Archive of Our Own

Quentin has been to The Bookish Alchemist three times in the last two days. He’s been a customer for years—really, it’s the best hedge run shop in the city, tightly warded and run by friends of Julia’s. He’s mostly used it for finding magic artifacts and picking up new spell books—and, to be honest, it’s his on-and-off haunt in the winter since they have a small muggle book section, pastries and coffee, and a cozy nook with an overstuffed chair that reminds him of the jean chair that had been in the Cottage at Brakebills.

He usually doesn’t visit quite this often. But he’s a regular enough customer that Kady hasn’t batted an eye when she’s walked out of the backroom and seen him in his usual chair. It makes sense that a mender of magical objects and bonafide book lover would feel right at home in one of New York City’s hubs for magical literature.

But that’s not what Quentin’s here for. Not this time. And not since—well, the first time Quentin laid eyes on him.

At first, Quentin entertained that he might be a dryad or a—nyad or whatever. A fae creature dropping in from Fillory. Like—it was a shock when his first year psychic magic teacher blandly informed Quentin and his classmates that Fillory is, in fact, real. Quentin still doesn’t quite believe it—no one he knows has ever made it there, so he’s kind of put it in the back of his mind as a nice thing to think about on dreary winter days. Plover was ruined for him once his scandal was exposed, so he thinks of Fillory as this wholly separate thing now. More a thought exercise when Quentin gets emo about the theory of the multiverse and magic’s role in the creation of multiple worlds. That’s, like, a healthy thing for him now. Thinking about Fillory as an idea, no longer an obsession.

But the first time Quentin sees Kady’s newest employee, Fillory materializes, unbidden, in his mind’s eye. Because this guy—he doesn’t look real. Crowned with rich, dark curls, long limbed but graceful with his extra length, he looks every inch a fae king. The kind of being Quentin imagined when he first dared dream that magic might be real—and beyond that, when he let himself believe that there might be real joy in this world or any other. It doesn’t quite make sense when he tries to explain it to himself—that his ability to believe in unreal beauty and grandeur can help fix his happiness in this world, but his therapist tells him he doesn’t need to explain it—he can just let it be.

To see that all in a hedge bookshop employee is quixotic, he knows. But he does. And he spends the first twenty-four hours after spotting him huddled in his apartment on his computer, scouring warded websites for evidence that creatures from other worlds might also inhabit this one. He ends up shelving that particular flight of fancy and does what any reasonable person would do—he goes back to the bookshop. Quentin knows he has to see this man again, even if it’s just to imagine what his unreasonably large hands would feel like tangled in his hair. (And he’s imagined that already. Twice. With feeling.) Besides, he lives just steps away from the store. It’s his place. Why wouldn’t he stop by in if a simple infatuation brings him a little pleasure? He knows—he needs to get back in the game, go out with someone attainable. But for now, he’ll just indulge a little fantasy.

The second time Quentin stops in, the guy has his sleeves rolled up, and Quentin spots the stars tattooed along his elegant forearms, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his button down. When he bends over that day, Quentin spots familiar blue points above his collar line—there are stars there, too. Maybe he’s not a dryad king, but there’s something phenomenally sexy about a powerful hedge, zipping books to their respective shelves with a flick of his fingers, flexing his telekinesis like it’s nothing. And he has a phenomenal ass.

Quentin slips away from the store and walks home, where he scrambles onto his bed and shoves his hand in his jeans, fisting his dick to the thought of licking the edges of his tattoos, the magic prickling sharp against his lips. Eyes screwed shut, his hunger builds and crests inside him as he imagines those hands holding him down, knees parting his hips, the length of that lovely cock sliding inside him. White hot pleasure tears through him when he comes. The thoughts swirl together: the hedge using his body, filling him, making Quentin his.

The next day when Quentin goes in for a coffee after work, the hedge king actually catches Quentin looking at him—and he smirks, tossing his curls in Quentin’s direction.

“Can I help you with anything?”

“Uh, no,” he says. He’s absentmindedly toying with the spine of a book on one of the shelves, his brain sluggish and syrupy, filled as it is with—just, filth. Visions of sucking this guy’s cock running on a loop and beating all of his capacity for actual thought right the fuck out of his head.

“That one’s quite… thorough.”

“Um… what?”

“The book. Some of the spells are underwhelming, but the winners are more than worth it.” The stunning, regal hedge looks him up and down, a flash of something—maybe heat, Quentin thinks, his stomach flipping—in his eyes. But it’s gone as quickly as it came. “Might be just the thing you’re looking for.”

Quentin glances at the book, the title obscured by his thumb. When he inches closer, peering at the words, he reads them out loud: “Kelling’s Course on Libidinal Magicks and Pleasures of the Body. Oh. Oh, my God. No, that’s not what I was looking—”

“It’s fine, we have a whole section—Kady tells me the books from this shelf are the biggest sellers. Don’t be embarrassed.” There’s a little smirk on his face, and he steps closer to Quentin. “Fucking is natural. Experimenting with sex magic is nothing to be ashamed of. I can help you find a different book if you’re looking for something for beginners.”

“N-no, that won’t be necessary.” Blushing furiously, Quentin starts backing away and flings his arm out, knocking over one of the neat stacks of books next to the desk where the man had been working. “Fuck—I’m so sorry!”

He turns and runs out of the shop, the image of the guy’s forearms seared in his brain for the rest of eternity. And, God. His fucking hands.

The next time, Quentin goes in with a mission, and he walks right up to the desk in the middle of the store where the guy is sitting, flipping through books and labeling them with iridescent magical ink, looking exceptionally bored about the whole thing. Quentin clears his throat and puts his hands on the desk in front of him. “I’m here to—ah.”

“Well, hey there,” the guy says, lips curling into a smile. “Back again? You left me with a disaster to clean up yesterday. And an unquenched curiosity about your perusal of our sex magic section.”

“I’m so fucking sorry. Really. And I wasn’t—I wasn’t looking for. Sex magic.” Quentin swallows, his cheeks going pink.

“You did say that yesterday,” he says, his mouth drawn into a smirk. His fucking sleeves are rolled up again. “I’m not sure I believe you. But the customer is always right. So they say.”

