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Quentin swims into consciousness slowly, drawn out of his dreams by a soft murmur and a press of lips against his brow that pulls away just as he's starting to open his eyes. The bedroom is grey with the light of barely-morning, which his half-asleep brain pauses on. Waking up to Eliot kissing him isn't new, but it doesn't usually happen before the sun has come up.
He pushes himself up on an elbow to squint sleepily at Eliot, fully dressed where he's perched on the edge of the bed. Why he's not still under the covers with him, Quentin can't quite wrap his head around.
Eliot gives him an apologetic smile and leans closer to ease him back down. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."
Rubbing one eye, Quentin frowns up at him. "You're going already?" It's coming back to him now, what Eliot had said the night before about owing Fen a favour, something about riding to the countryside... "It's so early," he complains around a yawn.
"Duty calls," Eliot says with a put-upon sigh. "I'm somehow still the most qualified agriculturalist among us, unfortunately. But I'll be back tomorrow."
Quentin's heart sinks a little at that, but Eliot brushes his hair out of his face and kisses him again, on the mouth this time. "Go back to sleep, my love," he murmurs, nosing against Quentin's cheek. "I'll see you soon."
And then he's gone, slipping out the door and closing it softly behind him. Quentin rolls over and watches the first bit of sunlight track across the ceiling for a while, until his lips stop buzzing and he can form real thoughts again. It's still earlier than when he'd usually get up, but without Eliot, trying to fall back asleep is probably a lost cause.
They've both been easing back into things, here in Fillory. At first, after the Seam - and the infirmary, and hovering by Eliot's bedside, and finally, finally hearing his voice, cracked and raspy but his - they had gone back to the penthouse. Or, they tried to, at least. There were a few days of— not exhaustion, exactly, since spending a week in the hospital did help with that, but… fatigue, like Quentin was wading back into waters he had only just surfaced from. Like the last dregs of whatever the Monster left behind were rising up and spilling out from between the floorboards, and the only ones who noticed the damp were him and Eliot.
So when Margo, on her way back to Fillory, asked if they wanted to come along for a few days, they both agreed without needing to think about it much.
It was easier to breathe in Fillory, and easier to talk, and easier to lay everything out between them and agree that, beyond all the fear and self-sabotage and wasted time between them, all that mattered was being honest, now. And then Eliot decided that if someone had to invent apology sex in Fillory it might as well be him, and Quentin got halfway through a counterpoint before Eliot convinced him to let it go.
After that, they just never really moved back. It's been him and Eliot and Margo, plus Fen and sometimes Josh, for a while now - and the others are only a bunny or a mirror message away, with the clock making it easy enough to visit. It's good, and has been for long enough that it barely feels weird anymore. Quentin feels... settled, for once. He's on the books as some sort of royal court advisor, but truthfully he doesn't spend much time in the throne room with the others. Instead he reads, and explores, and gardens, and tries to find things about Fillory to remind himself that it is still a good place, one that's worth everything they've put into it. It's not always a solitary activity, but he doesn't mind when it is.
Eliot, on the other hand, is a bit more involved in things around the castle. He's not quite sharing the crown with Fen and Margo, but he's still treated like a king for the most part, even if he doesn't have as many of the responsibilities - which is just as well, because he's also partial to sneaking out of whatever council meeting he's in to spend 20 minutes with Quentin backed up against the bookshelves in the Armory, or coming to join him in the corner of the royal gardens where Quentin likes to read (and is starting to suspect that everyone else has been ordered to keep away from).
Even on particularly busy days where they don't have time for a rendezvous, there's always the return to their chambers at the end of it - or, well, Eliot's chambers, since Quentin does have his own, but he never sleeps there anymore. But Eliot and Fen aren't supposed to return from the Fillorian countryside until tomorrow, so Quentin is looking at a whole day with no Eliot reprieve in any capacity.
And that's— fine, of course it's fine. He might be a little annoyed if Eliot hadn't spent half the previous night making abundantly clear how much he regretted having to leave - Quentin's thighs still ache a little from how long he spent tensed up to keep still while Eliot pressed himself along his back, holding him down, kissing his neck - but he had, so. Quentin can't really complain. But he can already tell the day is going to feel longer than it should.
Part of him wants to just stay in bed, steal Eliot's pillow and try to nap through as much of it as he can, but a bigger, more carefully built part knows it's not worth destroying his sleep cycle for. Eliot would also probably be kind of concerned if he came home and found Quentin literally had not moved the entire time he'd been gone, so Quentin concedes that he should get up, at the very least.
He manages that and getting dressed and even breakfast, but none of it takes nearly as much time as he hoped it would. He's considering whether to spend the day holed up in the Armory or to go outside and wander when Margo appears, looking more fresh than Quentin has ever felt in his life, and joins him at the dining table.
