Quentin's fingers close around him and Stephen lets out a gust of relief, sigh pooling rough and voiced around the fingers that find their way into his mouth. Hunger has his tongue rise to meet them, lapping at fingertips, laving over warm skin as his hips rock shallow into Quentin's hold. Friction, closeness and the salt of those fingers working him full in that snug grip.
Attention elsewhere, it takes him a little too long to notice the prickling of a rivulet of pitch creeping down his arm. Longer still to realise it means his window of opportunity has closed and he lets go of Quentin's hand, closing both of his own over the countertop in front of him just to keep himself from turning around, reaching back.
This isn't going to be easy.
Slipped between minds to spare himself the need to free up his mouth, which if Quentin's hand doesn't fall away will busy itself kissing closed around his fingers, lewd with sense memory and safe company's lifted inhibitions and the urgent desire to make this worth Quentin's while.
"Guarantee I've done tougher." He drops the assurance immediately. The weirdness of them (he's a fucking wizard, he's tangled with Kovacs, he's got twenty years on Quentin easy and he's leaking) isn't anything unusual compared with some of the shit Quentin has done here, never mind in the Fog. Even if it was, the urgency of the situation calls for a little steel--and Stephen's lips pursed around his knuckles summon that steel in a fucking instant.
Quentin's hips hitch against his ass, a decidedly unprofessional heat filling him out as he starts to jack steadily. "If you're this wound up, I bet you have a couple rounds in you. You think you can get one off like this? Get off like this, and you can use your hands after?"
Stephen's jaw falls abruptly open to keep him from biting into fingers as Quentin continues to take matters into (metaphorical, literal) hand. Thinking so he doesn't have to, promising him an after to this first burst of pragmatism. If cock in hand, fingers in mouth, hips pressed flush around fabric not thick enough to keep too many secrets can really be called pragmatic. He rewards him with a choke of sound, tongue pressing flat to the underside of those fingers as Stephen pants out hot breath around them, tries to gather himself a little.
Yeah. Even his thoughts sound breathless. Hips start to cant forward to meet Quentin's fist, crest back into him, rhythm far from perfect as the thing he's becoming seeps its viscous poison from his palms, thin strings of it slipping into the sink where he curls his fingers over the edge. Thank you.
If he's trying for sentiment (he isn't), he misses the mark by a mile: visceral, a thanks of the body, of a starving thing offered a first helping and mannered enough to gift gratitude in lieu of begging for another bowl.
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.
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.
It's like seeing a shooting star, or like a bird landing on his hand, the breathless thrill of knowing Stephen is about to lose it--lose it for him. Quentin cusses clumsily, slides his fingers from Stephen's mouth to scoop around his thigh and pull him in. He doesn't need to last another minute; scraping precum off him, biting in his shoulder through his shirt, Quentin strips him relentlessly to drive him somewhere safer so he can turn him around and see what this is doing to Stephen.
Hips stutter, thigh flexing frantically under Quentin's hold as Stephen's neck cranes, the low whine curling out of him caught suddenly behind a stop in his throat. A trap for all the sound he doesn't make for the few startled seconds between knowing it's over and the end crashing in.
Quentin's request is so easy to grant. He stops holding on.
In spite of himself, a slick hand abandons its grip on the counter as it hits him, reaches back to clamp over Quentin's hip. His fingers dig and not for the first time the pain from damaged nerves drips sparks into flame. All that suspended sound leaves him in a shout as he drives abruptly forward, seeking every last twist of that deft fist while he spills over, shout petering into choked little shudders that time with the seeping pulse of his cock.
All his too-taut muscles unwind at once. It takes his last scrap of wherewithal to clutch with the hand still locked over the sink edge in case he needs to take back the weight he's just abandoned almost entirely to Quentin's support.
"Good--good, good, good--" He braces Stephen to him with one arm, with the hand not sloughing cum away from his skin and into the sink. The bright noise of him simmers in Quentin's ears, sends his knuckles sparkling with blue zadza. He's hard at Stephen's back but slow, careful as he pries the hand off his hip and nudge Stephen around. "There you go. Better? Lemme see--" Show him that it's help, let him see your hands.