“I’m looking for a book on meta-comp for my friend’s birthday,” he blurts out. It’s a stupid lie, he now realizes. Julia has every book ever written on meta-comp, and her birthday is in April. And it’s January. And if Kady heard him, Kady knows when Julia’s birthday is. And she knows Quentin only has one magician friend. And just like, one friend. Anyway. He’s an idiot but—the guy doesn’t know these things. His fae hedge king knows nothing of Quentin’s genuine idiocy. He knows Quentin is—well, awkward. But Quentin’s been dealing with that for years, so he can do this. He can—

“Mm, I don’t know where they’re shelved.” He waves a hand in the general direction of the shelves that house tomes of spell theory. “Somewhere in there. I think.”

“But—but you work here. And you know about the, uh sex books.”

“I’m helping Kady out while she organizes her stock. I owe her one. Not much for spell books myself. I prefer to—” He crooks his index finger over his thumb and twists his wrist. The stack of books he’s been working on straightens itself, the book in front of him sailing up to the top and settling down. “—feel it. Pull it from the air and—command it. But I know about the sex magic books because it’s something of a hobby of mine. Sex magic. Good to know the basics of spells in my… particular area of interest.”

Quentin’s face is pulsing-hot, like he just woke abruptly on the beach after sleeping in the sun without sunscreen. And he’s now thinking of this uncommonly fucking hot hedge witch with a billion tattoos and an enormous cock—probably—doing sex magic as a hobby. “Uh. I’m—I guess I’ll. Look for something. On my own.”

“Hold on, sweetheart,” he says just as Quentin starts to turn away. “I’m certain I could help you find something. Might not be exactly what you came in looking for.” The guy drums his fingers on the counter, and it’s like Quentin can feel the vibrations in his bones. “But I have a feeling we could come up with something interesting… for your friend.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Quentin says, the words rolling off his tongue before his brain catches up to his dick. “I—um. I could use an extra pair of hands. I mean eyes. Or—brain?” He cringes, shrinking in on himself like a hedgehog. “One of those two things. Three things... Four if you count both hands.”

“Bet you could.” He stands, all six plus feet of him looming sexily. Quentin catches himself staring at his neck, the long line of it, the soft hollow there, the crests of his collarbones. When Quentin’s gaze snaps back to the man’s face, he’s wearing a sly grin. “My name is Eliot, by the by.”

“I’m Quentin,” he says, almost choking on the word. His throat burns.

“Quentin,” he says, like he’s testing out the word. He touches the tip of his tongue to his teeth. “So nice to meet you.”

Eliot is wearing navy suspenders over a white button down, sleeves pushed up, his tattoos on display again—a few of them shimmer with magic, and Quentin wonders what’s contained inside them, if he’s even heard of the enchantments used in the ink. When Eliot steps from behind the desk, he crowds into Quentin’s space and leans against the counter, so close Quentin can feel the warmth of his body, can smell the faintly woodsy scent of his cologne. “Now, tell me what you need.”

“To find a book?” His voice squeaks on the last word, and he clears his throat. “For my friend.” Yeah, that sounds more authoritative. Reasonable.

Eliot shakes his head; his eyes linger on Quentin’s mouth. “No, that’s not it. Is it? That’s not why you’re here. Come on, baby. Be honest.”

“I, uh. Don’t know what you’re implying. But. I’m not—I mean, I am here to find a book for my friend. And I don’t—I don’t know what you mean. Otherwise. If I’m not here to do that then—why am I here?”

“That’s what I was trying to get a grip on,” Eliot says. He brings his hand to the side of Quentin’s face and tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear, the warm tips of his fingers resting against Quentin’s cheek for a moment. Every hair on Quentin’s body stands on end. “I thought you might be here to see me. Seems like you were looking to find me.”

Quentin’s fingers twitch; heat rises in his cheeks. “Why—” He swallows hard, blood rushing in his ears, pulse pounding loud enough that he can barely hear his own voice. “—would you say that?”

“Just a hunch.” Eliot smiles, eyes flicking down to Quentin's mouth. “Maybe I was hoping.”

“You were?”

“Mm hmm, yeah. You’re such a pretty little thing. So? Am I off base?”

Sweat blooms over his forehead. What is he supposed to say here? That he’s been fantasizing about Eliot nonstop since he first laid eyes on him? That his legs just—brought him here, hindbrain guiding him, once he’d finished his work for the day. Fuck. “Um. I was. I mean. I was really just going to get a coffee.”

“Come on, Quentin. We’re friends now, aren’t we? You don’t need to be shy.”

God, it’s been months since he got laid. And even longer since it was really good. Since it was with someone he actually liked. Someone he wanted. And even then, it hadn’t been great. Well, fuck. He could do worse than a fucking sexy hedge witch flirting with him. What does he have to lose? Eliot is a temporary hire and—Quentin can at least tell him—

Quentin takes a deep breath. “Uh. Yeah. I—yeah. Was hoping I’d see you. I don’t even—I don’t know why. I’m not—probably not your type. I’m not anyone’s type, I don’t think.” God, what is he even saying? He can’t even—string together a fucking sentence. “Fuck. I’m screwing this up—I don’t—”

“You don’t think you’re my type?” He leans in close and it feels—a little dangerous, his voice this close to Quentin’s ear. Like Quentin could be swept away in the enormity of this feeling.

“I dunno. No.” His cheeks burn, shame sliding through him, slippery and cold.

“You’re just my type, sweetheart.”

His heart thumps hard in his chest. “I—really?”

Eliot just—looks him over, his eyes wandering over Quentin’s body. The air between them crackles with unspent energy. “I’m off work in ten minutes. My apartment’s across the street, and I know that spell book by heart.”

“Spell book? What, uh—”

“The one you picked up yesterday.”

“I didn’t pick it up,” Quentin says, scowling. “You’re the one who started talking about it. I’m not—I’m not into those—sorts of things.”

“Oh.” Eliot puts a finger beneath Quentin’s chin, tilting it up so he’s looking into his eyes—green with flecks of copper just at the centers. When Quentin glances down, he sees the web of deep blue stars on his arm. The one with a 50 in its center glints in the light. “I think you very much are. Brakebills might teach you how to make an elaborate ward, but being a hedge, you pick up—other things. The better parts of magic. If you had the right teacher…” His voice trails off, and he shrugs, hand falling to his side.

“What then?” A little surge of bravery hits him. “What if I had the right teacher?”

