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The One Where Q's Life Partner Wears Margo's Lingerie

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Eliot didn’t understand why life had to be so complicated. He loved his friends, he loved sex, and he loved a party. He felt like all three of those things should have been in abundance for him as High King of Fillory, but somehow, instead, there were evil, manipulative fairies, constantly evolving relationships, and a total lack of quality champagne despite his best efforts.

It was enough, honestly, that he just wanted to lay in bed all day in a silk dressing gown sipping from his bottomless flask and getting slowly blotto.

However, time was of the essence. Eliot had fucked up, and he had to fix it. He had to. The alternative was just…unthinkable.

Quentin was about to depart on the Muntjac for a quest on his own, and Eliot had…

Well, Eliot had told him to find another life partner for a while. It had felt right in the moment, flippant and sassy, reminding Quentin gently-ish that Eliot wasn’t trying to revisit their domestic bliss from the Mosaic.

But the thing was… The thing that was dawning on Eliot bit by bit…

Eliot had fucked up. He’d implied Quentin wasn’t queer enough to choose him, which, at the time it had made perfect sense, but in retrospect, it made no sense because it was biphobic as shit. Eliot wasn’t exactly a perfect Kinsey 6, gold-star gay. He should know better.

Fear had ruled him in the moment—fear frequently ruled him in the moment, if he was being honest—and he’d made Quentin feel shitty, and then he’d followed it up with more shittiness. More fear. More inadvisable attempts to feign nonchalance when he knew fucking well what was in his heart.

And what was in Eliot’s heart was a frighteningly deep, tender affection toward Quentin Makepeace Coldwater. And, awkwardly, wonderfully, scarily, the more Eliot thought about those Mosaic memories, the more he suspected it was more than affection.

So he went to Margo for a consult.

“Bambi,” Eliot said, strolling up to her and placing a hand on her shoulder. “I have an emergency.” At the look on her face, he clarified, “Personal emergency, not a kingly emergency. The kind of emergency you enjoy.”

“If you’re going to try to talk me into having sex with that child, Eliot, I love you, but I will throw you off a balcony. He’s bought that teeth thing for the moment, but someone’s going to tell him that’s not true and… why can’t we have teeth in our vaginas? It seems like a really good plan, honestly.” Margo looked up at him, and it appeared that his expression spoke his exasperation. “What is it? Are they marrying you off to a pre-teen too?”

“I am super apologetic that Cersei expects you to consummate with the kindergartener, and I promise I will do everything I can to help you, but right now, I have a confession to make.” He paused. “Two confessions?” Another pause. “More than two confessions. I need to talk. We need to talk.”

Eliot studied her face, his brows pinched. “Then, if I can find hygienic dentata for your off-limits vagina, I will absolutely gift them to you ASAP.”

“It’s not the first time I’ve had to guard my maidenhood.” Margo rolled her eye, the other hidden by her eye patch. “As long as you’re not here to talk me into taking one for the team, I’ll hear you out. What’s going on?”

“Right. Um.” Eliot looked around and then drew his dressing gown closer against his neck, feeling miserably exposed. “So. You know Q and I…had five decades together solving that puzzle. And um…we got very close?”

Eliot gave her a meaningful look. “You know. Like. Very close.” He hesitated long enough to make sure she understood what he was saying, and then he barged onward. “So when we got back, we didn’t remember right away, but then memories have been coming back to us. And so Quentin…”

Eliot’s stomach clenched and twisted at what he was about to admit, at the ugly cravenness he had to put on display. Not that Margo would be surprised. She knew his damage.

“So Q, um. Q started the whole thing, at the Mosaic. He kissed me first, when we’d been there a year. And then when we got back, he um… He suggested we… Try again, in this life. And I freaked out. And I… I maybe definitely implied he wasn’t queer enough to be with me.” Eliot cringed at that, because he knew how Margo would feel about it.

Margo’s brows rose. “He looked queer enough to me with your dick in his mouth. I don’t remember a lot from that night, but I do remember you two pushing me aside at one point, so… I’m not surprised that you dicked him down, but… but what did you say to him? What did he say to you? I mean, I get it, this isn’t the time for… our hands are full, but you told him he wasn’t queer enough? And he just… let you? That’s fucked up.”

