Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Thursday morning, Quentin woke up with the rare satisfaction of knowing his sentence as Houseboy was officially over. No lists waiting for him on the table, no corner time threats lurking in the background, no standing orders to fetch drinks or re-stack shelves for no apparent reason.

That didn’t mean he was entirely free, of course.

The paper Eliot had assigned him— The Importance of Communication With the People You Love and Why —still needed to be finished. He’d already done the research (if you could call it that) and most of the writing earlier in the week, but Thursday morning, coffee in hand, Quentin hunkered down to polish it off.

He only got grumpy about it once, muttering something about how he was in grad school and had real academic papers to finish, thank you very much. Eliot—calm, steady, Dom-voice Eliot—didn’t even raise his tone. He just put down his mug, gave Quentin that look , and asked if Quentin really wanted to start his day rewriting this paper from scratch.

Quentin didn’t.

Not even a little.

He shut up and finished the damn thing.

When he turned it in—if you could call handing a stapled set of pages to your Dom “turning it in”—Eliot had the audacity to actually grade it. With a pen. And marginal notes.

Quentin hovered while Eliot read, pretending not to care about the occasional raised eyebrow or the sound of pen on paper.

When Eliot finally handed it back, there was a neat “90/100” written at the top.

Quentin stared. “A ninety ?”

Eliot smirked. “You left out a conclusion paragraph, darling boy. Rookie mistake. Still, A-minus. You’ll live.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Mm, maybe. But I’m also the professor in this particular arrangement, so…” Eliot trailed off with a little shrug and the most smug smile Quentin had ever seen.

The rest of Thursday blurred into the kind of mild chaos only pre-trip packing could create. Margo was in full executive mode, striding between rooms like a general surveying the troops. Eliot was the quieter but no less exacting counterpart, with a mental checklist that he kept cross-referencing against the actual pile of items Quentin was supposed to be packing.

“Did you put your sweater in?” Eliot asked for the third time, watching Quentin shove jeans into his bag.

“Yes,” Quentin said, not looking up.

“Which one?”

“The—” Quentin paused, frowning. “The grey one?”

“The grey one ?” Margo repeated from the doorway, as though Quentin had announced he’d packed a plastic bag instead of actual clothing. “Honey, no. You’ll freeze to death at night.”

“I will not—” Quentin started, only to be cut off by Eliot coming over, hand light on his shoulder, leaning in close enough to murmur, “Do you want to be told again? Or do you want to just swap it for the one we agreed on?”

Quentin’s ears went hot. His stomach did that squirmy flip he both hated and loved. “…Fine.”

“That’s my boy.” Eliot kissed the top of his head before plucking the offending sweater out of the bag and tossing it aside. “Pack the blue one. Better weight, softer too.”

Every time Quentin’s exasperation started to creep toward snapping, Eliot or Margo pulled out some version of that—Dommy, decisive, cutting through his irritation like a hot knife. He’d grumble, he’d sigh, but each time, the push and pull settled him back down into that sweet, steady place where everything felt under control. Where he didn’t have to think too hard, just… do.

By the time night rolled around, the bags were packed, the apartment was a mild disaster from all the sorting, and they were all sprawled on the couch in varying states of exhaustion. Quentin was leaning against Eliot’s side, letting him play idly with his hair while Margo sipped wine and flipped through her phone.

They didn’t bother staying up late.

Tomorrow was Friday, and spring break would officially begin. No classes, no schedules—just three trains, an Uber, and the lake house waiting for them.

Josh would meet them there in a few days, but for the first stretch, it would just be the three of them. Eliot had promised quiet. Margo had promised “not too much” trouble. And Quentin… Quentin was quietly thrilled, even if he’d never admit it out loud.

By the time he slid into bed that night, he was already picturing the water, the trees, the way the air might smell out there. Eliot tucked in beside him, murmuring reassurances all soft and soothing as Quentin drifted off.

—-----------

Eliot woke him like he always did—warm hand on his back, voice pitched low and teasing—but Quentin just groaned and tried to burrow deeper into the pillow.

“Up, baby,” Eliot murmured, leaning down to brush a kiss across the back of his neck. “We’ve got a trip to take.”

“Mmnnf,” Quentin replied eloquently, which earned him a sharp smack to the ass. He yelped, jerking half-awake, twisting his head to glare at Eliot.

“That got your attention,” Eliot said, smug as anything. “Up. Now. We’ve got trains to catch.”

The memory of the lake house plan wormed its way into Quentin’s foggy brain, and despite himself, he perked up. He’d never been to a lake house before—not for spring break, not for anything—and the thought of it hit him with a fizzy kind of anticipation.

By the time he shuffled out to the kitchen, Margo was already there with coffee in hand, flipping through her phone while Eliot was in full command mode, moving through the space like he owned it (which, in a way, he did).

They had a list—of course they had a list—and they were running through it together like some kind of terrifyingly efficient, well-oiled machine. Margo read off items, Eliot checked bags and counter space, calling back confirmations.

It should not have been attractive.
It was attractive.

There was something about the way Eliot’s focus sharpened, the way his whole body seemed aligned toward getting something done, the quiet authority threaded into every movement—it did something to Quentin’s chest. And maybe to other places too, if he was being honest.

Huh. Competence kink. Maybe that was a thing. Maybe he’d think about it later.

Eliot noticed him lingering and, without looking up from the bag he was reorganizing, said, “Sit.” A moment later, he set a steaming bowl of oatmeal in front of Quentin.