He figures it can't hurt to ask if there's anything he could do for the council for a few hours, preferably something that will take most of the day so he can just go to bed at the end of it - he even manages what he's pretty sure is a nonchalant and not-at-all-forlorn tone. Margo, however, takes one look at him and reads him like a book.
"No way, I'm not going to let anyone enable your moping while Eliot's gone," she huffs, and then leans across the table with her chin in her hands. "Josh is around here somewhere, so I can take a personal day. Let's do something fun."
"Alright," Quentin says, trying to sound as much as he can like he has, in fact, had fun before. "What do you have in mind?"
Margo hums, arching a playful eyebrow at him. "How 'bout you take me shopping? On Earth? I mean, not to knock the royal tailors, but sometimes Mama needs retail therapy." She stands up and comes around the table to urge Quentin to his feet, making a face at the jeans she usually pretends not to notice him wearing around the castle. "And you could do with some, too."
Quentin rolls his eyes, but he can't think of a good reason to turn her down, and… actually, maybe spending a day outside of Fillory does sound kind of nice. So he lets Margo spirit him away to New York for the morning, which is actually early afternoon on Earth, so it works out well enough.
He hasn't been back in a while, but it's nice to be in the city, to just walk around and people watch and relax as much as he's ever been able to relax in public spaces. Margo helps, as reliable a buffer between him and the rest of the world as she and Eliot always are, but she's also just fun to be around and good at taking his mind off things. Quentin also thinks she might have been missing him a bit, even though they see each other in Whitespire nearly every day. There's a difference between sharing a castle with someone and actually spending time with them, he supposes, and this day out is a nice reminder.
Margo ends up doing most of the shopping herself, which Quentin is just fine with. He follows her around and holds her bags and listens to her talk through numerous fitting room doors, and whenever she comes out to twirl in whatever it is that she's trying on, he provides his woefully under-qualified opinion. Luckily, Margo seems to take him blushing as a high compliment.
She does try to get him to look around for himself in a couple stores, but the bright colours and designs Margo is partial to don't do much for him. Even in Fillory he's been fine making do with what he already had in his closet - plus the, like, entire wardrobe full of pieces from the royal tailors that Eliot always has to remind him he's allowed to wear whenever he wants. But actually picking things out and trying them on seems like it's going to take more energy than Quentin has to spare at the moment, and Margo thankfully doesn't press him on it.
At one point they split up, Margo saying she has just one more stop to hit and, as a reward for being good, dropping Quentin at a corner bookstore. Quentin hadn't even realized he was beginning to feel antsy until the thought of some time by himself in the quiet shop soothes it, and he thanks Margo a little sheepishly. She waves him off with a grin and kisses his cheek before flouncing away, her magically shrunken purchases stowed in her purse.
Quentin browses the shelves leisurely, decompressing as he explores. There are some intriguing titles on the new release table, and a pleasantly full queer lit section, which is nice. He sends Julia a photo of the singular Fillory book he finds deep in the fantasy section, and makes a full lap of the store before coming back to pick up the lonely paperback, feeling equal parts consoled and defensive. He doesn't end up buying anything else, but wanders the store for a little longer, reading spines and dust jacket blurbs until Margo reappears beside him.
She looks satisfied, with yet another bag over her wrist, and she doesn't even roll her eyes at Quentin's purchase. He readily offers his arm for her to take as they leave, and her laugh is infectious.
They head back to the penthouse for the evening. Quentin still feels a little weird, being there, but it's not as bad as it once was, and it's nice to see the others - Kady and Julia, at least, the two of them huddled together on the couch with a book and knitting needles respectively, and Penny holding the yarn just beside them. Margo gives them enough time to exchange pleasantries before she herds Quentin into her bedroom and shuts the door.
"Do you need help unpacking?" he asks, watching her unshrink all her bags. They seem to have multiplied in her purse.
"I'll deal with it later," Margo says, shrugging, then turns to him with a playful smile. "You can help me by sitting tight for one more catwalk, though."
"But I already saw everything you bought," Quentin points out.
Margo winks at him. "Not everything."
It turns out Margo's last stop was at a lingerie store, and as she digs through her bag Quentin is suddenly even more grateful that she didn't take him along for that one. She doesn't put on as much of a fashion show as she had in the fitting rooms, but enlists Quentin to assist her with various bows and clasps and bra straps while she tries on all her purchases. She could probably handle most of it by herself, but Quentin really doesn't mind helping - sure, his face is probably going to be permanently pink after this, but if that's his charge for having Margo's trust, he'll take it.
