Quentin does stop, but not because Eliot tells him to. It's because Eliot's hands are on his face, his touch so gentle, so careful. Holding him like some delicate thing that might break if his fingers clutch too tight.

He meets Eliot's gaze for the briefest moment, those beautiful hazel eyes of his, as Eliot reaches to tilt his head up to press a kiss against his lips. And it's soft and gentle, and Quentin loves it, he loves Eliot. But he isn't made of glass, and he won't break.

So he reaches to wrap his arms more firmly around the other man and presses more firmly into the kiss. Arching into it in the effort to pull Eliot further down to meet him. If he won't believe the words he gives him, then at least believe his actions. Believe this.

Believe in him, Eliot. Don't make him beg.