bakerstreet | the i n s o m n i a meme

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the i n s o m n i a meme

the i n s o m n i a meme

It happens to everyone - sometimes, you have nights where you just can't fall asleep, no matter what you do. It could be for a number of reasons, or no reason at all. And this is what's happened now: you've been laying in bed for what feels like hours, just tossing and turning, and nothing seems to help. So what's left to do? Get out of bed and go wake someone else up, of course. If you're not getting any sleep, then why should they?

i n s t r u c t i o n s

• Post with your character (note the name and fandom in the subject).
• Other people reply to you by generating a number from 1 to 10.
• Have fun!

o p t i o n s

01 • FEAR. Maybe you're hearing strange, indeterminable noises; maybe there's a severe storm happening outside; maybe you watched a scary movie before bed? Whatever the reason, you're terrified and it's keeping you awake. You just want to wake someone else up so they can protect you from the monster in your closet.
02 • HUNGER. Your stomach is growling and it just won't stop. Or perhaps your throat is so dry you could cough up a tumbleweed? Well, you've gone to the kitchen to remedy this and hey, that was a pan that just dropped on the floor. It was loud enough to wake the dead! Oops.
03 • PAIN. Your body is completely worn out, be it from exercise, battle, sickness, or what have you. Either way you're in enough pain to keep you from sleeping, so maybe someone else has a home remedy or something, or can at least help you take your mind off of it.
04 • SOLITUDE. For some reason, your bed just feels so empty at the moment. You're feeling terribly lonely and really just want someone to keep you company for a while. Maybe it'd be easier to fall asleep if you're with them...
05 • DISCOMFORT. Your room is an oven. Either that or a freezer. Or maybe this bed is just really uncomfortable? Who knows why you can't get to sleep, it feels like it could be anything. Why even bother trying? Maybe someone else can preoccupy you until you feel tired enough to ignore your discomfort.
06 • PENSIVE. Something's on your mind, and no matter how hard you try to focus elsewhere, it's just not going to work. Your body may be tired, but your mind is incredibly busy and it's virtually impossible to get to sleep. Surely, talking it out with someone else will help?
07 • SADNESS. Something terrible has happened that day, perhaps; or you could just be severely depressed. Either way you're trying your hardest not to cry yourself to sleep, and it's not working at all. Better find a way to get it out of your system somehow; you need a shoulder to cry on.
08 • ANGER. You are just... fuming. Who knows why - that annoying dog is barking again, or maybe the people next door are getting busy and keeping you awake. Whatever the reason for your ire is, you'd better put an end to it so you can get some damn rest already! Go wake up a friend so you can complain to them.
09 • RESTLESS. You're far too energetic to sleep right now. Maybe you're just trying to do so out of necessity - you have to be up early tomorrow! But you just don't think you'll be able to fall asleep for a while now, so why waste the time trying to sleep when you could be doing something else? Namely bothering someone else - you're totally jealous because they're getting more sleep than you.
10 • WILDCARD. Choose one of the options above, or make up your own scenario.

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"What?"

And it's not like Quentin does it on purpose, but his voice goes high-pitched and there's a note of surprised disbelief in it. "We're not- She's not my girlfriend."

Not at least because Alice was like miles out of his league. She was everything Quentin always wanted to be - naturally brilliant, gifted at magic and she even had a purpose for being here aside from 'magic is cool'. Quentin slowly turns to look at Eliot, who was all of those things, too. Everyone here was- and even Julia, who had no idea magic was even real and she was probably still better at it than Quentin would ever be.

Penny, with his cool mind-reading skills (so unfair), and Margo being, well, whatever the hell she wanted to be. Kady, with battle magic and Eliot moving things with his mind with such ease, striding through Brakebillls like he belongs here. As if magic was as easy as breathing.

"Can we talk about something else? I really don't-- it's not- it's just one of those nights. How about a-a movie?"

