Work Header

Darling, it's all for you

Work Text:


Quentin moans in frustration, clenches his fists tightly in the sheets. It doesn’t curb the sharp ache of his arousal, the shimmering coil of heat beneath his skin. His thighs are shaking, he’s been hard as fucking nails for what feels like hours now—and Eliot is only just getting started.

“Remember, darling, you asked for this,” Eliot says, eyes darkly amused and gazing intently at Quentin with an unmistakable hunger.

“You didn’t say you were gonna blow me,” Quentin mutters, not at all under his breath, “am I really supposed to not come in your mouth when you’re—” Eliot licks his swollen-red lips. Sinks back down to wrap around Quentin’s cock, taking him all the way. “Jesus, fuck, Eliot, come on.”

Eliot slides off, slow. Takes the time to suck messily at the tip, tongue in his slit. “Mm, I’d say that’s up to you, sweetheart.” Long, lazy swirls up and down the length of him. Holy fuck, Eliot’s gonna murder him with his mouth. This is it. The end is nigh.

“You poor thing,” Eliot purrs, swiping a finger through the truly embarrassing amount of precome on Quentin’s stomach—all from before Eliot had even touched his cock—and sucking it between his lips. “You’re pretty far gone already, huh?” Quentin manages an eye roll, the gesture undercut by the twitch of his hips as he seeks the heat of Eliot’s mouth. His mouth, god; pink and wet and stretched deliciously wide around Quentin’s cock. Quentin can’t get enough. Literally.

“Don’t worry, I’m getting to it,” Eliot says with a grin. He strokes lovingly over Quentin’s hips, thumbs slipping over the bone, pushing him down, hard, lowering that deadly mouth once again, soft, maddening. Every move is designed to drive Quentin wild and it’s working. “I’m gonna suck your pretty cock so good, and when you’re just on the edge, when you’re writhing and moaning for it, I’m gonna leave you so fucking hard and wanting me so bad, baby.” Quentin makes a sound that he really ought to be embarrassed by, hips grinding into the mattress, frantic. “Maybe I’ll put on a show for you, hm? You can watch me, get to see everything you’re missing.” Eliot sucks at Quentin’s hipbones, rough and biting, his soft groans of pleasure sending spirals of liquid heat through his core.

Nobody has ever fucked Quentin like Eliot does. Nobody has ever put their mouth on his hips, pressed their lips to the soft skin of his thighs, made those dirty, filthy moans while their teeth sink into his neck. Nobody has ever even looked at him the way Eliot does. Like he wants to crawl inside him, devour Quentin whole.

El, oh my god…” Quentin’s hips jerk, but there’s nowhere to go. His dick slips wetly over Eliot’s terrible, awful, wonderful mouth; another needy cry rips out of him.

“I think I will,” Eliot says, an undercurrent of red-hot need clipping his lazy drawl into something rough and possessive. “I think I’m gonna come on your chest, rub spunk all over your tits so you’re covered in me. Fucking mark you, because you’re mine and I can do whatever the fuck I want with you. Then,” he says, register shifting somewhere closer to his normal voice, “maybe I’ll put a movie on, kick back, relax. God, yes,” he says dreamily, mouth lowering somewhere near Quentin’s cock but not quite actually there where he needs it, “You’re gonna cling to me, so gorgeous, all worked up and needy, burrowing into me, your whole body begging for me, trying to find something to rub your dick off on, and all you’ll be able to think about is me railing you into next week.”

“Oh my god, fuck you,” Quentin groans as Eliot’s lips finally wrap around him, hot and wet and deliberate, tongue flitting and licking and pressing deliciously in all the places that make Quentin fall to pieces. “We’re not doing any of that shit, Jesus.”

Of course, it all goes pretty much exactly as Eliot says. There’s only one deviation from the plan, which is that Eliot spends a while tweaking and pinching Quentin’s nipples, watching in delight as Quentin thrashes and moans himself into incoherence, fists knuckle-white in the sheets—“You’re so hot for me, baby,” Eliot whispers, a slow growl in his ear, “And your pretty tits are so hard and tight, I can’t fucking stand it, god—” He alternates between vicious little tugs that bring harsh, cracked cries from Quentin’s throat, and delicate swirls of his tongue that make him squirm and groan. Sucking and biting relentlessly at Quentin’s chest, Eliot laps at his own come in slow, deliberate swipes until Quentin’s hips are shuddering right off the bed. “You want me to slap your tits sometime, baby? Get your chest all hot and sore and aching?”

Quentin lets out a strangled, animal cry. His shoulders drop, back arching shamelessly to push his chest out.

“Yeah, you fucking want it,” Eliot says softly.

Eliot,” Quentin sobs. “Eliot, I can’t—”

“Are you gonna come?”

Quentin writhes helplessly, face burning and limbs quivering; he’s close, so fucking close, but—

“Not quite, huh?” Eliot shifts him gently up the bed, propping him up on some pillows and pausing to stroke the damp hair back from his temple. “Shh, darling. You’re doing so well. You’re so fucking gorgeous, baby. Just a bit more for me, yeah?”

