Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Quentin wasn’t sure when he’d become the kind of person who avoided life by pretending he was too busy with homework to go out on a Friday night. Maybe he’d always been that person.

Grad school hadn’t changed him, not really. Same overactive brain. Same socially anxious spiral. Same need to hide behind books—these days, textbooks more than fantasy novels, but Fillory still sat like a warm secret. He’d brought all of the books with him to the dorm. Hardcover. Worn edges. The only thing he read more often than he worried.

He stared at them now, stacked neatly on the desk in his tiny, too-quiet room. Outside the window, the city shimmered. Loud, alive, full of things he was not.
He should be writing. Or at least pretending to write. But his phone buzzed again and again on the desk, lit up with messages from Margo.

Margo: Come on out, Q.
Margo: Don’t be a hermit. It’s bad for your skin.
Margo: You’re wasting the prime of your twinkhood.
Margo: 🧍🏻‍♂️🧎🏻‍♂️🍆????

He didn’t answer. He didn’t want to be lectured in person about his “deeply depressing celibacy,” or hear Eliot casually joke about how Quentin needed to be “properly manhandled.” Or worse, hear the two of them talk about last weekend’s bar crawl-slash-threesome and laugh while Quentin sat there blushing into his Coke like an overgrown Victorian child.

They were just…different. Shiny. Confident. Magnetic in a way Quentin had never been. Margo was a hurricane in heels, and Eliot… Eliot Waugh was the kind of guy people turned to look at on the street. All dark eyes and sharp clothes and whiskey-smooth charm. He didn’t walk, he prowled.

And he liked Quentin. Dragged him out constantly, forced him into friendship. Chose him for some unknown reason- of all people. Teased him mercilessly, called him “darling” and “baby boy” and “my fragile little goose,” but liked him. They both did. Even when Quentin didn’t know what to say. Even when he flinched from touch.

They were trying to be his friends.

Quentin knew that. It just didn’t stop the feeling that he was always a few steps behind—socially, sexually, humanly. Especially around Eliot.
Especially when he and Eliot had gotten a little too drunk together once and his voice went low and amused and he said things like, “Quentin, you ever think you might be the kind of boy who wants to kneel?”

God.

That line had haunted Quentin for days.

Or when he called himself “Daddy” in a mockingly seductive tone while pouring wine and made it sound like a joke—except Quentin wasn’t so sure it was one. Not anymore. Not with how often.

Margo would tease right back—a little game between them, between knowing glances

He’d laughed it off. Turned pink. Said something awkward about Victorian etiquette. But the truth was—yeah. Yeah, he’d thought about it. He’d fantasized about it. Being told what to do. Letting go. Letting someone else decide, just for a second, what he was supposed to be.

Someone who wanted him enough to take control.

And maybe he’d done a few too many late-night Reddit scrolls. Maybe he’d read more than one “How Do I Know If I’m a Submissive?” article. Maybe he’d gone searching and found a list of kink-friendly spaces in the city. Maybe one of them was only two train stops away.

He stared at the wine bottle on the floor. Half-empty. Buzz just strong enough to blur the anxiety but not silence it.
“Fuck it,” he muttered. And stood.

The club didn’t look like much from the outside.

A nondescript black door on a quiet street, a tiny brass plaque that just read: Brakebills. The kind of place you’d walk past unless you knew what you were looking for. Quentin hesitated at the threshold, fingers damp where they gripped the strap of his messenger bag like it could shield him. Who brings a messenger bag to a club anyway? Quentin Coldwater, apparently.

He almost turned around.

He should turn around.

He didn’t.

The guy at the door was polite, smiled at Quentin’s nervous stammering, checked his ID, explained the rules. “Consent-based space. First floor is social. Second is play. No touching without permission. Red, yellow, green system. You good?”

Quentin nodded like his brain wasn’t melting. Like doing this at all wasn’t completely out of character for him. Like this was normal.

He wasn’t sure what he expected. Whips and chains and a dungeon maybe. But the first floor looked like a cozy lounge bar—dim lighting, low music, lots of leather and velvet. A few people in collars. A guy in a sheer shirt with rope marks on his wrists. Two women curled up in a booth, one feeding the other bits of chocolate and whispering in her ear.

It wasn’t scary. It was…intimate. Like walking into the middle of a secret story.

He took one step inside, then another.

Legs shaking, fighting the urge to turn right back around and head back to his room where it was safe. He made it closer to the middle of the room, where he could look around better.

And then he saw him.

Leaning against the bar, sipping from a wine glass, wearing a silk shirt unbuttoned to his chest and dark tailored pants that clung like a sin—was Eliot.

Eliot Waugh.

Eliot Waugh, relaxed and radiant, chatting with the bartender, one hand lazily stroking the stem of his glass. There was a subtle air of ease about him—like he belonged here. The way others watched him confirmed it. A woman in latex gave him a respectful nod. A man in a collar trailed his eyes over Eliot’s profile like he knew exactly what Eliot could do with his hands.

It clicked.

He wasn’t playing when he called himself “Daddy.” Wasn’t just trying to tease with Quentin. This was his scene. This wasn’t just a joke. Eliot wasn’t just comfortable here—he was known.

Quentin’s breath caught. His knees almost went out. He froze.

Eliot turned slightly …and saw him. Made eye contact. Quentin standing in the middle of the floor holding his stupid messenger bag, frozen like a scared animal.

For a second, he didn’t react. Just blinked, tilted his head.

Then he smiled. Slow. Sharp. Delighted.

“Well, well,” he said, voice low and purring as he approached. “Look what the kink gods dragged in. I knew it.”

Quentin was frozen. His mouth felt like sandpaper. “I didn’t— I didn’t know you—”

“That I was into this? Or that I would be here?” Eliot’s grin turned wicked. “Thought I was just teasing when I called myself Daddy?”

Quentin went red to the roots.

“What are you doing here?” he blurted.

Eliot’s eyes sparkled. “Looking for a boy to boss around. Maybe spank a little. Maybe a lot. You know- have fun.”

Quentin made a small squeaking noise that he would later deny if asked, eyes going impossibly wide.

Eliot’s voice dropped, velvet and teasing. “Did you come here for fun, or were you hoping someone would tell you what to do, hm?”

Quentin’s breath hitched. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

Eliot stepped a little closer, gaze softening just a little. Eyes filling with understanding. “Relax. You’re safe here. Nothing happens without a yes.”

“I don’t— I mean, I think I’m—” Quentin swallowed. “I just wanted to see.”

Eliot nodded. “Then you’re already doing better than most.”

He reached out slowly, fingertips brushing Quentin’s wrist. “Come sit with me. Let me buy you a drink. And you can tell me what it is you think you want.”
Quentin’s pulse thundered.

He nodded.

And followed.

Chapter Text

The bar was quieter now. The early evening crowd had trickled into upstairs rooms or slipped into shadowy booths. Quentin sat beside Eliot on a plush, dark velvet couch near the back wall, his knees drawn together too tightly, fingers clenched tight around a glass of water he hadn’t touched. He could feel the low thrum of bass through the soles of his shoes, like the room itself had a pulse.

Eliot, by contrast, looked maddeningly at ease. One arm draped casually across the back of the couch, one leg crossed over the other like he was posing for a photo shoot in GQ. He watched Quentin with an amused, almost indulgent expression, like this was all exactly how he’d hoped it would go.

“You can breathe, you know,” Eliot said, voice rich with amusement. “We’re not going to start spanking you in public. Not unless you beg.”

Quentin nearly dropped the glass. His throat bobbed, and he made a noise that could only be described as a whimper.

“I’m not— I didn’t—” he stammered.

“You didn’t come here to get spanked?” Eliot teased, lips twitching. “Because that’s not what your face said when I mentioned it earlier.”

“I came to look,” Quentin muttered, focusing intently on the rim of his glass. “I didn’t even think I’d actually… see someone I know. Let alone you.”

“Why not me?” Eliot asked, genuinely curious.

Quentin glanced at him, then away again so fast it was like looking hurt. "I don’t- I didn’t expect…I don’t know” he swallowed roughly, “Because you’re, like. Confident. Cool. You have sex. With people. More than once…which I guess is a list of reasons you would be here instead of not….here” he finished lamely. Hiding his face by taking a sip from his glass.

Eliot laughed, delighted. “A glowing character reference. Keep going, you’re really selling it.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” Eliot said, softer now. “But here’s the thing, Q. I’ve wanted to drag you here for months.”

Quentin blinked, heart skipping. “What?”

“You heard me.” Eliot’s gaze didn’t waver. “I thought you would fit right in here. You’re the kind of boy who blushes when someone calls you good. Who melts when I raise my voice. Who practically folds in on himself when I so much as look disappointed.”

Quentin’s fingers flexed, knuckles whitening.

“You want structure. It's easy to see, and you’re so good, Quentin,” Eliot said, voice low and reverent now. “You’d be an amazing submissive. I can just…see it in you. Anyone could if they knew what they were looking for. It’s so obvious. You crave direction. You want to be told you’re enough. That you don’t have to make decisions or prove yourself. You want to feel small and held and absolutely adored. You want to be owned. Why else would you be brave enough to come here?”

Quentin felt heat rise so fast it made him dizzy. He couldn’t meet Eliot’s eyes.

Eliot stared at him for a minute, watching Quentin look anywhere but at him. “Look at me.”

Quentin’s eyes snapped up fast, even though it looked like it pained him to do it. Like it hurt to make the eye contact.

“And you are,” Eliot said, voice low and reverent now. “You’re such a good boy, Quentin. Even when you’re anxious. Even when you’re awkward. Especially when you’re trying so hard not to need.”

That broke something open.

Quentin looked down, jaw trembling, tears prickling hot behind his eyes. It wasn’t the humiliation of being read so thoroughly—Okay maybe a little bit. But also…it was the relief. The absolute, shattering relief of being known and not flinched away from. Of being understood.

Eliot leaned in, lips brushing Quentin’s ear. “I could give you so much,” he murmured. “I could make you feel weightless. I could touch you in ways that make you forget your own name. I could make you come undone and put you back together softer.”

Quentin couldn’t speak. He wasn’t sure he could even breathe. This wasn’t real life.

“But I won’t,” Eliot said gently, straightening. “Not unless you ask me to.”

Quentin blinked, throat dry.

“I don’t play with boys who don’t want it. And I don’t play with boys who don’t know how to say yes,” Eliot said. “You deserve to choose. You have to choose.”

Before Quentin could wrap his mouth around a single syllable, a familiar voice cut through the haze.

“Well, well, well,” Margo drawled, sliding into the empty seat beside Quentin like a panther on a chaise. “Is this our Quentin? In a club? With Eliot? After ignoring my texts earlier? ”

Quentin startled so hard he nearly dropped his glass.

“I knew it,” Margo grinned. “You always had that repressed little edge. Sweet, nervous, always squirming when El called you ‘baby’ in public. I should’ve bet money.”

“Margo,” Quentin said, voice cracking.

“Oh hush, Baby Q. I’m thrilled for you.” She turned to Eliot. “And you, Daddy dearest?”

Eliot smiled slowly. “I gave him the speech.”

“You did the whole ‘you’re such a good boy’ thing, didn’t you?”

“I mean… look at him,” Eliot said, as if that answered everything.

Margo laughed. “Jesus. You’re halfway to housebreaking him.”

Quentin flushed scarlet.

Eliot turned back to him, his gaze warm but firm. “Sleep on it,” he said seriously. “No pressure. No rush. I’m not going to touch you unless you ask. But if you wake up tomorrow and still want this—want me—then you tell me.”

He paused, then leaned in close enough that Quentin could feel the heat of his breath. “And if you do?” he whispered. “I’ll make you feel so good, you’ll forget you were ever afraid.”

Quentin’s heart cracked open in his chest.

Eliot stood, brushing invisible lint from his sleeve. “Come on, Margo. Let’s give our boy some space.”

Margo winked. “Don’t be a stranger, Q. We already like you. Text me when you get home.”

And then they were gone, leaving Quentin alone in the booth, chest tight, head spinning.

He didn’t know what he wanted. Not exactly.
But he knew he didn’t need to sleep on it. This was a top 3 life moment. This was….everything. Despite his fears, despite his heart pounding in his chest and the sweat sticking to his skin, how hard he was just from being talked to, despite the fact that he didn’t even know if he was stuck in a dream, He knew he wanted. Wanted nothing more. Wanted Eliot.

It felt like a beginning.

Chapter Text

Quentin sat on the floor of his dorm room, back pressed against the wall, arms wrapped around his knees like he could hold himself together if he just curled in tightly enough. He hadn’t even taken off his coat. His bag was still on the floor where he’d dropped it, forgotten.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

The room was dark except for the soft glow of his desk lamp, casting long, uncertain shadows across the floor. His laptop blinked at him from his desk, ignored. He couldn’t focus on anything except the echo of Eliot’s voice in his head.

"You’re such a good boy, Quentin.."

It wasn’t just the words. It was how Eliot had said them. Like he meant it. Like he’d been waiting to say them. To Quentin, of all people.

Quentin exhaled shakily and dropped his forehead to his knees. His pulse had barely slowed since he got home. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Eliot—gorgeous and calm and devastating—looking at him like he was already his. And Quentin had wanted to crawl into that look and stay there forever.

But he’d also wanted to run.

He didn’t know how to want something like this without shame swallowing it whole. He didn’t know how to ask for it. For someone to take control. For someone to want control of him. Not in some abstract, theoretical way. But in the way Eliot had offered it, tender and commanding and real.

And worse, what if he asked for it wrong? What if he was wrong?

What did it even look like? Was he supposed to show up tomorrow like, hi, yes, I’d like to be ruined emotionally and spiritually, please?

He buried his face in his arms.

It was too much. But also not enough. He wanted more. He was drowning in the wanting. And the worst part—the part that twisted like a hook beneath his ribs—was that a part of him didn’t feel like he deserved it.

He pressed his palms to his eyes until stars bloomed. His breath came faster, shallower, and his chest felt too tight, like the wanting was clawing its way out.
He wanted to be told what to do. Wanted the noise in his head to quiet. Wanted Eliot to wrap a hand around the back of his neck and say good boy in that voice, like it was the highest praise.

He wanted. And it scared the shit out of him. --------------- Across campus, Eliot flung his coat over a chair with more force than necessary and scrubbed both hands through his hair.

“Holy shit,” he breathed, like the weight of the night had finally hit him all at once.

Margo sprawled on the couch, one leg slung over the back, a joint dangling from her fingers. “Told you,” she said smugly. “You owe me three orgasms and a bottle of gin.”

“I think I broke him,” Eliot groaned, collapsing beside her. “He looked like he was going to cry.”

“He was going to cry,” Margo said. “You made him feel safe enough to fall apart. That’s not breaking, that’s a fucking miracle.”

“I shouldn’t have said so much. I shouldn’t have—God, Margo, what if I scared him?”

Margo looked at him with a laugh and a smile on her lips, passing the joint to him wordlessly.

“I’m serious,” Eliot said, “What if I fucked it up?”

Margo rolled her eyes. “You didn’t touch him. You didn’t pressure him. You said your piece, then you left. Textbook Dom restraint. Gold star.”

“But you didn’t see him, Margo. He looked like I’d cracked him open. Like I’d said something - done something—he wasn’t ready to hear.”

“Yeah, because he wasn’t. Not really. But that doesn’t mean he didn’t need to hear it.”

Eliot tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling. “I want him. God, I want him so bad I can’t breathe. I don’t want him to stop being my friend because I scared him off, you know?”

Margo rolled her eyes. “El. He didn’t flinch. He blushed so hard he looked sunburned and then leaned in. The boy wanted you to keep going and you didn’t, which is why he’s probably pacing holes into his floor right now instead of curled up naked in your bed.”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I just—what if I read it wrong? What if he didn’t want to be seen like that? What if I made him feel ashamed?”

“You didn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know him,” Margo said, and this time her voice had weight. “And I know you. That boy was cracking open like a fucking geode. You didn’t break him—you unlocked him.”

“I wanted to kiss him so badly I thought I might actually pass out,” Eliot admitted quietly.

Margo’s smile softened. “Yeah, babe. I know.”

Eliot ran a hand over his face. “He’s so soft.”

“You like soft.”

“I love soft,” Eliot admitted quietly. “But he’s so scared. He thinks he has to earn it. The care. The rules. The… everything. And I just— I want to hold him down and make the world gentle.”

“Then do that,” Margo said simply.

“I can’t if he doesn’t ask.”

“He will,” she said, like it was a fact. ----------- Quentin stared at his phone. He’d been holding it for twenty minutes. Typing. Deleting. Typing again. His thumb hovered over the screen like it was a detonator.

Finally, hands trembling, he typed:

Q: what do i do if i want it?

He hovered for one more second.
Then:

Q: what does it mean to ask?

He hit send.

And then he sat very, very still.

Waiting.

Hoping.

Terrified.

Chapter Text

Eliot’s phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

He was halfway through chopping mint for a cocktail he no longer really wanted when he glanced over, expecting a meme from Margo or a class update. But the name glowing on the screen made him freeze.

Q: what do i do if i want it?

His breath caught. The knife clattered to the cutting board as he wiped his hands on a dish towel, thumb hovering just above the screen.
Then, another ping.

Q: what does it mean to ask?

Eliot sat down slowly, heart a strange combination of reverent and wrecked.

Quentin was trying. Quentin had chosen.

He took a moment, fingers poised over the keyboard, then typed carefully:
E: It means you tell me what you want. You say, “Eliot, I want you to touch me.” Or “I want to kneel.” Or “I want to be good for you.” And I’ll listen. I’ll ask more questions. I’ll take care of you.

Another pause. Then:
E: Or you say “I’m scared but I still want to try.” And I’ll still take care of you.

He stared at the screen, letting the message hang there. Vulnerability for vulnerability. He could wait.

It didn’t take long.

Q: i don’t know if i can say it right

E: Then say it wrong. I’ll understand you.

Quentin’s breath caught. He pressed the phone to his chest for a moment before replying.

Q: I want to try. I’m scared. But I want to.

E: Then let’s talk. Not at the club. Just you and me. You set the pace.

-------------------

Margo found Eliot the next morning draped over their tiny campus apartment couch, nursing coffee and a half-sleepless haze.

“You look like you stayed up texting a boy all night,” she said, grabbing her mug.

“I did stay up texting a boy all night,” Eliot replied, eyes still a little glassy.

Margo grinned. “Told you he was into you.”

“I didn’t think he was ready,” Eliot murmured. “I thought I scared him off.”

“You mean by giving him the full Daddy Dom monologue in the middle of a kink club?” she teased.

Eliot groaned. “Too much?”

“Honestly? It’s Quentin. He probably replayed it like a Shakespearean soliloquy and then cried a little about it while masturbating.”

Eliot choked on his coffee.

Margo patted his back. “You’re fine. He’s into it. But if you want to make sure? Keep it slow. Make him feel safe.”

“That’s all I want,” Eliot said softly.
-----------------

Quentin stood at the door to Eliot and Margo’s off-campus apartment, heart thudding in his chest like it was trying to break free. He could hear music playing faintly inside—something jazzy and low—and the hum of conversation that stopped the moment he knocked.

Margo opened the door, dressed in ripped jeans and a wine-colored blouse that shimmered in the hallway light. Her eyes lit up at the sight of him, warm and sharp all at once.

“Well, look at you,” she said, stepping aside to let him in. “Bravest little bunny I’ve ever seen.”

Quentin gave a breathy laugh, trying not to look like he was melting from the compliment. “Thanks.”

She touched his arm as he passed. “You’re doing something really fucking brave, Q. Don’t forget that.”

Then she turned toward the kitchen. “I’m heading out so you two can have the place. Don’t break anything—or if you do, make it worth the cleanup.”

He managed a crooked smile. “Got it.”

The apartment was cozy, stylish in a way that made Quentin feel like he might knock something over just by breathing too hard. Books stacked artfully in corners, throw pillows in rich jewel tones, and the scent of something herbal hanging in the air. Eliot was waiting for him in the living room, seated on the low couch in front of a coffee table set with two glasses, a bottle of whiskey, and a notebook.

Eliot stood as he approached, his smile gentle. “Hey, Q.”

“Hi.” Quentin shrugged off his coat, nerves tightening around his spine. Eliot took it from him without a word, hanging it on a hook.

“Drink?” Eliot gestured toward the couch. “Sit wherever you like.”

Quentin chose the far end, sitting with careful posture. Eliot poured the whiskey and sat beside him—not too close, not too far. His presence was steady, a kind of anchor.

Quentin felt the knot in his chest loosen just a little.

“This doesn’t have to be formal,” Eliot said, passing him a glass. “We’re just talking.”

Quentin nodded. “Okay.”

Eliot sipped his drink, then tilted his head slightly. “Can I ask what brought you to the club in the first place?”

Quentin swallowed. “Honestly? Liquid courage and pure impulse. I... I think I just wanted to not be in control. Or like, to stop trying to be. Make my brain quiet. You know?”

Eliot’s eyes softened. “That’s a good answer.”

“It doesn’t feel good.” Quentin looked at his glass. “It freaks me out. How much I liked it.”

“There’s no wrong answer, Q. Only honest ones.”

Quentin smiled faintly, grateful. But the knot inside him wasn’t entirely gone. “I’m scared I’ll mess it up.”

“You won’t.” Eliot’s tone was solid, certain. “And even if something doesn’t go right, that’s not messing it up. It’s part of learning.”

Quentin let that settle. He didn’t quite believe it—but he wanted to.

“Would it help to talk through what a scene might look like?” Eliot asked gently.

“Yeah. Please.”

Eliot pulled the notebook closer, flipped to a blank page. He uncapped a pen with the same care someone might open a gift.

“Let’s start with limits. Physical first. Is there anything you know you don’t want?”

Quentin’s fingers curled around his glass. “No choking. I’ve had panic attacks before. It’s too close.”

“Hard limit. Got it.” Eliot wrote it down, his handwriting neat and deliberate. “Thank you for telling me.”

The way he said it—like Quentin had offered him something important—made something warm flicker in Quentin’s chest.

“Anything else?”

“Maybe…um-I guess-nothing public? I just really- I don’t want to be degraded in front of strangers.”

Eliot nodded, jotting it down with a little hum.

“Fair. I’d never take you anywhere you didn’t feel safe.” Eliot looked up. “Soft limits?”

Quentin thought. “Restraints. I liked the idea. Watching it. The control, I guess. But I’ve never tried it.”

“We can try soft options—silk, velcro cuffs. Easy to remove.” He seemed to be talking more to himself about that as he was writing. It was endearing.

He nodded. That felt okay.

Eliot’s voice gentled further. “Kinks you’re curious about?”

“I think I like… not deciding.”

Eliot smiled. “That’s very submissive of you. Very….Q of you.. You know you do actually have to decide some of it eventually, right?”

Quentin flushed, eyes lowering to where his hands were picking at the threads of his (poor) sweater. He cleared his throat a little before taking a deep breath, like it physically pained him to speak further. “I like being praised. And... also maybe….if-when someone calls me filthy, it does something to me. I don’t know what that says about me.”

“It says you’re layered. And self-aware. That’s hot, Q.”

Quentin let out a shaky breath. “Do you like praise?”

“Oh, I adore it. Especially giving it.” Eliot leaned back, the corner of his mouth lifting. “If I called you good, what does that feel like?”

Quentin’s eyes fluttered shut. “It makes everything quieter.”

Quentin’s hands fidgeted for a moment more, then stilled as he took a breath. “Okay. Um… I think about kneeling. A lot. Like… just being told to kneel. Not even in a sex way, always. Just…” He trailed off, flustered. “Sorry. That sounds dumb.”

Eliot leaned closer. “Not dumb. It’s actually one of my favorites. There’s something really beautiful about someone offering that. Trusting you enough to give you that part of themselves.”

Quentin blinked, caught off guard by the tenderness in Eliot’s voice.

Eliot, sensing his anxiety, squeezed his neck, just a little. “You can do it, keep going.”

“I also think about spanking,” he admitted, breathless with the effort it took to say it. Eyes refusing to look up. “Not like punishment, necessarily…well that too but… Just… the feeling of being held in that. Being told what to do. Knowing I don’t have to think, just feel.”

Eliot’s hand drifted to his wrist, holding it lightly. “You like the idea of surrender.”

“Yeah,” Quentin breathed. “But only with you.”

Something flickered in Eliot’s eyes at that—something possessive and vulnerable all at once.

“I think about slapping, too,” Quentin whispered, then winced. “Not hard. I don’t think. I just—I want to feel it. Want to know it’s real. Like… when you can’t say what you need, but your body can.”

Eliot nodded slowly, thumbing over Quentin’s wrist. “That makes sense. That’s something we could try slowly, with check-ins. It’s intense, but it can be grounding, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

Quentin nodded, eyes searching Eliot’s face. “What about you? What do you want?”

Eliot smiled, but it wasn’t flirtatious—it was honest. “I want to take care of you. I want to own the part of you that wants to kneel. I want to know the weight of your trust and carry it carefully. And yes, I want to tell you when to breathe and when to stop thinking. I want to hurt you a little in ways that feel good and safe and wanted.”

Quentin made a soft sound, something between a breath and a moan.

Eliot leaned in, touching their foreheads together. “But more than anything, I want you to know that it’s yours to give. I don’t take anything you’re not offering freely. I want everything with you, just because it's with you. I’m happy to do these things, to take care of you, because it's you that makes it special, Q.”

“I want to,” Quentin whispered. “I want to give it to you.”

Eliot softened. “Would you want rules? Or to be taken apart?”

“Both? If you also…want that?”

“Both are allowed. I do ‘also want that’, yes.”

They talked about structure next—whether they wanted a dynamic just for scenes or something more pervasive. Quentin admitted he didn’t know. Eliot promised he’d never ask for more than Quentin could give.

Then Eliot said, “Can I ask something a little vulnerable?”

Quentin nodded.

“Is there language you’d like me to use? Or not use?”

Quentin turned red, heart thudding. “I... I like being called “good” by you.. It just does something nice? To my brain, I mean. I guess..I-I want to call you…you know what you call yourself? I know you like it, that's like your thing, but I don’t know if I can? I can’t. Not yet.”

Eliot reached over and brushed his fingers against Quentin’s knee. “You mean calling me ‘Daddy’? That’s more than okay. You don’t have to rush anything. What about Sir, when you’re ready?”

“Yeah, Maybe. Or just Eliot, if it’s hard?”

“Eliot it is.”

Eliot flipped to a fresh page. “Safewords. Red-yellow-green okay?”

“Yeah."

Eliot’s smile went soft. They wrote it all down together. Eliot let Quentin take the pen for some of it. His hand barely trembled anymore.

Eliot watched him with an ache he didn’t try to hide. Not lust, not exactly—though it simmered there too. But a deeper longing. A want for all the versions of Quentin that were still unfolding.

“I’m really glad you came here,” Eliot said quietly.

Quentin looked up. “Yeah?”

Eliot nodded. “I’ve been thinking about this, this-you. A lot.”

And for once, Quentin didn’t deflect. He just smiled—shy and luminous—and whispered, “Okay.”

As the evening waned, they lingered over a second drink, the tension between them no longer sharp but humming. They had moved on to safer areas of conversation. Bitching about classes, and professors. Joking together the way they always had. Quentin felt more grounded than he had in weeks, maybe months. Eliot’s steady warmth had a way of making space inside him, room to breathe.

“So,” Eliot said, voice quiet and easy. “I’d love to do something this weekend, if you’re up for it.”

Quentin’s heart gave a nervous little jump. “Like a scene?”

Eliot nodded. “Something small. Soft. Just to get a feel for each other. No pressure.”

Quentin toyed with the edge of the coaster. “I think I want that.”

Eliot smiled. “We can keep it simple. Grounded. Maybe you sit at my feet while I talk you through some gentle rules. Maybe I can give you a few instructions. Nothing heavy.”

“Maybe you can slap me?” Quentin blurted out, rushed, seemingly surprising them both. Quentin's face flushed red, and Eliot's eyebrows went up as an amused smile passed over his face.

Eliot leaned forward, crowding his space. “Maybe. If you’re a very, very good boy.”

“Okay.” Quentin’s voice was barely above a whisper, but it was steady even as his heart hammered in his chest. “I want to try. Um, what if I get really anxious or…I don’t know?”

“We’ll stop. Or we’ll change course. We’ll talk. That’s the whole point of this, Q. That’s what safewords are for, remember?”

A long silence passed between them, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. Quentin looked at Eliot, and the question he didn’t speak hung in the air.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Eliot said. “You can take all the time you need.”

That did it. Quentin smiled, eyes glassy with unshed emotion, and let himself lean just slightly closer. Eliot moved to close the gap, arms wrapping around his shoulders as he pulled him into a hug.

Eliot kissed his forehead right before he left for the night, and Quentin carried the warmth of that contact all the way back to his dorm.

Chapter Text

The apartment smelled like bergamot and cedar, and Eliot had cleaned every surface twice even though it already gleamed. The candles were arranged just so—three on the coffee table, one on the sideboard, casting warm, flickering light over the couch. The playlist was low and unobtrusive. Nothing that would pull focus. Nothing that would break the quiet spell Eliot was trying to weave.

It wasn’t about the aesthetics, not really. It was about making a space that would feel safe for Quentin. Soft, steady, intentional. Somewhere you could fall and know someone would catch you.

Eliot checked his watch again.

“Okay, you’re doing that thing,” Margo said from the kitchen. She was leaning against the counter, sipping the glass of wine she’d poured herself without asking. “The worried nesting.”

“I’m not—” Eliot cut himself off and gave her a look. “Fine. Maybe a little.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Do you want a pep talk or for me to shut up and leave you to your gay domestic nervous breakdown?”

He sighed, sinking onto the arm of the couch. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t,” she said without hesitation. “You care too much not to get it right.”

“That’s part of the problem.” He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers. “He’s—he’s delicate about this. Not fragile. But I have to be careful. If I push too hard too fast—”

“You won’t,” she repeated, more gently this time. She stepped over and bumped his knee with hers. “You listen. You pay attention. That’s your whole thing.”

Eliot smiled faintly. “Sometimes my whole thing is pouring wine and performing detachment while actually spiraling.”

“Yeah, but not with him.” She set her glass down and tugged lightly at his wrist until he stood. “You’re different with him. I like it.”

He gave her a dry look. “Is this you being sentimental?”

“Gross, right?” She winked. “I’m leaving before it gets worse.”

She kissed his cheek—affectionately, firmly—and gathered her bag and coat. At the door, she paused. “You got this, El.”

And then she was gone, and Eliot was alone again, the silence closing in like a held breath.

When the knock came, soft and tentative, he didn’t jump, though he felt like he might.

Quentin was wearing jeans and a soft long-sleeved shirt that clung to his narrow shoulders. His hair was neatly combed, parted just slightly off-center the way he always wore it, and his eyes were wide and watchful as he stepped inside.

“Hi,” Eliot said, gently.

“Hi.” Quentin shifted, curling his hands into his sleeves. “You, uh. It smells really nice in here.”

“I wanted it to feel calm,” Eliot said. “You okay?”

Quentin nodded quickly, then slower, as if correcting himself. “Nervous. But… not bad nervous.”

“That’s good,” Eliot said, leading him inside. “You want some water before we start?”

Quentin nodded again, and Eliot handed him a glass with a slight smile. “You don’t have to rush anything. We’re just going to talk through a few things, and if at any point you’re not feeling it, you tell me, okay?”

“I will,” Quentin said, though his voice was soft.

They sat on the couch at first, knees angled toward each other. Eliot talked, not about implements or pain or the mechanics of what might come later, but about space, about trust, about rules.

“I want to try something, if you’re okay with it,” Eliot said. “A rule. Nothing huge.”

Quentin looked up. “Okay.”

“You need to ask for what you want,” Eliot said, watching him closely. “Even if you think I already know. Even if it’s hard. I want to hear you say it. Not because I need to hear it—because I want you to learn how to name it.”

Quentin flushed. “That’s… hard.”

“I know,” Eliot said gently. “That’s the point. But we’ll practice, and I won’t judge. Ever.”

Quentin nodded, biting his lower lip.

Eliot touched his hand. “Do you still want to try tonight?”

“I do,” Quentin said quickly, then ducked his head. “Please.”

Eliot stood and extended a hand. “Then come here.”

Quentin stood, trembling slightly, and let Eliot guide him to the center of the room. The rug was thick and soft beneath his feet.

“Kneel for me,” Eliot said, voice low and sure.

Quentin’s eyes fluttered, but he obeyed, sinking down slowly. His hands hovered awkwardly until Eliot gently repositioned them—palms on thighs, shoulders straight.

Eliot stood over Quentin, who knelt on the soft rug, the subtle flicker of candlelight tracing shadows over his bowed head and tense shoulders. The air between them thickened, charged with an electric quiet that buzzed under Eliot’s skin like a low hum.

Slowly, deliberately, Eliot began to circle him. He made no sound on the carpet as he moved, a predator pacing his prey—not to intimidate, but to savor.
“Look at you,” Eliot murmured, voice low and thick. “So good, so eager.”

Quentin’s eyes flicked up briefly, glassy and wide, then dropped back to the floor. His breath hitched, chest rising and falling unevenly, a mix of nerves and something deeper, something darker and more delicious.

Eliot reached out, trailing a finger down Quentin’s spine just beneath the collar of his shirt. The contact was feather-light, teasing, and Quentin shivered.

