Composed as he hopes he looks, he feels a little on the brink of something. Drunk on every half-breath pause, every twitch. On how the act of him going to his knees seems to have been almost as magic as the spell cast just before. It'll help. Yes, it'll help. A little lean away as he reaches the head, space enough to answer the question. Smirk angled upward, soft-cornered. "I think it might."

His tongue now. A kitten lick. A slow drag of tongue tip over the slit. A lewd kiss stretching out, lips holding Quentin still so he can roll his tongue in a teasing spiral around and over the head— and finally sink down to take him into his mouth.