“I told him he wasn’t…you know…and he didn’t think it mattered, and I was insecure and looking for reasons to run for the hills,” Eliot said quietly. He inhaled sharply through his nostrils, lips pursed. “And you know Q. So…fragile in ways, and it’s easy to crush him without meaning to, and I was an idiot. He’s…”

Eliot hugged himself for comfort, although he didn’t think he really deserved it, and then he continued. “Anyway, the point is, Q somehow forgave me for just…brutally rejecting him and fucking up his head like that, and he really wanted me to do this quest with him, and I just felt so…trapped. I felt trapped, and like Q was trying to pin me down or… Like he was trying to push me into dating, and you know how I get.”

With a deep, slow exhalation, Eliot reached for some kind of anchor internally. “So I told him I had responsibilities here and to…find another life partner for a while. He forgave me, and he tried again, and I just…”

“You do have responsibilities here. You weren’t actually gone fifty years; I would’ve had to explain that to the Fairy Queen. You were gone for a few hours, and I married a preteen. I do need you here, but… you told him to find another life partner for a while?”

Margo massaged her temples and then gave him a hug. “He’ll forgive you again. You know that, right? If he stays here, he’s going to get pulled into this web we already don’t want to be in, but maybe you should talk to him before he leaves, at least. Who knows what kind of crazy choices he’ll make if he… if he’s out there with a broken heart. Then let him down easier, okay?”

“I don’t want to let him down,” Eliot admitted, burying his face in Margo’s neck and clinging to her, just a little, no more than she’d allow. She was a bit cuddlier when he was in crisis. “I want to somehow be both dating him and not dating him at the same time. Schrödinger's dating.”

“Oh, El.” Margo sighed and smoothed her hands down his back. “That boy is confused enough as it is. Shit.”

“I’d tell you to go talk to him, but that seems to be the leading cause of your cock ups. Maybe you should just suck his dick or something. After fifty years of practice, you should know how he likes it, right?”

Eliot huffed and closed his eyes, resting his brow against Margo’s hair. “I think I can handle that part. I’m just not sure how to get from this to that without… you know… a lot of talking that I’ll inevitably fuck up.”

He pulled back and looked at her. “How do I show him how I feel when I don’t actually know how I feel?”

“I… El… Feelings aren’t really my thing. I don’t know. I guess if I wanted a boy to reserve his dick for me, I’d put on some sexy lingerie, show up in his room, at least give him a hand job, and tell him that I reserve the right to do that again later. It implies some ownership without exclusivity, which he has to know you can’t grant because our lives aren’t really our own at the moment.” Margo pulled back to look up at him. “He knows he’s not dressed as a guard instead of being a king for no reason. All this came about because of my stupid wedding. He knows what happened with Mike.”

Margo pushed Eliot’s hair back, securing it under his crown, smiling softly. “And if he’s known you fifty years, he already knows you’re batshit loco. I don’t know who you think you’re fooling.”

“Right.” Hope blossomed in Eliot’s core, delicate and reaching. “I… I guess I just need to borrow your lingerie then? I promise I’ll return it in its original condition.”

He kissed Margo excitedly on the lips, gave her a quick squeeze, and then bounded off to Margo’s chambers.


When Eliot showed up in Quentin’s room, he knew this was the right idea. Everything about Quentin’s kingly suite was just the most Fillorian, the most Renaissance Faire, and Eliot’s outfit was perfectly suited to that vibe. He draped his silk dressing gown over the bedside chair and then stretched out on Quentin’s duvet to wait.

As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long, which was both wonderful—because yay, Quentin!—and terrible—because oh god I’m not ready.

At the sound of the door opening, Eliot adopted a sultry pose by candlelight, hitting all his angles, showing himself off to his best advantage. He totally understood why Margo relied on lingerie in these situations too; it was a shame men’s lingerie was so often disappointing. No matter, though, because Eliot knew tailoring charms, and Margo’s fit him to perfection.