“Want to hear you ask for what you want,” Eliot said, voice tightening with something like hunger. “Don’t be shy. I like hearing it. It’s a rule, don’t forget. I promise you nothing at all is happening unless you ask for it, baby boy.”

Quentin swallowed hard, voice shaky and barely a whisper. “Can you… pull my hair?”

The words hit Eliot like a spark to dry tinder. He groaned softly—a sound part pleasure, part warning—his eyes darkening as desire rippled through him.

“Yeah,” Eliot said, voice low, husky. “I can do that.”

He reached out with one hand, fingers curling around a thick handful of Quentin’s hair at the nape of his neck. His grip was firm but careful, sending a rush of heat straight to both of them.

Quentin gasped, his lips parting, breath hitching as Eliot tugged gently, just enough to stretch his neck and pull a soft moan from him.

Eliot leaned down, lips brushing Quentin’s ear. “Good boy,” he whispered. “You’re so fucking perfect. Just look at you.”

Quentin’s eyes fluttered closed, his whole body loosening into the heat Eliot was weaving around him.

Eliot’s grip tightened for a moment, then released. He stepped back, savoring the sight of Quentin trembling on his knees, flushed and utterly his.

“You’re mine tonight,” Eliot said, the promise hanging thick in the air. He gripped Quentin's hair again, pulling until his head tilted backwards to stare up at Eliot with those glassy, wide eyes. “Say it.” he commanded quietly.

Quentin took a second, shaking himself out of whatever space he was floating in right now. “Yours,” he gasped.

“That’s good,” Eliot murmured. “You look beautiful like this.”

Quentin blushed fiercely, and Eliot saw the way he shifted—an internal click, something easing loose.

“You’re safe,” Eliot said. “You’re doing so well.”

There was a pause, and then Eliot said, “Tell me what you want, Quentin.”

Quentin looked up at him again, eyes glassy, breath coming quick. “I—fuck. I want you to slap me?”

Eliot tilted his head. “You want me to hurt you?”

Quentin shook his head quickly. “No. Not—not like that. I just—light. I want to feel it. I want to feel you. Please.”

Eliot’s chest ached.

He stepped closer, crouched down. “That was perfect. Thank you.”

He reached out and gently cupped Quentin’s face. Quentin leaned into it like it was oxygen. Eliot let the moment breathe. Then, with measured care, he lifted his other hand and gave him a light, open-handed slap across the cheek.

Not hard. Not brutal. Just enough to sting.

Quentin gasped—sharp, then shuddered. His eyes fluttered, glossy and bright, lips parted.

“Oh” he gasped.

“Color?” Eliot asked, immediately.

“Green,” Quentin whispered. “Still green.”

Eliot stroked his cheek. “Good boy.”

The tremble that ran through Quentin was visceral. His gaze lifted, dazed and reverent, and Eliot saw it then—soft subspace in full bloom behind those wide, unfocused eyes.

But Eliot didn’t push.

He kissed Quentin’s forehead, then crouched beside him, resting a hand gently on his back.

“You want more,” Eliot said softly. “I can see that.”

Quentin nodded, just once.

“Verbal answers, Quentin” Eliot said sharply.

Quentin whimpered, eyes closing. “Yes. More. Please?”

“But not tonight,” Eliot said. “This is enough for today. We’re learning from each other. There’s no rush.”

Quentin made a soft, wordless sound, but nodded again, pressing into Eliot’s side.

Eliot wrapped an arm around him and let the silence stretch, warm and unhurried, letting him float for a few more minutes.

They didn’t need more than this.

Not yet.

Just a rule, a request, a slap. A reverent look. A soft ache. Just to see, to make sure that Quentin wanted this, really wanted this. Most of all wanted it from Eliot.

Eliot’s hand was warm and steady as he reached down to help Quentin up from the floor. He could feel the subtle tremble in Quentin’s limbs—part exhaustion, part the hazy drift of subspace still lingering. The sight of him there, vulnerable and trusting, tugged at something deep inside Eliot’s chest.

“Come on,” Eliot murmured, his voice low and soothing, careful not to startle Quentin as he guided him toward the couch. Quentin’s legs wobbled slightly, but he leaned into Eliot’s support without hesitation. The silence between them was thick, charged with all the unspoken things—need, affection, trust.

They moved slowly to the couch, settling down together, Quentin half in Eliot’s lap, head resting against his chest. The quiet was thick, charged. Both of them were still painfully aware of the heat pooling low in their bodies, Eliot’s erection pressing insistently, Quentin’s need sharp beneath the surface.

Quentin’s breaths came fast and shallow, eyes glassy and unfocused. His hands tangled in Eliot’s shirt, his voice barely a whisper. “I want more, El. Please…”

Eliot’s heart clenched at the confession. He’d seen that desperate, yearning look so many times before—the part of Quentin that wanted to dive headfirst into everything, to lose himself completely. But tonight wasn’t about extremes. Tonight was about trust, about boundaries held with care.

Eliot’s fingers brushed through Quentin’s hair, tugging gently but deliberately to bring him back a little. “Hey,” he said softly but firmly, “it’s not about that tonight.”

Quentin, honest to god, whined. Eliot was going to die. “But I want-”

“I know,” Eliot said softly, brushing a stray strand of hair from Quentin’s forehead. “But tonight was about feeling, not pushing. We need to go slow. Every step with you is sacred.”

Quentin looked up, eyes wide and needy, searching Eliot’s face for some kind of permission or promise.

“This,” Eliot said, pressing a kiss to Quentin’s temple, “this was about making sure you wanted this. Making sure you felt safe. Not pushing you too far.”

His hand settled over Quentin’s heart, steady and grounding. “When you’re fully out of subspace, when you’re clear and steady, if you still want to go further—” Eliot’s voice dropped lower, teasing but controlled, “—we’ll talk about what that looks like next time.”

Quentin’s lips parted, a hopeful, tentative smile blooming. “Promise?”

“Promise,” Eliot said, voice thick with something tender and raw. “Right now, I want you here, with me. Safe. And I want you to know you’re brave. You did so well.”

Eliot wrapped his arms around Quentin’s waist, drawing him closer, feeling the soft rise and fall of his breath against his collarbone. His fingers found Quentin’s hair, threading through it with slow, deliberate tenderness. The heat radiating from Quentin’s skin was intoxicating—raw and honest.

Quentin leaned in closer, the tension in his body had fully ebbed away, replaced by a quiet peace. His fingers curled gently into the fabric of Eliot’s shirt, seeking warmth, seeking grounding.

In that moment, he found a spark of courage—small but fierce—and pressed a tentative kiss to Eliot’s lips, soft and full of trust. It was a silent thank you, a promise, and a plea all at once.

Eliot’s lips curved into a proud, tender smile. His hands tightened just a little, pulling Quentin closer into the safety of his embrace. “You’re a brave boy,” he whispered against his skin, voice thick with emotion. “Always. I'm so proud of you sweet boy.”

As they sat there, wrapped in each other’s warmth, the world outside faded to nothing. Eliot could feel Quentin’s breathing even out, slow and steady, and the faintest smile ghosted on his lips as he fell asleep in Eliot's arms.

Chapter Text

Late afternoon light filtered into the apartment, soft and drowsy, catching in the glass bottles lined along the windowsill. The place smelled like rosemary, orange peel, and whatever incense Margo had set burning earlier, and the quiet clatter of the city outside was softened by the thick windows.

They were meant to be studying. Or writing. Or, at the very least, pretending to be productive.

Instead, Quentin was half-sprawled on the living room rug, legs bent beneath him, a battered paperback of Fillory and Further balanced on one knee. His laptop sat unopened on the coffee table. He’d made it through exactly one paragraph in the last half hour, too distracted by the steady murmur of Margo and Eliot’s conversation and the warmth in the room. He'd been spending more and more time over here lately, and it felt...good. It felt right.

Eliot was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, rummaging through a cabinet with the sort of casual elegance that made Quentin feel vaguely unhinged just watching. Margo lay stretched across the couch in leggings and a tank top, painting her nails and glancing occasionally at her phone.

“You know he thinks he’s a genius,” she was saying to Eliot. “Like, actually believes his own recycled Lacanian bullshit is groundbreaking.”

Eliot made a noise like he was being physically pained. “Don’t remind me. He used the word liminal seven times in a forty-minute seminar. I nearly summoned a demon just to end it.”

“Ugh, if only. Put that on Rate My Professor: ‘Hot, cruel, talks in loops, should be eaten by something with tentacles.’”

“I’d give him a tentacle,” Eliot said, smirking.

“Don’t be gross,” Margo replied, even though she was laughing.

Quentin smiled behind his book, quietly basking in their rhythm. There was something safe about being here with them like this. A kind of warm, humming domesticity that made it easier to breathe.

Eliot came back into the room with a bowl of something crunchy and toasted and immediately zeroed in on him. “Q,” he said, voice gentle but pointed. “Did you eat anything today?”

Quentin didn’t look up. “I’m good.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Quentin sighed and turned a page he hadn’t read. “I had coffee.”

“Not a food group, darling.”

“It’s fine. I’m not hungry.”

Margo looked up sharply. “Oh no. He’s doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” Quentin asked, defensive.

“The thing where you pretend your body is a myth and then you pass out halfway through a paper.”

“I don’t—”

Eliot set the bowl down on the coffee table, then crouched next to him. “New rule,” he said. Calm, direct, totally unshakable. “You eat at least two meals a day. Real food. Not just coffee and crumbs.”

Quentin blinked. “What—? You can’t make that a rule.”

“I absolutely can. And I just did.”

“You—” Quentin cut himself off. His heart was beating faster than it should have. It was stupid, really, how a sentence like that—so simple, so mundane—could make him feel like someone had tugged the floor out from under him. A rule. Like Eliot cared enough to make one. Like Quentin mattered enough to watch.

Margo tilted her head. “This is hot. Keep going.”

Eliot, not breaking eye contact, reached out and brushed Quentin’s hair back off his forehead. He let his fingers rest there, just for a beat too long. Quentin’s ears were burning.

“It’s not a punishment,” Eliot said softly. “It’s care. And you don’t have to like it right now, but I expect you to follow it. Understood?”

Quentin swallowed. His mouth was dry. “...yeah.”

“Good boy,” Eliot murmured, just quiet enough that only Quentin heard it. The words sank like warm honey into his chest, and Quentin didn’t dare look up.

Margo, oblivious to that particular moment but still loving the drama, grinned. “Okay, now that you’ve been parented—” she kicked her feet up, nearly knocking over the nail polish—“can we talk weekend plans?”

“No more rules,” Quentin muttered.

“Too late, babycakes,” she shot back. “I was thinking we go to Brakebills.”

That got Quentin’s attention. He looked up, startled. “Wait, what?”

“The club,” Eliot clarified, reclaiming his seat beside her. “It’s a good idea.”

“I—no, I mean, I’m not—am I ready for that?” He turned to Eliot, panicked. “Do I have to do anything? Or—”

“No,” Eliot said immediately. “You don’t have to do anything. You can come, just watch. It’s not about pressure. It’s about curiosity.”

“I’ll be there,” Margo added, suddenly softer. “You trust us, right?”

Quentin hesitated, lips pressed together. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I do.”

“Then come. Let us show you what it looks like. You’ve already dipped a toe in. This is just... expanding the view.”

“And letting me put you in something tight,” Eliot added with a wink. “You’ll look edible.”

Quentin groaned and buried his face in his book. “I hate you.”

“You’ll love it,” Margo said, gleeful.

Eliot leaned down, his mouth brushing near Quentin’s ear. “You’re going to be such a good boy for us.”

The breath Quentin let out was shaky, his cheeks flushed bright again.

Eliot sat back, entirely too pleased with himself, and reached for the snack bowl.

Margo smirked and whispered, “Whipped.”

Eliot gave her a look that wasn’t even a little bit ashamed. “Aren’t we all?”

-----------

By the time the three of them were all back at Eliot and Margo’s apartment that Friday, it was already late enough for Quentin to start silently dreading what he’d agreed to.
He perched on the edge of Eliot’s bed, anxiously tugging at the hem of the black V-neck shirt Margo had laid out for him, unsure if it was too tight or too try-hard. It was plain, sure, but the way it clung to his chest and arms made him feel like a spotlight was about to be trained on him the second he walked through the door of the club. Or worse—like someone might expect something of him.

“Stop fidgeting,” Margo called from the doorway with a smirk. “You look hot.”

“I look like I’m trying too hard,” he muttered.

Eliot appeared behind her, lean and loose in dark slacks and a navy shirt unbuttoned just enough to be cruel. “You look like someone who’s about to have a very good night,” he said, crossing the room slowly, voice smooth as velvet. “And not because of the shirt, though I do approve.”

Quentin looked down. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Eliot crouched in front of him. “Then we don’t. That’s not a trick, Q. If you want to stay in tonight, order Thai, watch Lord of the Rings again, we do that. No pressure. But if you’re just nervous? We can work with that.”

Quentin bit the inside of his cheek. “What if I get there and freak out?”

“You might,” Eliot said gently. “And we’ll be right there if you do. Margo and I are not going to throw you into the deep end and see if you can swim. We’re going as a group of friends. To a space where kink is welcome and normalized. That’s it. No expectations, no performance.”

“We’re not there to do anything tonight,” Margo said, now leaned casually against the doorframe. “We’re there to hang out, see people, drink fancy cocktails, and maybe watch some exhibitionists live their best life.”

Eliot smiled, still watching Quentin closely. “You don’t have to be anything other than exactly who you are. If you stand at the bar sipping soda and making sarcastic comments, that’s a perfect night.”

Quentin let out a shaky breath. “Really?”

“Really,” Eliot said. “The bravest thing you’re doing tonight is showing up. That’s enough.”

There was a pause, Eliot’s hand resting lightly on Quentin’s knee. Then: “You remember our safewords?”

“Uh, yeah. Green, yellow, red.”

“Good,” Eliot said, thumb moving in slow circles. “Green for all good. Yellow for pause, adjust, slow down. Red means stop completely. If you’re too deep in your head or your body to talk, you can tap instead.”

“Tap?”

“Anywhere on me,” Eliot said. “Three quick taps means ‘red.’ If you’re overwhelmed, too floaty, or just want to feel grounded. Two taps is a way to say yellow. One tap is green. I’ll count them. You won’t have to explain anything.”

Quentin swallowed. Something in his chest eased.

“Remember your rules. Check in, ask for what you want with words.” Eliot added, standing and brushing invisible lint from Quentin’s shoulder. “Other than that- Have fun. Be good. Tell me if something doesn’t feel right.”

Margo sauntered into the room and handed Quentin a pair of slim black jeans. “We’re leaving in twenty. "

After he changed his pants (again, thanks Margo) he walked awkwardly back into the living room.

“There he is,” Eliot murmured, standing now. “God, look at you.”

Quentin flushed from his ears to his chest.

Eliot approached slowly, hands smooth and firm as he adjusted the line of Quentin’s shirt at his hips. “Rule number three” he said.

Quentin blinked. “There’s a three?”

“There’s always a three,” Eliot said, voice warm and unyielding. “If I ask you how you're feeling, you answer honestly. Not what you think I want to hear. Not a dodge. The truth. Can you do that?”

He hesitated, then nodded.

Eliot tilted his chin up gently. “Words, Q.”

“Yes,” Quentin said, quiet. “I can do that.”

“Good boy,” Eliot murmured, thumb grazing along Quentin’s jaw. “And now, you’re going to eat this sandwich before we leave.”

Quentin made a face. “I’m not—”

“You are hungry,” Eliot interrupted. “I can see it in your eyes. You forget how it feels sometimes, I know. But we don’t play—we don’t do anything—if your blood sugar’s in the basement. That’s not up for debate.”

Margo appeared with the plate before he could argue, plopping it down dramatically on the coffee table. “Fuel, princess. You want to swoon later, but not from hunger.”

Quentin looked down at the sandwich. It was small. Manageable. And suddenly he was starving. He sat. He ate. They didn’t hover, just talked lightly around him, checking in with small glances and comments that made him feel anchored instead of observed.

------------------------------

Twenty minutes later, they were walking toward Brakebills—its sleek, low-key black door more intimidating than anything Quentin had expected. There was no neon. No thumping music from outside. It looked, frankly, like a place that belonged to another world.

He stopped a few feet from the door.

Eliot noticed immediately. “Q?”

“I’m okay,” Quentin said, not okay at all.

Margo tilted her head. “You’re pale, and not in a vampire-sexy way. Talk to us.”

“I just—I don’t want to embarrass you,” he said quietly. “What if I freeze up? What if someone touches me and I freak out or say something wrong or—or I look like I don’t belong?”

“You belong because we say you do,” Margo said, stepping closer. “And because you want to try.”

“No one’s going to touch you,” Eliot said firmly. “No one comes near without your consent. It’s part of the rules of the club. Consent is very big here, you don’t need to stress about that. You’ll be with us the whole time. If anything feels weird, we go. If it’s overwhelming, we leave. You’re not a show pony. You’re not expected to do anything. You’re here with us. That’s all.”

Quentin nodded slowly, the thundering in his chest just a little quieter now.

Eliot touched his shoulder. “Say your safewords again.”

“Green. Yellow. Red.”

“And how do you show yellow nonverbally?”

“Two taps.”

“Good boy,” Eliot said softly. Quentin’s breath hitched, and his face flushed. Still adjusting to having Eliot just…say it so casually, and in front of Margo like it's…nothing.

“You don’t have to be perfect tonight,” Eliot said, brushing Quentin’s arm with his fingers. “Just honest. Just with us.”

“Okay,” Quentin whispered.

“Ready?” Margo asked, looping her arm through his.

“Yeah,” he said, heart fluttering. “Yeah. I think so.”

Eliot opened the door to Brakebills.

Warm light spilled out, and with it the scent of spice, leather, and something else Quentin couldn’t name—but he stepped forward anyway.

They were right behind him.

The second they stepped into Brakebills, Quentin nearly turned around and walked right back out. Very reminiscent of his first and only other time here.

It wasn’t that anything was wrong. Quite the opposite. The club was… gorgeous. He hadn’t actually been able to observe it very well the first time. Overwhelmed with anxiety and running into Eliot. It was like the entire world had slipped away.

Soft lighting washed everything in warm golds and reds. The walls were lined with dark velvet and carved wood, ornate and expensive-looking without being cold. People milled about, talking, laughing, touching—some dressed to kill, others nearly naked, a few in corsets and leather or harnesses that made Quentin's brain shut off for several long seconds.

But no one looked twice at him.

That was the strangest part. Here he was, in jeans and a tight black v-neck Eliot had lovingly, relentlessly bullied him into, and still he felt like he didn’t belong. But no one stared. No one laughed. Everyone just went about their night like it was normal to exist without shame.

“Fuck yes,” Margo breathed beside him, already scanning the room. “I love this place. I’m gonna go find a dance floor and some trouble.”

“You do that,” Eliot said smoothly, touching her wrist.

She smirked and tugged Quentin’s sleeve. “You stay close to this one, Q. If anyone even looks at you wrong, I’ll shank ‘em with a stiletto.”

Before he could stammer a response, she was gone.

Quentin stood frozen, trying not to breathe too fast. His stomach flipped. There was a faint tang of sweat and perfume and leather in the air, something hot and human and lived-in. His hands were shaking.

“Hey.” Eliot’s voice was gentle but firm, and then—blessedly—his hand landed on the back of Quentin’s neck. Warm. Steady. Possessive. Eliot didn’t squeeze, didn’t pull. Just... anchored him there, thumb dragging lazy little circles into the base of his skull.

“You okay?” Eliot asked, leaning in to speak directly against his ear. “Too much?”

Quentin swallowed and shook his head, then nodded, then shrugged helplessly. “It’s a lot. I’m not sure.”

“That’s okay. Just breathe.”

The hand stayed exactly where it was, and it helped—God, it helped. Quentin felt his lungs start to cooperate again. The club’s noise blurred into something more manageable with Eliot’s fingers brushing over his skin.

Eliot passed him a soda. “You’re not here to do anything tonight,” he reminded gently. “You’re here with us. You’re safe. You’re allowed to look. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

Quentin nodded, holding the glass like a lifeline. He sipped, grateful. The sugar helped.

They drifted together toward a low stage near the center of the room, Eliot’s hand never leaving him. It wasn't possessive. Or maybe it was, but not in a bad way. It said: You’re mine and I’ve got you. And Quentin… didn’t want him to let go.

"There's a performance tonight, want to stay and watch?" Eliot asked gently.

Quentin nodded first, then remembered he needed to speak. "Yes, um, please?"

Eliot kissed his temple and led them a little closer to where people were crowding around.

The lights above the stage dimmed further. A hush fell across the room.

Someone walked onto the platform—a man dressed in a simple black button-down, sleeves rolled to the elbow. Behind him, a sub followed: barefoot, quiet, wrapped already in elegant bands of rope around their torso, thighs, hips.

Quentin tilted his head, confused, but stayed quiet.

The man began to move, unspooling rope with practiced fingers, looping it through the ties already in place. Every motion was slow, deliberate, and controlled. He murmured something the sub nodded to. And then—he lifted.

With the same grace as someone folding a swan out of paper, the rigger pulled tension into the lines and lifted the bottom gently off the ground. Their body folded in the air, floating just a few feet up, cradled in silken knots and hard-won trust.

Quentin couldn’t breathe. He knew he had an interest in being tied up, restraints, the usual from his research, and what he had quietly admitted to Eliot when they were talking about interests and setting things up. But this…

He’d never seen anything like it. Certainly not in books, not in all his rabbit-hole research he didn’t admit to doing. He had no idea it could look like this.

It was art.

And the sub—God, they looked blissed-out. Eyes closed, mouth open in a soft little smile. The ropes hugged every curve of their body, held them tight and open and safe. Not exposed, not degraded, not mocked. Revered. Elevated.

He was hard.

Not tentatively, not maybe. Fully.

His fingers gripped the cup too tight. His thighs pressed together instinctively. He felt hot, and lightheaded, and faintly embarrassed by the raw, punch-to-the-gut want that surged through him.

He wanted that.

He wanted to be tied. To be made beautiful. To be so cared for in that way. To be held still and watched and—

“Quentin,” Eliot murmured beside him.

He startled so hard that the soda almost sloshed. Eliot was still touching him. His hand had moved to cup the nape of his neck, thumb stroking gently, grounding. Quentin turned his head just slightly and saw Eliot’s eyes on him—soft and sharp and analyzing all at once, like he’d seen everything.

Margo had returned, too. When? He had no idea, too zoned out at the scene on stage. Her arms were crossed, her head cocked with interest. She followed his gaze to the stage, back to his face, then smirked.

The performance ended to quiet, appreciative applause. The rigger lowered the sub tenderly, untied them as though unwrapping a gift. Quentin couldn’t speak. He was flushed, breathing fast, heart racing—and very obviously hard.

Quentin, overwhelmed and leaking arousal and shame and want, turned and all but fled to the bathroom.

He didn’t even hear Eliot murmur, “I’ve got him,” behind him.

The faucet sputtered, water running cold as Quentin leaned heavily over the sink, his breath fogging the mirror.

He was flushed. Sweaty. Humiliated. Hard.

The images from the Shibari performance replayed in his mind like a looped reel—each slow wrap of rope around pale skin, each shuddering breath of the bound submissive, every subtle pull of tension. It had made him ache. It had made him want.

And then Eliot and Margo had looked at him. Had seen it.

He bowed his head toward the sink and tried to breathe.

The door creaked open behind him. Quentin flinched, already shaking his head.

“I’m okay—”

“No,” Eliot said simply, and shut the door behind him. He locked it with a soft click.

Quentin kept his eyes on the sink.

Eliot’s footsteps were quiet, measured, deliberate. He didn’t rush to him. He just stood close enough that Quentin could feel the warmth of him behind his back. Could smell the faint spice of his cologne under the club’s musk.

Quentin tried to straighten. “I’m okay,” he lied.

“Rule,” Eliot said, voice low but firm as he moved closer. “You don’t lie to me. You tell me how you’re feeling. Honestly. With your words.”

Quentin gripped the sink harder.

“I—” His voice broke. “I don’t know. Embarrassed. Turned on. Horrified by how turned on. I feel like I want something I shouldn’t want.”

Eliot came up behind him, steady and calm. His presence was grounding, magnetic. He laid one hand gently on Quentin's shoulder turning him until they were face to face.

“That’s a lot. Breathe through it,” Eliot said. “You were watching something that stirred something real in you. That’s not wrong. It’s not shameful. It’s beautiful, Q.”

Quentin squeezed his eyes shut, throat thick. Eliot’s fingers moved, rubbing soft, soothing circles into his neck.

“Color?” Eliot asked.

“Green,” Quentin whispered. “Green, Sir.” Honorific slipping out without any awareness or intention of it.

Eliot exhaled slowly, like he’d been waiting for that.

“Good boy.”

That made Quentin’s knees almost give.

Eliot’s hand slid from the back of his neck to his jaw, tilting Quentin’s face so their eyes met.

“You liked watching the ropes,” Eliot murmured. “You imagined yourself there. Bound. Exposed. Helpless in the best way.”

Quentin’s breath hitched.

“Yes,” he admitted, trying to remember he was supposed to answer. He had rules now. He wanted to be good.

Eliot leaned in, voice warm against his ear. “That’s not only okay, Q—it’s welcome. I’d love to tie you up. If you want that. You looked so fucking beautiful watching it, like it hit something deep. That’s important. That’s honest.”

“I didn’t know I wanted it until I saw it,” Quentin admitted, breathless.

“And now you do.”

A beat. Eliot’s hand slid down to Quentin’s hip.

“Turn around.”

Quentin did, fast, trembling.

“Hands on the sink,” Eliot ordered gently. “Don’t move unless I tell you to.”

Quentin obeyed without hesitation.

Eliot stepped close, body pressing in behind him, and caught Quentin’s right wrist in one firm hand. He twisted it behind his back—not painfully, but tight enough to hold him there. The dominance was immediate, electric. Quentin moaned, arousal spiking.

Eliot pulled up on his twisted arm, putting pressure there. “Ask me for it. Tell me what you want, baby.”

Quentin’s eyes slammed shut, chest heaving, overwhelmed in the best way “Touch me? Please?” Then quietly, “You promised.”

The tension on his arm subsided as Eliot lowered it back a bit, still keeping him in his grip. “Smart boy. I did promise, didn’t I?” Eliot’s other hand came around to undo Quentin’s jeans, sliding the zipper down slow. He slipped his hand inside, cupping him, and Quentin shuddered.

“Look in the mirror,” Eliot said.

Quentin lifted his gaze, eyes already wet, tears clinging to the corners.

“You’re beautiful. Say it.”

Quentin blinked. “Say what?”

“You know what. Don’t be a brat, Quentin.”

He hesitated.

Eliot’s grip tightened, not painfully—just a reminder.

Quentin’s voice was almost too soft to hear. “I’m beautiful.”

Eliot growled softly and kissed the back of his neck. “Again.”

“I’m beautiful,” Quentin repeated, louder now, voice catching. His lip trembled, tears falling freely.

Eliot started stroking him then, slow, deliberate, possessive. Quentin gasped, forehead pressing to the mirror again
.
“That’s it,” Eliot murmured. “Just like that. Let go, Q. Let me see you fall apart.”

It didn’t take long. Quentin was already so worked up that in just a few strokes his whole body went taut, eyes locked on the mirror as Eliot worked him with practiced ease.

“You’re mine,” Eliot whispered. “My good, brave, beautiful boy.”

Quentin came with a soft, broken sound, hips stuttering, forehead thudding against the mirror as Eliot held him firm with his twisted arm and warm hand.

Eliot waited a moment before slowly releasing him. He turned Quentin gently, caught his chin in one hand, and brought the other—slick and warm, covered in Quentin’s come—to his lips.

“Open.”

Quentin obeyed. Eliot slid two fingers into his mouth, and Quentin sucked them without resistance.

“Good boy,” Eliot said softly. “So good for me.”

When his fingers were clean, Eliot tucked them under Quentin’s chin and kissed him, slow and grounding. Quentin leaned into it, breath still coming hard, eyes damp but without panic.

Eliot pressed his forehead to Quentin’s and gripped his hair lightly.

“You don’t have to hide how this feels. It’s okay to want. It’s okay to need. You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for, but if you want to explore more, I will be right there with you. Guiding you. Keeping you safe.”

Quentin nodded, still trembling. “Okay.”

“I mean it, Q. If tying you up is something you want, I’ll make it happen. But we do it when you're ready.”

Quentin swallowed, voice shaky. “I’ve never wanted anything like I did just now.”

Eliot brushed his thumb over his cheek. “Then we’re right where we should be.”

Quentin walked out of the bathroom slowly, like he was learning how to move again. His cheeks were still pink, his pupils blown wide, his shirt clinging to him with post-orgasm warmth and sweat. He looked like someone who’d just been undone and was barely stitched back together.

Eliot had a steadying hand on his lower back, guiding him through the crowd with calm, quiet authority. Every few seconds, his fingers would press just a little firmer, like a grounding reminder: I’m here. You’re okay. You’re mine.

They reached their bar again, where Margo was flirting with the bartender and sipping something that matched her lipstick. She looked up—and grinned.

“Well, someone got railed by God’s favorite,” she said cheerfully, before taking another sip.

“Margo,” Quentin mumbled, flushed and barely able to stand up straight. He hovered by Eliot, unsure of where to put himself.

Eliot just chuckled, tugged him, then kept tugging, until Quentin was practically tucked into his side.

“Better?” Margo asked, more gently now.

Quentin blinked slowly, nodded against Eliot’s shoulder.

“Still with us, Q?” Eliot murmured near his ear, low and private.

“Yeah,” Quentin whispered. “Just… floaty. Small.”

“Good boy.”

Quentin melted even further.

Margo arched a brow, clearly delighted. “Oh, he’s gone. Look at this. You ruined him.”

“I didn’t ruin him,” Eliot said lightly, running his fingers through Quentin’s hair. “I recalibrated him.”

“He looks like he’d follow you to the ends of the earth.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

Quentin made a small, needy noise and snuggled closer, and Margo actually cooed.

“Oh my god, he’s sweet. You turned him sweet.”

“Not possible,” Quentin mumbled into Eliot’s shoulder.

Eliot ignored him and smirked at Margo. “He’s been very good. I think we’ve had enough for one night.”

Margo nodded. “Agreed. He looks like a Victorian orphan who got dicked into religion.”

“Margo,” Quentin said again, blushing fiercely. “Stop talking like I’m not here.”

“But you’re not, babe,” she said, reaching out to boop him on the nose. “You’re like two seconds from trying to climb into Eliot’s shirt.”

Quentin just hid his face.

Eliot chuckled and kissed the top of his head.

“I’m taking him home,” he said, smoothing a hand up and down Quentin’s back. “He needs sleep, water, and someone to keep him from spiraling.”

“You mean he needs his Daddy.” Margo said breezily.

Eliot didn’t even flinch. “Exactly.”

Quentin made a noise that was somewhere between a whimper and a sigh, and didn’t lift his head. That word again. Stirred something in Quentin's chest. Maybe when he was braver.

Margo stood, finishing her drink. “I’ll call the car.”

Tucked against Eliot, warm and safe while he and Margo chatted, waiting for the Uber, one clear loud thought cut through Quentin's subspace-filled haze. He was falling in love with Eliot.

Chapter Text

Quentin woke slowly, the way you do when your body feels weightless and warm, your mind still half-lost in a dream. It was quiet, the air still, like the world was holding its breath. The bed was soft — absurdly so — and his cheek was pressed into a pillow that smelled faintly of sandalwood and clean linen and something deeper, uniquely Eliot.

For a long, syrupy moment, Quentin didn’t move.

He just breathed.

His body felt deliciously heavy. Every muscle was loose. His mind floated somewhere soft and blurry, like it hadn’t quite made the decision to come back to the real world yet. He turned his face more fully into the pillow with a quiet sigh.

And then he realized—

He wasn’t alone.

Eliot was beside him.

Fast asleep, on his back, one arm thrown up over his head like some beautiful, accidental Renaissance painting. The comforter had slipped down to his waist, exposing the smooth line of his chest, his collarbones bathed in the silvery-blue light leaking in from the cracked curtains.

Quentin’s breath caught.

Eliot looked younger when he slept. Less sharp around the edges. His mouth was parted slightly, and his lashes were long and unfair, casting delicate shadows across his cheekbones. Quentin’s heart twisted. He felt it first like a tug beneath his ribs, then something deeper — a bloom of emotion so raw and unexpected that he couldn’t name it right away.

He didn’t want to wake him. He didn’t want to move.

He just wanted to look.

Because when else would he get this? This rare, quiet stillness with Eliot—unmasked, unguarded. When else would he feel this soft, this safe, this…

The word formed uninvited.

Loved.

Quentin blinked. Hard. His mouth went dry.

Nope. No. Not that. Not—

But the thought didn’t come from nowhere. It was rooted. Real.

It rose like a tide: the weight of Eliot’s hands last night. His voice. His care. Eliot’s hand. Eliot’s voice. The mirror. The twist of his arm. The softness afterward. He reminded him of rules, safety, and worth. How he’d looked at Quentin like he was something to keep.

Oh god.

Quentin sat up slowly, carefully, his heart beginning to thud against his ribs.

That wasn’t just subspace. That wasn’t just a kink scene. That wasn’t hormones or endorphins or the high of being so fucking cared for for once in his goddamn life—was it?
He looked down at Eliot, at the tiny smile ghosting his lips even in sleep, and felt a wave of fondness so strong it made his chest ache.

