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“Eliot, no. This is someone’s… house. Hut. Structure. We can’t just waltz in like we own the place.”

“Q. It looks like no one’s been here in over a year. They’re not gonna notice if we spend one night.” Eliot starts walking toward the tiny cabin about a hundred feet away, but Quentin stays put. Of course. He’s been acting like, well, to be honest, a petulant little bitch for the last several hours. This whole situation isn’t even Eliot’s fault. At least, not exactly. Margo’s the last one who used the portal and she was supposed to reset it, which clearly she didn’t do correctly or they wouldn’t have ended up in the middle of God knows where. And besides, this whole excursion was Quentin’s idea in the first place.

“Or…” Eliot says, turning around, “you could stand outside in the snow and freezing cold until you come up with a better idea than the warm cabin staring us right in the face. Your choice.” He turns and keeps walking, finally hearing Quentin sigh and start to follow him.

As if it’s even possible, the cabin is even smaller on the inside than it appeared. There’s a twin-sized bed that takes up about half the floorspace, a woodstove on the opposite wall, a tiny nightstand, and one wooden chair. There's very little evidence it's ever actually been lived in, besides a worn blanket on the bed and a small framed photograph of a corgi on the nightstand, covered in dust. 

“Well this is… cozy,” Eliot says, aiming for light. One glance at Quentin’s face tells him, unsurprisingly, it is not received well.

“Fucking hell, you’ve got to be kidding me,” Quentin mutters, looking pointedly at the tiny bed. Something unpleasant stirs in Eliot’s stomach at that.

“What, want me to sleep on the floor, then? Outside? Penance for getting you into this? Because as I recall, it was your fucking –“

“Just stop!” A few seconds of near silence pass over them, the only sounds in the room their heavy breathing. “Look,” Quentin says, quieter. “I’m pissed, but I’m not a complete asshole. It’s whatever.”

“Then what was that look?”   

“Nothing,” Quentin snaps, final. “It’s like, really cold in here. Can you light a fire?”

“What, did you already forget week two of PA? It’s basic shit, Q,” Eliot says, already moving towards the woodstove.   

“Ok, fuck you!” Quentin shouts. And yeah, maybe Eliot’s comment had been snippier than necessary, but he hadn’t expected that explosive of a reaction. “I’m going to find more firewood,” Q announces before storming out.

An hour passes and Quentin still hasn’t come back. Eliot tries not to let himself worry, busying himself by working out some of the equations for building them a portal out of here. It’s not like the woods around them seem particularly dangerous. Sure it’s dark out, but Q shouldn’t have any trouble with a basic light charm. And yeah, it’s cold, but he has a perfectly functional jacket. So it’s all fine. Except that even inside the hut, Eliot can feel that the temperature outside must have dropped quite a bit. And the only warming spell they know requires mutton fat, which they obviously don’t have access to. So there’s that.

Still, Quentin’s not stupid. He wouldn’t go out too far or let himself get lost. He just needed to spend extra time outside for some space. Perfectly reasonable. If he’s not back in the next hour, then Eliot will let himself worry. Maybe cast a light beacon spell first, in case he’s just having trouble finding the cabin. And if that doesn’t work, he might be able to do a locator spell, but it depends on a few factors that –

No. There’s no point to making any plans now. He won’t need them, because Quentin is fine. He’s a brat, but a perfectly alive and healthy brat.

It’s fifteen minutes later that Quentin finally comes through the door, teeth chattering and covered in snow from head to toe. All Eliot wants to do is wrap him in a blanket while hugging him by the fire. Instead, he merely glances up from his notebook and says, “So where’s the firewood?”

Quentin blinks. “Shit.”

Eliot sighs and rolls his eyes, acting as though he could possibly feel annoyed right now. That he could feel anything besides pure relief at Quentin being ok. “Fantastic,” he drawls. “Well, we have enough for tonight at least.”

Quentin mutters an apology while taking off his soaked coat and boots. He sits himself in front of the fire, warming his hands.

