[It takes him a genuine moment of consideration to answer, which isn't new; reactions are easier than dissecting his own reasons. But he shakes his head a little after that beat, before tipping his head back against the wall.]
Just -- new. [Not that it's news or anything, Quentin already knows that, but it's the best explanation he's got. Another moment's hesitation, and then he goes on, uncertain but not upset about it, just stating a fact:] I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing.
[ Simply said, but he knows it's not that easy. After that beat for assurance, on the next rumble of bass through the partition, his palm pressures down again. His shoulder rolls as he talks, a reliable rhythm, something Isaac can acclimate to and predict--can anticipate. ]
You don't have to do anything. Give your body room to do it for you, y'know? Or not. We're learning here. Here...
[ His fingers spider between Isaac's knuckles, guiding his hand around the back of Quentin's neck. ]
Keep your hand here if you're good. Drop it if you don't like what I'm doing, or um. Squeeze if you do.
[ It's an unconscious motion, the way he presses up to meet the movement, his body clearly responsive despite Isaac's uncertainty. He's not great at putting a stop to his instincts, anyway; they tend to win out no matter how hard he fights them. Though usually that leads him to much more trouble than this is likely to end in.
It's still a relief to get some kind of guidance, know if he's supposed to touch or not. His hand settles where Quentin leaves it, fingers flexing slightly before mostly settling into place. ]
Okay. [ A quiet agreement. For now there's just his thumb, sweeping back and forth occasionally against Quentin's skin, a little rhythmic motion, a fidget as much as a need to move while the music is pressing in this loudly. ]
[ In another scenario, he might take the opportunity to multitask. As the pressure in his palm firms up experimentally, fingers finding the shape and length of him, Quentin would explain that this is good for him. That he's wanted to try this for a long time, that the way he rolls up into Quentin's hand is perfect, pretty, that he's got about a hundred other things he'd like to--
[ Right now, he'd really have to fight to be heard over the club, and he'd rather put that energy to better use. Trusting the loose grip at the nape of his neck, Quentin fiddles his fingers into the button of Isaac's jeans. Maybe a little fast, a little careless, a little too much, but he's wanted to try this for a long time: when his knuckles push below underwear, skin on hot skin, Quentin presses his teeth shallow under Isaac's jaw and hums and sucks and pulls him in hand. This is good for him. ]
Fuck. [ It's more sensation than volume, a huff of air into the heat around them, heartbeat picking up speed to something close to normal. It's overwhelming, a little bit, the unfamiliar touch, the wash of adrenaline, the wall behind him leaving nowhere to go but closer, the noise pounding through it all. Overwhelming, but good. The familiarity helps -- he trusts Quentin, maybe not absolutely, but way more than most other people, strangers or not. It's easier to give over to distraction with someone he feels confident won't hurt him, not on purpose, anyway.
His grip tightens, careful not to grasp too hard. Swallowing hard, head back against the wall, eyes open but not really focusing on much, hips hitching up a little more with any flash of teeth. ]
[ He feels the hard consonants of that curse as much as he hears them, and they feel and sound perfect. He groans his delight into Isaac's neck, draws out the indents of his own teeth with his tongue, like he can taste the curse too. Under Isaac's thumb, Quentin's skin goosebumps, prelude to the shiver that seizes his shoulders.
[ Finding a pace is easy; where Isaac seems to have lost this aspect of humanity in his years gone, Quentin clung to it as the only familiar, human thing he had in a hellscape. It's easy to put a rhythm in his fist, rolling from long strokes into low squeezes and light twists. Easy to shift so his thighs slot over Isaac's and when Isaac rocks up, he pushes between Quentin's legs too deliciously.
[ Easy enough that Quentin can focus on worrying that bite into a dark hickey. Because it's hot. Because it feels good to do. Because he can feel the idea of level, mindful, soft-spoken Isaac walking around with a love bite for a day or two in his balls and it feels-- ]
I'm gonna put it in my mouth. [ Loud, abrupt and clear, brooking very little argument. He doesn't wait for approval; he wants it. If Isaac doesn't want it, his hand can fall away easily when Quentin sinks to his knees. ]
[ He's not being asked permission, so he doesn't bother to give it. It's not really necessary anyway. It says enough that he doesn't move away, doesn't let go, doesn't voice any kind of complaints. Getting him to turn away something he doesn't want is the easy part.
Getting him to figure out what he does is a lot harder, and this is a whole new experience of it, hunger that's been dormant for a long time.
His fingers flex, breath catching in his chest in response to the way Quentin drops away. Left with a damp sting in his neck and the brief feeling that the air around Isaac is too empty, what feels like a chill even though the place is too warm for it. His eyes drop, tracking Quentin's path and then lingering; it's not exactly rare for him to end up watching closely, almost like he's trying to commit things to memory, and the same intense focus creeps in now. Pupils blown, face flushed and showing clear desire, eyes locked. ]
[ As much as he likes being close at all times, as close as he can be, Quentin flies off the way Isaac looks at him. The near-scientific intensity of that look is familiar, but having it turned on him now feels exactly the way he's been looking to feel: intimate. He holds Isaac's eyes, as sweet as salacious, and thumbs the head of his cock against his mouth.
[ The contact only lasts so long, it's harder to hold when he slides down along the shaft. Closer to Isaac's body, his lids have to flutter shut. He counts on Isaac watching, and focuses on the work. Slow work, both out of deference to Isaac's nerves and out of a need to commit what he can to memory in case Isaac decides he hates this and--look, he's just going to enjoy it while he can. Down one side of him and up the other, tongue firm then lips skimming-soft so he can feel Isaac's pulse through his skin.
