Eliot has a stunning bower. Like, Lord of the Rings: the Return of the King (2003) levels of production quality, Bollywood historical drama level opulence, absolutely problematic caveman levels of soft furnishings in which to hold Eliot down and fuck and bite and protect what’s ours—
It’s a good nest, okay? And Eliot knows. God, does he know that just letting Quentin in to snuggle while they do their class reading in this perfectly formed queen-sized burrow of Jersey cotton and beaded silk canopies and strange furs that cannot possibly have come from somewhere as mundane as IKEA makes him want to purr and prowl and roll over to reveal his soft underbelly. Eliot likes that, likes that Quentin appreciates the privilege of cuddling (and making out, and fucking) in his nest. He wants him there, with him. Eliot wants at least some form of Quentin in his nest permanently, and Quentin knows this because if he were to dig around in the softness (which he would never do, an Omega’s bower is a sacred construction), Quentin would find one of his raggiest sweatshirts, nestled in beside Eliot’s own clothes and Margo’s second favorite bathrobe.
Knowing that is one fucking hell of a feeling. It’s a feeling Quentin’s waited for his whole life for. A feeling Eliot sauntered in and bestowed upon him like the benevolent despot he knows he is.
Case in point, the origins of the sweatshirt gifting:
“Can I have that?”
Quentin finishes pulling his hoodie over his head, pushing his hair out of his eyes. It’s three PM on a Tuesday, and Quentin and Eliot have been fucking for about three weeks. Fucking with feelings. Fucking with “Getting to know each other but also we already live in the same house and also you smell so good” kind of feelings.
Anyway, Quentin just came in from a run. Margo and Eliot are on the love seat sharing a vape (no one’s perfect) with some variety of Josh’s non-FDA juice. Eliot is barely looking at him. It takes Quentin a second to realize Eliot even spoke. Or to take in his outstretched hand.
It’s casual. Elegant. Can I have that?
“Uh, this?” Quentin holds up the aforementioned garment. “It’s kind of sweaty.”
It’s a good thing you’re cute, says Eliot’s expression, still absolutely nonchalant. “Yes, I’m aware.”
Behind him on the loveseat, Margo’s eyes are absolutely murderous as she silently communicates to Quentin give him the sweatshirt you unbelievable moron so clearly Quentin has to wonder if she’s using telepathy. She uses her vape pen to jab at the offending clothing article and then upstairs, which after several repetitions manages to penetrate even Quentin’s level of instinctual dumbassery.
“Oh, for your— oh. Yes. Um...yes! Definitely. Here. All yours.”
Quentin practically shoves the hoodie in Eliot’s arms. Trying to be cool. Should he be cool? Is this a cool thing, or a serious thing? Should he be on one knee? Should he scent it?
Eliot ignores Quentin’s crisis and snatches up the sweatshirt. Without another word he trots up the stairs like a Yorkie with a stolen sock, practically thrumming with glee, and Quentin can only listen with his heart racing to the symphony of rustles, chimes, and soft contented Omega huffs emanating from Eliot’s open bedroom door as part of Quentin—him! Quentin Makepeace Coldwater!— is woven into Eliot Waugh’s legendary bower.
So that, you know, pretty much gives the status quo of things.
Quentin is very aware that he isn’t porn’s idea of an impressive Alpha. He’s a nurturer , he’s been informed by more than one cheerfully condescending guidance counselor.
(“He’s a nurturer,” Eliot sighs blissfully to Margo, all three of them buzzed in the smoke hazy common room. Quentin tucks that away, cheeks warm as he burrows into Eliot’s side and lets himself be distracted by how sparkly Margo’s earrings are.)
Whatever non-porno version of an Alpha Quentin is, Eliot has selected him, and four months later they’re still going strong. Eliot, whose every idiosyncratic whim is a firework, a cinnamon candy burning Quentin’s tongue; every smile and pout a drop of cool rain against his overheated skin. Eliot whines and it’s Quentin who wants nothing more than to show his throat.
This is the happiest Quentin has ever been. This is the happiest Quentin ever will be, for however long it lasts, because Quentin has magic. He’s in a good place with his meds, aided by the aforementioned magic to all but eliminate pesky side effects. But more than any of that, Quentin is happy because against all odds, it turns out Quentin is Eliot Waugh’s preferred alpha company.