It was… fine. Not his favorite by a long shot, but it was warm, filling, and Eliot had made it for him, so he wasn’t about to complain. Besides, he was too content watching Eliot and Margo move around each other like they’d rehearsed this exact packing dance.

He was excited . Really excited. He wanted to see the lake, feel the water. He wanted to go swimming with Eliot, watch the way water ran down his skin when they sprawled out to dry on the deck. He wanted to watch him cook in a sunlit kitchen, wanted to kiss him in the moonlight.

He was so caught up in the daydream that he almost didn’t hear Margo calling his name.

“Q!”

He blinked, refocusing. Eliot was smirking at him.
“What?”

“Do you have everything ready?” Margo asked, eyebrows raised in mock suspicion.

Quentin nodded, maybe a little too fast, a little too dumbly.

Margo rolled her eyes, turning back to her coffee. Eliot’s smile only deepened, all amused fondness and I know exactly where your head was just now, silly boy .

And, well… he wasn’t wrong.

—------------

Getting out the door took exactly as long as Quentin had expected it to—an eternity and a half.

Eliot and Margo had already been awake for hours, bustling around in a kind of organized chaos that was either deeply impressive or deeply unsettling, depending on how much caffeine you’d had. Quentin, who had not yet had enough caffeine, stood in the hallway with his backpack on, watching them like they were some kind of high-functioning but mildly terrifying wildlife documentary.

Margo was zipping and unzipping the same tote bag repeatedly, muttering under her breath about “things shifting” while Eliot carefully re-packed the food bag for “better balance” for the third time.

“Do we seriously need this much stuff for one week?” Quentin asked, leaning against the wall.

“Yes,” they chorused instantly, without even looking at him.

Margo tossed a shirt at his chest. “Hold this.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.” She breezed past him toward her bedroom before he could argue.

Eliot glanced up from the bag, arching an eyebrow. “Margo’s word is law, Q. You know this.”

Quentin grumbled something under his breath about being a glorified coat rack. Eliot’s mouth curved in that slow, deliberate way that promised absolutely no sympathy.

It took two more false starts before they finally made it out the door—one because no one could find the sunscreen, and another because Eliot suddenly decided they might not have enough wine (“We do,” Margo had insisted. “We don’t,” Eliot had countered. “We can always just buy more.” and finally “We’re not risking it.”).

Train One

The first train wasn’t so bad.

They found three seats together, the kind with just enough space for Quentin to stretch his legs without bumping his knees every five seconds. He curled up against the window, pulling out his book, while Eliot slid on his reading glasses and cracked open a novel of his own.

Margo had a glossy fashion magazine and a travel mug of coffee that she sipped like it was liquid gold.

The steady sway of the train, the low murmur of other passengers, the occasional jostle over the tracks—it all felt cozy. Quentin would’ve been content to stay like that for the whole trip.

Train Two

The changeover for the second train was another story entirely.

The station was a wall of sound—announcements blaring, rolling suitcases clattering, people weaving through each other in a hurry that made no sense until you were in the middle of it.

Eliot’s hand was a constant, firm pressure at Quentin’s elbow, steering him through the crowd like he didn’t trust him to navigate without supervision (which, fine, maybe fair). Margo cut ahead of them like a woman on a mission, her stride brisk enough to make people part for her.

“Left!” Margo called over her shoulder.

“We’re going right,” Eliot corrected immediately, tugging Quentin along in the opposite direction before he even had time to process the command.

“I hate this,” Quentin announced, half jogging to keep up.

“No, you don’t,” Eliot replied without missing a beat. “You love being dragged around.”

Quentin opened his mouth to argue, but they were already skidding onto the right platform, breathless and triumphant.

Once they collapsed into their seats, the tension melted. They shoved their bags into the overhead rack, trading muttered complaints about the chaos.

It didn’t take long for the banter to kick in. They pointed out funny signs and odd buildings out the window, poked fun at the man two rows ahead who had fallen asleep with his mouth wide open, and mocked the slightly-too-cheerful voice of the train attendant.

The scenery changed from city to stretches of blooming, spring trees and open fields, but after a while, it all blurred into the same thing. Quentin leaned into Eliot’s side, legs stretched out, boredom curling at the edges of his mood.

Train Three

By the time they got off the second train, they had enough time before their final departure to catch their breath.

“Coffee,” Eliot declared, already scanning the station like a hunter zeroing in on prey.

Quentin perked up instantly. “Yes. Please. God.”

“You’re easy,” Margo said, smirking as she fell into step beside Eliot.

“I’m efficient,” Quentin corrected, already following the scent of roasted beans.

Eliot glanced over his shoulder with a teasing glint in his eye. “Efficient’s a generous word for it, baby.”

The café they found was one of those little kiosks tucked into a corner, manned by a single barista who looked both over-caffeinated and deeply over life. The smell hit Quentin like a wave—dark, rich, almost enough to wipe out the residual crankiness from the transfer.

Margo ordered something with about twelve words in the name, Eliot went for a double espresso, and Quentin kept it simple with a large coffee drowned in cream and sugar.

They stood in a little cluster off to the side, sipping their drinks, watching the steady movement of travelers. Margo was scrolling her phone, Eliot was checking the tickets on his, and Quentin was letting himself imagine the next part of the day—the lake house, the still water, maybe convincing Eliot to go swimming the second they got there.

“Quentin,” Margo’s voice cut into his daydream.

He blinked, realizing both she and Eliot were looking at him. Eliot was smirking. “Zoned out, baby?”

