"No, jesus, no! Just--" He doesn't even think about drawing his fingertips around the corner of her mouth, tracing back down her jaw to the top of her throat. He'd just been there. He'd just been-- "Sorry, just--you're not fucking around, huh? Sorry, I'll chill. I'm trying to chill. I am.
Joan settles her head on his flat hip and begins, idly, to jerk him off. She likes talking to men when they're hard. They're either more honest, or so dishonest it's comforting. She thinks she knows which one Quentin will be. "Careful about what, Quentin? That your big dick is gonna choke me?"
She turns her head to nip at his hipbone, making it clear-- she hopes-- that she's teasing.
"Hey, a person could drown in four inches of water," He snorts, keeps his fingers in her hair, farther down and more boldly twisting and turning (tangling) now that the position is a little lower risk. "That doesn't hurt? You're not--I mean, you're okay?"
"Nah. I had this- I guess he was my boyfriend? And he was really into deepthroating porn, so I taught myself how. Only took a month." She moves her hand over his dick, appreciating that he's being patient with it. "It's very hot on my end, so don't think you're the only one having a good time."
She gets a flush out of him with that. Quentin's eyebrows raise, lips purse so his breath rushes out slow. "If it's hot for you, I'm--fucking--flying."
Her lip curls in a sharp smile. "I could teach you," she says. She adjusts the angle of their bodies, curling herself forward so he can see her touching herself as she touches him. "That'd be hotter."
His tongue scrapes over his lower lip, head tilts to follow the angle she shows him. He shifts at the hips, in her hand. "Sure. I'll just--call you the next time I've got a guy with his pants down. I'll just tell him I'm getting coaching."
Joan rolls her eyes, and shifts a little closer to him on the grass. She lets go of his dick so she can prop herself up on one arm, letting Quentin pillow his head in the crook of her elbow. Her other hand brushes his jaw, pets his lower lip. "Be more creative."
She pushes two fingers against his mouth, and will move them into his mouth if he'll let her.
As Joan slides up his body, Quentin takes the lead he thinks she's giving him, palm following her spine down until it rounds her ass and squeezes. His pinky and ring fingers catch slick off her cleft just a moment before hers split the seam of his lip. His hand stills, brow pinches in puzzlement--and his eyes light up as he catches on.
Quentin's tongue slips under her fingertips, jaw loosens so she can slide back. He's got the very basics, at least!
Joan peppers Quentin's face with kisses, going for gentle, relaxing. Her fingers move in and out of his mouth without much depth. "That's good, you've got it. Good boy."
She nips his jaw, sucks his skin. "You're so hot like this. Try'n relax for me. Breath through your nose."
Carefully, tentatively, her fingers press deeper, finding the back of his throat. They retreat almost immediately; all she wants to do is test him.
The cradling (of her arm, of her voice and accent going creamy) feels strange enough to have his ears burning, and he takes that deep breath she recommends to cool off. He hums when she retreats, fingers pinching around her ass as he lifts his head insistently. Eager to suck her fingers farther back and prove himself. He can get it--he's not a kid.
She sees his vulnerability, the way he clearly wants to rise to the challenge, and something solidifies in her gut. She kisses his temple and murmurs into his ear as her fingers work into her mouth again, only staying at the back of his for three seconds.
"I thought you might not like it when I take the reins, but I think you do."
Three seconds, and then he swallows as her fingertips retreat. I can take it, he notes even while he tries to relax back against her arm, I can handle it.
Forcing it, he means. Pushing it too far, just the way he assumed she would do, just the way it's been asked of him before. He likes to have her in charge; he'll like it even better once it clicks that she's tell him to go slow. His fingers fidget in scrunches and circles at the back of her thigh.
His eyes stick on hers, needy and a little blown, but thinking. He huffs noisily through his nose. How not to. He doesn't like it. I didn't want you to get stuck--working. Today.
"Then stop begging me to fist your esophagus and be patient." Who says romance is dead. Her fingers touch soft palate, staying a little longer before retreating again. "Do this to yourself every other day. After a month, you'll be a pro."
A snort makes it harder to keep her fingers down, but she pulls back just in time to keep him from tripping over them. His mouth purses for hers when she bows in, teeth pinch light around her knuckles to murmur (aborted), "Joan."
His tongue slips up knuckle by knuckle as he lifts his chin, away from her hands. Clearer: "Joan." A sharp little clap against her ass. "C'mere. Bring it up here. Lemme do you while you, um. Demo that. Again."
She laughs, hiding her face in the cook of his neck. "You want me to ride you while you suck on my hand? Pretty fucking versatile."
But she likes the idea. She aligns their bodies, petting his chest, his stomach. She touches herself before she slides down on him, making a show of it, before using that same hand to press against his lips.