His lover, Eliot drawls with sadistic glee.
His boyfriend, Quentin can barely whisper without going beet red and growly with pleasure.
Yeah. Things are good.
In times of trouble: heat fic. Hope you all enjoy! Comments will be wrapped in puff pastry and baked until crisp and golden brown for a tasty morning snack.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Amidst the serene quiet of January break, Quentin is called upon to perform an Alpha’s most sacred duty. He’s coming back from the library, taking advantage of the almost empty stacks to get ahead of the killer Kinetic spell work seminar he’s in for next semester. Arms full of books, he comes up the stairs, and hears the soft thump of footprints on the other side of Eliot’s door as he passes.
A pause. The door creaks open and Eliot is revealed, eyes bright and fixed on Quentin.
“Yeah.” Quentin breathes in Eliot’s scent, always welcome even after an hour apart in the quest for library books. Spicy and sweet. ...very sweet. Sweeter than usual. “Hi,” he says, pheromones stealing every brain cell out of his head, as usual.
Eliot is fresh from the bath, wrapped in one of his flimsier robes. Barely wrapped. Wrapped in the perilous sense that indicates Eliot very much intends to be unwrapped in the near future.
Quentin drags his gaze up from the deep v that drapes open nearly to Eliot’s navel. “Sorry. I’m listening.”
Quentin’s voice is mostly alpha rumble, ending on a squeak as he tries to clear his throat. Eliot’s gaze is kind. Sympathetic. He is, after all, doing this to Quentin on purpose.
“I’m going into heat.” Eliot informs him, like he’s announcing the weather. “Shortly.”
“Oh.” Quentin’s mouth is dry staring at the flush on Eliot’s cheeks. The extra gloss and bounce to his curls. The barely there sheen of oil at his throat. I will give you strong and healthy offspring! shouts every visible inch of Eliot’s beautiful glowing skin. It’s not as if Quentin hasn’t noticed that time of the season approaching, but it would have been the height of presumption to—“Um.”
Eliot’s teeth graze his own bottom lip as his mouth gives way to a half grin. His lashes flutter a bit as he hums. “Mhm.”
“Okay, then you should let me know how I can—“ provide “—help! How I can help, or if—I mean, anything you need—“
Eliot leans against the door frame, eyes hooded as Quentin peters out. His robe is...short. Sheer. Distractingly so.
“Anything I need.” Eliot taps his index finger against his lips. “Hm…”
“I wasn’t assuming—“
This time it’s Quentin’s lips covered by Eliot’s finger. With his other hand he pushes the door to his room fully open.
“Quentin. Get in the nest.”
Quentin literally drops the books he was carrying.
Visibly pleased at Quentin’s promptness, Eliot guides him into the room with a hand at the small of his back. The scent wallops him immediately. He thought he could smell Eliot in the hall, but he’d forgotten how good the pheromone insulation is in their separate bedrooms. Eliot has been getting ready for him in here, getting rid of all other conflicting scents and marking his territory. He’s already jerked off a few times too, by the smell of it. It’s like the sex equivalent of walking into a pattiserie at seven AM and the air is so thick with fresh baked bread you can stick out your tongue and taste it.
Quentin is breathing hard. He makes it about two steps in, kicking off his shoes, before Eliot’s hand is flat on his chest.
“This.” He indicates Quentin’s waffle knit Henley. “Smells like other people.”
Quentin shoves his nose in his own collar, and recalls, oh yeah, that one overly familiar work study at the library had braced her hand on Quentin’s shoulder as she climbed down from the stack ladders. Compared to the sheer saturation in here Quentin can barely make it out.
Eliot just waits.
“Oh. Yeah, got it.” Quentin peels off the shirt. Eliot takes it from him, pinched between two fingers, as though he wants to touch it as little as possible, and quietly deposits the offending clothing outside the door.
People will be able to smell that, Quentin thinks with a little frisson of pleasure. Not the library worker. Him. Left outside Eliot’s door. Like he’s—hnnng—guarding him. Making it clear to other alphas this heat bower is occupied.
Eliot’s fingers trace the edge of the scent gland on Quentin’s neck as he returns. Whatever he sees on Quentin’s face he must like, because he smiles, small and private and proprietary.
“Instinct feels nice sometimes, doesn’t it, sweetheart?”
