A piece of toast in his mouth and his bag’s strap slipping off his shoulder, Quentin tries to balance well enough to shove his foot into his shoe. He manages to stub his pinky toe in his shoe - how? - and bites down hard enough on the toast that the remainder falls from his mouth and lands butter-side down on the floor. Quentin swears softly under his breath as he resigns himself to needing to use his hands and drops the bag before bending down to slip on his shoes and retrieve the wasted toast.
He jumps when he feels Eliot’s hand on his back, mostly because he can’t help himself. Even after months together, it’s like Quentin can’t get used to the idea of another person sharing his space, even when - technically - the space belongs to Eliot. When he realizes what the sensation is, he twists so he can give Eliot a small half-exasperated smile.
“Baby, slow down,” Eliot says, running his hand soothingly up Quentin’s back and over his shoulders. Quentin has to consciously stop himself; Eliot’s touch reminds him to take pause, to breathe.
More composed, his shoes slip on easily and he straightens up, pulling the strap of his bag over his head. Eliot takes the dirty piece of toast and reaches over to put it down on a stray plate on the kitchen counter. His hands then snake around Quentin, unbothered by the way he squirms slightly in his touch.
“You’re so tense, baby.” Eliot’s lips come to press a chaste kiss on Quentin’s forehead.
“I’m gonna be late,” he complains, though his shoulders come down slightly from up by his ears. It’s hard to stay so worked up when Eliot wraps himself around him like this.
Eliot tsks him, dismissing the very idea. “It’s your class. No one is going to start without you.” He leans down, which prompts Quentin to stretch himself up, their lips meeting in an easy, familiar kiss. Eliot hums against the tight line of Quentin’s lips, pressing him to open up.
Instead, Quentin pulls away, an anxious smile playing over his lips. His eyes dart to the clock on the wall. “You’re a terrible influence. I have to go - I haven’t finished prep for class and it’s in -”
Eliot’s finger is back over his lip, which draws down Quentin’s brows in dissatisfaction. It’s not that he doesn’t want to stay, but he has a job - a new, dream job - that can very much become someone else’s new dream job if he doesn’t get his shit together and make sure his first years are ready for their finals.
Eliot unwraps his other hand from Quentin’s waist, which makes him think maybe he’s being let go, but before he can even swivel away and towards the door, Eliot has his firm hands grasping at the muscles between his neck and his shoulders. The tension he’s carrying starts to dissolve at Eliot’s touch. Still, he bounces on the balls of his feet, ready to spring as soon as he’s able.
“Baby, I can’t let you leave like this. You’re too worked up.” Eliot punctuates his point by kneading at a huge knot in the muscle that makes Quentin make a choked out whimpering noise.
Quentin’s brows raise, desperation on his face. “I have to,” his voice pitches in a whine. His mind is a whirl of everything he’s overcommitted to - there’s prepping his final few classes, and the stack of papers to grade, and there’s that committee meeting this afternoon, and he’s got three potential grad students waiting on him to set up Zoom calls, and -
“You’re thinking too loud, Quentin,” Eliot says, his voice suddenly firmer. “You know leaving now is a bad idea. Let me help you.”
And Quentin - his body knows what that means even if his mind needs a second to spin down and process what Eliot is saying.
Quentin’s eyes flick to the bedroom but he says, “I don’t have time, Eliot. I want to, I do. But I can’t.”
“Five minutes. You just need to give me five minutes.” Eliot’s hand slides down Quentin’s back, and turns him in the direction of the bedroom. He moves haltingly and with a few nudges from Eliot, but he eventually lets out an anxious sigh and drops his bag in the hallway.
Once inside, Eliot slides into Quentin’s space, pressing their body’s together. He takes a slow, exaggerated inhale that encourages Quentin to do the same.
“You’re spiraling, babe,” Eliot says matter-of-factly, because he knows Quentin and knows how when he works himself up this early, he’ll be in tears behind his office door before noon. “Will you let me help you focus?”
