the Quames agenda
But his hindbrain takes over when he watches James chug white Gatorade, drops of it dribbling over his sharp jawline and down over his pecs. Quentin has imagined more than once being that drop of Gatorade. Or just—licking it off of him, sweet mixed with salty sweat, his tongue exploring the deep V that leads to the line of his cock.
Quentin guesses this is why people use the word ‘thirsty’ to describe the visceral sensation of lust. Because he actually wants to drink James. Every time he looks at James doing bro stuff—like just hanging on his fucking pull up bar, lifting weights in the hallway, folding his dumb basketball shorts—Quentin is parched.
“It’s like you were living in a gay Budweiser commercial," Eliot says. "I call bullshit on this whole fucking thing. He absolutely did not pour water on his face or spill white Gatorade all over his abs.”
“It was his chest, but. Like, you met James that one time—he’s real. And it did happen.”
- Part 1 of the Quames agenda
“Be my guest,” Quentin says. He wants to press his face into his pillow, but he’s a grown-ass man, and he can face a—a—lover. A lover? A fuck buddy. Best friend with deepthroating benefits. (And of course James can take Quentin’s dick all the way to the back of his throat with ease. He’s just average, not big. Like James.)
Eliot clears his throat.
“Nothing,” Eliot says. He’s really not going to sink to this particular low. It would be impossible to explain that he’s not insecure; he’s just curious.
“It’s not nothing,” Quentin snarks, a cheeky little grin appearing on his face.
Eliot kisses his dimple. “It definitely is.”
“Look,” Quentin says, starting to laugh. “You’re not the only person in the world with a big dick—”
“That’s not what I was going to—”
“You didn’t invent big dicks, Eliot.”
“Oh my God. I wasn’t going to—”
“You have nothing to worry about. James isn’t in Fillory. So you’ve got the biggest cock of anyone in Fillory that I’ve fucked.”
Eliot scoffs. “I wasn’t going to ask about your sports-econ boyfriend’s dick.”
Don't let the summary fool you. This is tender AF.
- Part 2 of the Quames agenda
Quentin stares at the flier. “Uh, James. This place is called Cocktales. It’s a gay club—”
“Well, yeah,” James says, not without a note of defensiveness in his voice. Which—James came out like—last week. And only to Quentin, as far as Quentin knows. And Quentin had sort of—led him there. Like, he’d had to tell James he wasn’t straight while they were in the shower together.
“You want to go to a gay club and enter a wet t-shirt contest—”
“You can enter it, too. I could loan you a t-shirt. I mean.” James pauses. “Maybe you could wear one of Julia’s shirts. She’s got like—some oversized shirts, right?”
“What the fuck? Why am I wearing Julia’s shirt in this scenario? Why am I not wearing my very own fucking t-shirt that I have on right now?”
“Your t-shirt is black. All of your t-shirts are black. Or very, very dark gray.”
- Part 3 of the Quames agenda