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

original prompter here

I am DESPERATELY in love with this; it's brutal and beautiful, and everything I could have possibly hoped for. it's like you pulled the exact thing I wanted straight out of my brain, like a rabbit out of a hat.

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.

IT HURTS SO GOOD

“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.

this fucking FLASH of honesty that Quentin doesn't realize the full depth of, you're absolutely killing me with this

THANK YOU THANK YOU! this is fucking majestic

Mmm, yes. This is delicious. Perfect Margo; I love how she helps Quentin loosen up and enjoy himself. Great work!

Eliot remembers sex with Quentin; of course Eliot remembers sex with Quentin. They were each other’s first everything: an initial chaste kiss that Quentin planted on him almost like a challenge, with fear and hope mingling in his eyes when Eliot stared dumbly at him in wonder; weeks of fumbling make-out sessions with sloppy tongue and clacking teeth, their hands exploring the novel shape of someone else’s body frantically as they pressed up against each other like their life depended on it; those shy forays beneath each other’s clothes, palms slipping along Eliot’s baby fat and Quentin’s bony ribcage with a reverence that gave way to hunger as they grew accustomed to the closeness and learned to want more; the miraculous afternoons in the apartment where Quentin’s mom usually hung around but didn’t seem to care what they might get up to, where they undressed each other too hormonal to be shy, reluctant to break apart their grip even for that, falling back into the bliss of skin on skin with desperation. The first time they jerked each other off, Quentin’s ears turned bright red, and for five minutes after he couldn’t stop laughing into Eliot’s chest; the first time they fucked, using advice Quentin had with what was in retrospect adorable pragmatism printed out from the internet, Eliot came so fast he almost died of embarrassment. The first time Eliot let Quentin finger him, Quentin was so careful and curious, biting his lip as he studied Eliot’s face moving in response, that Eliot almost wanted to cry being looked at like that, even before it started to feel good.

Eliot’s had better sex since then, and a lot of it: drunk and sober, with men and with Margo and with a few adventurous others, in love and on the rebound, meaningless and passionate, kinky and no-frills, rough and tender, sensibly selected and a no-good terrible very bad idea. He’s had orgies and boyfriends; he’s hooked up in penthouse suites and baar bathrooms. When he moved to New York he decided to be someone who would try anything once, and by now it feels like he just about has. But the cliche is true, in this case at least: you never forget your first. He’d kept those memories of him and Quentin, two kids learning together what it was to have a body, tucked away on a shelf. Something from another life, another self, but images he remembered fondly, on the rare occasion he found himself thinking of them with a misty haze.

None of that, though — not his sepia-tinted remembrance of Quentin’s long-ago touch, nor his scores of scores in the intervening decade, not the fog of nostalgia or the clarity of experience — prepared him for what awaits him when Quentin shuts the door to his new apartment behind them.

Eliot’s nervous; he wouldn’t have expected that. On the walk over from the bar, laughing together at their own absurdity, almost giddy at the strangeness of the evening, it had all seemed to Eliot another grand lark, a good story to tell Margo over cocktails when she gets home — something a little crazy, but safely in the realm of the harmless. But looking down at Quentin, head upturned with a soft smile almost mischievous to be a smirk, eyes twinkling with amusement — his heartbeat is suddenly louder than it should be. Eliot takes in the set of his face, the quiet comfort of his stance as they stand in that awkward pre-kiss moment in front of the coat closet, and it turns out after all these years, Quentin Coldwater can still send his stomach doing backflips off the diving board.

Quentin has those memories too, after all. Eliot thinks they were good. He doesn’t want to do anything that will wreck what they had.

“I forgot just how tall you were,” Quentin murmurs, closing the slight distance between them with an unhesitating step Eliot doesn’t think he ever saw him take back home. He wraps his fingers around the lapels of Eliot’s jacket, his hands sturdy and sure. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna put me through the indignity of getting on my fucking tiptoes to kiss you first.”

Eliot lets out a laugh in shock, less at the line itself than at the way he says it — with nary a stammer, not the slightest hint of hesitation or nerves; easy, like he’s never been afraid. This from Quentin, who in the years Eliot knew him was afraid all the damn time — who was the bravest person young Eliot had ever met precisely because he carried always this radiating anxiety that was almost palpable, but he got up in the morning and made it out the door anyway. Eliot could sit and marvel at the contrast all night, but Quentin’s asked him for something, and Eliot was never very good at telling him no.

So Eliot bends down and kisses Quentin, cradling — he can’t resist the old move — the back of his neck in his hands.

