magicianskinkmeme | Round #2, June 2021

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Round #2, June 2021

mod post - off-topic discussion - rules - completed fills - rounds

ROUND #2

Rules:
1. Golden rule: YKINMKATO.
2. Book spoilers must be clearly tagged in post titles.
3. All comments must be anonymous.
4. Please title your prompt posts. All prompts are welcome, from fluff to angst to smut.
5. Fills must be posted as a response to the original prompt (links to AO3 etc are allowed) & must have "FILL" in the title.
6. Multiple fills for the same prompt are allowed and welcomed.
7. Content warnings will not be enforced but are appreciated.
8. Please wait until the next round to repost a prompt.

Is it a zombie apocalypse? Perhaps a Season 5 resurrection AU? No, it's the revival of the Magicians Kinkmeme -- we're back for Round #2, baby!

Please hop over to the mod post if you have any questions. When you fill a prompt, please feel free to link to it in the fills post so that others can easily find it.

Have fun, get weird and be kind to each other!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Guided masturbation with these two, in general, would be hot, but I think it would be especially hot to have Quentin, in all his canonically, orally fixated glory, have to maintain enough control to do nothing but watch while Eliot follows Quentin's instructions for his canonically huge dick.

ABSOLUTELY PERFECT

It’s been a long time since Eliot waited out the evening sitting alone at a bar, and longer still since he’d made this kind of thing a habit he’s glad to have broken. But Rafe cancelled their dinner plans, and Margo’s out of town; it’s early yet in a soft summer evening, and Eliot’s not quite ready to go home to the empty apartment. Besides, Fray’s too busy to talk, but she’ll let him drink cheap. He’s not unhappy with this turn of events, sipping his gin and tonic and scrolling idly through Instagram. This was the kind of night, he remembers, he moved to the city to have, and even if in the end he’d had a couple dozen too many nights like it before he figured out he could want something new, it was chasing it that led him to everything he had now. There’s a funny kind of nostalgia in reviving his old dream: a night to drink and be merry, anonymous and alone, his only company the stretch of possibility before him like Dorothy’s golden road.

“Eliot?”

The voice is familiar, but he can’t quite place it. Even when he spots the face it goes with — dark eyebrows sloping elegantly upward in surprise, mouth half-curled to reveal one pleased dimple, eyes sparkling sweet and smart — it takes him a minute before the pieces of his past rearrange themselves to show what he needs to say. “Quentin Coldwater?”

“Hey, you,” says Quentin — and god, it is Quentin, in the flesh and an unexpectedly sharp blazer. Eliot’s one and only high school sweetheart with soft bangs falling across his forehead, like a Katy Perry song come to life. His smile broadens to show all his very white teeth, like he’s really glad to have found Eliot here at the Humble Drum. “Long time no see.”

“Holy shit,” Eliot says, standing up on autopilot for what he thinks is a relatively un-awkward hug as his head buzzes with shock. “I can’t believe you’re here. God, it’s been — what, ten years?” He winces inwardly, because — that wasn’t how they’d planned it, a decade ago, and it’s Eliot’s fault this is how it turned out.

But if Quentin’s still carrying a grudge, he doesn’t show it. “Just about, yeah.”

“How’ve you been?” Eliot asks. “How was Yale? Are you in the city now?” He’s tripping over his words to get the questions out, circling around the real question of what the fucking fuck?

They fall quickly into a comfortable conversational rhythm, catching up on Quentin’s recent move and Eliot’s scattered resume. There’s an ease to their exchange, despite the long absence, that feels oddly familiar even though back in school, they were never this easy with each other. Giddy, excitable, besotted, tense, horny, hormonal, furious, starry-eyed, yes. And sweet — Quentin could be so sweet. But young love had been a rough fucking road for two kids as fucked up as them. They’d done pretty well, all things considered, but it hadn’t been easy. Still — some emotional muscle memory somewhere deep in Eliot’s body remembers vividly that once upon a time, Quentin was someone he wanted to be around. The terror of adolescence has faded, but that’s still true.