Shit.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He wasn’t supposed to fall in love with Eliot Waugh. Mainly because there was absolutely no way in this life or any other that Eliot Waugh, of all people, could love Quentin Fucking Coldwater.

He dragged a hand through his messy hair, trying to breathe, but his skin was too hot. He suddenly needed space. Air. Time to think.

Panic crawled up his throat as he slipped out of bed, careful not to jostle Eliot. He padded into the living room, still wearing the oversized hoodie Margo had forced over his head last night, and saw the familiar chaos of their shared apartment: books on the coffee table, an empty wine glass, Eliot’s silk robe draped over a chair.

It felt like a home. Not his. Theirs.

And that terrified him.

Because he wanted it.

And wanting was dangerous.

He found a pen and a pad of paper on the counter—pineapple-patterned, of course—and hesitated. What was he even going to say? Thanks for making me cry while I came in a bathroom and then letting me sleep in your bed, please don’t look at me like that again unless you want me to get stupidly attached?

His handwriting was a mess.

Hey. Didn’t want to wake you. Thank you—for last night. For being so kind. And patient. And everything. I’m okay, promise. Just needed some quiet to think. I’ll see you soon.
— Q

He stared at the words. Added,

P.S. I’m stealing the hoodie. Margo can yell at me later.

He put the note where Eliot would see it, then hovered by the door for one last moment.

The apartment behind him was still quiet, soft with morning light.

And Quentin was already mourning the feeling of being in it.

Then he slipped out the door and walked out into the world with his heart clenched tight and Eliot’s scent still clinging to his skin.

—-------------

Quentin had been pacing for so long that the narrow rug had a slight crease down the middle where his socked heels kept dragging. He couldn’t settle. Couldn’t sit. Couldn’t think straight.

Or—no, that was a lie. He was thinking too much.

Everything in his head was loud.

The early morning sunlight that had filtered in through the blinds at Eliot’s apartment was long gone. He’d slipped out before either of them woke—before Eliot could kiss him again, or Margo could toss a casual, too-accurate tease at him across the kitchen counter. Before Quentin could see himself reflected in their eyes and feel too much again.

He’d left a note. It had felt cowardly even as he wrote it—scrawled in barely legible half-cursive on one of the cute little notepads Margo kept by the microwave.

It wasn’t enough. It wasn’t honest.

But it was all he could do.

Because now that he was alone, now that the soft haze of Eliot’s voice and the warmth of his body weren’t anchoring him, Quentin could feel the edges of panic crowding in.
He hadn’t just had a scene. He hadn’t just played around. He’d felt something. Deep in his chest, like a flare going off. And now he didn’t know what to do with that.

He slumped down onto the edge of his bed, fingers twisting in the hem of his sweatshirt. The room was quiet. The only sound was his own uneven breathing, the occasional creak of old dorm pipes. The silence made it worse.

He didn’t want to be in love.

He especially didn’t want to be in love with Eliot—not because Eliot wasn’t worthy of it (he was too worthy, too magnetic, too composed and charming and devastatingly gentle when he wanted to be), but because Quentin couldn’t handle that rejection. And make no mistake, he would be rejected. There was just no way.

He didn’t trust himself to know the difference between need and affection, between kink-induced intimacy and real connection. Maybe it wasn’t love. Maybe it was just endorphins, he told himself for the seventh time that hour. He had a long history of confusing emotional intensity with actual feeling. His brain wasn’t exactly the most reliable narrator.

But… then he remembered the way Eliot had cupped the back of his neck, fingers firm and reassuring. The soft murmur of You’re safe, sweetheart while Quentin’s head spun with sensation. The way he hadn’t tried to push things further, even when Quentin had been pliant and needy and almost delirious in his hands. The care in every movement
.
The patience.

No one had ever handled him like that. Not in bed. Not anywhere.

His phone buzzed where it lay face-down on the desk. Again.

He didn’t need to look. He’d seen Eliot’s messages already. Read them hours ago.

Eliot:
Hey. You okay? Call me when you’re up. No pressure, just want to make sure you’re alright.

Eliot:
Q, I’m not going to crowd you, but please let me know you’re safe.

Quentin had stared at that second one for five minutes, heart in his throat. Eliot wasn’t even mad. Just… worried. And maybe a little hurt.

He’d told Eliot—promised Eliot—that he’d be honest with him. That was a rule. One of the only rules they’d set. Use your words. Say how you’re feeling. Tell me the truth even if you’re scared of it.

He’d nodded when Eliot made him promise. Quietly. Earnestly. Curled up against him like a cat who’d finally found a warm place to sleep.

And now he couldn’t even send a fucking text.

Because if he admitted he wasn’t okay, that he was spiraling, that the thought I think I love you was bouncing around his brain like a firework with no fuse—he didn’t know what would happen next.

Would Eliot pull back? Would he say they’d moved too fast? That Quentin had misread everything?

Or worse—would he not say that? Would he tell Quentin it was okay, that he wanted to go deeper, and suddenly Q would be expected to know how to do any of that?

He didn’t know what was scarier: being rejected, or being loved.

His phone buzzed again.

Margo:
Okay, baby deer, you’ve officially been MIA too long. You alive? Eliot’s pacing. I hate when he paces. It’s annoying. Text us back. ❤️

Quentin laughed under his breath, a cracked little sound. Of course she noticed. Of course Eliot was pacing. Of course they cared.

God, he wanted to curl up under the covers and disappear.

He stared at the phone for a long moment, then thumbed open the message window. The cursor blinked at him. Waiting.
He started typing. Setting it up to have it send to both Eliot and Margo at the same time.

hey—sorry i disappeared. totally forgot i have this massive paper due monday and got sucked into the research hole. i’m fine, promise. just needed to catch up.
didn’t mean to worry you guys <3

He hovered over the send button. His thumb shook a little.

He knew it was a lie. He knew it violated the one fucking rule that mattered more than any kink. He also knew—viscerally—that if he opened up right now, if he admitted how far down the spiral he’d already fallen, he might break apart.

So he hit send.

The moment it went through, he felt sick.

He dropped the phone on the bed beside him and pressed his palms into his eyes, forcing back the sting.

What was he doing?

He had no idea.

All he knew was that he was scared. And alone. And he missed Eliot’s hand on his neck like a phantom limb.

- - - - - -

Eliot’s phone buzzed from where it lay on the coffee table, a sharp little burst of noise in an otherwise silent room.

Margo didn’t look up from where she was stretched across the armchair, flipping absently through an old issue of Vogue. “If that’s not Quentin, I swear to god I’m driving to his dorm and setting his ridiculous bookshelf on fire.”

Eliot’s hands were already moving. He crossed the room in two long strides, snatched the phone up like it might slip through his fingers if he wasn’t quick enough.

It was from Quentin.

Q:
hey—sorry i disappeared. totally forgot i have this massive paper due monday and got sucked into the research hole. i’m fine, promise. just needed to catch up. didn’t
mean to worry you guys <3

Eliot stared at it for a long second. The words were wrong. Quentin didn’t talk like that. “Massive paper”? “Got sucked into the research hole”? The little heart at the end felt like a band-aid slapped over a bullet wound.

He read it again. A third time. Still wrong.

He turned the screen toward Margo without saying anything.

She rolled her eyes the moment she finished reading. “Oh, come on.”

Eliot didn’t smile. Just sat down heavily on the edge of the couch, thumbing the message like if he kept touching it, he’d understand.

“Since when has Quentin ever remembered a deadline ahead of time without 50 different alarms going off about it beforehand? He wouldn’t just remember out of the blue,” Margo said, dropping the magazine on the floor.

“He’s lying,” Eliot said quietly.

“Obviously.”

“No—” Eliot glanced up at her, then away again, jaw working. “I mean, he’s trying not to lie. He’s scared. So he’s doing this thing where he crafts a version of the truth that sounds functional and fine and totally believable so no one asks questions.”

Margo dropped onto the couch beside him. “So ask him.”

“He won’t answer.”

“You’re probably right,” she admitted. Then, more gently: “El, he’s spiraling. We knew this could happen.”

Eliot nodded once, stiff. “He was—this morning, he was—” He broke off, shook his head. “Soft. Sweet. The way he clung to me before he fell asleep, the way he—” He exhaled hard. “It wasn’t just the subspace. It felt... Intimate. Like he wanted to be there.”

“And now he’s scared because he did want it.”

Eliot looked down at his hands. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence. Then Margo said, “You know he’s falling for you, right?”

Eliot’s laugh was sharp and incredulous. “Okay. No.”

Margo didn’t blink. “Yes.”

Eliot looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “Margo. Come on. This isn’t—this is an arrangement. A dynamic. He’s exploring something he’s never really had space to explore. I just happen to be the one who’s safe enough for him to try it with.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not,” Eliot said, sharper than he meant. “He needed someone who wouldn’t push him too far, who could make him feel... wanted, in control, adored, whatever. I’m good at that. But I’m not—he’s not in love with me. If he was at all, which he isn't. He’s in love with the way I make him feel.”

Margo tilted her head, eyes narrowing. “And what about you?”

Eliot didn’t answer.

She poked him in the arm. “Hey. What about you, El?”

He rubbed at his jaw, like it ached. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters.”

“No, it really doesn’t,” Eliot said, with a forced smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Because this—whatever this is—has a shelf life. You and I both know that. He’s... sweet, and curious, and he needs someone to hold him together right now. I’m that person. I like being that person. I’ll keep showing up as long as he wants me to.”

“And then what?” Margo asked, voice quiet.

“Then he’ll figure himself out,” Eliot said, like it was obvious. “And he won’t need me anymore. And that’ll be that.”

Margo stared at him.

“What?” he said after a moment, defensive.

“You’re in love with him.”

Eliot laughed again, more bitterly this time. “Don’t.”

“You are,” she said, poking him again, hard this time. “And you’re just sitting here waiting to be left behind, again.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” she said, not unkindly. “And I get it. But Quentin isn’t Mike. He’s not gonna fuck off and leave a hole in your chest.”

“You don’t know that,” Eliot whispered.

“I do,” she said. “Because even when he’s panicking and breaking rules and hiding in his room? He still left a note. He still texted. That’s Quentin. He doesn’t run, he retreats. There’s a difference.”

Eliot looked down at his hands again. His voice was small when he asked, “So what do I do?”

Margo smiled faintly. “You wait. You let him feel whatever he needs to feel. And then, when he’s ready to stop lying to himself—because let’s be honest, he’s not lying to us—you be there.”

Eliot’s throat worked.

“And maybe,” she added, “you stop pretending this is just about kink and start letting yourself hope a little.”

He didn’t answer. But this time, when his phone buzzed again—just a calendar alert, nothing special—he didn’t flinch.

He just looked at it.

And hoped.

—--------------

Quentin should’ve stayed in bed.

Everything hurt in the flat, dull way that came from too little sleep and not enough food—his limbs dragging behind him like forgotten luggage, his stomach a hollow echo chamber, his thoughts tangled in a nonstop loop of guilt, panic, and confusion.

It was too much.

So Quentin had shut everything out. Turned inward. Let himself unravel.

But Monday meant classes. Obligations. Life.

So now here he was, slouched against the cold brick of a campus building, hoodie up, eyes half-lidded, a cup of vending machine coffee clutched between shaking fingers.
He didn’t even notice Margo until she was standing right in front of him.

He was halfway through a caffeine-fueled fog when a voice sliced through the haze, sharp and familiar.

“Well, if it isn’t the ghost of endorphins past.”

He startled. His breath caught in his throat.

“Margo,” he rasped. “Fuck.”

“Language,” she said mildly, stepping in front of him and giving him a once-over like she was appraising damage to a car she loaned out. “Jesus, Q. You look like a raccoon that lost a knife fight.”

“I’m—that doesn’t even make any sense?” His voice cracked, and he hated that it did. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

He blinked at her.

“You think I didn’t notice you fell off the face of the planet for almost three days?” she continued, like she was just warming up. “No texts, no Discord, not even a ‘hey I died lol’ to Eliot or me. For a boy who likes rules, you’ve been real eager to toss them all out the window.”

“I just needed time,” he mumbled. “Alone.”

Margo tilted her head. “Okay. So why do you look like you haven’t slept since the Reagan administration?”

“I don’t know,” he said, more defensively than he meant to. “My brain just... breaks sometimes, okay? I don’t know how to stop it. It loops, and it spirals, and all I can do is wait it out.”

“Did you eat anything?”

He opened his mouth but before he could say anything she cut in again- “Real fucking food, Quentin.” His mouth closed again.

“Did you sleep?”

He shrugged helplessly.

“Q.”

“I didn’t mean to ignore you guys,” he said, voice thinner now. “I didn’t. I just—everything felt too loud. And I knew I was breaking the rules, or even more important, worrying you, both of you, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to feel anything, and I definitely didn’t want to talk about it. So I shut everything out. Like I always do. It’s kind of my…brand.”

Margo’s expression softened. Her arms folded across her chest, but she wasn’t angry. Not really.

“I get it,” she said. “I do. But Eliot and I aren’t just... optional accessories in your life. We chose you, you chose us. That’s some real magical shit, Coldwater. If something’s broken, we want to help fix it. Or just sit with you until it passes.”

“I didn’t want to see him,” Quentin said quietly.

Margo raised an eyebrow. “Because you care?”

He flinched. “Because I don’t know how I feel. Because I felt good and safe and warm and wanted and—fuck, Margo, I don't know. It messed with my head. And then I woke up and the high was gone, and I thought, what if it was all just chemicals? What if I misread everything? What if he didn't mean any of it the way I did?”

“So you ghosted.”

“I panicked.”

Margo let the silence settle between them, let it stretch without snapping. Then, gently: “You know you can’t stay in that space forever, right?”

“I know,” he whispered.

“You’re not broken, Q,” she said, more serious now. “You have a brain that lies to you sometimes. But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve care. And it definitely doesn’t mean you should punish yourself for needing time.”

He blinked fast, but the tears didn’t fall.

“I’m just tired,” he admitted. “And I feel like I’m too much. I always feel like I’m too much.”

Margo stepped forward and looped her arm around his shoulders, pulling him in. “You’re not too much. You’re just a boy who got overwhelmed. That’s allowed.”

He curled into her just enough to breathe.

“You’re gonna come to the apartment after classes,” she said firmly. “You’re gonna talk to Eliot. He’s not mad. He just wants to know you’re okay.”

“I don’t know what I’m gonna say.”

“You’ll figure it out,” she said. “You always do.”

Quentin hesitated. “Okay,” he said finally. “I’ll come.”

“Good,” she said, releasing him. “Now go find a granola bar before I text Eliot a picture of your face and tell him you’ve been feral and starving like an old timey chimney sweep boy.”

A shaky laugh escaped him. “Please don’t.”

“No promises,” she said, but smiled.

—-----------------

The apartment door looked innocuous enough—just a slab of painted wood with a brass number and a familiar scuff along the base. But Quentin stood outside it like it was the edge of a cliff.

His hand hovered mid-air, curled in a hesitant fist. He was sweating through his sleeves, his pulse fluttering in his throat, and his chest ached like he’d been holding his breath for days.

Maybe he had been.

He knocked.

A few seconds passed, then the soft, familiar thud of footsteps. The door creaked open.

And there was Eliot.

He wore soft gray sweats and a black t-shirt, barefoot, hair still damp from a shower and curling at the edges. He looked tired. He looked—fuck—beautiful.

And when he saw Quentin, something in his face softened and tightened at the same time.

“Hey,” Eliot said quietly.

Quentin’s throat closed. He stood there, frozen, then managed to rasp out, “Hi.”

Eliot stepped aside without another word, and Quentin stumbled inside like someone surfacing from underwater.

The second the door clicked shut behind him, Quentin folded. Rambling before he was fully in the door.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, already blinking back tears. “I’m—I didn’t mean to just disappear. I wasn’t trying to ignore you, or hurt you, I just—I couldn’t—my brain—”

Eliot turned, brows drawn low. “Q—”

“I’m not good at this,” Quentin went on in a rush, his voice breaking. “I’m not used to people caring and I—I woke up Saturday morning and everything felt too good, like too good, and my brain just started whispering awful things, like it can’t last and I must’ve done something wrong, and it wouldn’t shut up and I couldn’t think and I just—shut down. I shut everything out. And then it was Sunday and then it was today and I didn’t know how to come back from it and—fuck, Eliot, I’m so sorry—”

He was crying now, whole-body shaking, hands curling into fists at his sides. Eliot was in front of him in two steps, hands catching Quentin’s face and tilting it up gently.

“Breathe,” Eliot said softly, thumb brushing the tears from his cheek. “Look at me. Inhale. That’s it. Exhale. Good.”

Quentin tried, gasping through it, blinking up at Eliot like he was afraid to believe he was real.

“I thought you were mad,” Quentin whispered. “I thought maybe I fucked it all up.”

“I was worried,” Eliot said. “Not mad. Worried sick.”

Quentin’s chin wobbled. “It was one of the best nights of my life. I felt—so safe. So wanted. And it scared the shit out of me. And then I felt guilty for being scared. Like, who the fuck do I think I am, getting all that and still panicking?”

Eliot stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him. Quentin folded into him without resistance, hands clutching at the back of Eliot’s shirt like he was trying to anchor himself to the floor.

“You didn’t fuck anything up,” Eliot said into his hair. “You had a crash. That happens. But you didn’t reach out.”

Quentin nodded against his shoulder. “I know. I know I broke the rules.”

Eliot leaned back just enough to look him in the eye again.

“Tell me which ones.”

Quentin flushed and looked down, sniffling. “Eat regularly,” he murmured. “I didn’t. Not really.”

“What else?”

“Communicate. Be honest about how I feel. I wasn’t. I lied in the text.”

Eliot waited.

“I said I had a paper due,” Quentin admitted. “I didn’t. I just didn’t want you to worry. Which is so fucking dumb because you did anyway, obviously.”

“What else?” Eliot pressed, his voice soft but steady.

“Safe words. I didn’t use them. I didn’t even consider it, even when things felt bad. I just…” Quentin swallowed. “I didn’t sleep much either. Which isn’t actually a rule I just.... Oh, and I didn’t leave my room?”

Eliot nodded slowly, gaze fixed on him.

“I broke every one of them,” Quentin whispered. “I didn’t care. I just wanted everything to stop. I feel...just awful. I'm sorry."

“Do you still want everything to stop?”

“No,” Quentin said immediately. “No. I want—I want to be better. I just don’t always know how.”

Eliot stepped in again, this time gentler, one hand smoothing over Quentin’s back.

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to have all the answers. But we made those rules to keep you safe. And it doesn’t work if you throw them out when things get hard.”

“I know,” Quentin breathed. “I knew I was breaking them. I knew it, and I still did it.”
Eliot nodded seriously, observing him for a second. Eyes searching like he was trying to find something. It made Quentin squirm. "You feel guilty, huh?" he asked after a moment.
All Quentin could do was nod. Throat closing with a new round of fresh tears.

"Rule, Quentin." Eliot reminded firmly, but not unkindly.

Quentin took a big, shaky breath. Right. Verbal answers. "Yea-Yes. I feel guilty."

“What happens when rules get broken?” Eliot asked, low and firm.

Quentin’s eyes flicked up to his, wide and wet and nervous. They hadn't talked about this in depth, but it still popped up easily in his mind. “There’s…um…p- punishment?”

“Correct.”

Quentin visibly squirmed, curling in on himself. “Are you going to—now?”

“Not yet,” Eliot said, brushing the hair from Quentin’s eyes. “You’re eating first. And hydrating. Also sleeping. You’re staying here tonight, in case you didn’t think that was obvious. You look like you haven’t taken care of yourself in days.”

“I haven’t,” Quentin admitted, blinking back tears again. “I just… my brain breaks sometimes. I don’t always know what to do with it.”

“You tell me next time,” Eliot said, tilting Quentin’s chin so their eyes locked. “No matter how dark it gets. That’s the deal. We don’t go dark alone.”

Quentin nodded. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“I don’t expect perfection. I expect honesty.”

“I’ll be better,” Quentin whispered. “I want to be better. I just- I really am so sorry, Eliot.”

“I know,” Eliot murmured, and kissed his forehead. “And you’re still my good boy. I'm proud of you for coming back to me. Brave boy. We missed you, you know?"

Quentin shivered at the words, eyes fluttering shut, something inside him relaxing just enough to let the shame start to melt.

Eliot guided him toward the kitchen. “Come on. Let’s get you fed and clean, and then we’ll talk about consequences.”

Chapter Text

Quentin’s face was still blotchy when Eliot reached out, cupping his cheek gently like he wasn’t furious, like he didn’t have every reason to be. “You’re going to take a hot shower,” Eliot said, voice low but firm, the kind of tone that left no room for argument. “Ten minutes. I laid out clothes for you. Then you come back to the kitchen and sit your ass down so I can feed you. Understood?”

Quentin nodded mutely, eyes wide and wet, heart thudding in his chest. His throat burned with the urge to say sorry again, but Eliot’s expression made it clear that wasn’t what this moment was for. That sorry would have to wait.

He stripped quickly in the bathroom, stepping under the spray and letting the heat wash away the guilt and panic clinging to his skin. His fingers shook slightly as he ran them through his hair, breathing slow and shallow. It didn’t help, not really—but the weight of the water, the steam, the fact that Eliot had told him to do this—it grounded him. Made him feel tethered, if only just.

When he stepped out, a neat pile of clothes was waiting on the counter: soft flannel sleep pants, one of Eliot’s t-shirts—worn thin and impossibly soft, faded navy—and a loose cream sweater that looked handwoven and expensive and exactly like something Quentin would never buy for himself. He didn’t even know Eliot knew his style this well, but of course he did.

Quentin swallowed hard and dressed slowly, as if pulling each piece over his body might make this feel more real. More survivable.

Quentin’s feet were still bare when he padded out of the bathroom, hair damp and skin pink from the heat of the shower. The clothes Eliot had left for him felt like a hug he hadn’t known he needed—like they’d been picked not just for comfort, but for the version of Quentin Eliot wanted to soothe. They made him feel..small. Taken care of.

When he reached the kitchen, he paused in the doorway, struck dumb by the sight of Eliot at the stove. The apartment was filled with the low hum of a playlist Eliot must have queued up—soft with a lazy tempo—and the rich, sharp smell of sautéed onion and garlic blooming in olive oil. Eliot stood at the stove, sleeves rolled up, forearm flexing as he stirred something in a wide pot. Another pot beside it steamed gently, a broth simmering with bay leaf, something earthy and comforting. The overhead light shone down on him like a stage lamp, catching in his hair. Quentin felt rooted in place, just watching him. Did Eliot even realize how beautiful he was? Just doing simple things like cooking a meal. Could he see it in Quentin's eyes, the absolute awe he felt for him? The love he couldn't admit.

Eliot looked over his shoulder without turning fully, as if he’d felt Quentin’s presence before hearing it. “There’s the brat,” he said, voice softer now, threaded with something fond and knowing. He turned back to the pan and added the garlic and onions to the broth. “How was the shower?”

Quentin cleared his throat. “Hot. Good. Thank you.”. Quentin’s stomach rumbled, embarrassing and loud.

Eliot looked over his shoulder and caught the sound. “Perfect,” he said. “Soup’s almost done. It’s Pastina soup,” he offered. “Ultimate comfort food. Tiny pasta shaped like stars, broth, some carrots, a little parm, little butter. You’ll eat every bite.”

Quentin moved a little closer, hovering near the island. “You didn’t have to—”

“I did,” Eliot said, slicing the word across Quentin’s apology like a knife. “I absolutely had to. Because you clearly weren’t going to take care of yourself, so someone had to, and I’m your Dom and your friend. So, yes, Quentin. I did. But I also want to. I like taking care of you, you know? It’s not a burden.”

Quentin’s cheeks flamed. “I… I was going to eat like a real meal eventually.”

“Uh huh,” Eliot said flatly. He dropped in a pinch of pepper and some other seasonings and stirred. “Sit down.”

Quentin sat. The stool felt miles away from the floor, like he might tip off if he moved wrong. Eliot glanced at him once, briefly, and then turned back to the stove.

Quentin moved automatically, drawn by the smell and the softness of Eliot’s voice. He sank onto the barstool, pulled his sleeves down over his hands, and tried not to make himself smaller—but failed. Eliot didn’t look angry. He didn’t even look stern. He looked tired.

Quentin hated that.

“I’m sorry,” he started to say, voice cracking on the first syllable.

“Nope,” Eliot interrupted, not turning around. He scraped garlic into the broth, followed by the onions, the scent blooming immediately as he stirred. “That’s not what this is.”

Quentin shrank into his sweater. “But—”

“I said not yet.” Eliot’s voice was gentle, but firm enough to make Quentin shut up instantly.

Eliot stirred the pot slowly, then turned to face him, leaning back against the counter, arms crossed. His expression wasn’t angry. It was worse. It was soft. Concerned. Honest.
“I was worried,” Eliot said, quieter now. “Like, really worried. You disappeared. You didn’t answer either of us. And when Margo finally cornered you, you looked like you hadn’t seen sunlight in days. Like you hadn’t eaten. Or slept. Because you didn’t.”

Quentin flushed, eyes darting away. His stomach twisted, shame creeping up his throat like bile
.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter, more like a breath than a word. “I didn’t mean to make you worry. I just… I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t—”

“Q.” Eliot’s voice was sharper this time, and Quentin flinched. He looked back up reluctantly.

“I need you to hear me, okay?” Eliot stepped forward, resting his hands on the counter across from him, his eyes dark and steady. “I don’t care if you’re panicking. I don’t care if your brain is being mean to you. You have to take care of yourself. You don’t just stop eating because things feel hard. You don’t stop sleeping. That isn’t what we do.”

Quentin’s eyes filled instantly, his fingers curling into the sleeves of his sweater. “I know,” he whispered. “I know, I’m sorry—”

“I’m not trying to punish you right now,” Eliot said quickly, softening. “I’m not mad. I’m scared. You’re not a kid. I can’t follow you home and make sure you’re okay every second. You have to want to be okay. You have to help me help you.”

Quentin felt tears tracking hot and slow down his cheeks, the lump in his throat impossible to swallow. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I just… my brain breaks sometimes. That’s what it feels like. Like there’s this big red button inside me labeled implode and I just—can’t stop hitting it.”

Eliot exhaled slowly and came around the counter, not touching him, just crouching a little to be at eye level. “I know,” he said, low and even. “I know how that is. But you don’t get to give in to it. Not anymore. You have rules now, Q.”

Quentin nodded miserably. “I know.”

“And you broke every single one of them.”

“I know,” he whispered, cheeks flaming. “I didn’t mean to. I just… I panicked. Everything felt good, and I didn’t know what to do with that.”

Eliot’s expression flickered. “Too good?”

Quentin dropped his eyes again, shoulders hunching. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Like… I’m not used to that. It scared me a-and then I didn’t want to feel it, so I didn’t do anything at all.”

Eliot didn’t respond right away, just studied him. Quentin kept his eyes lowered, burning with shame.

“You didn’t want to feel what?” Eliot finally asked.

Quentin’s heart stuttered. “I don’t know,” he lied, softly. “I don’t know. It was just—too much.”

He couldn’t say love. Couldn’t even look at Eliot and think the word without wanting to crawl out of his own skin.

Eliot reached out and brushed a damp lock of hair off Quentin’s forehead. “Okay,” he said. “Thank you for telling me. That’s enough for now.”

Quentin blinked. “It is?”

“Yes,” Eliot said firmly. “You’re not in trouble yet. You’re exhausted, and hungry, and emotionally wrung out. So here’s what’s going to happen.” He stood, slow and deliberate, and moved back to the stove. “You’re going to eat this soup—all of it. Then you’re going to lie down on that couch and take a nap. When you wake up, then we’ll talk about the rest.”

Quentin hesitated, and Eliot glanced back with raised brows.

“Got it?”

“Yeah,” Quentin mumbled.

“Try that again, love,” Eliot said softly.

Quentin flushed, looking down at his hands.

“Yessir,” he muttered quickly. Eliot gave an affirming nod.

“And from now on,” Eliot added as he stirred in the pastina, “no more self-destructing when your head gets bad. That’s not how we deal anymore. You don’t ghost. You don’t starve yourself. You ask for help. That’s the new rule.”

Quentin sniffled and wiped at his face with his sleeve. “Okay.”

Eliot paused, then, turning to face him again. “You still want to do this?”

Quentin's eyes snapped up fast. Head nodding faster. “Yes. Yeah, of course I-”

“Good. Me too. So, that being said, you’re going to be a good boy,” Eliot said, like a promise. “Even when it’s hard.”

The knot in Quentin’s chest loosened slightly at that. It always did. He let out a shaky breath, watched Eliot turn back to the stove, and waited quietly, the smell of soup curling warm and fragrant around him.

Maybe he was a mess. Maybe he was a rule-breaking, spiraling wreck. But Eliot was still here.

That had to mean something.

—---------------

The bowl was still warm in Quentin’s hands when he took his first bite—and then froze, blinking at it like it had personally offended him with how good it was.

“Oh my god,” he mumbled thickly around a spoonful, eyes going wide. “Eliot. What—what the fuck is this?”

Eliot leaned against the counter nearby, arms crossed, smiling faintly. “Pastina soup,” he said. “Like I said- Ultimate comfort food. Olive oil, garlic, onion, carrots, broth, a little magic.”

“No,” Quentin said, swallowing hurriedly and going right back in for another bite. “This isn’t comfort food. This is a religious experience.”

Eliot chuckled, watching him with quiet satisfaction. “Glad you like it.”

“Like it?” Quentin gestured to his bowl with his spoon, unironically breathless. “I would sell my soul for another pot of this. I would give up Fillory. I would abandon a quest.”

“That’s sacrilege,” Eliot said lightly. “But noted.”

Quentin didn’t respond—he was too busy eating. With each bite, the tension seemed to ease a little further from his body, his hunched shoulders slowly uncoiling, the jittery tightness in his hands lessening. He made quiet, reverent sounds with every bite, like the warmth of the broth was soaking into his ribs and mending something broken there.

Eliot barely touched his own bowl. He’d made this soup for Quentin, and watching him devour it like it was the first real thing he’d tasted in days was satisfaction enough. He noted the way color was returning to his cheeks, how the tremble in his hands had faded. His hair was still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends, and he looked soft and flushed and deeply, achingly tired.

God, Eliot was just gone for him, wasn't he?

By the time the bowl was empty, Quentin was visibly swaying. He blinked slowly, eyes glassy with exhaustion.

“I think I’m gonna—” he rubbed his face. “Couch nap. Or I might fall asleep standing up.”

Eliot reached over and gently took the empty bowl from him. “Let’s not risk that.”

But Quentin hesitated, standing by the kitchen island, clearly swaying between bone-deep fatigue and something else. His hands fidgeted against the edge of the counter, and his eyes flicked up to Eliot’s and then away, shy and unsure.

“Would it be… um.” His voice dropped, tentative and small. “Would it be okay if I… cuddled with you? I mean—I think I’d sleep better. Maybe. If that’s not weird.”

Eliot’s expression softened immediately. “Quentin,” he said, stepping forward and cupping his jaw briefly, just enough to tilt his face upward. “Of course it’s okay.”

And that was all Quentin needed. He followed Eliot down the hall like a shadow, quiet and pliant.

Eliot led him into the bedroom, where the bed was already turned down. Eliot pulled back the covers and slid in beside him. He opened his arms without needing to be asked, and Quentin sank into them with a relieved, shaky breath, tucking himself in close like a man coming in from the cold.

He fit against Eliot’s chest like he’d been made for it, nose pressing lightly into the fabric of Eliot’s shirt, one arm curling tight around his waist. Eliot let his hand settle at the small of Quentin’s back, rubbing small, slow circles there, the kind you don’t think about, the kind you do for someone without realizing how much you care.

“Is this okay?” he murmured again, because it mattered.

Quentin nodded against him, voice muffled. “Perfect. I feel… really safe....Thank you, you know, for...everything.”

Eliot swallowed hard against the ache in his throat. “Good,” he said. “That’s the point.”

It didn’t take long. Quentin’s breathing deepened within minutes, his weight going heavier and looser against Eliot’s chest. Occasionally, a small twitch of fingers or the tiniest hitch in his breath gave him away—like his body was still learning what it meant to be this cared for, this held.

Eliot stayed awake for a little while, watching the shadows on the ceiling, thinking of rules and broken rules and the softness in Quentin’s eyes when he’d asked if he could be held. He thought of the panic and guilt Quentin had walked in with, the way he’d unraveled under pressure—so sure that needing too much made him unlovable.

Eliot had seen that before, in others.

In himself.

He pressed a kiss to the top of Quentin’s head, quiet and careful. He wouldn’t say it now—not what he wanted to say—but the emotion sat in his chest, full and aching.
When Quentin woke up, they’d talk. There would be structure. Consequences. Not for punishment’s sake, but for healing. Quentin needed the kind of care that didn’t bend just because things got messy. He needed something steady.

And Eliot—he was going to give it to him. Even if it meant pushing when Quentin squirmed. Even if it meant being the bad guy for five minutes so Quentin could feel safe for days afterward.

Eventually, his eyes drifted shut. With Quentin’s warm breath on his collarbone and the rhythm of their bodies in sync, Eliot let himself fall asleep, holding onto the weight of that silent promise.

They would get through this. Together.

