It’s a Friday night. Quentin’s showered, shaved and waiting for Margo to get back from dinner with her best friend. It’s his 30th birthday, and Quentin’s his gift.
He’s been thinking about it all day. Margo sent him instructions that morning to put on a cock cage and take a portal into the city at seven, with more instructions left on her kitchen island for him to drool over for when he got there. So after reading that text, Quentin taught his three classes, stumbling over his words with butterflies in his stomach in anticipation for that night. He probably gives terrible advice to the students who stop by for his office hours in his cramped corner of the Physical discipline department.
His first years were happy enough to be dismissed twenty minutes early when Quentin blanked and let them go way before the bell and totally forgot to collect their homework. It was fine. In his days at Brakebills, Quentin would have been the one to snitch and ask if the professor was going to collect their essays, only to slap himself in the forehead about it later when he realized he could have taken the weekend to really dig into his arguments. Luckily, all of Quentin’s students were just thrilled to start their partying even earlier than usual. He vaguely wonders if the Treehouse ever stopped smelling like smoldering rubble after the blowout Josh threw when he graduated. He’s just professionally curious if they party as hard nowadays.
Margo’s place is a huge loft full of glossy furniture with sharp corners and an embiggened closet roughly the size of a city block. Quentin’s kneeling on his cushion by the bed like always. He’d arrived about an hour ago, breaking the wards in the way Margo showed him once she knew he wasn’t gonna rob her blind—about 6 months into their intermittent scenes together—he’s pretty sure that means this is the closest he’ll ever come to being her boyfriend since Margo isn’t really into anything other than domming the hell out of him. Which is fine with him. He doesn’t have to troll the web or clubs when he gets antsy for someone to turn his brain off for a while. If Margo’s around, she’ll gladly invite him over to paddle his ass until he can check out. Then they hop into the bath while she tells him about her own professional annoyances throughout the week. Honestly, he’s a little annoyed that Margo went to school on the West Coast; maybe if she’d been around, he wouldn’t have been such a pent up little rubber band ball.
Well, he probably still would have been pent up all the time, just with more bruises and a preference for leather cuffs over metal.
It’s so bizarre that the best thing to happen from him attending one of Brakebills’ usually terrible mentor networking nights for the free cheese had resulted in having Margo corner him at a high top all while telling him why she’d transferred away her first year just after the trials, “I’m putting together a class action for anyone subjected to dealing with that dick weasel at Brakebills South, BTW.” and just how she’d killed Brakebills’ ass at Welters the next two years for not automatically making her captain when they had the chance. Quentin wasn’t sure how she knew he needed the kind of outlet she could provide, but Margo had ways that couldn’t be quantified, so they’d met for coffee the next week and somehow he ended up here a year and a half later.
The air conditioning is always cranked up so high that Quentin would be shivering if it wasn’t for the black modal robe Margo left for him along with a note to take a shower, work himself open on a thick black plug on the counter, and wait for her on his cushion. He preens at the thought that she doesn’t want to arrive home to him covered in goosebumps with frostbitten nipples. He puts on the blindfold left on the cushion and settles down onto his knees, trying to get his breathing under control. His dick is valiantly trying to get hard, regardless of the pressure of the metal cage trapping him. The plug butting up against his prostate keeps sending little blurts of precome out of his slit.
They’ve never done anything like this before. Quentin’s never even had a threesome. But he’d come inside Margo without permission the moment she’d whispered the word “share” in his ear when he was tied to one of her terrible acrylic dining room chairs after about an eternity of being edged. With that word ringing in his ears, Margo had slapped him on the cheek and pulsed around him until he’d cried against her breasts and begged her to stop. Later, on opposite sides of her massive sunken bathtub, Margo had sketched out her actual idea.
She wanted to give her bestie a cute boy for his birthday. Quentin’s very into the idea of being given. And he trusts Margo. They’re not going to murder him. And if they do, Julia could geolocate him with ease.
Quentin jolts at the sound of the door clicking as it opens. Sweat prickles under his arms. Nails biting into his palms, Quentin relaxes his shoulders as a pair of voices ring out across the apartment, bouncing off all the glass and concrete of the home.
“Hey—grab me a Topo Chico. Put some music on. I’ll be right back!”
“Bossy. Yeah, you got it.”
Heels click against the floor, closer and closer. Quentin tenses despite himself, Margo’s Dior perfume filling his senses seconds before two fingers touch him gently under the chin, guiding his face to her.
“There’s my guy,” Margo says, voice somehow amplified in the blackness behind the blindfold. “Did you follow all my little instructions or will I be disappointed?”
Jesus, he’s so predictable. His stomach swoops. “Yes—I mean, you won’t be disappointed.”