Eliot's eyebrows climbed. "She's not? Or she's just not yet? I thought you wanted her to be." It would be ... less dangerous if she were, because Eliot was drawn to Q like a magnet, and a girlfriend would be a solid deterrent. Without that, Eliot's odds of doing something stupid and drunken at some point went up exponentionally.

Not that he was guaranteed that he wouldn't do it even if Quentin had been dating Alice, but he was less likely.

Eliot nodded though, letting Quentin off the hook. He'd been the one to come down and invade Q's quiet time, after all. He probably shouldn't keep pressing him to talk, even if Eliot wanted to keep him talking and replace everything in his brain with the sound of Q's voice and the shape of his lips as he talked. "Sure, you can pick. Or I can take myself off back to bed and actually give you the space you were looking for, if you'd rather keep your quiet time quiet." Eliot in no way wanted to go back to sleep, but he could always slip out and go for a walk or something. Prowling the grounds at night was not unfamiliar to him.

"I have Lord of The Rings extended version on my laptop," Quentin offers, because 1) it's the best one, and 2) it's something else. It's not thinking about Alice, who's lovely and complicated and she wants things. She needed him to help her and Quentin could fall in love with her for that alone.

It's not thinking about Julia, and about how he's always going to be halfway in love with her because she never needs him, but wants him around anyway. Eliot, with his clever hands and his easy smiles. Who helps Quentin on a near-daily basis and most of the time Quentin feels like he could fall in love with that too. Like the inside of his head is just brimming with feelings, and it's a lot and too much all at once.

There's fucking magic in the world and Quentin still spends his time contemplating the meaning of his own existence and angsting about stupid things like how kissing Alice would feel, with her glasses digging in to the bridge of his nose. About the thin skin on Eliot's wrist, and if Eliot would start hating him if Quentin sucked on his fingers.

Stupid shit.

"I just need to get out of my head for a while. I can do it alone, but it's-- yeah, I get it if you don't want to spend the next three hours in my bed. It's fine."

Eliot searches Quentin's face again, trying to find if he really wants company, or if he just thinks he should be polite about it.

He decides that Q is a shit liar, and must mean it. That may just be Eliot making excuses to do what he wants to do anyway, but when has he not?

"Take me away with the Fellowship, Frodo," Eliot says, giving Q a smile. "I am always and forever willing to spend hours in your bed, with or without a movie." He isn't actually capable of not taking an opening like that to flirt, even if he knows that Quentin will just blush and ignore it, most likely. "By the way, never mention the movies around Margo, she'll complain about something I never read that's missing for ten minutes, and then make you watch the porn version. Which is both terrible and tragically not hot."

Quentin is never anything less than sincerer, and he tilts his head towards the stairs before trying to get up. Which, fair, is a struggle when he's pretzled up like this and also trying to not brush against Eliot or lean on him too hard when his numb leg gives out.

"Oh-" because yeah, Quentin is not even going to touch the idea of Eliot in bed. Like, in bed in bed and not because he's helping Quentin cope with being a freak even at magic school. "I think I know just what she means? Because they left out so many of the good points, and honestly, I get why but also-"

Talking, right. A distraction as he stumbles across the living room and up the stairs, hands twitching through the tuts for his wards and still, even while getting everything ready and getting in to bed, Quentin keeps up with it. That whole not-thinking.

This is going to be fine. He settles against the headboard and props the computer up, movie already loading.

"And yeah, so. I get why she'd want to talk about it, is all. Are you- comfortable? I think I might have more pillows in the closet."

Eliot doesn't really make the process any easier. He should, he knows, but Q is a warm weight tucked up against him, and El likes him there. He'd like it even more if he could turn and taste his mouth or lick a line up his throat. But he's behaving, mostly. He just can't help letting his hand run along Quentin's back as he gets up, or letting his touch linger at his hip and shoulder when he steadies him on his feet.