—---------------------------------

Quentin woke slowly, nestled in warmth and the faint scent of Eliot’s skin—clean cologne and something deeper, familiar now. His face was tucked into Eliot’s chest, legs tangled under the covers, and for a few precious seconds, he felt safe. Held.

Then it crept back in.

The guilt. The gnawing anxiety. The part of his brain that said you screwed it up again.

He shifted, instinctively trying to pull away, but Eliot stirred and held him tighter, lips brushing his hair.

“Hey,” Eliot murmured, voice low and rough with sleep. “You don’t have to run.”

Quentin stilled. “I wasn’t—” he started, then stopped. “Okay. Maybe I was.”

Eliot leaned back just enough to meet his eyes. “We need to talk.”

Quentin nodded, dread curling tight in his gut. He sat up slowly, dragging the blanket with him, trying to build a little wall of softness between himself and whatever came next.

Eliot sat up beside him, bare-chested and calm, watching him closely.

“I’m not mad,” Eliot said, quiet and firm. “But you are in trouble.”

Quentin flinched, dropping his gaze.

“Not because you’re a bad sub,” Eliot continued. “Not because I’m angry with you, but because I care. But because you trust me to take care of you, and that means punishing you when you break the rules we both agreed on.”

Quentin’s throat worked. “I know,” he whispered.

Eliot reached for his hand, held it gently. “I believe you. I know your brain gets loud. And I know you’ve learned to survive by going quiet when that happens. But you don’t have to do that anymore. Not with me.”

Quentin blinked rapidly, jaw tight. “But I did. I lied. I broke every rule. I didn’t communicate, I—”

“You’re right,” Eliot said, not unkindly. “You broke every rule. And because I l—” Eliot’s mouth twitched, just slightly. “Because I care about you,” he amended gently, “and because I take being your Dom seriously, we’re not sweeping it under the rug.”

Quentin looked away again, shame flooding his face. “So I get punished.”

Eliot nodded. “You’re going to be punished. You’re going to get a spanking, Q. And then it’s over. All of it. Clean slate. No guilt to carry around like a weighted blanket, no punishment hanging over your head. No more wondering if I’m disappointed in you or waiting to explode.”

Quentin swallowed hard, eyes wet. “And you’re not… mad?”

“No,” Eliot said firmly. “I was worried. So worried. Seeing you shut down like that—knowing you weren’t eating, weren’t sleeping, that you were lying to me—I hated it. But no, I’m not mad. I just want to help you feel safe again. Recentered.”

Quentin rubbed a hand over his face. “I don’t know how to do this. What’s to say I won’t just mess it up again?”

“That’s the whole point of this dynamic, Q,” Eliot said gently. “You can mess up. That’s allowed. I’ll handle it. You trust me to be your Dom, and this—this—is part of that trust. You don’t have to stay perfect. You just have to come back to me when you fall.”

Quentin made a soft, broken noise, and Eliot leaned forward, pressing a kiss to his temple.

“So,” Eliot murmured, voice low and grounded, “I’m going to color check you. And then we’re going to get through this together. You ready?”

Quentin trembled but nodded. “Yeah.”

“Color?”

He hesitated, breath shaking. “Green.”

Eliot smiled—soft, but steady. “Good boy. You’ll get your spanking. Then it’s done. We start fresh. No more heavy thoughts to carry around in that overthinking head of yours. Just you and me.”

Quentin let out a shaky breath, eyes fluttering closed. “Okay.”

Eliot kissed his hand. “Let’s get you all settled, sweetheart. Stand up for me.”

-------------------

Eliot sat back on the bed, legs spread just enough, hands relaxed on his thighs as he looked at Quentin standing in front of him.

Quentin was trembling slightly, color high in his cheeks, and staring at the floor like it might open up and swallow him whole. He wasn’t sure what to do with his hands—clenching, unclenching them. He kept swallowing too loudly. His skin buzzed like his nerves had become electric.

“Come here,” Eliot said, voice low but steady.

Quentin stepped forward slowly, anxiety curled so tight in his gut he felt nauseous with it. His heart was hammering against his ribs. He hadn’t expected how exposed this would feel. How vulnerable. But he did it anyway—because he’d said yes, because he trusted Eliot, because he needed this.

Eliot reached up and smoothed Quentin’s pajama pants gently. “I want these off.”

Quentin nodded, breath catching as he shoved them down. His boxers followed, hesitating only a moment before stepping out of everything, leaving him bare from the waist down. Humiliation crawled up his spine, prickling behind his eyes.

The air between them thrummed.

“You ready, Q?” Eliot’s voice was calm, but heavy with meaning.

Quentin nodded shakily, voice barely above a whisper. “Y-Yeah.”

Eliot raised a brow.

Quentin swallowed hard. “Yes, Sir.”

A quiet, approving hum, then Eliot patted his thigh. “Over my lap.”

Quentin crawled forward, awkward and vulnerable, draping himself over Eliot’s thighs. The position made his heart pound—it was humiliating and strangely grounding, a physical reminder of surrender. His hands found the comforter, gripping tight. His breath hitched as Eliot pulled the shirt up and over his hips, baring him completely.

“Color?” Eliot asked, smoothing a palm over Quentin’s lower back.

“Green,” Quentin whispered, already blinking back anxious tears.

The first spank landed hard and sudden—crack—a clean sound that echoed in the quiet room. Quentin gasped, flinched. The second came just as sharp, and the third, and the fourth. They bloomed across his skin, leaving fire in their wake.

“You didn’t eat,” Eliot said calmly, voice a counterpoint to the rising sting. Crack. “You didn’t sleep.” Crack. “You ignored your rules, you shut down, and you lied.”

“I—I didn’t mean—” Quentin’s voice was already wobbling, the pain building fast.

Eliot paused to rub a hand gently over his brightening skin, then resumed. “It’s not about meaning to or not. It’s about what you chose. You chose to isolate. You chose not to ask for help. That was a lot of chances for better choices, sweet boy.”

Crack-crack-crack. Three quick ones to the same spot had Quentin crying out, fingers clutching the blanket.

“I was scared!” Quentin burst out, voice breaking.

Eliot didn’t stop. “Then say that. That’s what this is for. This—us—is about honesty. About trust. You said you wanted this. That you needed help. And now I’m helping.”

He landed another dozen, slow and steady, every one harder than the last. Quentin squirmed, whimpered, tears spilling freely now. His ass was burning, bright red, skin hot and sensitive. He could barely think through the sting.

“You don’t get to disappear anymore,” Eliot said, punctuating every few words with another swat. “You don’t get to spiral without consequences. Because you’re not alone now, Quentin. I care about you. Margo cares. You don’t have to go dark, but if you do, I promise you, you’re going to feel it.”

Quentin sobbed, shaking. “I—I’m trying—Eliot, I’m trying, I promise—”

Another barrage of hard, measured smacks, and Quentin twisted, throwing a hand back to shield himself.

Eliot caught his wrist mid-air without missing a beat and pressed it firmly into the small of Quentin’s back, pinning him there. “No, Q. No blocking. You take this. You've earned it.”

His hand came down again, relentless. Quentin howled, raw and wrecked. It hurt, it hurt, but something in him was unraveling at the same time—shame bleeding out, panic draining away, replaced with the strange, dizzying warmth of being held, being cared for even while it burned. The guilt seeping out of him alongside the tears.

“You don’t get to decide the rules anymore,” Eliot said, voice firmer now. “You asked for this. You consented. You said you wanted to be mine. And that means listening. That means trusting that I know what you need, even when you don’t.”

Quentin couldn’t speak anymore, couldn’t think. He was crying hard now, noisy and unfiltered, body limp over Eliot’s lap. Everything had gone fuzzy around the edges. The pain was still there, but dulled somehow by the soft, shimmering rush in his mind.

He was absolutely floating. Didn't know how much time had passed, if any. Didn't know anything. Just sank deeply into that fuzzy place, he only ever got to around Eliot.

Eliot’s hand gentled, stroking softly over his sore, swollen skin. His other hand let go of Quentin’s wrist, smoothing it down, settling him.

Then, softly: “Are you going to be my good boy from now on?”

Quentin whimpered, shuddering under the weight of the question. He felt like something had cracked open inside him, like he’d been stripped bare all the way down and still… Eliot was here. Still steady. Still holding him. He felt >better.

Quentin must not have answered for a long minute because another swat made him yelp, startled him. “Answer me, Quentin.” Came Eliot’s voice from somewhere far away.

He blinked, trying to form the words, but they stuck. He opened his mouth again, and this time, they came out in a gasp of air, thick with tears, but clear and whole.

“S-Sorry, Yes, Sorry Daddy. M’sorry. I'll be good.”

Eliot froze for a moment. The air went still. Quentin couldn’t see his face, but he could feel the shift in Eliot’s body, in the hand that splayed across his back with new reverence.

Then Eliot exhaled and murmured, “Oh, sweet boy. That’s my good boy. All better now.”

A broken little sob escaped Quentin’s lips at the praise. He melted into it, fully boneless, fully undone. He wasn’t thinking anymore. He wasn’t worrying. All the shame, all the panic, all the awful looping thoughts—gone, left behind in the steady rhythm of Eliot’s hand, in the safe, warm cocoon of knowing he was cared for.

Eliot rubbed gentle, slow circles into his back and thighs. “It’s all done now, baby,” he whispered. “You took it all so well. You’re forgiven. Clean slate. No more worrying that little head of yours.”

Quentin didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He was too deep, too far gone. But he sighed, a soft exhale of peace, and let himself be gathered up.

And Eliot held him close, soothing him with praise, with warmth, with love.

Eliot held him, still sitting on the bed, Quentin draped across his lap like a warm, trembling armful of emotion and trust. His hands moved in slow, soothing circles along Quentin’s back, up his spine, across his shoulders. He was still sniffling softly, but the cries had faded into little hitched breaths, each one more relaxed than the last.

“You did so good, Q,” Eliot whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Quentin’s temple. “So, so good for me.”

Quentin didn’t speak, just made a quiet noise in his throat, nestling closer. He was boneless now, melted into Eliot’s body, all the tension gone. His fingers clung loosely to the hem of Eliot’s shirt, as though afraid Eliot might drift away if he didn’t hold on.

“I’ve got you,” Eliot murmured, rubbing his back in slow, steady strokes. “You’re safe. It’s all over. You’re such a good boy.”

Quentin shivered, but not from fear—his whole body seemed to sigh into the praise, soft and pliant and floaty. His lashes fluttered, cheeks blotchy and tear-streaked, lips parted just slightly. Eliot kissed one damp cheek, then the other, then the spot just between his brows.

“My sweet, brave boy,” he whispered. “Took your punishment like a champ. Let go. Trusted me. That means everything, Q. Everything.”

He pulled the covers up around them, one hand still working gentle circles over Quentin’s back, the other carding through his hair.

“You don’t have to think anymore,” Eliot said softly. “Don’t worry, don’t spiral. Just rest. Daddy’s got you now.”

Quentin let out a tiny, broken sound — maybe a sob, maybe something close to a laugh — and burrowed in further, nose pressed to Eliot’s collarbone, the tip of one ear red and warm against his throat.

Eliot closed his eyes for a moment, holding him tighter. He hadn’t known how badly he’d wanted this—this trust, this closeness—until he had it in his arms, clinging to him and calling him Daddy. And God, he was honored. Humbled. Completely overwhelmed by the depth of what Quentin had just given him.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered. “You’re mine, Quentin. And I’m going to take such good care of you.”

Quentin didn’t reply, but Eliot felt the way his whole body relaxed at those words—completely surrendered, safe at last in someone else’s arms.

They stayed like that for a long time, wrapped around each other in the hush of the room, until Quentin’s breathing evened out into sleep again, and Eliot held him close, watching over him, steady and sure.

Chapter Text

Eliot wakes slowly, disoriented by the sheer quiet of the room. No ticking clocks, no morning birds yet, just the low hum of the radiator and the slow rise and fall of Quentin’s chest, pressed warm and loose against his own. The weight of him is grounding—comforting, if a little heavy where a bare thigh is slung across Eliot’s waist, Quentin’s cheek smushed into his shoulder.

He’s still out cold, face slack and soft, lips parted slightly. His hair is a wild mess, sweat-damp from earlier, sticking up in strange angles. There’s something vulnerable about him like this—tangled up and bare and still, the kind of still that only comes after a long, long fight with your own brain.
Eliot doesn’t move at first. Just lies there, staring up at the ceiling, one arm draped around Quentin’s waist, the other hand resting on his back. The air is cool, the blankets kicked down to their waists, and Quentin is—

Oh.

Quentin shifts. Just slightly. But enough for Eliot to feel it: the slow, unconscious grind of Quentin’s hips against his thigh. Bare skin, bare need. The kind of movement that wasn’t quite awake but wasn’t quite asleep either.

“Mmnn,” Quentin breathes, soft and broken, and Eliot realizes with a jolt that he’s not fully out. Floating, more like. Adrift in that hazy, warm subspace, so deep he’s practically glowing with it. His brow is faintly furrowed, lips moving like he’s trying to speak but can’t quite find the words.

Eliot strokes a hand down his spine, slow and gentle. “Hey, sweetheart,” he murmurs. “What are you doing?”

Quentin lets out a shaky breath. The grinding doesn’t stop. If anything, it gets more desperate, more needy, and when he speaks, it’s a breathless whisper, almost a whimper:
“Daddy,” he gasps. “Please—please”

Eliot closes his eyes. Christ.

He pulls Quentin closer, cups the back of his head, and presses a kiss to his temple. “You want to cum, baby?” he says softly.

A frantic little nod.

“You’ve been so good,” Eliot murmurs. “Of course you can. Go ahead, baby. Cum for me.”

The relief is instant. Quentin lets out a broken sob of sound, hips rutting in a frantic, helpless rhythm against Eliot’s thigh. It doesn’t take long. He’s so wound up, so gone, that it rushes out of him in a messy, gasping wave. His whole body trembles with it, fingers clutching weakly at Eliot’s ribs. And then—just like that—he’s limp again. Spent. Silent.

Breathing deep and slow.

Already falling back asleep.

Eliot watches him, his heart so full it almost aches. He strokes his fingers through Quentin’s hair, brushing sweat-damp strands away from his forehead.

“You really were gone,” he whispers. “My poor boy.”

He lets him rest like that a few minutes longer, until Quentin is snoring lightly into his chest, utterly boneless. Then, carefully, Eliot shifts out from under him and grabs the damp cloth he’d set aside earlier—thank God for habits born of experience. He cleans Quentin up as gently as possible, murmuring soft praise as he works, and then tucks him back into bed like something fragile and cherished.

He lingers a moment longer, watching Quentin’s features soften into peaceful sleep. He looks younger like this. Less burdened. And Eliot feels something settle in his own chest—quiet, certain, terrifying in its enormity.

I’d do anything to keep him safe.

Eventually, Eliot slips out into the living room, pulling on a clean pair of soft pajama pants. The apartment is quiet, the city outside muffled. It’s late—the kind of late that probably counts as morning, but he doesn’t check the time. Doesn’t want to know. He just leans against the kitchen counter, running a hand through his hair and letting himself breathe.

Today’s going to be a write-off. That’s fine. Necessary, even.

He’s mentally halfway through drafting a message to his professor declaring a much-needed mental health day when his phone buzzes with a message from Margo.

Margo: Do I need to come home or are you two cuddled up and gross still? I can bring ice cream.

Eliot huffs a laugh, thumb flying to respond.

Eliot: He’s okay. Fully subspaced and passed out after a very emotional night. Ice cream tomorrow?

The typing bubble appears immediately.

Margo: You’re such a daddy now. I’m proud of you. Moose Tracks or I riot.

Eliot: Moose Tracks it is. Love you, you menace.

He puts the phone down. Rubs a hand over his face.

God help him, he is a daddy now.

And Quentin’s his boy.

It’s hasnt been very long. And yet somehow, Quentin is his. His boy. His responsibility. His mess to take care of and protect and love and discipline, too, when needed. Because that’s part of it. Part of this whole terrifying, beautiful thing they’re building. It’s terrifying and beautiful all at once. Eliot has such a sense of wanting that it’s a little bit scary.

Not knowing what comes next.

But for now, Quentin is warm and safe and sleeping in his bed.

And Eliot wouldn’t change a thing.

—---------------

Quentin woke slowly, emerging from sleep like surfacing from deep water. The air was warm, the sheets soft, and the faint scent of Eliot still lingered on the pillow.
Sunlight streamed through the curtains in broad golden stripes. It was bright. Definitely late. He blinked, disoriented, then rubbed at his eyes, trying to shake the haze of too much sleep and not enough coherence. His body ached, in a low, dulled throb—mostly in his thighs and, yeah, his ass. He shifted a little and winced.

And then it all came crashing back.

The spiral. The crying. The punishment.

The sharp, stinging rhythm of Eliot’s hand, the way it built until Quentin was sobbing and trembling over his lap, bare and raw and held in place like he was being broken open and rebuilt at the same time.

The sound of Eliot’s voice—stern, steady, caring—reminding him he wasn’t alone, wasn’t allowed to self-destruct without consequences anymore.

The way his whole mind had cracked apart and softened until he was floating, drifting in some warm, dumb bubble of safety and surrender. Saying Sorry, Daddy through tears.

And then waking up, rutting against Eliot’s thigh like some needy, subspace-drunk mess. Begging to come. Collapsing into sleep again like he was boneless.

His face flushed instantly. He groaned and buried it in the pillow.

Oh my god. Oh my god.

But it didn’t feel awful. Embarrassing, yeah. But not wrong. Not shameful. If anything, it felt—strange as it was—good. His chest didn’t feel so tight. His head wasn’t buzzing with anxiety. He felt calm. Grounded. Like something in him had been realigned.

The bed was empty beside him. Eliot was gone.

Quentin rolled onto his side slowly and spotted his pants on the floor. He slid them on gingerly, the motion reminding him of how thoroughly he’d been spanked the night before, and padded barefoot across the room. The door was cracked. The apartment was quiet—no footsteps, no clattering in the kitchen—just the low buzz of a TV playing in the living room.

And voices.

“Oh my god, he’s proposing in the airport? She just landed!” Margo’s voice—dry and incredulous.

“He's not even wearing socks,” Eliot added. “This man does not deserve a fiancé.”

They were laughing. Easy, unbothered laughter.

Quentin hovered in the doorway to the bathroom, hesitating. He splashed water on his face, trying to wake up the rest of the way. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror, his hair a mess, eyes still puffy with sleep. He looked… different. Still a little soft around the edges. But he didn’t hate what he saw.

He stepped out into the hall and followed the sound of their voices to the living room.

The scene made him stop in his tracks.

Eliot and Margo were curled up on the couch together, a blanket thrown over their legs. A tub of ice cream sat on the coffee table between them, two spoons sticking out at haphazard angles. The TV was playing 90 Day Fiancé on low volume. Eliot was sipping something from a glass—probably coffee or one of his herbal blends—and Margo had her feet tucked under her as she scrolled through her phone between commentary.

They looked… happy. Relaxed. Safe in that effortless way that came with familiarity and care. Quentin’s chest squeezed unexpectedly.

It was the kind of quiet, domestic moment he never knew how much he’d wanted until now.

He lingered in the doorway for a second too long. Margo looked up and spotted him.

“Well well well,” she said, grinning. “If it isn’t our freshly spanked sleeping beauty, risen from the grave.”

Quentin flushed so hard he thought he might combust. “Jesus, Margo.”

“Oh please. I’m being tasteful.” She patted the couch between her and Eliot. “Get over here. We’re watching dysfunctional straight people lie to each other for clout and visas.”

Eliot turned to look at him, his eyes warm and crinkled at the corners with that small, soft smile he only gave to people he really loved. “Hey, Q,” he said gently. “Sleep well?”

Quentin nodded, moving slowly toward them. “I think I slept for like… twelve hours.”

“Your body needed it,” Eliot said simply, as if it were a fact and not something to be ashamed of.

Quentin hesitated a second longer, then—impulsively—turned toward Margo and wrapped his arms around her in a tight hug, tucking his head against her neck.

“Whoa,” she said, startled. But her arms came around him immediately, pulling him in just as tight. “Okay. Hug accepted. What's this?”

“Sorry,” Quentin murmured. “For scaring you. For being a dick. For just… everything.”

She pulled back just enough to look at him, one brow raised. “You did get your ass handed to you, right?”

Quentin made a wounded sound. “Yes. Jesus. Yes.”

“Then we’re good,” she said, ruffling his hair. “Clean slate.”

Eliot reached out to brush a hand down Quentin’s arm, then tugged him gently toward the couch.

“We’ve declared a mental health day,” he announced. “No classes. No stress. No real pants.”

Margo added, “Just garbage TV, blankets, and Moose Tracks.”

“Wait, you got Moose Tracks?” Quentin asked, finally sinking down onto the couch between them.

“I brought it home at like 6 am,” Margo said proudly. “Because I am a good friend, and your Daddy over there told me you’d need something cold and sugary after all the crying.”

Quentin blushed. But he smiled, a real, warm, no-walls smile, and leaned back into both of them. Eliot wrapped an arm around his shoulders immediately.

“I’m okay,” Quentin said softly, after a beat. “Like… really okay. Better.”

Eliot leaned in and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I’m glad. You deserve to feel good.”

“Now shut up,” Margo added. “You’re missing the part where she tells him she wants to get married in front of a Home Depot.”

Quentin laughed, and for once, he didn’t feel like he was falling apart.

He felt held. Fed. Forgiven.

And as he sank back into the couch, snuggled between them with his head on Eliot’s shoulder and Margo already stealing the ice cream from his lap, he was starting to realize that he was actually happy. Really happy. For the first time in probably ever.

The rest of the day passed in a slow, sweet blur.

They made it through two and a half episodes of 90 Day Fiancé before Margo demanded a switch to Love Island. Quentin initially protested—only mildly, mostly out of principle—but it was hard to stay critical with Margo’s running commentary and Eliot’s hand stroking absent-mindedly through his hair.

They made a nest out of blankets and pillows and ignored the outside world completely. At some point, Margo ordered pizza without asking anyone, then shoved a slice into Quentin’s hand with a pointed look. He ate it. Eliot smiled and praised him for it, casually, like it wasn’t a big deal.

There was ice cream again later, half-melted and eaten straight from the carton, and someone—probably Eliot—started a tally of which contestants had the worst tattoos. The afternoon melted into early evening, and Quentin, sandwiched between his two favorite people, started to believe the universe might not hate him after all.

He must have dozed off at some point, lulled by the warmth and the low volume of the TV and the rhythmic press of Eliot’s fingers against his arm. When he stirred, blinking himself awake, the screen was paused and Margo was gone—maybe to her room or the bathroom or to make another snack raid. Eliot was still beside him, his attention turned toward Quentin in full, gaze soft.

“Hey,” Eliot said quietly. “Welcome back.”

Quentin stretched and yawned, then tucked his arms under the blanket again. “How long was I out?”

“Just a little while.” Eliot reached over to gently tuck a strand of hair behind Quentin’s ear. “You okay?”

Quentin hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. I think I am.”

“Good.” Eliot’s voice dropped, intimate. “Want to talk for a sec? Just us?”

Quentin swallowed, nodded again. Eliot nudged the blanket off both of them and motioned for Quentin to follow him. They padded into Eliot’s room and sat cross-legged on the bed. Quentin toyed with a stray thread on the comforter while Eliot settled in across from him, hands calm, patient.

“I wanted to check in,” Eliot said. “About everything. Yesterday. This morning. How you’re feeling.”

Quentin looked up, cheeks coloring faintly. “I… I’m okay. Better than okay. I feel…lighter? Like I can breathe again.”

Eliot smiled. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

There was a pause. Quentin picked at the thread again. “I’m not used to that. The…consequences. And then still being cared for after.”

“That’s how it works,” Eliot said, voice firm but warm. “Discipline isn’t about anger. You weren’t bad, Q. You needed help. Structure. And you trusted me to give it to you.”

Quentin’s breath hitched. “I did.”

“And you still do?”

He nodded, slowly, but surely. “Yeah. I really do.”

Eliot leaned forward and cupped his cheek. “That means everything to me, Q. You’re not just mine when you’re soft and sweet and obedient. You’re mine even when you fuck up. Especially then. That’s what this is.”

Quentin’s throat felt tight. “Feels like a lot.”

“It is a lot,” Eliot said with a small grin. He took a deep breath and then quietly, “It’s not casual, what we’re doing. I know maybe it started out with that…idea, but it isn’t. It’s moved past that. I take it seriously.”

“I know,” Quentin whispered.

They sat there in the quiet for a few moments, eyes locked, Eliot’s thumb stroking gently along Quentin’s jaw.

“You’re my good boy,” Eliot said softly.

Quentin broke into a shy, helpless smile. “I really wanna be.”

“You are.” Eliot leaned in, kissed his forehead, then his nose. “Even when you’re a pain in the ass.”

They rejoined Margo a few minutes later, and the rest of the night was more of the same: laughter, lazy lounging, sarcastic commentary over trash TV. It was simple. Domestic. Sweet. It filled Quentin up in a way nothing else had in a long, long time.

The next morning, Quentin went back to his dorm, class, and the real world.

And—somehow—it didn’t feel like a mountain he had to scale on bloody hands and knees.

His homework was already done. His bag was packed the night before. He even ate breakfast, thanks to Eliot’s text reminder.

He made it through his first lecture with barely any anxiety. He answered a question in psych class and got it right. The TA smiled. Quentin glowed for a full hour after.
All week, things kept clicking. His notes were organized. His brain wasn’t foggy. He felt… functional. Present. Like he was living inside his body again.

He hadn’t been back to the apartment since Tuesday that week.

Not because he didn’t want to be there—God, he wanted to. His entire body ached for the couch nest, for Margo’s biting commentary, for Eliot’s steady hands.

But the week was busy. Classes stacked on top of assignments, group projects, readings, labs. He’d stayed up late every night but only to finish homework, which felt like a miracle in itself.

And somehow, it was all going… well.

He was keeping up. Turning things in. He answered more than one question in class, didn’t flinch when the professor called on him. He ate real meals, thanks to a combo of Eliot’s reminders and the quiet accountability of wanting to make them proud.

Eliot texted him little check-ins every day:

Eliot: Did you eat something green today or do I need to come spank you again?
Eliot: Proud of you, baby.
Eliot: Margo says hi. She also says she’ll murder you with love if you don’t text her back soon.

Quentin smiled every time. Saved a few of them. Reread them when he got anxious or tired or just needed to remember someone saw him. (and actually was texting back this time.)

Still, he missed them. He missed them so much.

By Thursday night, he was so deeply tangled in longing he nearly cried when his phone buzzed again:

Eliot: Margo’s sleeping at her boytoy’s place tomorrow night.
Eliot: You should come over.
Eliot (a second later): I can show you the ropes 😉
Attached: a photo of neatly coiled silk ropes on Eliot’s bedspread, deep wine colored and golden honey.

Quentin let out a small, strangled noise. He had to sit down.

He stared at the picture for a long minute, heart stuttering against his ribs. He could feel the flush crawl up his neck, could hear the teasing edge of Eliot’s voice in his head and could almost even feel the phantom echo of rope over skin. But under all of that—the heat, the fluster—there was something deeper.

A warm swell of affection.

Eliot wasn’t just playing with him. He was inviting him back. Welcoming him home.

Quentin’s fingers hovered over the keyboard. I’ll be there, Daddy lived on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t quite send it. Not yet. Not outside a scene. Not when it felt too big, too tender.

But he could still show up.

He could still choose this.

Quentin: I’ll be there.. Can’t wait.

He hit send. Then added a second text, impulsively:

Quentin: (and um. that’s a lot of rope. guess I should be scared?? 😳)

Eliot’s reply came thirty seconds later:

Eliot: Only if you plan to be very bad. Otherwise, it’ll feel like a warm, pretty hug you can’t get out of 💋

Quentin laughed, giddy and pink, phone pressed to his chest.

God, he missed him.

And God, he was so ready.

—-------------------

Quentin couldn’t stop smiling on the way over. He was practically vibrating with energy, his tote bag bouncing against his hip, a little ridiculous spring in his step as he climbed the stairs. The elevator was broken again—not that he cared. His legs were already moving faster than his thoughts, like his body couldn’t wait to get to Eliot even if his brain was still trying to be chill about it.

It had been three days. Three days of keeping his head down, getting through his classes, feeling like he was maybe—finally—thriving instead of barely scraping by. Three days of following every rule Eliot had given him, from food to sleep to answering texts. It had felt good. Like structure. Like proof that he could do this. That he was doing this. And still, underneath it all, he’d missed Eliot so much it made his chest ache.

He knocked twice.

The door opened almost immediately.

Eliot looked like something out of a very expensive dream. Loose silk pants that swished when he moved, a deep emerald green button-down unbuttoned just low enough to be dangerous, tousled curls. There was a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw and something in his eyes that just shined.

Quentin stood there like a dope, half-smiling, flushed already. “Hi.”

Eliot's mouth curved into a pleased little smirk. “Hey, beautiful.”

Quentin flushed harder. He dropped his eyes for a second, let himself breathe. It didn’t help much. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Eliot said, stepping back so Quentin could come in. His hand landed warm and steady on the back of Quentin’s neck as he passed—comforting, possessive, a grounding touch that made Quentin’s heart skip.

The apartment smelled like vanilla and smoke, like the fancy candles Eliot burned when he was nesting. It made the space feel intimate and safe, like time had slowed down just for them.

Eliot gestured toward the couch, already smiling like he knew Quentin was going to start babbling. “Come sit. Tell me everything.”

Quentin didn’t even hesitate. He collapsed onto the cushions, practically vibrating with the need to share. “Okay, so—this week? Actually went really well. Like, really well. I turned everything in. I ate. Slept. Didn’t even miss a class. I even… I answered questions. In class. Voluntarily.”

Eliot laughed, genuinely delighted. “Color me impressed.”

“No, but—it was so weird. I wasn’t spiraling. I wasn’t panicking or exhausted or behind. It was like… everything felt quieter. Easier. I think the spanking helped. And the couch day. And the ice cream.”

“So what you’re saying,” Eliot said, stretching out beside him, “is that I should beat your ass more often. For your own good.”

Quentin snorted. “Maybe.”

Eliot reached for his thigh and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You did really good, Q. I’m proud of you.”

It wasn’t even the words—it was the way he said them, soft and sure, like he meant every syllable. Quentin blinked hard and looked down, a little overwhelmed by how much that meant.

“Thanks,” he mumbled. “I kinda… am proud of me too.”

“You should be.” Eliot let his hand trail lightly across Quentin’s thigh. “You’ve been following all your rules, haven’t you?”

Quentin nodded. “Yes, of course.”

“Good boy.”

That got him. A flush climbed his neck. His stomach flipped, heat blooming low.

Eliot leaned in a little, voice quieter. “So. I was thinking…”

Quentin looked at him, already breathless.

“If you’re interested,” Eliot said, “we could try rope tonight. Just us. No expectations, no pressure. I thought about how you looked that night at the club—how you were watching every single knot like it was magic.”

“It was magic,” Quentin said, grinning.

Eliot’s eyes softened. “Would you like to try?”

Quentin nodded, more eagerly than he meant to. “God, yes.”

Eliot stood slowly, offered his hand. “Then come with me.”

—-----------------

The bedroom was dimly lit, candles glowing on the dresser, casting flickering shadows on the walls. And across the bed, laid out with perfect precision, were the ropes: deep burgundy and gold, the same ones Eliot had shown him in that teasing text.

Eliot turned to him, all grace and patience. “Let’s get you undressed, sweetheart.”

Quentin obeyed. First his hoodie, then his t-shirt. His jeans followed, leaving him in just his boxers. Every layer felt like shedding noise. By the time he was half-naked and standing in front of Eliot, he already felt soft around the edges, malleable.

“Come up on the bed.”

Quentin climbed on, knees sinking into the mattress. Eliot followed, his movements fluid, quiet. He reached for the rope and sat behind Quentin, wrapping his arms around him just once before getting to work.

“Tell me if anything’s uncomfortable,” Eliot murmured as he started to wind rope around Quentin’s chest. “We’re not rushing.”

The first pass was snug and deliberate, looping just under his pecs. The next circled across his ribs. Then another, higher. Eliot’s fingers were steady, adjusting the tension, checking in with every knot.

With each pass, Quentin’s thoughts slowed. His body melted into place. The feeling of being wrapped up was so immediate, so safe. The rope framed his chest, hugged him tight.

Eliot moved behind him. “Hands now, baby.”

Quentin offered them without thinking. Eliot gently guided them behind his back.

“This is a more intricate one,” he murmured. “I’m going to make something pretty. It might feel snug. Just say red if you need to stop.”

Quentin nodded, breath already shallow.

The rope worked over his wrists, crisscrossing, twisting into a pattern that drew his arms back into a folded position. Eliot adjusted and tested, pulling until there was no slack. Quentin couldn’t move. Not even a little.

He let out a sound—something between a sigh and a whimper.

“That’s it,” Eliot said softly, brushing his fingers along Quentin’s spine. “I can see it already. You’re floating.”

Quentin’s vision had gone a little hazy at the edges. He blinked slowly. “I… yeah.”

“You look beautiful like this. All wrapped up for me.”

A shaky breath. “Feels… good.”

“You like this I can just see it.” Eliot whispered, kissing his shoulder. “Not just the rope. The control. Giving it all away.”

Quentin nodded, the motion small.

“I love being the one you give it to,” Eliot said. “I love that I get to do this with you.”