Quentin shook his head quickly. “What?”

Margo rolled her eyes. “Do you have everything ready for the last train?”

He nodded dumbly, clutching his coffee like it was a lifeline.

Eliot’s smirk deepened, but he just sipped his espresso without comment.

By the time they actually made it onto the third and final train, the collective energy had shifted.

The novelty of the traveling portion of the trip had worn off. The cheerful coffee high from the station kiosk had faded into a quiet, restless fatigue. The seats were smaller, the air warmer and heavier, and the low rhythmic rattle of the tracks made the whole car feel like it was gently rocking them into submission.

Quentin slouched into his seat with a sigh, knees bouncing restlessly. His coffee cup was empty, his backpack was shoved under the seat in front of him, and he kept alternating between trying to read and staring out the window at the blur of trees and small towns they passed. His eyelids were heavy enough that they kept drooping closed, only for his head to jerk back up again when he caught himself nodding off.

It happened a third time, and when he glanced sideways, Eliot was watching him over the rim of his glasses.

“Baby,” Eliot murmured, voice low enough that only Quentin could hear, “you’re going to take a nap.”

Quentin scoffed immediately. “I’m not five. I don’t need a nap on the train.”

From the seat across the aisle, Margo didn’t even look up from her phone as she said, “Don’t argue with your Daddy on the train if you want to make it to the lake house in one piece.”

Quentin went scarlet so fast it was almost impressive. “ Don’t —don’t call him that here,” he hissed, glancing around.

Margo finally looked at him, one eyebrow raised in pure, unbothered judgment. “There’s no one around, and even if there were? I don’t care. You wanna be a brat in public, you can get told off in public.”

Quentin made an indignant little noise, somewhere between a huff and a growl, but didn’t actually argue again. He crossed his arms, glaring half-heartedly at the seat in front of him.

Eliot didn’t waste the moment. With a little maneuvering, he had them all shuffle so they were in one set of seats together—Quentin in the middle, Eliot on one side, Margo on the other.

“Come here,” Eliot said simply, tugging at Quentin’s shoulder until his head rested against Eliot’s shoulder.

“I’m not—” Quentin started, but then Margo’s hand was sliding over the slope of his other shoulder, rubbing slow circles into the fabric of his shirt. Eliot’s fingers threaded through his hair, massaging lightly at his scalp.

The combination was unfair. Quentin’s resistance lasted maybe a minute before his body betrayed him, melting into the warm press of Eliot’s side. His eyes fluttered closed despite himself, the steady hum of the train blurring into the rhythmic comfort of touch and quiet.

He was asleep embarrassingly fast.

Margo and Eliot shared a smirk over the top of his head—mutual amusement, mutual fondness—and then both settled in, letting the soft weight of a sleeping Quentin anchor them for the last stretch of the ride.

—--------------

By the time they tumbled out of the Uber, Quentin’s legs were stiff from the hours of train travel, his hair was doing that windblown thing it always did when he was too tired to fix it, and he was prepared for…well, a lake house.

He wasn’t prepared for this.

The place stood back from the road, all glassy windows and clean lines, sunlight flashing off the water behind it. It looked like something out of one of those travel lifestyle magazines Margo pretended to read for “design inspiration,” but actually flipped through for gossip about the people in them. There was a wide wraparound porch with weathered wood railings, the glint of a dock in the distance, and beyond that—water, stretching out like it had no end.

It knocked the air out of him a little.

The inside was somehow even better. Huge kitchen with gleaming white counters, a massive island, and a gas stove that Eliot was already eyeing like it had personally invited him to dinner. A wide, airy living room with plush couches and sunlight streaming in through the big windows. Bedrooms with crisp white walls, dark blue trim, and hardwood floors polished to a shine. Everything smelled faintly of cedar and clean linen.

Quentin stood in the entryway for a moment just…turning in place, trying to take it all in. “Holy shit,” he muttered before he could stop himself.

“Glad you approve,” Margo said breezily, already setting her bag down on one of the couches.

He didn’t get much longer to admire it because Eliot’s voice cut in from behind him, firm and expectant. “Come on. We’re unpacking now.”

Quentin turned around, eyebrows raised. “Why? Can’t we just—”

“So our clothes don’t wrinkle,” Eliot interrupted smoothly, already heading for their bedroom with his own bag.

“I don’t really give a shit if my clothes wrinkle,” Quentin called after him, smirking a little.

“That’s why you have me,” Eliot shot back without missing a beat. “Now get to it, baby.”

It was hard to argue when Eliot used that tone, the one that made Quentin’s stomach flip and his brain immediately start lining up to obey. He still muttered under his breath about how ridiculous it was, but he followed Eliot anyway, dragging his bag behind him.

They unpacked quickly, Eliot pulling items out and handing them off with a kind of meticulous precision that made Quentin’s eyebrows climb. He was halfway through folding a sweater when Eliot suddenly tossed it onto the bed, caught Quentin by the wrist, and pulled him down with a laugh.

Quentin landed flat on his back, startled, and then Eliot was climbing over him, knees bracketing his hips, leaning down to kiss him like they had all the time in the world. It was deep and slow and still somehow left them both panting in less than a minute.

Quentin was giggling—actually giggling—by the time Eliot finally pulled back, brushing their noses together.

“Alright,” Eliot murmured, still catching his breath, “back to work.”

Quentin groaned but let himself be pulled up. Eliot adjusted both their shirts with quick, efficient hands, smirked, and laced their fingers together as they headed back to the kitchen.