[ It's probably a minute, but the moment drags on stickily from the time Quentin kneels to the time he finally pulls Isaac into the heat of his mouth proper. Slow work gives way to to an even, hungry bob, some place he can stay until he gets a sense of just how it's received. ]
[ The nice thing about Issac's complete lack of social graces is that it's hard to embarrass him. Or maybe difficult to realize when he's supposed to be embarrassed. It means he doesn't feel the need to break eye contact, despite the fact that even the first, light touch drags a needy groan out of him, under but not entirely disguised by the music pulsing around them.
It doesn't change when Quentin keeps going, never entirely looking away, even as his hands flutter a little uncertainly in the air, not sure if touch is appreciated, if he's just supposed to assume it is. One hand lands after a minute, fingers light on Quentin's shoulder, the other hanging down, pressing a little nervously against his own leg.
It's almost surprising how good it feels, maybe because his imagination is the only thing he has to compare it to, and that's never been particularly sharp in this area. One sharp canine catches on the side of his lip, biting down hard, barely audible sounds low in his throat slipping free, hips shifting forward thoughtlessly, eagerly. ]
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no subject
Just -- new. [Not that it's news or anything, Quentin already knows that, but it's the best explanation he's got. Another moment's hesitation, and then he goes on, uncertain but not upset about it, just stating a fact:] I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing.
no subject
[ Simply said, but he knows it's not that easy. After that beat for assurance, on the next rumble of bass through the partition, his palm pressures down again. His shoulder rolls as he talks, a reliable rhythm, something Isaac can acclimate to and predict--can anticipate. ]
You don't have to do anything. Give your body room to do it for you, y'know? Or not. We're learning here. Here...
[ His fingers spider between Isaac's knuckles, guiding his hand around the back of Quentin's neck. ]
Keep your hand here if you're good. Drop it if you don't like what I'm doing, or um. Squeeze if you do.
no subject
It's still a relief to get some kind of guidance, know if he's supposed to touch or not. His hand settles where Quentin leaves it, fingers flexing slightly before mostly settling into place. ]
Okay. [ A quiet agreement. For now there's just his thumb, sweeping back and forth occasionally against Quentin's skin, a little rhythmic motion, a fidget as much as a need to move while the music is pressing in this loudly. ]
no subject
[ Right now, he'd really have to fight to be heard over the club, and he'd rather put that energy to better use. Trusting the loose grip at the nape of his neck, Quentin fiddles his fingers into the button of Isaac's jeans. Maybe a little fast, a little careless, a little too much, but he's wanted to try this for a long time: when his knuckles push below underwear, skin on hot skin, Quentin presses his teeth shallow under Isaac's jaw and hums and sucks and pulls him in hand. This is good for him. ]
no subject
His grip tightens, careful not to grasp too hard. Swallowing hard, head back against the wall, eyes open but not really focusing on much, hips hitching up a little more with any flash of teeth. ]
no subject
[ Finding a pace is easy; where Isaac seems to have lost this aspect of humanity in his years gone, Quentin clung to it as the only familiar, human thing he had in a hellscape. It's easy to put a rhythm in his fist, rolling from long strokes into low squeezes and light twists. Easy to shift so his thighs slot over Isaac's and when Isaac rocks up, he pushes between Quentin's legs too deliciously.
[ Easy enough that Quentin can focus on worrying that bite into a dark hickey. Because it's hot. Because it feels good to do. Because he can feel the idea of level, mindful, soft-spoken Isaac walking around with a love bite for a day or two in his balls and it feels-- ]
I'm gonna put it in my mouth. [ Loud, abrupt and clear, brooking very little argument. He doesn't wait for approval; he wants it. If Isaac doesn't want it, his hand can fall away easily when Quentin sinks to his knees. ]
no subject
Getting him to figure out what he does is a lot harder, and this is a whole new experience of it, hunger that's been dormant for a long time.
His fingers flex, breath catching in his chest in response to the way Quentin drops away. Left with a damp sting in his neck and the brief feeling that the air around Isaac is too empty, what feels like a chill even though the place is too warm for it. His eyes drop, tracking Quentin's path and then lingering; it's not exactly rare for him to end up watching closely, almost like he's trying to commit things to memory, and the same intense focus creeps in now. Pupils blown, face flushed and showing clear desire, eyes locked. ]
no subject
[ The contact only lasts so long, it's harder to hold when he slides down along the shaft. Closer to Isaac's body, his lids have to flutter shut. He counts on Isaac watching, and focuses on the work. Slow work, both out of deference to Isaac's nerves and out of a need to commit what he can to memory in case Isaac decides he hates this and--look, he's just going to enjoy it while he can. Down one side of him and up the other, tongue firm then lips skimming-soft so he can feel Isaac's pulse through his skin.
[ It's probably a minute, but the moment drags on stickily from the time Quentin kneels to the time he finally pulls Isaac into the heat of his mouth proper. Slow work gives way to to an even, hungry bob, some place he can stay until he gets a sense of just how it's received. ]
no subject
It doesn't change when Quentin keeps going, never entirely looking away, even as his hands flutter a little uncertainly in the air, not sure if touch is appreciated, if he's just supposed to assume it is. One hand lands after a minute, fingers light on Quentin's shoulder, the other hanging down, pressing a little nervously against his own leg.
It's almost surprising how good it feels, maybe because his imagination is the only thing he has to compare it to, and that's never been particularly sharp in this area. One sharp canine catches on the side of his lip, biting down hard, barely audible sounds low in his throat slipping free, hips shifting forward thoughtlessly, eagerly. ]