Quentin is — in some ways he’s still Quentin. Same soft brown hair and flickering dimples; same way of looking at the person he’s talking to like there’s no one else in the room. He’s still funny and sarcastic and a huge fucking nerd (philosophy, really?). But damn, ten years has been fucking good to him. His skin has cleared up, splotchy teen zits and antisocial pallor replaced by the soft glow of a person who goes outside. Around his mouth are the faintest traces of laugh lines, marks that oddly suit him, making him look solid, like proof that he’s a person who’s learned how to live. Instead of a band tee that’s seen better days and pants left over from before his last growth spurt with the gaping ankles and grass stains to show for it, he’s wearing a shirt that looks to have been ironed recently and jeans that actually fit; when he takes off his blazer to hang it on the back of his chair, Eliot has to fight to keep his eyes widening from the startling breadth in his shoulders, so different from the skinny frame he spent hours memorizing when they were young. The lanky, unkempt mane Eliot remembers falling past his shoulders has been trimmed and shaped into a cut with some actual volume, flattering to his face. His bangs, Eliot notices at some point of his unabashed staring, are too short to hide behind, now — like maybe Quentin’s outgrown his old habit of flinching at every corner from the eyes of the world. Like maybe he’s grown used to getting seen.

It’s not just the haircut. When he was fifteen Eliot fell in love with a boy who could barely look him in the eye, a boy with permanently hunched over shoulders and a simmering uncertainty in his eyes like he expected the proverbial rug to be pulled out from under him any second. He talked too fast when he was nervous, which was nearly always, and walked into most conversations with a preemptive scowl. In three years of melodramatic confessions and desperate touch, Eliot only ever saw the tightness in his shoulders relax in the moments after sex, and even then only sometimes. But the guy — the man, Jesus, Quentin is grown the fuck up, which is slightly terrifying to contemplate given that it suggests Eliot might be too — the man Eliot’s drinking with tonight betrays none of his old tinderbox of nerves. No eyes darting side to side, as if he’s always looking for an escape route should he need one; no slumped posture or stammered speech. Quentin ten years out sits steady, almost sturdy; he’s still animated with that constant flickering light in his eyes that Eliot found so mesmerizing way back when, still talks with his hands, but the anxious undercurrent of need has drained out of him, replaced with an easy smile and a warm, inviting presence. A confidence, Eliot catches himself thinking, and almost laughs at the shock of it — but it’s true, he marvels, watching Quentin roll his eyes at a self-deprecating comment with no bite behind it, hearing his wide open laugh. There’s a sure-footedness to his bearing now that — would be absolute catnip, Eliot has to admit, if he hadn’t so thoroughly sworn off bad ideas.

It’s a mark of his own character development, Eliot thinks wryly to himself, that he cuts himself off after two rounds, even though with every passing minute he feels more like he could sit here talking with Quentin all night. Preparing to part ways, he startles himself by discovering there’s something else he needs to say, first. “Look, I’m really sorry about — disappearing, like I did.”

Quentin tilts his chin slightly, watchful but not wary, inviting Eliot to go on.

“I did mean it,” Eliot says, “when I said I wanted to be friends, after graduation. I just —” He shakes his head. It had seemed simple enough, if not exactly easy, when they’d been talking through their approaching futures that last long spring: they’d do the smart thing, the mature thing, and break up instead of trying for a long-distance love doomed to break their hearts, but they still cared about each other, and always would. They’d email; they’d call. In practice, though, it had felt — complicated. “I got to the city, and I was in the middle of this — giant rebranding, or whatever, and I just — it hurt too much, thinking about home. Even the good things.” He laughs a little. “Or, like — even the one good thing, that I’d really wanted to keep — I couldn’t figure out how to hold onto that, and still be — me. The version of myself I was trying to become.”

Quentin nods slowly, mouth curling prettily upwards. “I figured it was something like that.”

“Yeah?” Eliot wipes his thumb over the cool condensation on his glass, trying not to feel like he’s asking for absolution.

“Yeah. I mean, not at first. At first it fucking sucked.” Quentin shrugs, relegating the sting to the untouchable past. “But once I’d gotten over it, it wasn’t hard to look back and put the pieces together. I mean — I knew you, El. I knew what things were like for you, growing up. I could see, you know, that — maybe you’d need some distance, once it was over.”

Eliot swallows, an unexpected lump in his throat. “Thanks. That — kind of means a lot, actually.”

“Of course.” That smile — god. It’s a good thing Eliot’s getting out of here soon.