“Eliot, yes, I want to - I just - what do you mean, focus?”
Eliot steps back and over to the closet dresser, where Eliot stores most of his toys. He pulls out a simple plug - black and matte and not too intimidating. Quentin’s eyes widen a fraction but a small smile plays at the edges of his lips.
“You wanna put that in me?” There’s a new edge to his anxiety, something that feels to Eliot more like anticipation than nerves.
Eliot smiles back. “You need something to ground you. And since you won’t let me come down to your office and suck your cock while you work -”
“- Jesus, that was a one time deal -”
“- then I’ll need to trust that this will help keep your mind focused while you get through the day.” Eliot smirks but adds seriously, “Okay, baby?”
Quentin thinks about it for a few seconds. “You want me to wear that the whole day?” Eliot nods and Quentin’s face scrunches up in consideration. “Yeah - yeah okay. Fuck it.”
Eliot breaks out in a wide smile. “My sweet boy. Perfect. Now pants down and bend over the bed.”
The slick lube Eliot tuts into existence is cold against his entrance, though it quickly warms with Eliot’s fingers. He’s purposeful with his movements; he doesn’t need to push Quentin’s anxiety any further by taking his time to enjoy this. Still, as his fingers push through the tight inner ring, he takes a moment to appreciate the sight of him disappearing into Q, to commit to memory the surprised huffs of air he lets out when he hooks his fingers - just for a moment - to tease.
Soon, he’s slicking up the bulbous end of the plug and pressing it up against Quentin’s hole, loosened up but still resistant to its girth. Quentin moans at the pressure and pushes back; together their combined force has the end of the plug sliding in slowly, opening him wider and wider until it suddenly tapers quickly just before the base.
Eliot resists the urge to pull the plug out, spend a few minutes leisurely fucking into Quentin until he loosens up until the plug slips in without resistance. Mentally, he curses himself for not thinking about this idea soon, and resolves to make sure they repeat this one morning when they have more time.
As a concession, Eliot pushes the plug in firmly, then slaps the slim base, causing Quentin to gasp and let out an affected puff of laughter. Eliot reaches into the dirty hamper and uses a discarded t-shirt to wipe the remaining slick from around his entrance.
His hand slides over Quentin’s back to soothe him; he smiles when he feels him melt into his confident touch.
“Alright, up you get,” Eliot says when he’s done, admiring the way the muscles in Q’s ass shift and tense as he straightens up.
Quentin unfolds himself, shifting from leg to leg, trying to get used to the steady pressure against his hole. He shimmies around, his boxers and slacks still in a pool at his ankles. His cock is mostly soft, but he looks up at Eliot, his brows knit together in concern. He may be visibly less anxious than he was just moments ago in the hall, but clearly there’s work still to be done.
Eliot steps into his space, sweeping a stray hair from over his face. “You okay, baby?”
“El, could you - it just, it’s hitting me right there.” Quentin’s voice is tinged with a hint of need.
“You want your cage?” Quentin nods immediately, grateful for a partner that knows what he needs. “Of course.” Eliot leans down to land another kiss on the corner of his lips before turning to retrieve the small metal contraption from his drawers.
This is something new for them - the cage - something Quentin requested after he started the new job, his days growing longer and longer away from Eliot. It reminds me of who I belong to, he’d told Eliot, which had sent a thrill down his spine. That the cage makes Quentin look impossibly small, especially when Eliot ruts his erect cock over the bars as a tease, only serves as a bonus.
Eliot bends down so Quentin’s cock is closer to eye level. Carefully, he takes him in hand and maneuvers him into the device, adjusting the positioning so it doesn’t pull uncomfortably. The tiny padlock slides easily in, the click sounding loud in the otherwise silent room.
Locked in, Quentin lets out a long breath, as though he’d been scared to breathe while Eliot worked. When he’s in though - it’s like a switch flips - when Eliot looks up from his position on the floor, Quentin smiles down easily at him, no evidence of anxiety pulling at the edges of his brows. Eliot returns the smile, placing a soft kiss against the metal bars of the cage before pulling up his boxers and helping him put on his slacks.