“I just think you could have a lot of fun. Well, I know I’d have a lot of fun showing you just how good you can be.”

“Um. Holy fuck.” Quentin goes very still, his pulse pounding in his throat, face still burning.

“Go sit down, have some coffee. Pick out one of those spells.” He leans in and presses a kiss to Quentin’s mouth, his lips soft and hot, his tongue like velvet. An embarrassing little moan rises from his throat and he tentatively brings one hand to Eliot’s waist, shocks of arousal zipping through him as Eliot coaxes his lips open and slips his tongue inside. When Eliot pulls away, he’s panting, his cock thickening up in his jeans from the barest hint of a kiss. Maybe he is some kind of otherworldly being, sent here to feed on mortal men. Honestly, what a way to go.

“So, um.” He’s in this now, so—he’s going to—follow instructions. He’s good at that. Well, most of the time. He could try, at any rate. “What did you want me to—what were you saying?”

“You’re cute,” Eliot says. “Go sit down, and pick out a spell. I’ll show you what I know after I’m done here. Okay?” He brushes his thumb over Quentin’s lower lip, and Quentin opens his mouth because—God, he wants to put his mouth everywhere on Eliot—just pull the tips of Eliot’s fingers into his mouth and lick over them, trace the shape of them with his tongue. Put his mouth anywhere he can get to skin. Taste him, draw in his woodsy, masculine scent. It’s been a while since he’s been with a guy and—he’s never really gone all the way, which is a ludicrous way to think about it. But Eliot makes him feel embarrassed and small, like he’s fifteen with his first crush on a boy. And—he likes it. Quentin squirms beneath his gaze.

“Y-yeah. I can do that.” He’s still just standing and looking now at Eliot’s boots, at the long lines of his legs. Like he’s glued to the floor.

Eliot twists his fingers, quick and effortless, and the book comes flying from the shelf. He puts it in Quentin’s hands. “Run along, now. Let me finish up, darling.”

Quentin does as he’s told, walking mechanically to the comfortable chair in the corner, tucking his knees up and flipping through the pages of the book, his dick twitching as he looks through the spells, which are all accompanied by very graphic illustrations of positions and firsthand accounts of the ‘pleasures of the body.’ By the time Eliot’s done with his shift, Quentin is almost uncomfortably hard, and he’s pliant when Eliot takes him by the hand. He slings his messenger bag over his front and clutches the book to his chest.

“Ready, sweet thing?” Eliot takes him by the hand, and Quentin just—stands, looking down at his feet. “You pick something out? Hm?”

“Y-yeah. I think so,” Quentin murmurs.

“Speak up,” Eliot says. “And look at me.”

It’s silly how the image of a king sticks with him, how it springs into Quentin’s mind when he meets Eliot’s gaze. But that’s how he is, who he is. Regal and commanding, making Quentin feel like a serving boy or a fucking villager. For whatever reason, though, Eliot chose him. He can be good—Eliot wants him to be good. “Yes. I um. I chose. One of the first ones. Seems—um. Simple.”

“Hm, good. Some of them are surprisingly complex when they’re cast. And we don’t really know each other,” Eliot whispers. “You sure you want this?”

Quentin nods, sheepish. “I just can’t believe you’d want me,” he says. Kady has appeared from somewhere in the back room, and she rolls her eyes when she catches sight of them.

“I’m taking off, Kady,” Eliot calls, “after I finish helping this customer.”

“Gross,” she says, sighing and setting up behind the desk as she starts cataloging another pile of books.

“What?” Eliot gives her a wide-eyed look. Quentin is still clutching the book to his chest, and he idly wonders what kind of favor Eliot owes Kady, why he’s never seen Eliot around the store before. “I’m your best employee, darling.”

“You are absolutely not. Now, go the fuck home. I’ll see you tomorrow. Saturday shift. Don’t oversleep.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Eliot says. Quentin gives Kady a feeble wave, and she sort of lifts a hand in his direction.

On the way out, Eliot holds the door for him, which sends a splotchy flush over Quentin’s chest and up into his cheeks. “Come on. I’m dying to know which one you picked.”

Eliot’s apartment is—decadent; that’s the only word for it. A huge studio with a massive bed on one wall, rich velvet wall hangings and—a mirror canted toward the bed. Quentin has a feeling he does this kind of a lot, and it gives him a squirmy feeling to wonder just how many customers he’s fucked while helping Kady out. He opens his mouth to ask and thinks better of it.

“Have a seat, sweetheart,” Eliot says, gesturing to the bed. Quentin slips his shoes off, settling down on the bed with his feet tucked up beneath him. “Tell me what you picked.”

Eliot putters in the apartment, slipping off his boots and hanging up his trenchcoat. He pulls a couple of bottles of water from the fridge and sets them up on the nightstand, pausing to press another kiss to Quentin’s lips. Quentin goes mute—he was supposed to say something, and his hand is pressed against the open book in his lap, but the only thing he can think about is Eliot, the sheer physical force of him, long and broad and preternaturally beautiful. For a wild moment, Quentin feels like he must have conjured this—Eliot, his apartment, the book of fucking sex spells—from the furthest reaches of his mind.

“The spell,” Eliot prompts, sitting on the bed next to him and gathering Quentin in his arms.

“Oh—oh yeah. I picked—well. These two were in the same section—this one is, uh. A blindfolding spell—and the other is—”

Eliot takes the book. “Oh—a sensation sharing spell. You can feel everything the caster feels while being deprived of sight. Surprising. The levitation and binding spells are—they’re fun. Easy. You sure you don’t want to try something simpler like that?” Eliot’s voice isn’t quite condescending. It’s more—patient and slow, like he’s talking to a child. Or a very inexperienced first year. Which—fair. Quentin’s a fully trained magician, but he’s not experienced with things like this. Sex things. But he knows what he wants.

“No. That’s—that’s what I want,” he says, trying to sound authoritative. He’d thought about it in the store, the feeling of Eliot sliding inside him, stretching him open while—he feels what Eliot feels, the same tight slide around his own cock.

“The sharing spell can be really intense. You’ll need a safeword if we need to stop. If this is the one you really want. Granted, I do think it’s a good spell for you. You’ll be able to feel exactly how gorgeous I think you are.”

“I mean—is the, uh. Safeword—really necessary? I—I trust you.”

Eliot touches a kiss to the seam of his lips. “Should you?”