“I should head home,” Eliot says, “but — it’s been really good to talk to you. Maybe now that we’re both here, we could — do this again sometime? Hopefully not in ten years?”

“I’d like that,” Quentin says, “Or —” He hesitates, biting his lip appealingly. For a second Eliot feels the same stomach-flip of nerves he felt that day in tenth grade, blurting out his feelings in a rush in the eternity between his garbled confession and Quentin’s soft, dazed reply: Me? But this time it’s Quentin reaching out: “I’m around the corner, if you want to come home with me tonight.”

Eliot stares at him, trying to process what’s happening: the bizarre coincidence that they’d find each other at all and the prospect of going home with his high school sweetheart and the pure does-not-compute newness of Quentin lobbing this at him and then waiting, patient and unafraid, for whatever’s going to happen next. He is trying very hard not to stare at the shadows the dim bar light cast along Quentin’s neck. “Is that a good idea?”

Quentin shrugs. “Probably not. But I spent a long time making my decisions based on what seemed like a good idea at the time, and honestly, it’s kind of overrated as a strategy. Besides —” His eyes twinkle mirthfully. His lashes are so long. “The week I move to Brooklyn, I wander into my local bar to celebrate unpacking all my books, and there you are? What are the odds, man? Seems kind of like a sign.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in signs,” Eliot manages, feeling faint.

“I didn’t. Still don’t, mostly. But —” He laughs, knowing and light. “The shit I believed got me a bunch of nervous breakdowns and three-fourths of a PhD I’ll never finish. I’m thinking it’s time to try out something new.”

“Are we new?”

“Aren’t we?”

And long-lost exes usually aren’t, but looking at him — at Quentin Coldwater, improbably here and impossibly sure, sitting unhurried at this bar looking for all the world like someone who’s never been anything other than glad to be exactly who he is — it’s kind of hard to argue. “Alright then. Take me home.”

Eliot ties Quentin up and milks his prostate and -- importantly -- makes him cry. That's it that's the whole thing.

prompt op here and

takes a deep breath

oh my god oh my GOD aaaAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!

this is SO fucking good. the achey nostalgia of their high school days, the way that quentin has grown up and changed but also stayed the same……!!!

For a second Eliot feels the same stomach-flip of nerves he felt that day in tenth grade, blurting out his feelings in a rush in the eternity between his garbled confession and Quentin’s soft, dazed reply: Me? - wow i am going to CRY

“Are we new?”

“Aren’t we?” - i don’t know how to articulate why but this was SO IMPACTFUL.

god bless you!!!!!! i am screenshotting this in case you don’t upload this to ao3 so i can treasure it forever! looking forward to the next part!!!!

Having Alice Quinn fuck his brains out is cool and all. Frankly, it’s an honor. But Penny wants to know every last detail of the sounds she makes when she comes—what her pleasure tastes like, licked clean off of his own salty palm.

this is not a dibs to preclude anyone else from filling this, but merely a little note to say i am already a couple of thousands of words deep and a fill is extremely on its way.

Alice wants a tattoo for something magical and goes to Kady. It has to be tattooed somewhere... private.

There's a sexual discipline at Brakebills. Joe, (we all know Joe), offers a sexual seminar every once in a while. It always sells out in like a minute. How to properly utilize magic during sex. Advanced spells to increase sensation. Gotta earn that A, folx.

Would be great for a crushing Queliot that just needs that extra push. Or maybe Eliot makes SURE he gets Q for a partner. Margo and Alice are pushed together, to Margo's delight and Alice's curiosity. Penny somehow gets two partners (you can literally pick any two people on the cast for real).

Quentin and Eliot niffin out. What all could they do? Weird experimental sex. Like, sex on Saturn's moons. Fucking in the mirror realm.

location: the mosaic
setting: balmy summer night, crickets chirping (probably talking shit, because fillorian crickets)
quentin: sitting on the edge of the daybed
eliot: on his knees in front of quentin, his hands tied behind his back

THIS IS AMAZING! Thank you so much, Margo taking Quentin apart and making him love it, it's perfect!

ooh, excellent, the *longing*, and Quentin's babbling at the end is adorable.

this is so sweet, I love the contrast you show being Quentin in the bar now and the one Eliot remembers, and that Quentin reaches out to take a chance - awww.