“Text me later?” Quentin asks, running his hands through his hair as though he’s mentally preparing himself for the battles of the day. Eliot nods, smiling, and accepts a quick peck on the cheek before Quentin heads out to the university.
Eliot texts him just before lunch, on his way to meet Margo in Harlem.
>> How’re you holding up, baby?
The reply comes several minutes later, and it makes Eliot bark out a laugh as he opens the attached image of Quentin’s caged cock, swollen against the bars and angry red at the head. He looks desperately turned on.
<< I had to teach half the class sitting down - it kept rubbing against me whenever I walked across the room.
>> Oh, Q. Are you feeling less anxious, at least?
<< Fuck you Waugh
>> I absolutely plan to Coldwater
Eliot pauses for a second against a building’s entrance, admiring the picture. He absently considers how long he might be able to convince Quentin to keep the cage on. The prospect stirs something possessive, something primal in him. He smiles as he composes the next message.
>> Do you have any time to yourself today?
<< I’m afraid to ask why
>> I’ll be home by 2. Call me when you’re alone?
<< Whatever you’re thinking, stop it right now
>> Will you call me?
There’s a long minute that stretches out before Quentin replies. Eliot can perfectly picture him, worrying his lip as he considers his response. Maybe he’s smiling down at his phone, those cute dimples popping out on his cheeks, in spite of himself.
>> Good pup.
With that, Eliot slips his phone in his pocket and pushes himself off the brick building and towards the restaurant.
Eliot’s phone rings not long after he gets back from lunch. In an unusual change of pace, he’s limited his cocktail intake to two; he’s feeling warm and loose and very ready to work Quentin up until he’s quietly whining in his office, scared to make too much noise lest his colleagues hear him in the halls. After seeing that picture, he’s come up with plans for his boy for the weekend. He wants to keep him locked away in his cage until Monday, maybe keep him in bed long into the afternoon and tease and play with him until he begs for release. This morning he hadn’t really been thinking about getting a jump on the weekend’s events, only about helping Q get out of his head a bit. But, well, when an opportunity presents itself...
“Q, so good to hear from you,” he smiles into the phone, sliding down to lounge on his couch.
“This is how this is going to work, El.” The sudden authority in Quentin’s voice shocks something in him; he doesn’t immediately straighten up but he can feel his spine lengthen in attention.
Quentin doesn’t wait for him to reply. “You’re going to go into the bedroom and strip.”
Eliot’s brows raise. “Excuse me?”
“Are you hard of hearing, Waugh?” Quentin’s voice is like a slap to the face. Eliot’s pulse picks up. Well, this is an unexpected turn of events.
“No,” Eliot pauses before adding, “Sir.”
He can hear Quentin’s pleased hum over the line, can picture the way the skin around his eyes crease when he’s genuinely smiling. Eliot gets up off the couch and makes his way to the bedroom. He makes sure he’s loud about unbuckling his belt, lets his pants slide down over his thighs to a puddle on the floor. He puts the phone on speaker before he begins on his tie, then moves to the buttons of his vest.
“Still a bit distracted, Q?” he teases. He folds his vest over the side of the bed.
“You could say as much, you asshole. Was this your plan all along?”
“I can’t say I didn’t make plans after you chose to show me that pretty little cock of yours,” Eliot pauses and hears Q let out a small whimper. “But I wasn’t exactly expecting things to become so interactive.”
“This okay?” Quentin asks, his voice less demanding than it was just a moment ago. Cold-hearted dominance doesn’t come naturally to Q, not that Eliot minds; he much prefers the confident, indulgent persona he manages to slip into whenever he takes control.
Eliot lets out an affected laugh. “Absolutely. Surprising, not unwelcome.”
He hears Quentin chuckle at that. His voice is low, like he’s whispering a secret when he next speaks up. “You’ve made me miserable for the last six hours. I’ve had two students and the fucking head of the department ask me if I’m feeling okay for how flushed I am.”