The black, back-seam, Cuban heeled, fine fishnet stockings showed off Eliot’s long, pale legs to good advantage, rising to midthigh before they culminated in a thick band of elegant black lace to which he’d fastened a black lace garter belt. With it, he wore a remarkably tiny black lace thong that really wasn’t equal to the task of restraining his cock, even soft, but he’d checked out the rear view, and it was spectacular. Up top, he wore a black lace and leather underbust corset, laced tight enough he was having breathplay thoughts.

He hadn’t shaved or anything, though, and his facial hair was in effect, as well as hair everywhere else, but hopefully Quentin appreciated the genderfuckery. He seemed like the kind of soft, open-minded boy who would. Besides, it made Eliot feel sexy, and that was really the point. Like this, he was prepared to face his mistakes—or at least make up for them by giving Quentin the best night of his life.

Quentin slipped in almost sneakily, still wearing the very sweaty guard uniform, which looked dorky and cute all at once. He froze momentarily, eyes wide, probably at the sight of someone in his chambers. Then his brow furrowed as he took Eliot in, his gaze moving slowly over Eliot’s legs and pausing dramatically and for a satisfying amount of time on his ass, as Eliot had planned for Quentin to see him.

Finally, Quentin’s gaze met Eliot’s. His mouth worked for a moment before he finally said, “Um…”

He turned and looked at the door as if to confirm he was in the right room, and then he turned back around, his mouth open in awe. “Um?”

Eloquent as ever.

“Hey,” Eliot replied deliberately, giving Quentin a wicked smile. “I hear your ship pulls out of the harbor tomorrow, sailor.” He stretched to show off the flexing of lean muscles, gaze locked on Quentin’s face. “Thought I’d give you the royal send-off.”

Quentin just stood, staring at Eliot for a slightly uncomfortable amount of time. Then he turned back to the door and, for a depressing moment, Eliot thought he was going to leave. But Quentin just locked the door and then turned around, tossing aside his stupid cap.

He made it to the side of the bed, his hand hovering over Eliot’s leg. It was clear that Quentin was extremely aroused by it, but he still hesitated. “But what… what is this, El? You can’t come with me still, but…”

Quentin traced his index finger up the back seam of the stockings. “I don’t understand.”

Eliot sighed. He should’ve known Quentin would want to talk. Raking his teeth over his bottom lip, he reached out to brush the backs of his fingers over Quentin’s bulge. “I’m a married man, Q. I don’t—My life isn’t my own. But…you’ve made compelling arguments, most of them with your stupid perfect face. I am not as immune as I may have previously indicated.”

Quentin nodded, his expression pained and eyes a little glassy, which was both touching and terrifying. He leaned into Eliot’s touch, exhaling softly. “So you still can’t do the quest with me.”

He kept running his hand over Eliot’s leg, seeming fascinated by the fishnet, touching the lace part of the stocking. “I keep dreaming about… I don’t know if they’re memories or if they’re just dreams. But they’re so… I was so happy in them, and it seems like you were too.”

Quentin started to unfasten and untie and unbuckle his costume, apparently not opposed to taking what he could get, which was a relief. “If you’re trying to get me to forget about you, this is not the best way to do it.”

“No, Q, I—I don’t want you to ever forget about me.” Eliot gazed up at Quentin, heart in his throat. “I want you to… Look, Q, I can’t make promises. I’m in no place to give you what you deserve, what we had before, there. But I’ll give you what I can, if you’ll let it be enough.”

Quentin shrugged out of the outer layer of the costume, then unbuttoned the shirt, leaving him down to a t-shirt that he started to pull off over his head.

“Yeah, we could…” Quentin seemed to get stuck in his undershirt, because of course he did, and it brought back so many strange, fond memories of Quentin struggling with his clothes over their years together. With a mighty effort, Quentin finally broke free and tossed it aside. “I just want a chance. I know you’re… and things… and you don’t think I’m… and maybe I’m not. I thought…”

Eliot reached out to touch Quentin’s bare chest, skating his blunt nails over the skin. “You are, Quentin. I just…panicked. I was insecure. I wanted some kind of label to hold onto, some kind of… But you’re just you, and that’s good enough. I’m…”

Struggling with the words, Eliot rose to kneel on the bed, bringing his face more level with Quentin’s. “Let me show you how sorry I am,” he murmured, looking into those beautiful puppydog eyes.

