[That moan was the most melodious thing that Eliot had heard in months, and this magician had listened to quite a bit of very good music. Nothing compared to the ring and the way it stole into the tiny recesses of Eliot's subconscious filling out places that hadn't been caressed in years and turning him into the very jello he'd been so interested only a few hours ago. It also bled across his skin like the finest lamb's wool, soft and silken, making him want to yank the other male into him and take him right then and there.
Words broke through a stark revelation against the thought process he had begun, and there they were. Quentin wanted to get drunk on him, on the seed of his body. He wanted to drain him dry until there was nothing but white hot pleasure burning behind his eyelids. Fuck the littlest hayseeds themselves. Dreams do come true Margaret.] ...and I want you.
[These were all the words that were available to Eliot before his mouth was taken up with the hungry desperation of a starving wolf, maybe a future fox gone rogue and come over to the darkside for way more than cookies this time. Eliot wrapped Quentin in his arms, dropping the erection he held with such sway in his hand and anxiously touched as much of Q's body as he could as they kissed.
Tongues chased one another, and fucked as their bodies wanted to later on, eager to take and give, to taste as much as possible of the other person without leaving this simple cavity where words were spoken without sound, and promises that could never be spoken were etched out in granite contracts.
Eliot knew from Quentin's touch, from the way he kissed that this was more, and that the other really wanted this, and so he fell back to his bed and pulled the other with him, fingers gripping shoulders and reaching up to stroke along and through long strands of light brown hair.]
I want your mouth on me. Show me how much you can take. Let me fuck that pretty little thing.
no subject
Words broke through a stark revelation against the thought process he had begun, and there they were. Quentin wanted to get drunk on him, on the seed of his body. He wanted to drain him dry until there was nothing but white hot pleasure burning behind his eyelids. Fuck the littlest hayseeds themselves. Dreams do come true Margaret.] ...and I want you.
[These were all the words that were available to Eliot before his mouth was taken up with the hungry desperation of a starving wolf, maybe a future fox gone rogue and come over to the darkside for way more than cookies this time. Eliot wrapped Quentin in his arms, dropping the erection he held with such sway in his hand and anxiously touched as much of Q's body as he could as they kissed.
Tongues chased one another, and fucked as their bodies wanted to later on, eager to take and give, to taste as much as possible of the other person without leaving this simple cavity where words were spoken without sound, and promises that could never be spoken were etched out in granite contracts.
Eliot knew from Quentin's touch, from the way he kissed that this was more, and that the other really wanted this, and so he fell back to his bed and pulled the other with him, fingers gripping shoulders and reaching up to stroke along and through long strands of light brown hair.]
I want your mouth on me. Show me how much you can take. Let me fuck that pretty little thing.