Quentin’s thighs tremble, heart pounding in his chest at just the feeling of Margo’s breath on his cheek as she draws closer, switching her grip to hold his chin in the cradle between her thumb and forefinger. In her grasp, Quentin’s head grows heavier by the second.
“Is that right? You know you’re going to need to be on your best behavior for me tonight.” It’s not a question. He always needs to be a good boy for her. Quentin nods, letting her know he’s checked in. “Quentin, are you still on board with what we discussed?”
Despite the static filling his brain already, Quentin pulls himself together enough to answer her, “Sure. I’m a ‘surprise’ gift to your bestie. You two wanna pass me around.” Quentin recalls the specifics of her email hammering out the details. It isn’t anything out of the ordinary. “Giving and receiving oral. Penetration. Your particular brand of blunt encouragement and direction. I’ll end up embarrassed and horny. The usual.”
Margo snorts, patting him sharply on the cheek twice in quick succession. Not a slap but he blushes all the way to his ears, mouth dropping open on a moan. He wishes she would. It had been a tedious week. She should be the first one to mark him up even if it’s Eliot’s birthday.
“What am I getting myself into here?” Margo mutters to herself. “You’re both trouble. You cool with some bondage too? El’s good.”
And despite his red cheeks, Quentin smiles, nodding.
“Stoplights are in play. Eliot knows your safeword. Giraffe. His is ABBA. Don’t worry, he’ll do a protection spell.” Margo says, matter of fact. “You say the word and this ends. But if you stay, I’ll expect you to be a good and respectful boy for me. You aren’t allowed to come until I say you can. Got it?”
He presses his cheek into her small hand, breath leaving him faster now that this is real . “Yes, Margo. Am I allowed to speak to him? To your friend.”
“Hmmm,” Margo thinks about it for a moment. “I think you should go find him and ask him for yourself while I freshen up.”
She sweeps away in a haze of perfume while Quentin trembles on the floor, trying to get his bearings. She wants him to navigate the apartment blindfolded, by touch and memory. Though decorated with expensive pieces, the layout is open concept and fairly sparse. Margo’s bedroom and bathroom suite being the only areas actually walled off for privacy.
He uses landmarks to get out into the living room; the corner of the platform bed, the vanity, the doorframe to get into the main area. It’s quiet apart from some chill electronic music playing lowly from the speakers all around. Quentin feels like he’s in a horny version of the theme from ‘House’ as he takes his first cautious step into the living room. The plug nudges inside him with every step. Quentin longs to rut against something to get friction against his trapped dick.
The poured concrete floor is cold against his bare feet until—yes, there’s the big white shag rug covering the sitting area. With his hands reaching out for obstacles and tiny steps, he’s able to navigate a side table and a chair without stubbing his toe. A victory to be sure. That kind of pain was not the boner inducing kind he was after.
The prickling sensation of eyes on Quentin has him on edge, so aware of his breathing and the skin exposed by his open robe against the chill of the apartment. It’s embarrassing, knowing how silly he must look with his hands out in front of him, blindly reaching out with tiny steps. Helpless. He loves it like he does pressing into a bruise. An addictive, maddening rush of sensation, leaves him flayed open and raw. Margo knows. He’s crawled around behind her enough she bought him knee pads, which was worse. It just feels so good after, when he’s done crying or pouting about it, to be told he was good for looking like a fool, letting Margo see him like that. But now there’s someone else here. And it makes his breath quicken, what if he’s mean? Like actually mean and not in a fun way? Quentin can stop it, he reminds himself. He can always make it stop if he needs to.
Quentin edges closer to the left, towards one of the sofas, half hoping he’ll stumble into a knee and knock himself onto the lap of whoever this guy is. He was not so fortunate.
“You’re getting cooler, sweetie.” A masculine voice sounds from behind Quentin somewhere in the room. Goosebumps pickle their way across his forearms at the voice of this man; low and amused. Still warm, even in his gentle admonishment. Quentin turns around and doubles back the way he came, biting his lip as he concentrates on not knocking into the sharp corner of Margo’s glass coffee table. “Warmer.” The voice guides Quentin further into the unknown. “Come on, nearly there. You’re hot now.”
Quentin turns, breath catching in his throat as two large hands catch him about the middle and hold him in place. The leather sofa crinkles as the man stands and two hands drop from Quentin’s shoulders, pushing the robe off till it pools on the floor. Quentin shudders at the sudden chill of the room, hands reaching to cover his dick but of course Eliot’s not having any of it.
Eliot tuts, gently taking Quentin’s wrists and pulling them out to his sides. Quentin blushes a fierce red, whimpering as he’s completely bared to the room. Margo’s blinds are always open. Half of Manhattan can probably see his caged cock and the way his stomach trembles with every one of his hitching breaths.