Eliot smirks at that, remembering how bright red Quentin gets when he’s turned on; the blush will have stretched over his neck and down to his perky nipples. He’s suddenly wishing he’d made a detour to visit his boyfriend on campus. He’d love to worry those nubs until he has Quentin panting over his desk, his hand over his mouth so he doesn’t let any whines escape out into the hall.
“I hope you’re not waiting for an apology,” he answers teasingly, slipping his shirt off his shoulders. He’s naked now, his cock thickening up between his legs, waiting.
“I’d be a fool to hope for an apology from you. Not that easily, at least. Are you naked?”
“Good. Go pick out a toy. Something long I think.”
Eliot knows exactly which one he’s thinking of and he curses Q under his breath. He knows how much he likes that one, how quickly it gets him worked up, not needing much prep but some amount of patience to press its full length through his hole. And the slide. Fuck.
When he’s back, Quentin speaks up again. “First, touch yourself for me, El. Get yourself nice and hard.”
Eliot performs the one handed tut for slickness without thinking. It’s up there as one of his most frequently used spells, he thinks offhandedly, which he supposes tells him something about his extracurriculars. He wraps his fingers around his semi-hard cock, his fist sliding easily over his length. He doesn’t bother holding in the sharp gasp that escapes his lips when he pulls back his foreskin and rubs against the head.
“Talk to me?”
“You wanna hear how I couldn’t sit down on the subway on the way to work this morning?”
Eliot nods, his hand moving faster over himself as he smirks.
“Or how about how I had to hold my bag over my cock all across campus because by then I’d leaked so much I’d stained my pants?”
“Oh baby,” Eliot chuckles breathlessly, imagining how embarrassed Quentin would have been hiding himself from the mass of students and tourists before he’d locked himself in his office to spell away the stain.
“Can’t believe I bought the whole this’ll help you focus routine you played me with this morning.” Quentin laughs, making a sort of self deprecating tutting noise to himself.
“I was trying to help. Honest,” he pants out, his hand sliding quickly now, concentrating on the head of his cock. “I must have forgotten what an insatiable bottom you are.”
There’s silence on the other end line before Eliot adds, “Sir.”
It makes Quentin huff out a laugh, which makes him smile in turn. He had hoped it would ground him, maybe motivate him to make it home at a reasonable hour. He hadn’t quite expected such a strong reaction.
“Tell me more.”
“Who’s giving the orders here, El?” Quentin snaps playfully. “You hard for me yet?”
“Good. Hand off your cock. Now.” Eliot’s hands fly up as if he were under arrest, his breath coming out in heavy panting heaves. His cock pulses feebly between his thighs.
“Off, Sir. What next?”
Quentin hums quietly over the line. “You know what. Just one finger, El. Want you to feel it.”
The prospect pulls a small moan from out of Eliot. He adds more slick to his hand before he gets himself laying on his side on the bed, his one leg hitched up to give him access.
“Tease that tight hole for me. Tell me how it feels.” Quentin’s voice comes out a half whisper. Eliot can imagine the blush that might be creeping over his cheeks as he talks like this in his office.
His slick finger runs over the edge of where the skin puckers, and immediately he lets out a sigh. “Feels good. Tight. I - you know we haven’t done this for a while.”
“I know, love. Keep stroking.” After a few moments, he adds, “Now press the tip in, just a little.”
“Mmm, so tight for you, Q. Wish you were here to finger me instead.” Eliot’s finger dips into himself and he hooks the first knuckle around the rim, loving the way it pulls at him.
“Yeah well, I wish I didn’t have office hours in 20 minutes. You deserve to get yourself worked up a little too.”
“Mission accomplished.” Eliot chuckles. “Sir - can I - I want more.”
“Push in then, baby. Slide it all the way in.”
“Can I fuck my finger, Q?” He forgets himself, but immediately corrects, “Sir?”
“So good for me, asking for everything you want. Yeah, fuck your finger in. Want to hear the way you moan so nice for me.”
