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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bakerstreet2020-10-01 04:32 pm
no subject
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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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“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.
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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.
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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-"
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"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.
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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.
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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.
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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.”
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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.
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"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.
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That kind of kiss - starving and desperate - has more power than Eliot thinks Quentin knows. It can level Eliot and he groans into it, kissing back just as needy. He tears away finally, dragging in air.
Eliot makes himself focus, hand lifting from Quentin's cock and moving in a quick, precise spell, conjuring a shimmering little bottle that vanished once he opened it and poured it on his hand. It smelled faintly of whatever scents each person would find the most sensual and when Eliot's hand wrapped back around Q it was slick and warm and Eliot leaned back in to take his mouth again.
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Before Eliot came down while he was brooding, before watching a movie Quentin knows by heart and making out. Since that very first time, on the lawn by the Brakebills sign and Eliot leading him to magic. Like his very own personal white rabbit. This is what Quentin does, overthinking every little thing-- until the scent of something sweet, like shampoo fills the room, making his head spin before Eliot is back.
He groans, arching in to Eliot's perfect, clever hand, fisting his own hand in to Eliot's hair to tilt his head back. Until he can lick his way up Eliot's neck, panting in to his ear.
"That's-- oh my god, that's a big promise."
His skin is too hot, too tight and everything is just rushing up his spin- liquid heat and every word comes with a whimper.
"I want to blow you."
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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.
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Quentin groans, with every laboured breath he’s desperately trying to suck in to his lungs, preferably while still kissing Eliot. His skin, his mouth. Sliding his own lips over the stubble on his cheek, heart beating fast in his chest. Quentin wants. Eliot’s hot body against his own, Eliot’s kiss-swollen mouth saying ‘please’ and ‘yes’ and ‘Q’.
Something wild and reckless unfurls inside Quentin’s chest, and he pulls off trying to kiss Eliot’s face, pulling back enough to look at him. Brown eyes, all blown and wide, the flush on his almost too-perfect cheekbones, and he’s just too gone on this. On Eliot. Quentin stills his hips, trying to catch his breath and failing.
“Your pants...” like that makes any sense, and he paws at the top-button on Eliot’s pants before the words have even left his mouth, “You, you get naked, too”.
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And if he wasn't already going to hell, Eliot's sure even having that thought would seal the deal. Worth it.
There are a lot of downsides to being a Magician sometimes. But there are perks. One of them is that when someone beautiful demands you get your pants off, you can do it very, very quickly. Eliot laughs, repeats giddily, "anything." He pulls his hand away from Quentin's dick, not without regret, and pushes his fingers away from pawing at his pants. A little maneuvering and handy telekinesis and he's as naked as Quentin wants him to be. Eliot immediately reaches for him again. "If you keep asking me like that I'll just stay naked all the time," he promises, teeth nipping sharp and quick at Quentin's shoulder before kissing the sting away.
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It wants to remind him of past failures and Quentin... doesn't let it. He takes a deep breath, trying to not come untouched like a teen getting to second base for the first time, when Eliot leans back, all of him on display on Quentin's bed, hard cock curving up towards his stomach, looking like every wet dream Quentin ever had.
"Oh my god--"
He wants it all, wants to press Eliot down on to the bed and cover him, to fuck him. Wants Eliot's mouth on him, and most of all, Quentin wants to put his mouth all over Eliot. Wants to do crazy shit, like lick his ankle and nibble at his wrists. Wants to make this last forever, and he wants to get off right now, because he's close, so close and Eliot is right there, all casual nakedness and wicked smile.
"Yeah? Yes, you can-- oh, you could certainly pull it off. Being naked."
Which just makes Quentin's brain feel too hot. Overheating and overthinking, and he quiets it by just going for it. By just sliding a hand up Eliot's calf, followed closely by tiny kisses over the bend at his knee, up up up until he's close enough to smell how hard Eliot is. He licks his lips.
"I've been--"
Is all he says before taking Eliot in to his mouth, licking over the head and jesus, there's no way he's ever going to fit all of that in to his mouth, but he covers the base with his hand, hollowing his cheeks as he sucks, bobbing his head and grinding his painfully hard dick against the soft covers.
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Those first little touches to his calf, the soft kisses, they're almost ticklish in a way that's slightly maddening and good at the same time, because it's Quentin doing it. "Maybe just behind closed doors. Where you are. As soon as the door shuts, off come the pants, and onto my knees I go. Or other variations on a theme."
Eliot opens his mouth to ask what Quentin has been. Doing? Thinking? Imagining? Wanting?
Whatever it was, it matters less than the the heat of Quentin's mouth engulfing the leaking head of his dick, or the hollowed cheeks as he sucks. Or, Jesus, the way he's grinding against the bed. "Fuck, Q," Eliot breathes, groaning. "Baby. Don't come like that." Eliot wants to be the one getting him off. Wants Quentin down his throat or in his ass or in his hand and coming all over his skin - he doesn't care which. All of it hopefully, sometime. But he doesn't want it wasted in grinding off on a bed that won't appreciate his dick as much as Eliot does. "Fuck, you look amazing like that."