He does wonder briefly if she is perhaps winding him up on purpose - the contrast between her fairly simple lacy set with stockings and the skin-tight pleather she's wearing the next time Quentin turns around very nearly gives him whiplash - but for the most part, it's kind of fun. And Margo looks incredible in everything, as usual, even the pieces Quentin feels like he probably made worse by helping with.
"Don't sell yourself short, Coldwater," Margo laughs, slipping a sheer robe off her shoulders. "I know for a fact you've touched a bra before. I'd have called Julia in here if I wasn't sure."
Quentin snorts. "Thanks, I think." He turns around when Margo starts to lift her silk slip off, and hears her snicker behind him.
"You really don't have to do that every time, you know," she says dryly, as the slip lands in a heap on the bed. "It's nothing you haven't seen before."
"Still. It's less, like, weirdly voyeuristic this way." There's a soft slide of fabric as Margo pulls on something new - no jangling belts or snap of rubber though, to Quentin's relief. "I mean, you're the one doing most of the work, here."
Margo hums. "Well, about that…"
She trails off suspiciously. "What?" Quentin prompts, but the only response is a shuffling of plastic. He risks a peek over his shoulder to find Margo pulling two flat boxes out of the lingerie store bag.
"Not to make assumptions about your extracurriculars, but I'm assuming this is new territory for you," she says, straightening up with a mischievous grin to drop them into his hands. "I think I know your taste, though. Or at least, what your taste isn't."
Quentin blinks, the dots connecting, then looks at what Margo is wearing - a soft lavender bra and panties with ribbon garters. He pictures, for a split second, himself in the same thing, before he abruptly pushes that image away and tries to press the boxes back at her. "I don't know, Margo, I don't really—"
"Come on Q, please?" Margo tries, putting her hands over his, and she looks so eager that it makes Quentin pause. "Just for fun. If you hate it, you can take it off, I promise."
Pressing his lips together, Quentin forces himself to really consider it. He trusts Margo, of course he does - and he knows she wouldn't do anything to humiliate him, not on purpose. And she does seem genuinely enthusiastic about... whatever is in the boxes.
He lets out a long breath through his nose and opens the first one.
Inside is— not, like, a sheer lace thong or anything frilly like he was expecting, but just... black underwear. Maybe it's cut a little lower than most briefs he's worn, with a thinner band over the hips, and the fabric is the tiniest bit translucent when he slides it against his fingers.
It's probably more relief than anything that makes him agree to try it on.
Margo politely turns around while he shucks his jeans and boxers, and has enough to say about the gender politics surrounding lingerie to last him through undoing all his shirt buttons with somewhat shaky fingers. He's not sure why that's happening - he's not about to have a crisis over underwear, of all things - but he does still feel kind of weird about the whole idea, for reasons he can't quite pin down.
He lifts the underwear out of the box a little gingerly, sliding the fabric between his fingers again for a moment, then shakes himself and steps into it.
He has to admit it goes on easily enough - the fabric is soft and light as he slides it up over his legs, and it fits really well, not too loose or too snug, although he's not entirely sure how Margo could've known his size. Maybe there's a spell for that.
And it's… not bad, once it's on. It's just underwear. Really nice, probably expensive underwear, but underwear nonetheless. And yeah, maybe the mesh-like fabric leaves a little less to the imagination than he'd normally be comfortable with, but it's enough that he doesn't feel like he has his whole dick out in front of Margo's mirror.
Which is good, because he can see, reflected behind him, that she's already turned back around to give him a long, approving once-over. "So? What's the verdict?"
"It's, um…" He catches himself running his fingers over the hem along his hip, and stops. "I don't know, it's— nice, I guess? It's, like, soft…"
Margo tilts her head at him in the mirror, raising a knowing eyebrow. "Do you like how it looks?"
Quentin furrows his brow, staring at his reflection and trying to figure out if the weird fluttering feeling in his gut is nerves or something else. "I don't not like it."
"I'll take that," Margo says, nodding in satisfaction. "Wanna try something else?"
She leans over and tosses the lid off the second box where Quentin had left it on the bed, and he turns around to peer inside. He's not sure what he expects, but— "Um. What is that?"
"A body harness," Margo says, with a tone of innocence that immediately makes Quentin suspicious. "It's not leather, or anything crazy! Think of it like… accessorizing."
Quentin isn't sure why he'd ever need to accessorize anything with his underwear, but Margo gives him a hopeful look, and… well, he's already mostly naked, so arguably the hard part is over. And maybe trying something new has him feeling, like, bold, or whatever.
"Just for you," he says eventually, and Margo all but punches the air in triumph.