“Here, let me help,” Eliot says, unable to keep away any longer, and takes Q’s hands in his. They’re like blocks of ice. Quentin lets out a breath of relief at the touch, closing his eyes briefly, before catching himself and snapping his hands away.

“Don’t,” he warns. “I’m still mad at you.” Eliot holds his hands up in surrender and retreats to the bed. It’s actually pretty late, so he gets under the covers and scooches against the wall to give Quentin enough space for whenever he’s ready. After a few minutes, the candles go out and Quentin climbs in under the blanket.

The bed is truly tiny, and yet somehow Quentin manages to arrange himself so he’s not touching Eliot at all. Eliot’s almost impressed, but it doesn’t last long. Barely a minute later, Quentin’s rolling over and shifting into yet a new position. After that attempt is a bust, he shifts again, and his hand brushes against Eliot’s thigh. He quickly pulls it away and crosses both his arms over his chest with a huff. He’s ridiculous. Quentin rolls around again, trying in vain to get the blanket to cover more of him. It’s filled with holes and doesn’t even reach Quentin’s feet, much less Eliot’s, which are actually hanging off the end of the bed.

“Are you seriously gonna lie there all night like a shivering mummy?” Eliot says. “Come on Q, everyone knows only girls have cooties.” 

“Yeah, well, forgive me if I’m not in a particularly cuddly mood.”

Eliot lets out an exaggerated sigh. “Fine, suit yourself.”

After enduring approximately two more minutes of Quentin awkwardly shifting around, Eliot feels an arm thrown over him. He grins to himself and starts to say something, which Quentin immediately interrupts with, “Say one word, and I’ll make sure neither of us gets any sleep tonight.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Eliot teases.  

“Not. In. The. Mood.”

“Fine, fine. I’m sorry. Goodnight, Q,” he says, unable to keep a trace of fondness out of his voice despite everything.


Eliot wakes up with a warm body pressed against his back. Without thinking, he presses back into it and cuddles the arm draped over his side. He slowly becomes more aware of his surroundings as he starts to wake up in earnest, and presses his nose into Quentin’s hand. His breath is hot against the back of his neck, and it feels so… dangerous. Shit. This is not helping his ongoing, most likely never-ending mission to push down any and all non-friendship-related feelings about Quentin.

But Eliot’s not exactly known for being successful at avoiding unhealthy things that feel good in the moment. So he lets himself stay in bed for another few minutes, lacing his fingers gently together with Quentin’s and melting into the feel of his heart beating against his back. He’s only human.

Finally he does force himself to get up, careful not to wake the adorable sleeping grump, and sets himself to work finishing off the portal calculations. He’s on the last circumstance adjustment when he hears Quentin stir.

“The good news,” Eliot says without looking up from his notebook, “is I’ve figured out a way for us to get back.”

Quentin sits up. “Ok.” Eliot finally lets his eyes settle on Quentin, watching him rub the sleep from his eyes and stretch one arm up in a yawn. It’s very cute. “Something about your phrasing tells me there’s more…” Quentin prompts with unmasked impatience. Less cute. It was nice while it lasted.

“There’s a spell that can create a portal to a specific place the caster’s been to before, aka Brakebills. But it’s going to take… a little while.”

“How long are we talking?”

“It’s pretty quick to cast. But the portal will take about three days to settle.”   

“Three days,” Quentin repeats. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“I know it’s not ideal but –“

“Not ideal? Eliot, this isn’t… I can’t…”

“Hey. Hey, breathe with me, Q,” Eliot says, immediately coming to sit at Quentin’s side, gently covering one of his hands with his own. He’s found that physical touch can sometimes stop Quentin from spiraling before it gets too far. He waits patiently while Quentin takes a few deep breaths. “You wanna tell me what’s got you so worked up? I know the cabin’s not exactly the most comfortable place to sleep, but we can figure out some enchantments, yeah? Maybe make some improvements.”

