Quinn's motions are slow, smooth, never rushed. He glances down at Eliot's body as he glides a hand, softly, up his stomach, but mostly, he keeps eye contact with Eliot.
Their gaze holds them in the moment, keeping the truce of their mutual desire afloat. There are no sudden moves, and even a caress requires a check, a look in the other man's eyes to confirm intent and permission.
Quinn checks twice before pressing Eliot's shoulders back, softly, too softly, so that Eliot falls back on the bed; it is a ritual more than a push or a shove, but they know that the theater of aggression is as close as they can safely come. Quinn leans over, eyes still on Eliot's, to gently lift Eliot's leg to kiss a line up his thigh. Eliot relaxes enough to close his eyes and enjoy it, and it's as close to a surrender as Quinn has ever seen in him.
Quinn moves up, wraps his lips around him, feels Eliot resist the urge to buck, and he wishes, desperately, that he could tell Eliot to let go, to lose control. But he won't ask for this, and Eliot wouldn't give it if he did; they walk a fine line between pleasure and lethal, and neither of them can afford to lose their balance.
Eliot moans, and it's good. It's not the messy kind of good, the kind of good you get when it's with someone who can't see the danger in you. But it's Eliot moaning, trying not to writhe in pleasure, and Quinn savors the moment, the sensation of coiled power, pinned back, underneath his hands.
They are complicated men, with pasts that have marked themselves into their bodies, and when those bodies meet, they are careful not to let their histories of pain and violence overtake them. It is a troubling thing, wanting a man too much like yourself. But to Quinn, it is worth the trouble.
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Date: 2014-01-23 03:57 am (UTC)Their gaze holds them in the moment, keeping the truce of their mutual desire afloat. There are no sudden moves, and even a caress requires a check, a look in the other man's eyes to confirm intent and permission.
Quinn checks twice before pressing Eliot's shoulders back, softly, too softly, so that Eliot falls back on the bed; it is a ritual more than a push or a shove, but they know that the theater of aggression is as close as they can safely come. Quinn leans over, eyes still on Eliot's, to gently lift Eliot's leg to kiss a line up his thigh. Eliot relaxes enough to close his eyes and enjoy it, and it's as close to a surrender as Quinn has ever seen in him.
Quinn moves up, wraps his lips around him, feels Eliot resist the urge to buck, and he wishes, desperately, that he could tell Eliot to let go, to lose control. But he won't ask for this, and Eliot wouldn't give it if he did; they walk a fine line between pleasure and lethal, and neither of them can afford to lose their balance.
Eliot moans, and it's good. It's not the messy kind of good, the kind of good you get when it's with someone who can't see the danger in you. But it's Eliot moaning, trying not to writhe in pleasure, and Quinn savors the moment, the sensation of coiled power, pinned back, underneath his hands.
They are complicated men, with pasts that have marked themselves into their bodies, and when those bodies meet, they are careful not to let their histories of pain and violence overtake them. It is a troubling thing, wanting a man too much like yourself. But to Quinn, it is worth the trouble.