[ He assured as he felt the testimony of fingers playing against his side, like deja-vu and he could almost swear that he had felt this underneath a different sky, another timeline. It was deja-vu, something further than the illicit drunken night they had previously. This orbiting circled around the sun, the moon and the stars, and most importantly; around his King.
He did not care who saw him here on Eliot's lap, in his arms.
All he wanted was for Eliot to take him home, to love him-- he was so needy and desperate for love, especially love without judgement, and without resentment. Fuck, he did not want to be resented, he did not want to be overlooked-- and perhaps that was much to ask for but right now, he did not think it was. He rested his forehead to Eliot's and closed his eyes ]
You will have to leave me first..
[ and that wasn't a physical thing, that was an emotional thing; Alice had left him several times-- emotionally, and the times he'd left had been in response, with his fragile heart attempting to struggle with the concept of being left and running for the one thing that had promised him safety. And he'd been a fool, a fool not to have stayed from the beginning ]
[One day they would do this far more sober, and the declarations would be every bit as deep, if not deeper as they laid bare the souls of several lifetimes of love. How many timelines did it take them to get it right, and how many would they roll through loving one another through hooded veils of the word almost.
Thank the gods in all their varied forms of wisdom that they saw to it that this time around Eliot and Quentin somehow managed to be forthcoming enough in their sad, sad, little fonts of insecurities to find the strength to be together. This would be the time they would become the force to be reckoned with, and that their love would blossom like the brightly burning suns over the opiate lit world of Fillory.
The feel of Quentin beneath his fingers made Eliot sigh in disbelief and a relief that would continue for days, weeks, months, and possibly even years as he looked over in ideal at the pillow next to him and saw the man he loved laying there. It was a truth that the King could actually see in his mind's eye. It was blinding and perhaps he'd question it a time or two, certainly in the morning when he would be hard pressed to recall his own name, but now with his beloved in his lap telling him all he needed to know. How could he not realize what was. ]
No, I'm not gonna leave, not my quentin. No..
[tangled hands fumbled to leave Quentin's shirt and brought themselves to the sides of his new boyfriend's face holding him there as if it would make the world stop rotating.]
[ Palms that were so tender that his lids closed over eyes and he nuzzled into it. The dose of contentment, true authentic contentment, more than he'd felt in a long time, suffused him with such sweet harmony; the words were as tangible as touch-- a audible tactility of which he had no proof against in the slightest-- he was weak to this man of whom he was perched on the lap of.
And with eyes still closed, he brushed his lips against Eliot's in unspeakable tenderness, while the world seemed to halt around them. To speak would have been blasphemy when all he wanted to do was breath in his boyfrined. But it was far deeper than that, wasn't it? A boyfriend felt too inconsequential for vow of exclusivity they had forged with each other.
His fingers curled in the soft locks at the back of Eliot's neck while he pressed kiss upon kiss against that lower lip, against that upper lip. Rain falling against the tip of nose, against brow, of cheek and chin. If he was destined to be rain, then he would make himself the rain that cooled the parched desert of Eliot's skin, would offer succor.
Without lands to water, rain was useless. And he'd found meaning here in those arms that sheltered him and those words that while slurred seemed to call to him, biding his emotion to flood into the caverns of his heart ]
[The words, the promises, they might have well been a vow before any holy man for none could be more true than what Eliot spoke to Quentin now, even in his drunken stupor it was not through his mouth that he bore speech, but by his soul bound tightly to the edging of his heart that spouted the declarations to this man, this beautiful, delicate magician that was Eliot's entire religion.
They would never need any other person to bind them tight with strings, ropes, silken ties, contracts or simple testimonies on a sheet of paper for they had an eternity of thoughts, whispers, prayers and yes, even words that knotted them up together tighter than any well known pair in ancient history. They were far greater than all the tragics. Romeo and Juliet held nothing over Quentin and Eliot.
Nothing could match the state of their hearts as they collided in this universe, spinning out of control. Liquored lips careening together in liquid kisses, that blurred the lines between what was decent and what was beyond the desperate and needy. They would always blur those lines, between a healthy love affair and the one which would rip apart the world at its seams were they ever not in harmony and accord with one another.
And yet. There was such a sweet serenity, and simplicity to the gentle motions of hands where they drove up a shirt once again, ringing over skin where they had to touch everything that made Quentin, Quentin. Eliot needed again. He ran his fingers over the tiny peaks of the younger magician's nipples and rolled them into sharp points, wanting to hear Quentin gasp his name. He had no idea if he'd be of use in anything, but he had to hear the sounds, needed to feel this bond in this moment. There was a seal to be made over and above the words. ]
[ The consummate nurturer; capable of so much tenderness for others and yet for himself he was deplete. Giving and giving, over and over. He wanted to provide to Eliot everything that he could now; perhaps Q was not the most sober in this moment, but he certainly recognized that he was a touch more than Eliot. It was a pleasure to be held onto by Eliot, to be the strength in this moment; gods, if Eliot want to cling and hold him, Quentin would be that wall of firmness for him.
Perhaps this was toxic in some ways, but at the least less toxic than it had with Alice, and he remembered flashes and visions of other lives, of lives lived together; of passionate sex and touching domesticity in between fights and rows. He'd take every fight if he could be assured that at the very end he would be loved.
