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“Um.” The twitchy first year stands at the doorway to his room. Eliot’s seen him once or twice; he thinks Margo was his student guide. She’d mentioned a cute, geeky boy who looked like he might pop a boner when she confirmed, yes this was a fucking magic school; you’re a wizard, little nerd.
Looks like the type who jerks off to Lord of the Rings. Not that he’d throw Orlando Bloom out of bed. And, as a rule, he likes exactly that type. One of Eliot’s many types.
Eliot rises from his desk and looks the kid up and down—honey-brown hair that falls just above his shoulders, downturned mouth, earnest brown eyes, baggy jeans that have definitely seen better days, and a black button down that’s a hair too long. The sleeves are rolled up at his wrists—like he found it in a bin at the Goodwill and couldn’t resist it because it was two dollars and almost the right size. He probably had some friend who took him thrifting; he doesn’t look like the sort that ever needed to buy anything used.
“Can I help you?” Eliot smirks, tapping his fingers against his desk chair.
“I’m a, uh. Physical kid. I think.”
“Mmhmm. You think or you know?”
“I mean—I know. I guess. They said I was probably—” The boy looks around Eliot’s room, his mouth open, completely dropping his train of thought. He focuses on the orange and red Rothko rip off he’d managed to steal while working in a gallery right after college. It was the classiest job Eliot had ever had. It was also the only real job he’d ever had; he figured the painting was his reward for the gut-crushing boredom.
“They said you were probably what?”
His eyes dart back to Eliot. “Probably a physical kid. My discipline is ‘undetermined.’” He makes air quotes to frame it.
“Well, congratulations on getting assigned to the Cottage. You got in the door?”
“Yeah. I sort of. Accidentally relocated it. It’s in the PA lab.” There’s a little line between his dark brows. Eliot has the stray impulse to press his thumb there, try to wipe the worry away.
“It does sound like you’re a physical kid. Not easy to accomplish that sort of thing if you’re meant to be growing plants.”
“But the door—”
“Margo smashed it to splinters. Whole thing had to be replaced. No one’s going to kick you out. Now, why are you—”
“They said this is my room. I mean. Margo and Todd said—I’m with you. You’re my roommate.”
“That’s definitely not right. I have the attic to myself. Always have.” That wasn’t exactly true. He’d shared with a third year for a while last year before Eliot accidentally melded the two twin beds together with a binding spell that he didn’t know how to break.
“It’s because, uh—Alice and Kady and I are all physical kids, and. There was only one room left. And. So. They’re rooming together. And Todd told me I’d be rooming with you.” The kid pushes his hair back behind his ear. “I should. I’m sorry. This was a—I’m not sure, I mean—”
“Don’t have a panic attack,” Eliot says. At that same instant, he hears the unmistakable click of heels on the stairs, and Margo appears at the door, peeking in at Eliot.
“I see you’ve met your new roomie.” She gives him that pretty, apple-cheeked grin that communicates how deeply amused she is.
“Mm,” Eliot says, looking between the two of them. “I’ve only got one bed.”
“Eliot, your bed is the size of Nebraska. You could fit five people in it,” she says. “And you have.”
The kid is blushing furiously and looking in the corner, shrinking in on himself—
“Don’t bring Nebraska into this,” Eliot says. He gestures in the lost boy’s direction. “This child clearly needs to be rooming with Todd.”
“Todd’s room is the size of a closet. I mean, it is actually a closet. You’ve got the biggest room, and Quentin here is staying in it. Work it out.”
“Quentin?” Eliot raises an eyebrow. The boy is bright red, and Margo puts her hand on his arm, a truly suggestive grin tugging at her lips.
“Um. Quentin Coldwater,” he says.
“Well, that’s certainly a mouthful.”
Quentin looks like he’s going to sink into the floor, sagging under the weight of his messenger bag.
“He’s cute.” Margo mouths the words silently, and Eliot rolls his eyes. Cute, likely straight, probably harmless. And Eliot can figure out how to extend his room into two sections. How to break up the beds. Something. But he’s cute. He’s really cute.
“Fine,” Eliot says, gesturing to his room. “The closet isn’t up for negotiation. I’ll clear out one drawer of the dresser.”
Quentin gives him a look of relief, all the tension draining out of his tight little body. A thrill runs down the column of Eliot’s spine. He ignores it.
~~***~~
Quentin is a decent roommate, certainly better than the music kid he lived with his first two years in college. There were wind instruments everywhere, and he thought 3AM was a perfectly acceptable time to practice the oboe.
No, Quentin is a little messy, but he keeps all of his clutter around his desk. He’s lined it with collectibles and posters—mostly related to Fillory, though there are some—as Eliot predicted—attractive Lord of the Rings elves and dragon figures that might belong to either. Quentin talks about all of it incessantly, but Eliot doesn’t necessarily discourage him, as he’s addicted to the way Quentin gets all excited, his hands fluttery and his eyes lighting up. Eliot’s not sure he’s ever been so genuinely excited about something, and certainly not at the age of twenty-four. It’s—refreshing. Unexpected. Something about it makes him want to know more.
It doesn’t hurt that Quentin has a starring role in his recurring sex fantasies, his face soft and handsome, the smiles infrequent enough that his dimples knock Eliot to his knees. No, that doesn’t hurt at all.
All of that to say—he doesn’t mind having Quentin as a roommate. Eliot thought he’d get tired of the infringement on his sex life—which is still quite active, thank you very much—but he’s found he can just go somewhere else when he meets someone, and he hasn’t met very many people since Quentin moved in. Which has nothing to do with Q or the way his hair has gotten long enough to pull into a bun, or how the body he keeps hidden under his sweatshirts and jeans is firm and tight and surprisingly muscular (Eliot is partial to his thighs, if he were to pick a favorite thing about his tight, compact body). And it’s not because he sticks his tongue out when he practices tuts, or because he always manages to get ink on his hands or chalk on the side of his face, or because he’s just this side of bratty and takes zero of Eliot’s bullshit—
And Eliot definitely doesn’t find excuses to stay in and watch Quentin do his work.
“What the fuck is with this—this compression spell? The object manifestation was fine—”
“Relax,” Eliot says. He pulls his desk chair over to face Quentin, their knees almost touching.
He was supposed to meet a date by the library, but he’s got time. Eliot can be a few minutes late. It’s not like he’s seeing Caleb for more than a quick fuck—and if he skips out on the date, he can blame it on another fire emergency at the Cottage. Todd’s forever lighting shit on fire.
“Are you, uh. Busy? Can you. Can you help?” Quentin’s voice goes a little high pitched at the end, cracking a little.
“Absolutely,” Eliot says. “I’m an expert on planar compression. Top of my class. I’ll be working on adding an extra room for you—I just haven’t started yet.”
“Oh, that sounds—okay. Good, I mean—that would be good. To have your space back, I guess,” Quentin says, deflating a little.
“Not starting anytime soon, Q. I have to do some research to make it work. And you’d still be up here with me.”
“Oh. I mean, I like it up here. With you. Not like—well, you know what I mean.” A flush creeps over Quentin’s cheeks, and he gives Eliot a rare little smile. “So can you help me, uh, learn these tuts?”
“Of course. Give me your hands.”
“Okay.” Quentin’s eyes grow wide, the movement barely perceptible, but Eliot notices, filing it away to think about later as he holds Quentin’s hands and works his fingers into the proper formation.
“You’ve just got to move your index fingers like—this.”
Quentin leans in close, his dark eyes bright and full of awe, watching Eliot’s hands on his. “Your hands are so big.”
Eliot’s mouth goes absolutely dry, and he looks up to meet Quentin’s eyes. “All the better to teach you with.”
Quentin groans and rolls his eyes, but his hands are still warm in Eliot’s, and even though there are no spells being cast, it feels like there’s magic flowing through them, drawing them closer together.