He huffs a laugh. "Don't say I didn't warn you if you bring it up," he says with a wide smile, watching Q's hands move as he undoes his wards. He follows Quentin over to the bed and slides in next to him, close enough to see the screen, but not enough that he's obviously crowding or taking the chance to cop a feel, no matter how he mourned the loss of Quentin cuddled up against him.

"I'm good," Eliot promises, propping up against the headboard and smiling at Q.

There's no telling when it happened, maybe it was when Quentin nudged the laptop closer or when he had to lean to the side to get water? It wasn't a conscious effort to move closer to Eliot, but somehow they ended up almost squashed together. Even though there's plenty of room on the bed. And Quentin doesn't even notice until he's already turning his head to say something about the importance of Samwise to the whole classical storytelling- that Eliot is right there.

Eliot's face is only inches away and whatever clever-yet-nerdy thing he was about to say just dies a quiet death on the tip of his tongue.

"Uh, yeah- so."

Someone sometime needs to tell Quentin about how very much curling up against someone in bed does not seem like the most platonic of things to do. Except that person's not going to be Eliot, because Eliot is too busy having Q practically on top of him. His hand finds its way into Quentin's hair, stroking through slow and careful as the movie unfolds. Eliot's paying only the barest amount of attention, most of his focus is on the pleasant warm of Quentin against his side and a half formed fantasy of how easy it would be to turn and drape on top of him and kiss him.

It's likely that last fantasy to blame for where Eliot's brain immediately goes when Q's head turns and his face is so close. He's half lit by the flicker of hobbits and elves in the background and Eliot's fingers wind out of his hair to trace along Quentin's jaw before he can even think to stop himself.

He licks his lips, drawing in a deep breath to remind himself that it's not okay to make a move on your friend, who's in love with someone else, no matter how many mixed signals he didn't know he gave. "So?" Eliot prompts, hand sliding back into Quentin's hair, trying to look as if that had been more deliberate than it had been.

It’s not that this is new, this sitting close and Eliot being, well, so Eliot about it. Because it’s not. And neither is it new for Quentin to take a few nights, just slowly brooding to himself about life and feelings and everything in between.

But he’s been trapped in these slow spirals, circular thinking that does absolutely nothing for him and then Eliot is here, still warm and still so goddamn friendly... and that just totally does it for him. For no reason, as if Quentin’s personal kink is someone being kind.

He blinks at Eliot, just a breath away with his lips gently parted and Quentin nods to himself. Eliot is here, in bed and yeah, maybe he’s about to make a huge mistake and shot down whatever friendship they already have- but there’s also that small chance that Eliot will not turn him down, so. Why the fuck not?

“Hey, so...”

Quentin places a hand over Eliot’s, licking his lips, before he leans closer and places a kind of off-center kiss right on Eliot’s mouth.

It took a second to process that. Because Eliot wanted it, and he'd been repeating a mantra of what he shouldn't do to himself every time his fingers wanted to trail further.

It's funny that Quentin thinks Eliot's kind when it's the last way Eliot would describe himself. He's caring, maybe, to the people he chooses to care about. But in general he's self-centered and willfully shallow because that's how he built himself to be. He's kind to Quentin because Q's one of those people that Eliot's walls just dropped for, probably because he hadn't believed it would matter. Quentin had been in love with a girl his whole life, then fallen for another one as soon as he got here. There wasn't much danger to Eliot's heart in letting Q close to it when he wasn't going to know it was available to him, or be interested if it was.

Subconscious or not, that might have been a miscalculation. Eliot's brain flatlines when Q's mouth presses against his, light and off-center. But it's still not just friendly, or at least it doesn't feel like it.

Eliot blinks at him, and then smiles, slow and warm. "Hey," he answers, voice soft and low. He's not sure what this means, but given opportunity, he can't resist. He doesn't try very hard, either. His hand slides to cup Quentin's face, and Eliot leans in, kissing him again. It's still soft, but square on Quentin's mouth and deeper than the last one had been, Eliot pressing in closer against him and trying to drink in the moment in case it crashes on him.