And, god, this — this is a whole new universe. Quentin kisses him eagerly but expertly, too, and the part of Eliot’s brain subconsciously wired to expect the aggressive teenage tonguing they had spent so long attacking each other with short-circuits a little when Quentin opens up for him gently, licking gently at Eliot’s lips like he wants to fuck him but he wants to enjoy the road there, too. He slides a confident hand along the side of Eliot’s waist, drawing their bodies closer together, unafraid — Eliot’s pulse jumps to think it — to see what he wants and do it, no questions asked.

Eliot can’t help flashing back to Quentin’s white sheets — their bodies in the dark, dozens of iterations of Is this like, good? Are you sure? Is that right? Do you? — and wondering, briefly, where in the past ten years Quentin learned that was okay.

Eliot wants things tonight, too, and as Quentin breaks away to mouth hot wet breath along his neck, undoing Eliot’s top button with unfamiliar grace so he has more skin to kiss, his own body is loosening up, his jittery nerves giving way to the more welcome flush of anticipation. He lets his hands trail down Quentin’s chest and wrap around his back, feeling the unexpected curve of muscle beneath his palms, solidly built atop the shoulderblades that used to jut out beneath thin skin. Quentin’s grown up now; somehow it hasn’t stopped being shocking, the compact sturdiness of the adult body Eliot knew so well as lanky teenage bones. He wonders as Quentin untucks his shirt to touch his skin if Quentin is thinking the same thing: if he’s dragging his hand along Eliot’s spine noticing how Eliot’s leaned out in some places and filled out in others, the way things have shifted subtly but unmistakable that anyone who knew Eliot’s body back then would see instantly how it’s changed.

In his case, at least, it was a long and winding road — god, he really should have sworn off coke like two years before he did — but Quentin doesn’t need to know that. Not tonight, at least, Eliot thinks, then catches himself thinking of it and feels grateful Quentin is too busy kissing him to see him flush.

To distract himself Eliot decides to follow a hunch and step forward, then forward again, forcing Quentin back until he’s pressing up against the coat closet with a thud. Eliot lifts his face, then, still hunched over so they’re chest to chest, just for a moment, to watch, the way they used to when this was all new and they had no idea if they were doing it right: to see if it was good, what he did, or if he should issue a hasty apology and change course.

Quentin tilts his head back, eyes for a second still closed as from his mouth bubbles a grateful laugh. “Fuck. Yeah, okay.” He bats his eyes open to gaze blissfully up at Eliot, and Eliot feels a jolt of satisfaction as the shape of the evening ahead seems to click into place, fuzzy but somewhere he knows more surely now he can make the right moves.

Then Quentin, never breaking his gaze and without the slightest trace of embarrassment, bites his idiotically luscious bottom lip and lifting up, actually, Eliot’s pretty sure, onto his toes — rolls his hips up and forward, pressing the hot bulge of his erection against Eliot’s rapidly growing own. “I think that might be our cue to take it to bed, no?”

Eliot wishes for a second he had relished a little harder that second where it felt like he was in control, because the way that Quentin is displaying his own desire, playful, cocky, like he wants Eliot to know he wants it to be seen — it’s hard to keep up the witty repartee in the face of that. “You are just full of good ideas.”

Quentin laughs a real laugh at that, his face scrunching up like Eliot’s said something full of delight. “Yeah, that’s me. When people think Quentin Coldwater, they think amazing ideas. Brilliant plans.”

Quentin gives Eliot a little peck on the temple before kind of shimmying out of his grasp, walking across the living area to the open bedroom door with a glance at Eliot to indicate he should follow. He waggles his eyebrows like they’re doing something cheeky and fun, which — Eliot supposes is one way to describe getting sexually ambushed by your long-lost puppy love. God, they’re not even naked yet and he feels halfway out of his mind, like every jolt of some new way Quentin’s figured out to carry himself in the past ten years is a slap across the brain.

In the bedroom Quentin gently but efficiently bullies him onto the bed so that Eliot’s lying on his back beneath him, Quentin straddling Eliot’s hips. His button-down, Eliot notes inanely, is white and very clean, although by this point in the evening the collar’s losing its shape.

“See?” Quentin says, looking ridiculously pleased with himself as he pushes forward, pressing against Eliot’s cock and sending Eliot’s hips arching up of their own accord. “Isn’t this better?”