His voice was a balm. The rope was a cocoon. Quentin drifted.

“I've got you."

Quentin was gone.

—--------------

Quentin didn’t even notice when Eliot reached for the rest of the rope. He was too gone, too floaty, letting the soft pull of tension cradle him like silk. He swayed slightly with each movement, pliant, passive, every thought dulled except for Eliot, Eliot, Eliot.

Eliot’s voice came through like a warm current. “Can I touch your hair?”

Quentin hummed, a small, dreamy sound of assent.

Eliot’s fingers carded gently through the strands, brushing them away from Quentin’s face. “It’s getting long again,” he murmured, more to himself than anything. “Makes you look like a storybook prince.”

He smoothed it up, slowly and carefully, pulling Quentin’s thick, soft hair into a bun high on his head. “There,” he said, fingers ghosting down Quentin’s jaw. “Now I can see your pretty face.”

Quentin flushed. Or he thought he did—his body felt distant, pliable, his head full of cotton and light. He blinked up at Eliot with a soft smile, eyes glassy and unguarded. Utterly gone.

Eliot reached for his phone, holding it up slowly. “Okay if I take a picture? Just for me. You look like—god, Q. You look like art.”

Quentin managed a breathless, barely-there, “Yeah,” and then went still again, boneless and gorgeous in the candlelight.

Eliot took the photo gently, reverently. Just one. Quentin, bound and glowing, his lips slightly parted, his eyes hooded and soft, his whole body language screaming trust. Surrender.

“Thank you,” Eliot whispered, brushing his knuckles over Quentin’s cheek. “You’re perfect.”

Then, softly: “Do you want more, baby? Want to feel my hands on you?”

A tiny nod.

Eliot settled behind him, one arm around Quentin’s waist, the other hand moving slowly over his chest, fingers tracing the paths the rope made. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured as he let his hand drift downward, palm dragging gently over Quentin’s belly, then lower still.

Quentin made a sound—needy, desperate—and arched into the touch as much as the rope would let him. Eliot cupped him through his boxers, warm and firm and teasing.

“Such a good boy,” he murmured. “You really do love this, don’t you?”

Quentin whined, hips twitching. “Mhm…”

“You look so fucking good like this. Helpless. Gorgeous. Mine.”

He slipped his hand beneath the waistband, skin to skin now, and Quentin cried out softly, the sound raw and reverent. Eliot stroked him slowly, deliberately, keeping the pace gentle—something sensual and sweet, made to coax, not tease. To give. Not to take.

Quentin’s breathing quickened. His whole body trembled. “E-Eliot—”

“I’ve got you,” Eliot murmured. “Let go.”

It didn’t take long. Quentin was already so gone, so wound up in every sense of the word. He spilled into Eliot’s hand with a soft, shattered moan, whole body trembling, chest heaving.

Eliot held him through it, still whispering, “That’s it, that’s my sweet boy, I’ve got you.”

“Can I…” His voice was wrecked and raw, but there was no mistaking the spark in it. “Can I suck you?”

Eliot blinked, and then his lips curled into something wicked and fond all at once. “You want to give me a blowjob, like this? No hands?”

Quentin nodded eagerly, chest heaving. “Please. Please, Daddy.”

Eliot exhaled slowly through his nose, as if trying to steady himself. “You really are a desperate little thing, aren’t you?”

Quentin whimpered, his whole body aching with need, pleasure coiled low in his belly, throat dry. “Wanna be good. Want your cock. Please.”

Eliot stood, undoing his pants slowly, letting Quentin watch the reveal. “Alright,” he said, voice like velvet. “If you can manage it without using your hands—go ahead.”

Quentin shifted forward eagerly on his knees. Even bound, he was graceful in his desperation, guided entirely by instinct and desire. He leaned in and mouthed at the base of Eliot’s cock first, licking up slowly, reverently, eyes wide and adoring.

Eliot let out a low groan. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Quentin opened his mouth and took the head in, working his tongue in messy, eager movements. He couldn’t bob properly with his arms behind his back, but he used his whole body—tilting forward, sucking deep and slow, letting his lips drag and smear as much spit and warmth as he could offer.

“Jesus, Q,” Eliot muttered, tangling a hand gently in Quentin’s hair. “You’re unreal.”

Quentin moaned around him, drunk on it, soft and greedy. His thighs trembled as he rocked forward for leverage, taking Eliot deeper, hollowing his cheeks. It was messy and imperfect and so fucking earnest.

Eliot didn’t stop him. He let it go on until Quentin was panting through his nose, red-cheeked, saliva slicking his chin, eyes wide and hungry. Eliot’s hand tightened slightly in his hair—not controlling, just grounding.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low and thick.

Quentin looked up, mouth still full, and Eliot swore softly. “That’s it. You’re doing so well. Such a good boy, Q. You want it? I’m close.”

Quentin whimpered, the praise making him shiver. He was so far gone, barely tethered, letting the rhythm of it lull him deeper.

"Rules Quentin. Answer me."

Quentin pulled off enough to gasp out a wrecked little "Please?"

"Please what?"

Quentin was surprised to learn that his body could, in fact, keep blushing in deeper shades of red around Eliot. "Please Daddy"

That's all it took. Eliot came with a noise Quentin wanted to keep inside of his brain for the rest of his fucking life. Rocking up his hips to meet Quentin, shooting down his throat. Nearly choking him on it.

Eliot stroked a hand down his cheek. “Okay, baby. That’s enough. I want to take care of you.”

He gently pulled back and Quentin let go with a soft gasp, leaning forward, trembling all over

He stayed like that for a moment, breathing in Quentin’s scent, feeling the rise and fall of his back against his chest. Eliot kissed him deeply, then, carefully, he reached for the safety shears and began to undo the ropes—slowly, gently, unwinding them like a ceremony. With each tug, Quentin softened further, almost sagging against him.

Once Quentin’s arms were free, Eliot moved them delicately, rubbing slow circles into his wrists and forearms, checking for sensation.

“Any tingling? Numbness?” Eliot murmured.

“No,” Quentin said, voice so slurred with pleasure he barely sounded awake. “Just… soft.”

Eliot smiled. “Good.”

He kissed the back of Quentin’s shoulder. “Let’s get you cleaned up, then we’ll cuddle.”

“‘Kay.”

Eliot helped him into the bathroom, guided him gently, cleaned him with a warm washcloth, murmured praise the whole time. Then he got him back into bed, slipped a soft t-shirt over his head—Eliot’s shirt, one that smelled like cedar and expensive soap—and pulled the covers up.

Quentin looked up at him with heavy eyes, blinking slowly. “Thank you, Eliot.”

Eliot didn’t answer, just climbed in and pulled Quentin into his arms like he was something precious. Quentin melted into his chest, burrowing against him.

“You were amazing,” Eliot said, pressing a kiss to his temple. “So responsive. So trusting. You’re such a good boy.”

Quentin let out a broken little sigh, eyes fluttering closed again. “Love … Love when you say that.”

Eliot rubbed his back in slow, steady circles. “Then I’ll say it as much as you want. You are my good boy, Q. Always.”

Quentin drifted off in Eliot’s arms, soft and clean and safe, and Eliot held him there, warm and still, until sleep claimed them both.

Chapter Text

By now, Quentin spends most of his time at Eliot and Margo’s apartment, even if he still technically lives on campus. It didn’t happen all at once—there was no big moment where he officially moved in or got a drawer or started calling it home. It just sort of... happened.

A pair of socks left behind after a night curled up on their couch. His favorite mug somehow showing up in their dish rack. His textbooks migrating, one by one, to their kitchen table. And Eliot—Eliot, who never pushes, who always asks—started texting him every other day with soft, silly little invitations like, Movie night tonight. Your spot on the couch is looking lonely.

So Quentin comes. And then most days he just… doesn’t leave.

They’ve all started hanging out between classes too, falling into this quiet, accidental rhythm. If the weather’s good, they claim a spot on the quad lawn like it’s theirs by divine right: Margo sprawled in the sun with sunglasses and a highlighter, Eliot draped across the grass like a magazine ad, and Quentin somewhere in the middle, laptop open, hair a mess, occasionally getting distracted when Eliot reaches over to gently tug his hoodie strings or smooth a hand down his spine.

They study there sometimes. Talk shit about their professors. Pass iced coffee back and forth like a joint. (Sometimes alongside an actual joint, thanks to Josh).

Margo calls them “gross” when she catches Quentin staring at Eliot too long, but her mouth twitches like she secretly finds it adorable.

Other days, it’s less about studying and more about… whatever the hell this is.

Once, during a particularly long afternoon, Eliot leaned over and ordered him around with a whispered, Color-code my notes for me, sweetheart, and Quentin’s brain short-circuited so hard he nearly spilled coffee all over his essay draft. He did it, of course. Meticulously. With shaking fingers and a dry mouth and Eliot watching him with that knowing little smile like he was proud.

They don’t do much in public outside of the apartment—nothing overt. Eliot’s too careful for that, and Quentin’s still getting used to letting himself want anything at all. But there have been a few... experiments.

Eliot had made him wear a butt plug to class recently.

Just a small one. Nothing over-the-top. A soft, curved thing that made Quentin squirm in his chair during a dull sociology lecture and think about Eliot’s voice in his ear that morning, low and smug and fond: You don’t take it out until after your last class, understand?

And then Eliot had kissed his cheek and gone about his day like it was the most normal thing in the world.

That changed his brain chemistry; he was sure of it.

It’s not always kinky. Sometimes it’s just Eliot pulling him in close while Margo scrolls TikTok next to them, or resting a hand on the back of Quentin’s neck during a study break, or saying, You’re doing really well, Q, after Quentin shyly tries something new—whether that’s asking for a slap with a shaking voice or reading a chapter aloud without stammering.

Plus, all the making out they've been doing. Quentin feels like they're teenagers instead of adults, but it's just so nice, and it's not like he was doing this as a teenager anyway. Lost time or whatever.

Sometimes, Quentin lets Eliot guide him to his knees after a long day, and Eliot’s voice goes soft and reverent. Good boy. Just like that. Let me take care of you. And Quentin does. He lets go. And when he’s all floaty and blinking slow, Eliot wraps him in a blanket and murmurs that he’s proud. Every time, Quentin thinks: I could live here, in this moment. I could stay.

It feels effortless.

That’s the scariest part.

It feels like breathing.

He’s so in love, and now it’s everywhere, like pollen in the spring. He sees Eliot smiling across a table and feels it. He hears Eliot’s voice on the phone—Hey, Q. Come over?—and it’s there, warm and terrifying. He’s so obviously fucked and doesn’t know what to do with it.

Margo definitely knows. She hasn’t said anything—yet—but sometimes she looks at him with this dry, amused expression like she’s waiting for him to admit it out loud. Like she already has her “well, duh” locked and loaded for when the moment comes.

Which, honestly, feels imminent.

Especially now, with mid-terms looming and Quentin becoming stressed out of his mind, unraveling by the day.

—------------------

He’s holed up at a table in the apartment, Eliot’s out, but Margo is around, when it finally happens. Hair a mess, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his elbows, highlighters scattered across the table like confetti at a very boring parade. He’s surrounded by note cards and open tabs and one (okay, maybe two) energy drinks. His leg’s bouncing. His vision’s a little fuzzy from lack of sleep.

He’s on the verge of a meltdown, and he knows it.

“You look like a raccoon that just learned the concept of debt,” Margo says, wandering in with her phone in one hand and a protein bar in the other. “What the hell is going on here?”

“So like a reverse Tom Nook?”

She just stares at him. Which, no fair, that was good.

“I’m dying,” Quentin mutters without looking up. “Tell Eliot I'll miss him.”

“Oh my god,” she says flatly, peeling open the wrapper. “You’re being dramatic. More than usual, which is saying something.”

“I have four major exams coming up. And a paper I haven’t started. And I don’t know how to do anything. I’m going to flunk out and get disowned by the very concept of academia. I’ll be banished. Forced to live in the woods and tell children cautionary tales about midterms.”

Margo chews her protein bar slowly, watching him. “Did you eat yet today?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

He wilts. “I forgot.”

With a sigh, she wordlessly passes over her protein bar and pulls out a chair to sit across from him. “Okay. First of all, don’t die. Second, I took this class last year and actually did pretty well, because unlike you, I’m capable of studying without setting myself on fire for attention.”

“I’m not—!”

“Uh-huh. Move over, let me see your outline.”

It’s not really an outline so much as a desperate, colorful mess. She looks at it like it’s a crime scene.

Margo plucks the highlighter out of Quentin’s hand.

“Okay, nerd. If you highlight the entire fucking textbook, the point of highlighting becomes completely moot.”

Quentin slumps over the kitchen table. “I don’t know anything, Margo. I’m going to fail and get kicked out and have to go live in a cave like a feral academic hermit—”

“Hot.” She flips a page. “Now read me back the theory you just underlined in four different colors. Bonus points if you use actual words this time.”

Quentin groans, dragging his face against the table like he can absorb knowledge through osmosis. “This is social theory, not magic. I can’t just—summon a study familiar.”

“You summoned Eliot,” Margo says, arching a brow. “Which, like, good for you. But I’m not letting you flunk this class and spiral into gay academic ruin. Now sit up and use your words.”

He does. Grudgingly. And Margo, to her credit, is actually really good at this. She knows the material cold and keeps interrupting his spirals with quippy sarcasm and the occasional gummy bear bribe.

“You're like a bratty little therapy parrot,” she tells him at one point, “but somehow we’re getting somewhere.”

Halfway through rewriting his notes, she pauses to look at him.

“You know you’re allowed to ask for help, right?” she says, suddenly gentler. “From me. From Eliot. From both of us.”

“I know,” he says, voice small. “I just…”

“Still working on the part where you believe you deserve it?”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

Margo doesn’t push. She just nudges his water glass closer and changes the subject.

Eventually, things make more sense. Quentin is actually starting to understand more of this than he isn’t, and both he and Margo mutually decide to take a pause.

He leans back in his chair, letting out a long breath. “Thanks for this.”

She softens just slightly. “Of course. You’re family now, remember?”

The words catch him off guard. Family.

Quentin swallows. His stomach flips.

“I think I love him,” he blurts out. His hands coming up to slap over his mouth as his eyes widen in panic.

Margo doesn’t even blink.

“No shit, dummy.”

Quentin blinks at her, mouth opening and closing. “You—you knew?”

“You’ve been looking at him like he hung the stars for weeks now,” she says, softening. “And he looks at you like you just the same, in case you didn’t notice. It’s kind of gross to be around the two of you sometimes.”

“Oh.”

“You’re gonna be okay,” she says, taking a sip of his drink like she owns it. “You’re an anxious little goblin, but you’re doing so much better than you think.”

He wants to believe her. Almost does.

—-----------------------------

Quentin doesn’t mean to hole up in his dorm, but once he starts—he can’t seem to stop. He’s studying like crazy. He still has actual homework and papers and assignments on top of it. He’s panicking and just…sucked into trying to make sure he doesn’t fail.

He tells himself it’s just for the night. Then a night becomes two. And suddenly it’s been four days and he hasn’t seen Eliot or Margo except through the blurry camera lens of a 10pm FaceTime call where he lied and said he was fine, just tired. Eliot’s brow had furrowed. Margo had looked skeptical as hell. They’ve both been giving him a bit of space, or trying to, everyone’s stressed. It’s not like Quentin is the only one who has mid-terms, but they just…hold it together in a way he’s never been able to do.

They’re just…better.

He’s not fine.

He’s a raw nerve in hoodie form. He’s not really sleeping. He’s definitely not eating as well. (To give himself some credit he is actually trying, but it’s just not working out ontop of all the studying and freaking out). The thought of exams makes his chest tight and his throat hot. He’s rereading the same article for the fourth time and can’t remember a single damn sentence.

When his phone buzzes with a text from Eliot—

E: Movie night. You. Me. Margo. Pizza. No arguments. Be here by 7.

—he stares at it for a full five minutes before responding with a single:

Q: ok.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to go. It’s just… he feels cracked open. Too much of everything. And now he has to perform being okay and not a mentally ill, ADHD riddled grad student in front of the two people he wants most to impress. He wants to be sweet. He wants to be good. He’s just so tired on the inside.

Still, at 7:04, he knocks on their apartment door. He nearly tripped walking so quickly to get there on time. He had lost track again and practically bolted out of his dorm room when he realized what time it was.

Margo opens it and smirks. “Four minutes late. I hope you brought snacks to make up for it.”

“Bite me,” Quentin mutters, brushing past her.

He immediately regrets it. Not just because it’s shitty, but because it’s Margo, and her face flickers. She doesn’t say anything yet, just closes the door behind him.

Eliot’s already in the living room, blanket and pizza ready, a movie paused on the screen—Ratatouille- something with talking animals and funny moments and zero chance of emotional trauma. He smiles when he sees Quentin, but it falters almost instantly.

“Hey, babe. C’mere.”

Quentin hugs Eliot, breathing in deeply. He had really missed him, feels better the second he's within Eliot’s orbit. He lets go sooner than he’d like, afraid he would get teary-eyed if he kept going. Instead, he collapses into the couch with a dramatic flop and slumps into the cushions, already vibrating with anxiety. He can’t seem to settle.

“You good?” Eliot asks gently.

“I said I’m fine.”

That edge in his voice—he hears it, hates it, but can’t seem to smother it.

“Let's try again. Is that an honest answer, Quentin?”

Quentin flushes a bit but nods anyway. “Yeah,” because everything is fine. Nothing is wrong exactly. It’s just normal school stress. He should be able to handle it like a normal person. Like everyone else. Like them.

Eliot looks at him for a very long moment, makes Quentin squirm a little, but eventually lets it go. For now.

Quentin’s mood just gets worse as he sits between them. This normal comfort agitated him instead. He’s so stressed out, thinking about the time he's wasting here when he could be using it to study instead. To cram as much into his brain as he can. To avoid flunking out. He’s mentally spiraling, and his mood is going with it.

They’re halfway through the movie when it happens. Margo makes some offhand comment—about the animation, or the physics of whatever character is saying something onscreen—and Quentin snaps.

“Can you maybe not talk through the entire fucking movie?”

The silence that follows is immediate and sharp.

Margo freezes. Her head turns slowly toward him, her expression unreadable for a beat too long.

“Quentin.”

“I’m sorry,” he says too fast, already backpedaling. “I just—I can’t think, okay? And you-you were being...loud and—fuck, I didn’t mean—”

“No,” she says, low and firm. “You don’t get to do that. I’ve been nothing but patient with your twitchy little ass all week, and I get you’re stressed, but I am not the person to dump that on.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Nods instead. Shame floods his chest.

Eliot reaches for the remote and pauses the movie. Then turns to look at Quentin fully.

“Okay, that’s enough.”

Quentin swallows hard. His throat is thick and tight.

“I didn’t—”

Eliot holds up a hand, cutting him off. “I know you didn’t mean to,” Eliot says. “But you did.”

The tone is unmistakable. Quiet. Certain. Dominant.

Margo stands. “I’m gonna get a glass of wine and pretend not to hear whatever weird shit you two get up to in my living room. But when I come back,” she adds, looking at Quentin dead-on, “you will not be acting like an asshole. Got it?”

He nods. Miserable. “Got it.”

She disappears into the kitchen. Eliot waits until the door swings closed behind her.

“On your knees,” he says quietly.

Quentin slides off the couch without argument, already flushing with humiliation. The carpet is scratchy under his knees.

Eliot just observes him for a minute before sighing in a way that makes Quentin's stomach churn a little. "What are your rules, Quentin?"

"Um, they- I have to-to use my words and ask for what I want, be honest and answer honestly, eat real meals, safeword if I need it?"

"Good boy, thank you," Eliot murmured, with a small nod. "You have a new one, so listen closely: You're not allowed to lash out at the people who love you just because you don't feel good. You don't get to hurt others just because you're hurting. Got it?"

Quentin nodded before he could force himself to choke out a "Yes, Sir."

Eliot leans forward. “You’re allowed to be overwhelmed, Q. You’re allowed to be scared. But you do not take that out on the people who love you.”

“I know,” Quentin whispers.

“She’s been looking out for you nonstop. Studying with you. Worrying about you. And you snapped at her like she’s disposable.”

Quentin nods, tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

“Use your words.”

“I’m sorry.”

Eliot’s voice softens, but not much. “Not to me.” He nods toward the kitchen.

Quentin moves to stand up, but Eliot’s hands push his shoulders down, keeping him in place. “No, you can stay there,” he says firmly.

Margo walks back in then, glass in hand, gaze cool. Luckily, she doesn’t say anything about Quentin's current position.

Quentin shifts on his knees, cheeks flushed with shame.

“Margo,” he says hoarsely. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’m just—really overwhelmed and stressed and—and scared I’m gonna fuck everything up and I know that’s not your fault but I took it out on you anyway. You don’t deserve that. And I’m really, really sorry.”

She studies him for a beat.

Quentin looks up, ashamed and tired. “I know I was awful. I took it out on you, and you didn’t deserve that. I’m... just really scared I’m going to mess everything up.”

“You did mess up,” she says calmly. “But you owned it. That’s what matters.”

She comes closer, crouches beside him, hand light on his shoulder.

“I know you’re stressed. But I’m not the person to lash out at. Neither is Eliot. We’re your people, Q. You don’t push us away and expect that not to hurt.”

“I know,” he says again, voice smaller now. “I’m really sorry.”

She stares him down again- Then, finally: “I know, Q. And I know you’re trying. But if you ever talk to me like that again, I will slap you with a textbook and give Eliot some not-so-fun ideas on how to torture you. Trust me, I am not as soft as he is.”

Eliot nods, “Bambi can be a cruel Mistress. I’ve seen it. Wouldn’t test that threat if I were you, Q.”

That actually gets a watery laugh out of him. Eliot squeezes his shoulder.

“I forgive you,” Margo adds. “Just don’t be a dick.”

“I’ll try,” he whispers.

He looks over to Eliot, who gives him an affirming nod, and Quentin shifts again to get up off the floor.

Eliot shakes his head with a condescending smile. “Oh, you silly boy. You’re not allowed back up yet.”

Quentin blinks. “What?”

“You heard me. Consequences. Floor duty. For lying about how you feel and lashing out.”

Margo flops onto the couch again with a smirk and tosses him a blanket and a pillow like she’s bestowing mercy. Which, honestly, she is.

He huffs but doesn’t argue. Sinks down, rests his head lightly against Eliot’s leg.

Eliot’s fingers find his hair. Long, slow strokes, gentle but sure.

Quentin exhales. For the first time in days, he starts to unclench.

The movie plays on.

By the time the second one starts, he’s slumped sideways, bundled in the blanket, eyes half-lidded, cheek against Eliot’s thigh. Margo taps his foot affectionately every now and then when a joke lands.

He stays on the floor the whole time. Never asks to come back up.

And when Eliot presses a kiss to his temple later and whispers, “There's our sweet boy,” Quentin doesn’t bristle. Doesn’t flinch.

He just nods.

The credits roll in a soft shimmer of sound, orchestral and gentle, casting flickers of blue light across the apartment. The TV screen dims to black, but neither Margo nor Eliot moves to turn it off.

Quentin is still on the floor, slouched against the couch with his arms wrapped tight around his knees. The blanket they gave him earlier has slid down to his elbows. His head leans sideways against Eliot’s thigh, and Eliot’s fingers have never stopped threading calmly through his hair—slow, grounding strokes that seem to anchor Quentin to the present.

He’s quiet. Not because he’s better, exactly, but because he’s emptied out. Exhaustion hums through him like static. His limbs are leaden, eyelids heavy, body curled small and apologetic on the carpet. The earlier punishment lingers in the back of his mind—not in a stinging way, but like an echo, a reminder that someone cared enough to stop him from unraveling.

“Okay,” Margo says softly, just above a whisper, as she tugs the blanket from around his shoulders and gives it a dramatic flap. “Come on. Up here. Floor gremlin hours are over.”

Quentin blinks up at her, slow and blinking like he just woke from a dream. “I’m okay here.”

“You’re not, actually,” she says, eyes warm but firm. “Get your sad ass on this couch.”

When he still doesn’t move, she reaches down and takes his hand, pulling gently until he stumbles upright. He sways a little on his feet—off-balance, emotionally hungover—and then lets himself be guided down between them. Margo tugs the blanket back around all three of them, wrapping it tight like a nest.

The moment he’s tucked in against their bodies, something in Quentin gives way. He slumps against Eliot’s side without hesitation, head tucking under his chin like it belongs there. Margo shifts so her arm curls around his middle, and her cheek rests lightly on his shoulder.

“I missed you,” she says quietly, not looking at him. “The last few days sucked without our resident neurotic wet cat haunting the halls.”

Quentin huffs out a tired laugh.

“I mean it,” she adds, voice softer. “This place isn’t the same when you’re not here. I know exams are a bitch, but Eliot and I are in the trenches too, and we still want you around. You don’t have to white-knuckle everything alone.”

“I didn’t want to be annoying,” Quentin says into Eliot’s chest. “Or needy. Or more than I already am.”

Eliot’s hand slides over his heart, palm warm through the blanket. “You being a little much is half the charm,” he murmurs. “But isolating yourself and melting down alone? That’s not the deal, Q.”

Quentin closes his eyes, breathing shakily. “I wasn’t trying to push you away.”

“We know,” Margo says. “But you kind of did. And you’re not the only one drowning in pressure right now.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For being a brat. For snapping at you.”

“I accept your groveling.” Margo pokes him in the ribs, just gently. “But next time, try a text before the full emo spiral, okay? You’ve got two emotionally available adults ready to smother you on command.”

“I really am sorry,” Quentin says again, voice thick. “I just—I get so in my head. Like if I don’t get everything exactly right, I’ll fail. And if I fail, it’ll prove every horrible thing I already think about myself is true.”

“Hey,” Eliot says, firm but gentle. His thumb brushes Quentin’s cheek. “You are so much more than your worst thoughts.”

“Yeah,” Margo agrees. “And if you forget that again, we’ll stage a musical intervention.”

Quentin lets out a breathy, watery laugh and doesn’t even try to hide the tears in his eyes. He sniffles, and Eliot kisses the top of his head.

“You’re our smart boy,” Eliot says. “Stubborn and ridiculous and catastrophically anxious, but so good. So wanted.”

“You guys are really good at this,” Quentin says, muffled.

“Being soft with you?” Margo teases. “We’re naturals. Don’t get used to it though.”

“Too late,” he mumbles, eyes slipping closed.

The room is quiet for a while, the three of them tangled up together, nothing but the quiet hum of the fridge and the faint glow from the TV screen. Quentin breathes in slowly. He feels cocooned. Safe.

Margo’s fingers stroke the strings of his hoodie. Eliot’s hand stays pressed gently to his chest. And for the first time in days, Quentin doesn’t feel like he’s about to break.
He just feels…home.

Chapter Text

Eliot had never been particularly fond of midterm season. The campus turned feral—overcaffeinated zombies stumbling across the quad, every table in the library occupied by weeping undergrads, and the endless, existential smell of burnt coffee and stale highlighters. But this year, it wasn’t the collective misery that bothered him. It was Quentin.

He’d watched it creep in slowly—how Quentin had stopped lingering after study sessions, stopped leaning into Eliot’s touch quite so much. How his texts had gone from flirty or rambly to one-word replies, or not at all. Quentin’s anxiety had always lived under his skin, Eliot knew that, but now it looked like it was eating him alive.

Eliot had always prided himself on being good at reading people. It was practically a survival skill—growing up, navigating social circles, flirting his way into safety or power. But with Quentin, it had become something else entirely. Not performance. Not calculation. Just… attention. A quiet devotion that had snuck up on him and settled into his bones.
He noticed everything now.

And last night… that flash of sharpness, the brittle way Quentin snapped at Margo, the crack in his voice afterward. It hadn’t made Eliot angry, not really. It had made his chest hurt. Quentin had looked so small afterward, like he hated himself for every word he couldn’t take back.

He hadn’t meant it. They all knew that. But the stress was carving into him, hollowing him out, and Eliot couldn’t stand to watch it happen.

What had gutted him most wasn’t the bratty attitude or even the apology—it was how surprised Quentin looked when they forgave him. When Margo pulled him onto the couch like nothing had changed. Like he was still theirs. Still wanted.

Eliot wasn’t sure if Quentin had ever really believed that.

It scared Eliot sometimes, how much he wanted to hold him together.

He didn’t say it out loud, hadn’t even admitted it to Margo yet, but the truth had been quietly unfurling inside him for weeks now: he was in love with Quentin. The kind of love that ached in his chest when he watched Q zone out mid-conversation because he was thinking too hard. The kind that wanted to make him tea and run his bathwater and hold him down when the spirals got too sharp. The kind that was too big to say out loud yet—but not too big to act on.

He picked up his phone and opened their messages.

Eliot:
hey, smart boy. how’s the studying going? still alive in there?

Quentin:
barely
i think my spine fused to the library chair

Eliot smiled to himself, picturing it. Quentin hunched over some annotated printout, highlighter ink all over his fingers, earbuds in but probably not playing anything because he forgot to hit play. He wanted to kiss that furrow between his brows and shove a granola bar into his hands.

Eliot:
You say that like it’s not your natural form
Quentin Coldwater: anxious academic cryptid.

Quentin:
fuck off
(but also i miss you)

That made Eliot pause. Not because it was new—Quentin had said it before—but because it sounded different now. Like a hand outstretched. Like a whisper through the fog of his overworked brain.

He softened.
Eliot:
Miss you too.
which is why tomorrow, you’re staying over
no arguments

Quentin:
what? el
I have like a million exams next week and a paper due. I really need to study.

Eliot:
And you’re going to do all of that. under my supervision.
hydrated. fed. maybe even gasp rested.

Quentin:
You’re not serious- I was just there yesterday!

Eliot:
dead serious. you'll be here tomorrow too.
You bring your notes, your laptop, and your cutest pajamas

There was a long pause. Eliot waited. Then:

Quentin:
you’re a menace
and i hate how effective that offer is

Eliot:
that’s why it works
see you tomorrow, darling
and Quentin?
I’ve got you.

Eliot didn’t need to hear the answer to know it landed. He could feel it in his chest—how much Quentin needed someone to say that, to mean it. Eliot meant it down to his bones.

He glanced at the clock and smiled to himself. Tomorrow. Then Quentin would be back under his roof, curled up in their space, where he could work and rant and crash without falling apart.

And if Eliot had to tie him down and make him nap between flashcards? Well. He could think of worse ways to say “I love you.”

—-----------------
Quentin was exhausted.

He wasn’t even halfway up the apartment stairs and already regretting everything he’d put his body through that week—caffeine abuse, four-hour library marathons, that one night he forgot to eat dinner and tried to pass it off as “just intermittent fasting.” His backpack felt like a sandbag strapped to his shoulders, and his limbs ached with that bone-deep tiredness that no nap could fix.

But the second he knocked on the door and heard Eliot’s voice on the other side, something fluttered in his chest. Not panic this time—something warmer. A soft flicker of relief.

The door swung open.

Eliot looked like every comfort Quentin had ever denied himself. He smelled like herbs and something sizzling and savory on the stove. His smile was immediate, warm and delighted, like Quentin showing up was the best part of his day.

Quentin tried not to collapse into him on sight.

“Hey,” Eliot said softly, stepping aside to let him in. “Look at you. You made it.”

“I almost died on the stairs,” Quentin muttered, shouldering off his bag with a groan.

“Well, if you had died, I hope it would’ve been in a way that didn’t involve collapsing mid-hallway in front of undergrads.”

Quentin snorted and dropped his shoes by the door. “Thanks for the dignity.”

Eliot leaned in to press a soft kiss to Quentin’s cheek — not rushed, not perfunctory, just present. It made Quentin close his eyes for half a second.

“I’ll take that as ‘hi, I’m happy to see you,’” Eliot said as he stepped back to let him in. “Come on. Dinner’s nearly ready.”

Quentin followed him inside, taking a deep breath as the warmth of the apartment hit him full force. It was clean, books stacked on the coffee table, one of Margo’s jackets tossed over the back of the couch. The string lights around the window gave off a soft golden glow. It smelled like dinner and safety.

“You didn’t have to cook,” Quentin said, tugging off his jacket.

Eliot glanced over his shoulder from the stove, smirking. “Please. Like I was going to let you come over and not take the opportunity to personally oversee you eating anything of value.”

“I don’t eat that badly,” Quentin muttered, which was a lie, and they both knew it
.
Eliot raised an eyebrow without looking up from the pan. “Pour us some wine, would you? Bottle’s breathing on the counter.”

Quentin found the glasses and poured carefully, feeling the last of the outside world slough off his shoulders. There was something so stupidly nice about this — about being expected, anticipated, about being included in the rhythm of someone else’s life. About standing in a warm kitchen with someone he maybe, possibly, (absolutely) was falling completely in love with.

He handed Eliot his glass and leaned against the counter, watching him finish up dinner.

“What are we eating?” he asked, trying not to sound too interested, even though the smell had his stomach growling.

“Sausage, peppers, onions with potatoes — nothing fancy, just comfort food. One of my staples. It’ll soak up some of that stress in your bloodstream.”

Quentin snorted. “You a nutritionist now?”

“I’m a Daddy with a stressed-out sub. Close enough.”

That shut Quentin up fast. He sipped his wine to buy time, cheeks blooming red. “Right.”

Eliot turned down the heat under the pan and leaned against the stove, watching him. “So. What’s the academic forecast?”

