( sorry for being slower than usual! let's fast forward. I'm definitely down to write it out some other time tho! Finn likely flipped Quentin like a flaplack and went to town. you cool with that? I can revise things if you want! )
[ It's made up of bruising grips and nipped skin, with only the clothing most pertinent to access removed. Finn's quick and unthinking, tapping into the most feral regions of his mind, where the world is nothing but his needs and the stirring hot skin that he sinks into— teeth and all.
When it's over he settles back on his ass with a freshly opened honey bun hanging from his mouth much like the dick still lolling out the fly of his pants. He's not even sure if Quentin came, and honestly, he doesn't care. ]
[ He doesn't come. It's too erratic, too painful to push him over the edge with or anywhere near Finn--but jesus if he isn't so hard it hurts. The second Finn slips out of him, Quentin's hand drops to pull himself along with, face pressed into the half-worn cushions when the groan shudders out of him. For like five diaphragm-deep seconds, it's good. Then he's just--panting on his couch with a handful of jizz and his neck mauled.
[ Quentin hisses as he jimmies his jeans back up, stands gingerly. Good. Is he good? He buzzes his lips and, with his clean hand, tugs the honey bun right out of Finn's teeth. His middle finger pops up as he lifts the gas station pastry and shoves the whole thing in his mouth. Sweetheart. ]
Mmgoin--bafroom.
[ To clean up. To take an advil and fit his fingers into the sorest spots on his hips, the vicious teeth marks up and down his shoulder. In the mirror, he notices the shadow of fingers ringing his wrist. He breathes to himself: ] Jesuschrist, Mac...
What is it, a full moon? [ His hands and face are clean from cum and sugar. The volume is up on the music. The joint he passes down to Finn is slim, neat, and glowing. Quentin's cheeks are still a splotchy red, but his expression has trained down (from gasping, sweating) to something skeptical. ] Get off the floor, man, I feel like I'm babysitting. Sit on the damn couch.
[ The muffled sound of trailing pleasure sends a jolt through his balls, reminds him to put that shit away– tucked in and zipped up snug until the next time he's feeling peckish. In the absence of his little honeyed treat the return of his smile is obvious, just as sweet as what was hanging there and maybe just as artificial. Maybe. Quentin's been growing on him, he even regards the one-finger salute with a bit of fondness. Cute. Fuck you too, man.
When alone he assesses himself, palming the sweat from his brow. Mood? Much better; endorphins and shit. Aromatics? He pinches at the collar of his t-shirt, huffs the hole. The scent's a bit tinged with exertion, but those smears of fresh ocean surf Speed Stick are doing their job well enough. It's passable. And finally, he tends to his hydration by finishing off that forty just in time to chase it with some kush. Nice.
The tidy joint gets poked between his lips as he stands to his feet with an exaggerated old man grunt. ]
Mmm... floors keep ya humble. And the quads...[ A finger trails up the worn denim laid across his thigh. ] limber...
[ The demonstration is cut short by sudden recognition, it's like his eyes absorb all the light in the room. After one long pull he passes the joint back. His song's on. Fuck the couch. A head bob becomes a frenzied shake, eyes squeezed shut for those perfectly timed mid-air rim shots. Things get a little wonky when he tries to add in some hip. Won't stop him, though. The man is dancing. ]
[ The man is...dancing. Dancing, and while Quentin isn't exactly a rumba king himself, that wibbly hip move makes him nervous in this small of a space. If there was anything valuable in here, he'd be worried about it breaking. As it stands, Finn just has a good chance of tripping or slipping on some wayward pile of books or clothes or miscellany.
[ His fingers wire around that hip from behind, dart under Finn's navel to clap him back to Quentin sharp and easy. Dank, hot smoke blows into his dreads from just behind his ear, Quentin's forearm squeezes around what little softness there is to Finn just around his belly. ]
In like a lion, out like a lamb, huh? How long're you staying, Mac? [ Not meanly! Just wondering as Quentin falls into sway with him. An adjustment so it's a little less accusatory: ] How long do you need?
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[ It's made up of bruising grips and nipped skin, with only the clothing most pertinent to access removed. Finn's quick and unthinking, tapping into the most feral regions of his mind, where the world is nothing but his needs and the stirring hot skin that he sinks into— teeth and all.
When it's over he settles back on his ass with a freshly opened honey bun hanging from his mouth much like the dick still lolling out the fly of his pants. He's not even sure if Quentin came, and honestly, he doesn't care. ]
... You good, sweetheart?
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[ He doesn't come. It's too erratic, too painful to push him over the edge with or anywhere near Finn--but jesus if he isn't so hard it hurts. The second Finn slips out of him, Quentin's hand drops to pull himself along with, face pressed into the half-worn cushions when the groan shudders out of him. For like five diaphragm-deep seconds, it's good. Then he's just--panting on his couch with a handful of jizz and his neck mauled.
[ Quentin hisses as he jimmies his jeans back up, stands gingerly. Good. Is he good? He buzzes his lips and, with his clean hand, tugs the honey bun right out of Finn's teeth. His middle finger pops up as he lifts the gas station pastry and shoves the whole thing in his mouth. Sweetheart. ]
Mmgoin--bafroom.
[ To clean up. To take an advil and fit his fingers into the sorest spots on his hips, the vicious teeth marks up and down his shoulder. In the mirror, he notices the shadow of fingers ringing his wrist. He breathes to himself: ] Jesuschrist, Mac...
What is it, a full moon? [ His hands and face are clean from cum and sugar. The volume is up on the music. The joint he passes down to Finn is slim, neat, and glowing. Quentin's cheeks are still a splotchy red, but his expression has trained down (from gasping, sweating) to something skeptical. ] Get off the floor, man, I feel like I'm babysitting. Sit on the damn couch.
no subject
When alone he assesses himself, palming the sweat from his brow. Mood? Much better; endorphins and shit. Aromatics? He pinches at the collar of his t-shirt, huffs the hole. The scent's a bit tinged with exertion, but those smears of fresh ocean surf Speed Stick are doing their job well enough. It's passable. And finally, he tends to his hydration by finishing off that forty just in time to chase it with some kush. Nice.
The tidy joint gets poked between his lips as he stands to his feet with an exaggerated old man grunt. ]
Mmm... floors keep ya humble. And the quads...[ A finger trails up the worn denim laid across his thigh. ] limber...
[ The demonstration is cut short by sudden recognition, it's like his eyes absorb all the light in the room. After one long pull he passes the joint back. His song's on. Fuck the couch. A head bob becomes a frenzied shake, eyes squeezed shut for those perfectly timed mid-air rim shots. Things get a little wonky when he tries to add in some hip. Won't stop him, though. The man is dancing. ]
no subject
[ His fingers wire around that hip from behind, dart under Finn's navel to clap him back to Quentin sharp and easy. Dank, hot smoke blows into his dreads from just behind his ear, Quentin's forearm squeezes around what little softness there is to Finn just around his belly. ]
In like a lion, out like a lamb, huh? How long're you staying, Mac? [ Not meanly! Just wondering as Quentin falls into sway with him. An adjustment so it's a little less accusatory: ] How long do you need?