Quentin nods so vehemently he thinks he might’ve wrenched something. Tears stream down his flush-red cheeks. “El, I can’t, I want to…”

Palms pressing Quentin’s hips down onto the bed, Eliot swipes his tongue over Quentin’s cock from root to tip, humming lightly as he holds the head in his mouth. Gently, he releases his grip. Waits. Quentin’s restraint shatters almost immediately; he starts slow, rocking in tiny circles, not even trying to stop himself from pushing more of his cock into Eliot’s mouth, to get more friction, more suction, more anything. Eliot won’t let him have it, drawing off Quentin’s cock with a gentle kiss.

Quentin’s breath is coming in soft little ‘ah, ah, ahs,” the stimulation teetering on the agonizing precipice between too-much and not-enough. Eliot murmurs a soft stream of praise as Quentin’s dick thrusts helplessly into nothing but air. Quentin’s certain he’s gonna come any fucking second—then Eliot slides back down, taking him easily all the way to the root, and Quentin howls, bucks into his mouth—

“Fuck, El, fuck, I’m, I’m gonna—”

Eliot pulls off, gasping. Somewhere in the desperate rush of his arousal Quentin notices that Eliot’s dick is starting to get hard again, but he ignores it, covering Quentin’s body with his own, stroking and petting at his hair, whispering soothing nothings to bring him back down.

Once Quentin’s calmed down from the knife-edge of the orgasm he’s not allowed to have, he grabs at Eliot’s shoulders, desperate, gripping his ass, grinding feverishly against his thigh. “Eliot.” His voice is high and tight, a thread of petulance woven through each cracked syllable.

Eliot’s lips curve into a knowing smirk, the one that makes him look devastatingly handsome—and he clearly knows it, too, which infuriatingly only turns Quentin on more. “Not how you thought this was gonna go, is it?” He drags his hands through Quentin’s hair and down over his chest, thumbing over his sore nipples and making him whimper. “Did you think I’d just tease you for a while, hm? Or maybe you thought you’d get me so worked up I’d forget all about what you asked me for.”

Quentin’s sulky “No,” comes out sounding very much like “Yes, and fuck you,” which is what he’s actually thinking.

The mood shifts. Eliot laughs, pulls back—not quite slipping out of role, but on the verge. Soft, low drawl: “Sweetheart, hey. You know what to say, don’t you? If this is not what you want?”

God, he can be so— annoying. Quentin manages a grudging nod. He hasn’t fucking forgotten his fucking safeword, Eliot.

“That’s not gonna cut it, baby. Come on.”

Every muscle is wound tight, brain short-circuiting. “Just,” Quentin grits out. His dick is painfully hard, spit-wet and flushed red. “I just thought…” His mouth twists.

“You thought I wouldn’t be able to resist your hot little body, your pretty cock,” Eliot says with a widening grin that makes Quentin’s dick twitch. “Oh, baby, I can’t, you know that.” He rubs his palms flat over Quentin’s chest as he settles back on top, skin-to-skin, both of them gasping at the contact. “Thing is,” Eliot says, smirking right up in his face, clearly relishing the frustrated little moan Quentin can’t hold back, “I don’t have to. I get to have you every which way, and unless you say the word, I very much plan to.”

Quentin swears softly into the arm flung dramatically over his face. “I’m not gonna say it,” he mumbles, not looking at Eliot. God, if Quentin catches even a glimpse of the sly curve of Eliot’s mouth it’s gonna send him careening over the edge.

“Say what?”

“The colors, red, whatever. I’m not safewording. Okay? God, you’re a dick.” He does look at Eliot then, chin clenched in defiance. Eliot laughs, pleased.

“More than okay, baby.” He sits up to straddle Quentin’s chest, taking his fully hard cock in hand. Because Eliot gets to come twice, while Quentin’s gonna be turned on and aching for him all night. “You’re just fucking perfect.”


Eliot settles between Quentin’s thighs, grins softly. Skims idle patterns over his ribs, fingers curling in the downy hair. “So, here’s the plan. I’m gonna lick your sweet little hole till you cry, baby. And you aren’t going to come. No matter how much that pretty mouth of yours begs me for it.” A bolt of pleasure shocks through him at the sight of Quentin, wide-eyed and squirming, awestruck.

Gasping in a breath, almost choking in his desperation, Quentin says, “Oh god, fuck, do it, put your tongue in me, please just fucking touch me.”

Eliot laughs, sharp. “Gonna get you spread wide and shameless for me first,” he hums, gently parting Quentin’s thighs and sliding to cup his ass with both hands. He gets down on his elbows, using his thumbs to spread Quentin’s cheeks, holding him open, waiting. He looks up to gauge Quentin’s reaction, noting with delight the red tint of his chest, his nipples bruised and tender from the day before.

Quentin huffs. “Would you just—”

“Just what?” Eliot smirks, nudging at Quentin’s balls with his nose, inhaling musk and sweat—he smells good, always, so fucking good.

Quentin’s head drops back. “Nothing, no, um. Take your time.”

“Oh, I think I will,” Eliot says, and then doesn’t at all, because he can’t help himself, Quentin’s perfect pink hole is far too inviting. His exquisite thighs wrap around Eliot’s shoulders as he presses a delicate kiss to each cheek before diving in with soft strokes of his tongue, sloppy and wet and shockingly intimate. Quentin’s pushing back, greedy and shameless in his pleasure, both of them moaning, low and dirty. Eliot keeps licking into him, feeling the flutter of Quentin’s hole against his tongue as he begins to open. “Gonna get you so wet,” he says, and makes good on his promise, kissing and licking and sucking, loosening Quentin’s hole enough to push the tip of his tongue inside. Grabbing at his hips, Eliot pulls him into a slow, rocking rhythm, fucking him deeper and deeper, taking him apart piece by piece.