Quentin stroked Eliot’s corset, seeming to tremble a little. He brought his hands up to stroke Eliot’s chest, toying with the hair there. “I get it that I’m not really… that you’d think… but then I thought maybe you just wanted an out, and… but you did this for me? All this?”

He tugged at the laces on the back of the corset, then slid his hands over Eliot’s ass, bringing him closer. Quentin leaned in and pressed their lips together. “I don’t want another life partner. I just want to love you.”

Eliot’s stomach somersaulted at those words, and for a moment he thought he might vomit, but then he wrapped his arms around Quentin and clung. “I’m not good at this, Quentin. I—In this timeline, this me… I’m not—But if you’re only asking for a chance, I can give you that much.”

Swallowing his anxiety, Eliot focused on Quentin’s hands on his bare cheeks, on Quentin’s mouth against his, and he remembered what Margo had told him about reserving a dick.

Flexing his ass under Quentin’s hands, Eliot kissed him slow and thorough, licking out his mouth and purring his contentment at their closeness. Then, pitched low and soft, he said, “I really am sorry, Q. I was… I don’t want to think about what I was. But I hurt you, and I meant to hurt you. Let me make it up to you.”

Quentin relaxed a little, leaning into the kisses and stroking Eliot’s body. “You wanted me to back off. I know it’s… You can have anyone really. We were on a mission, and it wasn’t fair to assume it was anything more for you. Or that it would translate. But I love you. I still feel it, and I don’t know how not to. I can’t just shut it off. That’s not your fault.”

“Q,” Eliot whined, overwhelmed and lost in Quentin’s expression of emotions. “That’s intense, Q. You’re so intense, and I—”

But at the same time, Eliot loved it. He loved being loved. He loved Quentin’s hands on him, Quentin’s sweet, uncertain voice that turned so confident and clear when he spoke like that. It raised goosebumps on Eliot’s skin, dizzied him, left him drunk on Quentin and utterly directionless, aching for Quentin to carry him away in that intensity.

“Fuck me,” he managed, strangled. He reached for his seductive wiles, the sexy persona that let him put comfortable distance between himself and other people. Tilting his head to the side, he pulled back, hands hooked behind Quentin’s neck as he put the rest of himself on display. “Don’t I look pretty? I dressed up just for you. All for you. Out of all the beds in Fillory, I’m in yours. Don’t leave me lonely.”

“You look amazing. Never thought of you in… but… You’re so sexy, but you know that.” Quentin started undoing his pants. It didn’t seem like there were as many layers to those, which was good. “I just… I know I’m intense, I’m being intense, but you died. And I can’t remember if I said… if I told you… I think you knew. I hope you knew.”

Quentin shook out of his pants, leaving him naked. He took a step back to see Eliot from the front and let out a fluttering sigh as his gaze rested briefly on the front of Eliot’s thong and how his erection distended it.

Nude, Quentin’s interest was obvious. His cock jutted from his body, and there was something thrilling and strangely familiar about seeing him naked like this.

Then Quentin climbed onto the bed with Eliot, pulling him in for a deep, sucking kiss, claiming and filled with lust and affection. He grabbed Eliot’s ass again, pulling him in so that their bodies slid together. “Tell me how much you want me to fuck you, El. Tell me you need it.”

Eliot sighed and melted against Quentin, letting himself sink into the moment, into meeting Quentin’s simpler, more basic needs, the ones Eliot was capable of fulfilling. “Want you to fuck me,” he whispered against Quentin’s mouth between kisses. “Need you to take what you want from me. Let me make it up to you. This is… This is the only way I know how to show you.”

His voice grew increasingly desperate as he rubbed against Quentin and tangled his fingers in Q’s hair. “Just fuck me, Q. Just let me feel you. Words are… But this I can handle. I’ll take whatever you give me, however you want to give it to me. I just want you. I can’t—You can’t leave without letting me make this right.”