Two hours later, Eliot is still glued to his desk chair, guiding Quentin’s strong hands through the motions for the three variations of planar compression Quentin has to memorize for tomorrow’s class. Quentin’s whole face is flushed, the sleeves of his shirt messily turned up, revealing his forearms. Which are—highly distracting.
Eliot doesn’t end up meeting Caleb. He decides, with very little hesitation, that making dinner for Quentin—pan-seared steak bavette with a cherry balsamic compote, garlic mashed potatoes, arugula salad, two bottles of Sangiovese—is far more important. And Quentin, all sweet and well fed, is a sight that will get Eliot through the next however long of having to sleep in bed next to—his probably-straight crush. If one would go so far as to call it a crush, which Eliot clearly wouldn’t.
It’s well after two in the morning that they actually fall into bed—they’d stayed up late, watching The Good Place, Quentin’s head on his shoulder, Eliot fantasizing about biting his thighs—and even after that, Eliot lies awake listening to Quentin talk about the plot of some epic science fiction novel about sentient spiders, which sounds at first sounds mostly horrifying and then—maybe because of the wine or because of the way Q is so enthusiastic about the spaceships and jumping spiders—Eliot thinks it doesn’t sound half bad. He falls asleep somewhere after Quentin explains the matriarchal structure of spider society, lulled by the timbre of his voice. He expects to wake up around noon and crawl to his one o’clock class with sunglasses on but—instead, it’s maybe two hours later that he wakes up to the unmistakable sound of moaning.
Before Eliot fully comes to consciousness, he figures he must be the one making the low, throaty sex sounds—because they are definitely sex sounds, and Eliot’s dick is definitely hard.
But as his eyes flutter open, he realizes the sounds are coming from the other person in his bed. The one who lives in his room. And sleeps next to him. The one whose hands he held for a period of no less than two and a half hours earlier that day.
In the low, silvery light of the moon, Eliot can see Quentin, clearly still asleep, the sheet kicked away from his body. Usually, he sleeps with an undershirt on, but tonight, he’d stripped down to just his boxers—his nipples are crinkled, his mouth open, his cock hard and straining against the fabric of his gray boxer briefs. The little moans falling from his lips are soft and breathy, and his hips are bucking up from the bed, like he’s trying to find something to push against.
Holy fucking gay Jesus—what the fuck—Eliot is going to lose his actual goddamn mind.
Eliot’s watching Quentin Coldwater have an actual sex dream. Here, in his bed, next to him, hair splayed out behind him on his Fillory and Further pillowcase.
The noises start coming faster, Quentin’s hips bucking up, his whole body quivering. Eliot swears he can feel the weight of Quentin’s arousal, can almost taste it against the roof of his mouth.
Eliot should—should wake him up. He should—God, he doesn’t know. Roll off the bed and hide under it? Get out his phone and take a fucking video? Jerk himself off before Quentin wakes up but—
“Oh, fuck, y-yeah—you’re so big—hnnnn—”
“Oh my God,” Eliot whispers to—no one at all.
Quentin is two feet away, and he’s making obscene sounds, his breath coming fast. And really anyone could be on Quentin’s mind right now. It would be odd, maybe a little, for Quentin to be squirming around and saying that when he’d talked about Eliot’s big hands just hours ago.
Quentin moans again. “Your hands are so big. Want you to—”
Okay, well, that’s definitely not a coincidence. And Eliot just has to lie here and watch Quentin writhe in bed next to him. And it’s a sex dream—it has to be. Right? Or is he having a fucking nightmare about Eliot’s hands—and his hard dick is just like—a fear boner?
“Mmn.” Quentin’s hips arch up, the muscles jumping in his abdomen. His hand sweeps down his body, fingers landing on the swell in his boxer briefs. He’s absently moving his fingers over his dick, unable to get a good grip on it in his sleep, his eyes still closed—and holy shit, Eliot might not survive this. He can’t be thinking about Eliot, right? Because Quentin is probably straight, and if he’s not, he’s definitely not thinking about Eliot. His erotic dream can’t be focused on—
“Eliot.” Quentin gives his cock a good squeeze, running his fingers up to the head and back down to the base. Even in the low light, Eliot can see that Quentin is biting his lip, his breath coming fast. He lets out a filthy, strangled sound, thrusting up against his hand, licking his lips, rubbing his cock harder, faster.
Quentin is far from graceful, the movements over his cock jerky and uncoordinated. But Eliot can’t look away. It’s primal, impulse-driven—in that strange dream state where the body acts of its own will, seeking out its relief, furiously trying to generate pleasure with its limited resources. Eliot hasn’t had a dream like this in—well, maybe a decade. But, Jesus, Quentin is really going for it, grasping his cock, his mouth falling open as he groans.
Eliot’s about to turn over but—Quentin’s hand moves up to his nipples, fingertips brushing over each in turn before it travels lower and—holy fuck—he’s jamming his hand beneath the waistband and gasping as he finally gets his hand around his bare cock. He makes another choked, desperate sex sound, his hand moving fast over his dick. With purpose.
Eliot’s own dick jerks, his own nipples tight, arousal taking him over, prickling along the pathways of his nervous system. Every part of him is lit up, a busy highway in the deep of night, streaming lights as far as the eye can see.
Eliot knows he should turn away. He should—throw a pillow at Quentin, or jump off the bed and tuck and roll toward the bathroom. But Eliot’s no Boy Scout—he was, in fact, kicked out of the Boy Scouts for ‘behavior problems.’ So. He situates himself on one elbow and watches, his mouth watering, his own hand resting just over his own cock. He squeezes himself once and shudders, letting out a sigh.
There’s a wet spot forming on Quentin’s boxers, precome absorbed by the jersey cotton each time Quentin moves his hand to the base of his cock, and the thick head presses back against the fabric. Quentin is panting now, his hand working overtime now, his body jerking—like he’s being yanked by a puppeteer—as he moves faster, the unmistakable brush-brush-brush sounds of self-pleasure filling Eliot’s conscious mind like—the dripping sound of water used to drive prisoners insane. Eliot can look; he can’t touch. And he’s—he’s going to lose what few brain cells he has left to the sight and sound of Quentin getting off in his sleep.
Eliot scoots a little closer, careful to keep quiet. He can barely make out the rosy head of Quentin’s cock beneath the wide white waistband of his underwear. Each glimpse of it sends a barbed ache through his center, the hooks of its claws digging into him, making the force of his arousal sting like physical pain.
It looks thick, he thinks—Quentin’s cock looks nice and thick. Why can’t he see more of it?
“Eliot,” Quentin says again, actively jerking himself off now, the dry brushing sound turned slick with the slippery precome beading up at the head. He can almost taste Quentin’s dick on his lips, the salty-heady stretch in his mouth, can smell him, sharp and masculine.
Quentin’s entire body is vibrating now, his free hand clutching reflexively at the covers. Body tensing, a filthy, animal groan rumbling from deep in his chest, Quentin squeezes his cock one final time and comes, over his hand and his stomach, his boxers wet with it, streaks of white over the base of his firm belly. Little choked noises are coming from the back of his throat, the muscles in his thighs and forearms jumping as the come soaks into his underwear.
It’s a mess, and there’s so much of it.
Quentin’s eyes flutter open, and Eliot slips down beneath the sheets, closing his eyes and turning away. Eliot’s cock is aching hard and sensitive, desperate for friction. He presses the heel of his palm against his dick as he listens to Quentin’s rapid breathing and his confused, sex-addled sounds as he discovers exactly what he did in his sleep. Next to Eliot.
“Oh, fuck.” Quentin shifts in the bed and gasps. “No, no—oh God.” There’s a movement on the mattress and a thunk on the floor next to Quentin’s side, and Eliot watches as Q runs for the bathroom and closes the door behind him.
Eliot does what anyone in the same situation would do. He jerks off, quick and efficient, biting the inside of his cheek to keep quiet. When he comes, he closes his eyes and thinks of his name on Quentin’s lips. He tuts away the evidence of his own nocturnal emission, noting that he does really need to teach Quentin that particular spell. Well—there’s time for that, isn’t there?
