He imagines what he might do if Quinn bid him control himself. He thinks of the ramrod discipline he applied to his magical training, and allows optimism to flourish.

He'll start with just one finger—one thick, careful finger, snaking up the inside of Quinn's white wrists, tracing along the faint, beautiful blue of his veins. Then he'd reach the shoulder, and his whole hand would come into play, flexing strong on warm, bare skin while he descends to dip his tongue in the hollow of Quinn's throat, right where his breath catches.

He can imagine this much, and only this much, as the elf in his head yanks his beard or wrenches his topknot or digs with fingernails, hissing in his ear, “Now. Now.”

And even if the Quinn of his fantasies could be silent, more silent than he ever would be, the throbbing part of Daimd knows that his discipline has no hold on this magic, and never will.