“Bleak,” Quentin said dramatically. “I’ve got that Lit Theory paper to finish — I hate everything I’ve written so far, so that’s fun — and midterms are next week, so I need to study or I’ll have a full-on breakdown.”

“You’re not having a breakdown,” Eliot said gently.

“I’m definitely on the way to one.”

“Well, now you’ve got a co-pilot,” Eliot said. “So you can pass the wheel for a bit.”

Quentin looked down at his wineglass, turning it slowly in his hands. “Thanks for inviting me over. And, you know. For this.”

Eliot softened. “You don’t need to thank me, Q. You’re mine. This is what we do.”

Something in Quentin’s chest clenched. God, he wanted to crawl into Eliot’s lap and fall asleep right there. But also maybe cry a little. Or a lot.

He shifted awkwardly. “I’ve just been kind of… stressed, I guess. Not sleeping great. Exam season is killing me I think.”

“I know,” Eliot said, moving a little closer. “And I’ve been thinking — if it would help, I could… offer some more creative ways to manage that anxiety.”

The heat that bloomed in Quentin’s stomach was immediate. “Eliot—”

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Rule number one.”

Quentin groaned and pressed a hand over his face. “Yes,” he muttered. “I’d like that.”

“Good boy,” Eliot said, so casually it felt like getting struck by lightning.

Quentin’s knees wobbled a little.

“Sit,” Eliot said, turning to plate the food. “You need to eat. I’m enforcing that one.”

“I’ll allow it,” Quentin murmured, slumping into a chair at the little kitchen table.

A minute later, Eliot set down two heaping plates. The smell was mouthwatering. Quentin dug in without ceremony, and his eyes practically rolled back in his head.

“Okay, what the fuck,” he groaned. “How do you make everything taste this good? This is—this is witchcraft. It’s not fair. You’re hot and good at everything.”

He gestured wildly with his fork. “This is amazing. I’ve never had peppers taste this good in my life.”

Eliot blinked, surprised—and then he beamed. A flush rose high on his cheeks, and he laughed quietly.

“I did make a deal with a demon once,” Eliot said, sipping his wine. “He asked for a soul in exchange for perfectly browned sausage.”

“Was the demon named Mario Batali?”

“Don’t be gauche. It was obviously Gordon Ramsay.”

Quentin laughed around a bite and nearly choked. “I swear to god, it’s not fair. You’re so good at literally everything.”

Eliot’s smile turned slightly crooked, slightly self-conscious. He looked down at his plate for a second before glancing back up.

“I do try to exceed expectations.”

“You do. Unfairly. You’re like… a bonus quest I wasn’t supposed to unlock yet.”

That got another, quiet laugh out of Eliot, and he reached across the table to brush his knuckles over Quentin’s wrist.

“You’re not behind on some quest, Q,” he said. “You’re exactly where you need to be.”

And Quentin just… breathed.

His mind didn’t feel like it was clawing for solid ground. Eliot wasn’t fixing his problems — he wasn’t waving a magic wand and making it all go away. But he was steady. Present. Offering something tangible: a plate of food, a plan, a touch, a look. A sense that it was okay not to hold everything by himself.

And Quentin couldn’t quite say it out loud yet, but: he loved him for it.

Every little thing.

—--------------------------

After dinner, they did the dishes together like they’d done it a hundred times before — not awkward or performative, just easy. Eliot rolled up his sleeves again and washed while Quentin dried, shoulder to shoulder at the sink. There was music playing from a Bluetooth speaker on the counter, the clink of plates, and the quiet hum of running water made the apartment feel like a warm, safe bubble carved out of real life.

Quentin caught Eliot watching him out of the corner of his eye once or twice, and each time Eliot smirked and bumped his hip gently into Quentin’s like it was a secret joke just for them. It made Quentin flush, but he didn’t look away. He liked being watched like that — liked knowing Eliot was there, really there, with him in the quiet, in the ordinary.
It felt weirdly domestic. Comfortable. Like they did this all the time.

Which they kind of did, now.

Quentin stole a glance sideways — Eliot was relaxed, but not unaware. He was always aware. The slight tilt of his head, the way he glanced at Quentin when he thought he wasn’t looking. There was something in his eyes that Quentin hadn’t seen in anyone else’s. Not exactly ownership, but something adjacent. Like affection with sharp edges. Like he knew Quentin, inside out, and liked him more because of it.

“Alright, my darling little grad student,” Eliot said, wiping his hands and tossing the towel over his shoulder. “Let’s hit the books before your brain finishes shutting down for the night.”

Quentin groaned dramatically. “You know you don’t have to supervise me. I’m technically an adult.”

“You’re technically a disaster.” Eliot smirked. “And I said I’d help. Which includes keeping you from spiraling into Wikipedia holes about literary theory and forgetting to eat until 3 a.m.”

“I did that once.”

“You did that twice this week.”

Quentin narrowed his eyes. “You’re very judgy for someone who voluntarily re-reads Ulysses every summer.”

“Don’t pretend you don’t find it hot.”

Quentin flushed and said nothing. Eliot grinned.

“Come on,” Eliot said, breezing out of the kitchen with a flick of his fingers. “Living room. I’ve got some studying to do myself, and I don’t trust you to behave.”

That last part should’ve been a warning.

Quentin trailed after him, carrying his laptop and a stack of books. He put his bag down in front of the coffee table and started arranging his study materials. There was something weirdly soothing about it — the rhythm of prepping, organizing, knowing Eliot was nearby.

Then Eliot said, too casually: “By the way, I’m tying you up.”

Quentin blinked, halfway through opening his laptop. “…You’re what?”

“You heard me.” Eliot knelt beside him, rope already in hand. “You’ve been bouncing your knee and chewing your sleeves and tapping your fingers like they’re a percussion instrument. So. We’re addressing that. Can’t have you distracting me from my own studies, now can I?”

Quentin’s pulse kicked up. “Wait, are you seriously gonna—”

“You’re not safewording,” Eliot said mildly, already reaching for his wrist. “So yes. I am ‘seriously gonna’.”

Quentin hesitated, heart hammering. But his hands moved willingly, obediently, and he let Eliot take them.

The rope was soft and silky, and Eliot’s hands were patient, practiced. He wrapped each wrist in a single-column tie — snug but not biting — then brought them together and knotted the length between them. Then he moved to Quentin’s ankles and did the same. Firm, deliberate.

Quentin’s breath hitched when Eliot shifted his legs slightly apart to get a better angle. “You planned this,” he muttered, squirming just a little. And why was that so hot? That Eliot had been planning this the entire time. It made Quentin squirm a little.

Eliot smirked. “Of course I did. I’m an excellent multitasker.”

“You could’ve at least let me mentally prepare to get tied up like some kind of obedient little study pet.”

“You’re not a pet,” Eliot said easily, cinching a knot and tugging gently to test it. “You’re a brat with too many thoughts and not enough quiet. This is the solution.”

Quentin let out a shaky laugh. “This is deranged.”

“This is working, don’t be a brat, Quentin,” Eliot said.

By the time Eliot was done, Quentin’s wrists and ankles were bound and gently connected — enough to restrict him without immobilizing him. He could still shift and write and reach his materials, but every movement reminded him of the rope, the knots, the fact that he’d let Eliot do this to him.

He was so hard he could barely think.

Eliot looked down at him from where he was now resettled on the couch, arranging his own books and laptop. “Color?”

Quentin nodded quickly. “Green.”

“Good boy. What do we say?”

Quentin’s breath stuttered.

“T-thank you?”

Eliot gave him that sweet, condescending smile that made Quentin’s stomach flip. “Thank you….what?”

Quentin flushed, could feel the heat pooling on his cheeks and his eyes became very focused on anything that wasn’t Eliot. Then, quietly: “Thank you, Daddy.”

“That’s better. Now,” Eliot said, voice silky, “put your laptop and notes down here on the floor. You’re going to study from there.”

Quentin blinked. “From… down here?”

Eliot raised a single eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

Quentin swallowed. “You want me… on the floor. Like a study-servant?”

“Like a very well-tied, very focused little grad student. Yes.”

Quentin flushed, but his body responded faster than his mouth. He did as he was told, cheeks pink, movements a little jerky. His books and papers rustled as he laid them out on the floor in front of the coffee table.

Above him, Eliot sat like a king — legs crossed, posture perfect, glasses perched on his nose, the dim light gilding his cheekbones. His laptop glowed in front of him, a glass of wine untouched on the side table.

Quentin’s voice was barely audible. “This is… humiliating.”

“Mm. Only if you don’t get an A.”

Quentin groaned.

Eliot leaned forward, reaching down to smooth a hand through Quentin’s hair. “Let the ropes help,” he murmured. “You don’t have to hold yourself together. Just let go. Do the work. Let your brain get quiet.”

Quentin nodded, breath catching again.

He picked up his pen, adjusted his notebook, and started working.

The bindings held him steady. The warmth of Eliot’s presence above him — every now and then brushing his fingers down Quentin’s back, giving soft praise, offering a sip of water or a reminder to breathe — kept him grounded.

And slowly, quietly, his thoughts settled.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t easy. But it felt like something — like the static in his brain was finally starting to dissolve.

He hadn’t known how badly he needed this. But Eliot had.

Eliot always did.

—---------------------

Time blurred in the soft way it only did when Quentin felt safe. Lately, in a way it only did when he was surrounded by Eliot.

Not in the bad way — not in the Quentin spiraling, disassociating, watching the clock with a slow-burning sense of doom way. It was just… soft around the edges. Warm. His body felt heavy and calm, muscles held by the rope, mind lulled into some quiet space where things like outlines and paragraphs and citations weren’t quite as impossible as they’d seemed an hour ago.

He hadn’t expected it — hadn’t expected to actually get anything done, much less feel halfway human. The second Eliot started tying him up on the living room rug, Quentin had been sure he’d be too flustered, too turned on, too busy floating on the buzz of rope and Eliot’s attention to actually focus. But instead… his brain, usually sharp and skittering and spiraling, had slowed. Not numbed out, but stilled. Like someone had wrapped their hands around all the static and gently turned the volume down.

And it was all happening from the floor, tied up under Eliot’s knee.

It helped that Eliot was right there. Warm on the couch behind him, legs spread casually, back propped against the armrest, reading a book with a pencil balanced between his fingers and his glasses sliding low on his nose. Ridiculously unfair. Quentin wanted to bite him.

But mostly… he just felt okay.

Focused. Capable. Even proud.

Eliot hadn’t said much. He didn’t need to. Every so often his hand would drift down to Quentin’s hair and stroke through it — absent, tender — or he’d hum a soft reminder to drink his water, or stretch his shoulders, or shift his weight so he didn’t get stiff.

And Quentin, to his own disbelief, was actually working. Midterm notes. Flashcards. A draft outline for the paper he’d been dreading all week. Like, actually doing it. Focused and steady, his pen moving across the page, his laptop open with tabs that weren’t Reddit or Wikipedia. He'd even stopped rereading the same sentence four times before writing anything down. It felt like a goddamn miracle. He didn’t even know how much time had passed.

Not until the front door flung open and Margo’s voice rang out in full glory.

“If you got your dicks out, put ‘em away! I’m home early and I didn’t ask for a front-row seat!”

Quentin froze. His pen dropped. His eyes flew wide, heart skittering into his throat.

Eliot’s head snapped up from his book, eyes locking on Quentin's in shared horror.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, way too late.

There was no chance to move, no cover to hide behind. Quentin was fully tied, seated on the floor with his limbs bound and his laptop surrounded by a halo of messy notes. He looked like a very anxious, very horny grad student sacrifice — right in front of the couch. His cheeks were already going red.

Margo swept into the room, high heels in hand, coat half off one shoulder. She took one look at the scene and blinked. Once. Twice. Then grinned.

“Oh my God,” she said, laughing. “I leave you two alone for a few hours and suddenly you’re doing bondage study sessions in the living room?”

Quentin opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

“Margo,” Eliot said, recovering first with a tight-lipped smile, “we thought you’d be out late.”

“I was,” she said, fully shrugging off her jacket. “But the party was full of undergrads and one of them tried to explain Kafka to me so I bailed.”

She sauntered across the room, looked Quentin up and down like he was a painting in a museum — thoughtful, curious, not even remotely shocked. “Look at you,” she murmured fondly. “Doing your little flashcards. So disciplined.”

Quentin made a strangled sound. His face was on fire. He was in very real danger of actually passing out.

Margo bent down and kissed his forehead, quick and warm.

“Proud of you, nerd,” she said. “Hi, by the way.”

Then she leaned over the couch, kissed Eliot on the mouth like they did on any normal night, and turned toward the hall.

“Anyway, I’m crashing,” she said. “Don’t wake me up unless it’s for snacks or an exorcism. Love you both.”

And with that, she vanished into her bedroom, the door shutting behind her with a soft click.

Silence.

Then Eliot’s composure cracked. He burst out laughing — head thrown back, shoulders shaking, absolutely delighted.

Quentin collapsed sideways onto his elbows, groaning into the rug. “That was the most humiliating moment of my entire life.”

“Oh, come on,” Eliot said, wiping tears from his eyes. “That was iconic.”

“She kissed my forehead, Eliot. While I was tied up!”

“She’s seen worse. I’ve been with her doing worse. Don’t worry too much.”

Eliot slid down from the couch, still laughing, and pressed a kiss to Quentin’s shoulder.

“Alright, enough,” he said softly. “It’s late. You were perfect. Let’s untie you and get you into bed.”

Quentin blinked up at him. “You think I was perfect?”

“I know you were,” Eliot said, already loosening the knots with careful hands. “I told you this would help.”

“You also told me you were gonna help me study, not publicly shame me in front of our hot best friend.”

“Oh, please. Margo would’ve been more scandalized if you weren’t tied up.”

Quentin laughed, a little breathless, a little dazed. But under all of it, he felt good. Proud. Settled in a way that was rare — especially this time of year.

Especially with someone who could tie him up, talk him down, and laugh through the chaos when things got messy.

He didn’t say anything else, just let Eliot finish untying him in gentle, slow motions. The knots came undone. The pressure lifted.

But the warmth stayed.

—----------------------------

The laughter finally quieted. The ropes were tucked away, Quentin's notes stacked in neat little piles, mugs rinsed and drying by the sink. There was something deeply satisfying about the way they moved around each other in the quiet aftermath—Eliot folding a throw blanket, Quentin rubbing at the red marks left around his wrists, both of them soft-eyed and a little sleepy.

In the bathroom, they brushed their teeth side by side, bumping shoulders. Quentin kept glancing over at Eliot in the mirror like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to be here. Eliot smiled every time. They didn't talk much, but the silence felt good. Warm. Comfortable. Domestic.

Once they were tucked into bed, everything seemed to settle.

The soft light from Eliot’s bedside lamp painted them both in amber-gold, shadows dancing across the walls. The room smelled cozy, the scent of Eliot’s lotion and the faint remains of dinner still lingering in the air. It was warm and quiet, the city hushed just enough that it felt like their own little world.

Eliot reached over and slid a hand gently along Quentin’s side, drawing slow, grounding lines over the cotton of his borrowed shirt. “You good?” he murmured, his voice low and soft, all sleepy affection and open concern.

Quentin nodded without hesitation this time, eyes heavy-lidded but bright. “Yeah,” he said, then smiled, a little dreamy, a little shy. “I feel… really good. Like—my brain’s quiet. Which is wild. I didn’t even think that was possible anymore.”

Eliot’s smile flickered in the corner of his mouth, fond and tender. “You’ve been working so hard. I'm proud of you.”

Quentin’s breath hitched, just the tiniest bit. Like it always did when someone told him something kind and meant it. His hand reached up without thinking, fingertips brushing lightly against Eliot’s jaw, then trailing down to rest on his chest. The beat of Eliot’s heart was steady under his palm.

“You always know what to do,” Quentin whispered. “How do you—how are you just perfect all the time?”

Eliot snorted softly. “I’m definitely not.”

“You are to me,” Quentin said, simple and honest and slightly awed.

Then he kissed him.

It started soft. Just a brush of lips, tentative but sure. But Eliot pulled him in almost immediately, tilting his head to deepen it, one hand threading through the back of Quentin’s hair, the other resting warm and wide against his hip. Quentin exhaled shakily against Eliot’s mouth and shifted closer, closer still, until he was practically draped over him in the bed.

Eliot sat up slowly, back against the headboard, drawing Quentin with him. Quentin followed without hesitation, climbing into his lap in one smooth, breathless movement, knees on either side of Eliot’s thighs. The covers slid down around them.

Their mouths met again, hotter now. Hungrier.

Quentin kissed like he was starving, like he needed Eliot more than air. His hands framed Eliot’s face, then slid into his hair, tugging just enough to make Eliot groan into his mouth. Eliot’s grip on Quentin’s hips tightened, pulling him in, rocking them together so their dicks brushed through the thin fabric of their boxers.
Quentin gasped. “Fuck—Eliot—”

Eliot chuckled low and dark, lips brushing Quentin’s jaw. “What do you think you’re doing, hmm?” he murmured, tone edged with amusement and control. “Climbing into my lap, rubbing up on me like this?”

Quentin just gave him a flushed, crooked grin. “Getting comfortable?”

“Mm.” Eliot slid both hands down to grip his hips. “Sure you are.”

He rolled them forward deliberately, grinding up against Quentin so their dicks pressed flush through soft cotton. Quentin’s head fell back, mouth parted, eyes fluttering shut as a moan escaped him. His whole body trembled.

“Eliot, I—”

“You’re so worked up already,” Eliot said, kissing a path down Quentin’s throat. “Such a needy little thing tonight.”

Quentin bit his lip, squirming in Eliot’s lap. His cock was hard, straining against the front of his boxers, and Eliot’s own arousal was clear, heat and pressure between them, friction that made Quentin shiver every time Eliot rocked up again.

Then Eliot’s voice dropped, a velvet whisper against his ear: “If you want to come, you’ll have to ask.”

Quentin’s breath hitched sharply.

“What?”

“You heard me,” Eliot said, hands sliding up under Quentin’s shirt to stroke the warm skin of his back. “You don’t get to just take. You want it? Ask for it. Nicely.”

Quentin stared at him, wide-eyed, caught somewhere between mortified and turned on out of his mind. He swallowed hard, face flushed deep pink.

“Eliot—”

“Not how you should be addressing me right now.”

Quentin let out an actual fucking whine

“I’m waiting.”

Quentin whimpered. Literally whimpered.

Eliot brought a hand down sharply on his ass. Quentin gasped And then—

“Please,” he gasped. “Please, El- Daddy, I need it. I need to come so bad, please, I can’t—” He was panting now, his whole body flushed and desperate, grinding down onto Eliot’s dick in frantic little movements that made both of them groan. Just rambling, didn’t even care what he was saying anymore.

“Good boy,” Eliot whispered, surging up to kiss him hard. “Go on. Come for me.”

Quentin choked on a moan, his hips jerking forward, and then he was coming—heat soaking through his boxers, thighs trembling, breath stuttering as he fell apart in Eliot’s lap. The intensity of it hit him like a wave, crashing over every nerve ending until he was gasping into Eliot’s shoulder, clutching at him like a lifeline.

Eliot followed soon after, undone by the sight and feel of Quentin losing himself, the slick friction and heat and love written all over his face.

They stayed like that for a moment—clinging, breathing each other in, wrapped up in the afterglow. Quentin's head rested on Eliot’s shoulder, his hair damp with sweat, Eliot’s fingers stroking up and down his spine gently.

“We’re gross,” Quentin muttered eventually, voice muffled into Eliot’s neck.

“So gross,” Eliot agreed, laughing softly. “Come on, let’s clean up...again.”

They peeled themselves apart with great reluctance, kissing once more before they got up and stripped out of their ruined underwear. Eliot fetched them warm damp towels and then a second set of soft, clean boxers. Quentin changed into another one of Eliot’s pajama pants, this one extra threadbare, and looked utterly blissed out by the time they slipped back under the sheets.

Eliot turned off the lamp, tugged Quentin close again, curling his body around him from behind. One arm looped over Quentin’s waist, hand resting on his chest. His lips pressed slow kisses along the back of Quentin’s neck, soft and sweet.

“You were perfect tonight,” Eliot whispered against his skin. “My perfect boy.”

Quentin made a sound—small, content—and tangled their fingers together where Eliot’s hand rested against his heart.

“I’m so glad I’m here,” he murmured. “So glad it’s you.” He hesitated, swallowed, “I-I only want it to be you.”

Eliot’s heart stuttered in his chest. So overwhelmed that his eyes stung with tears. He didn’t answer with words, couldn’t. Just held him tighter, kissed him again, and let them both fall asleep in the quiet warmth of each other.

Chapter Text

Eliot’s alarm pierced the quiet of the bedroom, a low, persistent chime vibrating off the walls in the early gray of morning. Quentin groaned from the tangle of blankets and limbs, his face buried in Eliot’s pillow, hair a soft mess over his eyes.

“Turn it off,” he mumbled sleepily, voice thick with sleep. “We don’t have exams today.”

Eliot, already shifting to reach for his phone on the nightstand, glanced back over his shoulder with a soft laugh. “You don’t. I do, remember? Or do you only retain things when I tie them to your wrists?”

Quentin cracked an eye open, smirking faintly despite himself. “Rude,” he muttered. But he blinked slowly, brain starting to churn. “Wait—shit, is it today? I thought your lit seminar was on Tuesday.”

“It’s on Monday, which is today,” Eliot replied, stretching as he sat up, the covers slipping down his bare back. “And this seminar happens to include a truly heinous midterm. Which I would love to ignore, but unfortunately, it counts for like forty percent of my grade.”

Quentin pushed himself upright, rubbing his eyes. “You’re really getting up?”

Eliot turned to look at him, one eyebrow raised. “That’s what alarms are for, darling.”

“I meant—like, right now.” He looked at the clock. “It’s barely seven.”

“I need time to make myself pretty and caffeinate before going off to war.”

Quentin huffed a sleepy laugh and shifted to sit cross-legged on the bed, still wrapped in the blanket. “I’ll stay up with you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.”

Eliot’s eyes softened, the sharp humor of a moment ago easing into something tender. He leaned down to press a kiss to Quentin’s forehead. “Then I’ll make us coffee.”
As Eliot padded into the kitchen, Quentin sat on the bed listening to the familiar sounds—mugs being placed on the counter, the grind of beans, water boiling. He thought about the way Eliot always looked so put together, the way he kept everything in order—how it always seemed effortless.

But when Eliot came back in, mug in each hand, Quentin studied him more closely. His hair wasn’t done yet. His jaw was a little tense. His hands—always elegant, always precise—were tapping against the ceramic without realizing it.

“Are you nervous?” Quentin asked softly, taking the mug offered to him.

Eliot hesitated, like he might dodge the question, but then gave a little shrug. “A bit,” he admitted, sitting down beside him again. “It’s a lot of material, and I care about the grade. But I’ll be fine.”

Quentin frowned. “I forget sometimes that it’s not just me. Like, you’ve got all your own stuff too. Exams and stress and... life.”

He sounded small and a little guilty, and Eliot turned toward him fully. “Hey.” He placed a hand on Quentin’s knee. “I don’t mind being the one who takes care of you. I love taking care of you. That doesn’t change just because I’m also stressed.”

“But it’s not fair,” Quentin muttered. “You’ve got so much going on, and I just—melt down in your lap like a weirdo.”

Eliot snorted, then smiled gently. “First of all, you’re my favorite weirdo. Second...” He paused, searching for the right words. “I used to handle stress a lot differently. A lot worse. Drinking too much, pushing people away, being—destructive, mostly. But taking care of you? Having someone to focus on besides myself? It’s grounding, Q. It helps.”

Quentin blinked, caught off guard by the quiet honesty in Eliot’s voice. “Really?”

“Really.” Eliot reached out, brushed a hand through Quentin’s hair, letting his fingers linger. “You’re not a burden. You’re—comfort, for me too.”

Quentin leaned into the touch, mug forgotten in his lap. “That’s... weirdly hot and sweet. I feel like I should write a thank-you letter to your trauma.”

Eliot laughed, bright and warm. “Please don’t.”

“I’m serious though,” Quentin said, sobering again. “I’m sorry I’ve been a mess. And I’ll try not to forget that I’m not the only one in the world.”

“You don’t have to apologize for needing care,” Eliot said, firm but kind. “But I appreciate the sentiment. And the company. Especially at stupid o’clock.”

They sat like that for another moment—shoulders brushing, the morning quiet between them soft and safe. Eliot eventually leaned down and kissed Quentin’s hair, murmuring, “Now be a good boy and let me go make myself look obscenely competent.”

Quentin smiled against his mug. “You always do.”

—-----------

Eliot had his bag slung over his shoulder, coffee in one hand, and Quentin pressed into his chest with the other arm wrapped around his waist. They stood by the door for a lingering moment, neither quite ready to let go.

“You’re sure you don’t want to go back to bed?” Eliot asked softly, brushing Quentin’s hair back with his fingers. “You look like a sleepy little lamb.”

Quentin snorted, cheeks flushing even before Eliot’s next words hit. “No, I—I want to be up. I’ve got studying to do anyway.”

Eliot hummed thoughtfully. “That’s what I thought. And since I’m going to be gone for a while—” He leaned in close, lips nearly brushing Quentin’s ear. “—I’m leaving you with a few tasks. Think of them as your morning assignments.”

Quentin’s spine straightened slightly. “Tasks?”

“Mmhm.” Eliot pulled back just enough to look at him, eyes glittering. “Nothing too wild. Just things I know will help. I want you to: one, make yourself breakfast. No dry cereal. Cook something. Two, eat it. Three, text me photo proof so I know you didn’t cheat with, like, a granola bar and call it a day.”

Quentin gave a bashful little smile. “Okay…”

“Four, make the bed properly. Sheets tucked, pillows fluffed. No chaos gremlin piles.”

Quentin rolled his eyes, but he was still smiling. “You’re so bossy.”

“Five,” Eliot continued, ignoring him sweetly, “start a load of laundry. You’ve got that whole pile of stuff from last week still in the corner.”

Quentin nodded, cheeks beginning to pinken as he sensed a shift in Eliot’s tone. The warmth in his stomach curled low, familiar and fluttering.

“And six,” Eliot added, mouth curving slyly, “you’re going to do all of that wearing the plug I left for you in the top drawer of the nightstand.”

Quentin’s mouth dropped open. He made a helpless, flustered sound. “You—what?”

Eliot leaned in, his lips grazing the corner of Quentin’s mouth, voice like velvet. “You heard me.”

“But—Eliot—”

“No buts,” Eliot purred, and Quentin’s brain short-circuited trying to process the pun and the command all at once. “Well. One butt. Specifically yours.”

Quentin covered his face with his hands, red all the way to the tips of his ears. “You are the worst.”

“I’m extremely helpful,” Eliot corrected, smug as hell. “This’ll keep you grounded while I’m gone. Give you a little reminder of who you belong to.”

“I think everyone already knows,” Quentin mumbled, muffled through his hands.

Eliot gently tugged them away. “Hey. Color?”

Quentin blinked up at him, breathing steady despite the flush on his face. “Green.”

“Good boy,” Eliot said, and the way Quentin melted instantly was almost unfair. “I want you squirming your way through that chore list, thinking about me every second. And when I get back, we’ll see how well you followed directions.”

Quentin swallowed, nodding quickly.

Eliot kissed him—firm and full of promise—then pulled back with a warm hand on the back of Quentin’s neck. “You’ll be perfect for me.”
Quentin whispered, “I’ll try.”

“You always do.” Eliot opened the door and stepped out into the hallway, giving one last wink over his shoulder. “Text me that breakfast photo.”

As the door clicked shut behind Eliot, Quentin found himself standing a little taller. Still buzzing, still embarrassed—but underneath it, a delicious sense of purpose was settling in. He had orders. He had structure. He had a plug waiting for him in the nightstand.

He kind of couldn’t wait.

—--------

The apartment felt too quiet after Eliot left.

The silence wasn’t sterile—it still held warmth, like the ghost of Eliot’s voice and laughter was lingering in the corners, folded into the blanket Quentin had pulled up around his shoulders. But with the door shut and Quentin alone in the soft early light, he could already feel his brain winding itself into knots.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, blinking blearily, when he finally stood up with a sigh and opened Eliot’s nightstand.

Inside, folded neatly next to the lube, sat the plug. The one Eliot had picked for him. Told him to wear while he did his list of morning tasks. It wasn’t large, but it was daunting—and absurdly intimate. The trust of it, the ownership, made Quentin’s cheeks flush hot before he even touched it.

He picked it up, skin prickling with nerves and anticipation both.

And then, alone in the bathroom with the early sun filtering through the frosted window, Quentin took his time. Carefully. Thoughtfully. Listening to his body, checking in with himself. It didn’t take long to settle it into place, but when he stood up again—pajama pants tugged gingerly over his hips—it felt like every inch of his skin was aware of Eliot.

Even gone, Eliot had a hand on him.

It made him feel... shy. But warm, too.

He padded to the kitchen on socked feet, going over the list Eliot had left him, and decided to write it down just to be safe:

To-Do:
1.Make and eat breakfast (photo proof )

2.Make the bed

3.Start laundry

It was ridiculous. It was perfect.

Quentin made eggs—scrambled, soft, the way Eliot always cooked them. The whole time, he was aware of the plug, of course, shifting uncomfortably and biting back quiet little sounds as he moved around the kitchen. But he focused on being good. Following instructions. Letting his body stay busy while his brain—surprisingly—stayed still.

When the plate was done, he set it on the table and snapped a photo. He hesitated for a second, then took another one—this time with a small smile on his face—and sent it.

Q: [Image attached] Breakfast. Proof.

Eliot: 😍 That’s my good boy. Be sweet to yourself today, okay? I’ll check in after my exam.

Quentin hugged his phone to his chest for a moment, irrationally pleased.

He took his time eating. Every movement reminded him of the plug, sure—but more than that, he felt centered. Present. Like Eliot had tethered him to something real before leaving.

After breakfast, he rinsed the plate, set it gently in the drying rack, and padded back to the bedroom to make the bed. It looked like a war zone: pillows tossed to one side, blankets crumpled and pulled halfway off. The scent of sleep and skin still lingered on the sheets, and Quentin folded them back carefully, smoothing everything into place with meticulous fingers.

He was halfway through tucking in the corners when the bedroom door swung open where it had been mostly closed.

Margo’s voice rang through: “If I find a dead nerd in here from exam anxiety, I’m not reviving him. I draw the line at CPR before coffee.”

Quentin startled so badly he dropped a pillow.

“Margo—god—you scared the crap out of me.”

She strolled into the room, casual and catlike, still in her pajamas with a coffee in one hand and her phone in the other. She raised an eyebrow at him. “You always this jumpy before noon?”

“I thought you had class,” he said, trying to slow his heart.

“Nope. No exams today. Just me, my day off, and a growing sense that you’re gonna start spiraling in here if I leave you all alone.” She took a sip of her coffee and looked around the room. “You’re making the bed like your life depends on it. Everything okay?”

Quentin flushed slightly and straightened a pillow with unnecessary focus. “I’m just...trying to stay on top of things. You know. Being productive. Not freaking out.”

“Uh-huh,” Margo said, clearly unconvinced.

She set her coffee down on the nightstand and leaned one hip against the dresser, watching him. Not judgmentally—just like she was seeing him. She knew. Quentin knew she knew. He blushed.

Quentin folded the top sheet with unnecessary precision. “I wasn’t—uh, sure if you’d want to hang out. After... last night.”

Her expression softened instantly.

“Oh, Quentin,” she said, voice gentler than he expected. “You thought I was gonna be weird about it?”

He looked away, swallowing. “I don’t know. I just... I’ve never done anything like that with anyone else…or ever, I guess. And I didn’t know if it would change how you saw me.”

“It does,” she said, and his chest went cold for half a second—until she added, “I see you now with even more respect.”

That startled him into looking up.

She shrugged, arms crossed, but her voice was warm. “You were brave, Q. You showed up, you were honest, and you let yourself have what you needed. That’s more than most people ever manage. Honestly, I was proud.”

Quentin’s eyes stung suddenly, caught off guard by the swell of emotion. “I’ve just been kind of worried about it all morning.”

“Yeah, I figured,” she said, uncrossing her arms. “Which is why you’re coming to brunch with me. You need a change of scenery. And maybe a mimosa.”

He let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. “Margo, I don’t know if I’m dressed for brunch, also I literally just ate some eggs.”

“You look cozy,” she said, eyeing his oversized hoodie and rumpled hair. “It’s a look. Very now. Maybe put on some actual pants, though. Also, Eggs aren’t enough to sustain you for hours. You could use something. I say so.”

He smiled, more genuinely this time. “Okay. Yeah. Brunch sounds good.”

“Good,” she said, grabbing her coffee and tossing him a wink. “Finish fluffing your trauma pillow, put on some pants, and meet me by the door in 15 minutes.”

He laughed again, and this time it stayed with him even after she left the room.

—----------------

The place Margo picked was aggressively modern, all raw wood tables and exposed brick, sunlight pouring through big windows and catching on the low-hanging plants and tiny overpriced succulents on every surface. Quentin trailed after her like a nervous duckling, still a little self-conscious in his hoodie and jeans, still vaguely squirmy from the plug and the residual Eliot-ness of the morning. He didn’t know what he’d expected brunch with Margo to be, but he definitely hadn’t expected to feel like he was being taken out by a hot mob boss with a very specific agenda.