His chest heaves as he turns, pliant under Quentin's guidance. Dazed with the glow of lingering pleasure, it takes Stephen a second, already nodding as his attention skitters over Quentin's face, to realise what he means -
Oh, right. Lifting his hands finds them still glistening with a thin sheen of black, more residual than the dense flow of before. A twitch of fingers consumes it under a flood of amber power and leaves him staring at his clean hands where they're offered into the space between them, evidence, willing seconds to pass. One, clean. Two, still clean. Three, four, five.
It's about eight seconds in that he decides he's satisfied, one hand breaking ranks to push up into Quentin's hair so he can kiss gratitude into his mouth. The other cheats his tar-stained pants safely away from his skin, relegating them to a heap on the counter behind him with a quick and silent spell as he tilts back just far enough to ask, low and rasping, "Do you still want my mouth?"
He meets Strange's tongue with a pleased, encouraging moan, crowding him back against the counter when he returns the kiss with enthusiasm. He forgot for a second, relegating the promise to simple dirty talk, a means to an end that's already arrived. That Stephen brings them back to it feels like ice in hot oil, something stiff and uncomfortable hissing to dangerous life. The breath he sucks in at the question spits and sizzles between his teeth. "Fuck, yeah--omifuckingod."
Quentin keeps to Stephen's mouth, butting and nipping at his lips, even as he frantically pulls at his button fly. Boy-eager, he catches Stephen by the jaw for a last, branding push into his mouth and fists his own cock out of his pants. Has to get a little barb in, wild and grinning from arousal, "Your knees okay, old man? You gonna be able to get back up?"
The enthusiasm sears straight into him, earlier storm still going strong, and with Quentin burning a lasting impression into his mouth and memory he catches himself wondering what another round might be like. Both once-sated, less hurried. Whether he could stoke Quentin again as easily as his embers are kept lit now. He rewards him with the rich spill of laughter into their mouths, charmed by the openness, the greedy, giving ease.
"Worry about your own knees." Stephen pushes back against Quentin just slightly then and in the next second Quentin will find himself standing where Stephen had an instant before, pressed back, without either of them having needed to move a muscle. Stephen's eyes glint bright mischief, mouth hooking up at the corner, attention roving over Quentin's face. "In case you need something to hold onto."
Then his gaze drops to the scant space between them, raises again to meet Quentin's in final warning, and he sinks with easy grace to his knees. Claiming the cock from Quentin's hand into his own, Stephen casts his eyes up, watchful as he leans in to smother sudden nerves with the scent of his skin, nose pressed into hair, mouth open and breathing hot against the base for the few moments it takes him to be ready to drop wet, indulgent kisses along the shaft. Taking his time. Payback for the quip.
"Fu--Stephen!" Shock, laughter, hands dropping back to clamp to the counter when he's suddenly--shit, facing the other way. Quentin shudders and straightens, sucks in a sharp breath when Stephen catches his eyes from below. Dr. Strange. The sorcerer with his lips snagging along his shaft, like-- "Holy shit, okay--okay."
His hand twitches to Stephen's hairline--away--back to his hair and away again to scrape over his mouth. "You think this--helps, you think this counts for your zadza, uh--" You like it, do you like this?
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.
More shock, more laughter. It almost stuns him more to see this than it does to feel it. Even with Stephen drawing his dick down along his tongue, it's hard to believe that this is happening to him. "Jesus, you look like a porno." He puffs, mindless, finally letting himself touch. Quentin pets over Stephen's crown, scratches back over his temple and draws a thumb down the grain of his mustache. That's probably half the porno there. "That's a compliment. Just--so you know. Do that thing again? Or--hold on, can you--"
His palm heel smooths over Stephen's check, massages the hinge of his jaw. "Loosen up here. I can do it, you don't have to do all the work."
And just like that, Quentin's asking to be given space to fuck his mouth. There's a moment of pause, tongue a pliant bed as Stephen runs the thought over, trying to make sense of the new knots he's being twisted into with every breathless compliment and shift of hand. Where this request that's also part earnest offer, part gentle guidance sits in the scope of what he'd been meaning to do here.