Quentin reaches out to play with the tie on Eliot’s robe, tipping his chin back so Eliot can bury his face in Quentin’s throat and breathe in.
Eliot sighs contentedly, having found no other traces of foreign scent on his person. He darts his tongue out to taste the skin behind Quentin’s ear.
“Let’s lay down for a while.”
Omega nests aren’t quite like standard beds. (Some frames come convertible. Unlike Eliot, some Omegas don’t want a permanent bower.) instead of a square mattress the nest is built with a dip like a wide padded hammock, or a shallow mattress-sized papasan chair. So the edges are higher than the middle, perfect for layering up pillows and blankets and other soft things to make a safe enclosed space. Eliot pulls aside part of the canopy to reveal the little dip that serves as a good entry point and guides Quentin into the warm, hazily lit space. He follows him in, carefully tucking the canopy back into place so it’s only the two of them, safe from the world.
As always, some small anxious part of Quentin’s brain unwinds. It’s good, in Eliot’s nest. Secret, today most of all.
“Let me tell you about the hormone soaked dreams I’ve been having the last couple of nights,” Eliot begins, once they’re both burrowed and nestled into the wealth of bedding. Overhead, the ceiling drips with bits of glass and glittering crystal. Magpie shine, to draw a mate. Mission accomplished.
“Tell me.” Quentin is already half pleading, his voice soft in this dim and sacred space. Something primal is curled in him, warm and satisfied. He is fundamentally where he is meant to be in this world.
Eliot curls close into him, whispering into the crook of his jaw like a secret, every inhale a greedy pull of Quentin’s scent.
“I’m under you,” he breathes, the back of his knuckles skimming over the hair on Quentin’s chest. Back and forth, up and down. “I’m under you and —hm—mounted. Like I presented just so pretty I short circuited every bit of Omega rights critical theory clear out of that little head of yours.”
“That’s a lot of theory.”
Eliot’s grin is sly and absolutely certain as he drawls: “I give a beautiful presentation.”
Quentin is noticeably getting hard. “I believe you.”
Eliot rests his chin on Quentin’s left pectoral. “So there I am—“ He licks his lips. “—pinned, like I should be, and you are just so deep in me, giving me that gorgeous little cock right where I need it.”
Saliva pools in Quentin’s mouth. His jaw aches.
“Am I—is it good for you?” He asks. Am I good for you?
“Oh yes,” Eliot purrs. “Fucking me so sweet, telling me how pretty I am—“
“You are pretty.”
“I know.” Eliot’s robe just happens to slip off his left shoulder. He licks a clean stripe up Quentin’s pec, exposing the long line of his throat before nuzzling into Quentin’s shoulder. “But you tell me anyway, how good I am, squeezing your knot while you hold me down and make me take it—“
“My little alpha.” Eliot is panting now. “Breeding me like I need.”
His voice is practically a growl, and Quentin tips his head back to submit with an animal whine. Anything, anything Eliot wants, it’s his. And Eliot knows .
“Fill me up,” Eliot demands, palm pressing flat to Quentin’s chest as he leans over him now. “Fuck me until I beg you to stop and then keep going.”
This seems like a good time for Quentin to roll on top of Eliot and hold him down into the nest with his whole body weight. It’s not everyday that Quentin gets such a clear message from his hind brain, so he obeys. He presses his cock against Eliot’s belly, so he can feel how hard he is for him, and Eliot gets his arms out of the sleeves of his robe in time for Quentin to pin him down by his wrists. Eliot struggles for a breath, and then Quentin watches as his eyes visibly dilate and he goes perfectly slack under him.
Eliot’s chest is soft. Good and masculine and sensitive with the heat. Quentin puts his mouth there for a while before back tracking up to smear his face through the oil shining at Eliot’s throat. He should smell like Eliot. Eliot should definitely smell like him.
Then he kisses him for a while, because this insane arousal is actually slowing them both down. It’s like moving through molten honey, everything warm and soft and golden while Quentin sucks on Eliot’s tongue and grinds their cocks together through his sweatpants.
“Yes.” Eliot looks drugged, his mouth red from nuzzling into Quentin’s prickly cheek between deep slick kisses. “You know what to do. I knew you would. Knew you’d be so perfect for me.”
“Want to be good.” Eliot is so gorgeous. He tastes so good. He smells so good.