Margo was already there, three shot glasses lined up on the counter and a bottle of something lethal in her hand. “Celebration,” she announced.

Quentin smiled, warmth blooming in his chest as she poured. Whatever else happened this trip, he already knew—this was going to be good.

Margo poured with the kind of care you only used when handling truly dangerous liquids—top-shelf whiskey in this case, not that Quentin could tell the difference between it and the cheap stuff. The glasses were small, but the smell was sharp even from where he stood.

“Okay,” she said, sliding one toward him, “house rules—first drink here is always a toast.”

“To what?” Quentin asked, picking his up carefully.

“To us, obviously,” Margo said, like it was the only acceptable answer.

“To us,” Eliot echoed smoothly, his glass already raised. “And to Quentin’s first lake house trip. May he survive our very high standards.”

Quentin snorted, clinking glasses with both of them. “Yeah, okay. To us.”

The whiskey burned going down, warm in a way that unfurled in his chest and made the exhaustion from traveling feel suddenly softer. Eliot grimaced in satisfaction, Margo slammed her glass down like she was in a movie, and Quentin coughed once before grinning at them.

Margo leaned back against the counter, looking him up and down with that assessing, queen-of-the-room gaze. “You’re rumpled,” she declared.

“I just unpacked an entire bag under supervision,” Quentin shot back, “and got assaulted in the process, so yeah, I’m a little rumpled.”

Eliot smirked over the rim of his glass. “Assaulted?”

“You threw me on the bed!”

“That’s called affection,” Eliot corrected, his eyes bright with amusement. “You should be thanking me.”

Margo rolled her eyes and poured herself another shot. “God, you two are exhausting. Drink up, Q—there’s a lake waiting for us, and if I don’t get into that water within the hour, I’ll die.”

Quentin shook his head, but he was smiling.

—-------------

The air was warm and a little brisk at the same time. It was the kind of early-spring warmth that carried just enough chill to remind you winter wasn’t very far passed. The dock stretched out over still water, the late-afternoon light turning it all silver-blue, glittering where it rippled against the pilings.

It wasn’t technically swimming weather, but none of them seemed to care. They’d made it. There was a lake in front of them. That was enough.

Margo had already kicked off her sandals and was muttering something about how she didn’t come here to look at water. Eliot was pulling his shirt over his head, sunglasses sliding perfectly into place, and Quentin—

Quentin was staring.

Absolutely, shamelessly staring. He couldn’t not . Eliot in sunlight was unfair enough on any day, but Eliot here, lake glitter behind him, half-naked and happy? That was lethal. His skin was still pale from winter but warm-toned in the golden light, and the way his hair caught the breeze—God. The easy smile on his face, the excitement in the set of his shoulders—it was too much.

Eliot glanced back at him, catching the look, and Quentin’s breath stuttered. “Q,” Eliot said, holding out the sunscreen like it was some kind of royal decree, “do the honors? Can’t reach my back.”

Quentin honestly thought for a second he might pass out. “Uh—yeah. Sure.”

He squeezed some into his palm, the lotion cool and slick, and smoothed it across Eliot’s shoulders. His hands looked pale against Eliot’s skin, and the warmth radiating under his fingertips made his own pulse trip over itself. He tried to be casual, but his mind was already a few steps down a path it definitely didn’t need to be walking in public.

When he was done, Eliot turned around, holding the bottle out to him. “Your turn.”

Quentin tried, “I don’t burn that easily, I’ll be fine,” but Eliot cut him off with a sharp, “Absolutely not. Turn around.”

And really—what was there to do except obey?

Eliot’s hands were confident, thorough, working the sunscreen into his skin like he had all the time in the world. It made Quentin’s knees feel untrustworthy. He might have actually swayed forward for a second before stepping away and pretending it hadn’t happened.

Several minutes later, he was still deciding on the least-terrifying way to get into the water when Margo’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

And then he was shoved.

Hard.

He hit the lake with a yelp and a splash so big it sprayed the dock. The shock of the water punched the air right out of his lungs—it was fucking freezing —but before he could recover, both Margo and Eliot were in after him, whooping like kids on summer break.

“Jesus Christ!” Quentin sputtered, kicking up to the surface.

“You’ll live,” Margo laughed, hair plastered to her face as she swam past to flick a handful of water at him.

Eliot was grinning, teeth bright, and dunked Quentin before he could retaliate. The cold was brutal, but underneath it, Quentin’s chest still felt warm from the whiskey and the company and the excitement of it all.

Soon it was just laughter, splashing, Margo’s delighted shrieks when Quentin actually managed to soak her properly, Eliot pretending to swim away before circling back to dunk him again.

And for a while, Quentin was just…happy. Really, truly happy to be here. The memory of how he’d dreaded this trip, how he’d braced himself for the worst, felt ridiculous now.

Eventually, teeth chattering, lips turning blue they all clambered back onto the dock, dripping in the last slant of sunlight.

“I’m taking the first shower,” Margo declared, wringing out her hair. “And I’m cooking tonight, so expect a lot of wine.”

She headed inside, leaving Eliot and Quentin stretched out side by side on the dock.

Quentin was right—it was gorgeous. The lake stretched endlessly, the air smelled like pine and clean water, and Eliot was lying next to him, damp hair curling against his temples, sunglasses hiding his eyes but not the faint, contented curve of his mouth.

