Eliot huffs a laugh, arching his head back for Quentin, hand still moving, thumb circling the head of his dick, learning the shape of him by feel. He shivers as Quentin licks at his neck. "It's a promise I'll keep, I swear. Anything you want, it's yours, I'm yours," Eliot swears.

And then promptly groans. "Yes. Fuck. That you can definitely do." Eliot's brain already wants to white out a little at the thought of it. Because now it has a reference. He's seen Quentin, eyes dark and blown and expression needy, skin flushed and dick hard. Picturing that, but with his lips also wrapped around Eliot's dick ... it's Eliot's turn to whimper a little. "Yes, please," he repeats, free hand grasping at Quentin's arm, just as an anchor, his other hand still stroking him off, because Eliot wasn't going to stop that until Quentin told him to.