Quentin too finds something particular debaucherous about feeling so slicked under Kyle's touch. The images that change behind his head are a dead giveaway too as vivid moments of Kyle's hands and mouth on him are occasionally spliced with a graphic imagine of lube or precum clinging to someone's skin like an intrusive thought visualized.

When Kyle comes closer Quentin huffs a relieved breath and runs his hand down his stomach and over his cock, even if he end's up feeling more of Kyle's own fist there he relishes feeling like they guide him in together as Quentin shuffles down the mattress and eagerly let's his legs bow out at his sides.

His back twists when the pressure peaks and for a brief moment he worries that he won't be able to. Brief because just as soon as he relaxes the right muscles, Kyle's moving inside him effort and Quentin holds his breath until his chest burns as if he could trap that feeling in him longer somehow if he refuses to exhale.

Eventually he has to. And when he does he buries his pleasantly pained expression in the crook of Kyle's neck. "Oh fuck Kyyyyle," he whines. His projections say something different. Oh fuck Kyyyyle. More. Deeper. I need it.