He really means to contest that no, no, no, Joan should ride his face, but the moment he tips into the heat of her, he cannot argue with the results. The moan echoing around her fingers spikes when he catches her taste. Quentin's hands squeeze at her knees and drag up her thighs, tracking the tension as she rocks. His tongue squeezes between her fingers--less eager-to-impress, but still absolutely eager.
How can someone he's pretty sure would give him a noogie at the drop of a hat be so hot? She does it naturally, like lacing her boots or hauling water. Maybe that's where the heat comes from--the ease of it. Maybe she's lowkey some kind of witch. Whatever. His heels ground in the blanket to hitch his hips up, insistent there as he remembers the patience in his mouth.
Joan, meanwhile, is still gathering information. She doesn't usually get the appeal of guys like Quentin-- not to adult women who aren't afraid of real men anymore. But Quentin's unquestionably an adult, even if he isn't Kurt fucking Russel. There's an appeal, a flavor. Her fingers slide between his lips, gently fucking his mouth, and she kisses his jaw.
"I think I misjudged you," she says. "I figured you'd hate being told what to do. But I think... I think you just want me to earn it."
Her fingers plunge a little deeper, stay a little longer, as her hips roll forward.
A wincing noise, and his jaw releases to open enough to leave space around her fingers. I don't like it, He admits, thumbing over Joan's mound and into the cleft of her lips. Too dry. He wedges his thumb into his cheek next to her fingers and brings it back, wet, to her clit to circle with her movements.
He doesn't like it. She read this entire thing wrong. Panic shoots through her body, and she's thinking of the Banquet, what she did to Mavis at the Banquet, what was done to her. Joan scrambles up, off, away from Quentin, trying to hide her nakedness with her hands. "I'm sorry, shit, I'm sorry-"
joan-- "--whoa, wait, Joan--!" It's so abrupt that he throws a look over his shoulder as he sits up, squinting for whoever she might be apologizing to. Finding nobody there is baffling, even embarrassing; what did he do?
Scowling, Quentin rocks forward and reaches for her knees, her wrists. "Hold up, hold up, hold up--sorry? What are you sorry for? It's okay, you're okay."
He'll find Joan picking up her clothes, pulling up her trousers. "I thought you were into it. I really did. I was trying-" No more excuses, no more self pity. She shakes her head. "I'll make this right."
"I was--I was, Joan! I was!" He can't catch her arm, but he can get a hand in the back of her trousers before she tugs them up--first one, and then the other to inch back towards him. The second he can get a hand on her skin, he does. Quentin bows around, leaning to try to look at her directly. "What did I--is it because I said I don't like it? That was--hey, look. Look at me for a second."
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"Just be careful."
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She turns her head to nip at his hipbone, making it clear-- she hopes-- that she's teasing.
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She pushes two fingers against his mouth, and will move them into his mouth if he'll let her.
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Quentin's tongue slips under her fingertips, jaw loosens so she can slide back. He's got the very basics, at least!
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She nips his jaw, sucks his skin. "You're so hot like this. Try'n relax for me. Breath through your nose."
Carefully, tentatively, her fingers press deeper, finding the back of his throat. They retreat almost immediately; all she wants to do is test him.
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"I thought you might not like it when I take the reins, but I think you do."
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Forcing it, he means. Pushing it too far, just the way he assumed she would do, just the way it's been asked of him before. He likes to have her in charge; he'll like it even better once it clicks that she's tell him to go slow. His fingers fidget in scrunches and circles at the back of her thigh.
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It's a genuine question as her fingers work back to his throat, pressing and retreating.
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She kisses the corner of his mouth.
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His tongue slips up knuckle by knuckle as he lifts his chin, away from her hands. Clearer: "Joan." A sharp little clap against her ass. "C'mere. Bring it up here. Lemme do you while you, um. Demo that. Again."
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But she likes the idea. She aligns their bodies, petting his chest, his stomach. She touches herself before she slides down on him, making a show of it, before using that same hand to press against his lips.
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How can someone he's pretty sure would give him a noogie at the drop of a hat be so hot? She does it naturally, like lacing her boots or hauling water. Maybe that's where the heat comes from--the ease of it. Maybe she's lowkey some kind of witch. Whatever. His heels ground in the blanket to hitch his hips up, insistent there as he remembers the patience in his mouth.
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"I think I misjudged you," she says. "I figured you'd hate being told what to do. But I think... I think you just want me to earn it."
Her fingers plunge a little deeper, stay a little longer, as her hips roll forward.
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But you do.
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She's done it again.
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Scowling, Quentin rocks forward and reaches for her knees, her wrists. "Hold up, hold up, hold up--sorry? What are you sorry for? It's okay, you're okay."
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🎀?