Quentin let the sun do what it could to dry him, the cool air skimming over his damp skin, and thought that if this was how spring break started, maybe he never wanted it to end.

They were still lying there, lake water beading and rolling down their skin, the sunlight warm but not quite enough to chase away the chill in Quentin’s bones. He was just starting to feel the pleasant heaviness of post-swim exhaustion when Eliot shifted closer, bracing an arm on the dock beside his head.

“Come here,” Eliot murmured, voice low in a way that curled warm in Quentin’s stomach.

And then there was no space left at all—Eliot’s mouth slanting over his, tasting like cold water and whiskey, his damp hair brushing Quentin’s temple. His body was all smooth heat against Quentin’s chest and legs, pressing him down just enough to make his heart kick.

Quentin’s fingers immediately curled in the slick muscles of Eliot’s back, greedy for contact, for more. The world narrowed to the slide of Eliot’s lips and tongue, the scrape of his teeth. Then Eliot’s mouth was moving lower, dragging wet kisses along Quentin’s jaw, down the column of his throat, stopping to suck bruises into his collarbones until Quentin could feel them pulse under his skin.

“El—” Quentin’s voice cracked, halfway to a whine as Eliot’s mouth dipped lower still, over the slope of his chest, then his ribs, then—oh God—his hips, sucking another deep mark into soft skin that made Quentin’s whole body jump.

The dock was rough under his back, Eliot’s mouth was hot and merciless, and Quentin couldn’t seem to stop touching him—palms skating over every warm, damp inch he could reach, dragging over his shoulders, his sides, the ridges of muscle down his spine. He’d fantasized about this— this exactly, Eliot wet and flushed from the water, pinning him down in open air—and reality was wrecking him in the best possible way.

It was too much. It was perfect. His brain felt unmoored, all sensation and no thought, until suddenly—

It was gone.

Eliot was pulling back, pushing damp hair out of his eyes, standing up like he hadn’t just stolen all the air from Quentin’s lungs.

He held out a hand, grin curling lazy and knowing. “Come on,” he said, tugging Quentin up before his brain caught up to what was happening.

Quentin blinked at him, still dazed, and Eliot just laughed, the sound warm as the sun on his skin. “Time to shower and warm up, baby.”

And just like that, Quentin was being pulled toward the house, breath still uneven, mouth tingling, the phantom press of Eliot’s lips still burning into his skin.

—---------

The water was perfect—hot enough to chase away the chill of the lake, steam curling up around them as Eliot guided Quentin under the spray. The sound was a low roar in Quentin’s ears, soothing, almost hypnotic. His skin prickled as the warmth seeped in, thawing him from the outside in.

Eliot was unhurried, hands steady as he lathered shampoo into Quentin’s hair. His fingers worked in slow, firm circles over Quentin’s scalp, sending shivers down his spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. Every so often, Eliot leaned in to press soft, lingering kisses to Quentin’s temple, his cheek, the slope of his neck.

Quentin’s muscles felt loose, his thoughts even looser—like his brain had been left somewhere back on the dock and didn’t particularly want to be found. He was floating on sensation: the slide of Eliot’s fingers through his hair, the hot water streaming over his shoulders, the way Eliot’s mouth kept finding new patches of skin to claim with slow, unhurried affection.

Somewhere along the way, the kisses deepened, the warm press of Eliot’s lips lingering lower on Quentin’s neck, his tongue teasing the skin there until Quentin’s breath hitched. His hands had slid down to Quentin’s hips, holding him close, guiding him back under the spray just enough to rinse his hair before pulling him forward again.

Quentin didn’t even realize he was making noise until he heard himself whispering, “Please… please, please…” barely louder than the water. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was asking for—more kisses, more touching, everything—but the need was spilling out of him in helpless repetition.

Eliot’s mouth curved into a knowing smile against his throat. “Please, what, baby?” he murmured, voice like warm velvet.

Quentin blinked at him, dazed, and the word slipped out before he could think about it— “Daddy.”

Eliot’s gaze sharpened, surprised, as if that was unexpected, but pleased, and then he was moving them, a gentle but purposeful turn until Quentin’s back was pressed to the tile and the spray hit just over his shoulder. The heat of the water framed them, but Eliot’s body blocked most of it, keeping Quentin caged in and close.

And then Eliot was dropping to his knees.

Quentin’s breath caught hard. “Oh, fuck—”

The steam curled around them as Eliot’s hands skimmed up Quentin’s thighs, thumbs stroking the tender skin there before wrapping around him and leaning in. The first hot, wet slide of Eliot’s mouth made Quentin’s knees threaten to give out entirely. His hands scrambled for something to hold onto, finding Eliot’s damp hair, the slick line of his shoulders.

“Oh my God ,” Quentin gasped, head tipping back against the wall.

It was too much, too good, too fast—Eliot’s mouth warm and relentless, tongue teasing in a way that made Quentin’s entire body tremble. He tried to warn him, breathless and tripping over his words. “I—Eliot, wait I’m gonna—”

Eliot didn’t pull back. If anything, he doubled down, sucking him in deep, one hand gripping Quentin’s hip hard enough to keep him still, the other teasing just enough to wreck him completely.

Quentin’s warning dissolved into a choked moan as his release hit him hard, heat and pleasure tearing through him in a rush. Eliot took it all, steady and unshaking, before finally easing back with a satisfied little hum.

Quentin was already sagging against the shower wall, his legs useless. The tile was cool against his spine, a contrast to the lingering heat flooding his body. Eliot rose smoothly, hands firm under Quentin’s elbows to steady him, guiding him to lean back while his knees remembered how to work.