He drifts off into a satisfied half-sleep and is vaguely aware of Quentin climbing back into bed, smelling of Dove body soap.
When he wakes the next day, the sun is shining bright through the windows, and Quentin is gone.
~~***~~
That afternoon, Eliot goes about selecting an outfit. It’s usually a very zen process, involving some meditation on Pantone color palettes and maybe a comparison of two to three shirts, but today, he pulls out every one of his button-downs and has a minor meltdown, stomping back and forth across his room. Quentin’s last class ends at six, and he’ll be home shortly after that. Eliot needs time for the Malbec to breathe, a few minutes beyond that to prep the recipe he has in mind. He tries on three shirts while continuing his pacing, jumping when there’s a knock at the door. When he looks up, Margo is peeking in, stepping through the doorway and into the disaster-hell he’s created.
“What the fuck, Eliot? I came up to see if you had a herd of horny elephants stampeding up here.”
“I’m in crisis mode, Bambi. I have nothing to wear.”
“Oh?” She raises an eyebrow. “Nothing to wear? And just how did you come to that conclusion?”
“Nothing is right. I can’t find anything that works together. And I need a certain look—”
“What for? Just out of curiosity.” She has a hand on her hip, one brow raised, that dangerous look on her face like she’s about to work something out. Something essential about Eliot that Eliot probably doesn’t know himself. It’s annoying. “This isn’t one of your meaningless dates, or you’d have it picked out already.”
“Oh. It’s nothing. I assure you. I’m just getting ready to go to class.”
“Oh yeah? Class? What class is that? How to finally fuck Quentin Coldwater 101? I hear you’ve been failing that subject so far.”
“Ah, that’s not exactly.” He stops and watches Margo’s grin spread from cheek to cheek. “That’s not. Mm.”
“He sleeps in your bed nightly. He has a poster of the dinosaurs in Fillory—”
“They’re dragons. You should know.”
Her grin goes wider. “Oh I sure as fuck know, you dick. You’re defending your boytoy’s honor, huh? Duly fucking noted. This is very cute.”
“He’s not my—”
“You spoiled him with steak and wine last night. Last weekend, you fucking made him black cherry ice cream because he mentioned it was his favorite Blizzard from Dairy Queen. He looked at you like you were the High King of Dick and he wanted to get down on his knees and repay you as soon as he was done with his treat.”
“He did not—” Well, Eliot can’t really say anything, can he? Quentin had jerked off right next to him, said his name out loud twice. He sighs. “As much as I hate to admit it, you actually might be onto something, Bambi.”
“Spill. What the fuck is going on?”
“There’s a chance,” Eliot starts, tentative. Last night seems utterly unreal, something created by his feverish, wine-laden, extremely horny brain. But, no. It was real, and Eliot remembers it in vivid detail. He’d remembered it again when he’d jerked off before getting up, and again when he showered— “There’s a chance, I think, that he does return my interest.”
“That’s the most roundabout, dramatic-ass way to say he wants to hop on your dick—”
“It’s a possibility that he does, yes. He had a dream last night that seemed... directed at me.”
“Coldwater had a wet dream? In your bed?” She cracks a smile. “That tracks. The kid is a disaster.”
“He’s not—”
“He absolutely is. But in a cute way.” She pauses, tapping her foot. “Did he say your name?”
“Yes.”
“As he was—” She makes a graphic jerking-off motion with her hand. “—making the bald man cry?”
“Ah—yes. Twice, actually.” Eliot clears his throat.
“Jesus Christ. Well, at least we know he’s down to get a good dicking. Which you can definitely provide. So tell me—”
“Bambi, please. I need some assistance picking out something to wear.”
“Wait. Let’s go back to that first thing. Fucking—seriously? He jizzed in his pajamas—”
“In his boxers. His boxer briefs.”
“Oh my God—for real? He went feral on his dick in the middle of the night, said your name—twice, and then he came all over himself?”
“Yeah. For real. That’s a real thing. That actually happened. In my bed. And I want to—wine and dine him. So I need to plan my outfit.”
“He is not going to give a single happy fuck what you wear. He had his dick out in the middle of the night, dreaming about your massive cock.”
“Please.”
Margo rolls her eyes. “Fine, your majesty. Wear the white Hugo Boss button down. Burgundy suspenders. No vest. The navy trousers.”
“I owe you everything.”
“You sure do.”
“I love my Bambi,” he says, drawing her into an embrace.
“You’re a ridiculous giraffe of a human,” she says, leaning against his chest. “For the record, this should have happened weeks ago. That’s probably why he had to bust a nut in his panties. Poor kid. You better give him what he deserves.”
“I’ll do my best.”
~~***~~
That’s how Eliot finds himself, dressed to Margo’s specifications, with a Malbec breathing on the dining room table. He has pork medallions with a lavender butter sauce, paired with rice pilaf—both heated beneath a warming spell, the plates sitting across from each other, a few fresh wildflowers in a Mason jar since Quentin loves that hipster shit. Probably took girls in college to dine at Brooklyn gastro-pubs where literally everything is served in a Mason jar.
It’s dark when Quentin opens the door to the Cottage; no one else is around, which is really just as well. No Margo to tease him, more than she already had done, anyway. No Todd to set something on fire. Alice and Kady tucked away in their room.
“Oh, hey El.” Quentin looks around, glancing up at the ceiling like he might find something there to explain the lack of other physical kids in the Cottage. “Where’s—uh—where is everyone?”
“Party with the plant people,” Eliot says, setting two wine glasses on the table.
He can feel Quentin’s eyes on him as he pours one glass of red, followed by another. “Oh—I thought you—weren’t you seeing one of those guys a few weeks ago? Are you—I mean, if you’re seeing him—”
Eliot smiles and shakes his head. “No. Definitely not seeing anyone. Definitely not going to a nature kid party.”
“Then—uh. It’s Friday night. What’re you—”
When Eliot turns, he finds Quentin staring at him, the apples of his cheeks turning blush-pink. “I made dinner for someone special.”
Quentin’s face falls, and a little piece of Eliot wishes he could capture the feeling of this moment, of knowing that things between them are about to change—or so he hopes. God, he really hopes. “I’ll just. Um. I’ll go upstairs and if you want the room—later, I mean—”
“I made dinner for you.” Eliot’s pulse picks up, but he looks down at the table, ignoring it. Ignoring that his cheeks are hot and his stomach is flipping and Quentin is right there, looking at him, witnessing Eliot Waugh’s silent meltdown. He’s steadfastly—ignoring it.
“For me? But I’m not.” Quentin rocks back on his heels, shoving his hands in his pocket and nearly falling over.
“I wanted to make dinner for you, and to be clear, you are someone special. To me.”
“Um. For me? Like—you already made me dinner yesterday. You don’t need to—I can get like, ramen or whatever—”
Eliot points to the table. “Sit down. Wine?”
“Yeah, I, okay.” Quentin slips off the strap of his messenger bag and leaves it sitting in the foyer right in front of the door, where anyone could trip over it—and Todd probably will. Eliot does a quick tut and sends it to the wall. Quentin won’t be needing his books tonight. Quentin’s eyes dart around, like he’s looking for some sort of explanation.
“Pork medallions and rice pilaf,” Eliot says. He lets his eyes wander over Quentin as he shuffles over to the table—because the view is pretty fucking good. A heathered navy Henley over dark wash jeans that are maybe half a size too big, but tighter than most of his others, accented by his ever-present black boots. Eliot knows what he looks like under those clothes, and Eliot knows what he sounds like—
“You really didn’t have to,” Quentin says again, his voice hushed. He looks at Eliot wide-eyed, as he pulls out a chair for Quentin to sit down. “And you don’t have to—”
“No, I don’t have to. I want to.” Eliot swallows hard, his chest tight, his heartbeat scattered and fluttery. Over a boy. Ludicrous. He knows how to do this. And Quentin had a sex dream where he said Eliot’s name—well, at least Quentin’s subconscious is aware of Eliot as a sexual being. Maybe it wasn’t a sex dream about Eliot, and Eliot read the whole thing wrong. Maybe it was just a slip of the tongue. And a slip of the dick. Well.