oh my CHRIST

I have a hankering for Quentin in the midst of pregnancy hormones. Could be mpreg or a/b/o, I'm fine with either, as long as Quentin's insatiable :)

Quentin’s never come back from the dead before, but he’s been high before, and the similarities are - oh, hey, this bedspread is really soft, deep deep blue, made of something like - velour? That doesn’t sound right, that’s like, for pants from the seventies or something, but it’s not velvet either, which also starts with a ‘v’ - velveteen? Is that a thing? Velveteen like The Velveteen Rabbit, but maybe that’s just material for sad fictional stuffed animals from the turn of the century (he assumes) and not for beds - his mom had given away his copy after the time his dad had read it to him when he was about seven and was sick with a fever, and he’d gone into hysterics at the idea that they were going to have to burn all his stuff because of germs and nothing his dad said had calmed him down -

“Q? You okay?”

He looks up at Eliot in the doorway.

“Bed’s soft,” Quentin says, and slides over sideways onto the bed in question. “Is it made from rabbits?”

“No?” Eliot says, sounding worried, and Quentin smiles up at him, reassuringly, because the bed’s soft under his face too, the pillowcases made from the same slightly fuzzy material; but maybe not so reassuring? Because Eliot looks more worried, not less, comes to sit beside him on the bed and stares down into Quentin’s face, his eyes big and intent like he’s puzzling - puzzling, ha, like Quentin’s the puzzle, instead of - no, better don’t think about that -

Oh, wait. “No, not rabbits,” Quentin says. “Like, not real rabbits - except, I mean, he is a real rabbit at the end, he - that’s the point, right, that he becomes real once someone - or maybe he was real the whole time, and just didn’t know? I haven’t read it in a long time.”

“So I guess that a yes on whether you’re still pretty loopy, huh,” Eliot says.

“I am indeed looped,” Quentin says. “Come touch the bed with me.”

“I am touching the bed.”

“No, you’re sitting on the bed, you’re not - “ Quentin reaches out and grabs Eliot’s wrist, tries to tug him closer. “Lie down, here, with me.”

Eliot hesitates for a moment, then lies down next to him. But he’s holding himself so stiffly, staring up at the ceiling, so so careful to not touch Quentin at all, and his skin is barely touching any of the bed, so Quentin lets go of Eliot’s wrist, lays his hand on top of Eliot’s and laces their fingers together, drags Eliot’s hand across the bedspread, palm down. Eliot breathes in hard through his nose, doesn’t say anything.

“See?” Quentin says.

“I don’t think the bed is made out of rabbits, Q.”

“Not real rabbits,” Quentin says again. “It feels -” He stops, because Eliot’s hand feels good too, better than the bed, warm against his own, and familiar, the shape of it, the way their fingers fit together - “I missed it so much.”

“You’ve never been in this house before, Julia only just -”

“Not the bed,” Quentin says, and squeezes Eliot’s hand.

Eliot swallows, the line of his throat bobbing, keeps his eyes on the ceiling. “Q,” he says. His voice sounds weird.

“It’s okay,” Quentin says. “You don’t have to - it’s okay. This is good, this is -” enough, he’s going to say, because Eliot’s hand in his, Eliot next to him on this soft bed, both of them breathing, it’s enough, it’s more than enough; but then Eliot rolls towards him, fast, presses his face down onto Quentin’s shoulder, and he’s breathing hard again, shuddering, almost gasping, like he can’t catch his breath -

Quentin lifts his hand, touches Eliot’s hair, a little scratchy with product but soft underneath. “El.”

Quentin’s shirt is getting wet, and Quentin cradles the back of Eliot’s head in his hand, strokes his fingers through Eliot’s hair in long slow strokes, again, again, and breathes.

oh my god my HEART 😭😭😭

When he grabs Eliot’s arm, Eliot grabs back at him. It’s clumsy, though, almost like Eliot didn’t actually mean to do it, and Quentin— squatting on the kitchen floor at fuck o’clock in the morning, his head throbbing and his heart pounding— thinks about babies, of all fucking things. How they’ll clutch at anything you put near their hands out of just like, pure instinct, and nothing else.

As far as spots go, finding Eliot here is… not great, but it’s not the worst. Not by far. Quentin can make this work.