Eliot knows this is supposed to be some sort of punishment for him getting Quentin bothered in public, but right now he can’t for the life of him fathom why. Not when he can reach back, slide his middle finger in all the way, curl it, right there, and let his body spark with sensation. Eliot gasps loudly when he hits the right spot, letting out a whimper for his audience. And Quentin - he doesn’t sound unaffected by it. Eliot wonders distantly how making them both turned on is exactly helping alleviate the original problem.
“Okay love, enough of that. You open a bit? Ready for more?”
“Fuck, yes.” Eliot pants. His cock is throbbing, the head slick and shining in the bright afternoon light.
“Get your toy. Is it the blue one?” Quentin asks, knowingly. Eliot tells him that it is, as he tuts again to add more slick to the bulbous head and neck of the long, slim toy. “Alright, just the head now. Want you to feel the stretch of it before I make you fuck yourself on it.”
And that’s - well, that’s cruel to tell Eliot, who wants nothing more than something long and hefty inside him immediately. But he complies, pressing the head of the toy against his not-quite-loosened hole until he opens up just enough to envelope the rounded top. It’s just the right size to make him feel his skin sing with the stretch.
For a long while, Quentin doesn’t direct him to do anything more, instead switching to quietly whispering filthy nothings into the receiver that make Eliot’s cock pulse and beg for his hand. He doesn’t touch himself though - he hasn’t been told that he can.
Finally, fucking finally, Quentin whispers, “Slide it in now, baby. All the way. Want you to press the base of it right against you.” And Eliot lets out a shuddering sound in relief as he slowly pushes the toy further inside.
After the girth of the head, the length of the toy slides in easily for a time until he has to push a bit to take the last few inches. It feels fucking fantastic, having something snake up inside him. Eliot groans when he bottoms out, shoving the flared base of the toy right up against him as far as it will go.
Eliot nods feverishly until he remembers Quentin can’t see him, the realization making him whine. He says as much, “Wish you could see me, Sir. I’ve got the whole thing in me. My cock is aching. Please, can I touch myself?”
There’s a pause as Quentin considers, but he’s always been lenient so he agrees. “You can touch yourself, but only if you can also fuck yourself with the toy. Can you do that for me? Make yourself feel really good?”
Eliot’s face is on fire, he’s so turned on. The sensation of his fingers wrapping around his cock is almost too much and he swears into his phone as he strokes himself before grabbing onto the base of the toy and sliding it - slowly, so slowly - back out of his hole.
It’s a bit awkward, trying to jerk off and fuck himself at the same time, so he shifts onto his back, legs up, wanton. And it’s too good to stop; soon Eliot’s little moans have turned into a continuous string of expletives and groans into the phone. Quentin spurs him on, telling him how absolutely wrecked he sounds, how hot he must look, full of cock and leaking over the sheets.
The pleasure builds steadily, making his head swim, until he’s pushing and pulling the toy out of his ass with little finesse, jerking himself with a sort of fevered frenzy, only one goal in mind. And then -
It causes Eliot to let out the most wrecked, desperate sound. He’s certain passersby hear him howl his displeasure some eight stories down. Still, Eliot isn’t one to disobey an order. He throws the hand on the toy up and grabs tightly to the base of his cock with the other, trying to hold back the orgasm that he’d been so close to succumbing to.
He doesn’t speak for a long time, the only sound is his heavy panting into the phone. It’s at least a minute before he feels like he can talk again.
“You’re an absolute terror,” he tells Quentin, which punches out a laugh from the other line.
“You had it coming, jerk,” he says, though there’s no heat behind it. “Tell me thank you.”
Eliot grimaces, but he does what he’s told. “Thank you, Sir.”
“And you call me a brat.” Quentin chuckles.
“Will you be home for dinner tonight?” Eliot asks when he can think of something other than wanting to come.
“Yeah, I’ll be there. I’ll pick up some wine?”
“Of course, love. See you in a couple hours.” And with that, he disconnects the call.