There's a startled sound and Quentin takes a hot second to just- get his head around the fact that Eliot isn't actually pulling away or rolling elegantly out of bed.

He's not, he's here and Quentin's hands come up to brush over Eliot's ears before cupping his head in both of his hands. The scent of Eliot's skin, his perfume or cologne (soap? fuck if Q knows, but) it's overwhelming and so Eliot even as the kiss deepens and Quentin has to move to reach, rolling up on his knees.

There are vague snap-shot memories of kissing Eliot before, devoid of color and distressingly impersonal, rattling around in Quentin's head, but it is nothing like this.

This is Eliot's curls falling around Quentin's fingers. It's Eliot's lips parted and wet and sliding against his own, it's the frantic beating of his own heart and the desperate noises he can't help make as the kiss turns dirty.

Given permission, even if it's the non-verbal kind, Eliot just lets his brain shut off in favor of feeling and doing what he wants to do. And what he wants to do is wrap an arm around Quentin as he rolls onto his knees, pulling him flush against Eliot's chest. His other hand is still on Quentin's face before it slides into his hair and the kiss presses deeper, sweet warmth edging into something hungrier and dirtier.

Eliot has very few memories of doing this, and he'd made it out to be something that hadn't happened. Something he'd been there for, but had been more about Q and Margo. Sense memory now is telling him otherwise, because his brain doesn't remember, but his hands remember Q's skin and his mouth remembers Quentin's lips.

Eliot's hand flattens against the small of Q's back, pressing him in even closer together, and he groans, soft but audible, into Quentin's mouth.

Eliot is pressing closer, pulling Quentin in to him with the reach of his long arms. There's nothing but sinking in to that, in to the half-embrace, knees slip-sliding against the sheets and the laptop tumbles down and rattles to the floor, the movie music reaching a crescendo of some kind.

Quentin doesn't care, there's too much right here, all of it new (but known) and so fucking hot. The rasp as stubble against his face when he tilts his head, the muscles against the palm of his hand when he moves it down to rest on Eliot's chest. It takes no time at all before Quentin is panting in to the kisses, his other hand sliding up to cup the back of Eliot's head.

Eliot doesn't know why it's so damned easy to get drawn in by and then lost in Quentin. But it is. The clatter of the laptop barely jars him, just makes him laugh a little.

Q is pushing into him, petting his chest and Eliot just lets himself fall back against the pillows and headboard, pulling Quentin with him so the other man is on top of him, hands running down his back, curving at his ass - ostensibly using the grip there to help move Quentin. But really Eliot just wants to touch him, rock Q up closer into him.

When Eliot finally draws back enough to draw in a deeper breath, Quentin wasn't the only one panting. Eliot's eyes have gone heavy-lidded and dark and he's looking at Quentin like Q is something he wants to eat alive. "Look at you," he says, eyes sliding over Q's face. His hair looks like it's had hands in it (it has) and his mouth already looks kiss-swollen. It's a good look, but it makes Eliot want to absolutely wreck him. "So fucking pretty, Q," he murmurs, leaning in to kiss him again.

It takes no time at all before Quentin finds himself straddling Eliot's lap, with Eliot's hands urging him on and the thing is... this is fine. Better than fine. This is like the best way to turn his mind off and bring everything physical in to sharper focus.

So, he kisses back, mouth open and working, trying to keep up with everything that's rushing through his head - every daydream and idle fantasy about Eliot, and Eliot's hands and Eliot's face. He's not grinding down so much as just melting in to Eliot's chest, pushing them closer together with every labored breath until Eliot pulls away to look him over.

Quentin flushes (and hates it), with his shirt pulled up and his hair sticking to his sweaty face, and no. He really doesn't want to see what Eliot sees when he looks at him and ends up just panting wetly until Eliot takes mercy on him and kisses him again.

