[ quentin can't help but watch in the mirror, eyes turned as their kisses turn bruising and sloppy, watching the way the body pressed to his convulses, the way matt cries and squirms and spills hot and hard over his hand. it's maddeningly erotic, and were he not still twitching and pulsing and on fire buried in the heat of matt he might flip them over to fuck him again into another blissful orgasm.

just to watch him come undone, like stars racing across the sky.

he grinds his hips up into him, not pulling in or out, merely leaving himself seated in him and applying pressure through his orgasm, until he finally comes down from the heat of it. there's a mess between them, around his dick, over his hand and up matt's chest. ]

You're so pretty like this, little bird. Singing those songs for me, all stretched out and perfect. [ he laughs softly, kissing at matt's bruised lips, then his shoulder, voice a rumble of blissful gravel and warmth.

he smears his hand up matt's chest, reaches to suck his fingers clean of some of the spend, humming and giving another appreciative roll of his hips. ]

You taste so - mm. Try.

[ he presses his thumb to matt's bottom lip, gentle, the lingering taste of his ecstasy on his skin. ]

I would watch you do anything like this.