She picked a window table and sat like she owned the place. Quentin followed, unsure if he should be bracing for a heart-to-heart or a casual roasting.

Before he could open the menu, Margo plucked it from his hands and flipped through it with deadly precision.

“Nope,” she said, eyes scanning. “You’re not getting the anxiety toast. You need comfort food. Real food. And a goddamn mimosa, even if you don’t drink it.”

“I don’t think I’m brunching hard enough,” he mumbled.

“You never are,” she said sweetly, and flagged down a server.

When they arrived, Margo didn’t hesitate. “Two mimosas, one iced coffee for me, two orders of waffles, and we’ll split the sweet potato fries. Thanks.”

Quentin blinked. “You just—”

“You looked like you were going to cry trying to choose between pancakes and every other option on the menu. I made an executive decision.”

The server gave Quentin a vaguely sympathetic smile and disappeared. Quentin leaned on the table and stared at her.

“You know you terrify people, right?”

“I hope so,” she said brightly, stirring her water with her straw. “Keeps the weak ones away.”

They sat for a moment, the clatter of silverware and the buzz of brunch chatter filling the quiet between them. Quentin kept fidgeting with the edge of his napkin until Margo finally sighed and reached across the table to still his hand.

“Hey,” she said, voice dropping into something softer. “You know I love you?”

Quentin froze. “You—you what?”

“You heard me, dumbass,” she said, rolling her eyes affectionately. “I love you. Don’t make me say it twice, or I’ll revoke it out of spite. I’ve said it before, but maybe you were too….out of it, to remember.”

He stared at her, his throat tight.

“And I would never think badly of you for not being vanilla,” she went on, letting go of his hand. “Christ, Quentin. That’s your big crisis with me? You think that’s what’s gonna make me see you differently? Not the incessant brooding or your tragic book collection or your frankly unforgivable hoodie habits—no. It’s the sex stuff?”

Quentin turned approximately twelve shades of red. “I just—I’ve been overthinking it. Last night. The weekend. You saw—”

“I saw you tied up to study and also kneeling and apologizing like a good little sub,” she said bluntly. “Yeah. I did.”

He choked.

They paused while the server came back with their drinks and thanked them politely.

“And you know what I thought?” she said, reaching for her mimosa as the drinks were dropped off. “I thought: good for him. Because you looked happy. You looked soft and a little blissed out and, okay, embarrassingly earnest. But not ashamed. Not really. Until later, when you crawled into your brain and started second-guessing every breath you took.”

“I wasn’t—” Quentin started, then sighed. “Okay. Maybe I was.”

“Of course you were. I know your type. You're a little chaos machine of spirals and unnecessary guilt. So let me say this plainly, so it sticks: I don’t give a single fuck what kind of weird kinky shit you and Eliot get up to.”

Quentin blinked. “That’s… reassuring?”

She smirked. “I mean it. I’ve done worse. I do worse. You saw me in the club too, remember? I wasn’t there for the ambiance.”

He nodded, eyes widening slightly.

“I’m in the scene too, Q. Not like you and Eliot. You two are all romance and whispered praise and eye contact during sex. You cry when you come. I can smell it on you.”

He hid behind his mimosa.

“I like control,” Margo continued, matter-of-fact. “I like dominance and sharp edges and pain with my pleasure. I’m not looking for soul-deep emotional catharsis with my hookups. I want power and I want it mean. And I don’t apologize for it.”

She gave him a pointed look over her glass.

“So you—soft, eager, kneeling little boy—are not going to act like you’re the weird one.”

Quentin’s throat worked. He took a second before answering, recovering at the way being called "little" made his heart stutter. Shelve that away for later. “I just—after everything—I didn’t know if I was supposed to hide it around you. If I’d made things weird, or if you were uncomfortable—”

“I’m never uncomfortable,” Margo said, raising a brow. “ Look at where we are right now and the conversation I am forcing you to have. I’m not uncomfortable, not about this. Especially not in my own apartment. And this part’s important, so listen close: if you’re at the apartment, and you want to exist as your full self? That includes the kinky part. You don’t have to hide it. I’ve already seen enough of it that pretending would be insulting to us both. I’m okay with it. Always.”

Quentin looked down at his hands.

“And if Eliot’s the one giving you that space,” she continued, “then I’m even more okay with it. I know you’re safe. And I know he loves it.”

He felt like he might cry again, which was annoying.

“Look,” Margo said, tilting her head, “you’ve been adopted into my cold little heart whether you like it or not. You’re ours now. And if you think I’m going to judge you for being vulnerable and brave and having really weird sex with my best friend, then you clearly haven’t been paying attention.”

A laugh broke out of him, helpless and warm. “You’re the best.”

“I know,” she said, smug.

Their food arrived, and Margo casually unwrapped his silverware for him and shoved the plate closer.

“Eat,” she said. “Then we’ll talk about what ridiculous index card system you’re going to do to study later. And no, the hoodie’s not allowed.”

Quentin smiled down at his plate, cheeks still pink but heart lighter than it had been in days.

“Thanks, Margo,” he said quietly.

She just popped a fry in her mouth and winked.

—-----------------

After brunch, Margo didn’t let Quentin slink back to the apartment to overthink things. She dragged him out instead—through a nearby park, down sunlit streets lined with blooming trees and overpriced boutiques, the kind of afternoon that felt like it had been ordered directly from the weather gods for emotional recovery.

“Vitamin D, nerd,” she said, tugging him across the grass. “You can’t just marinate in self-loathing indoors like a Victorian ghost.”

“I’m not marinating,” Quentin muttered, squinting against the sun. “I’m just… lightly brining. Why are you always comparing me to a victorian era…anything, by the way?”

She laughed, bright and sharp, and he smiled despite himself. “You have an energy about you. Can’t help it.”

The food, the fresh air, the honest talk—it all helped. More than he’d expected. He felt lighter, like maybe his heart had a little room to beat normally again.

They were mid-arguing about whether Quentin should dye his hair when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He tugged it out and saw Eliot’s name on the screen, with a short message:

E: Exam’s over. Heading back now. Be there in twenty.

The blood drained from Quentin’s face.

Margo noticed immediately. “What.”

Quentin blinked at her. “I—fuck. The laundry.”

She raised a brow. “What about it?”

“It was one of my tasks,” he groaned. “Breakfast, picture, bed, laundry. I forgot. I completely forgot. And now he’s coming back and I didn’t do it—”

“Oh no,” Margo said, utterly unsympathetic and already smirking. “You forgot your chores? Tragic.”

Quentin flailed. “This is not funny!”

“It’s hilarious,” she said. “You’re so fucked.”

He ran a hand through his hair. “He’s gonna be so disappointed.”

“Oh, babycakes,” Margo said, patting his shoulder with zero comfort. “You’re not getting ‘disappointed.’ You’re getting punished. With a plug still in, no less.”

Quentin turned bright red. “H-How did you even know that—wait. No. Never mind. I don’t want to know.”

Margo grinned. “I’m psychic.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Tomato, tomahto. You’ll love it.”

He covered his face. “You are not helping.”

“Sure I am,” she said. “I’m walking you back like a good friend. Come on. Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your shame spiral.”

They made their way back at a brisk pace, Quentin more or less vibrating with nerves. By the time they reached the apartment building, his stomach was a knot of anticipation.
Eliot was already inside when they stepped in—leaning against the kitchen counter with a glass of water, suit jacket draped over a chair, sleeves rolled, and the most knowing smirk Quentin had ever seen stretching across his face.

“Oh no,” Quentin whispered.

Margo elbowed him lightly and said sweetly, “Hey, El. How’d the exam go?”

Eliot’s gaze shifted from her to Quentin, slow and hot and full of mischief. “I’m confident I aced it. Thank you for asking.”

Quentin felt like a deer in very sexy headlights.

Margo shot him a look, then turned back to Eliot. “We had a little brunch and a fun, emotionally vulnerable chat about kink and shame and other adorable disasters.”

“Did you?” Eliot asked, eyes still locked on Quentin, who looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “That’s so good to hear.”

“Oh yeah,” Margo said, breezing past him to grab a soda from the fridge. “And just FYI? I know about the list. Someone is in trouble.”

Eliot made a thoughtful noise and crossed the room slowly, predator-smooth, until he was standing directly in front of Quentin, who’d frozen in the entryway like a scolded puppy.

“Is that true, Q?” he murmured, voice low and darkly amused. “You didn’t finish your list?”

Quentin opened his mouth. Closed it. Nodded miserably.

Eliot tsked. Acting like he didn’t already know. Like it was new information. He was playing this out with Margo and she was helping. Quentin felt dizzy.

“That’s not very responsible of you.”

“I got distracted!” Quentin blurted. “Brunch was emotional! There were feelings!”

“Oh, I’m sure there were,” Eliot said, stepping in close. “And yet the laundry remains undone.”

Quentin whimpered.

Margo, behind them, popped the soda open with a hiss. “Anyway,” she said. “This is my cue to leave before things get sticky in here. I’m gonna go pretend to study and definitely not watch TV for three hours.”

Eliot didn’t look away from Quentin, just said, “Thanks, Bambi. Always a pleasure.”

“Try not to break him permanently,” Margo called as she headed down the hall.

The bedroom door shut behind her with a soft click.

Quentin swallowed hard.

Eliot leaned in, mouth close to his ear.

“Bedroom.”

—-------------------

By the time Margo disappeared down the hall and they had walked to Eliot’s bedroom, Quentin was all but vibrating with nervous energy. He stood frozen just inside the door, fidgeting with the hem of his hoodie, heart pounding like he was about to walk into a boss fight he hadn’t properly leveled up for.

Eliot leaned back slightly against the bedroom doorway, arms folded, posture deceptively relaxed. His eyes, though — they were all focus. All heat.

“Let me guess,” Eliot murmured, tilting his head just slightly. “You forgot what time it was. Or you didn’t realize how late it had gotten. That it was more about intentions than actual behavior, hmm?”

“Yes! Exactly!” Quentin brightened for a second, seizing the olive branch. “It was an honest mistake. Like… a harmless side quest. A minor detour on the way to responsible adulthood.”

Eliot’s eyes sparkled. “You do know you’re making it worse by trying to argue your way out of it, right?”

Quentin flinched. “I—I was going to do it. Really. The laundry. It was absolutely on my list, and I just—Margo dragged me out. Not that I’m blaming her. I mean I am, but I’m not. It’s still my fault. I just didn’t realize how much time had passed and I wasn’t—”

“Quentin.”

He fell silent immediately, lips parted.

Eliot stepped away from the door, letting it fully shut behind him as he moved into the room. “I’m not mad. But that’s the kind of thing we’re working on, isn’t it?”

Quentin shifted awkwardly, wringing his hands. “Time management?”

“Responsibility,” Eliot said, voice gentle but edged with firmness. “Following through. Especially when you know what the expectations are.”

Quentin flushed deeper. “Right. Yes. Totally fair. It was just a brunch walk sunshine kink-heart-to-heart detour.”

Eliot chuckled. “You’re cute when you try to rationalize your way out of trouble.” He sat down on the edge of the bed with all the authority of a throne, legs spreading a little as he looked up at Quentin. “Come here.”

Quentin froze.

Eliot patted his thigh. “Now, Q.”

It wasn’t loud or angry, just confident — and inevitable.

Quentin’s feet refused to move. “I don’t suppose this is going to be, like, a warning or… verbal correction sort of thing?” he asked hopefully.

Eliot just raised a single eyebrow.

“I mean…” Quentin laughed nervously and ran a hand through his already-messy hair. “Okay, but you do know there are entire Fillory chapters about delayed consequences and proportional judgment, right? I mean, Eliot, there’s an entire subplot in Book four where the High King delays a ceremonial punishment by three days and—”

Eliot laughed softly and on the edge of the bed like a man who knew he held all the power in the room, crossing one ankle over the other and patting his lap. “Come here, My High King of Excuses.”

Quentin’s stomach flipped. “Nooo.”

“Quentin.”

He groaned louder, flailing his arms. “Just—just give me a second to mentally prepare. Like a countdown. Or a warning. Or maybe—can we negotiate a sentence reduction for good behavior? I did clean the kitchen after I made eggs. That’s got to be worth something.”

Eliot tilted his head. “You’re stalling.

“I’m panicking,” Quentin muttered, and then, under his breath: “...which is like stalling’s more dramatic cousin.”

“Q. You’ve had a lot of leeway recently. Maybe that’s my fault, I’ve spoiled you, and now you think you can get away with things all the time. Is that it? Not today, though, sweet boy. You’ve earned what’s coming to you. Haven't you, Quentin?”

The way Eliot said his name — low, measured, warm with authority —the way he used that fake sweet, condescending tone made Quentin’s whole body shiver. Slowly, hesitantly, he stepped forward until he was standing awkwardly between Eliot’s knees, hands twitching at his sides.

“Good boy,” Eliot said, voice gentling. Unbuttoning and sliding down his pants, he reached up and took one of Quentin’s wrists, drawing him down and across his lap in one fluid, practiced motion.

Quentin gasped as his body tipped and settled, his chest against the bed, hips raised over Eliot’s lap, the stretch of his hoodie riding up and baring his boxers—and the very obvious shape of the plug beneath them. The position was humiliating in a way that made heat rush straight to his cheeks (and his dick).

“I really was going to do it,” he said again, more muffled this time.

“I know,” Eliot murmured, dragging a hand over Quentin’s ass, then down his thigh, slow and thoughtful. “But part of this — all of this — is about learning to be accountable, Q. Not just for the things that are hard or overwhelming. But for the small things, too. Following through. Keeping your word. Being reliable.”

“I am reliable,” Quentin whined, shifting a little as Eliot’s palm squeezed gently over the plug, teasing him with the reminder. “Most of the time. Kind of. Occasionally.”

Eliot hummed. “This isn’t about punishment for failure. It’s about reinforcement. Training. And maybe a little bit of you enjoying being put in your place, hmm?”

Quentin made a strangled noise. “That’s—subjective.”

“Mhm.” He pushed Quentin's boxers down past his hips silently.

The first swat came with no warning — not hard, just firm, Eliot’s palm cracking lightly against his ass and making him jerk and gasp.

“Ah—!”

“Still subjective?” Eliot asked mildly.

Quentin twisted his fingers in the duvet. “I plead the fifth.”

“You’re going to plead for something,” Eliot muttered, and brought his hand down again.

The sound of Eliot’s palm hitting Quentin’s ass echoed in the quiet bedroom, sharp and rhythmic. It wasn’t cruel — Eliot never was — but it was unrelenting. Controlled. A steady tempo of warmth and sensation that made Quentin whimper into the comforter with every blow. His fingers gripped the edge of the duvet like it might keep him tethered, his breath stuttering with each jolt that rocked the plug deeper inside him.

Eliot’s hand smoothed over the reddening skin between swats, fingertips trailing over heated skin and dipping down, just barely brushing the base of the plug. “You know,” Eliot said conversationally, “you’ve got this whole ‘logic as defense mechanism’ thing down to an art form. It’s kind of adorable.”

Quentin groaned. “It’s a valid strategy!”

“It’s not a working strategy.” Eliot’s hand came down again, firmer this time. “And it’s not going to save you now.”

Another smack. Quentin bit his lip hard.

“You were given three simple tasks.” Eliot’s voice stayed calm, like he was explaining a lesson to a very dense student. “You completed two. You ignored the last.”

“I didn’t ignore it,” Quentin protested, half-sobbing into the blankets. “I just—lost track of time!”

“That’s the same thing, sweetheart,” Eliot said, rubbing a slow circle over his lower back. “Not on purpose. But the result is the same.”

“I didn’t mean to mess up,” Quentin said, voice cracking.

Eliot’s palm rested flat across the curve of Quentin’s ass, warm and grounding. “And I know that. But intention doesn’t erase impact. You know that, Q.”

Quentin was breathing hard now, eyes stinging. “I know,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

Another swat, lighter this time — a reminder more than a punishment. “Tell me what you’re sorry for.”

Quentin squirmed, the plug shifting inside him with a sensation that made his thighs tremble. “I’m sorry I didn’t finish the task. I’m sorry I broke the rule.”

“And?” Eliot prompted, voice low and velvety.

Quentin swallowed. His cheeks were burning. “And… I’m sorry I made excuses.”

“Mhm.” Eliot trailed his fingertips along the crease where thigh met ass, then lifted his hand. “Anything else you’d like to confess, my brat? While we're here and all.”

Quentin hesitated. He was panting, hard now against the mattress, hips involuntarily rocking down as the plug pressed deeper. The humiliation, the arousal, the sheer rightness of it had melted into something thick and warm in his chest.

“I…” he started, then broke off.

Eliot waited.

“I like it,” Quentin whispered. “I like being like this. Being—put in my place. I like…I-”

Another swat. Not too hard. Just enough to make him yelp.

“Finish that,” Eliot said, low and commanding.

Quentin groaned into the blanket. “I like being put in my place… by you. Only you.”

Eliot exhaled like he’d just taken the first sip of something perfectly aged. “There’s my good boy.”

Quentin shuddered. Eliot leaned in close, pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades, then trailing his hand down slowly. He traced along the plug again — deliberate this time — and rolled his palm lightly over Quentin’s cheeks, tapping them just enough to make the toy jostle.

Quentin gasped.

“Oh, I heard that,” Eliot murmured. “You like that too, huh?”

Quentin whimpered.

Eliot dragged a single finger down between his cheeks, nudging gently at the toy, not enough to remove it — just to move it. The subtle internal stretch made Quentin’s thighs jerk and his cock grind into the bed.

“You’re so sensitive,” Eliot cooed, mock-gentle now. “You get put over my lap for a little correction and suddenly you’re hard and squirmy and making those sweet little noises.”

Quentin moaned into the duvet. “I can’t help it.”

“Mm, I know you can’t. You were already halfway there when you laid across my lap. You love it, Q. You love being taken care of. You love being told what to do. You love knowing someone’s in charge.”

Each word was accompanied by a light swat now, perfectly timed so the plug shifted with every hit — sending small, relentless waves of sensation through Quentin’s already overstimulated body.

“You get hard,” Eliot continued, voice sinking into something dark and indulgent, “when I call you a good boy. You get hard when I punish you. You get hard from obedience. That’s deliciously filthy, Quentin.”

“Eliot—please,” Quentin begged, muffled and breathless.

“Oh, now we’re begging? And I haven’t even started yet.” Eliot’s fingers swept down to Quentin’s cock — not touching, just hovering — letting the weight of his words land first.
Quentin whined, knees trembling.

“You want to come like this? Over my lap? Plugged and punished and desperate?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin gasped. “I mean—maybe? If you want me to.”

Eliot chuckled softly. “You’re lucky I adore you. Stay still, Q.”

He pressed a kiss to Quentin’s hipbone, then pulled him up gently, maneuvering him off his lap and onto the bed on his back. The shift made the plug press in deeper, and Quentin moaned helplessly.

Eliot leaned over him, thumb brushing his cheek. “You’re perfect like this,” he murmured. “Messy, pink, needy. Mine.”

Quentin blinked up at him, eyes glossy, lips parted. “Yours.”

Eliot smiled — slow and warm and deeply possessive. “Good boy.”

Eliot’s fingers were slow when they reached down, teasing at the base of the plug, giving it a delicate tug — just enough for Quentin to suck in a shaky gasp.

“You ready?” Eliot asked, low and sweet, like they weren’t already teetering on the edge.

Quentin nodded, wild-eyed, flushed all over. “Please—yes—please take it out, I need—”

Eliot smiled, twisted and tender all at once. “Needy thing.”

He pulled the plug out with a practiced slowness, and Quentin whined at the drag — knees twitching, hole clenching reflexively around nothing.

The emptiness hit fast.

Quentin whimpered, full-body shuddering. “Nnh—no—Eliot, I’m—why’d you take it out—feels—feels wrong—”

“Oh, honey.” Eliot’s voice dripped with patronizing warmth. “You’re already whining? You were just begging me to take it out, now you’re complaining about being empty?”

Quentin let out a soft, choked sob, hips rolling instinctively in search of contact. “I can’t help it. Want something—want you—need you inside—please fuck me, please!”

Eliot pushed two slick fingers in without ceremony, and Quentin arched like he’d been electrocuted.

“That better?”

“Fucking—yes,” Quentin gasped, thighs falling open.

Eliot worked his fingers in smoothly, deliberately scissoring him open, curling them just right until Quentin’s head thunked back against the pillows. The noises spilling from his throat weren’t words anymore — just desperate little sobs and moans that made Eliot’s cock ache inside his pants.

He pressed in deeper, watched Quentin twitch.

“You’re taking my fingers so well,” he murmured, biting down a groan of his own. “But you’re not getting my cock. Not tonight.”

Quentin’s eyes flew open. “What?”

Eliot smiled down at him, unbothered. “You heard me. I’m not going to fuck you.”

“What?” Quentin was panting now, brain whirling with need and denial and the fuzz of subspace. “But I—please, please, Daddy—need it—need you—”

Eliot leaned over, still working him open with those long, perfect fingers. “Sweetheart. You can’t even stay still through a spanking. You think you’re ready to take my dick?”

“Yes!” Quentin sobbed. “I can, I want to, I want—please—”

“My dick is huge,” Eliot said flatly, and Quentin made a strangled sound. “Like, not to brag, but it is. You’ll need prep. Time. A plan.”

Quentin let out a frustrated whimper and kicked his feet against the bed, throwing his head side to side. “But I want it, Eliot—need it, I swear I can take it—please, please I’ll be good, I’ll be—”

“Q,” Eliot warned, voice sharp. “Stop.”

But Quentin didn’t. He was too far under, too wrecked, too overwhelmed by the heat in his belly and the ache in his cock and the molten, aching emptiness inside him. “Please I want you, I need it, please I—”

And then Eliot pulled his fingers out completely.

The sudden loss made Quentin cry out, kicking his heels helplessly into the mattress.

“Flip over,” Eliot said firmly.

Quentin didn’t move — too stunned, too needy, too far gone.

Eliot grabbed his hips and manhandled him onto his stomach. He climbed over him, straddling Quentin’s thighs, and fisted his hand in Quentin’s hair, yanking his head back just enough to bare his throat.

“You’re acting like a spoiled brat,” Eliot growled into his ear. “And I will walk out and leave you leaking and aching all over my sheets if you don’t pull yourself together.”

Quentin whimpered, his body stiff under Eliot’s weight.

“You want to act like a needy little slut? That’s fine,” Eliot said, dragging his nails down Quentin’s back. “But you take what I give you. You trust me to know what you need.”

He lowered his voice further, almost a whisper now, his mouth pressed right to Quentin’s ear.

“Can you be a good boy for me now?”

Quentin nodded frantically, voice wrecked. “Yes—yessir, I can—I’m sorry—sorry Daddy.”

Eliot pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, then mouthed at the skin there, biting just hard enough to make Quentin gasp.

“Good,” Eliot said, voice soothing again. “Now relax.”

He reached under Quentin and wrapped a hand around his cock — wet, throbbing, desperate. Quentin choked on a sound and bucked against his hand.

Eliot stroked him in slow, perfect pulls, hips pinning Quentin down. “You’re going to come like this,” he murmured, dragging his teeth along Quentin’s shoulder blade. “flipped over, wrecked, empty, dripping. My needy, filthy boy.”

Quentin was gone. He was barely breathing, moaning openly now, body jerking with every stroke. “Please—please—fuck, Eliot, I’m gonna—”

Eliot wrapped an arm around his waist, held him still. “Then come.”

And Quentin did — loud and shaking, muscles locking, sobbing his release into the pillow, Eliot’s name punched out of him like a prayer.

Eliot didn’t let go until he’d wrung every last tremble out of him.

Then, gently, he pulled back and laid beside him, running fingers through Quentin’s damp hair, murmuring soft praises and grounding touches while Quentin blinked slowly back to himself.

“Good boy,” Eliot whispered, kissing his temple. “You’re okay. You did so good. My good, sweet boy. All better.”

And Quentin, exhausted and floaty, nodded into the sheets.

“‘M okay. Green. So so green.”

Quentin was still gasping, chest heaving where he lay facedown, flushed and twitchy, every inch of him boneless from release and the slow burn of being pushed, held, claimed. Eliot hadn’t touched himself once—but he was achingly, painfully hard.

And then Quentin stirred, barely, tilting his face to the side, voice wrecked and dreamy.

“Want you to come on me.”

Eliot froze.

Quentin’s lashes fluttered. “Please. Wanna feel it. Want it on me. Want it to last.”

“Oh, fuck.” Eliot’s voice went rough, stripped. “You’re gonna kill me, baby.”

Quentin smiled, all crooked and ruined and proud. “Please, Daddy,” he whispered. And that was it. That was all it took.

Eliot wrapped one hand around himself and stroked hard, fast, the image of Quentin undone and desperate still seared into every nerve. It didn’t take long—he was already on edge from watching Quentin fall apart, from the slick heat of him stretched open, clenching around Eliot’s fingers.

“God, Q—fuck—you’re too much,” Eliot groaned, and then he was coming, hips stuttering, hot streaks of it painting across Quentin’s lower back, ass, the curve of his hips.

Quentin let out the softest, filthiest moan, like even that—especially that—felt good to him.

He twitched beneath the sensation, a small, blissed-out smile tugging at his lips.

“Good?” Eliot asked, breath catching, hand braced on Quentin’s waist.

“The best,” Quentin said dreamily.

Eliot let out a helpless, breathless sound and leaned forward to press a kiss to Quentin’s shoulder blade.

“You absolute menace,” he murmured fondly, already reaching for tissues and a warm cloth, knowing they had clean-up to do before cuddles and aftercare could start in earnest.
Quentin just sighed like he was already halfway asleep.

—--------

Quentin was boneless, sprawled out on his side like something wrung out. His cheeks were flushed, eyes unfocused, hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. He looked wrecked—and radiant.

Eliot stayed where he was for a moment, just watching him breathe. Then, slowly, he reached forward, brushing Quentin’s hair back, fingers light against his skin.
“Hey,” he murmured, soft as silk. “You with me?”

Quentin blinked, slow and lazy, and then his mouth stretched into a stupid, blissful grin. “Hi,” he whispered, voice wrecked.

Eliot let out a low chuckle, full of relief. “Hi yourself.”

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Quentin mumbled, like it was the first thing that occurred to him.

Eliot smiled, brushing his fingers down Quentin’s cheek. “That’s my line.”

Quentin hummed, still grinning. “Eliot?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“That was… I didn’t know anything—anything—could feel like that. Not just sex. Just—being with you. Like this. It’s like... you turn the volume down in my head.”

Something caught in Eliot’s throat, and he froze mid-stroke of Quentin’s hair. He looked down at the wreck of a boy curled up in his bed and felt something huge swell in his chest—something warm and bright and terrifying. Eliot kissed him deeply.

“Q,” he said softly, voice a little tight, “You….You’re so good. I’m so happy to do this with you. I mean that. You’re so special.”

Quentin blinked, eyes going wide for a second, then soft. He didn’t say anything—didn’t need to.

Eliot leaned forward and kissed his forehead, then the tip of his nose. “C’mon, let’s get you washed up fully before your brain completely shuts down.”
Quentin pouted but let Eliot coax him upright. Eliot guided him to the bathroom with a steady hand at his back, helping him sit on the closed toilet lid while he ran a warm washcloth under the tap. The water steamed gently, and he wrung it out before returning to Quentin, kneeling in front of him.

“Let me?”

Quentin nodded.

Eliot wiped him down carefully, reverently—his hands soft as he cleaned between Quentin’s thighs, murmuring apologies when Quentin flinched. He pressed a kiss to his knee once he was done, then stood and helped him into clean underwear and one of Eliot’s soft old t-shirts.

By the time they made it back to the bedroom, Quentin was blinking sleepily again, clearly still floating. Eliot tugged back the covers and let Quentin collapse into the bed, then slid in beside him, wrapping around him like a second skin.

“You okay?” he asked again, voice low.

Quentin nodded against his chest. “Better than okay. That was…”

“Incredible?” Eliot offered, smirking.

Quentin let out a laugh. “Shut up.”

They stayed like that for a while, curled up together beneath the blankets, Quentin drifting and Eliot holding him close. Eventually, Eliot kissed the top of Quentin’s head and whispered, “Let’s go to the couch. I’ll make us tea.”

Quentin groaned but let himself be peeled away and shepherded out into the living room. The late afternoon light poured golden through the windows, and Eliot sat Quentin on the couch, bundled in a blanket, while he busied himself in the kitchen.

Margo wandered in a few minutes later, books under one arm and a pencil behind her ear.

“Well, well, look who survived,” she said, eyeing Quentin with amused affection. “You look like someone dragged you backward through a field of orgasms.”
Quentin, still sleepy and dopey, gave a little wave. “Hi, Margo.”

Eliot brought in two mugs of tea and handed one to Quentin, then sat beside him, tugging him gently to lean against his side. Quentin melted into the touch, head resting on Eliot’s shoulder.

Margo threw herself into the armchair, legs swinging over the side. “Don’t mind me. I’m just going to pretend I didn’t hear anything from your bedroom that I now need therapy for.”

“You didn’t hear anything,” Eliot said primly.

“Not with my ears, no,” she said. “But the walls did. And the walls and I are close.”

Quentin laughed, half-buried in Eliot’s chest. “Sorry?”

“Don’t be.” Margo waved a hand.

Quentin whined into his shoulder, and Margo smirked.

They sipped their tea, quiet settling over the apartment. Margo started flipping through her notes, occasionally muttering things like idiots invented math, and Quentin nestled closer, still floating but no longer unmoored. The world had settled into something warm and steady: Eliot beside him, Margo nearby, everything felt right.

Tomorrow would come with exams and stress and reality. But tonight? Tonight was calm, he had warm tea, people he loved, and the quiet kind of joy that came from being exactly where you were meant to be.

Chapter Text

The morning light was warm and golden, cutting through the curtains in soft streaks, catching on the edges of the blankets and the tousled curve of Quentin’s hair. Eliot was already half-awake, propped up on one elbow, watching the way Quentin’s face stayed slack in sleep, peaceful in a way he rarely managed while conscious.

Eliot reached out, brushing a lock of hair from Quentin’s forehead and leaning down to kiss his temple. “Hey,” he whispered, his voice low and still a little rough. “Time to wake up, sweetheart.”

Quentin stirred faintly, groaning in protest. “Too early,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep. “Hate the sun. Betrayed by photons.”

Eliot chuckled and kissed his cheek next. “Poetic. But unfortunately, you have an exam in two hours, and we agreed you weren’t going to roll into it on zero breakfast and a panic attack.”

“No we didn’t,” Quentin muttered, eyes still closed. “You said that. I was unconscious.”

“And yet you didn’t object.” Eliot leaned over and kissed the side of his neck, slow and fond. “Come on, Q. Up. Before I get the spray bottle.”

Quentin cracked one eye open and squinted at him, like Eliot had personally dragged him into the cruel world of academia. “You don’t have a spray bottle.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

With a dramatic sigh, Quentin flopped onto his back and rubbed his eyes. “I should hate you,” he said, yawning.

“You don’t,” Eliot murmured, bending to press a kiss to his shoulder. “And you’re not getting out of this morning's snuggle-shower, so you may as well get moving.”

Somehow, they made it into the bathroom. Quentin leaned against the counter, half-asleep, while Eliot adjusted the water temperature. Once they were under the spray, Eliot pulled Quentin close and began gently massaging shampoo into his hair, fingers working slow and deep.

“You good?” Eliot asked after a moment, his tone soft and grounding. “After last night?”

Quentin blinked, eyes fluttering closed again under Eliot’s touch. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Better than good.”

“You were amazing,” Eliot murmured, rinsing the shampoo out and trailing his fingers along the back of Quentin’s neck. “Open. Trusting. So fucking sweet.”

Quentin flushed. “You always say stuff like that, and it makes my brain break.”

Eliot kissed the corner of his mouth. “That’s because no one’s ever worshipped you properly. Don’t worry, I’m working on it.”

Quentin gave a little breathless laugh and leaned into his chest, just resting there under the water. “It’s weird,” he murmured. “How… easy it felt. How easy it always is. Not the stuff we did, I mean—but being with you. Letting go.”

“It wasn’t weird,” Eliot said. “It was right.”

They lingered longer than they should have—Eliot washing Quentin’s back, Quentin shyly washing Eliot’s chest, neither of them saying much beyond the occasional murmured affection. There was nothing rushed about it. Just warm water, tender touches, and a quiet kind of closeness that didn’t need to be defined.

Once they were dressed, Eliot handed Quentin a cup of tea and then hovered while he forced down toast and a banana.

“Remind me again,” Quentin said between bites, “how you turned into the domestic tyrant version of Martha Stewart?”

“I care about your blood sugar and your stress levels. Sue me.” Eliot poured himself more tea. “You’ll thank me later when you don’t faint in the middle of an exam.”

Quentin rolled his eyes, but when he finished his tea, he let Eliot help him pack his bag. The routine, the structure—it helped, even if it felt excessive.

At the door, backpack slung over one shoulder, Quentin hesitated.

“You okay?” Eliot asked.

Quentin nodded, then shook his head. “I don’t know. I just… feel like I’m forgetting something. Or like something’s going to go wrong.”

Eliot stepped closer, his hands settling on Quentin’s arms, steady and grounding. “You’ve prepared. You know your stuff. You’ve got your notes, your pens, your student ID. And more importantly—” Eliot tipped his chin up, brushing a thumb along Quentin’s jaw “—you’ve got this.”