“You will be,” Eliot promises. “My Q. My alpha.”
Quentin lets Eliot go and back off of him. He lets him go so he can tug his sweatpants down his legs, his boxers coming along with. His cock slaps against his belly, wet. Ready for his mate.
“Present,” Quentin growls, then shakes the Alpha loose for a second to plead, practically on his knees: “Please, El, let me see. Show me.”
Eliot moves like a pool of mercury, eyes bright as he rolls onto his belly. His knees spread and he arches his back, the fast puff of his panting breath the only sound in the room. Eliot presses the side of his face into the silk of his abandoned robe, tipping his chin up as far as he can to bare his throat. His cock is flushed and hard. His inner thighs are wet with slick.
Quentin tried to remember any of his Omega rights critical theory. It’s gone. Obliterated. His mate needs mounting. Eliot needs him.
Quentin’s next moment of awareness is Eliot’s sharp yelp. It dissolves into a shuddering moan as Quentin hitches his hips forward into tight, wet heat.
Okay, then. Quentin plasters himself against Eliot’s back and ruts in until Eliot is completely sheathed on his cock. He’s so much taller, he could probably throw Quentin off in a second, but he doesn’t. He wants to be pinned. Eliot wants Quentin to hold him down and fuck him. He’s allowed.
“So wet,” Quentin slurs, easing out just to fuck back in hard and hear the slap and squelch of it.
“All for you.” Quentin can hear the smile in Eliot’s voice. The relief. The need. “Knot me, Alpha.”
Quentin has never really considered himself a natural at sex, but for Eliot he can be one. Everything with Eliot is easy, or at least hard in a way that feels good. Like working a muscle until it’s strong and flexible. The last four months, Quentin thinks, have been that exercise leading up to this. It’s all been leading up to the feel good, sweaty, good work lactic acid feeling of getting as absolutely close and deep into Eliot as he can. To pushing Eliot facedown into the bed and giving him everything he needs until he’s begging.
Quentin doesn’t want to pull out—it’s like grief, abandonment, no matter how quick—but he has to so he can fuck in again and again, tugging Eliot back to meet every thrust with a bruising grip on his hips. The air punches out of Eliot lungs— uh uh uh— every time Quentin bottoms out. The nest is muggy, saturated with their combined scent and sweat and thick mating pheromones. It’s heaven.
“Gonna knot,” Quentin gasps, grabbing Eliot’s shoulder when his grip gets too slick.
“Yesss.” Eliot spreads his legs wider and arches into the thickening base of Quentin’s cock. “Want it.”
Quentin tips forward so he can pin Eliot into the bedding with all his bodyweight, arm braced across his shoulders as Quentin huffs and thrusts and works himself in until his knot takes and Eliot, his free hand working himself desperately, comes with a shuddering groan. Quentin yelps at the sudden tight hot wet squeeze around his knot and bites—not a bond, not a bond but oh that would be so good —into the meat of Eliot’s shoulder. Eliot hisses, clenching down impossibly tighter, and Quentin comes, pouring into Eliot like a pot boiling over.
“Good,” Eliot purrs, chest still heaving. “So good.”
It takes an hour for Quentin’s knot to go down. He’s never, never lasted like this before, but Eliot doesn’t seem to be complaining. They spoon on their sides, Quentin whimpering through the orgasms as he fills Eliot until he’s so oversensitive he thinks he might pass out. He manages to keep his wits enough to pet at Eliot’s cock and nibble at his scent gland so his Omega comes as often as he does. Eliot dozes a little. He’s going to need more rest than Quentin. More calories and fluids. Quentin will handle it somehow. For now he just holds Eliot into the crook of his body where they’re joined and let’s himself drift on the low steady rumble of Eliot’s purr.
When they finally do slip apart, it’s kind of a mess.
“You came in me so much.” Eliot is effervescent, practically wriggling with content as they lay there sweat soaked and sticky. Quentin watches, limbs slack, as Eliot drains an electrolyte juice box with one hand and draws his fingers between his thighs with the other, giving a pleased and oversensitive little hum and playing with the come and slick leaking out of him. He finds a sensitive place and whimpers a little, biting down on the plastic bendy straw.
“Too hard?” Quentin asks heart in his throat.