“Hey,” he says gently. Too gently, apparently. He has to squeeze Eliot’s elbow, which at least gets Eliot’s head to list toward him. “El.” Recognition clicks in like dropped frames in a laggy stream: Eliot is staring at him, and then there’s a smile smearing across his face, and he’s sitting up, pressing closer, grasping back harder, still clumsy but at least more deliberate about it. “El,” Quentin says again, while Eliot tries to lace their fingers together, “I think you’re blackout.”

He’s not. Not yet, anyway, Quentin doesn’t think, but he will be if he keeps going at the pace he’s at. Which is, you know. The point.

“Worrying,” Eliot says. He’s smiling still, and he reaches up to press his thumb to the corner of Quentin’s eye— slash, more like his temple, actually. “Don’t worry, Q.”

He didn’t hear what Quentin said, or he wasn’t listening, or he wasn’t able to focus long enough to listen. That’s basically what Quentin has learned that means.

“You’re blackout,” he says again, and this time Eliot hears him; Quentin can tell, because all the good humor in his body language crumbles on the spot.

He fumbles to salvage- anything, honestly. “Hey.” He tries to squeeze again, like- like a reassurance or something, maybe? But Eliot is already shifting back, twisting his arm away, and Quentin doesn’t know what to do except let him. “El, come on.”

Eliot exhales harshly, almost gutturally. “Jesus christ, Quentin.”

“We had a deal,” Quentin tries. “We agreed. You remember? You said specifically—”

Eliot braces both palms down on the dirty tile floor. “I know what I fucking said.” He tries to push up to his feet, but he loses his balance; one hand claws clumsily back out for Quentin’s shoulder, and he ends up dragging Quentin’s collar sharply in against his neck. “Jesus— fuck. Goddammit.” When Quentin tries to get an arm in under his back, Eliot swats him away. “Stop it. You’re overreacting.”

“You said you trusted my judgment.”

“I say a lot of shit,” Eliot says. He manages to drag himself up to his knees, and then to one unsteady foot. “I am fucking- constantly spouting bullshit. It never stops. How have you not caught on to this by now?” He sways, and Quentin doesn’t know if he’s going to, like, topple over or not, but he reaches out anyway, catches his palm under Eliot’s ribs.

“See?” Eliot says, like he’s done anything except fucking- not get off of the goddamn floor. “It’s fine.” He drops his head on a rough, hiccuping giggle, close to Quentin’s cheek. “You’re worrying. It’s fine. Come on, I’ll show you. Where’s Margo?”

Quentin doesn’t know. It would have been a better idea to go find her before he tried this, probably, to have the united front— but he didn’t, because Quentin doesn’t actually fucking know anything about anything. He’d thought he could handle it, he guesses. Fucking delusional.

Eliot’s hand curls tight around his elbow, for balance, and Quentin thinks about- Julia. About her sitting on the edge of his bed, on the floor next to the couch, at the end of the pier with her toes hanging over the water, while he—

He swallows. “Let’s just get up, okay?”

He can do that, at least. He can brace his knees, and lift from his core, and get Eliot back on his feet. For the next five seconds, at least.

“You know, I get it,” Eliot says conversationally, against the side of Quentin’s neck. “I appreciate the- whatever. The concern.” His hand slips from Quentin’s elbow, and braces hard against the island countertop behind Quentin’s hip. “The interest in my well-being. You’re just a little hair-trigger about it right now, you know? You’re still calibrating.” He sighs like a laugh, and leans his weight forward into his toes. “Blah blah blah. It’s okay. Just relax, yeah?”

Quentin isn’t expecting it. That’s the only weak-ass, bullshit excuse he has. It’s late, and he hasn’t exactly been the perfect example of sobriety, either— and he isn’t expecting it, when Eliot crowds forward, bends down, and catches their mouths together.

It’s a rubber-band reflex. Like the goddamn- babies again, turning their heads in a blind, instinctive search for something they know they want. Quentin’s stomach swoops, and his heart leaps, and goosebumps race up the backs of his forearms. He’d been about to say something, that’s why his lips were parted. That’s why it’s easy, for a split-second moment— too long, even that’s way too fucking long— to let it happen.

