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In Eliot’s opinion, the worst thing about being a Brakebills student was Brakebills South. That was saying something, considering Dean Fogg didn’t believe in psychiatric medication and half their exams felt like literal flunk or die situations and communal living. But, Brakebills South, with its compulsory uniforms and stuffy, recirculated air was without a doubt the worst. 

The faculty tried to make the annual campus exchange program more palatable for upperclassmen by allowing them to portal to the Antarctic rather than endure another round of the world’s most disappointing bondage spell. It only made up for the first day or so. They still had to endure the rest of the month-long exchange right along with the first years.

The latest debacle in their chemistry lab was the perfect example of why Brakebills South was the worst. If they’d been at the main campus, there would have been no question about fixing it: Lipson would have been in their classroom and had them all sorted within minutes. Brakebills South didn’t have a Lipson to call on, though. The only person they had to help them through it was Nadine, their chem TA. 

Nadine didn’t know shit about chemistry. 

Still, Eliot could appreciate the silver linings of his current predicament. If half the Brakebills main campus students were going to get hit with body-warp gas all thanks to Todd breaking a beaker of the stuff in the middle of the room, at least Eliot got a rack like Alice Quinn's out of the temporary deal. 

It seemed as good a reason as any to skip out on the rest of the potions workshop. Nadine was “pretty sure” it would wear off in a few hours, and sticking around didn't seem as though it was likely to make things any better any faster.

He didn't know if it was a one-to-one swap, but part of him hoped it was Quinn that ended up with his body. She seemed like she could use some big-dick energy. He’d noticed how she hid on the edge of parties, clinging to her drink and flashing a silent, over-eager smile towards anyone that walked within a given radius. The power of knowing how good he could make it for any random size queen was half the secret to his ego; Quinn deserved at least a sliver of that ego boost.

As he stepped out of the lab, Eliot wondered for a moment if he should have stuck around to make sure whoever was wearing his body understood the care and keeping of the Eliot Waugh aesthetic. But, if it was only a few hours, as long as it wasn’t Todd, it’d be fine. And even in that worst-case scenario, Todd was a “good student.” The likelihood of Todd leaving the lab before the official end of class was small, so damage would be minimal. He hoped.

Certainly, it was a one-to-one swap. 

Eliot forced his mind to better things as he turned from the west wing of campus to the long main corridor. He had his own ideas to consider for how he should spend the next few hours.

"Hey, um. Alice. Alice!"

It took Eliot a moment to remember he was Alice. He spun on his heel and retraced his steps to the atrium where Quentin was frantically pacing, pushing his hair back from his forehead, looking altogether lost in a panic.

"Did you forget Mayakovsky wanted us to...um?” Quentin’s fingers wrung together and he worried his lip between his teeth. His eyes darted to the side the way they always did when he was worried about saying the wrong thing but was going to say whatever it was anyway. “Is everything okay? You seem...Not..." 

"Yeah, Q. Fine. Lovely. What'd our favorite vodka aficionado want?" Alice’s voice sounded bizarrely high-pitched in his ears.

"Remove your clothes!" Mayakovsky announced from the stairs. That seemed rather direct of an answer to his question. 

"I really don't think—" Eliot started to protest.

"Now. No excuses."

Quentin and Eliot glanced at each other and started stripping. The poor girl deserved a better bra, but the plain grey thong was more interesting than he'd been expecting. He glanced towards Quentin with what he hoped was a worried expression, while he looked him over. 

It was sinful that this man didn't wear tighter clothing.

"Outside."

"But—" Quentin started.

"Outside! Survive and you pass. Die and you fail."

Mayakovsky turned them each by their shoulders and pushed them towards the door. It opened for them seemingly of its own accord and the howling wind outside rose from loud to deafening.

Eliot shuddered as packed ice clawed at his bare feet. The wind threatened to rip him sideways. It was cold and wretched and there was nothing they could do about it as the steel doors clanged shut behind them.

His nipples—Alice’s nipples—peaked almost immediately in the cold; goosebumps rampaged over her skin; her fingers were already turning red. He licked his lips, trying to keep them warm, but judging by Quentin's, they were likely already turning purple.