He's still not over the fact that this should be weird, and yet it isn't. How perfect Eliot fits against him and how his hands just seem to know the feeling of Eliot's skin once he gets a hand up under his shirt after popping a few buttons open.

"Eliot- El-" in between kisses. Kissing Eliot's mouth and his neck, nibbling his way up to kiss the silky soft skin under his ear.

Eliot has a lapful of Quentin and it makes it easier to gather him in, to run his hands along Q's thighs, up beneath the hem of his shirt to spread across the warmth of his bare back.

Quentin is kissing back, fervent and wanting, but he just gives over to Eliot too, sinking into him, like he wants everything Eliot will give him. Eliot wants to take him apart and put him back together just so he can do it again. He wants to taste him and touch him and fuck him and maybe just whisper in his ear over and over how good he looks and how good he is while Eliot does it, just to keep that flush and panting response.

Eliot's whole body does a shudder as Quentin finds that spot beneath his ear that always gets to Eliot, breath sucking in. "Fuck, Q," he breathes, hand sinking back in to Quentin's hair and catching there, pulling him back into another hungry kiss before Eliot pulled back, reaching to pull Quentin's shirt off. He wants access to more skin.

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.

God, Quentin's hands are all over him, and El's skin feels like every nerve lights up everywhere Q touches.

He laughs again when the sweater catches and he has to work to help get it off, but the laugh comes out hoarse and breathless. When it's finally off, Eliot's already reaching for him again.

He makes himself pause when hears his name, that uhm that might mean second guessing. Heated eyes meet Quentin's and Eliot stops, hand in Q's hair and spread on his bare back.

But Q kisses him, groans into his mouth, and El just groans back, relieved, licking his way back into Quentin's mouth and stroking his hand over his back, tracing muscles and bone, learning the shape of it with his fingers. Between kisses he mumbled Quentin's name and just ... said things. "God, you're perfect," and "I've wanted you since you walked into Brakebills" and other too-true nonsense.

"Jesus-"

Which is not just a prayer because this is holy fucking hot, but also just some kind of verbal tick that slips out when there's nothing preoccupying his mouth or when something really, truly incredible happens.

Like this.

Like Eliot's hands against his skin, slightly cool despite how hot Quentin feels at the moment. The chest hairs that are curling against Quentin's fingers when he finds a way to shove a hand inside Eliot's impeccable shirt and run his whole hand up his chest just to feel him. How even the fact that Eliot is talking right now is so hot he can't stand it. Who cares if it's true or not, if Eliot ever even looked twice at Quentin like that. The thought is mindblowing, though. Like heat dripping over his skin, fizzing over his nerves like champagne.

"Could you-? Can we-?"

Not even close to making sense, because Quentin gets a hand up to curl around Eliot's neck, holding him anchored against his face as they kiss. Eliot's tongue is doing something deliciously complicated to Quentin's mouth and Quentin can't stop kissing back, lips slip-sliding wetly against each other.

"Shirt. Get it off-"

"Eliot," he corrects with a broken sort of laugh, mouth sliding down Q's neck, sucking at the base of it, shamelessly worrying with lips and teeth to leave a mark that his brain says he shouldn't and Eliot's id absolutely says that he should. It's a caveman instinct to leave a mark to show where he's been, and not one Eliot usually has. But he's apparently a neanderthal because he definitely has it now.

"Anything," he answers, before Quentin can even try to finish his request. He can't think of a single thing Quentin could want that Eliot wouldn't give him, do for him, do to him. He lets go long enough to unbutton his shirt, slide it off and toss it aside with Q's and then pull him back into another kiss, his hands going back to mapping out Quentin's back and sides, the nape of his neck and the small of his back, touching everywhere he can reach.