True to her word, the harness is not leather, but black satin, made up of straps that connect together with clasps and little silver ring sliders. It makes more sense when it's laid out on the bed, and it honestly doesn't seem nearly as complicated as some of Margo's lingerie was. Quentin spares a wry thought for how, when they started, he was the one helping Margo into her fancy underwear-adjacent garments, and now they've switched roles. It dawns on him a second later, however, that this could've been Margo's plan all along, but she looks so pleased about it that Quentin doesn't bother asking. Besides, his focus is very quickly taken up by other matters.
It starts with one thick band around his waist, a little higher than a belt would sit, with some thinner straps connected to it. They form triangles where they extend down across his pelvis, and then link together with two more bands that fit around his thighs. Some of the straps get a little alarmingly close to his dick, but Margo insists that's the point, as she helps him adjust all the clasps so it fits snugly to his skin.
There's an upper section to it too, that Margo says is meant to emphasize his pecs, but just looking at it spread out on the bed reminds Quentin a little too much of one of the bras Margo had tried on earlier, so they leave it. Margo doesn't push, which he's grateful for - she must be really enjoying this, he thinks, if she's being so careful not to scare him off.
"I definitely won't show you the collar then," she says, tucking the unworn part away, and then laughs when Quentin gives her an alarmed look. "Oh my god, Q, I'm joking. Come on, let's have a look."
She turns him around to face the mirror again, and then backs off to let him take in his reflection. Even though he'd seen the whole harness laid out, it's still kind of a lot to get over, seeing it on his body. Once again he's almost surprised at how different it is from what Margo had been trying on - it's not anything like the strappy pleather bodysuit she had on earlier, or her current soft pastels.
It's— well, not modest, but simple. The black bands stand out against his skin and frame his hips in a way he can... appreciate, almost. It's understated, while still definitely meant to be, like, sexy, which isn't really something Quentin ever imagined for any part of his wardrobe. He's not used to spending this much time this naked in front of a mirror, and even less used to the idea that he's supposed to be liking what he sees, but. Maybe he does, a little.
It's kind of nice. Kind of weird. Definitely weird. But still nice.
He tells Margo as much, and she just laughs. "I know what you're about, baby Q," she says with a satisfied smirk, looking him over. "If Eliot knew what a view I have right now, he would cry."
And— that sure is something to think about. Eliot seeing this, Eliot seeing Quentin in this. He turns back to his reflection, turning it over in his mind. Eliot has his silky robes and his thirst trap briefs and even that one pair of sheer leggings, but Quentin hasn't ever really considered this type of thing for himself. He supposes that's why Margo wanted him to try it, and at least part of why he let her talk him into it. The thought of Eliot seeing him in what equates to panties and garters is... embarrassing, mostly, but kind of exciting at the same time.
He wouldn't say they're especially adventurous in the bedroom, or anything. Eliot knows what he likes, and also knows what Quentin likes - well enough that whenever Quentin has anything specific in mind, most of the time Eliot manages to figure it out before Quentin is finished stumbling through asking for it, whether it's getting his hair pulled or fitting Eliot's entire dick in his mouth. Beyond that, Eliot has cooed over Quentin's praise kink a few times, and there's Eliot's Daddy thing that Quentin doesn't think either of them are 100% ready to explore just yet, but this… this is new.
Quentin knows that lingerie is pretty vanilla in the grand scheme of things, but still - he does want to show Eliot, probably. More likely than not. Maybe after he learns to put the harness on by himself, though.
Before he can ask Margo to show him how to adjust the ring sliders again, there's a thud and a muffled curse - telltale sounds of someone trying to burst through Margo's warded bedroom door.
"Yes?" Margo calls, unfazed.
Penny's voice comes through the wood, the muffled quality doing nothing to hide his annoyance. "There's a situation we've gotta deal with. Quentin too, if he's in there with you."
Frowning, Margo gets halfway to the door before she glances back at Quentin and seems to think better of opening it. "What kind of situation?" she asks.
Quentin can almost see Penny rolling his eyes. "Alice called. Some Librarian accidentally opened a hell portal."
Margo makes a face. "A what?"
"I'm paraphrasing," Penny huffs. "The point is, we gotta go now, so get out here."
Quentin looks from Margo, in her pastel bra and panties, down to his own ensemble. "Uh— give us a second?"
Penny pauses like he's gathering his patience. "Look, whatever you guys are doing in there— I don't want to know, just hurry it up."
As soon as his footsteps retreat, Margo springs into action, tossing Quentin's jeans at him and grabbing one of the dresses she had discarded earlier. "Help me with the zipper, will you?"
"Wait, what about—" Quentin makes a vague, panicked gesture at the harness. "How do I take this off?"
"There's no time," Margo says, stepping into her dress and pulling it up over her shoulders. "Just put your pants on, it'll be fine."
She turns her back to him and lifts her hair out of the way, and Quentin tugs the zipper up without thinking. "But it's— I can't just—" He flounders for a moment, opening and closing his mouth. "I can't wear this to the Library."