“You don’t owe me anything, Eliot. Least of all your body. If you want to do this, then I want to do it, but I don’t… you don’t have to apologize for not feeling the same way. I’ve… I’ve done that and felt that, and it’s… It’s not right. If you want to do this because you’re horny or bored or whatever, I’d rather just do it for those reasons than my feelings somehow being your fault.” Quentin sat back on his heels and gazed down at Eliot, hand still sliding over his leg.

He definitely loved the fishnets. It was about all that gave Eliot confidence to stick this out.

“I don’t owe you my body, Q, but I want to share it with you. I want you to… I want to be close to you, and I don’t know how to…” Eliot fought against the urge to bolt, focusing on the way Quentin was looking at him, the way Quentin so obviously wanted this. But Q was a good guy. He’d never take advantage.

It only made Eliot want him more.

Reaching for Quentin’s chin, Eliot tipped up his face and leaned in to kiss him, rough and hungry, and then straddled his lap. “I want you, Quentin. You’re… We shared a lifetime. We… No one else will ever understand. I don’t know how to get that back, and I don’t know if I can… I don’t know if this me can handle it, but I miss it, Q.”

Plaintive, looking into Quentin’s eyes, Eliot whispered, “I just want you inside me. Get rough with me. Mark me.”

Quentin gazed back at Eliot, his eyes filling up again, and then he grabbed Eliot hard by the nape and pulled him in to kiss him. It was more purposeful now, a little harder though not mean. There was something sweet and loving about Q even when he was being a little rough.

“I’ve already left my mark on you, haven’t I, Eliot?” There was something very assured in the way he said it, and it felt almost like a gut punch, mostly because it was so true.

“No matter what happens in the future, we had what we had, and nothing can change it. Even if we can’t repeat it, it’s ours.” Quentin slid his hand down the front of Eliot’s thong and gripped his cock roughly. He closed his eyes and let out a soft little moan as if it was all he really wanted, just to touch Eliot.

Had anyone ever touched him so reverently?

But then Quentin turned Eliot, facing him toward the headboard, and crawled behind him. “Grab the bed posts and don’t let go of them unless I tell you to.”

The bottom dropped out of Eliot’s stomach in the best way, and he obeyed without question, smiling to himself as he stretched out and curled his fingers around the bed posts with particular grace, putting on a little show for Quentin. He glanced back at him over his shoulder then, admiring the firm set of Quentin’s jaw, the steely look in his eye, the newly found confidence he brought to bear.

“I like you this way,” Eliot murmured encouragingly, pushing his ass back at Quentin to see what he’d do.

Quentin smacked Eliot’s ass hard. The sound reverberated off the stone walls. It was a sharp, almost perfect pain. Quentin smoothed his fingers over it, massaging the pain away with feather-light touches. Then he slapped Eliot’s ass again, and it was the most delicious feeling.

It was hardly Eliot’s first spanking. He’d played all kinds of games over the years, but this was Quentin. And he loved Quentin, whether or not he admitted it out loud.

Maybe in love? That was trickier and hard to answer. But Eliot had genuine feelings for him, feelings that made Eliot want things he wasn’t sure he was capable of.

But Quentin had said that didn’t even matter. That he loved Eliot. They did share that lifetime, memories that seemed to come and go, drifting in and out of their minds in dreams or déjà vu.

This had felt new, even for that fifty years.

Quentin slapped Eliot’s other ass cheek, jolting him from his thoughts, and then teased the sore skin.

How did he strike so perfectly? Instinct? Practice?

There was a lot about Quentin Eliot didn’t know.

Then Quentin pulled down Eliot’s thong, hobbling him at the knees.

As Eliot started to lift himself for Quentin to pull them off, Quentin stopped him. “No. I want you just like this. You said rough.”

Eliot shivered and moaned softly, excitement ratcheting up about a million notches. He’d never really experienced this side of Quentin, and it was fucking thrilling.

“Yeah? You gonna make me beg?” Eliot pushed back against Quentin again, inviting more attention, and arched his back as much as he could in that corset. It kept him from bending as easily, and it kept him from breathing as easily as well, but Eliot figured Quentin could take it off if his plans for Eliot involved spinal flexibility and deep breathing.

Besides, panting and sounding breathy fit the sex kitten role Eliot was hamming up right now, and he was kind of living for it. He hadn’t realized making Quentin feel seduced and powerful would make Eliot feel seduced and powerful. It was potent stuff.