“It’s not… God, it’s not about the fucking cabin, Eliot. If you can even call it that. I’ve been camping before, I can deal with a few nights in the woods.”


“It’s… I’m not doing well in my classes, ok?” Eliot waits for him to continue, not exactly sure where this is going. “Brakebills doesn’t exactly hesitate to throw people out. And like, there’s an attendance policy for classes, and I’ve already missed some because… And maybe this could count as… as extenuating circumstances or something. But we’re going to miss an entire week. And I’m so behind already, I’ve already been stressed about failing out and now there’s no way I can ever catch up and –“

“Ok. Ok, I get it, Q.” Eliot moves his other hand to Quentin’s back, rubbing what he hopes are soothing circles.

“No, you don’t get it! You never have trouble with anything. You don’t pay attention in class, and you don’t need to study, and you don’t… And you keep acting like this is just a fun little adventure, but to me it’s… it’s… “

Ah. “So this is why you’ve been in such a bad mood?” Eliot says softly.  

“I guess.”

Eliot smiles. “Ok, now we’re getting somewhere. After we cast the portal spell we’ll just be waiting around. So while we’re stuck here, think of me as your private tutor.”


“I’ve taken all these classes before. I remember most of it.”  

“You’d… you’d really do that?” Quentin’s eyes are wide, eyebrows drawn down. Eliot actually feels a little offended that Quentin seems genuinely surprised by his offer. As if Eliot wouldn’t want to help one of his closest friends. As if he could live with himself knowing that he had the power to make something better for Quentin and not do anything about it. As if Q’s happiness hasn’t become one of the most important things to him in the entire world.

Ok. Well that’s a lot. He pushes the feeling down.

“Obviously. Besides, you know me. I love an opportunity to show off.”

Quentin snorts. “Yeah, how many times are you gonna make me beg you to impart just a small bit of your great wisdom before you agree to teach me anything?”

Eliot smirks and raises an eyebrow. “Well, if you’re offering to beg…”

It is quite an image. Please, El, show me how you did that. Q dropping down on his knees. I’ll do anything you want. Unbuttoning his pants, pulling them down slowly. What do you want, El? Anything. Just tell me. Opening his mouth and wrapping his lips around…

Fuck. Eliot shifts uncomfortably on the mattress. Not the time, certainly not the place.   

“Give me a half hour to finish up this portal spell and we’ll get to work, my star pupil.”

“I’m your only pupil.”

“Exactly. The only one I’ve deemed worthy.”


Eliot’s never actually tutored anyone before. This fact becomes obvious almost immediately.

“What the hell does ‘just feel the magic’ mean?” Quentin’s clearly frustrated. Eliot’s also frustrated but trying to be less obvious about it. Teaching requires patience. Probably. It seems like something a good teacher would think, anyway. But it’s been over an hour and they aren’t getting anywhere.

“I just mean, you’re doing the movements correctly but you’re over-focusing on them. It’s throwing you off.”

“So you’re saying I’m doing the movements, what, too perfectly?” Quentin asks, incredulous.

“What I’m saying is,” Eliot says, getting up to stand behind where Quentin is sitting in the chair. He puts his hands on both of Q’s shoulders and ducks his head down close to say, “You need to relax.” He starts massaging gently and Quentin lets out a breath, allowing his shoulders to drop down. “Mm, that’s it.” He’s just being encouraging. Quentin’s clearly not in the right headspace to learn, so Eliot’s fixing that for him. Like any good tutor would do.

Eliot starts massaging more in earnest and Quentin lets out a soft moan. “Oh my God, that feels good.” The words go straight to Eliot’s cock. Shit. “Did you like, take a massage class or something? Oh my God.” Christ. He’s not even trying to hide how good this feels. How good Eliot is making him feel. Yellow warning lights start going off in his head. Eliot ignores them.  

“Actually, I did. At Margo’s insistence, of course.”