“It’s pretty good,” Eliot manages, and then they’re kissing again, only this time Eliot is once again in Quentin’s bed, but this time instead of trying to coax the tension from Quentin’s shoulders, he’s being lavished with Quentin’s unrepentant attention: his kisses deepening with naked hunger, his teeth teasing the shell of Eliot’s ear, his hands — those once-clumsy hands — loosening Eliot’s buttons with a quickness that sends sparks along his skin before he rasps a laugh and licks a wicked stripe down Eliot’s chest. Eliot feels almost useless lying there, letting Quentin unravel him one nerve ending at a time, but Quentin is rocking against him steady and hard, like his eagerness is as selfish as it is generous, and it turns out Eliot fucking loves that — the spectacle of Quentin taking what he wants. The idea that just touching Eliot, just seeing him bare-chested and panting for his kisses, dazed by his touch — that that might be enough, to make it good.

Quentin pauses to grin down at Eliot, an incongruously sunny expression in the middle of the proceedings and not one Eliot can remember ever seeing him make before — a smile so uncomplicated, so content just to be. He takes advantage of the lull in the onslaught against his nervous system to move his hands to Quentin’s hips and then beyond, which — Quentin has an actual ass now, too? Oh, come on. That’s just unfair. Helplessly Eliot grips at the firm flesh beneath his slacks and hums a little whimper of defeat.

“God,” Quentin says, whispering even though there’s no one else around, “I gotta say —” He traces a line from the center of Eliot’s clavicle down to his navel, following the path with appreciative eyes. “I did always remember you being gorgeous, but — not like this.”

Eliot’s throat tightens a little at the awe in Quentin’s voice, which — is silly; it’s been ten years. “Making it out of high school alive is kind of an automatic glow-up. Speaking of —” He tugs Quentin’s shirt loose from where it’s still somehow tucked in; what is his deal tonight? Quentin Coldwater’s newfound sexual confidence has thrown him off his game. “I feel a little bit like you’re holding out on me.”

Quentin laughs again — he never used to laugh during sex; only after, when his body had temporarily shaken him out of whatever cage his mind kept him locked in; but now apparently Quentin laughs during sex all the time — and sits up to take off his shirt, undoing the top few buttons before lifting it above his head and tossing it unthinkingly to the side.

Eliot — literally has his mouth hanging open, god, that is not sexy of him, like, at all. But who could fucking blame him? He feels like he has double vision, seeing in his mind’s eye a skinny teenager with hair hiding his face, hunching over into himself even when Eliot was quite sure there was no one better to look at in the whole entire world, bony arms crossed with elbows at sharp right angles over a narrow ribcage fluttering in and out with every breath; and in the flesh —

— in the flesh Quentin Coldwater half-naked, shoulders grown dizzyingly broad; chest solid and undeniably built, in that way that must have happened on purpose, comfortably soft with light clean lines of definition along his pecs and his abs speaking to the strength beneath and a soft and unforgivably appealing of hair trailing down his center; arms — Eliot can’t think about his arms. He cannot look at the newfound thickness of Quentin Coldwater’s biceps and the dark hair covering his forearms and think about how some hideous caveman part of his brain wants to watch Quentin Coldwater, like, chop wood or some shit and jerk off for what he feels certain would be the most mind-blowing orgasm of his life. He will go insane.

Quentin is, and this might be the very worst part, watching Eliot’s reaction to the revelation of his own body, pleased as the cat with the proverbial canary. He’s unambiguously smirking now, but there’s a hot flicker of need in his eyes, too — like he knows how much Eliot likes what he’s seeing, and he fucking loves that. Like at some point in the past ten years, he figured out that he was fucking hot, and learned to enjoy the fact.

Eliot used to wish, all the time, when they were kids — he used to wish he could cast a spell on Quentin, or something, and let him see himself the way Eliot saw him: oily-skinned and underfed, but still the most beautiful person Eliot had ever seen. Now, gauging from the pleased twist to Quentin’s mouth, Quentin finally clued in, and also maybe started going outside sometimes, and — Eliot swallows. He wouldn’t have expected his wish granted to be quite so overpowering to witness.

“Jesus,” he manages, hoarse. “You’re…” He can’t find the words. The hottest thing Eliot has ever seen, sure, but that seems somehow like too much to say so soon and not actually the whole of it. “Hell, Q. Look at you.” Eliot — can’t resist; is only mortal — takes a hand to Quentin’s shoulder and traces down the arc of his arm. He wants to watch Quentin drink beer and win an arm-wrestling match at a disgusting bar.