He tried to not study Quentin too closely, though. At least, he tried to focus on his hunched shoulders and wind-whipped hair and purpling lips. Eliot wouldn’t have wanted anyone taking notes about how much shrinkage he might experience in below-freezing temperatures, no matter how legitimate their interest in his cock might be.

"We need. Shelter. And um," Quentin started to say, rubbing his arms against the wind.

They needed to stay warm long enough to find shelter.

Eliot turned back to the door and shouted, "What do you even expect us to do out here?"

He was sure no one heard him, but the door reopened for a split second. Two pieces of rope flew out, and Eliot immediately lunged for them before the storm carried them off. He cursed aloud as Alice’s knuckles scraped against the ice, but he caught them, at least.

"I fucking." Quentin’s chattering teeth interrupted his words. “I hate this fucking place.”

"C'mon, Q." Eliot tied a piece of rope around Quentin’s wrists, then around his own. They didn’t have a lot of time. They needed to get warm.

They stood close together, with their wrists bound up between their bodies. Eliot wrapped Alice’s hands around Quentin’s and brought them to his lips, blowing on them softly. Her hands looked so small compared to Quentin’s.

Quentin leaned in, pressing their foreheads together. “I hate myself? I run away from everything? I don't even know what I'm doing here."

"Quentin, you're one of the most incredible people I've ever known." He was only trying to reassure Quentin. He was only responding to what Quentin had said, the words flowing out of him as natural as anything. Of course, Quentin was incredible, and of course, Eliot thought so.

He wasn't expecting the ropes to slide off his wrists, but they did.

"Internal circumstance, Q,” Eliot said, rubbing their hands together, specifically not thinking about the implications of his own wrists being freed.

"I—that was it! That's what worked last time."

Eliot wrapped his arms around Quentin's shoulders. It was weird, doing it at this angle, having to reach up to put his hand behind Quentin’s neck. It was weird having Alice Quinn’s bare breasts pressed between them, but he needed to help Quentin keep warm. Quentin needed to make the transformation work. "You can do this. You need to do this, Q."

Eliot’s body convulsed. The transformation began. Every cell in his body protested against the shift. Eliot grit his teeth against the scream building in his chest as the spell ripped his body apart to remake it again. He needed to keep his mind as long as possible. He needed to be sure Quentin was making the change with him.

He could see Quentin's mouth moving, but the wind yanked his words away. Quentin fell forward and braced himself against his knees. Quentin’s face pinched together in pain as the spell started tearing through his body.

The moment of torturous bending of sinew and remaking of muscle passed, and Eliot was warm. The ice didn’t hurt his feet as much. He could feel the storm pressing down against his body and it was still dangerous, but not deadly. He looked around for Quentin, feeling frantic when he didn't immediately find him.

Quentin's head popped out of a snowbank. He jumped out onto the icy path and shook some snow off his back. Quentin blinked his large round eyes at him; he swished his fox tail, and twitched his fox ears in Eliot’s direction.

Eliot could smell him. He smelled like wet earth and charcoal; the wind shifted, and Eliot took another whiff. Quentin smelled like smoldering, promising, wild...something. Something: not anything he was willing to name, so long as he clung to his humanity.

The fur was good—it was warm, it was keeping them warm and alive—but the smell. God, it was the best thing in the world.

He knew any inhibitions he might have would be gone soon; he could feel them slipping away even faster as fox-Quentin took a few light steps towards him. Waves of the smell rolled off Quentin the closer he came, sniffing the air as with equal interest. It was obvious Quentin knew the smell wasn't his alone: they both smelled like crisp, sharp, delicious, revelrous—something.

Eliot knew what something was—it was unmistakable. As a human, it was less of a smell and more of a feeling burning deep in his veins. The feeling he could put away. Since the start of the school year, he'd become accustomed to shoving it down and out of the way. He'd become accustomed to berating himself for wanting more than what they had. He hated it, but he could do it, as a human.

The smell, though—the smell was impossible to ignore. He wasn’t sure if he had ever felt more overwhelmed by anything. There was no doubt that he would be completely, utterly overwhelmed as soon as he forgot he was human and not a fox.

They both smelled like it though. There was no denying that either. That was...a new feeling. A feeling of hope that made him think that maybe—maybe, maybe—if they both smelled the same, maybe he could. Maybe it would be okay if he let himself be overwhelmed by instinct and reacted to the smell the way the fox wanted to.