“Of course.” He lets out another moan. “So uh, how does that work? Like, what exactly did they teach you? Um, like… shoulder massages, or…”

“No, though it was all pretty standard. Shocking, I know, considering it was Bambi who recommended the course. But it was full back massage mostly. Though we got some practice with leg stuff, too.”

Quentin sits quietly for a moment as Eliot continues to work his shoulders. “So uh, what… do people usually lie down for it or…”

“That’s one option, yeah. It’s easier without a shirt, to feel the muscles better.” Well, now he’s done it. The warning lights have turned orange. He only has himself to blame for -

“So um… could you… I mean, uh, would you…”

“Of course.” Oh no. “Why don’t you lie down on the bed?” But this is what Quentin needs. To relax. And Eliot can give that to him. It would be cruel, really, to deny him that. It’s fine. Friends can give friends massages and it’s all fine.

“So I should uh…” Quentin says, standing next to the bed and motioning to his shirt.

“Only if you’re comfortable.”

After a second of hesitation, Quentin turns around and takes his shirt off, then lies down on his stomach. Eliot stands next to the bed and does a quick tut to get his hands wet with oil. He starts rubbing it over Quentin’s entire back, reveling in the feel of his bare skin beneath his hands.

“Oh shit, what… where did you get…”

“The class was taught by a magician. The fancier stuff requires actual supplies and preparation, but not everything.”

He begins by moving his hands slowly up one side of Quentin’s back, using a decent amount of pressure, intuited from what Quentin seemed to like on his shoulders. The sound he makes when Eliot’s hand reaches his mid-back is a guttural, deep throaty sound that is quite frankly obscene. If Eliot gets through this massage intact, he deserves a damn medal.  

Next he focuses on Quentin's lower back, straying slightly from the usual routine so he doesn’t overwork his shoulders. “Feels so good, El,” Quentin mumbles against the pillow. Eliot swallows. All of the many, many times Quentin has said those exact words in Eliot’s imagination come rushing to the forefront of his mind. Push it down, Waugh.

He starts on the other side of Quentin’s back, but the bed’s height makes it difficult to apply enough pressure. He could just ask Quentin to flip around, or…  

“I um, the angle is a little awkward, is it ok if I –“

“Whatever you need,” Quentin sighs blissfully.

Eliot climbs onto the bed, ignoring the now flashing orange warning lights going off, kneeling with one leg on each side of Quentin’s hips. He starts working his left side the same way he did the right.

When he gets to Quentin’s shoulder, he bends down to murmur softly in his ear (for no other reason than to not startle him, of course), “Is this a good amount of pressure for you?”

Quentin’s breath hitches. “Yeah, you’re – um, it’s perfect.”

“That’s good. Let me know if you want me to change it though, ok?” he says, mostly looking for an excuse to stay close to Quentin for a bit longer.

“Uh-huh.” Eliot can see Quentin’s throat move as he swallows. His lips are so close to that throat, he could bring them down just a little bit and lightly kiss it. That wouldn’t be weird right? Friends can totally kiss each other’s necks while giving them massages.

Ok, fine. He’s lost his damn mind. He can acknowledge that. He’s also very, very hard. But he’s able to keep his hips high enough so that Quentin won’t notice.

“Can you turn over for me?”

“Oh. Um… I…”

“Don’t worry, massage isn’t over, I just want to get your arms and your neck.”  

“It’s not… Just uh…” He’s acting weirdly dodgy for someone who just asked Eliot to put his hands all over his bare back. “Um, ok.”

“It’ll feel good, I promise.” There is more Quentin yet to be touched, and that is something he desperately wants to remedy.

Quentin rolls over carefully underneath him, and Eliot starts rubbing into the muscle between his neck and his shoulder. He’s letting out little gasps every time Eliot reapplies pressure. Every cell in his body is screaming at him to grind down onto Quentin. To create just a little friction to get even the tiniest amount of relief. The warning lights are veering towards red. But he is perfectly capable of behaving himself. He just needs to adjust his position.