“Let me get a look at you, baby.” Eliot says, sitting down again. Leaving Quentin standing there in front of him on display. Fuck. Quentin’s lower lip is already wobbling with embarrassment. Margo likes to poke at him when he gets like this, tells him she’ll give him a reason to cry for real. Quentin fucking loves it. “You’ve been all caged up for me all day, huh?” Then, Jesus, Eliot’s hand pets over Quentin’s dick all soft like he’s stroking a frightened animal. He feels it through the metal bars, arches into the contact. Eliot hums to himself, his hand switches direction and glides over his belly, grazes through the patch of hair on his chest, pulling. “You’re so fuzzy. Margo didn’t mention that. You have the sweetest little body, Quentin. Gimme a spin, let me take a look at that ass.”
Quentin’s hands curl at his sides and he turns around, lets Eliot put his huge fucking hands on Quentin’s back and bend him over at the waist.
“Put your hands out, the coffee table’s right there.” Eliot orders softly. Quentin trusts him, has no other option, happy that when he extends his hands, they meet the cool surface of the table. It left him bent over and exposed right in front of Eliot’s face. Blood rushes to his head and he can’t help the moan that leaks out of him when Eliot palms both his ass cheeks and pulls them apart to get a better look at the plug buried deep inside him. “Oh, baby. Look at this. So pretty and pink. Did you have a hard time working yourself open all on your own?” Quentin whimpers, clamps his mouth shut. He can’t get into how his eyes had rolled back in his head at the clutch of his body against three fingers and so much lube it felt like it was everywhere. How he’d done a quick spell to clean off Margo’s duvet to remove the stray globs of lube before she killed him.
Eliot tugs briefly on the plug, sending Quentin whimpering and rocking back and forth on his feet. Not sure if he wants to lean into it and get friction on his prostate or pull further away to feel the stretch of his hole opening up on the toy. Eliot shushes him as his hands move down the back of his legs, pressing into the tense muscle of his thighs. Quentin tries to focus on breathing through his mouth—long, slow breaths to calm himself--but it’s hard to pull himself back to center when Eliot cups Quentin’s aching balls in his hand and says shit like, “These are all full and aching for me, aren’t they?” and pulls him down into his lap. Instantly, Quentin’s enveloped in Eliot, whoever this guy is. He begins to paint a picture in his mind of this man, from his crisp expensive clothing under Quentin’s hands as he instinctively reaches out, and the woodsy scent of his cologne. How he’s so sturdy that he doesn't seem to budge as Quentin tumbles into his lap, trying to right himself so all his weight isn’t across Eliot’s thighs.
“Hello,” Eliot says, drawing out the last syllable. Long and low like the last chord of a song on the piano. “It’s a cliché , but, Happy Birthday to me.” he punctuates the words with a squeeze of Quentin’s ribs. “What a treat. A pretty boy all wrapped up for me. You haven’t said anything. You okay, baby?”
“Yeah—yes.” Quentin nods. Margo didn’t love ‘yeah’ in a scene. She’s taken it out on his ass more than a few times. Not that Quentin’s complaining. She talks like a lost Heather anyway. But he doesn’t know how much of a stickler Eliot is for rules. So he’ll opt for polite. “I’m er, I’m supposed to ask what you want? What can I call you?”
Eliot’s tongue clicks. Quentin wiggles into his lap, his hands still touching Eliot’s clothes even though he doesn’t know if he’s allowed. A full suit, vest and a tie as far as Quentin can tell by feel alone. His spine goes liquid at the idea of being naked in his lap while he was still fully dressed. Naked for both him and Margo in their impeccable clothing. Just a pet for them to order around and do whatever they want.
“Don’t lie to him, El.” Margo singsongs, light on her feet as she enters the room. “It’s your birthday. He’s a gift. You deserve to be spoiled. He’ll do whatever dirty little thing your brain can think up, won’t you Q?”
“Anything.” Quentin nodded firmly, putting himself in the mindset of serving the two of them, being a present to be played with. “Tell me.”
“You’re cute.” Eliot’s chest rumbles against Quentin as he chuckles, tapping him on the nose with a finger. “And you know me entirely too well, my dear.” He must have indicated Margo. “Call me Daddy. Alright, angel?”
Brain going white hot around the edges, Quentin nods emphatically. Fuck. Yes. He rarely gets to play like this.
Eliot’s hand crawls up Quentin’s back, curls into the hair at the nape and tugs until Quentin’s head tilts back, mouth falling open, “Ahh—” Bright, tugging pain lights up across his scalp as Eliot tightens his fist around Quentin’s hair.
“Come on. Be polite.”
He’s going to ruin Eliot’s suit if this is how things are going to go.
“Yes, Daddy.” Quentin answers, breath puffing against Eliot’s chin—he can just tell how close he is. “‘m sorry.”