He hadn't been meaning to take lessons. He had been meaning to learn - specifically, in this instance, how to take Quentin to pieces with a tool he barely knows how to use in this specific context.
He leans his face briefly into Quentin's touch. Drops the hand still curled around the base to smooth around and dig fingertips into the flesh of his ass. Looks up, draws back, sinks down again - and relaxes his jaw.
He means to be careful, but the fingertips digging into the sensitive swell of his ass make him jerk forward. Quentin's hands sweep over Stephen's scalp, wrap under his under his jaw like he can somehow make it easier. All it does is map a path between something he knows newly (the slope and scruff of Stephen's jawbone, the vibration of his voice) with something he knows pretty damn well (being sloppily blown) so fast and clear that Quentin isn't sure when his veins will stop glowing. "Sorry," he breathes, but he can't stop, hips on a hair rigger, "Lemme know if--fuck--just--"
Breathed words, sincere words, but he doesn't put voice to the conclusion: if Stephen wanted to stop him, he could do it. Fingers massage in the hollow of Stephen's throat, and Quentin fucks his mouth. Erratic, until he's too hard for affection to get in the way of arousal, and he finds a pace that matches his heartbeat. Quick, half-timed with his exhales and with long firm sweeps of his thumbs over Stephen's temples and masseter and bowstring of his neck. "Jesuschrist, Stephen. You want it like this? You want it on your face?"
A dry laugh as he draws out till his tip bumps light over Stephen's shielded teeth. "If you want it inside, you're gonna have to fuckin--stop me up, cuz I'm--"
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?"
When Stephen pulls back, Quentin starts to warn him hold on and wait, fully forgetting the little prod he'd dealt out seconds ago and twisted up in the orgasm about to unravel in Stephen's mouth. The thing he does with his mouth hits Quentin like a fucking train. His voice in his mouth follows the same explosive arc as the arousal in his shaft, peaking at the top of his throat and souring when he can't finish.
His hips strain against Stephen's grip, head dips back dangerously between his shoulders as Quentin tries to find ground underneath the dizzying height in his head and veins and thighs. His voice snaps, stunned and indignant as he glares back down: "What the fuck?"
He can't take his eyes off of him. The urge to keep him there, hanging out over the edge comes with warring instincts: self-satisfied and greedy, the desire to make him plead takes up arms against the softer want to hold him there only so that he has more time to give in to every little thing Quentin might ask of him along the way, crest made all the sweeter for the wait.
He settles himself somewhere in the middle. Lets one hand smooth down over Quentin's thigh as he speaks, wrap and grasp. Eye contact unflinching, smirk undeniable.
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Attention elsewhere, it takes him a little too long to notice the prickling of a rivulet of pitch creeping down his arm. Longer still to realise it means his window of opportunity has closed and he lets go of Quentin's hand, closing both of his own over the countertop in front of him just to keep himself from turning around, reaching back.
This isn't going to be easy.
Slipped between minds to spare himself the need to free up his mouth, which if Quentin's hand doesn't fall away will busy itself kissing closed around his fingers, lewd with sense memory and safe company's lifted inhibitions and the urgent desire to make this worth Quentin's while.
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Quentin's hips hitch against his ass, a decidedly unprofessional heat filling him out as he starts to jack steadily. "If you're this wound up, I bet you have a couple rounds in you. You think you can get one off like this? Get off like this, and you can use your hands after?"
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Yeah. Even his thoughts sound breathless. Hips start to cant forward to meet Quentin's fist, crest back into him, rhythm far from perfect as the thing he's becoming seeps its viscous poison from his palms, thin strings of it slipping into the sink where he curls his fingers over the edge. Thank you.
If he's trying for sentiment (he isn't), he misses the mark by a mile: visceral, a thanks of the body, of a starving thing offered a first helping and mannered enough to gift gratitude in lieu of begging for another bowl.
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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.
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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.
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"Give it to me. Come on, Stephen, give it to me."
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Quentin's request is so easy to grant. He stops holding on.
