What a suggestion. He's never considered it before. Never tried it before. And perhaps now isn't the time for experimentation, minutes out from being drawn back from transformation and adrift in the sensory overload of Quentin's helpless piston into his mouth—
Completely sensorily consumed by it. Hyper-focused on the feel of Quentin against his skin, jolting on his tongue, his palate. The taste, the sound of him moving inside his mouth, of his own voice drawn out by it, Quentin's voice above. The heady scent. There's no closer he could possibly be. Eyes closed to trap it all in, every nerve alight as a live-wire, it's theoretically the perfect time to just...
Stephen draws back the barest amount. With a surgeon's precision, magic slips across cell boundaries not from his hands but his swollen lips, buzzes cruel and tantalizing over the head of Quentin's cock and finds its target, crosses wires, catches him before he can fall. He leaves Quentin on the precipice, free to lean out without risk of tipping over, teasing him for emphasis with the wrap of his lips and the swirl of his tongue, hands lifted to anchor him back against the counter. Eyes open now and watching, there's a glint in them that's nothing to do with the welled damp of a fucking.
If he's not swatted away first he pulls back after only a handful of seconds, freeing Quentin, wet and lewd. In a voice pitched low with use and cat-with-cream satisfaction, he asks: "You were saying?"
no subject
Completely sensorily consumed by it. Hyper-focused on the feel of Quentin against his skin, jolting on his tongue, his palate. The taste, the sound of him moving inside his mouth, of his own voice drawn out by it, Quentin's voice above. The heady scent. There's no closer he could possibly be. Eyes closed to trap it all in, every nerve alight as a live-wire, it's theoretically the perfect time to just...
Stephen draws back the barest amount. With a surgeon's precision, magic slips across cell boundaries not from his hands but his swollen lips, buzzes cruel and tantalizing over the head of Quentin's cock and finds its target, crosses wires, catches him before he can fall. He leaves Quentin on the precipice, free to lean out without risk of tipping over, teasing him for emphasis with the wrap of his lips and the swirl of his tongue, hands lifted to anchor him back against the counter. Eyes open now and watching, there's a glint in them that's nothing to do with the welled damp of a fucking.
If he's not swatted away first he pulls back after only a handful of seconds, freeing Quentin, wet and lewd. In a voice pitched low with use and cat-with-cream satisfaction, he asks: "You were saying?"