Eliot kisses him chastely on the corner of his open mouth and Quentin blindly tries to angle against the hold on his hair to get Eliot’s lips on his own. His foot curls around the back of Eliot’s shin for leverage. He can just tell that Eliot is hot. Like. Unfairly gorgeous. Even as he does shit like tutting under his breath at Quentin’s bold attempt to kiss him and tugs tighter.
“Quentin.” Margo warns from somewhere in the distance. Quentin whines, admonishment drumming up shame and heat and all of it is just simmering in his veins.
“Bambi, I thought you said he was a good boy.” Eliot says offhandedly, Quentin’s hair still squeezed in his fist and he’s going to combust. Because he’ll do just about anything for attention.
“Usually.” Margo tuts. “Quentin, I trained you better than this. Or maybe you’re just so slutty that the idea of lending you out to my bestie is just too much for that little head of yours. Suddenly you forget how to be good.” Quentin’s eyes roll back in his head, drooling at the thought. The couch jolts under then as Margo drops down next to Eliot. “So tell me, are you a bad boy or just a slut?”
It’s hard to form thoughts like this, particularly when Eliot lets go of his hair, soothing the ache of his scalp with his fingertips. Quentin’s needy and dripping in his cage and it’s so satisfying to clench down on the thick plug inside of him. Margo’s Question rattles around in his head for a while before he can answer. He thinks he’s too much sometimes, maybe Margo would call over Eliot when she didn’t want to deal with him. Lend Quentin out for a night as long as he gets returned in fair condition. He might not ever even see Eliot’s face if they keep him blindfolded. He could pass Eliot on the street and not know he’d begged for his dick over and over. Quentin’s that needy, he’s—
“A slut.” Quentin whimpers wetly.
Margo laughs, full and loud. It echoes around the apartment. Eliot bundles Quentin closer into his chest, caught up in the strong bands of Eliot’s arms. Quentin burrows further into them, head tucked under Eliot’s chin. Eliot lets him hide.
“Don’t laugh at him.” Eliot scolds, rocking them back and forth. “He’s sweet. It’s cute.”
“Aww baby,” Margo says, condescending. The blunt edge of her nails scrape down Quentin’s side, over his ribs. She pinches his ass till Quentin hisses. “Puppy’s playing you like a fiddle. You wanna have to do the work on your own birthday? Be my guest.”
“You wanna prove her wrong, show Margo how good you can be for Daddy?” Quentin nods, belly fluttering happily as Eliot guides him down onto the carpet between his spread legs. “Can you keep your hands to yourself or should we tie them for you?”
Quentin whimpers, pressing his face into Eliot’s thigh. Margo doesn't usually ask so much as tell him how things are going to go. Touching Margo freely is a privilege he doesn’t often get. She ties him up or orders him to touch himself. It makes this harder—he doesn't know if he can be good if he’s down here with both of them watching him. The temptation is too much. He shakes his head.
“Words, Q. Don’t make me remind you again.” Margo says at the exact same moment Eliot makes a soft coo and cups Quentin’s jaw, thumb pressing perfectly into the notch of his throat.
“It’s okay. Tell us baby. Can you keep your hands to yourself?”
“I need help, Daddy.” Quentin moans into Eliot’s thigh. He’s going fuzzy around the edges already.
There’s a hushed discussion far above Quentin while they decide on what they want, finally Margo says.
“Here, gimme your hands. Kneel up, puppy.” Quentin melts further into Eliot’s lap at the familiar feeling of his leather cuffs being buckled onto his wrists.
Margo’s direct with him. Often harsh. But she always takes care of Quentin and she shows her affection in other ways. Like the cuffs. They’re dark purple. Oxblood. Margo had them made for him along with a full set of restraints. The day she took him to a leather shop in SoHo and had his measurements taken, Quentin actually cried in the back room. He couldn’t really explain why but he’d felt seen in a way that had never happened before. Even in the brief but tenuous romantic relationships he’d been in before, the vanilla ones , Quentin had always felt like he’d been hiding this part of himself. The part that wanted to be pushed and prodded into place. One that he camouflaged so well for so fucking long with his puppydog way of asking, “Was that okay?” after sex and mining for any ounce of validation he could get out of a partner.
Margo made him cry and beg and scream with frustration. But he didn’t have to hide that from her. He knew that she’d always take care of him afterward. They weren’t dating. They only texted when they were setting up a scene. And yet, Margo might just know him better than even Julia.
Eliot’s petting over his hair, pulling it out of its hair tie while Margo fastens the bands of leather around his thighs near the knee and clips his wrists to them. Quentin struggles against them reflexively, whining when he can only rattle his hands around a few inches back and forth. Quentin knows from experience he can’t get a hand on his dick with them bound like this, even if he wrenched his wrist at a sharp angle. It's worse than having them trapped behind his back, everything so close yet so far. He’s grateful she hasn’t brought out the wide leather belt she could fasten around his middle, compress his waist just enough that he had to take little sips of oxygen—or, she could lock his wrists to the belt and his thighs to it as well until Quentin was stuck kneeling with nowhere to go. He loves and hates that belt. It makes him feel bird-boned and tiny.