Quentin came right up next to him and sat back on his haunches. He swished his tail as if waiting for Eliot to do something other than sit there in the snow and smell him.

He felt consumed by the desire-need-want to pounce on Quentin. He needed to keep him still, to curl around him, and to keep him safe from the storm. Quentin whined in his high-pitched fox voice, and he understood him. Quentin-the-fox wanted those same things, too.

He bound away and hunched down; he sprang up as Quentin scampered up close to him again. He yipped and jumped and Quentin responded: playful, happy, alive, warm. Quentin caught up to him; nuzzled right up against his side. He nuzzled back, against Quentin’s cheek. Marking Quentin—being marked by Quentin—with that scent was beyond intoxicating.

They were warm; they were alive; everything smelled good; Quentin smelled so good. Finding the storage shed seemed secondary. They were warm enough to survive this; so long as they were foxes, they could live out in the Antarctic cold forever.

Quentin cocked his head to the side, and his adorable little fox tongue darted out to lick his chin. He pounced on top of Quentin, and Quentin made the sweetest sound. His scent—his scent—was extraordinary.

The shed could wait.


They made it to shelter just as the spell was fading. Quentin transformed back first: his pale, bare, human hands shook, but he was able to tut the door unlocked and open well enough. He didn't look back as Eliot stood up, back in human form, and stumbled in after him.

"Here. Here, um. Robes. Alice, are you...Eliot?"

Eliot took the robe Quentin handed him and wrapped it around Quentin's shoulders. "Long story. Todd's a moron."

Eliot's hands shook as he reached for another robe hanging by the door and slipped into it. Quentin wasn’t moving, so Eliot reached forward to help him tie his robe shut. As if pulled out of a trance, Quentin stepped close, slipped his arms under Eliot's robe, and clung to him as if they’d almost died. 

They had almost died.

The storage shed smelled terrible—sweat, and dust, and too many stasis spells keeping old things useful. But Quentin—Quentin smelled good, safe, relieved, wonderful, happy. Eliot wrapped his arms around Quentin; holding him, knowing he was safe, was going to warm Eliot faster than any robe. Bare chests pressed together, he could reassure himself: they were both safe.

Quentin rubbed his nose against Eliot’s skin. "It was so...cold.

"Mayakovsky’s a fucking cunt," Eliot mumbled into Quentin’s hair. This felt right—Quentin tucked under his chin, Quentin wrapped around his middle, Quentin in his arms—it was how they were supposed to fit together.

"Yeah. But the fur…" Quentin murmured. Eliot could feel Quentin’s lips moving against his chest as he said it.

Eliot’s heart hammered against his ribs faster and faster. It’d been good—so good—for him. Quentin still smelled like a fox; Eliot inhaled deep, savoring it. 

"The fur was warm,” he said, breathing in Quentin’s scent, “and...everything else. Was. Good?" 

"Yeah. Kept us warm and we. I thought you were Alice."

Immediately, Eliot felt bile churning in his gut. "Yeah. There wasn't much of a chance to tell you what...happened with the body-warp gas. Obviously."

Quentin’s lips were on his in a second. Soft, lush, easy—Eliot was lost in it again, just as fast. He walked Quentin backward. The need to pin Quentin against something—a wall, a door, a table—was overwhelming. He needed to find a closed-in space where he knew he could keep Quentin safe. A den—he needed a den—and lacking that, he was big enough. He could protect Quentin from anything if they were closed in on at least one side and—

Jesus Christ, he was fucking losing it. He wasn’t a fucking fox anymore. 

Quentin seemed to sense it too, though. He pulled at Eliot frantically; moved against him as if still trying to get closer; like he couldn’t stand any part of their bodies being separated, even to breathe.  

Spare parts and random boxes were hazards in their wake, but they helped keep each other upright, between grasping hands and laughs and hungry kisses. Eliot’s robe snagged on something, and he couldn’t be bothered with it; he abandoned it in his pursuit of finding something to pin Quentin against, something to bend him over, something, anything

Finally—a table, a workbench he could press Quentin against and hold him there. Quentin moaned into Eliot’s mouth and slid his tongue across his. 