Quentin’s bucking and trembling and gasping out a filthy-perfect string of cut-off pleas: “Oh god, oh my god—I need—El, please, I’m so fucking empty, I need you—fuck—god your mouth—I need—

“So desperate, baby,” Eliot hisses, and it’s the obvious thing to say, but it works like a fucking charm every time, gets both of them hot for it. Quentin’s thighs shudder, heels slipping over his back, writhing and moaning and urging him on as he licks back into Quentin’s hole, all slick and swollen.

“Your cock’s leaking everywhere,” Eliot says with smug approval, his voice hoarse, chin wet, hot shimmers of pleasure lighting up his veins.

“Oh god, oh god,” Quentin groans. “Shut up, please, god, I’m gonna…” Fists clenching and unclenching in the sheets, a gorgeous sheen of sweat on his brow. He’s perfect like this, all laid out, twitching and eager, bursting with impatience, willing to let Eliot do anything.

“Oh, but you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, pushing Quentin’s thighs back to deliver a bright smack along the delicate curve of his ass. “So beautiful, my love, I fucking adore watching you like this, could lick your pretty hole and fuck you with my tongue for hours, you know I could—”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, with a huff that slackens off into a low groan. “God yeah, oh god—” Face reddening, pressing into the sheets, eyes clenching shut. “I know, I fucking know you could—” Eliot slaps his ass again, hard—“ahhfuck—”

“Well,” Eliot muses, “this wasn’t part of the plan, but I think I like it, don’t you?” He grabs Quentin’s ankles, wrapping one big hand around them, pushing his legs back against his chest. “Hands up.” Quentin rushes to comply, arms snapping above his head, hands clasped tight, waiting. “Yeah, that’s right, don’t you fucking dare move.” Fluttering two fingers against Quentin’s slick wet hole, circling lightly, pushing as though about to fuck into him. Quentin cries out, Eliot jerks away and cracks his palm over both cheeks; a few quick shocks that make Quentin writhe, a gorgeous whimper wrung out of him. Eliot does it again, teasing his hole and nearly-almost nudging inside before bringing his hand down over and over in a rainfall of tender-sharp smacks.

“El, oh fuck—”

“What do you need, baby?”

I need you,” he chokes out, hips caught in a violent spasm. “But you’re—god, you’re gonna make me wait, aren’t you? You, you—ahh—”

“What’s that, huh?”

“You’re—you’re such a fucking asshole—”

“Oh, I’m an asshole, am I?” Eliot says with a velvet-tipped grin. “Aren’t I giving you what you want, baby? What you asked for?” He thumbs over Quentin’s hole, cock hard, aching to fuck into him, rough and unyielding, to fill him up again and again and never let him go.

Eliot can’t help himself; he grinds into the bed, thighs tensing, pinpricks of arousal shocking through him. He smiles, slow. Because unlike Quentin, Eliot won’t have to wait too long for his release. A soft groan of pleasure as he opens Quentin up once more, kissing over his pinked-up flesh, soothing and licking, soft and gentle at the spread of his hole.

“El, El, El,” Quentin chants brokenly, his thighs beginning to vibrate, “please, fuck, El, baby.”

Coming up for air, gasping, Eliot licks his lips in delight. “Oh really. Breaking ‘baby’ out, are we?”

Quentin twists in the sheets, legs clamping together in frustration, still held high. “No? I don’t—I’m—god, El, please, just fuck me, or whatever you’re gonna—”

“I’m not gonna fuck you,” Eliot says. “Even though you’re so slick and wet and open for me now, I’d slide right in. So easy, you sweet thing. You’d still be so fucking tight around my dick, though, god. You always are. But,” he decides. “I think I want to fuck that lovely mouth of yours—come down your throat while you’re all wet and twitching and empty—aching for me to fill you up.”

Quentin’s halfway to sobbing, eyes squeezed shut. “Please, fuck—just—”

“Spread your legs for me, darling,” Eliot says hoarsely, “I’m gonna ruin you.”

Quentin moans like his chest is being ripped open, the sound choking off as Eliot sinks his tongue deep into Quentin’s ass.


By the third day, Quentin’s desperation has reached fever-pitch. They’ve been making out for a while, Eliot keeping Quentin on the edge. “You liked it, didn’t you?” he whispers in Quentin’s ear, sucking kisses along the line of his jaw. “Last night, your legs spread wide for me, my tongue in your ass, tears rolling down your cheeks.”

Quentin groans into Eliot’s neck. “You know I did. Asshole.”

Eliot draws back, amused. “If you think you’re gonna get what you want by being a brat, you really should know better by now.”

Maybe he should, but Quentin’s pretty sure Eliot likes it. He grinds against Eliot’s leg in lieu of an actual response, swallowing another groan, sparks flickering through him.

“Needy thing, aren’t you?”

“You’d be needy too if you hadn’t come for two days,” Quentin grumbles.

Eliot hums. “Oh, I don’t know about that. Besides, I don’t get myself into these kinds of predicaments, do I?”

Quentin doesn’t answer; Eliot pushes. “Do I, sweetheart?”

“Fine, god. No? Is obviously the answer you’re looking for.”