“There, that’s much better.” Eliot pushes Quentin gently away. Eliot’s belt jangles and then there’s the hiss of a zipper coming down. Quentin’s mouth starts watering. It’s been way too long since he’s sucked dick that hadn’t been attached to Margo’s strap. Not that that isn’t a treat, but flesh and blood is different, and when Eliot says, “Open up, stick out your tongue,” Quentin’s pretty sure his brain short circuits. Eliot presses his thumb into Quentin’s mouth, along with--Jesus, a salty pearl of precome he must have gathered from his cock for Quentin to taste. Quentin goes woozy. “Can I fuck your face?”
“Of course you can,” Margo says before Quentin can get the words out. Quentin moans, mouth still open. Eliot’s thumb pinning his tongue in place, petting over it. “Q, show El what you do if it’s too much.” Quentin slaps his own thigh three times in quick succession. “Tell him how much you love it.” Margo nudges his thigh with her bare toes.
“So much—” Quentin says, though it comes out a garbled mess like ‘tho muth’ . The rolling wave of embarrassment crashes over him, pulling him under. Eliot lets go of his tongue. Quentin repeats, “ So much. I love it. Please. You—you can pull my hair too. And make me gag on it?”
“You weren’t kidding about him, Bambi. He’s a sweet little sub. You’re so lucky.” Eliot chuckles. Quentin’s wriggles his butt at the praise. “Alright, baby. Open up again. Tell me if it’s too much.”
He had an inkling that Eliot was hung from sitting in his lap and also frankly from the girth of the plug Margo left out for him on the counter. Even then, when Eliot tugs Quentin’s mouth down onto his dick, Quentin recoils with surprise and squeaks when Eliot fills him up. His mouth waters instantly as the girth of Eliot’s cock presses up against his soft palette. Eliot’s long, rough chuckle reverberates around them while Quentin sucks and swirls his tongue around every part of his cock that he can reach.
“See, he’s hungry for it all the time.” Margo says conversationally over the static in Quentin’s ears.
Eliot’s hands in his hair anchor Quentin to this reality while he guides Quentin up and down on his massive cock. Quentin can’t tell where it ends. He keens when he realizes he’s not near the base when he’s gone as deep as he can go, swallowing to pull Eliot’s cock into his throat. Without his hands, he’s at Eliot’s mercy not to press too deep. Quentin can’t trust his core to really keep him upright at the moment. Quentin’s wet, gurgling sounds spill into the apartment, drool drying over his chin and down his neck as he moves up and down. He gets caught up in a feedback loop of embarrassment over how messy he is, which just makes him all the hornier so he makes more of a mess in Eliot’s lap.
Eliot gentles him through the moments when he hits the spot at the back of the throat that makes his stomach rock while he gags, “You’re okay. Such a good boy, gimme that sweet mouth again. There we go,” stroking the bulge of his cheek with a gentle thumb and Quentin feels the blindfold start to soak with his tears and he’s not really sure if they’re because his nose is also running or because Quentin just gets really weepy when anyone tells him he’s doing a good job. Which is just too much to unpack. Regardless, he moans and pushes himself into Eliot’s hold even harder, lets himself go more and more slack, reaching a new state of consciousness.
He’s just a present for the two of them. A toy. And it doesn't matter that his knees ache and his fingertips are pressing so hard into his thighs he’s going to leave bruises.
When Eliot pushes in deep and cuts off Quentin’s air, he goes limp, lashes fluttering and his brain goes dark while his lungs burn. He gasps when Eliot pulls him off, great big heaving breaths, shuddering when Eliot coos down at him and tells him he’s perfect. Quentin can’t speak, only nods when Eliot tells him he’s going deep again. Again. And again. Quentin’s thighs are wet with precome leaking out of his dick.
He aches for anything they’ll give him. Another taste of Eliot’s briney precome spread across his slack lips. Eliot presses Quentin’s head down to rest against his thigh, the weight of Eliot’s erection resting across his cheek and Quentin would stay down here for hours just like this if they wanted him to. Margo moans and then dips her fingers into his panting mouth, wet with the taste of her arousal at the sight of them. Quentin moans and sucks her fingers in as much as he can, swirls his tongue between the digits and seeks out every bit of her he can. When she pulls away and forces his jaw open, tightening her tiny hand on his face, Quentin sobs. Eliot doesn’t keep him waiting, he feeds Quentin his dick and rests his head back down on his thigh. Quentin sucks softly and moans to himself at the sound of Margo and Eliot making out above him. Margo’s hand smashes his head down harder into Eliot lap. Drool escapes his lips and wicks into Eliot’s pants. He can’t swallow it down like this. Tenderhearted already, the thought that he’s making his Daddy all dirty makes Quentin’s breath hitch. Then Eliot’s hand gently rests on his throat, thumb to Quentin’s pulse and he feels okay, if filthy.