“Easy, baby,” Eliot murmured, brushing damp hair back from Quentin’s face, pressing a kiss to his swollen mouth. “Just breathe.”

Quentin could only nod, breath still uneven, brain still somewhere far away in that blissed-out fog.By the time Quentin’s brain caught up with his body again, the steam had thinned in the shower, and his breathing had mostly settled. He blinked a few times, found Eliot still so close, hands resting light on his hips like they weren’t quite ready to let go. Quentin leaned forward and kissed him—soft at first, then a little hungrier, because what else could you do after that ?

“I could…I want to—” he murmured between kisses, “—return the favor, you know.”

Eliot smiled into his mouth, that maddeningly fond, in control smile. “Later,” he said, low and sure. “In bed, where I can take you apart properly.”

Quentin’s heart stuttered hard enough that his knees wobbled all over again. “Oh.”

Eliot just chuckled, smoothing his thumb over Quentin’s cheek before turning back to the business of rinsing him off. They finished the shower without hurry, but without dawdling either, the heat soaking deep into Quentin’s bones until he felt loose and boneless.

Eliot toweled himself dry first, then turned his attention to Quentin, tugging the fabric gently over damp skin. Quentin let himself be maneuvered through the motions, still a little floaty. Eliot grabbed the sweater he’d pulled from Quentin’s bag earlier—soft, thicker one, the one Quentin had argued against because it was “too much” for spring and he wanted his gray one. Eliot ignored the protest then, and he ignored it now, pulling it carefully over Quentin’s head and smoothing it down over his torso.

Dammit. It was cozier. It was warmer. And it was definitely the better option.
Not that Quentin was about to admit that out loud.

They padded barefoot into the main part of the house, the hardwood cool under their feet. The moment they stepped into the kitchen, they were met with the warm scent of roasting vegetables and the sound of music—something upbeat and happy bouncing around the big, airy space.

Margo was at the counter, a glass of wine in hand, cheeks flushed and eyes bright. Either she’d been at the bottle for a while, or she was just in a genuinely good mood. Probably both, Quentin decided.

“There you two are,” she said with a grin, looking them over like she knew exactly what had kept them so long.

Eliot crossed to the wine rack without missing a beat, plucking down a bottle and pouring two generous glasses—one for himself, one for Quentin. He handed Q’s over with a little flourish that made Quentin roll his eyes, though he took it anyway.

The chatter started up easily, banter bouncing between all three of them like it had been happening for years. Eliot teased Margo about how much wine she’d already had; Margo informed Eliot she was pacing herself “like a lady.” Quentin listened, smiling into his glass, the warmth in his chest more from them than the wine.

He reached out idly, snagging a roasted carrot slice from the pan just to see if Margo would notice. She did— of course she did—and swatted his hand without even looking up from her knife.

“Hey—”

“Hands off the goods, Q,” she said, smirking.

He giggled, because he couldn’t help it, because everything felt light and easy in a way he’d once thought was impossible. The music, the wine, the smell of food, Eliot leaning against the counter beside him—it all wove together into this little cocoon of warmth and contentment.

And Quentin thought, not for the first time, that maybe this really was his life now. That maybe he really did get to have this. It’s a beautiful thought. 

—---------

They migrated naturally from the kitchen to the long wooden table in the dining area, arms full of plates and wine glasses, Margo carrying the last pan of roasted vegetables like she’d just won a cooking competition. Eliot set the bottle of wine down in the middle of the table like it was the centerpiece, and Quentin trailed behind with the bread basket, feeling unusually… domestic. Like this was a real home and they were a real family. Which…he guesses they kind of are? A real family. In their own…very weird way. He’d table that realization for later.

The windows behind them glowed with the very last last hint of the setting sun, the lake visible in the distance through the glass.

Once everything was set down, Margo stood there for a moment with her glass in hand, surveying the table. Eliot was halfway to sitting when she cleared her throat dramatically.

“Okay,” she said, voice rising over the music still playing low in the background. “Before we dig in—”

“Oh God,” Eliot muttered under his breath, but he was smiling.

“I think we should toast,” Margo continued. “First night here, we should set the tone. Everyone say something they’re thankful for.”

Quentin raised an eyebrow. “Isn’t that, like…for  Thanksgiving?”

“Shut up,” Margo said without heat, already lifting her glass.

Eliot leaned back in his chair, one arm hooked lazily over the backrest. “I second Margo. Shush, Q. Gratitude is sexy.”

Quentin snorted into his wine but obediently took a sip, waiting.

Margo went first. “I’m thankful for the lake house, obviously, and for spring break, and for both of you idiots. Life is boring without you.”

“Aww,” Eliot said, reaching out to clink her glass. “Alright, my turn— I’m thankful for the lake, for good wine, for Margo’s cooking… and for Q here, who is, despite his reputation that I just made up now, very good company.”

Quentin flushed, trying not to smile too stupidly as they both looked at him expectantly. “Uh. Okay. I’m thankful for… both of you. And for not being in class right now. And, um… for the fact that no one has made me swim in freezing water twice in one day.”

“Yet,” Eliot said.

“ Yet ,” Margo echoed, smirking.

They clinked glasses all around, wine sloshing just a little, and for a moment, it was just laughter and the clatter of forks against plates as they dug in.