Quentin laughs again, sounding glad, happy to be looked at. Stranger things on heaven and earth, Eliot thinks wildly.

He is going to combust if he has to deal with this much longer, so he pushes himself onto his elbows and then sits up to maneuver them so that Quentin is in his lap. “Oh hey,” Quentin says, pleased at Eliot’s initiative. “How are —”

He doesn’t finish his question, though, because Eliot brings a hand between them to cup the arc of his dick, palming it firmly through his pants. Quentin shudders a little — at the contact, or the surprise, or the way Eliot watches him melting at the touch. See, thinks Eliot, two can play at that game.

Quentin is still winning, but — Eliot can play.

“I’m okay,” Eliot answers the unfinished question. He moves his hand to the center of Quentin’s chest, slowly enough to be clear that it’s a statement of intent. Quentin’s eyes darken a little as the air in the room shifts. “How are you?” Before Quentin can respond he pushes forward — not actually hard enough to move Quentin without permission, but the gesture is enough to show Quentin what he means, and Quentin — Quentin takes the fucking hint, leaning backwards and shifting his legs so he can lie back down. Eliot wants to devour him, but he keeps his hand on Quentin’s chest (Quentin’s bare chest) (Quentin’s deliciously furred impossibly solid chest) for a moment just to watch.

Quentin’s eyes flutter briefly shut. His eyelashes are insanely thick — that much, at least, was always true.

“I’m,” he starts, then stops when Eliot presses gently down on his ribs. “I’m good,” he gets out, a dreamy smile on his face. “I’m real good, El.”

“Good.” Eliot holds him there, not exactly pinned down by anything but his desire to be, considering — they’d played around with stuff like this when they were young, in what felt like little pockets of excruciatingly hot wrongness, a sense that they were walking out on some tightrope and neither quite trusted himself to balance. Eliot felt guilty, sometimes, about how much he liked something neither of them ever mustered up the guts to talk about. He was the one who always started it, although most of the time he only did so because Quentin seemed to like it so much: being pushed around a little, or held in place. It was a surefire way to get him out of himself, and he always seemed grateful, afterwards, even though sometimes he couldn’t quite look at Eliot in the eye.

It would be different now, Eliot thinks, letting the concept fill his mind. It would be different to tell Quentin, soft and serious, to stay still for him; to catch his wrists on the mattress above his head, squirming in Eliot’s grip; to push a little harder, maybe, than they had back then, find out what Quentin’s figured out about himself over the years, how he feels about teeth and nails and fists tugging at his hair. It would be different now and better, too — just the thought of it is sending his cock aching — watching Quentin come undone for him, but this time getting to see Quentin jump into his own craving, every step of the way.

Eliot could do that. In a way he already is: Quentin’s staring at him with lips parted, breathing shallowly beneath his hand, still as stone like he’s waiting for permission to move and maybe he wants Eliot to refuse to give it. But something stops him from continuing in his vein — a little voice in the back of his head saying, not tonight.

Which — that really sends his heart pounding, because Eliot walked into this thinking tonight was all they were planning to have. He doesn’t know when the possibility of something else trickled in; he doesn’t know if Quentin’s thinking it, too, and he certainly doesn’t want to ask right now.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

But then Quentin tilts his chin slightly, eyebrows drawing together in their funny slope. “Hey — everything okay?”

And Eliot was just thinking about how maybe it’s not, but something about how simply Quentin asks the question scatters his budding anxiety into the wind. Something about the plain note of soft concern, the ease he keeps putting between them — it’s not logical, Eliot knows, but he can’t argue with his body. Quentin asked if he was okay, and now he feels safe.

That was the other thing about the bedroom at Quentin’s mom’s apartment, way back when — around Quentin himself. For all their drama and all their fights, for the hormones and the twelve-hour break-ups and the constant crushing terror that any day would be the day Eliot destroyed the only decent thing in his life for good — for all that young love was terrifying for a kid who’d never known any kind of love that didn’t hurt, and sex waas even worse — when they were together, Eliot felt safe. Not always, but often enough. More than any other place he’d known till then, or would for years afterwards.

“Everything’s great,” he says; it didn’t quite come out a drawl, but it was close enough. “I was just thinking about what your cock would taste like in my mouth.”

Quentin raises an expectant eyebrow. God, that — should not be as hot as it was.