Laughing, Eliot says, “But you, well. You get yourself into all sorts of scrapes, don’t you? Why’s that, hm?”

“What do you mean?” Quentin answers cagily, wriggling. Eliot ghosts a palm over the front of his pants, and Quentin bucks into it, chasing heat and friction as Eliot, laughing again, slides his hand away. Quentin chokes out a frustrated sound, burrowing into the salt-sweat of Eliot’s neck, teeth nipping just above his clavicle.

Eliot tips his head back in encouragement. “I think you know exactly what I mean.” His thumb dips over Quentin’s cheek. “Tell me, baby.”

“God, you’re so—you know…”

“I do,” Eliot says easily, “But I want you to tell me.” He wraps his hand around Quentin’s throat. “Because you want to tell me.”

Fuck.” The languid pressure makes his brain lull into static, makes the truth fall gasping from his open mouth. “Because I like it, so fucking— so fucking much. And you’re good at it, god, you’re so fucking good at it.”

“That’s right, baby, you fucking love it.” Eliot’s voice is a low, rough scrape against Quentin’s fevered skin. He grips Quentin’s chin between finger and thumb, holding him in place for a filthy kiss, their mouths slow and slick with wanting. “God, you taste so good,” Eliot murmurs, seeming almost as lost in the moment as Quentin is, until he breaks the kiss, trailing a fingertip over Quentin’s bicep. “Mm, I’m feeling lazy today. After all, I’ve been doing an awful lot of work not getting you off—” Quentin gives a squeak of indignance, which Eliot swallows with a quick press of his lips— “so, I think I’m gonna lie back and put you on my dick—you wanna ride me, sweetheart?”

Quentin swallows. “Always.”

“Sure you can handle it?” Eliot gives a pointed glance at Quentin’s raging erection, laughing throatily when Quentin blushes deeper than ever, a spark of hunger in his eyes. They undress quickly, and Quentin sucks him to full hardness, wriggling into his lap while Eliot casts the spells that let Quentin slide steady and slow onto his cock. It’s thick and perfect and fucking huge inside him. Shocks of silk-hot desire streak through him with every clench of his hole around Eliot’s cock. Quentin breathes shakily through the stretch, rocking gently, every slight movement sending burning shivers from the nape of his neck to his toes. Eliot looks stunned, eyes darkening in a way that makes Quentin feel thoroughly and unreservedly wanted, his hands curling over Quentin’s hips so gently, barely gripping at all, and it’s this more than anything—more than getting fucked, more than the wild pulse of his aching cock—that makes Quentin so desperately need to come, his body on the verge of breaking apart, shivering and jerking, but it’s Eliot, Eliot who’ll keep him together, always.

“God, you feel amazing,” Eliot groans, pinning Quentin with the heat of his gaze. “So fucking hot, sitting on my cock where you belong—”

Quentin, dizzy with arousal, slides up on his knees, feeling like they might give way at any moment. His cock is agonizingly hard, straining and sensitive, and Quentin hisses through his teeth when the swollen head brushes the soft fur of Eliot’s stomach. He squeezes around the tip of Eliot’s cock, satisfied with the moan he drags out of Eliot before sinking back down; clutching at his chest, his shoulders, needing every part of Eliot he can reach.

“Is it—does it feel—?” Quentin gasps.

“You make me feel amazing,” Eliot says, circling Quentin’s nipples with spit-wet fingers. “You always do.” Rippling sparks of pleasure make Quentin feel drunk, woozy, like floating through water on a hot day, droplets stippled and cooling on his skin. He has to breathe through the urge to just let go, has to hold on, has to wait. Because Eliot wants him to. (And Eliot wants him to because he wants to—but thinking about this too much is counterproductive to the not-blowing-his-fucking-load-over-Eliot’s-chest that Quentin’s working so hard to achieve). He moans, thighs squeezing tight around Eliot’s hips as he holds back—he does it, he holds it, focusing on the burn of his lungs and the pressure at the base of his spine until the stutter of need subsides. Quentin exhales slowly, everything slackening for a blurred-out moment, until Eliot’s mouth curls up with its own kind of pleasure, that dangerous look he gives when he’s feeling magnanimous. “Go on, baby, you can touch yourself.”

Quentin shakes his head frantically. “No, no, I can’t, no,” he mumbles, grinding down in Eliot’s lap. “I can’t—”

“How close are you?”


“Are you gonna come?” Eliot shifts his knees up, giving Quentin something to sit back against.

“N-no,” Quentin gasps. He’s not. He’s not gonna come.

“Then I want you to touch yourself, baby.” Eliot settles back to watch the anguish play over Quentin’s face, and he’d swear Eliot’s dick gets impossibly harder inside him. Quentin obeys (because he has to, because he wants to), keeps a loose grip on his cock, stroking near the base and avoiding the head. His ass is spasming around Eliot’s thick, beautiful cock and sending tender-hot sparks through him, magnifying and multiplying in every place they’re joined. Quentin’s hips start to jerk, head flung back. “Pretty,” Eliot murmurs, stroking over Quentin’s thighs as his hand begins to move faster and faster. “You look so fucking pretty on my cock, baby.”