He isn’t even responsible enough to be the one to break the kiss. Eliot does, his smile splitting between them, and it’s not even… It feels real. Breathless. Giddy. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “Come on, see? It’s fine. All fine.” He nuzzles close again, lips soft at the corner of Quentin’s mouth. “Just—”

Fuck. Quentin’s fucking this up so bad, in so many ways. “El.” He manages to pull his chin back, just barely. He gets his palms against Eliot’s chest. “Hold on, just. Wait, okay?”

Eliot stops, but for a brief, frozen moment he doesn’t pull away, and— Quentin thinks about flowers dunked in liquid nitrogen at the science museum. Beautiful and eerie and brittle. Petals smashed to pieces for a fucking spectacle.

Eliot shoves away, from- from the counter, technically, but actually from Quentin. “Jesus.” He’s reaching again, that same blind grabbing motion, only this time he finds the ridge of the opposite countertop, and uses it to twist himself around. He reaches up for the cabinets, slamming them open one by one and leaving them that way. “I don’t have time for this.”

Quentin doesn’t know what to do. This is so— He doesn’t know what he should do. “Hey,” he tries again. “El, come on, I’m just trying—” His throat is thick. He’s trying not to fucking cry in the middle of the kitchen while Uptown Funk plays in the background. “I want to help.”

“And I’d really love it if you’d mind your own business for once,” Eliot snaps. He finds a glass and slams it down on the counter. “So neither of us are hitting the mark tonight, are we?”

Quentin should do something else. He should try— literally anything else. Eliot’s drunk; he can barely get the lid off of the bottle of vodka he finds in one of the open cabinets. Quentin could do something. He should do something. He’s the one who has to figure this out, now. It’s his best friend, now.

Instead he just stands there, while Eliot fills his glass. He watches, when Eliot strides out of the room and doesn’t look back.

prompt OP here and oh god OH GOD IT HURTS SO GOOD

👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀

ah ah ah this is heart-breaking! the kiss as something Quentin instinctively knows he wants, and then Eliot's anger, and Quentin not knowing what to do - ow.

oh, OUCH. so good but so heartbreaking :(

ouchie :( this is so good, i love your Quentin POV, and i especially love the way Julia's entangled in his thoughts; that he's in her place, now, and struggling. and eliot.... baby :(

WAHHHHH

Eliot swallows, the line of his throat bobbing, keeps his eyes on the ceiling. “Q,” he says. His voice sounds weird.
“It’s okay,” Quentin says. “You don’t have to - it’s okay. This is good, this is -” enough, he’s going to say, because Eliot’s hand in his, Eliot next to him on this soft bed, both of them breathing, it’s enough, it’s more than enough; but then Eliot rolls towards him, fast, presses his face down onto Quentin’s shoulder, and he’s breathing hard again, shuddering, almost gasping, like he can’t catch his breath -

THIS BIT KILLED ME

I want some schmoop with a good helping of sex. Just our boys being nauseatingly in love and glorying in it, whatever their honeymoon looks like.

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 2 of 4

Round #2, June 2021

Queliot guided masturbation

Re: FILL: Margo/Quentin, pegging

FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (1/2 [probably])

Quentin/Eliot, prostate milking + overstimulation

Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (1/2 [probably])

FILL TBD Re: Alice/Penny, orgasm exploration

Kalice - Magical tattoos

Open Ship - Sexual discipline at Brakebills

Dark Queliot - Niffin Boyfriends

Queliot, outdoor sex, bondage

Re: FILL: Margo/Quentin, pegging

Re: FILL: Queliot - Shotgunning

Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (1/2 [probably])

Re: FILL TBD Re: Alice/Penny, orgasm exploration

Quentin/Eliot, pregnancy sex

FILL: Real - Queliot - Eliot-centric fluff/HC

Re: FILL: Real - Queliot - Eliot-centric fluff/HC

FILL: Question/Eliot & the end of a shitty night (CW: SUBSTANCE ABUSE)

Re: FILL: Real - Queliot - Eliot-centric fluff/HC

Re: Queliot, outdoor sex, bondage

Re: FILL: Question/Eliot & the end of a shitty night (CW: SUBSTANCE ABUSE)

Re: FILL: Question/Eliot & the end of a shitty night (CW: SUBSTANCE ABUSE)

Re: FILL: Question/Eliot & the end of a shitty night (CW: SUBSTANCE ABUSE)

Re: FILL: Real - Queliot - Eliot-centric fluff/HC

Quentin/Eliot, honeymoon