This part Eliot knows how to do right: kissing his way along Quentin’s body to build the anticipation, letting himself scrape with his teeth just a little and taking note of the way Quentin’s breath hisses in when he does; sitting back to undo Quentin’s belt, slowly, almost lazily, watching Quentin’s eyes on his hands as he unclasps the buckle, unbuttons his pants, pulls the zipper all the way down; brrings Quentin’s pants down slowly, gently but in a way that brooks no argument, appreciating how obediently Quentin raises himself up to speed the process along without being told. Then he lowers himself forward, maintaining eye contact until his lips arer pressed shut against the soft skin at the head of Quentin’s cock, just barely wet with a drop f precome. Quentin is breathing hard already, eyes dark, almost hypnotized. Quentin really wants this, Eliot thinks; which like, on the one hand duh, who doesn’t want to get their dick sucked — but on the other hand it makes him shiver a little, how nakedly Quentin is letting him view his own longing.

Eliot takes Quentin into his mouth; almost instantly he hisses, “Oh, fuck, El —” as if the idea of it waiss almost as good as an actual blow job. Which is enormously flattering and a huge turn-on, but will absolutely not be true if Eliot has anything to say about it. He begins working his way up and down Quentin’s shaft, slowly at first but speeding up faster than he had intended to, impatient to drag Quentin to the edge — to hear what he sounds like now, letting himself get taken apart. The hitch in his breath, the tension building in his — holy shit, his thighs; Eliot lets himself indulge in an exploratory touch of the curving muscle there, marveling all over again at how what sometimes still feels like only yesterday Quentin had walked around on knobby-kneed toothpick legs and now here he is, body newly sculpted like a work of goddamn art.

Quentin is loud now, in bed; Eliot loves that. He loves to hear the encouragement in every fuck, yes and so good — El, that’s so good; he loves the idea that some old and once firmly placed barrier between Quentin and the entire concept of pleasure has disappeared. He can’t stop wondering: how did this happen? How did the tightly wound boy Eliot had fucked over and over and never managed to uncoil for good become the man gripping the sheets in full-throated pleasure, grunting and moaning unabashed and unashamed with every jerk of his hips into Eliot’s busy mouth? Did someone teach him this, show him patiently and gently how good he was allowed to feel and how easy it could be if he just let himself? Or was it only Quentin — only Quentin and time, the years and his own bravery he’d never even let himself see, chipping away at everything that kept him from becoming the person he was meant to be?

He wants to know, Eliot realized; he wants to stick around, long enough to find out.

He really is fucked.

“El,” Quentin says, rough and raw, “El — fuck — hey, wait, can you — just a second —”

Reluctantly Eliot drags his lips in a ring up and off Quentin’s dick. “You good?”

Another laugh — again with the laughing! “I’m fantastic, but — there’s condoms and lube in my nightstand — do you want to fuck me?”

Eliot needs a minute, again caught in that time-warp strangeness: the memory of half-sentences muttered in embarrassment, d’you wanna — like, you know — I mean only if you — we could, uh — juxtaposed against the frankness of Quentin’s question. Luckily this one’s easy: “Yeah, I want to fuck you, are you fucking kidding?”

Quentin laughs; Eliot loves it helplessly; he feels like gravity has shut itself down inside his head and his brain is bouncing around like an astronaut in a space station. He scrambles to get his pants off while Quentin gets up to open up his nightstand drawer for the relevant supplies — hm, yes, there’s his ass again, still unmistakably an ass, exquisitely curved — and tosses Eliot a condom, looking smugly self-satisfied in a way that is erotically devastating. Eliot feels like he’s going to have an aneurysm at the ease of Quentin’s motions. He considers it an act of divine mercy that he actually catches the packet, and proof of immense reserves of inner fortitude of his own that he manages to open it up and slide the condom on.

Quentin helps himself to some lube, warming it up in his palm before wrapping his hand around Eliot’s cock, gripping it tight and slick up and down. Eliot tries to think of unsexy things like spiders and dirty dishes to avoid coming all over himself in Quentin’s hand.

Quentin leans in, lips against Eliot’s temple. “Fuck — I thought maybe I’d imagined how big you were — young and impressionable, and all that — but nope. That’s pretty much how I remember it.”

Eliot is not immune to flattery, and is extra not immune to the notion that Quentin has thought about his cock sometime in the decade since last they spoke — maybe, he thinks with a guilty rush of blood, maybe touching himself alone at night, jerking off hard and fast remembering — “I remembered that your hair was brown. The rest has kind of come as a surprise.”

Quentin laughs. “Really? I think I’m pretty much the same old Quentin.”

Eliot cannot possibly formulate a worthy response to that completely nonsensical statement, but luckily for him, Quentin doesn’t wait.