In spite of himself, a slick hand abandons its grip on the counter as it hits him, reaches back to clamp over Quentin's hip. His fingers dig and not for the first time the pain from damaged nerves drips sparks into flame. All that suspended sound leaves him in a shout as he drives abruptly forward, seeking every last twist of that deft fist while he spills over, shout petering into choked little shudders that time with the seeping pulse of his cock.
All his too-taut muscles unwind at once. It takes his last scrap of wherewithal to clutch with the hand still locked over the sink edge in case he needs to take back the weight he's just abandoned almost entirely to Quentin's support.
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Oh, right. Lifting his hands finds them still glistening with a thin sheen of black, more residual than the dense flow of before. A twitch of fingers consumes it under a flood of amber power and leaves him staring at his clean hands where they're offered into the space between them, evidence, willing seconds to pass. One, clean. Two, still clean. Three, four, five.
It's about eight seconds in that he decides he's satisfied, one hand breaking ranks to push up into Quentin's hair so he can kiss gratitude into his mouth. The other cheats his tar-stained pants safely away from his skin, relegating them to a heap on the counter behind him with a quick and silent spell as he tilts back just far enough to ask, low and rasping, "Do you still want my mouth?"
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Quentin keeps to Stephen's mouth, butting and nipping at his lips, even as he frantically pulls at his button fly. Boy-eager, he catches Stephen by the jaw for a last, branding push into his mouth and fists his own cock out of his pants. Has to get a little barb in, wild and grinning from arousal, "Your knees okay, old man? You gonna be able to get back up?"
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"Worry about your own knees." Stephen pushes back against Quentin just slightly then and in the next second Quentin will find himself standing where Stephen had an instant before, pressed back, without either of them having needed to move a muscle. Stephen's eyes glint bright mischief, mouth hooking up at the corner, attention roving over Quentin's face. "In case you need something to hold onto."
Then his gaze drops to the scant space between them, raises again to meet Quentin's in final warning, and he sinks with easy grace to his knees. Claiming the cock from Quentin's hand into his own, Stephen casts his eyes up, watchful as he leans in to smother sudden nerves with the scent of his skin, nose pressed into hair, mouth open and breathing hot against the base for the few moments it takes him to be ready to drop wet, indulgent kisses along the shaft. Taking his time. Payback for the quip.
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His hand twitches to Stephen's hairline--away--back to his hair and away again to scrape over his mouth. "You think this--helps, you think this counts for your zadza, uh--" You like it, do you like this?
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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.
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His palm heel smooths over Stephen's check, massages the hinge of his jaw. "Loosen up here. I can do it, you don't have to do all the work."
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He hadn't been meaning to take lessons. He had been meaning to learn - specifically, in this instance, how to take Quentin to pieces with a tool he barely knows how to use in this specific context.
He leans his face briefly into Quentin's touch. Drops the hand still curled around the base to smooth around and dig fingertips into the flesh of his ass. Looks up, draws back, sinks down again - and relaxes his jaw.
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Breathed words, sincere words, but he doesn't put voice to the conclusion: if Stephen wanted to stop him, he could do it. Fingers massage in the hollow of Stephen's throat, and Quentin fucks his mouth. Erratic, until he's too hard for affection to get in the way of arousal, and he finds a pace that matches his heartbeat. Quick, half-timed with his exhales and with long firm sweeps of his thumbs over Stephen's temples and masseter and bowstring of his neck. "Jesuschrist, Stephen. You want it like this? You want it on your face?"
A dry laugh as he draws out till his tip bumps light over Stephen's shielded teeth. "If you want it inside, you're gonna have to fuckin--stop me up, cuz I'm--"
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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?"
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His hips strain against Stephen's grip, head dips back dangerously between his shoulders as Quentin tries to find ground underneath the dizzying height in his head and veins and thighs. His voice snaps, stunned and indignant as he glares back down: "What the fuck?"
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He settles himself somewhere in the middle. Lets one hand smooth down over Quentin's thigh as he speaks, wrap and grasp. Eye contact unflinching, smirk undeniable.
"Just following directions."