“Let’s hear you beg, High King Eliot.” There was something playful about Q’s tone, still sweet even when he slapped Eliot’s ass again. Then he paused, and Eliot heard the whisper of Quentin’s movement, a tut he must’ve remembered from that previous life, one he would’ve learned from Eliot because it was Eliot’s own special invention to prep and lube.

But this side of Quentin seemed unfamiliar, even with what Eliot remembered. Was it because Eliot had died? And Quentin had died, too; that was what Margo said the note read. Now they were back, and Quentin was… what? Braver? More self-assured?

Quentin moved behind Eliot and kissed his neck as his smooth, lubed fingers slid down the cleft of Eliot’s ass, centering in on his slick opening. “Is this what you want, your majesty?”

“Yes,” Eliot agreed, pressing back into Quentin’s touch, already clenching around nothing, so eager it might’ve been embarrassing. But it wasn’t. It was perfect. “I want you. You can tell, can’t you? Just looking at me, you know I need it. I was waiting for you in your bed, all tarted up, just hoping you’d use me.”

Swaying a little, tempting Quentin with the silky brush of long, stocking-clad legs, Eliot kept talking. “Please, Quentin. Need you inside me. Just give me something. Please, Q. Fuck me, please. Just fucking fuck me.”

Quentin slid two fingers inside Eliot, leaning in to rest his head on Eliot’s shoulder. “This queer enough for you now, El? This what you were worried I wouldn’t do? Wouldn’t want to do?”

He kissed Eliot’s neck, trailing up to just behind his ear, and then he bit down, leaving a mark somewhere that might be harder to hide. He gave Eliot another hard bite in the crook of his neck as Quentin moved a third finger into him.

“Trust me, Eliot. I want to do this. I need this.” Pulling Eliot down into a deeper kneel, Quentin straddled Eliot’s hobbled legs and pulled his fingers free. Another tut, and then Quentin ran his hard cock between Eliot’s cheeks, centering the blunt head against his opening. “Tell me you want it. Tell me you know I want you, that you know this is real.”

“I do know,” Eliot whispered, skin burning hot all over his body. His hole grasped pointlessly at Quentin’s cock, like it could somehow drag him inside, and Eliot’s erection hung thick and heavy between his stockinged legs. “I didn’t—I never thought you wouldn’t—”

He cut himself off, somewhere between misery and anticipatory ecstasy. “I thought you’d always choose a woman over me, if you had the choice,” he confessed, ashamed he’d gotten it so wrong. “I didn’t think you’d—but you love me, and I don’t even know what to do with that except just…”

Breaths shaky, Eliot pushed back against the pressure of Quentin’s tip, groaning open-mouthed at the feel of it, at how desperately he wanted it. He gripped the bedposts tighter, flexing his fingers around them as he worked his corseted core, trying to entice Q.

“I want you, Q. I want you so fucking much. I know you mean it. I know. I just…” He exhaled roughly and closed his eyes, trying to center himself in the moment, in the glorious now. “Fuck your feelings into me, yeah? Just show me. Show me you’d choose me, fucked up as I am. Show me you don’t care I can’t—Just show me it’s okay.”

Quentin wrapped his arms around Eliot’s waist, resting his hands on his hipbones, his chest to Eliot’s back. Then he thrust, sliding deep into Eliot, giving him everything he wanted and more. Quentin held him there, staying deep, breathing against Eliot’s nape.

Then he bit Eliot’s nape, sending a shock through him. There was something so feral about it, something that spoke not just to Eliot’s cock but his lizard brain. It burst across his senses, arousal and the urge to be possessed.

Being Eliot was his greatest creative project. He’d controlled all aspects of people’s perceptions of him. But he hadn’t left much room to be vulnerable, let alone loved. Not beyond Margo, and even that relationship was growing distant and difficult.

It hurt, and part of Eliot wanted to shut it all down, be High King, and control everything. But then here was Quentin, agent of chaos that he’d been from the start, and he was so sure.