Instead he kisses Eliot next to his ear, almost friendly, and says, “Hey, lie down?”

There’s an upturn in his intonation, but it’s less a question than a request. Eliot is happy to comply, easing himself back down, privately torn between grateful and agonized to have a view of Quentin, kneeling up on his thick thighs with his erect cock bobbing dark in front of him — grabbing more lube from the bottle and fucking fingering himself while Eliot watches.

Eliot is done. He is out. If he survives the night and does not literally die of excessive arousal, he sure fucking hopes Quentin isn’t planning on leaving him with only the memory of this as some kind of incredibly belated revenge.

“There we go,” Quentin says, and shifts to start lowering himself onto Eliot’s cock, slowly but without preamble. Eliot grips himself at the base and watches Quentin relaxing into it, taking his time but clearly comfortable letting Eliot in a little further each time, which horribly calls to mind the question of who else with (Eliot does not pretend to humility in this regard) a giant fucking cock Quentin has been fucking lately, or if there’s no one — if Quentin left to his own devices has arranged to fuck himself in privacy on the regular, if he’s put thought and time towards being able to satiate the need whenever it comes upon him — Eliot is going to pass out.

“Oh, fuck,” Quentin says once Eliot is all the way in there and he’s starting to move, getting himself going while Eliot feels Quentin’s slick tight hole around him and lets the pleasure build in his body while he watches his cock be shamelessly used. “Fuck me, El — your dick —”

“Uh huh,” Eliot says inanely, “yeah — so good, Q —”

“I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” Quentin pants, “since I saw you in that bar —”

“Fuck —”

“I didn’t think I would,” Quentin goes on, “I mean, who knew if you were fucking — married, or some shit — who knew if you’d even want to talk to me — but it was like muscle memory, seeing you again — you looked so fucking good —”

“Look who’s fucking talking,” Eliot says, a little hysterical — god, he’s usually better at this than dirty talk, but Quentin has completely fried his brain — “Fucking Christ, Q, I could have looked at you all night — I would’ve done anything to just — keep looking, god, you’re so fucking hot —”

Quentin emits a breathless laugh, bringing his hand to his own dick and starting to jerk himself off, eager and furious, sweat dripping down his chest, noticing the way Eliot can’t stop looking at his knuckles working up and down. “I can’t believe — I can’t believe this is fucking happening, I can’t believe — your fucking monster dick, god — how you still — you still fuck me right, El — fuck me exactly right —”

Eliot can’t believe he’s hearing these things out of Quentin’s mouth, like a wet dream he had as a lonely eighteen year old new to the city come to life. “Yeah, Q,” he babbles, “yeah, I’ll fuck you right — fuck you like you were made for it — so fucking good —”

Quentin’s face wrenches as he gets close, pumping away at his cock until he’s coming in warm streaks all over Eliot’s chest, ass clenching on Eliot’s cock as Eliot holds on to the sight of his sweat-damp face, the raw and ragged noise he let rip out of his throat, the thought of him undone and proud, wholly alive to his own body, happy to let Eliot see — and thrusts in quick and graceless once, twice, three last times until he’s coming inside Quentin, his whole body wrenching with the joy of it, so good he could practically see fucking stars.

Still out of breath, Quentin lifts himself off and sits to the side, grinning ear to ear. “Damn.”

Eliot nods. “I concur.” Then a little bit of Quentin’s bravery must sneak into him, because he adds, “That’s a hell of an understatement.”

They clean up and while Quentin’s taking his turn in the bathroom Eliot wonders if he should be getting dressed to go. He tries to tell himself he doesn’t think that’s what Quentin wants, but deep down he knows it’s not what he wants.

Quentin returns into the bedroom and Eliot drinks in the sight of him, all over again, wondering if it’s going to be his last glimpse. If he gets to see it again, he thinks, it’s going to be a long-ass time before the shine wears off.

“Should I go?” Eliot asks, figuring he should rip the Band-Aid off.

Quentin sits on the bed, contentedly nude and gone by now fully soft. “Do you want to?”

He should; it would be the smart thing. And it’s the answer he could give without revealing just how much of him Quentin managed to open up tonight. But he looks at Quentin, playing back in his mind every moment tonight Quentin offered up the everyday courage of owning what he wanted. Thinking about how naturally Quentin wore that ease, and how hard Eliot knows he must have worked to learn he could.

Later, when Margo asks him what the fuck, maybe he can tell her: he just would have felt like kind of a wuss, is all.