“I dunno,” he whispers. “I just—I really want to. I guess.”

“You ever been with a guy, baby? I still think we ought to try something simpler, even if you have been. I like the idea of it—but maybe we should—”

“No,” Quentin says, shaking his head. “That’s—that’s the one. I want to—to have the blindfolding spell. And. Um. Feel what you feel. Please. You’re so—so beautiful. And I want you so much. And—I just wanna be good for you—I think I can be.”

Eliot pauses, just looking at Quentin, petting over the shell of his ear, tracing a finger over the line of his neck. “I think you can be good. I know you want to be,” Eliot says. “Just let me show you.”

“Yeah—oh—” Eliot’s lips are on his before Quentin can really respond.

Eliot’s hands are everywhere—lifting his shirt and scritching through the hair on his chest, thumbs flicking over his nipples. Quentin half wonders if Eliot cast the spell already and Quentin just doesn’t remember because he feels—so much, his nerves lighting up, shivers running down his spine as Eliot’s hands roam over his chest, thumbs flicking over his nipples. His cock is swollen and throbbing hard by the time Eliot gets his pants off; he can feel himself leaking, a bead of precome forming at his tip as Eliot squeezes his ass and rakes his fingers over Quentin’s thighs.

“I wish I could see you the way I do, pretty boy. You are just my type.”

“I just—I don’t—think I’m that—” Eliot covers his mouth with another kiss, lips slotted together, wet and hot as Eliot tilts his head back and he just—coaxes Quentin open, licks into his mouth until Quentin’s head is spinning, his dick hot and hard, his thighs burning with how badly he wants Eliot.

“See, baby,” he murmurs against Quentin’s lips. “You don’t need telepathy to feel this.” Eliot takes Quentin’s hand and places it on his cock, stiff and straining against the fabric of his trousers.

Gasping against Eliot’s mouth, hungry and searching against his lips, Quentin squeezes the length of Eliot’s cock and it’s—fuck—so thick. “God, you’re fucking huge.”

“You’re gonna try to take all of that, hm?”

Quentin makes an embarrassing whining sound, chasing after Eliot’s lips as he pulls away.

“Mm, I think it’s time to get that blindfolding spell to work for us. Don’t you think?”

“But I wanna—I wanna see it,” Quentin grumbles, watching as Eliot presses his palm to his dick.

“No complaining. You picked it. We’re sticking with it—unless you want me to bring out my book of discipline spells.”

Eyes wide, he nods very slightly, which makes Eliot laugh.

“We’re just sticking with this, baby. Remind me of your safeword. Tell me.”

“Watermelon,” Quentin says. He watches the elegant, long lines of Eliot’s hand as he raises them to cast.

“Good. This’ll make everything dark, but I’ll be right here with you. You with me?” Quentin nods, Eliot watching his face closely. Satisfied with Quentin’s response, he carries on. He’s working his hands in strange movements—there’s always something strange and almost raw about the way hedges do magic—reciting an incantation in a language Quentin doesn’t even recognize and—darkness, absolute and total, descends over him. A swooping sensation hits his gut, his cock jerking. He can hear the peaceful rhythm of Eliot’s breath, can sense the comforting warmth of his thigh. “Get back on the middle of the bed for me. And lie down. I’m going to do the other spell now.”

Quentin scoots toward the middle of the bed, his cock bobbing and he feels—light, free—unselfconscious in a way he never really does, focused only on the shuffle of Eliot’s socked feet against the hardwood, the sound of skin against skin as he rubs his hands together in what sounds like another spell, another murmured incantation rolling off his tongue. He just hears Eliot’s breath again after that. “I don’t feel anything—” Quentin starts, but just as he says it, a sensation like—feeling his own body, but—twice over—sets in. But the feeling of it lets Quentin know it’s not his body he’s feeling. He can tell it’s Eliot he’s feeling, the sensations of his body and mind settling in alongside his.

“This spell,” Eliot says, a little breathless, “works on your mirror neurons, multiplies them. I’m not a scholar, but it’s interesting, hm?”

Quentin’s mouth falls open. He can’t see but he can—feel the floor against his feet, the faint press of clothing against his bare body. And when he hears the snap of suspenders, followed by the unbuttoning of pants and shirt, the shhzzip of fabric undone, a quiet cascade of sound and feeling as Eliot sheds his clothes, he feels a foreign thrum of excitement twisting in his gut, a pulse of heat through his groin that he can tell belongs to Eliot. Eliot, watching him. Getting ready for him. He props up on his elbows, and the head of his cock brushes against his stomach and—he lets out an almost animal moan. “It’s so—fuck, it’s so sensitive. It’s—oh God—” He goes to stroke himself, but something catches his wrist. Eliot, holding him.

“I do the touching, pretty boy. You came with me because you wanted to be touched, yeah? You want me to show you what to do.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says hazily, blinking his eyes but, eerily, seeing nothing. Only gray blankness, spreading out in all directions. And what he feels is himself—the cold bite of the winter air seeping in through the window, the plushness of Eliot’s blankets, the give of the memory foam pillow beneath his head when he lies back. He feels Eliot, too, imprinted on his nervous system—the tight anticipation in his gut, the heaviness in his hardening cock, the clench in chest, all repeated in Quentin.

“Now stay still. Lie down, and don’t touch until I tell you to. Nod if you understand me.”

Quentin nods, his body burning bright and tense, a live wire snaking across asphalt.

“Good boy. I can’t believe you’re so good. So trusting. So brave.” He can hear Eliot pulling off his boxer briefs, the wave of Eliot’s relief hitting him as his cock springs free. Quentin can feel—can feel how hard he is. How hard he is for Quentin. He almost stops breathing for a second; he has to remind himself to sink into it, to just notice it. There’s a faint brushing of skin on skin, a moan from Eliot—Quentin’s cock is all at once warm and surrounded as Eliot strokes himself hard. Quentin can even feel that Eliot is biting his lip that his balls are tight and heavy against his body, a weight hitting the pit of his belly as he watches Quentin. Everything in Quentin’s mind is dark, but the sensations of Eliot’s body zip like starbursts through him, and he bites down on a groan, his dick jerking and dripping below his navel.