He takes his hand away for a moment to scoot a bit back on the bed. But as he’s doing it he notices Quentin’s pants and… oh. Oh. Yeah, he is definitely hard, too.

“Um, so it’s... I uh…” Quentin looks absolutely panicked at where Eliot’s eyes are clearly staring.  

“It’s ok, Q. It’s all ok.” Maybe they can both just ignore this. It’s not unusual for men to get hard during massages, it’s not like it means…

“Oh, fuck,” Quentin honest-to-God whimpers when Eliot strokes down his left arm. His other hand shoots out, grabbing onto Eliot’s thigh and digging his fingers in.  

“Um,” Eliot breathes, not quite a question, but not really a statement either. Quentin’s eyes are closed, but there’s a lot more going on with his face than peaceful relaxation. When his tongue darts out to lick his lips, Eliot loses it. It’s honestly not purposeful, but his hips shift, just barely causing his cock to brush over Quentin’s. Quentin’s eyes shoot open as they both audibly gasp, Q’s hand dropping down to the bed.

“Um… Eliot…”

“It’s fine. Let’s just…” He rubs his hands over Quentin’s chest, which is definitely not part of the routine he was taught, but fuck the routine.

“Oh, God.” Quentin’s hips buck up to grind against him. Eliot can feel himself already leaking inside his pants.

“I’ve got you,” Eliot says, trying to distract himself.

“Um…” Quentin reaches up to trace his fingers over Eliot’s back, biting his lip so hard it looks like it might start bleeding.

“So I’ll just finish the massage…” Eliot says, practically panting.


“And then you’ll put your shirt back on.”

“Yeah.” Quentin’s hand moves to the back of his neck.

“And we’ll… and then we’ll keep studying, ok?”

Quentin nods. See, it’s all fine. Quentin’s grip tightens around his neck, and it’s fine. He looks directly into Eliot’s eyes with blown pupils, and it’s fine. He pulls Eliot roughly down and it’s…

Oh thank fucking Christ.

Their mouths meet in a sloppy, wet, perfect kiss. Eliot grinds his hips down immediately, both of them moaning shamelessly into each other’s mouths at the contact. Quentin’s hand is gripping his ass, and his tongue is fucking into his mouth, and his leg is wrapped tightly around his back. The lights have circled back around to bright, neon, flashing green with a siren screaming he wants you, he wants you, drowning out every other thought in his head.  

Quentin unbuttons Eliot’s pants and without pulling them off, puts his hand in them to stroke him over his underwear. Eliot sees stars. And yet Quentin’s the one who sighs in relief, as if this is all he’s been waiting for. As if he’s finally found water after days in the desert.

“Eliot,” he whispers. “Oh my God, El.”

In one swift motion he sits up, taking Eliot with him and positioning him with his back against the wall. He climbs into his lap as they continue to kiss, all desperation and want and sensation. Quentin’s hands are all over him. His chest, his hair, his thighs, and it’s all he can do to put his arms around Q and hold him there, begging him silently to not let go, to never let go.

“I might owe Margo a fucking gift basket. If I’d known that massage class would – oh fuck.” Quentin, seemingly put out by Eliot’s desire to use his mouth for talking instead of kissing (which, fair) has moved his focus to Eliot’s neck. What started as light, teasing brushes of his tongue have morphed into full-on sucking, and Eliot is loving every second of it.

“And if I’d known,” he continues, laughing lightly out of pure joy, “what giving you a massage would do to you, I would have – oh God – I would have definitely offered sooner. Like way, way sooner.”

“Do you know how frustrating it is to look at you?” Quentin says, reaching back down into Eliot’s pants, this time taking his cock directly in hand. Eliot has to close his eyes and bite his lip to stop himself from literally shouting. “Every day when I talk to you I have to look at your goddamn perfect hair, and your freaking gorgeous face, and your… your fucking hands Eliot. I can’t even… you should honestly tie them behind your back when you talk so people can actually pay attention to what you’re saying instead of just staring at how… how they…”

“You want to see me all tied up?” He can’t resist saying it. But Quentin’s eyes go suddenly dark and his hand stills. Oh.

