The question has him throb in Quentin's fist. He's recalled parts of the last time he was less on his knees than with his belly pressed to sheets with every dip and drag of Quentin's fingers over the soft of his tongue, and the question, then the staggered heat of the mouth pressed to his spine as Quentin loses himself briefly to the idea of watching Stephen's mouth find something new to close around is all the encouragement he already doesn't need.

I will. A threat or a promise? Loaded enough to be both. Quentin.

There's a muffled mental fuck layered over the spill of sound around Quentin's fingers, then his thoughts descend into an unimaginative flurry of praise and plea, yeah and that's good and oh shit. Surrender never comes easily to a man like Stephen Strange but it brings with it such rich rewards when he tries. Quentin Smith is everywhere, he's five sensations at once, there's no denying him. And with how tripwire tight he'd been wound before setting foot in the apartment, Stephen's going to be lucky if he makes it another minute.