He rubs his sweaty palms against his trousers, letting out a shaky breath.
“But aren’t you—wouldn’t you rather—” Quentin’s train of thought leaves the station without him as he watches Eliot cast a spell that lights the candles over the mantle. Eliot hopes Q can’t see that he’s sweating over this, his hands shaking ever so slightly on the last tut. How humiliating.
“I’d rather be here and not with any of the plant people,” Eliot says breezily. He’s going through with this. He has to or he might lose his mind. If he doesn’t get his cock in Quentin Coldwater’s mouth or his ass or—fuck it, his hand, between his perfect thighs—he’ll have to be sent to the infirmary for jerking off too many times and giving himself dickburn. “There are only so many stories I can hear about forsythia before I lose my actual mind.”
Quentin nods, a look washing over his face like something is clicking into place, which is good. Really, it’s great. Quentin should know that Eliot would rather be here in the Cottage, with him. With Quentin. Eliot sits down and takes a sip of wine, hoping he’s projecting his signature cool demeanor. And not—whatever he’s feeling twisting up inside his chest.
Quentin doesn’t seem to notice Eliot’s breakdown, but then again, Quentin often doesn’t notice steps or doors or cracks in the pavement or other people in general, at all. So, Eliot’s pretty safe here. One benefit to his erotic mind choosing Quentin as its intended prey.
Instead, Q keeps glancing at Eliot’s hands, at his lips, at his rolled up shirtsleeves, that blush still sitting on his cheeks, his ears ever so slightly red when he double tucks his hair behind them. They talk about Quentin’s classes, and his discipline retesting with Sunderland, and Eliot’s general distaste for nature parties. Eliot slips in a few bits of innuendo, and they sail right over Quentin’s head. Ironically, irrationally, it only makes Eliot want him more.
“Well, I’m glad I, uh, saved you from the, uh. Plant people. And their plant problems.”
“Oh?” Eliot knits his brows for a moment before he remembers the nature kid party was the excuse he’d used for a second dinner. “Mmm, me too. Their parties are tragic. You definitely saved me. My hero,” he says. Eliot takes a sip of wine and lets his eyes wander over the hollow of Quentin’s neck. The way the Henley is unbuttoned reveals just a hint of dark chest hair. He knows that chest hair now; he wants to feel it against his cheek. God. He wants to come all over Quentin’s chest, get him all wet and messy, lick the salt from the sweat soaking his skin.
“This is, like, really so good, El,” Quentin says between forkfuls of rice pilaf. “I mean, I know you’re like testing these recipes out—”
“Excuse me, I’m what?” Eliot puts his glass down and pours himself another just to make sure he’s hearing Quentin correctly.
“—so if you wanna know, I like this one better, but like—not by much. The glaze on the steak was phenomenal. It might actually be a tie. So—”
“I am not testing out recipes,” Eliot says. He finishes off his glass of wine as Quentin looks at him in confusion. “I know my recipes are fucking good. That is not what I’m here for.”
“You’re… you’re not?” Quentin shoves the last bite of pork into his mouth like Eliot might reconsider and take his plate away.
“No, baby, I’m not.”
Quentin’s eyes grow wide, and he looks—well, a bit pale. He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s not—like a test… kitchen thing? You just really like all those shows. And—and—I’m.” He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing, abandoning his thoughts in lieu of staring at Eliot’s mouth.
Eliot takes another fortifying sip of wine and finishes the last bite of pilaf from his plate. The wild, almost irresistible urge to laugh bubbles up from somewhere behind his chest, but he pushes it down. He’s come this far; he’s not scaring away his sweet, nocturnally horny, pocket-sized bedmate before he actually beds him properly. “No, Q. It’s not that. I’m not testing out anything.”
“Then, what’s, um—” Quentin takes a shuddering breath. “—what’s all of this? And why is no one here? Are you kicking me out of the room? Are you, like, letting me down easy?”
“What?”
“Like, I mean. I knew there was an expiration date on the whole roommates situation—”
Eliot pinches the bridge of his nose. “No, Q. Just stop.”
“Okay, I—”
“Let me put it this way. I’ve got another bottle of Malbec in our room. And I’d very much like to share it with you. In the bedroom.”
“To—you mean—”
“Mm, I do mean.” Eliot gathers up both empty wine glasses and sends the plates to the kitchen sink with a little flourish of telekinesis. When he crosses to the other side of the table, he offers Quentin his hand, tamping down the urge to giggle or—run— But—after a moment of hesitation where Eliot thinks he might actually explode into a shower of lustful flame—Q takes his hand and lets Eliot lead him upstairs.
When Eliot closes the door behind them, Quentin looks like an actual deer caught in actual headlights. No exaggeration. “Um,” he says, hands twitching like they did on that first day as Eliot’s roommate. “I’m just—I’m just making sure that. You’re really not like—kicking me out or—”
Eliot crowds into Quentin’s space, putting his hand on Q’s shoulder and then the back of his neck. Quentin lets out a whimper, and his eyes flutter shut, his lips slightly parted. Ah, these are good signs. Eliot can definitely work with this.
He bends and places a chaste kiss to Quentin’s lips. When he pulls back, Quentin’s face is a study in shock, but he puts his hand to one of Eliot’s suspenders, two fingers hooking under it.
“I’m not kicking you out,” Eliot says. “In fact, I’d like you to get in bed with me and tell me just exactly what you were dreaming about last night.”
Quentin goes bright red. “Oh, Jesus. I was—it was a dream. I wouldn’t, like, consciously jerk off next to you. I’m so sorry you had to see that. It hasn’t happened since I was in high school, I swear.”
“Well, I’m not sorry,” Eliot says, brushing his fingers through Quentin’s hair. “It was hot. Electrifying.”
“Oh my fucking God—”
“Now, tell me. Were you dreaming about me? You said my name.” He dips down to kiss Quentin again, his racing heart slowing at the touch of his lips. Something else, something complex and new, curls in the pit of his stomach, like a flower rising from cold earth. It’s the kind of feeling he usually tries to quash—but he finds himself wanting to see just how it grows.
Quentin makes a soft whining sound when their lips part. “I—yeah,” he breathes. “I was. I’m sorry—”
“Please, Q. I don’t accept apologies from a beautiful boy who whips his cock out in my bed. This was unexpected, yes. But—the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time. And I want a repeat performance. With extras.”
“Uh. Umm.” Quentin’s breath is coming fast like he’s trying to rapidly process information his brain had never expected to come across in the wild. “You want me to—”
Eliot kicks off his shoes and runs his hand down Quentin’s arm, starting to pull him toward the bed. “Come lie down with me and tell me about your dream. And then, I’ll do whatever you want. I even have a few spells I’d like to show you.”
“Spells?” Quentin’s eyes light up—he is so cute.
“A few little sex-related charms. A clean up spell.”
“Like sex magic?” Quentin stumbles out of his boots as Eliot leads him to the bed and sits him down. “We’re actually—going to learn some—”
Eliot tips Quentin’s head up by his chin. “Nothing advanced. We can save everything else for later.”
“Later,” he murmurs, melting against Eliot’s lips. “Like there’ll be another—later?”
“Eloquent,” Eliot says, carding his fingers through Quentin’s hair, “and yeah. There’ll be another later. If you want.”
“Mmmph.” Quentin pushes up for another kiss, the tide turning from anxious to eager, so warm and willing. God, why hadn’t they been doing this all along?
