Jesus, yes, and Quentin never really thought of himself as someone who likes getting his hair pulled - it’s been more of a pain than a turn-on in the past- bu Eliot’s long fingers tugging and caching on it keeps sending shivers down his spine, sets his skin on fire. Quentin’s hands are just everywhere, pressed flat and hot against Eliot’s chest, running down his arms to grab an clench around his bicep.

“El—- Eliot-“

This is no a good idea. For a lot of reasons, all of them a lot and not nothing, but sitting on Eliot’s lap, with Eliot helpful trying to free Quentin when he gets lost somewhere inside of his sweater, when it tangles hopelessly around his wrists and there’s nowhere near enough touching going on, he can’t think of a single one.

As soon as he’s freed, Quentin flings the sweater away, down to the floor to join the laptop and just. Sits there, perched on top of Eliot, sweat-slicked and panting, his whole body flushed -

“Eliot, I...uhm-“

Fuck it, and Quentin blinks twice before leaning in to kiss him again with a groan.