"You have to." Margo faces him again, a little exasperated now. "It's comfortable, right?"
"Yeah, but it's not exactly subtle," Quentin stresses. "Even covered up, it's not like I can just ignore it."
"Well, I guarantee you won't be thinking about it while we're closing a hell portal, or whatever the fuck is going on," Margo says, and picks up Quentin's shirt from the floor to throw that at him, too. "Time to go, come on, ándale."
It's a miracle he gets his clothes on at all, let alone with all the buttons in the right places, before he and Margo burst out of the room to join the others. They all look decidedly more battle-ready than Quentin feels, but everyone clasps hands before he can worry too much about it, and then they're Travelling.
"Jesus christ," Margo exclaims, at the same time that Kady yells, "What the fuck is that?"
"I fucking told you," Penny grumbles, and raises his hands to cast.
The upside is that it isn't actually a portal to hell, just to some other dimension that happens to have a lot of fire going on in it, and Alice is there, so between the six of them, closing it isn't so hard. The downside is that opening the portal apparently wasn't as much of an accident as originally thought, so there's a whole rogue Librarian to take care of afterwards.
By the time the perpetrator is out cold and all the half-formed dimensional tears are under control, Quentin is too tired to think about much other than sitting down at the soonest available opportunity, preferably far away from the Library. After checking over everyone's injuries - mostly scrapes and bruises, and some minor burns that Julia quickly takes care of - Alice thanks them and promises to return the favour, and lets herself get gently bullied into attending Sunday dinner before they all head out.
It's gotten late once they're back at the penthouse, and Quentin has half a mind to just lie down in the bedroom still kept for him, negative associations be damned. However, Penny, apparently feeling vindicated, offers to Travel him and Margo back to Whitespire, and after giving her a few minutes to shrink all of her shopping bags again, they finally go home.
The sun is only just setting in Fillory. Quentin, who had been planning on an early night basically all day, is fine with this, but there's someone waiting for them in the golden light of the hall when he and Margo arrive.
"You're back early," Margo calls, and Quentin feels the fatigue lift off his shoulders as soon as Eliot turns to grin at them. He resists the urge to break into a sprint and launch himself into Eliot's arms, but only just. "I thought you were supposed to be farming it up until tomorrow."
"Fen took pity on me, thank god," Eliot explains, entirely unabashed. "I was honestly considering faking sunstroke to get out of there. What have you been up to?" Once he's close enough, he leans down to kiss Margo's cheek, then Quentin's mouth, one hand on the back of his neck. Quentin feels it down to his toes and curls his fingers in Eliot's shirt when he pulls away. "Why do you both smell like campfire?"
Quentin lets Margo explain the Library debacle as they make their way through the corridors, happy enough just to listen to her dramatic recap. Eliot keeps his hand on Quentin's neck and even the single point of contact makes it kind of hard to focus on anything else, anyway. They pause briefly outside Margo's chambers to bid her goodnight, then continue on, just the two of them, down the hall towards their own rooms.
"And here I thought you'd be able to lend a sympathetic ear to my plight of spending an entire day being sweaty in a field," Eliot sighs, sliding his hand across Quentin's shoulders to pull him into his side as they walk, "but I think you might have actually had a worse day than I did."
"It wasn't all bad," Quentin admits. "I mean, fighting a Librarian with my ex was... interesting, but comparatively, the rest was fine."
Humming, Eliot raises an amused eyebrow. "Oh? What else did you get up to without me?"
Quentin thinks back to how he started the day truly considering the logistics of not doing anything. Probably best to brush over that part. "Not much? I mean, I hung out with Margo, we went to Earth… but what about you?" he asks quickly, trying to steer clear of talking about his morning sulk. "How was the countryside, really?"
Eliot makes a face, like it's painful to think about. "Hot. Pungent. And sweaty, did I mention that?"
"A bit," Quentin says, biting back a smile. They've almost reached their chambers now - he can see the door beyond the next torch sconce. "Do you still owe Fen a favour, since she let you bail early?"
"I'm choosing not to think about that right now," Eliot says loftily. "There are more important things at the moment."
"Like what?" Quentin laughs, ducking out from under his arm when they approach the doorway. He reaches for the handle, but Eliot catches his hand and presses him back against the door.
"Like this," he hums, leaning in to hover over Quentin's parted lips. "I missed you, Q."
Quentin smiles, tilting his face up just a little to catch his mouth in a short, soft kiss. "I missed you, too."