“Eliot,” he says, an edge of agony in his voice, his body singing with twinned arousal, pooling and swirling in his belly, so hard now that his cock is throbbing with pain. “I need—I need—” His breath is coming faster, and his head is swimming, his body thrumming, cock jumping. A drawer opens somewhere to his right, and he can hear Eliot uncapping what sounds like lube or oil.

“I’m right here, sweetheart,” Eliot says, low and soothing. There’s a dip on the bed, a shift next to him, a warm hand on his belly, soothing him. An anchor in the wild chaos of wanting suffusing him. “You’re doing such a good job being patient. I’m getting so hard just looking at you. But I think I want you to suck my cock a little before I fuck you. Saw those lips and knew I wanted them around my cock. What do you think about that?”

Quentin whimpers, his mouth opening instinctively, saliva pooling beneath his tongue—he wants to taste, to feel the stretch against his lips, the push against his palate, to the back of his throat. Eliot chuckles, and Quentin feels the light touch of his fingertips against his bottom lip, little thrills running through him as he pushes up again, chasing after him. Fingers dip into his mouth, and he closes on them, sucking and licking the salt from his skin, half of his focus drawn to the texture of Eliot’s fingertips against his tongue, another piece of him noticing the foreign thread of steady excitement twisting through him, mixing up with his own frantic whirl of need, the strange sense of slippery warmth against his own fingers.

“I think you’ll be able to come a couple of times,” Eliot says, conversational, like he’s talking about the fucking weather. “When I’ve used this spell before, everything stays so intense. Makes for an easy second act, no intermission.” He chuckles, like he’s bringing to mind older memories of boys in his bed, laid out before him like this. It makes something possessive curl inside Quentin but—God, he can’t blame anyone for getting into bed with Eliot. Wanting this, from a king. A privilege to be chosen.

Quentin whines against Eliot’s fingers, wanting him to stop talking and—wanting him to keep on forever, that low, rich voice rasping in his ears, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“You know, I do think you chose well.” Eliot tangles his fingers in Quentin’s hair and pulls, sending a spike of pain down his spine. Quentin’s hips lift off the bed, like he’s searching for friction that simply isn’t there, his cock jumping, more wetness pushing from his tip. “You’re just so pretty like this, all helpless. I could do anything I wanted, couldn’t I? And you’d let me.”

Quentin nearly sobs, sucking hard on his fingers and chasing them when Eliot pulls them away. “Please—”

“What? What do you need, sweetness?”

“Your cock. Need it.” The weight of Eliot’s wanting sits next to his own unfathomable desire; it’s uncanny that he can feel this much inside him all at once. Normally, when Quentin feels too much, it’s because his brain is in overdrive. But this—this bright, heady buzz—it settles over him like a heavy blanket, holding him in and surrounding him, sweeping away the uncertainty and the embarrassment he felt before. And wants, he wants so badly— “Please—”

“Open for me. Wide. I know you can’t see me, but I’m not small.” He feels Eliot tugging at his chin, hears Eliot stroking himself, the soft brush of skin on skin, and the answering phantom tug on his own cock. “Fuck. I wish you could see yourself, baby. You look so gorgeous.”

Warm fingertips brush over each nipple, and Quentin makes a choked sound, pulse pounding in his ears, his core tensed, mouth open—ready, he’s still ready. Eliot shifts closer to him on the bed, still stroking. It’s strange, hearing it so close to his ear while his own cock feels the repeat of Eliot’s pleasure, the weight of his broad, warm hand, the ghost of his thumb swiping over the head of Quentin’s dick.

Quentin hears Eliot’s throaty groan before he registers the plunge of Eliot’s blunt cockhead pushing between his lips. “God, baby. Knew I wanted that pretty mouth on my dick the first time I saw you. And I wasn’t wrong, was I? You can—Jesus Christ—feel how good it is, can’t you? That sexy mouth.”

The sensation of slick heat envelops his own cock, and he groans against the velvety slide of Eliot’s dick, his tongue lapping over his foreskin and the salty tip, the tender line of his slit, sharp with precome. Eliot snaps forward, like he can’t help it, can’t control himself and—Quentin can feel it, too—the tensed up sensation of trying to hold back, the satisfaction of just— giving in and using Quentin’s mouth.

He opens as wide as he can, tears stinging his eyes as Eliot plunges in, cock stroking against his soft palate in small thrusts. Arousal pounds low in Quentin’s own hips, his back arching up into the false sensation of warm wetness and the soft, textured muscle of his own tongue working under the head. The electricity of his desire twines up alongside Eliot’s, pleasure and longing and the ache of fulfillment, this thing he’s wanted so much, and Quentin can’t control it; he’s tipping over, falling hard, cresting over the edge. His balls throb, drawing up tight against his body, the muscles in his hips and thighs tensing as pleasure builds, permeating every cell as Eliot grips the headboard and fucks harder into Quentin’s slack mouth, letting out a strangled sound. Quentin’s orgasm rips through him, a great tide of pleasure, a sudden storm, and he shoots hard over his stomach, hot spurts reaching his chest.

“So good, baby.” He hears the murmur of Eliot’s voice above him, feels the rattle of the headboard as Eliot pushes in deep one final time before he pulls out. The muscles in his core are jumping, his body tensing and releasing as the waves begin to recede. “El—Eliot—oh fuck—”

“You—you did so good. That was great, baby. I’d—ah—love to come down your throat but.” Eliot’s voice is shaking now, and he abandons whatever thought he had to fall on top of Quentin and kiss him, desperate and close and hot, so fucking hot—his lips, his lips better than anything, the taste of him, the sweetness of his kiss like a balm as his body relaxes and lets go. Eliot kisses him, keeps kissing him, on and on, until he stops shaking. Until he’s stable and still and the ache in his dick has drawn back.

He’s still hard, the echo of Eliot’s hunger repeating inside of him. But it’s bearable again, thanks to Eliot’s touch, his hands and his body, both of them slicked up with Quentin’s come. Eliot’s fingers swipe through it, and he presses them to Quentin’s lips. He licks them clean and pushes up for another kiss.

“Greedy boy,” Eliot says. “You needed it so bad. Hm? Needed to come for me. Put on a little show.”

“Yeah,” he says, helpless, so fucking helpless, spreading his legs as Eliot presses between them. “Need you inside me now,” he mumbles, lips seeking out Eliot’s cheek, the harsh scrape of his stubble against Quentin’s lips. “Need it. I’m still so hard.” Quentin mindlessly throws his leg over Eliot’s hip, tugging him closer.