Quentin lifted a hand to the back of Eliot's neck, moaning again as Eliot pressed his hips into him. The stubble along Quentin's jawline felt rough against the pad of his thumb and the skin along his sides was warm and smooth. Laughter bubbled out of Quentin as Eliot ran his fingers over his ribcage and as Eliot felt Quentin's smile against his lips, he smiled back.

Gasping for breath, Quentin glanced up at him through his eyelashes. "I'm glad. That it is you, I mean. If you’d really been Alice that would have been…"

"Yeah…? Glad I’m not Alice?"

Quentin smirked and gave Eliot a quick peck on his lips. Eliot couldn’t stand for that—he needed more. Gripping Quentin’s hip to keep him still and the back of his neck to keep him close, Eliot kissed him again. It seemed such an easy thing for Eliot to do, now: to hold Quentin against his body, to caress his sweet velvet tongue with his own, to pull lovely little sounds out of him. It seemed so easy to have Quentin giving back eagerly and thoroughly. 

As far as Eliot was concerned, this was where they both belonged now. They could perhaps even try to live out their days in this shed, just so the ease wouldn’t disappear. He groaned in frustration when they finally broke for a breath. 

“Yes. And no,” Quentin answered, his eyes earnest and bright as he said it, “I mean. I’m glad it’s you. That’s...it. Glad Alice isn’t here, yeah—but mostly just glad it’s you.”

"So, you're...okay with, this?" Eliot asked, carding his hands through Quentin’s hair, soft as ever, and smelling as good as his fox fur.

"Obviously...um. yeah. Very."

"So, you're not."

"What?"

"Straight."

"No." Quentin gave him a small laugh. "Not even a little bit."

Eliot slid a hand around the small of Quentin’s back and pressed himself flush against Quentin’s body. Quentin reached up to wrap his arms around Eliot's shoulders and pressed his lips against Eliot's again. Every sound Quentin made was ready, needy, and hungry.


One of the greatest benefits of being Quentin’s boyfriend was that now Eliot could shamelessly watch Quentin whenever he wanted. Instead of strategically placing himself in a circle of conversation, he could just turn and look at him from anywhere. Instead of pretending the bar needed reorganizing and just-so-happening to glance up every so often, Eliot could make himself a cocktail, sit down on the other end of the couch, and unabashedly watch whatever Quentin was doing. 

For instance, he could make himself a simple, dirty martini to sip on while Quentin studied in the Cottage living room.

Watching Quentin study was delightful. When he wasn’t awkwardly shifting his hands in half tuts to memorize spells, or silently mouthing along with the incantations, he was gnawing on his fingernails or the end of his pen. In a lot of ways, it was better watching now that Eliot knew what his lips actually tasted like. Though, now that Eliot knew exactly how Quentin's mouth felt working over his cock, and exactly how Quentin’s mouth twisted in pleasure as he orgasmed, and exactly how Quentin did a lot of other things with his mouth, it was also notably worse when watching him in public. 

By the time Eliot was finished with his second martini, he determined that it was time for Quentin to give up on studying. Eliot slid across the length of the couch and smoothly curled against Quentin’s side with a kiss on his temple. He slid a hand through Quentin’s hair as Quentin turned to him for a proper kiss.

“Hey, Vix." Quentin gave him the shy smile he always used when using his pet name for Eliot in public. Eliot couldn't care less about the pet name, but that smile was worth anything Quentin could call him. It made Eliot feel lighter and happier than he had in weeks, months, years. 

To think, all it took was convincing this compact-sized, super nerd to let Eliot love him.

“You know what I'm thinking?” Eliot asked, snaking his hand up Quentin’s thigh and leaning close into him to kiss the top of his ear. “I'm thinking you’ve been working very hard studying for this exam. Why don’t you come upstairs to relax?”

“Pretty sure you just mean fuck.” Quentin deadpanned and turned the page in his textbook pointedly.

“Two birds, one stone.”

“Eliot, this test is tomorrow.

“Exactly, I doubt you have anything more to worry about.” Eliot curled his tongue around Quentin's earlobe and whispered, "Besides, if you don’t know it already, you’re not likely to remember it, now." 

Quentin sighed, sounding overwrought and put upon, but Eliot also heard a note in it telling that he’d successfully convinced him. “Not helpful. Can I get like, an hour? Please, El?"