The food was good—better than good—and the wine loosened them further, the conversation flowing as easily as the second bottle Eliot opened halfway through the meal. Margo told a story about the last time she’d been at the lake house, involving questionable tequila choices and a very angry swan; Eliot teased Quentin about how he was going to handle “country living” without his usual level of caffeine intake; Quentin retaliated by stealing the last roasted potato off Eliot’s plate when he wasn’t looking.

By the time they’d cleared their plates and leaned back in their chairs, pleasantly full and flushed, the sky outside was dark. The lake shimmered in the moonlight, and Quentin caught himself thinking that if this was the first night, the rest of the week was going to be incredible.

—-----------

By the time the table was cleared and the last wine glasses were rinsed and set to dry, they’d all shaken off the lazy, too-full haze. Margo stretched like a cat and announced, “Alright, I’m going to take a shower and then bully Josh into phone sex.”

Quentin froze mid-step. “Wow. Okay. Didn’t need that image.”

“Too late,” Margo said cheerfully, already grabbing her phone from the counter. “Don’t wait up.”

Quentin groaned, pressing his palms into his eyes as if that might erase the mental picture. Eliot just smirked, clearly amused at Quentin’s suffering, and took his hand.

“Come on,” Eliot murmured, tugging him toward the back door.

The night air was cool and smelled faintly of lake water and pine, the dock creaking gently beneath their steps. Out over the water, the moon laid a silver path across the rippling surface, and the stars were scattered thick overhead. It was quiet except for the soft lap of water against the pilings and the occasional far-off splash of a fish breaking the surface.

Eliot sat down first, legs stretched out, and pulled Quentin down beside him. For a while, they just… looked. The lake. The sky. The kind of view that made Quentin feel like his chest was too full, like he might float right out of his skin if he didn’t anchor himself to the warm line of Eliot’s shoulder.

Eliot glanced over eventually, his voice softer than the breeze. “How’re you feeling, after the big day?”

Quentin shrugged, but it was the good kind of shrug—the loose, unguarded kind. “Pretty great, actually. Even with the public nap shaming.”

Eliot grinned. “I was not wrong. You needed it.”

“Mm,” Quentin hummed, letting their shoulders press together. “This place is… I don’t know. It’s a lot in a good way. I feel happy here. With you.”

They fell into easy conversation, a mix of low jokes and soft admissions, the kind of back-and-forth that made Quentin’s chest feel warm and easy. Every so often Eliot would look at him with that quiet, focused intensity that made Quentin’s stomach swoop.

Then Eliot stood, offering his hand. “Come on.”

Quentin blinked up at him. “Where?”

Eliot’s smile was slow, almost secretive. “Bedroom. For a while.”

“Oh,” Quentin said, his brain already short-circuiting. “Yeah. Okay. Yeah.”

He stumbled a little as he scrambled to his feet, catching himself on Eliot’s arm, and Eliot’s laugh followed them all the way up the dock. Inside, Quentin barely remembered to kick off his shoes before he was hurrying after Eliot down the hall, pulse quick and face flushed.

—------

Once the bedroom door clicked shut behind them, Eliot didn’t immediately reach for him. Instead, he crossed the room to one of his neatly un-packed bags and crouched down, rifling through it with a little too much intent.

Quentin, still buzzing from the dock and the walk back, tilted his head. “What’re you doing?”

“Finding your surprise,” Eliot said lightly, without looking up.

Quentin’s brows drew together, confused—until Eliot straightened with a slow, almost smug smile and a neat coil of rope draped over one forearm.

Oh.

Quentin’s mouth went dry so fast it was almost painful. “You… How did you—when did you—”

Eliot’s smile turned downright wicked. “Didn’t you see how efficient I am when I pack? Should have known better, baby boy.”

Quentin’s knees actually wobbled. God. He was already halfway to floating, his pulse warm and heavy in his ears, his brain quiet in the way that only Eliot could make happen.

Eliot came over, looping the rope casually in his hands like he had all the time in the world. “Take off your clothes and then up on the bed for me.”

Quentin climbed onto the mattress, sitting back on his heels. Eliot guided him gently, touching his shoulders, coaxing his arms behind his back. The first loop of rope settled around his wrists, snug but not biting, and Quentin let out a soft breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

From there, Eliot worked with that quiet, concentrated precision that always made Quentin’s chest ache. The rope laced up his arms, pulling them together in a way that made his shoulders draw back. Eliot’s fingertips brushed his skin occasionally, checking the tension. He threaded the lines down to Quentin’s waist, cinching them neatly, then bound his legs together with the same careful attention—ankles to knees, a web of color crossing pale skin in crisscrossed diamonds.

By the time Eliot stepped back to look at him, Quentin could feel the slight pressure of every line, a constant, humming awareness of where and how he was held.

He must have said the next thought out loud without realizing it, because Eliot’s mouth curved in a warm, pleased smile.

“I look… kind of pretty like this,” Quentin murmured.

“You’re gorgeous like this,” Eliot said, leaning in to kiss him slow and deliberate. “One of my favorite views in the world.” His voice dropped lower, fond and possessive. “Love seeing you like this.”

He checked in, of course—“Color?”—and Quentin didn’t even have to think. “Green,” he said, voice low and steady.

The kiss deepened for a moment, Eliot’s hands cupping his face, and then—suddenly—Quentin jerked with a sharp gasp as a low, steady vibration hummed against him.

His head fell back a little. “Oh, fuck—”

Eliot laughed, delighted, adjusting the angle of the small toy so it pressed just right. “Did I forget to mention how I’m just such a very thoughtful packer?”