Eliot shakes his head, relaxing as he moves on exploring. “Perfect. You fucked it so good, sweetheart. Made me all messy.”
Quentin breathes in Eliot’s pheromones like a reward. Gold star on fucking his Omega into the mattress. Let the seratonin flow. He’s so fucking blissed out on Eliot fingering himself, he almost doesn’t notice when the empty juice box is tossed aside and he’s presented with a gift.
“Taste.” Eliot nudges two fingers at Quentin’s lips, covered in slick and come. Quentin’s eyes nearly roll back in his head as he licks the offering of Eliot’s fingers, letting him press them hard against the back of his tongue.
“Yeah. Little alpha likes that, hm?”
Quentin can only whine until Eliot grins and benevolently guides Quentin’s head between his thighs. In a matter of seconds Eliot is flat on his back and the nest is full of the sounds of Quentin’s eager tongue in Eliot’s hole and pleasured Omega whimpers.
Next up: heat winds down. Fantasy winds up.
Part 3! I have a potential second part to this series rattling around in my brain (afterall, even magical birth control is only 99.9% effective) but we'll see if I can get through finals week first lol. Enjoy all! Comments will be strung like glass beads onto a delicate gold chain so I can enjoy how they shimmer in the light.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
It was just a little cat nap. Alphas don’t need to sleep as much when their Omegas are in heat, bodies keeping them ready to provide and serve, but with his heat finally tapering off Eliot sleeps a full four hours. Quentin’s been so good—he’s come so many times —if he can just close his eyes, for like a half hour—
Quentin wakes up to the wet heat of Eliot’s mouth on his cock. He’s— ah— still soft, and he twitches painfully against Eliot’s tongue. Quentin is wrung out, giving knot after knot as Eliot growls and pleads and spreads his knees in demand. Here in the wind down, getting hard is walking the razor’s edge of too much.
Eliot pulls off when Quentin whines, but only so he can bow his head and work his hand between his legs until he returns to stroke Quentin with a handful of his own slick. It’s—oh god, it hurts—but it’s good too and Quentin moans raggedly as against all odds he starts to stiffen in the wet circle of Eliot’s fist.
“Shh, puppy, just one more.” Eliot’s voice is shaky and desperate, but proud. So proud of Quentin. “I just need one more good knot.”
Eliot strokes him and sucks on his balls until Quentin is fully hard, and then Eliot sits on his cock. Without ceremony.
“Oh, god. Eliot— fuck—“
“Shh, Alpha.” Eliot circles his hips, Quentin balls deep inside his slick channel. This isn’t going to be Quentin’s proudest show of stamina, but Eliot’s been on a hair trigger since last night. Sometimes a round takes two hours, sometimes Eliot can barely get on Quentin’s dick without coming all over them both, needy and oversensitive.
Judging by the way Eliot’s eyes roll back in his head when he starts riding, they’re a little closer to hair trigger than two hour marathon.
“Pretty Q, fucking me so good,” he breathes, forcing his hips down hard and fast onto Quentin’s cock. “Gonna fill me up again?”
“Yeah.” Quentin holds on, grounding Eliot’s hips, helping him rise and fall as much as he can from flat on his back. When he looks up from where they’re joined, Eliot is looking at him, eyes a little glassy and a lot hungry.
“We’d make such pretty pups.”
Quentin isn’t sure if he actually heard those words out of Eliot’s mouth or if he’s actually fucked himself into a coma and this is his fantasy dream life. But his quads are too sore for this to be a dream. Eliot fucks himself onto Quentin’s dick, crying out, hands trembling a little where they’re braced on Quentin’s chest.
“Just pretend,” Eliot pleads, on the edge of desperation. “I did the spells, I swear, but just pretend.”
“Alpha.” Eliot whines, dragging Quentin’s square hand to press to his flat, sweat damp belly.
Oh fuck. Oh god. This is like, the deepest, darkest, secret alpha fantasy box that the lid stays on because Eliot is beautiful and smells good but he’s a person, and a leader, and Quentin is a feminist—
“Gorgeous,” Quentin gasps. The lid is off the box. Just a crack, just a peek. Just for Eliot, because he needs him. “You’re going to be so beautiful, full of pups, El. Pregnant— jesus —full of me, sweetheart. Filled up like you want.”
Eliot comes, a moan cracking out of him like he’s in pain. He bows forward, gasping, squeezing down on Quentin’s knot until he sees stars.