Eliot hummed as he twisted a lock of Quentin's hair between his fingers and considered. “You may have forty-five minutes. I’ll leave you be, but don’t keep me waiting.” 

“Okay, I’ll um—” 

Moving his fingers in a quick tut, then tapping Quentin’s textbook so the edges glowed yellow for a brief moment, Eliot gave him a self-satisfied smirk.

“Hutchins’ Time Minder. Your book’s going to go blank in forty minutes. That’ll give you five to get your cute ass upstairs and into my hands, okay?”

Eliot,” Quentin hissed, “I need this book to study.”

"It’s only temporary; to help make sure you aren’t late." Eliot tapped Quentin on the nose. "Only looking out for you, darling.”


Twenty minutes later, Eliot barely had his tie undone and his waistcoat unbuttoned when Quentin burst through his door. Without a word, Quentin threw his messenger bag aside and all but tackled Eliot onto his bed. 

"You can't just...tease me like that and...expect me to…" Quentin breathed each word hard against Eliot's skin between biting kisses down the column of his neck. 

Eliot grinned at his small victory. "Baby, if it turns you on this much, I’m afraid you’re going to need a better argument."

Quentin made a frustrated sound as he kissed his way back up Eliot's neck to find his lips. He fumbled for Eliot's hands, and Eliot gave them up; he went easily as Quentin pinned his wrists to either side. He was happy to go wherever Quentin wanted him if Quentin was going to be making such hot, needy sounds in his bed.

"C'mon baby, what do you need?" Eliot artfully arched his back to roll his body up into Quentin's. 

Quentin reached down and started fumbling with his belt and pants, then his shirt. Eliot just leaned back and watched until Quentin was naked and straddling him, leaning in, rubbing his hard, naked cock against his pants with suggestive thrusts, and breathing heavily against his mouth between blistering kisses. 

“What am I supposed to do with such a delightfully naked boy in my lap, hm?” Eliot ran his hands down Quentin’s spine and over his thighs, pressing deep into each tense thread of muscle. Quentin whined as Eliot dug his fingers into his ass to guide his hips rolling against him.

“Let me ride you,” Quentin moaned against Eliot’s neck. “You don’t need to do anything, just lay back and let me take your dick.” 

“Yeah, alright. Why don’t you get yourself ready for me? Talk me through what it feels like to finger yourself.”

"Alright. Alright, I'm going to...I want to try something?” 

“Go ahead, sweetheart.” Eliot slowly started unbuttoning his shirt. 

Quentin bit his lip while he watched Eliot open his shirt up. It made Eliot smile; he slowly traced his fingers up and down his chest, drawing Quentin’s eyes with them. Gently shaking his head, Quentin took Eliot’s wrists in his hands, and pinned them against the bed, above Eliot’s head. He sat up, still curling his hips against Eliot in small thrusts, as he moved his fingers through the spellwork for cleaning and protection. As he started the spell for prep, Eliot tucked his hands behind his head, watching carefully for any modified poppers, trying to understand what change Quentin wanted for the spell. 

Quentin cried out and fell forward, bracing his hands against Eliot’s chest. 

“What’d you do, Q?” Eliot licked his lips as Quentin’s face twisted in a combination of joy and discomfort. 

“It feels like you,” Quentin whispered, his body shaking. “Like it’s your fingers, but it’s...god, it’s like it’s on fast forward. Just a little bit of the...spell stretching like normal—so it doesn’t hurt—but...fuck! It's good.” 

Eliot couldn’t help grinning as he hummed appreciatively at Quentin’s meta-comp efforts.

Quentin screwed his eyes shut tight as he sat up and resumed grinding down against Eliot. He pressed his perineum against Eliot’s hard cock through his pants; rolled his balls back and forth right where Eliot could feel him. Quentin was probably spreading all sorts of precum over the front of Eliot’s pants, but that was the absolute last of his concerns while Quentin was putting on such a show: throwing his head back, making sounds like Eliot’s phantom fingers were wrecking him, his own hands roving everywhere over his body.

Eliot was done keeping his hands to himself. He gently placed his fingertips at the hollow of Quentin’s throat and lightly traced slow, winding paths from Quentin’s collarbones down to his knees. 