“Um,” Quentin gasps quietly. Ok. Extremely unexpected, but fuck if Eliot isn’t a thousand percent on board. Where is a goddamn rope when you need it? The one time Eliot decides not to wear a tie and this happens?

“Um,” Eliot parrots back. He swallows as they stare at each other in shocked silence.

“There’s… I have a scarf…”

“Yes.” Eliot nods vehemently. “God, yes.”

Quentin’s gone for a few seconds at most before he’s back in Eliot’s lap and unbuttoning his shirt. “So, I should say I haven’t like… exactly done this before? But in undergrad there was this bondage seminar run by this one dorm that –“

“Oh my God, are you serious?” Eliot is delighted.

“Yeah, they were like, a really sex positive group and wanted to make sure people were – “

“And this was an event you attended? Willingly?” He’s trying to picture it. Quentin blushing bright red while watching someone lecture about rope safety. With a full-on demonstration, he’s sure.

“Yes,” Quentin says, pointing his chin up. “It’s really interesting, you know, there are all these different knots for different purposes. And it’s fascinating when you get into the difference in style between – “

“I should have known,” Eliot laughs. “You are such a nerd.” And so cute.

“Yeah, well. I’m a nerd who knows how to tie your wrists together without cutting off your circulation, so I think that qualifies me as a sexy nerd.” He punctuates the statement by finally getting Eliot’s shirt off and flinging it to the floor. Oh, he is absolutely delightful.

“Oh yes, most definitely. All this safety talk is really doing it for me, keep going.” Eliot says it like he’s kidding. He is not.

“So this material should be fine,” he says, inspecting the scarf. “We don’t have any scissors, but a reverse Polaski’s will do the trick if something happens and we need to cut you loose.”

“Uh-huh,” Eliot says with a big smile on his face, lying back and pulling Quentin on top of him.

“And we should have like, a signal so I don’t, you know, do anything you can’t handle.” He waggles his eyebrows dramatically. God.

“Wouldn’t want that,” Eliot murmurs, kissing him softly.

“Hey, I um…” Quentin averts his eyes for a second before bringing them back to look at Eliot. “I know that like, this isn’t… you’re probably… I’m sure you’ve done stuff way more intense than this. But I… thanks for like, trusting me with this.”

Oh no. Eliot’s heart has decided to set fireworks off in his chest, bursts of warmth exploding inside him.

“Of course I trust you, Q. With anything.”

“Uh, right. That’s, uh…” They stare at each other for a moment that feels just a touch too long. Quentin clears his throat. “So um, put your arms up like this.” Quentin puts his hand around both of Eliot’s wrists and pulls them over his head toward the headboard and… oh. That’s… something. Quentin is hovering above him now, gripping his wrists lightly and holding the scarf with his teeth while he shifts his other arm to support himself better. And it’s…  

Eliot hasn’t actually done this much either, if he’s being honest. At least, not where he’s the one being tied up. Not that he’s going to mention that to Quentin. It’s not that he doesn’t have an interest in it, it’s more that people know his reputation and tend to make certain assumptions. And he’s fine going along with that, usually. But having beautiful, earnest, normally awkward Quentin trapping him in place is a way more intense feeling than he would have expected.

Quentin finishes tying him to the headboard, and Eliot strains against the scarf experimentally. It’s soft and not very tight, but his movement is still pretty restricted.

“So what are you gonna do with me now?”

“I was thinking –“ Quentin starts to say, but before he finishes his mouth is around Eliot’s dick.

“Oh, Jesus Christ!” Eliot can’t help the heavy pants his shocked lungs are drawing out of him. “Give a man some warning, will you?”

