.