“Shit, El,” Quentin moaned. His thighs trembled where they pressed against Eliot’s hips. “Do that again. Yeah...the prep feels exactly like it’s you.”

“Maybe we’ll have to try this spell again sometime and you can have my real fingers and the fake ones.” Eliot didn’t mean to growl possessively as he said it, but the way Quentin’s eyes shot open and he pressed his ass into Eliot made him feel alive. Smiling, he passed his fingers over Quentin’s skin a second time, tracing meandering lines from his throat to his thighs. 

"Yes. Yeah. That’s…Next time. I think that’s...yeah." Quentin’s words were so jumbled with grunts and whimpers, Eliot had half a mind to throw him on his back and try it right then, but he couldn’t break the scene of Quentin losing control like he was. Quentin’s eyes slid shut again, his face relaxed in a way Eliot only got to see when they were together like this. He reminded himself—not for the first time—that he could never take it for granted that he got to be this for Quentin.

“Eliot,” Quentin moaned his name loud at first, then louder, “Eliot.”

“You look so fucking good, you have no idea,” Eliot said in a rush, trying to control himself from bucking up into Quentin. “My cock’s ready for you whenever you’re ready, baby.”

Groaning loudly, Quentin bent down and kissed the edge of Eliot’s jaw as he unbuckled Eliot’s belt and unzipped his pants. He pulled Eliot’s pants and thong down just enough to free his cock. Quentin called enough lube to his palm to get Eliot exactly as slick as he wanted, then Quentin was sinking onto him, letting out short, high-pitched moans with each roll of his hips as he sank down lower and lower. 

“Yeah, baby, that’s it,” Eliot murmured, encouraging him. He gripped Quentin’s hips hard to guide him, focused on holding himself back from shoving his cock up into him, quick and dirty. “You’re so good at taking my dick.”

Quentin moaned louder in response to Eliot’s praise. “Fuck, El...Eliot.”

“There you go, baby. Keep going...Jesus. Love how you feel. Love being inside you.” The way Quentin kept making broken, desperate sounds for him each time he sank further down his cock was driving Eliot mad. Few men could make him run his mouth the same way Quentin could, and Eliot loved it. “Fuck, Q. Yeah...Jesus Christ could keep you on my cock all day. Yeah, keep going. You need me all the way inside, don’t you?”

“God, El, you feel so…” Quentin interrupted himself with a desperate sound. “Just so fucking good.” 

Quentin shifted just enough that Eliot could feel Quentin’s ass gently roll over his balls. Eliot propped his head up under one arm and licked his lips. 

“C’mon, let’s see you fuck yourself on Daddy’s cock, baby.” 

Quentin smiled like he always did when Eliot called himself Daddy. He folded his legs tighter along Eliot’s sides and he leaned back, with his arms braced against Eliot’s thighs. He was a sight to behold—mouth slack and open and crying out for his Daddy, hard cock bobbing in time with the rest of his body, abs tense to control his movements. 

As Quentin increased his pace notch by notch, Eliot ran a hand up the inside of Quentin’s thighs and ran a single finger up and down the length of Quentin’s cock. It sent Quentin babbling, “God, yes. You should be...this is supposed to be me giving to you. Just to make you feel good.”

“You are, Q. You’re beautiful, and you feel so good. I could watch you like this forever.” 

“Wanna feel like it’s just for you,” Quentin said between heavy breaths.

“You are, baby, all mine.”

Quentin raised his head to look at him, Eliot’s fingers back to rolling over his sturdy thighs as they flexed and tensed with each dip and thrust. 

“You look so…” Quentin started to say.

“Yeah, tell me how I look, baby.” Eliot took his hand back. He spread one hand over his chest and ran it through his chest hair; he shifted a little to prop himself up a little more. “Do I look hungry for you? Do I look like just a bored Sugar Daddy, waiting for my baby to perform in my lap? Or maybe I just look like a man so accustomed to using boys like you for my own pleasure, I can’t be bothered to get naked?”

"Eliot,” Quentin moaned and shifted himself forward, placing his hands over Eliot’s shoulders so he could piston his hips up and down faster.

“I could take you, you know,” Eliot said softly, “could pick you up with my magic—use you like a live fleshlight if that’s what you wanted.” 

