Round #2, June 2021
Jun. 6th, 2021 11:42 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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magicianskinkmemeRules:
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!
Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (3/3) [COMPLETE]
Date: 2021-06-16 01:52 am (UTC)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.
Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (3/3) [COMPLETE]
Date: 2021-06-16 02:59 am (UTC)Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (3/3) [COMPLETE]
Date: 2021-06-16 03:03 pm (UTC)this one line ended my entire career, thank u so much
Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (3/3) [COMPLETE]
Date: 2021-06-16 07:55 pm (UTC)Re: FILL: Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers (3/3) [COMPLETE]
Date: 2021-06-17 02:46 am (UTC)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!