Quentin’s head shakes, he makes some kind of sound with his mouth. Fucking Christ, how does he know, always, the deepest parts of Quentin’s psyche, the parts of him that cringe with violent pleasure when Eliot talks about—

“Stop.” A hint of authority creeps into Eliot’s tone, an amused slant to his mouth that confirms how immensely he enjoys it when Quentin startles slightly, eyes widening and hand flying away from his dick like a teenager caught jerking off in his bedroom late at night, and oh, there’s an image Quentin’s gonna revisit later, but for now— “Kiss me, sweet thing,” Eliot says, and Quentin does. He kisses Eliot hungrily, desperately; a little sloppy, their lips press wet and perfect, Quentin licking greedily into his mouth, sucking and biting at his lower lip. “Gorgeous,” Eliot whispers. “You’re so fucking gorgeous, Q. You know that, don’t you?”

Quentin moans into his neck, pressing open-mouthed kisses to his jaw, tongue flicking over his ear and making Eliot shiver. “Don’t you, baby?” Eliot prompts, and something inside Quentin crashes to a halt, because he knows, fuck, he knows exactly where Eliot’s headed with this, and he doesn’t want (wants) to go there.

Eliot,” Quentin says, voice high and frantic, eyes glassy, staring at him, pleading.

“I just wanna hear that you know how pretty you are.”

“It’s not—god, don’t make me say that,” he hisses. “It’s not even—” he falters, glaring. A hot splinter of shame crawls full-bodied over his arousal and pins it to the bed. “Okay, you said I can’t say that it’s not true when we’re—doing this.” Fucking Eliot and his fucking rules.

“Doing what?” Eliot asks, just to be irritating, smirking as Quentin’s mouth twists.

“Oh my god, you—fine,” Quentin relents. “When we’re having sex.” Eliot rolls his eyes and Quentin continues, “Sex where you’re in control. I’m not allowed—” he shudders, shame blooming pink over his chest where Eliot rubs to feel the hot flush of him— “to say that I don’t think I’m—that I’m… attractive,” he finishes, glowering down at Eliot, daring him to challenge his use of the word attractive instead of one of Eliot’s preferred terms for Quentin.

Eliot doesn’t take the bait. “Good boy,” he says instead, smile broadening at the vexed arousal that takes over Quentin’s face. “You can fuck yourself on my dick now, pretty boy. Get yourself all worked up again. Make me come so good, like you always do with that perfect hole of yours.”

Quentin’s moaning, rising up shakily onto his knees again with Eliot guiding his hips. Jesus, fuck. How does Eliot say all this shit? It’s so fucking dirty, and it does it for Quentin every time, he loves it.

They lose themselves a while, hands slipping over hot skin, mouths slick. “You gonna tell me now?” Eliot whispers.

Quentin goes stiff in Eliot’s arms, collapsing over his chest. “Please don’t make me,” he says. “Please, please, please,” he chants in time with his broken thrusts.

“You didn’t think I’d forgotten, did you?”

No, Quentin knows him far too well to ever think that. Hoped, maybe, with a swell of disappointment lingering over the relief. “I can’t.

Eliot clamps his fingers around Quentin’s hips, holding him firm and still. “You can.”

Heart slamming in his chest. “Ugh, fine, I’m pretty—there. Happy?”

“Oh, sweet thing,” Eliot murmurs. “You think that’s good enough?”

“I said it,” he insists. “I did.”

Eliot rolls his eyes. Waits.

“Okay, fine.” His lower lip is sticking out, chest heaving. He pulls Eliot in for a deliciously messy kiss, hoping that Eliot will forget all about it, grinding on Eliot’s dick again in a way that’s bringing both of them closer and closer to the edge.

“Tell me,” Eliot groans.

“God, you’re so embarrassing,” he says, somewhere close to Eliot’s ear. “I’m not—I can’t—” Quentin squirms horribly, self-consciousness bursting out of him, taking shape in the hunch of his shoulders, the clench of his mouth. He doesn’t know what to say. This will do for now, put off the inevitable for a short moment: “It’s embarrassing, like, for me to say it. It’s okay when you tell me.”

“You like it when I tell you how pretty you are?”

Quentin shudders. Fucking Eliot. Eliot who knows the bone-depths of him, who knows how to drag Quentin’s shame and his desire kicking and screaming to the surface. Eliot, who looks so pleased and surprised when Quentin blurts out a vicious, “Yes, fuck, I like it, okay?”

“Of course it’s okay.” Eliot pulls Quentin down onto his chest, fucks his hips up in lazy-slow thrusts. “You’re gorgeous, baby.” Quentin whimpers. He loves to hear it, every time, and he hates that he loves it. Hates that he craves it with such savage hunger, hates that Eliot is so eager to give him everything he craves, these words that are far more than praise or flattery—they’re the truth of Eliot, the unvarnished facts of his own cravings. “Your perfect fucking face, that sulky, pink mouth of yours. Your stupidly hot thighs, all that fucking hair, Jesus.”

Gripping the curls at Eliot’s nape, hips grinding in tight circles, Quentin mumbles, “Maybe I’m sort of pretty. Or like, pretty for you, I could be, I—I want to be, fuck, this is awful. I do, I fucking want it,” he hisses into Eliot’s neck, sucking a dark bruise into his pale skin, tugging at his hair, nails digging bluntly as though these tender aggressions might somehow be capable of banishing Quentin’s words from the record, or better still, banish them from his psyche altogether, turn him into something or someone else—anyone but the person who Quentin actually is: a guy who wants to be pretty for his boyfriend.