“El…Jesus Christ, that’s—”

“So many things we could do if you wanted to just turn your body over to my magic. If you like the feeling of performing for me—just for Daddy.” Eliot lifted his hand and cupped Quentin’s cheek. Quentin’s mouth hung open as he worked to ride Eliot harder; his hair swung in front of his face and sweat started forming between his brows. Slowly, Eliot ran his thumb over Quentin’s bottom lip; Quentin huffed, breathing hard, moving his hips faster. 

“C’mere. Kiss me,” Eliot said, his voice low and rough.

Quentin bent down with one long, deep curl of his hips and pressed his open mouth against Eliot’s. Their tongues meeting distracted Quentin just enough to let Eliot grab his hips and hold him up. Eliot started fucking up into Quentin with focused precision. Eliot swallowed each of Quentin’s staccato little cries as Eliot drove his cock home. 

Eliot’s belt buckle clanked softly to the side; his pants strained against his thighs, but Eliot couldn’t find it in himself to care about anything other than the sounds Quentin kept making as he moved closer and closer to the edge.

“Touch yourself, Q,” Eliot said between clenched teeth.

Quentin gripped Eliot’s shoulder as he slid a magically-lubed-up fist down and around his cock. Feeling Quentin tense, ready, waiting for it, set Eliot free. There was nothing he wouldn’t give Quentin—nothing Quentin could ask for that Eliot wouldn’t fight tooth and nail to find for him. Quentin was gasping for breath, as he curved his back to lean into Eliot fucking in and out of his body; Quentin’s fist flew over himself, desperate to follow Eliot’s instructions. Both of them grasped harder where their hands clung to each other—they needed, they both needed so much. 

Quentin prayed a continuous loop of Eliot’s name, and Eliot wasn’t far behind him calling out for him. It would be a race to see who would come first. 

Baby, c’mon,” Eliot breathed the words out between wild thrusts, “Come for me, Q.”

That seemed to be all Quentin needed. As Quentin’s body pulsed around Eliot’s, his own orgasm slammed through him, hard and beautiful and euphoric. 

Eliot rolled Quentin to the side and kept rolling until he was half laying on top of Quentin and half sprawled out over his bed. They laughed together as Eliot peppered kisses over Quentin’s neck and cheeks and lips. 


“I can still smell you—fox you,” Quentin sighed from where Eliot had him tucked securely under his arm. “But I don’t think it’s bad. For us, I mean, it wasn’t anything...new.” 

“Are you saying you were already lusting after me from afar, Q? How romantic.” Eliot grinned at him between sips from his flask. 

“Well, yeah, kind of?"

Eliot pressed a kiss to Quentin's hairline and murmured against his forehead, "Me, too."

Quentin held out a hand, asking for a drink, and Eliot handed his flask over. They sat in silence for a few moments, Eliot gently running his hand up and down Quentin’s arm, and Quentin breathing softly against Eliot’s chest. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask.” Eliot cleared his throat and lifted a hand to brush Quentin’s hair behind his ear. “You said what you used for the secrets magic the first time didn’t work. I didn’t actually hear what you said, and since I technically was supposed to for the spell to work, I figure it’s fair of me to ask what it was.”

Quentin hummed and licked his lips. “It was...um. I said. I said I wished you were out there because you’d know what to do. I think I was...a little more panicky than that, but um. Yeah. I was just thinking about you and how you always seem to...take care of things. Um. Of me?”

“God, Quentin.” Eliot grinned at him. “Don’t tell Bambi that. She might actually break out in hives over it.”

“She’s always threatening to break out in hives seeing us be ‘grotesquely adorable’ or whatever she calls us.” Quentin sounded more than a little petulant as he rolled his eyes.

“Yes, well, that’s just how Margo shows affection. I’m speaking literally here.”

“You love it, though.”

“I love you,” Eliot corrected him. That made Quentin hum with pleasure and he gave Eliot a small kiss before burying his face into Eliot's chest. 

After a few beats, Quentin sighed heavily. “If I flunk out, do you think—”

"Alright, fine," Eliot groaned. "Benefits of dating an upperclassman. What exam are you having trouble with?"

As Quentin hopped up and scrambled for his bag, he grinned at Eliot in a way that made him feel like the entire exercise had been a ploy to get him to help with Quentin's schoolwork. He couldn't find it in himself to mind, though.