Quentin slid back and thrust again, hard, their bodies slapping together. Quentin sucked that spot on Eliot’s neck, probably leaving a bruise, and changed his grip, releasing his crossed arms to grasp Eliot’s hips as he pulled back again. He was watching himself slide into Eliot, moving to part Eliot’s cheeks as if he needed the reassurance of seeing his cock forcing its way into that tight space, made all the tighter by Eliot being hobbled.

But now Quentin spread Eliot’s cheeks wide and built a steadier rhythm, pulling Eliot down onto him, forcing Eliot to hold tight to the bedposts to keep from being pulled off-balance. He groaned shamelessly as Quentin speared into him again and again, letting Quentin hear his pleasure, his excitement. It was everything he’d wanted when he came to Quentin’s room, more than he’d expected, and his chest felt tight with a welter of conflicting impulses.

“Q,” he gasped as he gripped the bedposts and bounced on Quentin’s cock, meeting every thrust eagerly and angling his hips just right to get the pressure where he wanted it. It felt so good to be full of Quentin, to be connected like this again, and Eliot knew he couldn’t keep this, couldn’t have this—his life would never be this simple in Fillory, never give him room to fall in love—but gods, he fucking wanted it. In this moment, it seemed so clear.

He loved Quentin. He wanted Quentin.

He fucked him hard and deep and then Quentin wrapped his arm around Eliot to grab Eliot’s cock, hand still lubed from before, slippery and perfect and Eliot could see that chasm of feeling that he’d allowed himself to feel in Fillory when they had their lives to themselves. He let himself be filled with it, to really know how he had worked with Quentin.

Proof of concept.

They worked.

Not that it mattered in this life, in the way their lives were headed. But then, Quentin was a king and maybe, maybe after they’d saved Fillory. Maybe after they fixed things somehow with the fairies. Maybe he could have this, at least sometimes.

Eliot had wanted the feeling fucked into him and now he had that and it was terrifying and thrilling. His warmed ass cheeks were getting spanked again, repeatedly by Quentin’s hips. It added a tinge of pain to the pleasure, an edge that Quentin added to with another bite on his other shoulder now.

“Tell me you feel it, El. Tell me you know. Then show me. Come for me.”

It built in Eliot’s corset-strictured chest, too much to express, too much to withstand. He closed his eyes and tried to ride it out, but every stroke of Quentin’s slick fingers, every delicious fucking thrust had him balancing on a blade’s edge he couldn’t walk for long.

“I feel it,” he whispered, voice raw with emotion he always tried so hard to suppress. “I feel it, Q. I feel it. I know. I know. Just…”

He felt helpless with it, overwhelmed, and choked on a sob as he shook with sensation. Quentin worked him just right, just fucking right, like he remembered everything from their lifetime together, and Eliot’s insides clutched around Quentin’s cock desperately, needing him more than Eliot would ever admit.

The climax tore through him in waves, pulsing outward from his cock, from his balls, flooding through him with irresistible force until he could only cling to the bedposts and rock against Quentin as he groaned and gasped and fought to breathe deeply enough.

Quentin milked him as he let out a shout and bit Eliot’s shoulder again, this time holding on as his thrusts grew wild and erratic. Eliot lost his grip on the bedposts as Quentin pulled him down harder, losing all reserve as he came.

They fell back on the bed, Quentin still finishing inside him, clutching Eliot tight until he finally slowed, stopped, and then tilted his hips back to carefully slide out of him.

“Can you breathe? You need me to get you out of the corset?” Quentin ran his hands over it and over Eliot’s chest, seeming in no hurry to move Eliot’s weight off him.

“Yeah, unlace me,” Eliot gasped, breathless and still reeling, vaguely aware of Quentin’s spunk seeping from him. An embarrassing urge struck him to stuff his fingers in himself and keep it inside.

“I want your skin against mine,” he said instead, because it was less raw, less humiliating. He turned his head to look at Quentin, and he could feel himself making heart eyes at him, but he couldn’t stop himself and he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He wanted Quentin to know, even if Eliot couldn’t tell him, even if maybe they’d never get a chance to make something of these feelings.

Quentin untied the knot and pulled the laces, going down the line to give Eliot space to take a deep breath. He turned Eliot over to face him and then cupped his face to kiss him deeply, their tongues sliding together as if forming words that neither of them dared to say aloud.

