"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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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?
no subject
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.
no subject
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."
no subject
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.
no subject
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--"
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?"
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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?"
no subject
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."