It’s easy, kissing Quentin. His lips are warm, his mouth responsive, opening readily when Eliot licks againsts the seam of his lips. Quentin makes soft, needy sounds as Eliot kisses him, and he squirms closer until he’s sitting in Eliot’s lap, legs wrapped around his waist, his socked feet tucked beneath Eliot’s thighs. Quentin doesn’t really know what to do with his hands; he just clutches helplessly at Eliot’s suspenders as Eliot kisses down over his jaw, tucking his nose into the side of Quentin’s neck and sucking gently, tasting his sweet skin and taking in the scent of his drugstore shaving cream, running his hands down to Quentin’s waist and squeezing him until he’s vibrating against Eliot.
“You were gonna tell me about that dream,” he says, kissing up close to Quentin’s ear, whispering and licking at his earlobe just to feel the chill run through him, to hear the helpless whine rise from his throat.
“Oh my God, you’re serious—I mean, I’m—God, it’s so fucking embarrassing,” Quentin says, his body trembling beneath Eliot’s hands. “I can’t believe you saw—”
“I’m going to stop you right there, baby. I told you before. It was so fucking hot.” Eliot places a soft kiss against Quentin’s jaw. “I watched you—fucking into your hand. I’m a man who likes his ego stroked, and Q, you managed that in your sleep. I loved seeing you—”
“Jesus Christ—”
“—stroke that pretty dick. You put on quite a show, got yourself all filthy.”
“Jesus fuck. That’s so. Humiliating,” Quentin mumbles, his cheeks going all red, a splotchy flush blooming over his neck.
“Mm, I completely disagree. I jerked off while you were washing up, thinking about you saying my name. And I do need to know what you were dreaming about.” He slips his hand beneath Quentin’s shirt, drags his fingers through the soft fur on his belly. “Tell me, baby. C’mon.”
“This is happening,” Quentin murmurs. “I’m not hallucinating—or—or if this is like a hologram—like an alternate reality—um. Like—”
“This is happening. It’s not a fucking hologram.” Eliot kisses him again, rucking Quentin’s shirt up and pulling it off over his head. He brushes his thumb over each rosy nipple, cataloging the moans and whimpers for further perusal in his bank of erotic Quentin memories. “Now, tell me—”
“There’s not—uh—much to tell. I think I was dreaming about your hands, and then I was—this is embarrassing.”
“I won’t make you tell me, Q. But I do wanna know—” Eliot dips down for another kiss, and Quentin sighs against him. “—so I can masturbate about it appropriately.”
“Jesus.” Quentin scrubs at his face, redder than ever. “I was, uh. I mean. You’re not making fun of me, right? This isn’t a set up?” Quentin’s eyes are wide, so earnest, shakily grabbing his suspenders again. God, he likes Quentin so much. This silly boy. As if Eliot would go to all this trouble if he didn’t want to fuck Quentin.
Eliot grins and takes Quentin’s hand from his suspender strap, moving it down his body and placing Quentin’s strong, square palm over the swell of his cock. Quentin’s breath hitches, and Eliot feels him give a little squeeze, a frisson of delight rolling through his hips, prickling up his spine. “This is no prank, baby. You feel how hard I am? Been wanting you for a long time now.”
Quentin grips his cock, running his palm over the length of it. “Oh. Oh fuck, you feel so big. That’s how you are in my dreams. Like, you have a big dick—when I imagine you.” He trails off.
“I do. You don’t have to imagine it.” Eliot chuckles, thrusting against Quentin’s hand and letting out a contented little sigh. “I’m flattered that’s how your mind’s eye sees me.”
“Yeah, I—dreamed I was—uh—” Quentin squirms in Eliot’s lap and squeezes his dick again, sending a thrumming hunger through his hips, his cock throbbing beneath the swipe of Quentin’s thumb, pressed hard against the fabric. Unbearable. Perfect. Insane. “—blowing you. And I pulled off and told you it was so big—I mean, I’ve heard rumors—”
“All true,” Eliot says. “And I know how to use it.”
“God, you’re—” Quentin pushes up again to kiss him. “—a fucking arrogant cock—”
“It’s well deserved. I’m very worth your while.” He massages his fingers over Quentin’s scalp, pressing kisses along his jaw, relishing the feeling of a lapful of this boy that he’s been wanting for a while now.
Quentin huffs. “God, I—how did we get here?” He looks around like he might find an answer on one of Eliot’s walls. “What was I—”
“I walked you upstairs, and you started telling me about how you were going to blow me in your dream.” Eliot grabs his ass and tugs him in closer. “I believe that’s what we were discussing.”
“Yeah, I. That’s what I was dreaming. That I was blowing you and—and then you, you were making out with—um.” Quentin’s eyes dart to the side. “It’s not important.”
“What now? I was making out with whom?”
“Um. It’s just—dreams are weird. Like dogs smoking cigarettes and—it’s just, it doesn’t matter, okay?”
“What? Who? Who was it?”
Quentin chews on his lip, an expression crossing his face like he knows he’s going to have to give in, so it’s just as well. “It was, um. It was Todd.”
“Oh my God,” Eliot says. “Are you interested in Todd—”
“No, no, you know it’s like—dream logic. Like he was just there, and. I’m not like. Even a little bit attracted to Todd. Like not at all. I mean, he has a nice body—”
“Sh, shhh,” Eliot says, putting a finger to Quentin’s lips. “Let’s not focus on that. So, let me—hm, how do I put this? Let me verify that you do want to be here with me. Right now.”
“Yeah,” Quentin says, “yeah, of course. I was gone on you the second I walked into this room, and you looked me up and down like you were a big sexy wolf who was going to eat me—”
“Not my kink, but. I can see that. So, Todd—”
“Todd disappeared. It was only you.” Quentin pushes into him, begging for another kiss. And Eliot’s not going to deny him that—not with the turn of those perfect lips, his fingers threaded through Quentin’s silky hair.
Eliot takes a steadying breath in between kisses, trying to cleanse the image of Todd from his brain. “Glad to hear it. And then?”
“Then, we fucked. I mean, you fucked me.” Quentin rocks his hips into Eliot’s, and he can feel the outline of Quentin’s length, hard, pressing into his belly. “You—you came inside me—”
A smile spreads over Eliot’s face. “Oh, I can work with that.”
“Oh,” Quentin says, “oh—you want to—”
“I want whatever you want, sweetheart.”
“If this is just, um, a one-time thing—” Quentin stammers. “—then, I dunno, I guess—”
“Not a one-time thing. I already said. Confirming again. And as I mentioned—I’ll do whatever you want. There are spells to help—” He tuts, and Quentin’s jeans open with a satisfying shhzzp sound. Eliot reaches down and takes Quentin’s dick in hand, hard and hot and jerking beneath his hand. He traces his thumb over the line of it, and Quentin shivers, making breathy little panting noises—which is deeply satisfying. “—if it’s your first time with any of this. Is it? Your first time with a guy?”
“I’m—I mean. Yeah.” Quentin blushes furiously, squirming and pressing up into Eliot’s hand. “Yeah—mm, I mean, first time for—ah—penetrative sex with a guy. But I want to—” He leans in and kisses Eliot again, rubbing his dick against the heel of Eliot’s palm. “—I’ve been—thinking about it a lot. I get in your bed at night and you—you—smell good, and you look so good. Just, everything fits you, and you’re tall. Your hair—”
Quentin brushes his hand through Eliot’s curls and completely loses the thread of their conversation, such as it is. Honestly, Eliot can’t blame him. Eliot wakes each morning and sets about the day with the explicit intention of turning heads, catching the attention—of everyone, really. But especially boys like Quentin.
But there’s no boy quite like Quentin, is there?
“Let’s start over, Q,” Eliot says, kissing Quentin’s swoopy little nose—it’s just a particularly pretty nose. He kisses Quentin’s lips for good measure and takes his hand away from Quentin’s cock, which leaves him whining and thrusting up, his jeans and boxers all undone, the flushed head of his dick peeking out, his nipples crinkled and brushing against Eliot’s shirt as he leans in.