“Think you can handle it?” Eliot’s cock his hot, tucked up into his groin and it’s huge, so fucking big.

“Fuck yes. M’gonna take it,” Quentin says mindlessly, trembling beneath him, swallowing hard and mouthing at Eliot’s jaw, sucking a mark against his neck, making low, whimpering sounds. He fucking wants it so bad. He saw Eliot and needed him and— He wants it and he’ll take it—it’s his first time—

“How you doing, baby?” The low rattle of his voice is close and hot against Quentin’s ear.

“‘M fine,” he says, wrapping his other leg around Eliot’s waist, feeling the doubled up tightness around his own body. He’s the biggest, best weighted blanket. He’s shaking—but it’s good. Eliot has him, and it feels so fucking satisfying. And his dick is pulling back from oversensitive to just hard. Still so fucking hard. This spell is unbelievable, so perfect. And Eliot’s gonna take him and fuck him— So good—Quentin chose well, and he’s being so good. Eliot said—

“Check in with me,” Eliot says, stern.

“Good—I said I’m good,” Quentin says, rocking up against Eliot’s dick. His beautiful dick. “Now—will you—”

“Q.”

Quentin sighs, blinking and letting out a deep breath. He lets it out, slow and easy. “Green.”

“Good boy.”

Quentin squirms and tucks his nose against the side of Eliot’s neck. He’s good—he did the thing—and if he’s good, he’ll get what he wants, which is—

“Now—you’re all ready to take my cock for the first time, hm?” Eliot’s voice slips back to its sultry hum, and Quentin settles back, his heart rate slowing now, warmth sweeping through him as Eliot grunts and ruts against him, their cocks nestled together, the echoes of pleasure rolling through him in little waves. “You think you’ll be able to take it all?”

“Mm, yeah. I’ll be able,” he mumbles. “First time, ‘m ready.” Quentin breathes in deep; the cologne Eliot’s wearing fuses with the scent of his sweat, dark and masculine, sinking into Quentin’s senses so that he feels surrounded. Sight removed, he can only make out the edges of Eliot with his other senses—the hard, hot press of his body, the snap of hunger plucking inside, the high pitched buzz of Eliot’s arousal alongside it, the low thump of his beating heart and the pitch of his breath.

He can feel Eliot adjusting, the hitch in his breath as he settles his cock in the crease of Quentin’s groin and thrusts just there. It’s almost ticklish, but he’s feeling so much that it barely registers. He just feels—his own cock brushing against the fuzz of Eliot’s belly, the friction sparking along his cock, as he feels Eliot’s desire climb and grow. If he keeps on like this, Quentin could come again. Eliot could, too, he thinks. They’d just stay like this forever and never have to do anything else. Only this.

Darting his tongue out, Quentin tastes the skin just beneath Eliot’s ear, a prickle running down the back of his own neck in response. He digs his heel into the back of Eliot’s thigh, drawing him closer, his cock twitching and hot, dancing right at the edge, a boulder at the edge of a cliff, clinging as the earth begins to quake around it.

He can feel Eliot’s dick twitch against him, and his own cock responds, hard and heavy, echoing the increasing beat of need inside Eliot. “Gonna get you all ready,” Eliot murmurs against his ear. “Make sure you I can fill you up nice and easy. You want that?”

Quentin’s body jolts, and he nods as Eliot rocks back on his haunches, leaving Quentin’s body sweaty and cold. He feels empty, aching and needy. But he knows what’s—he can guess—what’s coming next as Eliot spreads his legs and slips a pillow beneath his hips.

“Spread open for me,” Eliot says, his hand warm against Quentin’s thigh. Quentin’s knees fall apart reflexively, his breathing coming fast as he feels, rather than sees, Eliot’s gaze running over his body. “You look so pretty, baby.” Eliot’s warm hand slips over Quentin’s cock, jerking him once, twice—until Quentin is arching up and sobbing—and then Eliot’s fingers are playing over the sticky come still on his belly and reaching, now, lower, parting his cheeks and brushing over his hole, pressing in like he’s testing it out, seeing if Quentin meets his standards. It’s not just anyone who gets to have this. All of Eliot, every bit of his attention filling Quentin’s mind, his soul, the fibers of his body. A full-body shiver rolls through him, his toes curling.

Quentin keens, body thrumming up into Eliot’s hands, trying to push down against Eliot and take him inside. “Please—Eliot, please—I’m so—ready, I swear.”

“Not yet,” Eliot says lightly. “But don’t worry. Gonna open up that pretty ass for my cock, and I’m gonna wreck you, baby. You’ll be ruined for anyone else when you get this dick.”

A low whine rises in his throat, heat pricking behind his eyes. He could weep right now from how exposed he feels, from the steady, gentle touch of Eliot’s hand, the visceral tensing of Eliot’s own anticipation rising in his gut, Quentin’s own desire duplicated, doubled. “Yeah, do it,” he says, his mind floating, pinging from one point to another, “Please. Mm, I need you to, hnng—please—”

“Since you ask so nicely. And so much. You like to babble, don’t you, baby? Telling me how much you need my cock.” Eliot’s voice drifts into his consciousness. He’s vaguely aware of Eliot uncapping the lube, can feel the cold slick pooling against Eliot’s palm reflected in his own nerves, the tensing in Eliot’s cock as he moves closer to Quentin and spreads him further apart, hitching one leg over his hip. Cool fingers press against the cleft of his ass, pushing against his hole, moving in circles, slow and coaxing.

“Nnnn, oh my God.” Pleasure bursts through his hips, the backs of his thighs quivering as Eliot touches and presses, circling and brushing, teasing.

“Push down against me—and—” Quentin bares down, instinctive, as Eliot’s fingertip slips in, his hole fluttering and relaxing as Eliot pushes to the second knuckle. “—good. Doing so well. God, so tight. Can’t believe this is all for me. But it is, hm? No one else can have this.” He pulls his finger almost all the way out and fucks it back inside. “No one. Tell me.”