“Not really,” he says. His heart is skipping again. “I’d like to stay. If you don’t mind.”

Quentin smiles, snuggles up against him. Eliot feels — scared, and glad, and brave, and safe. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay then,” Eliot says. “I guess I’m staying.” Tentatively he brings an arm around Quentin’s shoulders — broader now, stronger now, but he still fits tucked in against Eliot’s side. Maybe there are other places they’ll fit, too — like before, or like they never did before ten years changed them enough to bring them back together. Maybe not, but — life is strange. You never know.

Eliot finds he’s looking forward to finding out.

jesus CHRIST!!!!!!! i have passed away. i am dead and gone. incredibly hot smut but also all the FEELINGS??? so fucking good!!!! thank you!!!!!!

Margo introduces Alice to her own ass. Alice is very into it.

Eliot feels — scared, and glad, and brave, and safe.

this one line ended my entire career, thank u so much

Eliot has a praise kink and doesn't realize it. Quentin finds out inadvertently, and uses this new knowledge to his advantage.

Nonnie, this is so good. Quentin's confidence and Eliot's wonder are just perfect, and I love that Eliot stays. Amazing work!

AAHHH this is so gorgeous. Well done.

this is terrific, I really like how blown away Eliot is by Quentin and all the changes in him, love this: Quentin laughs. “Really? I think I’m pretty much the same old Quentin.”

Eliot cannot possibly formulate a worthy response to that completely nonsensical statement, but luckily for him, Quentin doesn’t wait.

and that Eliot has changed too! and is brave enough to say he wants to stay!

Just a little rough facefucking. Quentin choking, Eliot holding him down for a few seconds when he tries to pull back...

Hi!

I ended up with a different vibe for the setting, so, like, sorry about that, but I'm all up in my post-season-4-for-the-first-time-feelings, so like, have this fix it fic?

Sorry if you end up hating it because I messed with the vibe.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32025394

THIS IS AMAZING. I love it so much, well done, perfection, perfection, perfection!!!

OP here and never in my whole gay life have I minded a fix-it fic. Thank u for this

Hi!

I think I fucked this up with feelings but, well.

Here you go.

Sorry about the feelings, but in my defense, I wasn't expecting them, either. It was supposed to just be hot. I swear to God, I sat down and said to my hands, "Let's write something hot," and then... this. Which, okay, still hot, but like... also, feelings.

I can try again if you hate it. Lemme know!

https://archiveofourown.org/works/32058037

" 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."

i wanted to call out these fantastic lines, but please know i thought all of it was painfully lovely and true. <3

i love this!!

Her nose is running again, fuck - Kady sniffs hard, ignores the gross wet trickly feeling the same way she’s ignoring the pounding headache and lightheadedness and how her whole face feels encased in cement, and stares down at the clay bowl in front of her. She’s been trying to finish the vision enhancement enchantment on this stupid fucking herbal concoction for three days now, which requires a shit-ton of very specifically timed chanting and candle-burning, and she’s not stopping now, no matter what certain (pushy, overprotective, pain-in-the-ass) people might think about it.

The pointy corner of the box of tissues rams itself into the side of her leg again.

“Fucking quit it,” Kady says, checks the time on her phone again. Six more minutes, then light the white candle in the north-east corner of the small chalk sigil she’d scribbled onto the piece of newspaper she’d spread across the floor for easier clean-up, because sometimes magic is intense and sexy and mysterious, and sometimes it has weird similarities to paper-maché school projects.

“Tissues,” Julia says, from where she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor next to her, and shoves the tissue box into Kady’s leg for the six-bijillionth time today.

“I’m fine.”

“Babe, I say this with the greatest possible love, but you’ve got snot on your face.”

Kady gives Julia the finger, checks the time on the phone, and then sniffs again, harder, making a loud horking sound.

“Sexy,” Julia says.

“Fuck off,” Kady says. “I need to finish this.”

“Oh wow, if only there were another magician in this apartment who could complete this for you, someone who’s not running a fever and dripping fluids from her face -”

“I’m fine, I can do this,” Kady says. “I’m not even that sick.” Because irony enjoys making Kady her bitch, she breaks into a coughing fit as soon as the word ‘sick’ leaves her mouth, bends over to cough into the bend of her elbow, eyes watering. “Fuck. Goddamnit.”

When she lifts her head, Julia’s hand is stretched out in front of her, clutching a tissue. Kady takes it, grudgingly, wipes at her eyes and then blows her nose, not that it makes much difference, there’s plenty more where that came from, as her clogged sinuses have been reminding her all day. She balls up the tissue and puts it in her pocket, then checks the phone - two minutes.