All of it is just -- so muc, an almost-nerdgasm from making out to the battle sounds of LoTR, from getting top-front action on like, not even the first date. It just happened, in a way that never happens to Quentin and it's still happening. Eliot doesn't disappear or turn out to be just this very, very vivid hallucination brought on by too much wine and those unlabeled nachos in the fridge.

Gasping, Quentin tilts his head back, heart slamming in his chest and both hands fisted in to Eliot's hair.

"Oh, God-- El- Eliot--"

And it's only when Eliot starts to touch that it hits home; he can do that, too. Quentin wastes no time, hands running down Eliot's back and up his arms, caressing and stroking every inch of skin he can reach, as he kisses his way across Eliot's face and down to lick at the soft skin at his throat.

Quentin's head tips back and Eliot's mouth just slides down his throat, sucking at soft skin and then biting down at it, leaving it wet and bruised beneath his mouth. Fuck he wants to leave a map of everywhere he's been on Q's body.

It's his turn to gasp and lift his head though when Quentin touches him, and then Quentin's mouth is on his throat too and his hands in Eliot's hair. He groans. This wasn't in his plan for tonight, but he wants it so much he can't think of anything else he wants more.

He slides his fingers under Quentin's chin, tipping it up again to kiss him, and then pulling back, holding his gaze as Eliot slides his hand down Quentin's chest, low on his belly until he was toying with the waistband of his soft pajama pants, waiting for some kind of permission and watching Quentin before he went any further.

Bliss, white-hot and rushing over his skin with every move Eliot makes, with every stroke of his hand over Quentin’s skin and every touch of his lips.

And it still takes him, like, half a second to notice when Eliot pulls back, a hand sliding down his quivering stomach while Quentin has both of his wrapped in Eliot’s curls. What he sees, looking up, is like something out of one of his better sex dreams - Eliot, all sweat-slicked and flushed pretty pink, and it makes Quentin’s heart skip a beat as he sucks in a breath.

“I-“, he’s trembling all over, hands shaking and there’s an offer here, in the lingering way Eliot waits, hand poised just at the edge of Quentin’s too-constricting pants. “Why the hell not.”

Eliot can't help but laugh, pure affection in the sound. "Lots of reasons, but I'm hoping none of them matter Because I really want this, Q. I want you, Quentin. Whatever you want, I want to give it to you. Anything." Eliot kisses him between words, darting little presses of his lips against Quentin's mouth or his throat.

Eliot slides both hands down Quentin's sides, hooking thumbs in the waistline of his pants and then dragging them downward as far as they'd go along with his underwear. It isn't far, given Quentin was currently straddling him. But it's enough that Eliot can free his cock, get his first real look at it. "Fuck, pretty all over," he breathes. Not that he'd doubted, since this whole night has the hazy feel of a a fantasy, so it only makes sense it would all be exactly how he wants it to be, including Quentin's dick being hard and flushed and the perfect handful. Or mouthful, which he fully wants to prove later, if Quentin lets him. Eliot wraps his hand around Quentin and strokes slowly, gathering precome to smooth the way, drawing back enough to watch his face.

"El-" he's almost choking on the words, breath catching like a hook in his throat because -fuck. They are, and almost undressed, with his pants digging in to his ass and Eliot's perfect hand wrapped tight around him, and Quentin's hips jerk, pushing his dick through that tight fist.

"El-Eliot-- please-" Quentin's hands fall to Eliot's shoulder as his head tips forward, pushing their foreheads together so he can look down and jesus, it almost looks hotter than it feels. Eliot's hand on him, and Quentin is already dizzy with it, already so ready and wanting and yeah, this is probably a bad idea. Like, the worst idea, because they're friends and this is the kind of thing that can ruin that. This want and there's just no way that Quentin can ever look at Eliot again and not want this.

Cupping Eliot's face with both hands, Quentin kisses him, all needy lips and desperate noises.

the i n s o m n i a meme

Sorry! I blinked and 5 days went by

No worries, I know that feel

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