“No one,” he says. Quentin bites his lip, cheeks burning as he wiggles down against Eliot, a little over-eager. But he can’t blame himself as Eliot’s finger moves inside him, crooking slightly and pressing, light and soft against his prostate, little fireworks going off behind his eyes. Pleasure made manifest, the only thing he can see as Eliot opens him, as he fits a second finger inside. Quentin breathes through it—the burn in his thighs, the faint tickle in his hips, the almost-discomfort ticking up and then fading out into warmth and bliss.

A third finger joins the others, the stretch delicious, his body turning to liquid as Eliot’s arousal begins to crest, the background beat to the melody of Quentin’s desire. Eliot’s fingers work into Quentin firm and steady, the filthy-wet sound melding with Eliot’s grunts and gasps.

“Need to get inside you,” Eliot says, voice a throaty rasp, breaking on the last syllable. When he pulls his fingers away, Quentin’s ass is pulsing, all open and needy and so empty. He feels high with it, listening to Eliot’s raspy breathing, the sloppy sound of him coating his cock in lube.

“Mmmph yeah.” Quentin reaches for Eliot, grasping at air until he catches Eliot’s hand, fingers threading together with his.

“Ready for me to take that ass? You feeling good?”

“So good. You take such good care of me,” Quentin says, his voice small. He just wants Eliot to know how good it is, how right everything is, that he can just let go. Eliot is panting when he lines himself up, the head of his dick pressing firm against Quentin’s hole. Quentin squirms because—this is what he’s needed, what he’s been waiting for. Quentin can feel the resistance of muscle against his own cock, the tense and release, the fluttering and giving way Eliot pushes inside, a slick pop as his cockhead slips inside, the answering pressure going snug and hot around the head of his own dick.

“Oh, fuck.” Eliot’s voice breaks, sliding into a broken moan. “You feel that, hm? How tight you are around my dick?”

Quentin goes boneless, legs loose now around Eliot’s hips so he can feel it, just feel it—Eliot, plunging inside him, his soft, awed moan, the magic mirroring the sensation and squeezing his cock, a vise-like grip descending over him as Eliot stretches him, fills him, panting, knees planted, his hands sliding down over Quentin’s thighs as he slides deeper, a keening sound rising from his chest. “Feel so good, Q,” he murmurs. “Better than anything. Fit me so good.”

His eyes roll back in his head. Nothing—nothing gets him like Eliot’s voice, so fucking sincere—it took him years—but that’s not what—

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, gasping, back arching up as Eliot presses close, still nudging inside, pushing him open millimeters at a time. There’s just so fucking much of him, and Quentin feels the ache of it, the tensing grip around his dick coupled with the wild vein of need urging Eliot on to drive forward and take and take—and Quentin just wants—more than anything—to be the thing that slakes and soothes him. “More—come on—”

“Needy,” Eliot murmurs, voice shaky. His hands fall on either side of Quentin’s waist, and he lowers himself, sliding forward and hitching back—the echo of sensation in Eliot’s cock pounding within Quentin like a second pulse—until he slides all the way—home, hips to hips, chest to chest, teeth scraping over Quentin’s collarbone, hearts beating in tandem, two halves of one living thing.

It’s just on the edge of too much, Eliot’s thick cock filling him to the hilt, his own dick still sensitive from coming minutes ago—just from blowing Eliot, for fuck’s sake—his own dick is pulsing, leaking steadily now which is—weird—but fucking good—as Eliot pulls back and pushes into him, moving careful and slow. Fucking romantic. God, it’s just so fucking thrilling and deep and good. This was supposed to be—

Whatever—it doesn’t matter—this is all he wants; this is everything—

Quentin’s dick is held tight and encased, surrounded, snug and hot and slick, throbbing with the pump of blood and the phantom clench of muscle around it. When Eliot drives into him again, the downy hair on his belly brushes against Quentin’s dick, and Quentin shudders, head thrown back. Eliot’s lips brush over his chin, tongue darting out to taste his skin. Quentin flails and gropes up to thread his fingers through Eliot’s curls, pulling him down, their foreheads pressed together as Eliot plants his knees—Quentin can feel that, too, the give of the mattress beneath Eliot’s knees, the resolve climbing inside Eliot to really fuck, chase his own pleasure and drive Quentin over the edge again. The insatiable yearning of it, all the things he feels for Quentin tied up in a spell, settling inside.

“C’mon, El—give it to me. I can take it. I want it all.” His ears burn with it, sweat blooming over his forehead, at the hollow of his neck.

“You wanted it so bad when you first saw me,” he whispers in Quentin’s ear, pulling back and thrusting into him hard. “You had to get me alone. Wanted me to have you like this.”

“Yeah, fuck, yeah,” Quentin says, eyes rolling back, toes clenching against the sheets as Eliot sets a rhythm and really starts to fuck, no longer holding back. The presence of Eliot is everywhere—inside, holding him open, within him, in the wild, pounding arousal that sings alongside Quentin’s world-breaking pleasure. All the bad things, drained out and chased away. That’s just Eliot, how Eliot is.

“Wanted me to put my cock in you,” Eliot says and bites down on Quentin’s shoulder, hand sliding up Quentin’s chest and resting against his throat, firm, thumb at Quentin’s Adam’s apple as Eliot shoves into him, brutal and precise, each thrust duplicated—the fat head of Eliot’s dick hitting just right, the drag around his own cock building and intensifying as Eliot fucks him.

“Mmmyeah, couldn’t live—couldn’t live without it—needed it,” Quentin mumbles, his words falling clumsy through kiss-bitten lips. Eliot buries his face against Quentin’s neck and lets out a choked sound.

“Needed me to show you—didn’t you?”

“Yeah—” Quentin’s body jolts with each heavy thrust as Eliot fucks him, relentless now, and Quentin can tell everything is growing tense inside him as he fucks harder, faster.

“Had me take you home. So slutty—”

Quentin cries out, heat and tension swirling and twisting up with Eliot’s words. “For you—yeah.”

“I—had to have you,” he says, voice rough. His hips speed up; Quentin can feel the muscles in his thighs tensing as Eliot drives into him, the building heat sparking along his own cock, a flush spreading over his chest, nipples drawing up so tight it’s painful, the whole of his lower body heavy and full. “Mine. You’re mine.”

“Yeah, oh God, I feel you everywhere,” he whispers, voice hoarse and low.

Eliot’s grip tightens around his throat, making his head pound, blood rushing to his lips, mouth watering. “Fuck, baby, I’m close,” Eliot murmurs. And Quentin can feel that, too. The rush of endorphins spilling through him, his head fuzzing out, cock tight and heavy, roots of his hair prickling.