Quentin made a helpless sound, already twisting slightly against the ropes, his skin prickling under them. He wasn’t sure if the dizziness was from the toy or the way Eliot was watching him like he was the only thing worth looking at.

Eliot kept the vibrator pressed against him, but a little lighter now, letting the deep, steady hum buzz through Quentin without overwhelming him completely. The reprieve was almost worse—his body was desperate for more, for the pressure to build enough to push him over, but Eliot kept him balanced right there on the knife’s edge.

And then—oh God—Eliot’s lube slick fingers were between his legs, slow and deliberate.

Quentin’s breath hitched, spine arching against the ropes as Eliot eased one finger into him, curling it just enough to make him groan. The rope strained faintly with the movement. Eliot’s free hand steadied him at the hip, and he worked with an unhurried rhythm, stretching him open, one finger turning to two, twisting just enough to have Quentin’s toes curling.

“Eliot—oh, fuck , please—” Quentin’s voice cracked, high and pleading.

“You’re a mess,” Eliot murmured, sounding delighted. He pushed deeper, scissoring his fingers in a way that made Quentin gasp. “Leaking all over yourself already, squirming like you’re trying to crawl out of your own skin. You want something, baby?”

Quentin whined, tugging helplessly against the rope. “Please, please, I can’t—”

“You can. And you will.” Eliot’s tone was firm, almost gentle in its certainty. “You’re not coming until I do, mind you. Be a good boy for me, Quentin.”

The words landed deep, warm, buzzing through him almost as much as the toy. Quentin nodded frantically, hips jerking, the ropes tightening against his skin with every movement. He wanted to promise, to tell Eliot he’d be good, but all that came out was another needy, desperate, “Please—”

Eliot withdrew his fingers slowly, and Quentin’s entire body shuddered at the loss. But before the protest could form, Eliot was there—thick, hot, and pushing into him in one long, relentless thrust.

Quentin’s mind just—went.

The stretch, the fullness, the way Eliot filled him completely—his brain was nothing but white noise and heat, the rope biting into his skin with every small shift. “Fuck—you’re so big, Eliot, Daddy—love you—please—” He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, words spilling out without filter, without thought.

“That’s it,” Eliot breathed, thrusting into him deep and steady, eyes locked on Quentin’s face. “Take me, baby boy. Let me fuck you open. You’re being so good for me, yeah?”

Quentin was floating somewhere beyond reason, his world narrowed to the feel of Eliot’s body, the heat of his skin, the dizzy haze flooding his head.

And then Eliot groaned—a low, guttural sound—and thrust harder, hips stuttering as he spilled inside Quentin. The heat of it was almost enough to push Quentin over the edge on its own.

“Can I—oh, God, can– please —” Quentin begged, voice breaking, shaking against the ropes.

Eliot, still inside him, cupped his face, kissed his cheek, and said, “Let go, baby.”

And Quentin did.

The orgasm ripped through him so hard he saw stars, a hot rush flooding his entire body as he collapsed back, trembling, every muscle gone to jelly. His head dropped forward against Eliot’s shoulder, and Eliot caught him easily, holding him upright, murmuring soft praise while Quentin floated in a subspace-fueled blur of heat, love, and absolute ruin.

—-------

Quentin must have been floating hard, because when he blinked himself back into his body, the ropes were gone. He hadn’t even felt them being untied. His wrists and thighs were tingling where the cord had pressed, and Eliot was crouched beside him on the bed, warm washcloth in hand, wiping him down with gentle, unhurried strokes. Every movement was punctuated with small, absentminded kisses—over his shoulder, his ribs, the line of his jaw.

Quentin blinked up at him, slow and dazed, the edges of his vision still soft and hazy. He felt…absolutely wrecked. Not in a bad way. In the best way. Like all the fight had been wrung out of him, leaving nothing but this deep, blissed-out hum in his bones. He realized belatedly that he was grinning—dopey and wide and unselfconscious—and didn’t even care.

“There you are,” Eliot murmured, voice low and warm, thumb brushing a damp strand of hair from Quentin’s forehead. “Color, baby?”

“Green,” Quentin slurred out without hesitation, his voice a little hoarse.

“Good boy,” Eliot said, smiling. The words felt like a warm blanket all their own. He helped Quentin into soft, loose clothes—Quentin barely lifting his arms when prompted—before climbing into bed beside him. Eliot tugged him in immediately, wrapping him up, tucking him close.

Quentin went boneless without a second thought, curling into him like a cat finding its favorite spot. Eliot smelled faintly of soap and lake water and something uniquely him, and Quentin let his eyes drift shut, basking in the steady thump of his heartbeat under his ear.

“You were such a good boy tonight,” Eliot murmured into his hair, kissing the crown of his head. “I’m so proud of you. You can rest now.”

It should have been the end of it—but Quentin’s eyes flew open, sudden panic jolting through his haze. “Shit! Journal!” he blurted, trying to sit up.

Eliot only tightened his arm around him, shushing him softly. “You can do two tomorrow—one in the morning, one at night. Just rest, sweetheart. It was a big day.”

The panic dissolved as quickly as it came, leaving him loose again, sinking back down against Eliot’s chest. He nosed at Eliot’s collarbone, letting his lips brush over warm skin. “Love you,” he mumbled, words thick with sleep. “Love you so much.”

Eliot’s hand rubbed slow circles down his back. “I know, baby. I love you too.”

Quentin was asleep before he could hear the rest.