Eliot makes a noise low in his throat and kisses him again, a little harder, more insistent. His tongue flicks at the seam of Quentin's lips and Quentin feels heat dropping low in his stomach. He opens up to Eliot, clenching his free hand in his shirt again, while Eliot brings both his palms up to frame Quentin's face, tilting his jaw and licking deeper into his mouth. Eventually Quentin gathers enough presence of mind to remember that they're still in the hallway, and scrabbles at the door handle until he manages to get it open far enough to tug Eliot inside.
Eliot kicks the door shut behind them and walks Quentin backwards all the way to the bedroom, his hands on Quentin's hips and his tongue in his mouth. Quentin goes easily, kicking off his shoes and socks, and lets Eliot guide him right up to the bed and lower him down onto it.
He breaks away to shift over to the middle of the mattress, and Eliot kneels right next to him, throwing off his fancy double-breasted Fillorian dayjacket off as he goes. His wardrobe is more toned down than it used to be, as close to comfort-over-style as Eliot could ever get - which is like, still pretty far off, but Quentin can tell there's a difference. He's still stunning as ever, especially when peeling his undershirt off over his head and crawling over Quentin like this.
Quentin gets his own shirt half-unbuttoned before he abandons it to sit up and catch Eliot's lips again, and Eliot slides one hand over his nape and sends the other trailing down his front to the zip of Quentin's jeans. Huffing at the teasing touch, Quentin presses up into it, grinding against Eliot's hand. It seems to take Eliot a while to remember why he put it there in the first place, but eventually he does, and starts in on unbuttoning Quentin's jeans one-handed. He's had enough practice to get it done fairly quickly, even with Quentin still squirming under him.
Quentin has a few seconds of bliss while Eliot palms over his dick through his boxers, before he remembers that he's not wearing boxers and freezes. Eliot realizes this at apparently the very same moment and his hand stills. "What are you—?"
He cuts off when Quentin pulls away, mortified, drawing his legs up between them. Eliot quickly takes his hand back, and part of Quentin laments the loss of it, despite the burning embarrassment rolling through him.
How could he have forgotten about the lingerie? Sure, it's comfortable, and yeah, the disaster at the Library kind of drove everything from his mind for a while, and of course Eliot is distracting when he's set on getting into Quentin's pants— but still! Quentin is sure he must be bright red and even worse, Eliot seems to have caught on, if the smile slowly spreading across his face is anything to go by.
"Q," he says, almost a purr, "what are you wearing?"
"It was Margo's idea," Quentin says quickly. Eliot raises his eyebrows, clearly trying for polite interest rather than the absolute delight Quentin can tell he's barely holding back.
It's probably not the most embarrassing circumstance Quentin has ever been caught in, all things considered. And wasn't he already thinking, earlier, about Eliot seeing him in this? He lets out a breath, steadying himself, and lifts his hips to shimmy out of his jeans.
He's struck again by the sight of the straps across his thighs and pelvis, the contrast against his skin. It's still just as bizarrely… thrilling as it was in front of the mirror, except this time the clasps catch the light a little, just above where his dick is getting hard, pressing up against the soft black fabric. After kicking his jeans off the edge of the bed, he finally risks a look up at Eliot.
He's not really sure what he expects to find, but the almost hungry look in Eliot's eyes isn't it. His gaze drags over Quentin, slow and heavy, travelling down the length of the harness and pausing tellingly between his legs. "This is what you and Margo got up to while I was gone?" he asks.
"Yeah," Quentin croaks, drawing his knees up a little self-consciously. "She, um. Bought it for me."
Eliot hums. "It's not my birthday, is it?"
Quentin blinks at him, thrown. "No...?"
"Just checking." He meets Quentin's eye with a playful grin. "Although, if the Fillorian timezone changeover was that bad, this would be the ideal way to find out."
Groaning in embarrassment, Quentin flops backwards onto the bed with his hands over his blushing face. Eliot laughs and climbs over him to draw him into another kiss, then breaks away to trail his lips down Quentin's neck. "Were you wearing this all day?"
"No, we, uh… we went shopping," Quentin explains haltingly, trying not to get distracted by Eliot nosing over his pulse. "Or, Margo did, and then we— she asked me to try it on, and then the Library thing happened, and there wasn't time to change."
"I see," Eliot hums against his throat. He mouths his way down Quentin's chest as he undoes the rest of his shirt buttons, then lets him sit up a little to pull his arms out and toss it away. Quentin tries to stay still while Eliot's eyes rove over him again, from the flush across his bare chest all the way down to the bands around his thighs. "So this is, what, a happy accident?"
Quentin feels his gaze like a shiver along his heated skin. "Well, I did think about— I mean, I wanted to… show you," he admits, face burning. "At some point."
He glances at Eliot and finds him grinning, eyebrows raised like this is an unexpected delight. "Yeah?" His voice drops and he leans in, splaying his hand across the strap on Quentin's waist. "You wanted me to see you like this? Dressed up for me?"