“What were we—what are we starting over? Did I do something wrong?”
“Let’s figure out a little game plan if it’s your first time, hm?”
“Oh.” Quentin frowns. “Okay.”
“That’s not a bad thing.” In fact, it’s very good for Eliot. He can spoil Quentin and ruin him for anyone else. He finds himself liking the idea of that more than Eliot-of-a-year-ago would have believed. And yet. Quentin’s big brown eyes focus in on him, and he drapes his arms over Eliot’s shoulders, and Eliot melts into him, dipping down to taste his lips again.
“You sure? I mean, I’ve—I have like, toys that I’ve used so—”
“Yeah? You have them here?” Eliot grins.
“Oh. Yeah. I have—I actually used the planar compression spell you showed me to make a storage box for them so I didn’t have to—take up too much space. In the dresser. So.”
“What an excellent use of magic. You've used them since you moved in here?”
Quentin gives him a slow nod, biting the lovely Cupid’s bow of his lower lip. Eliot never would have imagined that this nervous, twitchy boy who stumbled into his bedroom all those weeks ago would be so libidinous.
“Thinking about me?”
Quentin nods again, dimples appearing as he smiles. “Mostly you.”
“Yeah? Elaborate fantasies about Todd setting the Cottage on fire and fucking you into oblivion as it burns?”
Quentin giggles. “Ah—no. I’d just heard about you and—Margo.” He whispers her name with the reverence she deserves.
“Yeah, we haven’t shared a boy in a while. She’d love to know you were fucking yourself in our room, thinking about her.”
“God, I mean—don’t tell her.” Quentin looks mildly horrified.
“I won’t,” Eliot lies. “Not until you’re ready. But she’d love to join in sometime.”
“Yeah,” Quentin sighs, his eyes growing a little wide. “Oh my God.” He moves his hands down to Eliot’s suspenders again, running his fingers over the textured material. Suspenders were a good call; he’ll have to tell Bambi at their debriefing. “But I wanna make sure you know—I like you. Like, I like you a lot. When I think about someone I want to be with, it’s you. Not Margo. I hope… that’s okay.”
Eliot’s pulse picks up, and something complicated grows in his chest, the petals of that flower unfurling its petals, seeking sun. “Yeah. It’s more than okay. But—” He presses another kiss to Quentin’s lips, warmth surging through him. “—if we don’t stop chatting, we’re going to fall asleep before I fuck you.”
Quentin laughs. “Can’t have that.”
“I’m going to cast a little protection and cleaning spell, and you can watch me.” Eliot raises his hands and shows Quentin a clever series of tuts that will add a protective spell over both of them for the next twenty-four hours. God bless magic and the licentious magicians who pioneered the first enchantments for fucking. Quentin concentrates, holding his breath while Eliot goes through the spell, wiggling against Eliot’s lap when the cleaning spell takes effect.
“That’s—a little weird.”
“I know, baby. You okay?”
“Yeah,” Quentin says, quivering against Eliot’s thighs.
“Good boy. I have another spell that’ll make sure you’re all slick and open for me, but I’m going to spend some time on you first. Make sure you feel so, so good.”
Quentin nods, still red cheeked. He lets Eliot lift him, stripping him out of his jeans and boxers and his Gold Toe socks—so fucking precious. He’s still hard and wet at the tip, straddling Eliot’s lap again and licking into his mouth, whining when Eliot gets a hand between his legs and brushes against the tight clench of his hole. The muscle twitches against Eliot’s fingertips, sending a little thrill up Eliot’s spine. It’s base and more than a little conceited—Eliot’s never claimed to be a saint—but Eliot likes the idea of being Quentin’s first. Not just the idea of having him like no one else has—which, again, he knows is antiquated and silly—but making it good, so good.
“God, I feel like—I just want you right now—just do the spell—”
“Yeah, me too, baby,” Eliot says, brushing over one pebbled nipple and watching Quentin’s mouth fall open in a soundless moan. “But I have two goals.” He presses Quentin down onto the mattress and kisses him wet and open, panting when they part. “I don’t want to hurt you, and I want you to come so hard you forget magic is real.”
Quentin laughs against his cheek as Eliot settles between his legs, something like relief flooding through him when he settles against Quentin’s hard cock. “Lofty goal, making me forget magic.”
“Mm, I believe in myself.” He trails his lips over the line of Quentin’s square jaw, down the his neck, pausing to nose at the scratchy soft thatch of his chest hair, breathing in the faintly musky scent of his skin and licking over each of his nipples as he thrums up beneath Eliot.
“Oh my fuck—”
Eliot hums against his skin, kissing down the line of his abdomen to the V of his hips, brushing his cheek against his thick little cock and nosing at his balls as Quentin’s body vibrates. Eliot takes each in his mouth, presses his tongue to his perineum and lower—stretching Quentin out and spreading him open, hitching one leg over his shoulder. “Going to eat you out for a bit. That okay?”
Quentin makes an affirmative noise, something between a “yes” and an “okay,” mixed with a garble of sex noises as Eliot thumbs his cheeks apart and swipes his tongue over Quentin’s hole. Quentin is crying out, writhing against the sheets and digging his heel into Eliot’s back.
High on the power of having Quentin like this, completely at his mercy, Eliot licks into him, pushes his tongue against the clenched muscle, thumbs digging hard into Quentin’s ass cheeks as Eliot spreads him open further, working at his rim until it starts to soften and give, welcoming him in.
Quentin is spouting a thread of filthy nonsense (oh my fuck—you’re just—oh my God, your tongue—I need—I need to see your cock—why won’t you show me), one hand tugging at Eliot’s hair, which serves only to make Eliot go harder, deeper until his tongue is inside just a little, enough to take Quentin’s words and turn them to wrung out moaning, his ass shaking beneath Eliot’s fingers even as Quentin pushes hard against his face, wanting, needing more as he comes undone.
God, he knows he should have started slower—handjobs, or making out at the fucking movies—but he’s been wild with wanting since he watched Quentin last night, coming all over his boxers, making a mess of himself and running off to the bathroom to wash off the evidence of just how much he’s wanted Eliot’s cock, how much he’s wanted Eliot all along.
Eliot’s own cock is pulsing, pressed tight against his trousers as he rocks into the mattress and pulls Quentin apart, fucking his tongue inside and grunting against him as he twitches and releases, bit by bit, against his tongue. He hasn’t even unbuttoned his shirt—Eliot abandoned the thought of undressing because it was too much to do, too much in the way of him getting exactly what he wants, which is—exactly this. When he pulls back to admire his work, Quentin is trembling, his cock angry-red and leaking against his stomach.
Spreading Quentin’s legs wide, he admires his handiwork, the pink furl of muscle wet and winking. He gives Quentin a quick stroke, which produces a most gratifying choked-off noise and a needy whine when he lets go. He wants to suck down Quentin’s pretty dick—it’s so wet—but he has plenty of time for that. Quentin’s in his bed and—he wants Eliot. Wants to be with him. The thought pummels him, spreading in his veins and fuzzing out the jagged edges of his mind. He spits on two fingers while Quentin tries to catch his breath, rubbing again against his lovely hole. “Good boy—you’re doing so well. Can’t wait to get my dick inside you. Give you your reward for being so patient.”
“Please,” Quentin says, his voice a whimper, a soft little thing.
“You need it, hm? You’ve been thinking about my cock for a while?” Eliot pushes inside with two fingertips, watching his hole flutter open, the muscle releasing against his fingers.
“Yeah—oh my God—every night—”
“Jesus, so tight,” he murmurs, sliding his spit-slicked fingers a little deeper. He is so tight, hot and velvety and snug inside as Eliot fucks his fingers in a bit further. “You ever had anyone’s fingers inside you like this before?” Eliot presses in further, slipping in past his second knuckle. Quentin’s body tightens up and releases after a moment. Eliot bends to press his tongue around where his fingers disappear inside, kissing and licking as Quentin’s body just gives and lets him in. “This your first time, sweetheart? Such a good job. Let me know, baby. Stick with me.”