“Fuck yes—” Margo scoots closer. “Suck on my tits, come on. El, yes.” She pants and Quentin moans because that’s his job.
Margo lets go of Quentin and the slick sound of someone fucking into her pussy with a few fingers reaches Quentin’s consciousness. Eliot releases the hold on Quentin’s neck as Margo squeals, the leather couch creaks and he thinks she’s gripping the head in a tight hand, both of Eliot’s hands working her over while she kneels up right beside Quentin’s head.
“Come on, Bambi.” Eliot urges. “You want more? You wanna see if I can make you squirt all over the puppy?”
Margo and Quentin both moan. Eliot’s thighs tense under Quentin’s face.
Quentin knows what this looks like. Margo taught him. She put a cage on him just like this and said he couldn’t come until he learned how to do this, how to curl his fingers, press them hard against her the front wall of her cunt, to work her clit with tiny, swift circles until his wrist ached. It took a while. An hour for the first session where she came three times and sent him home caged and desperate. He came back the next day and practically cried with pride when it happened, when she gripped his shoulders so hard her nails nearly broke the skin and flooded his lap, stomach convulsing over and over until she pushed his hand away.
Margo’s moans reach a fever pitch and then it happens. There’s a moment of silence, nothing but Quentin’s own labored breathing through his nose and the wet, percussive sound of Eliot’s fingers hammering into Margo’s pussy. Then, the squelch of everything turning wet and liquid and Quentin’s showered with it while Margo moans and Eliot laughs . And somehow Quentin can tell they’re both smiling through it all.
If his mouth was free, he’d thank her for it. But it’s not so Quentin moans the sentiment around Eliot cock while it pulses between his lips, blurting more precome into his mouth.
Eliot draws Quentin away with a gruff sound, holding him at arm's length while they all pant. Quentin pulls futilely against his hold, tries to get Eliot’s dick back in his mouth while he whines.
“Baby, baby, baby.” Eliot leans down, kisses Quentin’s sloppy mouth. He’s barely got it in him to kiss Eliot back. And even then, it’s not coordinated. “I’m too close. Daddy wants to come in your little tight ass.”
“Lemme get a turn then.” Margo growls, still a little out of breath. She reaches down, freeing Quentin’s hands from his binds. “Come here, puppy.”
Quentin’s joints are all liquid. They lay him out on the couch. Quentin’s legs over Eliot’s lap and then Margo’s kneeling over his shoulders, thighs closing in around his ears. The hem of something silky and cool pools on his chest. Margo changed into lingerie and he doesn't even know what it looks like. Quentin scrambles to ground himself with the rest of the world cut off so abruptly. He can smell her so close and familiar, knows that when he opens his mouth and she lowers more, he’ll taste her wet cunt. She’s slippery and shakes above him. Margo threads her own hands through his hair and grips extra tight, moves him right where she wants him. Hands fluttering at his sides, Quentin gasps against Margo’s pussy when Eliot gathers his shaking hands and crosses Quentin’s wrists, holding them against his stomach, patting him a few times.
He hears her calling out but it sounds like it’s coming from underwater. Quentin falls into the muscle memory of seeking out Margo’s clit in the nest of her folds, wrapping his lips around it like a secret, suckling with rapid flutters of his tongue. Eliot’s other hand strokes over Quentin’s caged dick, runs through the precome that dripped over his thighs while he was blowing Eliot.
He can eat out Margo with his eyes closed, though he longs to feel her walls tighten around his fingers if he was allowed to touch her. Quentin should be getting worried she’s going to cut off the blood supply to his brain, the way her thighs tighten around his head when she comes, releasing a wave a slick over his face and chin. But his brain’s officially offline and he lays like a lump, gasping for air when she moves off of him. A hand pets over his stomach, he doesn’t know who it belongs to when the world’s falling away like this, when he’s suddenly weightless and nothing else matters but this room.
Eliot’s carrying him somewhere. He thinks, vaguely, that it’s nice to have someone who can move him around. Margo’s more of the ordering him somewhere type. Eliot’s speaking words that Quentin can’t hear and holding him tight before depositing him onto Margo’s bed.
The pressure lifts off Quentin’s face as the blindfold is taken off. He scrunches his eyelids closed against the light in the room, feeling like it’ll blind him even in it’s dimness. Someone wipes down his chin with a cool cloth and Margo lays down along his side, he can tell from the silk of her clothing, the way she strokes his cheek with the back of two fingers like something small and furry.
“Check in with us, puppy. Open your eyes.”
A puppy. That’s it.