They kissed for a while, pausing to catch their breath and then kissing again, just for the simple joy of touching and feeling.

Like lovers do.

Quentin smoothed back Eliot’s hair while they kissed and further loosened the corset. He massaged Eliot’s arms tenderly after the strain of having them pulled.

Then, finally, Quentin broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to Eliot’s. “You don’t have to say yes; just don’t say no. We’ll just… when we can. And do what needs to be done. And you’ll just know.”

He put his hand over Eliot’s chest where his heart beat so loudly Quentin had to hear it.

Quentin took Eliot’s hand and put it over his chest. “And I’ll know.”

Eliot didn’t know what to say, too scared and small inside to withstand the emotional hurricane battering at him. He exhaled shakily and nodded, flexing his fingers against Quentin’s pec and gazing into his eyes.

“That’s—I can do that,” he finished after a few moments. Searching Quentin’s face, he worried at his lips and then leaned in and kissed him again.

Quentin kissed him back, triggering so many memories, vague but filled with love. Hundreds and thousands of kisses. Quick ones, lingering ones, lusty ones. Kisses over a lifetime. They had worked as a couple, at least once.

Breaking the kiss, Quentin just held Eliot, as if he was trying to imprint this moment to remember forever. Q was always so sweet.

Then Quentin whispered, “Thank you.”

Eliot tried to say something, but he only made a little choked sound and burrowed into Quentin’s neck, hiding his face as his expression contorted through infinite emotions. Everything he felt for Q, for this life, for the life they’d had… He couldn’t hold it back; it was too much, and he was too vulnerable, and it flowed over him like water, washing away his affectations.

Quentin just held him, smoothing his hair back, pressing kisses to his temple. Whispering soothing words. “You are loved, Eliot. So loved. No matter what else happens, we were married, okay? We’re family.”

“We raised a son together,” Eliot whispered, awestruck by that, hardly able to give it voice. “We were… For fifty years.”

He breathed deeply, holding Q tight, and tried in vain to wrap his head around everything they’d been to one another, once. It felt so distant most of the time, like a childhood song, but when Quentin hummed the melody… It came rushing back, so immediate and soul-shaking Eliot couldn’t look Quentin in the eye.

But he lifted his head, seeking more kisses, blindly lipping along Quentin’s jaw, his chin. “Q…”

Eliot tasted the tears that had run down Quentin’s cheeks, salty and sweet, and knew those memories had hit him the same way. It was like grief, because what could they do about it? But it also felt like a shorthand that would always exist between them.

There always had been that feeling, like a crush. An affinity between them. Now it was grounded in something solid. Before, there was something electric between them that felt like fate, and now there was this beautiful past.

“We’ll have to be stronger this time in some ways,” Quentin said. “There will be more than one quest keeping us apart, quests that mean one of us must go sometimes. But we had a son. We’ve had a life. I’d like another. Let’s leave that door open for now, yeah?”

Eliot met his gaze at last and nodded, scraping his guts to answer aloud, “Yes. Let’s.”

Smiling, letting go of the weight of the past, Eliot tossed aside his corset and peeled off the tiny lacy thong. Then he settled in comfortably against Quentin’s pillows and stretched out. “You have to leave with the morning tide, but there’s no reason I can’t spend the rest of the night right here.”

“Really? I’d love that.” Quentin sniffed, the only other sign he’d been overcome with emotion as well, and hugged him tightly. “It’s your kingly right, of course. I am but a humble guard and seaman. Secret king….” Quentin grinned. “Swashbuckler.”

“I’ve got a swash you can buckle,” Eliot teased, wrapping his legs around Quentin and kissing him gently. “All. Night. Long.” He hesitated a moment, the comfort of his seductive persona warring with the very different comforts of memory. Then, quietly, he said, “I always liked sleeping in your bed.”

“It was our bed.” Quentin grinned, his eyes sparkling as if at the fondest of memories. He rolled on top of Eliot, straddling his body. “If you leave it up to me, there won’t be much sleeping.”

Eliot smirked. “I was counting on that.”