Julia shuffles closer, leans her head against Kady’s shoulder, and Kady closes her eyes, resists the urge to lean back, reach over and touch the soft fall of Julia’s hair. “You shouldn’t. You’re gonna get sick too.”

“Oh, so you are sick?” Julia asks, innocent and poison-sweet. God, what a bitch. Kady fucking loves her.

“It’s just a head cold. It’s nothing.”

“It would be even more nothing if you were lying in bed resting and eating some fucking soup, instead of sitting out here like a stubborn idiot -”

“Pete’s friend really needs this potion, and I said I’d do it -”

“And it’ll get done, I’ll finish it. You don’t need to run yourself into the ground just to prove -”

“To prove what?” Kady snaps, opening her eyes. According to the phone, it’s time, so she grabs the lighter off the floor and grapples with it until the flame leaps up, bright and ready, and she leans over and lights the white candle, runs through the eight lines of Finnish chanting, pretending her voice isn’t cracking and starting to slide off the edge of ‘kinda sexily throaty’ straight into the bottomless pit of ‘near-silent hoarse croaking’. She sits back when she’s done, checks the phone - forty-five minutes until the next candle has to be lit - and sighs, without really meaning to. She’s just - she’s fucking tired, and her head hurts, and basically her whole body, and she just -

“I don’t know,” Julia says, quietly. “I don’t know what you’re trying to prove. The hedges already know you’d do anything for them.”

Kady looks down at the lighter in her hand, spins it between her fingers.

“And you’re the strongest person I know,” Julia says. “And, you know, the love of my life, and all that shit.”

“Julia -”

“So maybe you can give yourself a break.” Julia reaches out her hand, leaves it hanging it the air next to Kady’s, palm turned up.

Kady blinks, fast, because her stupid eyes are watering again, and then drops the lighter into Julia’s open hand. “In forty-four minutes you have to light the blue candle in the south-west corner -”

“I know. Go the fuck to bed,” Julia says, turns her head to press a kiss to Kady’s shoulder, then tilts her head up to kiss the corner of her mouth.

“Okay,” Kady says. “Okay. And, uh, same. The love of my life. And shit.”

“In sickness and in health, bitch,” Julia says solemnly, then grins at her. “Take the tissue box with you.”

ahhhh omg this is so sweet 🥲 their voices are pitch perfect!!

Hi!

I had this all written in here because I saw that's what other people were doing and then it said it was 18,000 characters and that was too many so now you have to have an Ao3 link and I'm sorry. I know it's an additional step.

But hey! Here you go: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32106520 HAPPY 1 AM EXHAUSTED PORN TIME FOR YOU!

Prompt requester here and I loooooove this holy shit!!!!

Filler here and Yassssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss!

I was hoping it would meet your needs.

But I could write like, thirty of these fics, holy shit, you requested the best fucking thing EVER. I loved your suggested settings and so, like, if I get another two hour stretch I might have to dive back in.

SUPER INSPIRING, OP. SUPER INSPIRATIONAL.

In the middle of sex, Quentin gets a call from Julia. He has to take it and does so before Eliot's pulled out, and tries to sound like nothing's going on. Eliot keeps trying to distract him and make him lose his cool.

God, what a bitch. Kady fucking loves her. PERFECT WICKOFF I'm verklempt I love this so much

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 3 of 4

Round #2, June 2021

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

Re: FILL: Margo/Quentin, pegging

Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (2/3)

Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (3/3) [COMPLETE]

Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (3/3) [COMPLETE]

Margo/Alice, anal

Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (3/3) [COMPLETE]

Queliot - Praise Kink

Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (3/3) [COMPLETE]

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

Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (3/3) [COMPLETE]

Queliot - Facefucking

FILL Queliot - Shotgunning

Re: FILL: Queliot - Shotgunning

Re: FILL Queliot - Shotgunning

FILL Quentin/Eliot - Sensual Massage

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

Re: FILL Quentin/Eliot - Sensual Massage

FILL - Wickoff -- Established Relationship / Fluffy Sickfic

Re: FILL - Wickoff -- Established Relationship / Fluffy Sickfic

FILL Quentin/Eliot, sex pollen

Re: FILL Quentin/Eliot, sex pollen

Re: FILL Quentin/Eliot, sex pollen

Queliot, exhibitionism

Re: FILL - Wickoff -- Established Relationship / Fluffy Sickfic