Quentin makes a noise like he’s been punched, his slim hips arching off the bed, pushing down hard against Eliot’s hand, rocking up to take more of him. “It’s—yeah. Only my own. My own fingers.”
Eliot’s cock throbs obscenely as he slides his fingers back and works them in again, watching the muscles in Quentin’s thighs jump. “You think about me when you’re fucking yourself? Hm?”
“God, yeah, every time—every time since I moved in here. I had to get up that—ah—first night and get off in the shower—”
“Jesus, you want it so bad.” Quentin’s dick is jerking up with each stroke of Eliot’s fingers—and he hasn’t even done anything fancy.
“Yeah,” he breathes, “please, El. Give it to me. Show me—I wanna see it—wanna feel it inside.”
Eliot only has so much resolve, and he’s really done his part to make sure Quentin is ready. And he’ll be using the spell, so really, there’s no need to torture himself or his long-suffering dick. “Yeah, baby. I’ll give you what you want.” He brushes his knuckles over Q’s stiff cock, watching as it jumps beneath his hand. “You’ve been so patient. I think good boys deserve a reward.”
Eliot cleans off his hands with a quick spell and goes to unbutton his shirt.
“No,” Quentin says, the word choked out. “Um. Stay—like that. Stay, um, dressed this time.”
Eliot smirks. “Yeah? That what you want?” Quentin nods, pushing up on his elbows so he can see Eliot a little better. “You like seeing me all dressed up for you, hm? I did plan my outfit just for tonight.”
“I—like the suspenders,” Quentin breathes, “like, especially.”
“Mm, I’m so glad. Bambi suggested them. We’ll have to send her a thank you card.” Eliot unbuttons his pants, shoving down his boxers and taking out the aching length of his cock.
“Holy fuck,” Quentin says. “Jesus—”
“Think you can handle it, Q?” He strokes himself showily, squeezing the base and shuddering. Gratifyingly, Quentin’s mouth just falls open.
“Oh my—oh my god. I need to get my mouth on it.”
“God, baby, okay—but I wanna fuck you for the main event. Got me all worked up with your pretty—” Before he’s even done with his thought, Quentin is crawling forward and taking the base of Eliot’s cock in his hand, rolling back the foreskin and licking at the head, moaning when he tastes the drop of precome at his tip. He looks up at Eliot with those wide brown eyes and wraps those sweet lips around his dick, taking it as far as he can, groaning against it, the vibration rumbling through to his core, his nervous system clicking on, one thread lighting up after the next so he feels the slick warmth of Quentin’s mouth over every inch of his body.
He threads his fingers through Quentin’s soft hair, watching with something like wonder as he hollows his cheeks, his eyes fluttering closed. His technique—there’s no skill or precision to it, but it’s wet and hot and messy, tight around his dick, fucking heavenly. Few things in the course of Eliot’s fucked-up life have been better than he imagined, but Quentin Coldwater sucking his cock is better than the best of his fantasies (and he’s had plenty of those—most notably in their bed right after Quentin left for class in the mornings—imagining Q coming back after a hard day and settling between Eliot’s legs and asking sweetly to suck his dick—). Quentin outstrips all of Eliot’s imaginings, most of which revolved around convincing Quentin to let Eliot get him off. This is—he thinks as Quentin raises his eyes to look at Eliot, making filthy slurping sounds as he takes Eliot as far as he can again and again—better than anything Eliot’s mind could invent. The real thing is all enthusiasm and filthy delight. Heat trickles through his body, pooling in the cradle of his hips, burning in his thighs, his balls drawing up tight and—
“Fuck, sweetheart, unless you want me to come down your throat—and I can—mm—definitely manage that—”
Quentin pulls off, his face shining wet, pupils blown dark. “No, I wanna—I mean, I do want that. Maybe later?”
He tips Quentin’s chin up. “As much as you want. You can have my cock any way you want it. You still want me to fuck you?”
“God, yeah. That’s—yeah. That’s what I want.”
Eliot brushes Quentin’s hair out of his eyes. Eliot’s not going to allow him to cut it. “Get on your knees. Prop up on your elbows.”
“Okay,” he says, panting hard. “God, I can’t believe this is my life.”
“You’ll believe it when you feel my cock inside you.”
Quentin’s face lifts into a grin, and he rolls his eyes. But he rearranges himself so he’s face down, ass up, head partially burrowed into his Fillory pillow. Yeah, Eliot had imagined this too. He didn’t think this would be his life either, not when he’d wanted this, dreamed about it.
“I’m gonna do a spell that’ll make sure you’re good and open for me. We might not need to use it once you get used to taking my dick—”
“Oh my—holy shit,” Quentin mumbles, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“—but this’ll make sure it feels good.” Eliot scoots forward and gives Quentin’s ass a fond squeeze, rubbing his cock against the spit-wet cleft, his cock aching, pulsing and—God, he knows he’s not going to last long, but he’ll be able to savor Quentin some other time. “This one’s a little more intense. You ready?”
“I am.” Quentin wiggles against Eliot for emphasis, which is impossibly cute and almost makes Eliot break concentration. Right—he’s here to fuck Quentin. Focus.
He lifts his hands and does the tuts to one of the very first spells he learned at Brakebills, murmuring the ancient Greek and pressing his hands to Quentin’s lower back as it takes effect. Quentin lets out a low whine, his body jumping beneath Eliot’s hands. Eliot shushes him through it, smoothing his hands down Quentin’s trembling thighs and massaging his hips through it. “You okay?”
“Uh, yeah. It’s just—it’s different. But it feels—good. I’m—I’m ready.”
Eliot’s stomach swoops, and he’s glad Quentin has his face down because—he’s trembling a little as he lines his cock up and grips the base, his other hand gripping Quentin’s hip. The little muscle is twitching against the head of his dick, and Eliot pulls his foreskin back and just—rocks forward, letting out a moan that could break his silencing wards as he just—slips in, Quentin’s ass snug around the head of his dick.
He lets out a low, broken groan as he sinks in, pushing slow and steady, cheeks burning, vision sparking white at the edges. His body is trembling, muscles tensed, as he holds back from just shoving his cock inside, hard and fast. He readjusts his hands on Quentin’s hips, panting, dimly aware of Quentin crying out as he pushes into the slick-hot tightness.
“You okay, Q?”
“Uh—yeah,” he says, voice light and breathy. “It’s just—it’s big.”
“Yeah?” Eliot rocks forward—almost all the way inside now, Quentin’s ass gripping his cock, superheated bliss echoing through him. He grips that tight little ass, fingers digging in as he pulls back and rolls his hips just a bit further inside. He pauses, panting, nipples crinkled up, brushing against his crisp button-down. The next time—God, tomorrow morning if he’s up to it, he’ll press all of himself against Quentin, feel his firm body the way it’s meant to be felt. He’ll get him on his back so he can watch his face—
“Look at me, baby,” Eliot says, squeezing his ass again.
When Quentin looks back at him, his expression bears a striking resemblance to the one he wore when Eliot first saw him. Not confused or worried this time, but—simultaneously concentrating and completely blissed out. His lips are parted, still shiny from sucking Eliot’s cock, a stray lock of hair falling across his cheek.
“Pretty boy,” Eliot says, “you feeling good?” He hitches his hips forward slightly, just to see Quentin’s eyes close, watch his mouth as he pants. Eliot wants to reach around and see if his cock is still hard. But he doesn’t want to break the spell of this moment, just watching Q as he opens for Eliot, takes all of him.