If Eliot manhandled him in the hallway, he would go into it gladly. Even if Eliot was too alcohol-dicked to do anything; he would sink into the touches as if he was made for them; his back arching the moment that Eliot's fingers found those taut peaks. This was not the least of what the students in this house had seen on a given friday, fuck on a tuesday even-- he was not worried about anyone looking upon this, his entire focus was on Eliot and his teeth bit down into his lower lip as he started to grind in a movement that was both horizontal and vertical-- but what they differed in movement, they shared in that the point of contact was Eliot Waugh.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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[ He assured as he felt the testimony of fingers playing against his side, like deja-vu and he could almost swear that he had felt this underneath a different sky, another timeline. It was deja-vu, something further than the illicit drunken night they had previously. This orbiting circled around the sun, the moon and the stars, and most importantly; around his King.
He did not care who saw him here on Eliot's lap, in his arms.
All he wanted was for Eliot to take him home, to love him-- he was so needy and desperate for love, especially love without judgement, and without resentment. Fuck, he did not want to be resented, he did not want to be overlooked-- and perhaps that was much to ask for but right now, he did not think it was. He rested his forehead to Eliot's and closed his eyes ]
You will have to leave me first..
[ and that wasn't a physical thing, that was an emotional thing; Alice had left him several times-- emotionally, and the times he'd left had been in response, with his fragile heart attempting to struggle with the concept of being left and running for the one thing that had promised him safety. And he'd been a fool, a fool not to have stayed from the beginning ]
I am a fool, but I am your fool, Eliot Waugh.
no subject
Thank the gods in all their varied forms of wisdom that they saw to it that this time around Eliot and Quentin somehow managed to be forthcoming enough in their sad, sad, little fonts of insecurities to find the strength to be together. This would be the time they would become the force to be reckoned with, and that their love would blossom like the brightly burning suns over the opiate lit world of Fillory.
The feel of Quentin beneath his fingers made Eliot sigh in disbelief and a relief that would continue for days, weeks, months, and possibly even years as he looked over in ideal at the pillow next to him and saw the man he loved laying there. It was a truth that the King could actually see in his mind's eye. It was blinding and perhaps he'd question it a time or two, certainly in the morning when he would be hard pressed to recall his own name, but now with his beloved in his lap telling him all he needed to know. How could he not realize what was. ]
No, I'm not gonna leave, not my quentin. No..
[tangled hands fumbled to leave Quentin's shirt and brought themselves to the sides of his new boyfriend's face holding him there as if it would make the world stop rotating.]
This eliot is not going anywhere. Not me. no.
no subject
And with eyes still closed, he brushed his lips against Eliot's in unspeakable tenderness, while the world seemed to halt around them. To speak would have been blasphemy when all he wanted to do was breath in his boyfrined. But it was far deeper than that, wasn't it? A boyfriend felt too inconsequential for vow of exclusivity they had forged with each other.
His fingers curled in the soft locks at the back of Eliot's neck while he pressed kiss upon kiss against that lower lip, against that upper lip. Rain falling against the tip of nose, against brow, of cheek and chin. If he was destined to be rain, then he would make himself the rain that cooled the parched desert of Eliot's skin, would offer succor.
Without lands to water, rain was useless. And he'd found meaning here in those arms that sheltered him and those words that while slurred seemed to call to him, biding his emotion to flood into the caverns of his heart ]
no subject
They would never need any other person to bind them tight with strings, ropes, silken ties, contracts or simple testimonies on a sheet of paper for they had an eternity of thoughts, whispers, prayers and yes, even words that knotted them up together tighter than any well known pair in ancient history. They were far greater than all the tragics. Romeo and Juliet held nothing over Quentin and Eliot.
Nothing could match the state of their hearts as they collided in this universe, spinning out of control. Liquored lips careening together in liquid kisses, that blurred the lines between what was decent and what was beyond the desperate and needy. They would always blur those lines, between a healthy love affair and the one which would rip apart the world at its seams were they ever not in harmony and accord with one another.
And yet. There was such a sweet serenity, and simplicity to the gentle motions of hands where they drove up a shirt once again, ringing over skin where they had to touch everything that made Quentin, Quentin. Eliot needed again. He ran his fingers over the tiny peaks of the younger magician's nipples and rolled them into sharp points, wanting to hear Quentin gasp his name. He had no idea if he'd be of use in anything, but he had to hear the sounds, needed to feel this bond in this moment. There was a seal to be made over and above the words. ]
no subject
Perhaps this was toxic in some ways, but at the least less toxic than it had with Alice, and he remembered flashes and visions of other lives, of lives lived together; of passionate sex and touching domesticity in between fights and rows. He'd take every fight if he could be assured that at the very end he would be loved.
If Eliot manhandled him in the hallway, he would go into it gladly. Even if Eliot was too alcohol-dicked to do anything; he would sink into the touches as if he was made for them; his back arching the moment that Eliot's fingers found those taut peaks. This was not the least of what the students in this house had seen on a given friday, fuck on a tuesday even-- he was not worried about anyone looking upon this, his entire focus was on Eliot and his teeth bit down into his lower lip as he started to grind in a movement that was both horizontal and vertical-- but what they differed in movement, they shared in that the point of contact was Eliot Waugh.
King of his entire universe. ]