“Yeah, come on,” Quentin says, swallowing against the hold of Eliot’s hand on his neck, tight enough that he can feel it in his voice—his lips and the meat of his fingers and toes and the fucking bridge of his nose tingling, the sense of relief building in him, a slow broad wave rising and rising, moments away from the shore. Eliot speeds up, losing rhythm, fucking into Quentin in short bursts, his breath pushed out in grunts. It feels like—someone riding his cock, tight and hot, the clutch of heat surrounding him, as Eliot crams himself inside Quentin again and again, hitting his prostate on every other thrust.

It hits Quentin, already so sensitive, first—threads of pleasure winding together and surging up, sensitive cock hitting against the flat of Eliot’s belly, the soft scratch of hair and the drag of his flesh coupled with the feeling of fucking into someone, hot and snug. He cries out, a cracked sound pushing up from his throat as Eliot holds him through it, catching his mouth in a kiss and swallowing his pleasure as he comes, spilling between them.

There’s a snapping sound in his ear as his body jerks and quivers, Eliot still fucking into him hard and fast. But it’s like a veil has lifted, and Quentin opens his eyes to see Eliot’s beautiful face, the curve of his lips and the dimple on his chin, the stars lining his arms, the tensing of his muscles as he chases his pleasure.

“God, so beautiful,” Eliot murmurs, the smacking of skin on skin speeding up as he crams his cock inside of Quentin, loops of pleasure still repeating within him. “Love you—I love you so much—”

And if that’s not the fucking horniest thing he’s ever heard—Quentin is laughing, his release still reverberating through him, toes curling. Eliot kisses him again, sloppy and wet, falling against him and wrapping his arms tight around him. Quentin’s body spasms when Eliot plunges inside a final time, deep and hard—he’ll feel this tomorrow, in his muscles and his bones, in the red marks on his neck— Eliot’s hips stutter as he spills inside, groaning against Quentin’s lips.

They lie there, panting in each other’s arms, coated in sweat and come, tangled in the sheets that—a clean up spell isn’t going to cut it. They’re going to need to shower after this and throw all of it in the washer—and the washer needs fixing. Quentin was supposed to do it this morning, but—there’s still time. And Eliot was, ultimately, right, like he always is about domestic stuff—they did need two extra sets of sheets. One for when the others are in the wash. A second extra set if they’re just fucking lazy and didn’t get around to it.

“Mm, I love you, too,” Quentin says, fingers dancing over Eliot’s back. The telepathic linking spell is fading now, but he can feel it a little in the upper muscles of his back, so he kneads his fingers in. God, that’s fucking nice. They need to do, like, this sex spell but with just massages. Well—like maybe massages first. Because the dick was truly fucking incredible. But that’s how it is with Eliot, how it’s always been. Since the first time Eliot kissed him in the divey hedge bar Julia had dragged him to for Kady’s 28th birthday—and Quentin had only gone because Eliot would be there—it's been like this. Electric—but not just that. It’s been safe and easy in a way that nothing else in his life has been. Not that love is easy; it’s just that loving Eliot has made him motivated to try. In all things. In all ways.

“Happy anniversary, Q.”

“Mmmph.” Quentin nuzzles against Eliot’s neck. “Happy anniversary.

Eliot’s phone vibrates on the nightstand; he rolls over and tuts lazily, bringing it to his hand and opening the lock screen, the screen glowing. “Julia says they’d like to have dinner with us tomorrow night. They have reservations at that new place, the one that’s hard to get into.”

“Why’d she text you?”

Eliot shrugs. “She likes me better.”

“Mmm hmm.” Quentin feigns a grumpy little sigh. He knows that Kady and Julia are planning to stand them up and meet them for drinks later. And Quentin has a ring already in his coat pocket—so he doesn’t fucking lose it like a moron.

Crafted of indestructible tungsten and shot through with threads of shaved meteorite and glinting fire opal, the ring is elegant and bright, and it puts Quentin in mind of the first time he saw Eliot and actually thought he was a being from another world. That’s corny as fuck, but Eliot loves that shit, loves that Quentin actually googled dryads when he got home the night after he ran into Eliot in the bookshop.

The blue of the opal shimmers like Eliot’s tattoos, which were so hard-won after he moved to New York at seventeen—he was only a boy, really, when he left Indiana behind. The ring—it reminds him of magic and joy and possibility, all the things that came into his life when he fell in love with Eliot. Because the ring, when he spotted it in the fifth jewelry store he dragged Margo to, had looked like something fit for a king. And that’s always what Eliot has been for Quentin, always will be. The kind of person who indulges Quentin’s complex fantasies and loves him at his cringiest, does all the dumb, horny shit Quentin is into—and never tells him it’s dumb. Fucking finding sex spells, keeping a fucking chart of the ones they’ve tried on a shared Google Sheets document.

Their friends are supposed to meet them at the bar where they first kissed after Quentin proposes at dinner. Margo and Julia—and Kady, by association—already know. And he wouldn’t be doing it like this if Margo hadn’t repeatedly assured him he’d say yes, if Eliot hadn’t been dropping hints for the better part of a year.

Eliot takes out his vape pen, taking a pull of it, inhaling the CBD blend and puffing it out a moment later. It’s not a cigarette, but they’re both better off. He passes it to Quentin. “Would you actually have gone home with me if I’d asked you that night we met?”

“Oh—fucking probably,” Quentin says. “Hottest guy I’ve ever seen asks me to go back to his place and blow him? Yeah. I mean. Would you have asked?”

“I thought about it.” Eliot grins at him. “It’s better how it happened—”

“Six months of me dropping by the bookshop and standing around awkwardly, stalking you like a serial killer?”

Eliot laughs, warm and low. “I’m very into true crime.”

“God.” Quentin rolls his eyes.

“You know, it was a mega hit of dopamine every time I saw you creeping by the Fillory shelf. Didn’t think it would go any further than a crush.”

“Lucky for you I took a chance.”

“Lucky for me,” Eliot says.

Quentin bites down on a smile. “Shower?”

Eliot nods and takes Quentin’s hand. They abandon the vape pen and their phones and the ruined sheets, and Quentin thinks this will be a good night to remember, a night just before the next big thing in their lives.