“Good, that’s so good, baby. I’m glad you want it. You’re allowed,” Eliot says, soft, reassuring.

Quentin moans harshly, the words driven from somewhere deep. “I want to be pretty for you, for you to like it—to like me, oh god, El, I can’t fucking do this—”

“Shh,” Eliot soothes, then, contradictorily, “Keep going.”

“Oh god, oh god.” Face hot with exertion and embarrassment, Quentin fucks himself steadily on Eliot’s cock, grabbing his shoulders tight. “I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come—”

Eliot’s thumb slips tender-bright sparks over his jaw. “No, baby. You’re not.”


“Okay, no,” Quentin says, arms folded. “Really, no. I really fucking can’t, okay?”

“Can’t you?” Eliot asks, schooling his expression into one of mild amusement. It won’t do to let Quentin know just how much Eliot is already enjoying himself.

“It’s embarrassing; you know it is, come on.” His pretty face goes redder than ever, and delightfully so, head ducking behind all that glossy-soft hair.

“Is that right,” Eliot says with a faux-sympathetic cluck of his tongue. “Tell me more about that.”

No,” Quentin says. “I’m not—I don’t want…” He trails off, lovely pink lips pressing together in frustration. Eliot’s dick twitches.

“You don’t want me to see you, baby? Don’t want me to get a good look at your sweet little hole all aching and empty without my dick to keep it filled up?”

Jesus.” The look Quentin gives him is complicated; lust tinged with shame, a hint of pleading and not a small amount of hunger. Eliot says nothing. The waiting game with Quentin is almost as delicious as the payoff—if not more.

“Oh my god.”

Eliot lies back in the cushions, making a show of getting more comfortable, one arm idling behind his head.

“El, come on.”

He palms his cock over the front of his pants, already starting to get hard from watching Quentin work himself up.

Quentin’s brow wrinkles. “You’ve gone quiet.”

“Just waiting for you, baby.” Eliot shrugs. “You know what I want—it’s up to you whether you want it too.”

“I don’t,” Quentin says, surly-mouthed.

“You sure, baby? Don’t want to give me a show? There’ll be DVD commentary.”

“No one watches DVDs anymore,” Quentin mutters.

Eliot laughs, bright and warm, though he’s starting to wonder if he’s miscalculated, or is perhaps pushing too far, when Quentin wrenches his shirt over his head, getting briefly and endearingly stuck before yanking himself free. “Aren’t you gonna—?” He gestures at Eliot vaguely.

“Mm, I’m good, baby. Keep going for me,” he says, voice low and honey-smooth.

Quentin sighs, sitting on the edge of the bed to take his jeans and socks off. The wet spot on his underwear is certainly promising. And Eliot knows from experience that Quentin has no problem using his safeword when he needs to.

“C’mere,” Eliot says gently, once Quentin is naked. He pulls Quentin on top of him, slotting their hips together, generously letting Quentin rut a little to get some friction on his cock, feeling that low stir of pleasure in his abdomen as their bodies press and groan. He draws Quentin in for a rough kiss, hot and hard, possessive hands stroking every bit of him he can reach; after three days of teasing, it doesn’t take long to get him fired up past the point of shamelessness.

At Eliot’s instruction, Quentin sits back on his heels. His lips pretty and swollen, hair stuck to his face, hips tensing and aching for contact. Eliot’s never seen him look quite so agonized and he’s not sure if it’s because he hasn’t come for three days now, or if it’s more to do with what Eliot’s asking of him. He suspects the latter. There’s still that strain in him, that full-bodied resistance as Quentin grudgingly positions himself away from Eliot, whose shirt is open at the collar and untucked, but is otherwise fully clothed and immaculately dressed in his smoke-grey slacks and a midnight blue vest over a patterned shirt—exactly how Quentin likes him.

He makes encouraging noises as Quentin turns away and lowers himself, hands and knees either side of Eliot’s body. God, why don’t they fuck like this more often? His tight little ass in the air, face pressed down in the sheets, the way he’d sob as Eliot’s dick finally slides home…

“Really?” Quentin pleads. “You really want me to—?”

He can’t even bring himself to say it, and Eliot doesn’t push. “You look so fucking hot like this, baby. I could get off just looking at those gorgeous cheeks, maybe give you a slap or two. But I’d love to see your pretty hole, if you think you can show me?”

Quentin’s hips twist, those gorgeous cheeks clenching beautifully. “God, El…”

Eliot sits up a little, soothing over Quentin’s thighs and stroking his cock, slowly, efficiently, working him from root to tip, catching a stream of pre-come to slick the way—which very much answers the question of whether Quentin’s enjoying himself.

“Why are you even doing this, god, can’t you just fuck me like a normal person?” Quentin snipes, voice pale and trembling as much as his lovely thighs.

“Fucked you yesterday,” Eliot reminds him. “Came right up inside this lovely ass while it bounced on my dick. Remember?”

You’re a dick.” He says it resentfully, but, to Eliot’s delight, reaches back shakily to pull his cheeks apart, revealing his pretty hole, pink and tempting.

“Mmhmm,” Eliot replies absently, mesmerised by the unspeakably erotic sight of Quentin holding himself open for Eliot’s pleasure. He slicks up two fingers and rubs them over Quentin’s twitching hole. His pants are now uncomfortably tight. “You got it, baby. Fuck, but you’re lovely.”