Quentin blinks, hissing at the lamp by the bed and a few more tears leak out of the corners of his eyes, falling down into his hair. “Green.”
“Yeah? You’re feeling good, huh?” Margo asks, her eyes are huge and so pretty like a deer or—
“Bambi,” Eliot’s shadow crosses the bed. “Oh, you’re back.”
The bed dips as the other man sits down on the edge. Quentin rolls over onto his side with all the coordination he has to get a look at him. Suit gone and naked next to Quentin. And his hair is curly. Kinda messy and falling over his forehead. The cuffs around Quentin’s wrists might as well be made of lead, he can’t seem to lift them to reach out and touch Eliot’s face. He just has to stare up at his warm hazel eyes, the aquiline shape of his nose and curling mouth. He has a butt chin. He looks so fond. And Quentin’s kind of laying there unable to move.
“Hey.” Eliot says, reaching over. He smooths the line between Quentin’s brows tenderly. Quentin can somehow feel his own pupils dilate, synapses fire, the rush of endorphins flooding his bloodstream. He can feel all of it.
“Hey, Daddy.” Quentin echoes, a giggle rising up into his chest. He’s warm all over and everything is gonna be okay now. Weirdly, he thinks, ‘There you are. Where have you been all this time?’
“Hey!” Margo exclaims, breaking the moment. Her hand drops possessively over Quentin’s chest. “Oh you heart-eyed chucklehead motherfuckers, you’re gonna have me back on Fetlife. Aren’t you?”
Quentin has no idea what that means. But Eliot’s eyebrows rise and he looks chagrined. “It is my birthday.”
“Ugh.” Margo groans. They seem to have a moment of silent conversation carried out through eyebrows alone. “Hey Q, baby. How about we uh—switch things up?”
Quentin blinks over at her, confused. He tries to get up on his elbows. “Uh—I can, I’m fine. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Eliot lays down beside both of them, tucked on his side against Quentin on his back. His erection pokes Quentin’s hip. It’s even bigger now that he can see it. “Just that it’s my birthday and I think I’d like something different now.”
Margo is a very good friend. She only grumbles occasionally about how Eliot is dom-blocking while Eliot unlocks the cage and slips down Quentin’s body to take him into his mouth. It seems like it’s too early. Or maybe it’s a trick. Quentin writhes with the sudden burst of sensation as blood floods his dick and he’s hard within seconds, about to come embarrassingly fast over Eliot’s tongue.
Quentin holds himself back from coming, frantically casting his gaze over to Margo. “Please, can I?” he begs, remembering his rule for the evening.
Margo grazes his cheek with her blunt nails and a soft smile. He wiggles closer into the silky warmth of her body, thrumming with tension and Eliot’s hands are wrapped around his hips holding him down to the bed, throat clicking every time he draws Quentin all the way down to the root.
“Can you what?” Margo asks.
Quentin whines, frowning.
“Margo—” Eliot pulls off Quentin’s dick long enough to give her admonishing smile.
“He’s barely done anything.” Margo grumbles, tweaking Quentin’s nose. Quentin grumbles, shaking his head.
“Well it’s my birthday.” Eliot punctuates his statement with a lollipop lick to the head of Quentin’s dick, jacking him softly. Quentin feels it in his toes. “And he’s been such a good boy, haven’t you baby?”
Quentin nods. “Uh-huh. Please can I come now? And then— then. Um. I can — ” Margo cuts off his rambling with a finger over his lips. He can’t hold on much longer. “Daddy please. I can’t take it.”
“Now you’re just being a baby. Calm down.” She rolls her eyes, petting down his side like a nervous horse. “Ask your Daddy if you can come. He’s a pushover. But do it politely.”
Quentin manages to get up onto his elbows, the better to get a look down at Eliot’s crown of messy curls, the glowing hazel of his eyes and the wide curl of his lovely mouth. He’s so caught up in the sight of Eliot’s hand wrapped around his dick, making it look tiny in his massive grip that when he opens his mouth to ask, all that spills out is a whine.
“Go on, ask Daddy.” Eliot prods. “You can have whatever you want. Let me spoil you. Anything for my baby boy.”
“Christ on a Ritz Cracker.” Margo groans, tweaking one of Quentin’s nipples. “You know, I put in like a whole year and a half of work and you’re ruining it.”
“Carrot works better than the stick, darling.” Eliot chides, then turning back to Quentin, he encourages him to ask again. “It’s okay. The mean lady’s not in charge of you at the moment.”
Quentin frowns, glancing over at Margo, worried. She soothes the nipple she just twisted and shushes him gently. “Go on, puppy. We’re just joking. I know it’s hard for you when you get all stupid like this. You can tell him what you need.”
“Please can I come? Daddy?” Quentin begs, throat tight with tension all of a sudden because this feels different and huge; like the day he walked into that cafe to meet Margo and she ordered him to get her a coffee, how to put in the sugar and Quentin blushed so hard he took his temperature when he went home.
