[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.
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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. ]
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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. ]