“Now what?” Quentin asks, muffled by the press of his face somewhere near Eliot’s knee.

“Now, I get a very nice show.” Eliot unzips his pants, carefully pulling his cock out and giving himself a firm stroke. “I think I’m gonna go slow, really take my time, you know?” He’s trying for languid, too far gone to care that it comes out in a cracked strain. Eliot pets Quentin’s asshole lovingly, stroking his thumb almost, so-fucking-nearly inside before sliding down. Quentin whimpers, pushing back for more. “Maybe I’ll do this sometime after I fuck you,” he muses, dipping another finger over Quentin’s rim, rubbing and playing while Quentin sobs out a series of utterly filthy noises. “Fill you up with come and watch it drip down your thighs while you cry and beg.” Eliot sighs happily while Quentin writhes, his cock fucking into empty air, fingers slipping over his cheeks.

“Pull those sweet cheeks a little wider, honey, god, yeah, like that,” Eliot pants, fisting his cock roughly. Fuck, he’s so beautiful Eliot could die. He’s not gonna last much longer. “Yeah, baby, that’s really fucking doing it for me, fuck, your little hole’s just so hungry for it, you want my cock so bad, don’t you darling?”

Quentin gives a strangled cry that Eliot can only assume means yes, yes, Eliot I want your cock in my ass so bad. And, well. He could make Quentin say it. He’d blush and squirm and moan, but he’d do it and he’d fucking love it. Even just imagining his sullen voice and reddening face is outrageously hot, sending a jagged pulse of arousal through him. Eliot rubs over Quentin’s hole again, just to watch him thrash. He fucks into his hand, muscles tensing, pleasure spiralling—he’s not gonna last long enough to make Quentin do anything at all— “Perfect little ass in the air for me, fuck, you’re perfect, darling, so fucking perfect,” Eliot gasps, fist sliding hot over his dick as he comes, shaking and groaning, his pleasure streaking Quentin’s thighs white. Quentin cries out too, a needy whine, hands dropping to brace himself on the bed. “S’good, baby,” Eliot says, panting and hauling Quentin back into his lap, stroking the tremble of his hips, kissing his tears and reveling in the press of their bodies—one wrung out and sated, the other still aching for release. Quentin’s sweating and shivering and so fucking pretty. Eliot can hardly believe it; this perfect boy squirming in his arms, handing his orgasm over for Eliot to take care of. He’s gonna take such good fucking care of Quentin, always.


They’ve barely done anything and already it feels like Quentin’s skin is on fire, like it might be possible for his dick to actually explode. He’s been on the verge of half hard all day, after a fevered night’s sleep during which he’d woken up with a raging erection, practically humping Eliot’s leg, and Eliot had covered his cock with one of his big stupid fucking hands, enveloping him, pressing and rubbing sleepily until they’d both drifted off again.

Now, sprawled back against the headboard, the only thing Quentin is conscious of is the press of Eliot’s body closing in on him, the clench of Eliot’s fist in the tangle of his hair as he tips Quentin’s head back to expose his throat. He feels small, safe, surrounded, and—it’s good. It’s everything Quentin's ever wanted, and never imagined he'd get to have.

Eliot cradles his cheek gently, then grips his jaw, hard. Quentin jerks in a breath, a small sound escaping on the exhale. He looks up at Eliot to find his eyes dark and unreadable, locking onto Quentin’s gaze.

“I’m gonna slap your pretty face, darling,” Eliot says, and Quentin lets out a garbled sound, struggling against Eliot’s hold.

“Please,” he chokes out. “Do it, god—”

“I will,” Eliot says. “Because you’ve been so good for me, haven’t you?”

Quentin nods, eager. “Y-yes,” he says, though he’s not sure if it’s true, really. Eliot likes it, though. Likes him. This realization makes Quentin spark with pleasure every time he has it. Eliot likes doing this to him. Likes how much Quentin gets off on Eliot hurting him. And Eliot always hurts him so fucking good—knows how to use his hands, his mouth, his cock in ways Quentin could never have imagined.

“And because I want to,” Eliot adds. Quentin watches mesmerised, a prickle of pure need in his gut as Eliot slips the silver rings off his right hand, calmly preparing to hit him across the face, holy shit—and Quentin can’t wait.

“I want to hear the breath slapped out of you, the way you’re gonna moan for me—the way you’re gonna come for me, baby, finally.”

Quentin nearly comes then and there, thighs tight and trembling, every part of him straining toward release, his cock fucking burning with the need for it. He breathes in shakily; it’s okay, Eliot’s gonna let him, gonna make him come. He breathes out, long and slow. The shudder of need slips away.

Eliot looks warmly down at him. Eyes tender, mouth soft. His hand draws back, telegraphing the first one as he always does, and Quentin has to restrain himself from arching up in anticipation, shoulder blades shuddering as he presses back against the headboard, chest heaving with exertion and arousal. “You want it, baby,” Eliot says, and it’s not a question. That big fucking hand cracks hard and glittering across his face, dragging sparks over his throat—a promise for later.