“I’ll consider it next time,” Quentin says cheekily, pulling Eliot’s pants and underwear the rest of the way off. Eliot starts to roll his eyes until the words catch up with him. Next time. He wonders if Quentin realizes what he said. If he thinks anything of it, he certainly doesn’t let it show.

There’s nothing particularly unusual about the blowjob. It’s enthusiastic, and a little bit sloppy, and good. So, so good. But there’s no reason it should be causing Eliot to, quite frankly, fall completely and entirely apart like this. There are barely any moments for Eliot to catch his breath. No lulls, no moments where he feels the need to give any kind of instructions. He’s entirely embarrassed by the sounds he’s making, but he has no idea how to stop them. He doesn’t notice what his hips are doing, but they must have been thrusting upwards because he feels Quentin’s fingers digging into them, pushing them back against the bed.

“Wait, Q. I’m gonna… if you keep going like that I’m gonna come, like, really soon.”

Quentin looks up at him. “What if that’s what I want? For you to come right now, in my mouth?”

“Um.” Eliot swallows. “Uh.” His voice is high-pitched, cracking on the single syllable non-words. Quentin takes him back into his mouth and he comes seconds later, a huge burst of pleasure that completely overwhelms him. Instinctively he tries to move his hands to grip Quentin’s hair but the scarf stops him, a realization which only adds to the intensity of his orgasm. He keeps struggling against the scarf until he’s finished, worn out and over-sensitive.

“Q, will you let me… I want to do… whatever you want.”

“Do you think you can… in that position…”

“Can I what?”

Quentin bites his lip. “If I, like, position myself over you, do you think you could…” he trails off again. For someone who just tied him up and sucked his soul out of his body through his dick, he’s awfully shy about explicitly saying anything involving the word ‘cock.’ Quentin Coldwater, man of many contradictions.

“Suck your cock? Yeah, I can definitely do that.”

Quentin squirms out of his pants and scooches up. “Ok just.. if I’m like, choking you or something, squeeze my right thigh?”

Eliot squeezes it in confirmation. “Will do. Now put your dick in my mouth already, so help me.”

It’s an interesting position, Eliot on his back, not being able to use his hands. He has a difficult time at first figuring out how to get the angle right. Quentin seems too scared to actually thrust his hips down much, which forces Eliot to tilt his head upwards whenever he wants all of Quentin’s length in his mouth. A minor inconvenience, but there’s something about it that Eliot actually loves. Like Quentin’s allowing him this amount of control even in his clearly constrained position.  

It only lasts for a couple minutes. The whole time, Quentin makes strangled moans, as if trying to hold back making any actual sounds but failing pretty hard. But he makes it very clear when he’s about to come. Suddenly the muffled moans turn into shouts of, “Oh God, Eliot, oh my God, fuck, fucking fuck!” And then he’s coming into Eliot’s mouth. Eliot swallows greedily, whining when Quentin finally pulls away.

Quentin quickly makes work of untying Eliot’s wrists, which allows him to finally get his hands into Quentin’s hair. Quentin collapses on top of him and hooks their legs together. They lie there for a minute in silence, getting their breathing back to normal.

“You really are way too tall for this bed,” Quentin says, breaking the silence. He’s looking down at where Eliot’s feet hang slightly off the end.

“Ah, yes, the plight of the tall man. Forever forced by society to fetch things from high shelves, yet always forgotten in the design of simple products like pants and beds.”

“Yeah, I guess I’ve never realized just how, uh, truly hard life must be for you.”

Eliot kisses the top of Quentin’s head. Because it’s right there. “Yes, very hard indeed. I’m glad I finally got to show you just how hard.”

Quentin snorts. “You’re ridiculous. We should uh, get back to studying? If you’re still up for that?”

“Oh you are making this way too easy.”  

“Oh my God. If you’re still interested in helping me study,” he rephrases, rolling his eyes.  

“Of course. In… five minutes.” Eliot wraps both arms tightly around Quentin. “I need the extra time to develop my new lesson plan. This has opened up a much wider range of spells I can teach you. We do have three days after all.”