"Um—" Quentin fights the urge to squirm. "Yes?"
Without warning, Eliot closes his fingers around the harness and pulls, yanking Quentin closer to him. Quentin squeaks as he slips down the bed, and sits up on his elbows in time to lose all his breath at the sight of Eliot hovering between his legs.
"Birthday or not, this is a very thoughtful gift," he drawls, in a tone that always sends a flare down Quentin's spine. "I'd love to show you just how much I appreciate it."
With a wink, he ducks down to mouth over the front of Quentin's underwear where his dick is hard and pressing. The thin fabric doesn't do much to diminish the press of Eliot's lips or the heat of his breath, and Quentin very nearly loses all strength in his arms. "H-hey, um, El, hold on—"
Eliot lifts his head and raises an eyebrow. "Sorry, did you not want me to blow you?"
"What? No, I do," Quentin says quickly, then swallows hard and gestures vaguely at the lingerie between them. "Just, shouldn't I, um, take this off?"
"Why?" Eliot asks, seeming baffled by the mere thought.
Quentin gives him a long look. "Isn't that kind of... necessary?"
"Oh, Q. I'll handle it." Eliot pats his hip with a patient smile. "You just sit back and relax."
Quentin furrows his brow as Eliot ducks back down, not quite sure what he missed— and then Eliot pulls his underwear to one side and closes his mouth around Quentin's cock, wet and hot. Swallowing a truly embarrassing noise, Quentin focuses on not bucking his hips up while he watches Eliot's jaw work.
Just when the feeling of Eliot's tongue curling has him sure his arms really are about to give out, Eliot pulls back with a wet noise and starts to tug Quentin's underwear the rest of the way down. Quentin is too shaky to do much more than lift his hips to assist, but the sight of Eliot sliding the lingerie off his legs is enough to knock the breath out of him again.
He starts to fumble with the first clasp of the harness, but Eliot stops him. "No, no, this stays on," he says, gently pulling Quentin's fingers away. "You wanted me to see it, right?"
Quentin did, in fact, but he still feels heat rising to his face. Eliot grins and leans down to kiss him, pressing him down on his back and licking into his mouth.
He pulls away after a minute to strip out of the rest of his clothes, and Quentin tries to sit up on his elbows again only to get pushed back down and held there, Eliot's hand on his chest. Slowly, he trails down to Quentin's hip, and then to the band across his thigh, leaving his skin tingling. Quentin tries hard to keep still, feeling exposed even though Eliot is actually wearing less than he is, now - but Eliot settles on his knees between Quentin's legs again, spreading him open, and Quentin can't help the eager tremble that runs through him.
He's sure he's going to come as soon as Eliot curls his fingers inside him, but Eliot seems to know this and never presses too hard for too long. He keeps his other hand on Quentin's thigh, stroking over the harness but also keeping his legs spread, holding him in place whenever Quentin tries to thrust down on his fingers.
"You're so hard already, Q," he murmurs, twisting his wrist to make Quentin gasp. "Were you imagining this when you put it on?"
Quentin can't do much more than whimper in response, dizzy with the effort of not shaking apart - and then Eliot’s fingers slip out and the slick, hot head of his cock presses into him instead.
The stretch of it is as good as it always is - Eliot knows just how much he can take and just how slow to drag out his first few thrusts before Quentin is whining for it, fists clenching in the sheets. "Eliot—"
"I've got you," Eliot breathes, and lifts Quentin's hips a little to set a faster pace. Quentin keens, letting sweet, sharp pleasure wash over him, fighting the urge to cover his face - he knows Eliot wants to see him, he says so every time he tries to hide - so he makes himself look up instead, and catches Eliot's heated gaze.
It's not surprising that it feels good, but he just really didn't expect to end up here with the harness still on, after everything. But it does add something - Eliot clearly likes it, and, honestly, Quentin does too.
It's not only the way he can see the direct effect on Eliot, it's also that Quentin... likes the way the harness looks, on himself - sharp black lines taut across his hips, the wide V just above where his dick arcs up, leaking, pulsing with every thrust. And Eliot framed between his legs, his curls falling into his face, one hand tight on Quentin's hip and the other sliding under the harness across his thigh.
"What would you have done if I wasn't here?" Eliot asks, low and breathy. "Gotten off by yourself, thinking about this? Me holding you down, spreading you open?" He slows down abruptly, dragging out and back in almost lazily, despite Quentin writhing underneath him. "Or would you have waited all night until I got back, until you were desperate like this?"