He kisses Quentin, soft and possessive, hand firm at the back of his neck; the sound Quentin makes is choked and desperate. The kiss barely ends before the next crack sparks across his sensitive skin, cutting something loose inside him. “Again,” Quentin sobs, eyes squeezing shut, and Eliot does it again. Sharper, this time, the sting of it leaving him reeling, struck into stars. Time slips. Eliot’s mouth trails over the tender curve of Quentin’s cheek, teeth grazing his chin, his jaw, sucking a small bruise below his ear. Quentin needs more, needs everything Eliot will give him—“Fuck me, please, god, I need—will you—?”

Eliot gives a soft rumble of laughter. “Sure, baby. I’ll put my dick in you—” Quentin groans, scrabbling at Eliot’s shoulders in a futile attempt to maneuver him into position, making Eliot chuckle— “But you can’t come yet.” He spreads Quentin’s thighs, slotting himself between them, hands curving the tuts so he can get inside Quentin as quickly as possible. Quentin’s aching for it, wants Eliot inside him, hard and unyielding, wants to clench down on that thick cock when he comes—god, he’s finally gonna come. Thinking about his impending orgasm sends a frenzied burst of arousal through him; he breathes through the edge of it until he can speak again— “Please—just—”

Eliot nods gently, lining up, groaning as he buries himself to the hilt in one slick motion that makes Quentin feel like he’s being split apart, like his every atom might just fucking disintegrate. “I’m—I’m—”

“Don’t come, Quentin,” Eliot reminds him, kissing him deep and slick, fucking him in long, slow strokes, carefully avoiding his prostate, thank fuck, because that would definitely send him hurtling over the edge. “Hm, I’d touch your dick, but that’s probably not a good idea right now, huh? What do you think—can you take it?”

Quentin’s head shakes jerkily, tears slipping down his cheeks. Eliot thumbs over them gently. “Oh, baby. You’re gonna cry for real when I slap you again.”

Electricity crackles through him. His hips snap up. “Please.”

“You’re such a sweet fucking thing,” Eliot whispers, driving into him, nails raking over the sore flesh of his cheek, fingers soothing their scrape. He slaps Quentin again, the hardest yet, reducing Quentin’s entire world to the gasp of his open mouth and the blunt force of Eliot’s palm. Quentin breathes through the aftershock, skin tingling. “Oh god, oh god, am I—can I? El—”

“You can come soon, baby. I’m gonna give you another slap to send you over.”

Fuck.” He’s crying for real now, as predicted, a tangle of sobs wrenched from his chest, tears streaming hot, body strung tight with four days of sexual frustration.

“It’s okay, love, I’m gonna take care of you,” Eliot promises.

Quentin just nods, no longer capable of speech, a low whine emanating from his throat as he sobs, waiting, looking up at Eliot through tear-wet lashes. Eliot shifts up and Quentin keens at the loss of contact, body twisting as Eliot’s hand closes around his cock. The need pulsing at his core feels like it might shatter him as Eliot strokes him, slow and firm.

Another tender slap crashes him over the edge. Quentin’s crying and he’s coming all at once, shaking apart, legs spasming with the force of the pleasure coiling through him. Eliot keeps stroking him, his voice curling warm and soft in Quentin’s ear as he whispers praise and endearments.

“Keep—keep—” Quentin stutters, and Eliot must understand what he wants, because he starts fucking Quentin again—and, oh, he looks wrecked—Quentin stares up at Eliot in a daze, unable to fully comprehend the depth of Eliot’s desire for him, but it’s there nonetheless—his eyes wide and wanting, breath hitching, Quentin’s name on his lips—

Quentin,” Eliot gasps, teeth at his neck, lips pressing in a frantic kiss. “God, you’re perfect, baby. You’re all mine. All I could ever wish for. Everything I could ever need.” He slams into Quentin for a final time, deep and unrelenting, crying out into the crook of Quentin’s neck. “Fuck.”

For a few moments, all they can do is clutch at each other. Their mouths press together, not quite kissing. They both shudder as Eliot pulls out. “Fuck,” Quentin echoes softly. A gentle spell washes the sweat and come from their bodies as Eliot wraps Quentin up in his arms and they settle against each other.

“All mine,” Eliot whispers fiercely, stroking Quentin’s hair back from his temple, a fond smile on his face.

Quentin kisses him lazily, trailing circles over the small of Eliot’s back, breathing him in. “Love you,” he mumbles between kisses. “So fucking much.”

“I love you, baby.” He strokes tenderly over Quentin’s sore cheek. “I love that you give this to me, that you trust me.”

Quentin hums. Everything’s starting to feel slow and hazy, limbs heavy with afterglow. “You were so good,” he says, almost slurring. “You’re so fucking good to me.”

“You had fun, then?” Eliot asks. There’s a hint of insecurity prickling through his light tone, and it somehow surprises Quentin, even after all this time, that Eliot ever feels anything but utterly self-assured about sex. It shouldn’t though; Quentin knows better.

“Um, yeah. Holy shit, Eliot.”

“I didn’t push too far? With any of it, I mean. Not just tonight.”

“Hmm, not too far. You definitely pushed me, though. Like, with the—you know. Embarrassing stuff. That was—a lot. But in a good way.” A yawn takes Quentin by surprise. Lips press to his temple, Eliot’s hand cradling the back of his neck. Quentin is safe, secure—loved. He smiles, his cheek warm and tender where Eliot slapped him so perfectly. “It felt so good,” he whispers. “All of it—you were perfect.”

Their legs tangle, arms tightening around each other.

“So,” Eliot asks softly, “think you can go five days, next time?”