“Mm.” Quentin nods and meets Eliot’s eyes. “So good. But you better hurry up and—fuck me—”
“Yeah, you want it? Want me to bounce against that pretty ass? So you’ll feel it when you get up tomorrow—”
“Bold of you to assume—” Quentin lets out a ragged breath as Eliot pushes forward, sliding deeper. Q’s chest is heaving, beautiful and boyish and strong. The tingling pulse of arousal swells and expands through him as he pushes in, gives him just the barest bit more.
“What were you saying, darling?” Eliot squeezes his hip and thrusts in—deeper, letting his eyes close as he dives into the sweet clench of him. He pulls back with a grunt and, toes curling, he rocks forward, an aching heavy fullness in his cock, balls heavy and drawn up tight as he pushes past the last bit of resistance, the thick base of his dick fully seated inside, flesh pressed to flesh, no space left between them.
“Darling,” Quentin repeats, soft as a sigh, gasping as Eliot’s body jerks, reflexive, against his. “No one’s ever called me that.”
Eliot pulls his hips back and sinks into him again, biting the inside of his cheek and pushing his breath out in a low huff. Quentin whines and grips at the sheets, his body tensing up against Eliot and sending a “I’ll call you whatever you want. But tell me—”
“Bold of you to assume—I’m planning on leaving the bed this weekend—”
“Oh yeah?” Eliot drapes himself over Quentin’s back, kissing his shoulder as he wraps his hand around Q’s waist and takes his lovely cock in hand, brushing his thumb over the tip, brushing his fingers along the underside, just to saver the particular sensation of being surrounded, clasped and held in close, knowing that Quentin is hard for him, wanted him so badly he couldn’t hold it in last night, jerking off in his sleep with Eliot’s name on his lips. “Find something in the bed you like?”
“Mmph, yeah, maybe. You’ll have to actually fuck me so I know for sure.” Quentin cranes his neck back, soft mouth open. Eliot wraps an arm over his chest and catches him with a kiss, rolling his hips and nudging into the soft-tight grip of his hole, sighing against Quentin’s mouth and nipping at his bottom lip.
“How’s that?” He works the muscles in his thighs and ass, his chest and stomach tensing against Quentin’s back as he rolls his hips back and pushes into him again. He wants to—wants to fuck him deep and hard, but he doesn’t want to move away from Q, lose the touch of his lips and the drag of his nipples against his back.
“Better,” he chokes out, “not quite there—there are opportunities for enhancement I think you’re—oh fuck—um—that you’re—ignoring.” He shouts as Eliot thrusts into him hard enough that the headboard creaks, rocking against the wall. He rubs his face over Quentin’s neck, pushing his hair aside and kissing him, scraping his teeth over hot, salty skin. He gives Quentin’s cock a fond stroke, shuddering when his ass clenches even tighter.
Fuck, Eliot’s not going to leave the bed this weekend, either. He makes a mental note to offer Todd one of his vests in exchange for snacks and Gatorade.
“You asked for it,” Eliot says, nipping at Quentin’s shoulder before pulling back up and, sweat prickling at his hairline, his curls falling loose over his forehead, pulls his cock almost all the way out, thumbing at the puckered rim, placing pressure against the head and circling his hips.
“Oh—oh, oh my God—Jesus Christ, I—”
Quentin doesn’t finish his thought before Eliot shoves his cock all the way back inside, filling Quentin makes a strained, animal sound. “That good?”
“Fuck, El,” he whimpers. “I can feel it—in the—fucking roots of my teeth—”
Had it been like this with the last boy—the last few boys? Even the last guy he’d really liked—Eliot didn’t think so. If he could bottle this up and sell it, the feeling of falling into this superheated euphoria, the sensation of driving into Quentin’s tight body, the object of much of his recent fantasy life—if he could make it into a potion to sell, he’d make enough money to live on the rest of his life—
But it doesn’t work like that, he thinks blearily as he fucks into Quentin in hard, even strokes. It’s an ephemeral high he’ll probably be chasing for years to come. That makes it better, somehow, that he has it now, here, his toes curling as the slapping sounds of sex fill the room. It’s good, so fucking good, Eliot can’t quite piece his thoughts back together. He just grunts and thrusts into Quentin harder, trying to commit to memory the punched out unh-unh-uh sounds Quentin is making, the feeling of free fall sweeping through him as he fucks, the weight of his release gathering like storm clouds in a gray sky.
It’s filthy and hot, and Quentin’s tight, so tight, his lean body strong and unyielding—but the center of him soft and tender and hot, all given over to Eliot. He looks back at Eliot and when he does, Eliot sees something there that knocks the wind out of him. He doesn’t stop or slow down, but he knows he’ll keep this image—strung out pleasure, like he’s high on Eliot’s cock; wanting, shameless and absolute. “You look so fucking pretty, baby—so pretty. God, I wish you could see yourself,” Eliot babbles. “You’re just—it’s beautiful—your face.”
“Fuck, ‘m so close,” Quentin mumbles, meeting Eliot’s gaze. “Oh my God—”
“You need me to—” Before the question is out of his mouth, Quentin’s body seizes up, hips and ass squeezing around him as he jerks forward and comes, over his stomach, Eliot’s sheets and coverlet. Eliot grabs Quentin’s dick, his body vibrating, and strokes him the rest of the way through it.
“Holy shit—that’s—so fucking hot,” Eliot says, stunned, pulse pounding in his ears. He smears his hand, coated in Quentin’s come, over Quentin’s chest as he fucks into him hard, letting his body relax, finally, sharp heat unspooling in his core, reaching out to his fingertips, the back of his neck, the balls of his feet. He speeds up, chasing his high—better than premium party drugs or sex magic at Encanto—the feeling of it swooping through him, his body and his fucking soul as he shoves hard inside of Quentin, hips flush with his ass, and comes and comes. It pours through him in shockwaves, relief singing through him.
Eliot huffs as he pulls out, wincing a bit at the oversensitivity, his body wrung out and pulsing, aching, but sated. It’s been a long time since he’s felt quite like this—loopy and dazed and high after fucking. Come to think of it, it was probably at Encanto when he felt this way last—and that was after an all-night orgy where he was loaded up on magical drugs and an aperitif that multiplied the intensity of his orgasm by a factor of at least six.
“Ah—oh fuck,” Quentin is mumbling, collapsing on the bed, his body boneless and unmoving when Eliot falls down next to him. Quentin immediately gloms onto him, lips pressed to Eliot’s shoulder, arm thrown across his chest, possessive and tender and—Eliot normally doesn’t like this, the part that comes after, but he finds himself settling down next to Q with a deep feeling of satisfaction, tutting out a cleaning spell that leaves them warm and dry.
“That spell,” Quentin murmurs into his shoulder, “it cleans the sheets, too?”
Eliot settles back on the pillows and lazily flicks his wrist, calling over his pack of cigarettes. He takes one out and lights it with a snap of his fingers. “Yeah, it does. I’ll teach you so you don’t have to get up when you come all over yourself.”
“God,” Quentin says, more or less burrowed into Eliot’s armpit. “Is there a spell that prevents wet dreams?”
“I’ll be fucking you so good your body will forget to have them,” Eliot says, blowing a smoke ring toward the ceiling. It disappears into the air cleansing ward above. Eliot might smoke inside, but he’s not a heathen. About smoking, anyway.
“Mm. I do like the sound of that.”
“Challenge accepted,” Eliot says.
He offers the cigarette to Quentin, who takes it and blows a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. “And just to be clear—you’re not kicking me out of your room. Or like—splitting the bed?”
Eliot sighs. “No. To be clear, that is definitely not what’s happening here. Need me to keep reminding you?”
“Maybe.” Quentin hands the cigarette back to Eliot. Little dimples frame his smile. He is illegally adorable. “If you keep reminding me with your dick.”
“Noted,” Eliot says. He flicks the cigarette stub into the air and disappears it with a quick little tut. He leans down and kisses Quentin because he’s here, very lovely and very thoroughly fucked, and Eliot wants to, and he can. Quentin kisses him back, smiling against his lips.