"I would've waited," Quentin gasps out - he hadn't thought about it until this moment, but he can picture it in his mind: going back to Eliot's chambers alone after the Library, then realizing he still had both the soft underwear and the harness on. He would have considered taking them off, hiding them somewhere until some special occasion, but then the thought of Eliot's return would've eclipsed that. "I'd— wait for you, I wouldn't even— I'd want you to be the first to— to touch me."
"Yeah?" Eliot drives into him again and pauses there, hips flush with Quentin's thighs, making him whine. "You'd be good for me?"
Quentin nods, biting back another whimper. He can imagine it, the anticipation coiling in him and keeping him awake, keeping him hard for hours - and then finally Eliot would come home, and he'd have that hungry look again, his gaze heavy on Quentin, flushed and leaking all over the soft mesh and begging for Eliot to touch him, to get inside him— "I'd be— please, Eliot—"
He reaches out and Eliot lets himself be pulled down, bracing himself on one elbow as he starts to move again. What starts as a kiss dissolves until they're just breathing into each other's mouths while Eliot presses even deeper into him and Quentin arches up, back bowing as he clings to Eliot's shoulders. He's close, his untouched cock throbbing - but Eliot urges him on, murmuring praise against his mouth even as he loses his own rhythm, grip tightening on Quentin's hip and his other hand fisting in the sheets beside his head.
Quentin hangs on as long as he can, but the coil of pleasure wound up inside him finally snaps and he comes with a cry, just as Eliot chokes out his name and shudders against him.
After a few seconds he pulls back just far enough to look down at Quentin, breathing hard. Quentin takes in his flushed face and sweaty hair and sees his own smile mirrored back at him for a moment before Eliot leans in to kiss him again, slow and wet and panting.
Eventually Eliot pulls out and lies down beside Quentin to continue pressing soft, languid kisses to his mouth. Ignoring the ache in his hips, Quentin rolls onto his side and fits himself right up against him, humming contentedly when Eliot's arms wind around him.
When they've both caught enough of their breath to focus on other things, Eliot magics away the mess and brushes Quentin's hair out of his face, smiling fondly at him. "So, I'm all for new discoveries," he says easily, as if they're picking up an earlier conversation, "but what brought this on, if I may ask?"
"The, um, lingerie?" Quentin's mouth twists, and he shrugs one shoulder. "I told you, it was Margo's idea."
"Oh, Q," Eliot laughs, shaking his head. "You say that like you're not the most maddeningly stubborn little man in the known universe. Not even Bambi could talk you into doing something you really, truly do not want to do."
That's… fair, Quentin supposes. "So what?"
"So," Eliot says slowly, sliding his hand down Quentin's hip to slip under the thigh strap of the harness once again, "you must have been curious, at the very least."
"Well— maybe, yeah," Quentin allows, feeling his face heat up. "It just— it wasn't what I was expecting, and then I thought about what you would think if you saw it, and…"
"So you were imagining this."
Quentin flushes further and tries to hide it against Eliot's chest, but he just laughs and pets his hair to coax him back up.
"Not this, specifically," Quentin explains, when he resurfaces, lying more on top of Eliot now, "but… yeah, I guess I was imagining… something. I just— I liked it." He thought saying it out loud would be harder, or weirder, but it's neither, really. "I liked how it looked, and I wanted you to see it too."
Eliot just watches him for a long moment, something soft in his expression, before he shakes his head with a smile and scrubs a hand over his face. "Jesus. Remind me to thank Margo."
Huffing, Quentin lifts his head to frown at him. "Didn't you just say I couldn't blame this on her?"
"Margo is not to be blamed for anything, ever again," Eliot says seriously. "It's law, now. You, on the other hand… I mean, come on. This" —he plucks at the band across Quentin's thigh so that it snaps lightly back against his skin— "was very clearly an attempt on my life."
Quentin fights to keep the frown on his face, but it's a losing battle. "If I was going to try to assassinate you, I wouldn't do it wearing this."
"Nevertheless, I won't stand for it," Eliot sighs. "You'll have to take it off."
"Are you sure?" Quentin asks, pushing himself up on one elbow and dragging his hand down the length of the harness before glancing demurely back at Eliot. "I kind of like it."
He watches Eliot swallow hard. "Okay, fair point. Keep it on. But," he adds, winding an arm around Quentin's waist, "you're going to have to stay here."
Quentin gives him a wry look. "In your bed?"
"Our bed, and yes, for at least a full day. Maybe longer, depending."
"Right," Quentin laughs, letting Eliot roll him over onto his back. "Depending on what?"
"On how long Margo is willing to cover for us," Eliot says, grinning down at him. "24 hours is a safe bet, but just in case..."
He ducks down to catch Quentin's mouth, already twisting his fingers underneath the harness again. Quentin smiles against his lips, welcoming the heat that streaks down his spine as Eliot's hands trail familiar sparks across his skin.