Eliot nods with a kind look, kissing the inside of his thigh. “Go on then, come for Daddy.”
Quentin gives himself over to the rush of sensation, aware of Margo’s smiling mouth against his neck, leaving a hickey too high up to be hidden by his shirt collar. Eliot’s jerking him off over his stomach, pressing the base of the plug so it rocks against his prostate, whispering to him all kinds of things ‘look at you.’ ‘you’re so pretty’ ‘there’s a good boy’ and ‘you taste delicious, baby’. And Quentin comes and comes until it hits different, sensitivity making him hiss but that’s good too. He thinks he'd like it if they made him keep going, just to see how many times he could come and then keep going until it was too much. But Eliot releases his cock and Quentin lays panting on his back while Eliot crawls up his body. If Quentin had two brain cells to rub together, he’d open his eyes to get a look at Eliot’s mouth kissing over his stomach, lapping up his come with an appreciative groan. But there’s nothing Quentin can really do but shudder when Eliot lays on top of him, leans down to kiss him and pushes Quentin’s own come into his mouth. Quentin gasps and sucks the taste of himself from Eliot’s tongue, melts into the bed under the heavy weight of the other man and lets himself fall under a current of delicious brainwaves.
“There’s my good boy.” Eliot coos at him, brushing hair out of Quentin’s eyes when he finally blinks them open.
“Mmm. Daddy.” Quentin says, it’s really all he can say.
“Let’s take care of you, come on, sweetie.” Eliot kisses him on the nose.
He feels like he missed something when they unbuckle the cuffs around his wrists and thighs. Margo flips him over and gently works the plug out of his hole and instead of fucking him within an inch of his life, the three of them pile into Margo’s huge tub, Quentin in Eliot’s lap on one end and Margo on the other. Eliot still hasn’t come and, against his back, Quentin feels him soften up while Quentin comes back around to the land of the living, slipping out of that faraway headspace he was in. Eliot holds him just as close and he relaxes further into his chest while Eliot and Margo make plans for the rest of the week. Apparently they both always take vacation to celebrate their birthdays. Must be cool to not work for Brakebills, though Quentin has the summers off. So that’s nice.
At some point Eliot floats a bottle of water over to the tub and cracks it open, handing it to Quentin. The cold water soothes his throat, makes him feel more aware of his body.
“You sure I can’t, um. I can’t take care of you?” Quentin asks, biting his lip. He’s not pouting. Pouting is reserved for the middle of a scene. He’s just a guy who’s disappointed that he didn’t get fucked by either of the people in this bathtub.
“Here it comes.” Margo rolls her eyes. Eliot pins her with an intense glare.
“Not tonight. I find myself wanting to take you to dinner before I ruin you for all other men.” Eliot says plainly. Christ, Quentin will fuck him right now. “Would you like to go to dinner with me, Quentin?”
He peeks over at Margo who just sighs and nods among the bubbles in her bathtub. “It’s fine. Though, I feel like you owe me a finders fee or something for putting in all the hard work here.”
Quentin snorts. This feels. Weird? Too convenient? Like it was meant to happen somehow?
“Yes, I’ll go.” Quentin agrees. He suddenly feels very squirrely about the fact that he’s naked in Eliot's lap and they’re talking about going on a date. He called the guy ‘Daddy’ and definitely cried on his dick. Everything is backwards. “Margo—”
But Margo just waves a hand, “I guess I’m like fucking Mary Poppins, I gotta go when you don’t need me anymore, puppy.”
“But we can still share him.” Eliot says, blase.
Quentin squawks, slippery in Eliot’s grasp from the suds.
“Yeah. Of course.” Margo nods.
He lets Eliot towel him off and bundle him up in his jacket. Part of him wishes he was bold enough to ask Eliot to come with him back to his cottage on campus, or to go to Eliot’s place for the rest of the night. But Margo and Eliot are dressed in matching silk robes and there’s talk about watching some Scandinavian crime drama. Quentin needs to go home and process some stuff. He has Eliot’s phone number now.
“I’ll text. When I get home. And later.” Quentin promises. Eliot hands him a plate of birthday cake from Milkbar with foil over it, kisses him on the cheek and holds open the door for him on the way out.
“I look forward to it.” Eliot says, sincerely.
Quentin smiles to himself the whole way back home, ends up curled up in his bed that night licking confetti sprinkled frosting off a fork and reading the same page over and over again until he finally puts the book down and picks up his phone.
Quentin [11:47 pm]
What if instead of dinner later this week we had belated birthday brunch tomorrow?
Eliot [11:50 pm]
Sounds needy. I’d love to. Margo says she’s coming. You’re buying. Bottomless mimosas.
Quentin [11:51 pm]
It’s a date.
It’s a date!