The shortness of sentiment makes it easier, cleaner, so so much simpler to force Stephen into rhythm with him. "Relax," Quentin urges against his neck, voice low and rushing, "Let me handle it, I got you." His fingers slide from Stephen's cock only long enough to under his navel and wring his side where the tension bunches. Stop that. 

Then he's back, setting the pace in long drags along Stephen's tongue that time to the steady rock of his hips. His fist works his shaft in cut time, pausing every few beats to press lower, cupping Stephen back against him and tugging his sack before finding pace again. "You can get me after. Do you go down on your knees? I think I'd like that. I think you'd look--" He'd look some kind of way, the thought of which makes Quentin stutter, knuckles bumping his palate, mouth heaving against his spine. Fuck.