“Want them,” he pants, blunt nails still sharp on Quentin’s sides as he clings, hips still circling as Quentin swells. “Want yours.”
“Anything you want. Fuck, sweetheart, I’d give you anything.” Eliot claims his mouth, draped over him as his knot locks and Quentin’s jaw aches to bite. All that pale smooth unmarked skin and Eliot wants him, needs him, wants to be full—
Someday, Quentin thinks, delirious, as a final, painful orgasm punches out of him. He clenches his jaw and presses his face to Eliot’s throat like he plans to suffocate there. His seed flows into Eliot, everything he has left. He imagines, someday, that seed taking root, making something new out of them. Eliot chuffs, pleased Omega sounds into Quentin’s hair, and Quentin knows he’s imagining the same thing.
That last knot is something special. It’s only a few minutes—Quentin is really on his last legs, here—but they spend it murmuring sweet primal nothings. Quentin feels shy, again, and Eliot is too, although he carries it better, looking flushed and coquettish. They just stay close, and holding Eliot in his lap while they nuzzle is maybe the most intimate he’s ever felt with another person.
“Thank you,” Quentin whispers, as his knot goes down and he slips free of Eliot’s warm body. Eliot’s eyes are impossibly warm as he presses a kiss to Quentin’s brow.
“Oh, Q. Thank you.”
Eliot dismounts with a sated kind of grace, and shedding his robe he parts the canopy to slip out of the nest and into his ensuite bathroom. Quentin can see the come running down the insides of Eliot’s thighs when he bends over to drink greedily straight from the faucet. I did that, he thinks, smiling like an idiot.
For one bereft, panicked moment Quentin thinks Eliot might be planning to take a shower (Washing off his scent?! Unthinkable.), but Eliot comes back instead, wiping the extra sweat off his face with an unscented makeup remover wipe.
“Miss me, baby?”
“Yes,” Quentin mutters, mournful and pathetic.
Eliot coos at him sympathetically, closing the canopy and burrowing back into the blankets until they’re bundled together, legs twined and nose to nose.
“So good, Q.” Eliot’s eyes are clear, the fever bright glint finally fading. “So good for me, my sweet little alpha. You worked so hard.”
Quentin’s still a little fuzzy, mouth dry and cock sore. He snuffles into Eliot’s throat, cheeks warming at the praise as he takes comfort. He was good. A good alpha. He’d do anything to keep Eliot safe and happy and pleasured. He whines with the bare relief and satisfaction of it.
Eliot pets his hair and lets him feel the rumble of the purr in his throat. “I know, sweetheart.”
Quentin’s limbs are as heavy as lead, but he does his best to stay awake while Eliot makes him drink a whole Powerade and feeds him a packet of almonds.
“Shh,” Eliot coaxes him when Quentin wrinkles his nose, more interested in snuggling Eliot than having a snack. “If you fall asleep without eating you’ll regret it. Have you ever nested through a heat before?”
Quentin shakes his head. The idea seems...off putting. Who else’s heat would he share? He’s here with Eliot.
“That’s okay.” It’s more than okay, going by the gleam in Eliot’s eyes, but he stays focused.
“You’re going to be tired,” Eliot murmurs, still petting him. “Probably crash, for a long time. That’s normal.”
Quentin blinks slowly. He can already feel it coming on. He’s felt it for like the last twelve hours, honestly.
“Okay. I can—“
Quentin makes the barest effort to sit up, to give Eliot his space back, and Eliot’s grip tightens like a warning against the back of Quentin’s neck.
“You can stay here, in our nest,” Eliot says, like Quentin is being slow again. “Where it smells like us and I can take care of you. Where you belong.”
Quentin is so relieved he might actually cry. Our nest. “Okay.”
He can barely hold his head up for the time it takes Eliot to arrange him to his liking. Quentin ends up falling asleep as the little spoon, Eliot’s arms around his middle and his scent all around him as he rubs their jaws together. Marking Quentin. Claiming him, just a little.
“Sweet alpha,” Quentin hears just before he goes dead to the world. “So sweet and just for me.”
His birthday and Christmas, all rolled into one, Quentin thinks as he drifts off. Nothing could be better than being safe and wanted here in Eliot’s bower.
Thanks for reading!
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