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."
Why do people crowd her when she's uncomfortable? Because fuck her. She keeps hurting people. She doesn't deserve comfort. Joan smacks Quentin's hands away. moving back, out of his reach. Her pants up, she raises one arm like a crossbar over her chest, hiding what she has.
"I don't wanna do it if you don't like it! I don't wanna be a monster."
It takes the smack to get him to retreat, knees tucking up to his chest and arms wrapping around them. He wrings his ankles, scowls as he insists, "Joan, that's not what I meant. I don't like being bossed around as a general rule. Especially not by condescending assholes who wanna play daddy or think they're really showing me something. Sorry--I don't usually like it."
One hand fans open, eyes darting to the side because now it feels weird to say while they're both cringing and hiding their junk, but: "...You doing it is hot. Especially cuz you seemed like--you seemed like you were getting off on it though. I liked you liking it." Both hands splay, tongue slides over his lips. "Sorry. Bad phrasing. I'm sorry."
She slumps against the nearest tree, defeated. Se slaps a hand over her eyes. "I fuck it up every time we talk. I just, I-" Maybe if she tried to explain herself- "I had some run-ins with people getting shit they didn't want. I know it's all free love here, but I'm trying to be more careful, not less."
He doesn't chase her, though he badly wants to. His cheeks puff up with a sigh, one hand groping for his shirt as he processes that. "Right. Right, that's--probably a good idea. But--whattayou mean, you fuck it up?" He's wracking his brain for it as he wiggles into the loose garment. "You've never fucked anything up. We're here, aren't we?"
Joan feels toadlike; someone has pulled up the rock she's hiding under, and she's left glaring up into the sun. "Every time we talk, I'm fucked up, or I say something fucked up. Every time." She heaves a sigh. "I gotta do better."
"Okay, but the only thing fucking it up right now is you leaving." And it's obvious, the way he rocks over his ankles, that he's doing his best not to try to stop her again. It's tough going. "Joan...come on, we don't have to--y'know. But you don't have to go."
And against the tide of her embarrassment, her mistakes and ugly truths, he's a college student (or he should be) who wants to get laid. She sighs, a little fond, a little exasperated. That's the thing about Quentin, though. It's almost always both. Stomach-sick, so sweet it's sour, and Quentin's milky completion with eyes bobbing up like Froot Loops. A balanced breakfast that rots your teeth.
"If you like me telling you what to do-" she can still save this- "jerk yourself off."
Her hand finds his chin. Holds it there. She always takes too much, but maybe this is the right amount? Balance, an olive branch? "I wanna watch."
For a beat, he watches her to see her rolls her eyes, smirk a little to the side, tired and joking. But she doesn't. Joan just gives him the order and watches him--and Quentin's throat jumps under her knuckles.
When he slips his hand under the hem of his shirt, he's already (still?) half hard underneath. The fabric jumps with his fist. Wetting his lips, he watches her with equal parts anticipation and determination. "What kind of shit do you like watching?"
She bites her lip. She can think of a lot of things she likes. It's still something of a fascination to her that she finds attraction in his cherubic body, his doe eyes and soft lips-- she vows never to share this with him, never to sow more discord into their occasionally strained friendship. Her hand slides down his body, curving into his hips, behind his balls. Gently, she pets his taint.
His jaw drifts open as she pets along him, her wrist passing along his. She can feel him flex with his strokes; he can feel her heartbeat between her bones. A grin starts to warm his expression, chin tipping up to brush her mouth. "Do you think about it? When--ah. When we're not together?"
"If you're asking if I think about fingering you," she says, her voice low, "the answer's yes." But her fingers stay on his taint, massaging it in rhythm with his strokes.
"God, Joan." His eyes flutter, hips nearly tilt towards her hand but stop short when he nearly loses his pace. His tongue pinches between his teeth, nose nuzzles against hers. His hand twists, breath bottoms out in his gut. "A little--harder. Can I touch you--?"
She wants to say no, but that's just cruelty and a little power-lust. She likes being distant, sometimes, removing herself from the action, but he's just trying to be nice. He always is, and sometimes it makes her sick; not with disgust, but the feeling you get after eating too much candy when you're nine.
That's okay. That's very okay. Selfishly, he just wants to hold her. "Thank you," He breathes in a rush, voice warbling in his throat. His free hand hooks around the back of her neck. The pulse of her fingers makes him buckle and curse and jostle against her mouth. "Shit--shit, I can feel that in my--oh my god, Joan--"
He's coming this way. If she couldn't tell by the curve in his back or the jitter in his fist, his grip on her hair tightens like winding the string of a kite in his fingers to keep it from snapping away in the wind.
She pets him through it, lets herself be grabbed, not really sure what he's trying to touch or why. Maybe he just doesn't like the distance, which is what's turning her on. The academic quality of touching him just to check the reaction, almost scientific, of making him deal with it. It's interesting.
She turns her head to whisper in his ear. "Where did you feel it?"
"In my--hah. In my balls. And right--right below the tip." His hand slides loose from her neck to map with one finger a trail from his temple to the hinge of his jaw. "Here. Jesus. You really like a guy to squirm, huh?"
So she curls her hand back, fingers on his taint and thumb massaging his balls in the crook of her hand. "Only if they like it," she says, turning her head to kiss his ear hard enough for her lips to smack. "I'm gonna go home and think about this. I'm gonna send you a picture of me thinking about it."
"I like it," He laughs, fingers winding around Joan's wrist where it dips between his legs. "And I'm good. I'm okay. Holy shit, Joan." That's enough, time to stop, please and thank you. He's not ready to unwind that far tonight. His other hand stretches to wipe his spend off on the grass. "I can give you something else to think about."
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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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"I don't wanna do it if you don't like it! I don't wanna be a monster."
There are tears in her eyes.
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One hand fans open, eyes darting to the side because now it feels weird to say while they're both cringing and hiding their junk, but: "...You doing it is hot. Especially cuz you seemed like--you seemed like you were getting off on it though. I liked you liking it." Both hands splay, tongue slides over his lips. "Sorry. Bad phrasing. I'm sorry."
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She pulls a shirt over her head.
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"If you like me telling you what to do-" she can still save this- "jerk yourself off."
Her hand finds his chin. Holds it there. She always takes too much, but maybe this is the right amount? Balance, an olive branch? "I wanna watch."
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When he slips his hand under the hem of his shirt, he's already (still?) half hard underneath. The fabric jumps with his fist. Wetting his lips, he watches her with equal parts anticipation and determination. "What kind of shit do you like watching?"
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"I like watching you get off."
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Her fingers press harder, tempo relentless.
"Nothing below the belt."
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He's coming this way. If she couldn't tell by the curve in his back or the jitter in his fist, his grip on her hair tightens like winding the string of a kite in his fingers to keep it from snapping away in the wind.
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She turns her head to whisper in his ear. "Where did you feel it?"
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🎀?