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Someone wrote in
2017-01-31 04:39 am (UTC)
FILL Quentin/Eliot/Margot kinky fuckbuddies (1/???)
disjointed/nonlinear talks and hookups to follow
Quentin always makes a mewling noise when he comes, his palm pressed hard across his mouth and nose to muffle the sound. It’s self-conscious and desperate and maybe a little bit pathetic, but it’s also quickly become one of the things Margo likes best about him.
Margo and Eliot probably should have felt guilty when Alice and Quentin broke up, which was arguably a
result of their hazily-remembered fucking around. But guilt is for other people and really it just makes it easier, the next time they’re happy-drunk, for Eliot to catch Q by the wrist and pull him in for a kiss underneath Margo’s gaze and the warm glow of the patio lights.
Quentin stumbles forward, knees knocking against the coffee table and rattling the empty wine bottles strewn across it, and he laughs into Eliot’s mouth like it’s all part of some joke he just hasn’t caught on to yet.
But then Eliot reaches up to wrap his free hand around the back of Q’s neck and pull him closer and Quentin’s laughter stops dead. Somehow neither of them spill their wine as he drops into Eliot’s lap, and then it’s only the sound of grasshoppers and gasping breaths and the rustling of trousers as Q, his gangly legs straddling Eliot’s chair, opens his mouth wider and grinds himself downwards.
Margo chews on her wine-stained bottom lip and observes. She nearly draws blood when Eliot opens his eyes to wink at her over Q’s shoulder.
“D’you think he’d let me fuck him?” Eliot asks one day.
It’s late afternoon, or maybe early evening - they’ve been hunched over a pile of textbooks in a shadowy corner of the library for so long that time has lost all meaning. For all they know, civilization might’ve crumbled outside. Studying is rare for them, so when it actually happens they tend to make a production out of it: carafes of single-origin coffee and tiers of scones and finger sandwiches and shit, all of which they half-assedly sneak past the librarian. Whatever it takes to keep their asses in their seats for as long as possible, because even really fucking good magicians need to study when it comes to bullshit like
The Magical Applications of Precious Metal Alloys.
“Like, fuck-fuck him?” Margo rolls her eyes as Eliot nods, stone-faced, and makes a slow, unecessarily vulgar gesture with his fingers. “Jesus, El. Maybe? But he’d probably be all awkward about it.”
“Oh, no question.” Eliot nods, faux-pensively resting his chin in his hand. He picks at the corner of a nibbled-on lemon scone. “But worth exploring, we think?”
“Sure.” Margo shrugs. The image of Quentin, eyes squeezed shut and mouth falling open and legs wide, making
, makes her shift in her seat, crossing her legs against the building distraction. Snatching up her pen, she tries to find where she left off, but she’s already too wet to pay attention to another bone-dry word of
The Essential Guide to Minerals and Stones
so she slams the book shut and reaches for another tepid cup of coffee (ignoring the insistent press of her clit as she leans forward). Gingerly taking a sip, she casually adds, “I mean, I think it might be worth exploring.”
Eliot shoots her a grin. "Thought so."
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