Quentin bit his lip. “And when I inevitably crash and burn?”

“Then you come home, and we eat pasta and binge reality TV and I tell you how proud I am of you anyway.” Eliot’s eyes softened. “But you won’t crash and burn. You’re one of the smartest people I know. You’re just also… deeply unkind to yourself.”

Quentin swallowed. “You’re too nice to me.”

Eliot leaned in and kissed him, slow and sweet and final. “I’m exactly nice enough.”

Quentin looked at him a moment longer, then gave him a lopsided grin. “Thanks for this morning. All of it. You make everything feel a little less terrifying.”

“Only a little?”

“I’m grading on a curve.”

Eliot snorted, gave his ass a light smack. “Go. Make me proud.”

“I always do.”

“Yeah, you really do.”

And then Quentin stepped out into the cold, bright morning, his heart pounding, his chest full of something electric and warm.

—--------

The apartment was warm when Quentin stepped inside, flushed with the lingering golden light of late afternoon and the comforting scent of garlic, herbs, and something roasting. He toed off his shoes with a sigh and dropped his backpack a little too dramatically in the corner, like he was physically shedding the stress of the day.

“I live!” he called, voice hoarse but victorious.

“Incredible,” Eliot replied smoothly from the kitchen, head poking around the doorway. “The prodigal brat returns.”

“I’m not a brat,” Quentin said, stepping further in. “I’m a scholar.”

Margo’s voice floated from the couch. “You’re a bratty scholar. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

Quentin grinned in spite of himself. “Fine. A bratty scholar who actually thinks he did okay on his exam.”

That got him full attention. Eliot emerged with a dishtowel slung over one shoulder, the sleeves of his sweater pushed up, hands still damp from chopping. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Quentin said, cheeks going pink but proud. “I—I mean, I won’t know for sure, obviously, but I remembered most of what I reviewed and I didn’t panic, which is a miracle unto itself.”

Margo popped her head up from where she was curled under a blanket. “Proud of you, Q. Want me to bully you into confidence until grades come out?”

“Please do,” he deadpanned.

Eliot came over and cupped Quentin’s face in both hands, tilting it gently up to study him. “You look exhausted. But in a hot academic way. Like, ‘I’m stressed and brilliant and haven’t slept in days.’ Very Harvard-core.”

Quentin snorted. “Don’t let my professors hear that or I’ll never be taken seriously again.”

“Dinner in ten,” Eliot murmured, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “You’re just in time.”

Dinner was cozy and absurdly nice, even for Eliot. Pasta with slow-roasted tomatoes and basil from the windowsill plant he refused to let Margo name. Fresh bread. A stupidly overpriced bottle of wine that he “just happened” to have opened. Margo rolled her eyes, but she accepted her glass and offered a toast to “Academic survival and dumb little boys who didn’t fail today.”

Quentin flushed and ducked his head at being called a little boy, which he silently hoped went unnoticed by Eliot.

It did not.

Afterward, the three of them collapsed into a tangle of limbs on the couch, half-watching a bad romantic comedy Eliot insisted had “deep, cinematic merit” but which mostly involved a lot of slow-motion running and unresolved sexual tension.

Quentin sprawled between them, head in Eliot’s lap, legs draped over Margo’s. He was floppy and soft and full, blinking slowly at the screen.

“You should study a bit,” Margo said, nudging his foot.

Quentin groaned. “You’re cruel.”

“You’ll feel better. I did it after mine this morning. Just thirty minutes.”

Eliot shifted behind him. “C’mon, Q. Spread out. You’ll hate yourself later if you don’t.”

With a grumble, Quentin slid to the floor, grabbing his textbook from the coffee table. He laid out across the carpet, propped on his elbows, highlighter in hand, while Eliot and Margo continued to lounge above him like bored royalty.

For a while, it worked. Quentin underlined a few things, muttered to himself, and occasionally asked a question Margo didn’t even pretend to be interested in answering. When Quentin sat up, knees to his chest to balance his textbook on, Eliot stroked his hair absentmindedly, threading fingers through soft strands as he read something on his phone.

But slowly, something shifted. Quentin started twitching more, tapping the highlighter against the carpet, rubbing his temple like he could physically push away the tension building there. His breath had a quick, shallow edge to it. He turned the same page three times.

Eliot noticed first. “Babe,” he said quietly. “Where’d you go?”

“I—nowhere,” Quentin said quickly, eyes not meeting his. “I’m fine. I just—I forgot we still have three more days of this and I haven’t even started on ethics and if I bomb that one it’s basically over and—”

“Q,” Margo said sharply.

He looked up at her, eyes a little too wide now.

“Stop. Breathe.”

Eliot sat up straighter, hand coming to rest on Quentin’s shoulder. “Come here.”

Quentin hesitated—caught in the push-pull of needing comfort and feeling like he didn’t deserve it—but then Eliot gently tugged, and he melted upward into his lap without argument.

Eliot wrapped both arms around him, secure and grounding. “You’re spiraling. It’s okay. But we’re not letting you do that alone.”

Margo shifted so she was facing him directly, grabbing Quentin’s hands and giving them a little shake. “You’re doing fine. You’re doing great, actually. You studied. You ate. You slept. You showered. You even did well today.”

Quentin gave a shaky laugh at that. “I just—I feel like the next thing is going to snap me.”

“You’re allowed to be stressed,” Eliot murmured, pressing his face into Quentin’s neck. “This shit sucks. But it’s not going to beat you.”

Margo squeezed his hands. “We’re here. You’re not in this alone.”

Quentin let out a slow breath, then another. His shoulders began to drop.

“Better?” Eliot asked after a long moment.

Quentin nodded. “Yeah. I just… needed to be reminded.”

“You always can be,” Eliot said. “Any time.”

They ended the night curled together again, Quentin wedged safely between them on the couch, textbook forgotten on the floor. Margo dozed with her head on Quentin’s shoulder. Eliot kept playing with Quentin’s hair like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Eventually, Quentin mumbled, “Thanks. For… all of it.”

“Always,” Eliot said quietly, with a soft kiss to his hair. “You’ve got this, Q. And you’ve got us.”

—---------------

The apartment was silent, save for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the near-imperceptible scritch scritch of Quentin’s highlighter dragging across paper. He sat hunched at the kitchen table in one of Eliot’s sweaters, a small flashlight clamped between his teeth like he was on a covert mission. Textbooks and note cards were spread out around him like the detritus of an academic battlefield.

He didn’t look up until a groggy, gravelly voice cut through the dark.

“Are you kidding me right now.”

Quentin startled so hard he dropped the flashlight. It rolled across the table, clattering against a plate. He looked up to find Margo standing in the hallway, arms crossed, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders like a dramatic cape.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You scared me.”

“You deserve to be scared,” she replied, trudging toward him. Her hair was a tangle of waves, her eyes narrowed with sleep and judgment. “What the fuck, Q. It’s two in the morning.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” he muttered.

“You were snoring. I heard it.”

“I was sleeping, and then I woke up and I started thinking about the structure of the final essay question from today and if I should’ve gone with Foucault instead of Kristeva for—”

“Oh my God,” Margo groaned, dragging a hand down her face. “You are the worst. You're like if an anxious golden retriever learned how to read theory.”

Quentin tried to look apologetic. He mostly just looked caught. “I’ll be quiet?”

“You’ll be in bed is what you’ll be.” She marched around the table, grabbed him gently but firmly by the ear, and began hauling him up.

“Ow, ow, Margo, I need that ear!”

“You need sleep, dummy.” She didn’t let go. “Honestly. I knew you were a nerd but this is pathological.”

He shuffled beside her down the hall, ears burning, textbooks abandoned on the table like contraband. Margo dragged him to Eliot’s bedroom door and knocked once, still gripping his ear.

It opened almost immediately.

Eliot stood there in just pajama pants, hair tousled, voice warm with sleep. “What the hell—”

“Caught your boy red-handed,” Margo said, shoving Quentin gently into Eliot’s chest. “Studying. Under a flashlight. In the kitchen. Like some kind of noir gremlin.”

Eliot blinked at him, then sighed in a very put-upon, very fond way. “Of course he was.”

“I’m fine,” Quentin said weakly. “I just needed to—”

Eliot cut him off with a raised eyebrow. “You’re going to finish that sentence with something irresponsible, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Into bed,” Eliot ordered, voice low and amused but firm. “Now.”

Quentin sulked a little, but Eliot’s hand found the small of his back, warm and steady, and guided him in. Margo gave a mocking salute before padding off to her room, muttering, “If he tries to sneak out again I’m taping him to the bed.”

“I heard that,” Quentin called.

“Good,” she called back.

Eliot shut the door, then turned to Quentin. “You are such a menace.”

“I tried to be quiet.”

“You’re never quiet,” Eliot said, tugging the sweater off him and nudging him toward the bed. “You sigh like a wounded poet every five minutes and mutter to yourself like Gollum.”

Quentin climbed in with a dramatic flop. Eliot followed, pulling the blanket up and wrapping himself around Quentin like a weighted blanket come to life.

“No more studying,” Eliot whispered, pressing a kiss to Quentin’s temple. “Not tonight.”

“But—”

“Nope. Don’t even think it. You’re mine until morning, and I’m a very greedy man.”

Quentin let out a long sigh and finally, finally let himself go slack. Eliot’s fingers threaded into his hair, soothing, steady.

“Now go the fuck to sleep, genius.”

And Quentin did.

—-------

Midterm week blurred into a haze of textbooks, notes, and late-night takeout containers. Every day, the three of them scattered across campus to their respective exams and responsibilities, then dragged themselves back to the apartment like war-weary soldiers. Even Margo, usually indomitable, had developed a stress crease between her eyebrows. Quentin had started calling it “the Margo furrow.” She threatened to hex him every time, which only made him smirk harder.

Every night ended with all of them curled up on the couch, a pile of limbs under a blanket while something mindless played on the TV. On all of these nights, they fell asleep there, tangled and half-conscious, too tired to move. Eliot would rouse them gently after midnight, guiding Quentin and Margo to bed like a shepherd with stubborn sheep.

On one of these nights, Quentin, strung out and anxious, got a little too mouthy when Margo suggested he take a study break.

“I don’t need a break,” he snapped. “I need to not be a fucking idiot who didn’t understand three weeks of lecture notes.”

Eliot raised a brow from across the room, calm and quiet but firm. “Watch your tone, darling.”

Quentin huffed, flopped dramatically on the couch, and muttered something under his breath about "overbearing Dom behavior."

“Corner,” Eliot said, pointing without looking up from his book.

Quentin froze. “What? Seriously?”

“Fifteen minutes. Go cool off.”

“You can’t-”

Eliot looked up “Oh I can and I am. Go on, Quentin. The faster you go the faster it will be over.”

He blushed and grumbled, but he obeyed, trudging to the corner with the martyred air of someone wrongly imprisoned. Margo bit back a grin and winked at him as he passed.

“Attitude looks good on you, Q. Not as good as rope, but close.”

He glared over his shoulder, and she blew him a kiss.

When Eliot finally called him out, Quentin turned and gave them both a sheepish smile. “Sorry. I’m just… fried.”

“I know,” Eliot said, pulling him in gently. “You’re not in trouble, love. You’re just tired.”

Later that night, they all fell asleep together again on the couch—Quentin tucked between them, Eliot’s hand absently stroking his hair, Margo’s legs thrown over their laps. The last thing he heard before drifting off was Eliot murmuring, “We’re almost there. Just hang on, sweetheart.”

—-----

Dinner was takeout again—Thai this time—spread out across the coffee table in a colorful mess of containers and crumpled napkins. The apartment smelled like jasmine rice and basil and the faintest lingering note of the lavender candle Eliot had lit earlier in the evening, mostly because Margo said if the place didn’t start smelling less like stress and boy, she was going to scream.

The mood was lighter now, looser around the edges. The end of midterms was in sight, and even though they all looked like varying degrees of sleep-deprived and semi-feral, there was laughter over shared curry and playful arguments about which movie to put on while they ate. They had one more day to go, and then it would be freedom, and they could all feel it.

Quentin was curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked underneath him, the other dangling off the edge. His hair was a little damp from the shower he’d taken earlier. He was wearing Eliot’s sweater again—he’d stopped pretending he didn’t know whose it was. The sleeves nearly swallowed his hands, and he kept tugging them down nervously.

Margo was draped along the other end of the couch, expertly using Quentin’s thigh as a tray for her spring rolls, and Eliot was sprawled in the armchair with his glass of wine, socks mismatched, hair a little tousled. He looked lazy and perfect and warm.

“I think,” Margo announced, chewing thoughtfully, “if I ever have to read another word about postmodern feminist film theory, I’m going to start grading my professor’s lectures for plot holes.”

“You should,” Eliot said. “Add a rating scale. ‘This week’s seminar: 2 out of 5 stars. Lacked emotional nuance and adequate sapphic tension.”

Margo grinned. “You joke, but I would kill for more sapphic tension in that class. Quentin, thoughts?”

Quentin blinked, halfway through a mouthful of rice noodles. “Um. I mean, I’m always in favor of sapphic tension.”

“Good boy,” she said, mock-patting his head.

He ducked away, flushed and laughing, and Eliot shot him a fond look from across the room.

They fell into easy silence for a while. Margo reached for the remote and started scrolling through TV options without really watching. Eliot sipped his wine. Quentin stretched his legs out, his toes brushing against Eliot’s knee, and no one said anything about it.

It wasn’t until he was scooping out the last of the rice that the thought hit him like a cold glass of water to the face.

“Wait,” Quentin said, sitting up too fast. “Shit.”

“What?” Eliot looked over, mildly alarmed. “You okay?”

“I—yeah—I just…” Quentin glanced around the room as if expecting it to confirm his worst fears. “I haven’t gone back to my dorm. At all. This week. Like—at all.”

Margo raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“It’s Thursday. No, like—I’ve been here every night. All week. And I left my flashcards on the kitchen table and my laundry’s in the dryer and I used Eliot’s fancy shampoo this morning because I couldn’t find mine and—oh my God, I didn’t even ask.” He looked between them in growing horror. “I just… kind of… stayed.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Margo snorted into her wine.

“Oh my God, Quentin. We know.”

Eliot’s smile was slow and deeply amused. “Darling. You’ve had a mug in the cabinet since the first long weekend you were here.”

“That’s not the same—”

“And your notes are in a stack next to the TV.”

“You put my pen in your pencil jar!”

“It’s a communal jar now,” Eliot said serenely.

Margo rolled her eyes and leaned over to steal one of Quentin’s dumplings. “You are the only person I’ve ever met who would panic about being liked too much.”

“I’m not panicking about that,” Quentin said, panicking exactly about that. “I’m just—what if I’m overstaying? Or taking up too much space? Or—”

“You’re not,” Eliot said, and the amusement faded from his voice, replaced with something quiet and certain. “You literally can’t.”

Quentin swallowed. “I can’t?”

“Nope,” Margo said, propping her chin on her hand. “You can’t overstay somewhere you belong.”

Eliot nodded. “We like having you here, Q. A lot. It makes everything better.”

“You’re part of our weird little… thing,” Margo added, gesturing vaguely between them. “Our co-dependent, slightly fucked up ecosystem. Like an anxious fern that needs frequent watering and praise.”

“I do not—!”

“You do,” Eliot said fondly. “And we don’t mind. You make the apartment feel more like home.”

Quentin stared at them, blinking hard. “You guys are… you’re serious?”

Margo kicked his foot. “Deadly. Now shut up and pick the movie, before I make us watch Twilight again.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would. And dont sit there and pretend like you don’t love it.”

Eliot leaned forward and stole Quentin’s wine glass. “And if it’s any consolation, your toothbrush is in the holder now. That’s a pretty firm commitment to this place.”

Quentin gave a small, stunned laugh, the tension in his shoulders slowly melting as he looked around at them—his ridiculous, incredible people. His… place.

Wanted.

He shook his head, smiling into his plate. “Okay.”

—------

After dinner, the apartment shifted into its usual rhythm of winding down. Margo called dibs on the shower and vanished into the steamy bathroom humming something that sounded like Madonna. The sound of water running echoed softly down the hall. Eliot and Quentin put away the leftovers in a quiet kind of teamwork that had become second nature—bumping shoulders at the fridge, brushing hands at the drawer handles, Eliot occasionally pressing a kiss to Quentin’s temple just because he could.

It felt... seamless.

Quentin was still thinking about what he’d said at dinner—how he hadn’t been back to his dorm all week, how it hadn’t even occurred to him that he should. The fact that Margo and Eliot hadn’t batted an eye had flooded him with relief at the time, but now that he had a moment to breathe, it all just felt big. Too big to sit with silently.

But for now, he followed Eliot into the bedroom, letting himself be coaxed out of his clothes with lazy, practiced ease. They kissed for a while under the covers, slow and warm, mouths moving gently like they had all the time in the world. Quentin’s nerves twisted tighter in his gut, but Eliot's hands helped soften the tension—stroking his spine, combing through his hair, mapping familiar patterns into his skin.

Eventually, Quentin slid down between Eliot’s legs, nuzzling at the inside of his thigh. Eliot looked at him with fond amusement, brushing a hand through Quentin’s hair.

“You trying to avoid thinking about tomorrow?” Eliot teased, voice low and fond.

“No,” Quentin said, already mouthing at the base of Eliot’s cock. “Trying to say thank you.”

“Oh, honey,” Eliot said with a slow grin, his voice turning warm and approving, “then carry on.”

Quentin sucked him off slow, deep, eyes glassy with something that wasn’t quite lust but wasn’t just affection either. Every time Eliot groaned or praised him, Quentin felt the knot in his chest loosen just a little. Eliot cupped the back of his head, not pushing, just holding, guiding, letting him give as much as he wanted.

When Eliot came with a deep, shuddering sigh, his fingers curled in Quentin’s hair, and Quentin swallowed all of it, then kissed the inside of Eliot’s thigh again like a punctuation mark.

Eliot pulled him up into his arms after, kissing his face, his neck, his mouth, and whispering soft, teasing praise that made Quentin glow: “My sweet boy. Look at you. So good for me.”

They snuggled under the blankets, flushed and loose-limbed. Eliot stroked Quentin’s back absentmindedly, and Quentin curled against him, warm and a little drowsy. But the warmth made him brave, and the bravery made him reckless.

“Hey,” Quentin blurted suddenly, then softly, almost shyly. “So… what are we?”

Eliot’s fingers paused in their motion. Just for a moment. Just long enough for Quentin to feel it.

“What do you mean?” Eliot asked, keeping his voice soft, light. Careful.

“I mean…” Quentin’s voice wobbled despite himself. “I’m always here. We don’t sleep with other people. You let me call you Daddy. We do...stuff. You make me tea and coffee and let me—” He hesitated. “I just want to know if I’m assuming something I shouldn’t be.”

Eliot was quiet for a second, then smiled faintly, pressing a kiss to Quentin’s hair.

“We’re whatever we want to be,” he said carefully. “A….dynamic. A connection. A partnership of sorts. It doesn’t have to have a label unless you want one.”

Quentin blinked up at the ceiling. Something in him pinched. A partnership of sorts? Whatever we want to be? He nodded, trying to make it look effortless.

“Yeah. No, that’s cool. That’s good.”

Eliot’s arms tightened around him, maybe in comfort. Maybe in apology. Neither of them said anything else for a while.

They curled around each other, both of them thinking too much. Both of them were pretending they weren’t.

Eliot lay awake long after Quentin's breath evened out.

The room was dim, quiet, warm with the weight of two bodies tangled together under the covers. Quentin had fallen asleep curled against him, trusting and soft and still so heartbreakingly earnest. He always wore his feelings so close to the surface, like a nerve exposed to air.

Eliot had felt the tremor in his voice when he asked that question: What are we?

And he hated himself a little for not answering the way he wanted to. The way he felt.

Because if he said what was really in his heart—that Quentin was his, that he didn’t want to touch anyone else, that he already loved him more than was probably healthy—he was afraid Quentin would panic. Or worse, feel pressured. Like Eliot was trying to fast-track something delicate and new. Like Eliot was important enough to ask for more.

So he’d played it cool. A dynamic. A connection. Words with space built into them. Vague, unthreatening. Cowardly.

But now Quentin was asleep, and Eliot was lying there feeling the soft puffs of his breath against his neck, and he wanted to cry, just a little. Because no one had ever looked at him the way Quentin did when he was kneeling. Or when he was laughing. Or when he was coming apart.

Eliot had spent years building armor from charm and detachment and sex. And Quentin, with his awkward sincerity and his dorky smile and the way he blushed when Eliot called him “good boy,” was undoing him with every breath.

He kissed the top of Quentin’s head, barely more than a brush of lips.

And then he closed his eyes, holding Quentin tighter, hoping that one day he’d be brave enough to say it out loud.

Chapter Text

The last morning of midterms dawned quietly, full of sunlight and unsaid things.

Eliot woke up first, but he didn’t move right away. Quentin was still curled beside him, face half-buried in Eliot’s shoulder, one hand tucked sleepily against his chest like muscle memory. Eliot exhaled through his nose, willing himself to stay calm, casual, chill. Because what were they now? Apparently “a dynamic,” “a partnership of sorts”—whatever that meant. He’d said it to protect himself, to give Quentin space, to keep things from getting too big too fast. But now that the words had been spoken, Eliot kind of hated them.

He stared at the ceiling and counted to ten in his head. Then fifteen.

Next to him, Quentin stirred.

“Mornin’,” he murmured, voice sleep-rough.

“Morning,” Eliot replied, as casually as he could manage, brushing a kiss over Quentin’s temple like it meant nothing. Like he wasn’t trying to map every second of last night in his head for reassurance.

They both got up without saying much else.

In the kitchen, Quentin poured coffee into his favorite chipped Fillory mug and tried not to obsess over how weirdly normal everything felt, which was good. It was good that things were normal. He didn’t want to ruin anything. He definitely wasn’t obsessing over how Eliot had said “whatever we want it to be” with that vague, careful tone that screamed don’t ask for more than this.

He stirred too much sugar into his coffee and took a sip, burning his tongue slightly, just as Margo came padding into the kitchen in a tank top and shorts, hair a bit wild, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

“Well, if it isn’t the lovebirds,” she said, snagging the coffee pot and pouring her own cup. “Happy last day of academic hell. We’ve nearly survived.”

Eliot gave a crooked smile. “Just one more exam between us and freedom.”

“Midterms are over in twelve hours,” Eliot announced, reaching for his mug and clinking it lightly against Quentin’s. “Then we’re free. You, me, Margo. Brain-dead but free.”

“I don’t remember what freedom tastes like,” Quentin said around a yawn.

Eliot leaned on the counter, watching him. “Tastes like cheap tequila and questionable decisions made on the dance floor.”

“I do not make dance floor decisions,” Quentin muttered, rubbing his eyes. “I barely make living room decisions.”

“Well, that’s about to change,” said Margo, “because after this, we are celebrating. I’m talking blackout drunk, off-key karaoke, possible lap dances, no regrets.”

“Someone’s excited,” Eliot said, amused.

“I’ve earned this,” Margo declared, gesturing dramatically with her coffee. “I’ve written papers, taken four tests, and haven’t screamed in public all week. That deserves a reward.”

“She’s not wrong,” Eliot said, raising his brows at Quentin.

Quentin was still waking up, hands cradled around his coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to earth. “Wait, what kind of celebrating are we talking about?”

“The gay club kind,” Margo said. “Obviously.”

Quentin blinked. “A gay club?”

“It’s the club,” Eliot corrected, grinning. “Gay, chaotic, sticky floors, great lighting. Margo and I used to go all the time. Before school tried to murder us.”

“It’s not just a club,” Margo added. “It’s a vibe. It’s sweaty. It’s glittery. There’s a guy named Roman who always wears leather pants and gives free shots to hot sad boys. That could be you.”

Quentin choked on his coffee.

“I’m not a hot sad boy,” he protested.

“You’re the hot sad boy,” Eliot said, deadly serious. “The blueprint.”

Margo nodded in solemn agreement. “Roman will love you.”

Quentin hesitated, but Margo was giving him the full royal stare now—sharp and unrelenting—and Eliot was watching him with that little knowing smirk like he already knew Q would cave. And honestly, he probably would. Because they were right. They’d earned it.

“Okay,” he mumbled into his mug. “Fine. But I reserve the right to disappear to the bathroom for twenty minutes if it’s too much.”

“Deal,” Margo grinned. “But only if you promise to come back out after and do one bad little dance with us.”

Quentin groaned.

Eliot leaned over and whispered, “I’ll make it worth your while.”

—-------

The walk back to the apartment was only twenty minutes, but it felt like Quentin was moving through molasses. The last exam was over—done, handed in, finished—and yet his brain wouldn’t stop whirring, churning through equations and possible answers and whether or not he’d messed everything up on question four.

He was exhausted. His limbs felt loose and achy, his mouth dry. But even heavier than his body was the weight in his chest—dense, anxious, too full of everything he hadn’t said.

The streets were busy with other students, some already shouting about freedom, others still clutching books and coffee like lifelines. Quentin kept his head down, earbuds in but not playing music, letting the low hum of the city around campus blur into background noise.

It should’ve felt like victory. The end of midterms. The promise of sleep and quiet, and no more early morning stress. But all he could think about was the conversation from last night. Curled up in Eliot’s bed, warm and fuzzy after sex and so stupidly full of hope, Quentin had asked the question that had been circling his brain for days:
"What are we?"

And Eliot, beautiful, brilliant Eliot, had smiled that guarded little smile and said something evasive. Something vague.

"Whatever we want to be… a dynamic, a partnership of sorts. It doesn’t have to have a label."

Quentin had nodded. Agreed, even. What else was he supposed to do? Beg for more? Admit that what he wanted—what he felt—was already so much bigger than anything casual?

He hadn’t meant to fall in love. But he had. Somewhere between Eliot brushing the hair out of his face and telling him he was a good boy, between making dinner together and laughing at terrible reality shows with Margo, between being held and cared for and seen—he’d gone and done it. He was completely, hopelessly in love.
And Eliot didn’t feel the same. How could he?

Eliot was confident and elegant, always composed even when he was tired or irritated. He moved through the world like he’d already claimed it, and he could have anyone. Anyone at all. And here Quentin was—anxious, awkward, codependent Quentin—thinking he was somehow enough to be chosen.
He felt ridiculous.

He tried to replay the moment in his head, twisting Eliot’s words into something less painful. Maybe Eliot hadn’t meant to shut him down. Maybe he was trying to keep things open-ended, to give them space. Maybe he was nervous, too.

But Eliot had sounded so calm. So certain.

Quentin crossed the last street before the apartment and stared at the front door for a second longer than necessary. He could go back to his dorm. Pretend he hadn’t just spent a full week sleeping in Eliot’s bed like it was his own. Pretend he wasn’t afraid that if he stayed, he’d only fall deeper into something that wasn’t real for both of them.

But he had a key now.

Margo had made a copy at some point and tossed it at him without ceremony this morning, telling him to “get with the program.” And the truth was… this place felt more like home than anywhere had in years.

So he climbed the stairs. Let himself in.

The apartment was quiet, warm. It was familiar. Comforting.

And it made everything inside Quentin ache.

He dropped his backpack by the door and leaned against the wall, letting himself breathe for the first time since the test ended.

He’d survived midterms.

But love—whatever this thing between him and Eliot was—was harder. And it wasn’t something he could study for.

—----------

The apartment was already vibrating with energy by the time Quentin emerged from the bathroom, towel-drying his damp hair. The playlist Margo had deemed “Certified End-of-Midterms Bangers” was blaring from her Bluetooth speaker, echoing through the living room like a celebration already in motion. Somewhere in the kitchen, the telltale sound of shot glasses clinking said that Eliot was pre-gaming the way he pre-gamed everything—with style and possibly mezcal.

Quentin padded down the hall in black jeans and the soft gray t-shirt Eliot liked on him. He felt a little like a guest star in his own life, freshly showered, riding the endorphin crash of finishing his last exam, and trying not to overanalyze every single thing Eliot had not quite said the night before.

In the kitchen, Eliot stood like something out of a glossy magazine: silk button-down half undone, sleeves rolled, a gold chain glinting against his collarbone. He had three shot glasses lined up and a bottle of something expensive in his hand.

“There he is,” Eliot said when he noticed Quentin, voice warm. “Our conquering scholar.”

Quentin ducked his head, smiling. “I got annihilated by one question, but... I think I did okay.”

Margo swanned into the kitchen wearing a sparkly black mini dress and boots, hair curled and eyes lined in sharp, dark winged liner. She looked like the goddess of gay bar vengeance. “Okay? Bitch, you survived. You thrived. We all did.”

“Barely,” Quentin muttered, but he was smiling as she wrapped an arm around him and kissed his cheek with a dramatic mwah.

“Drink,” she said, gesturing to the shot glasses. “You’ve earned it.”

“Wait,” Eliot said before Quentin could reach. His tone shifted—subtle, but enough that Quentin’s body responded immediately. Eliot’s fingers brushed against his wrist, grounding. “Rules first.”

Quentin blinked at him, slightly dazed. “Huh?”

Eliot tilted his head, that little knowing smile curling the edge of his mouth. His voice dropped just enough to turn the air between them electric. “You want to celebrate, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Quentin nodded automatically.

“Then I want to hear you say your rules first.” Eliot’s hand slid to the small of Quentin’s back. “Come on. What are they?”

Quentin flushed, glancing toward Margo—who just leaned against the counter looking unbothered and amused. ”Come on, so we can take shots,” she said, sensing his hesitation.

His voice wavered, but he answered.

“Be honest... answer verbally... use the stoplight system if needed…dont lash out…eat something?”

“Good boy,” Eliot murmured, and Quentin felt it like a warm pulse in his chest. “Color?”

“Green,” Quentin said without hesitation. “I feel good.”

Eliot gave him a slow, pleased smile and handed him a shot. “Then drink up.”

They clinked glasses—Margo already halfway to dancing in place—and downed them in a chorus of exaggerated groans.

“Still disgusting,” Quentin coughed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Celebration tequila doesn’t have to taste good,” Margo said. “It just has to be functional.”

“Also,” Eliot added smoothly, “you look edible in those jeans, so that’s the real prize.”

Quentin went pink immediately, and Margo snorted. “Jesus Christ, you two are exhausting.”

“I’m just saying what we’re all thinking,” Eliot said, turning back to the counter and grabbing a lime. “Aren’t we celebrating making it through one of the most soul-destroying academic weeks of our lives?”

Margo raised her glass in agreement. “Hell yes. Tonight we get shit-faced, we dance, we possibly make out with hot strangers.”

Eliot arched a brow. “You plan to cheat on me already?”

“I would never,” she said, mock scandalized. “Besides, I’m emotionally married to you. Quentin can be our hot third.”

Quentin choked a little. “I—what?”

“She’s joking,” Eliot said, then leaned close to whisper low enough that Margo couldn’t hear, “unless you’d rather I tie you up later and make you come on my fingers like last weekend.”

Quentin nearly dropped his glass.

“Eliot!”

“Color?” Eliot asked casually, eyes glittering.

Quentin swallowed and whispered, “Green.”

“Atta boy.” Eliot kissed the corner of his mouth and turned away like it was nothing, leaving Quentin warm and dizzy in the middle of the kitchen.

Margo gave him a sympathetic pat on the back. “He’s a menace when he’s in a good mood.”

“I’m gonna die tonight,” Quentin muttered, dazed.

“Probably. But you’ll die looking hot as fuck, and that’s what matters.”

Ten minutes later, they were pulling on jackets and heading for the door—Quentin in Eliot’s borrowed velvet blazer they forced him to wear, Margo armed with glitter and lip gloss, Eliot offering his arm with a wink.

As they stepped out into the night, the city humming beneath their feet and the three of them warm from shots and laughter and the promise of freedom, Quentin felt something settle in his chest.

—------

The club was vibrating with life. Not metaphorically—the floor itself trembled with the force of the bassline, the walls throbbed in time with it, and Quentin could feel it in his ribs. Everything glowed. The lights, the drinks, the people, the sweat shining on their skin. Margo’s hair glittered like a disco ball every time it caught the light, and Eliot’s eyes had taken on the color of electric violet beneath the pulsing strobes.

Quentin was drunk. Delightfully, fuzzily, beautifully drunk. Every time he blinked, the world came back a little different, a little more floaty, like it was underwater.

And Eliot had been all over him.

Not in a way that made it hard to breathe—well, maybe a little—but in that Eliot way that made Quentin’s stomach flip over with something more than just lust. His hand never left Quentin’s body: a palm on his hip, a finger looped in a belt loop, a thumb dragging slowly across the back of his neck. Eliot’s mouth was warm and sweet and sticky with whiskey, and Quentin let himself get kissed over and over again until he felt drunk on that too.

At one point Eliot had tugged him toward the dance floor, and Quentin had said, “I don’t dance.”

“I do,” Eliot replied, grinning like sin. “And I like dancing with you.”

Quentin let it happen, mostly because Eliot was warm and steady and beautiful, and the room only tilted when they weren’t touching. He stood still while Eliot danced around him, behind him, one hand guiding Quentin’s waist, pressing their bodies together in slow, rhythmic pulses. Quentin’s hands clung to Eliot’s shirt like he might float away otherwise.

Margo disappeared into the crowd with a laugh and a tossed-off “Back in a bit, sluts!” and then it was just the two of them again, orbiting each other in a chaotic little galaxy of pulsing light and thudding bass.

“You look gorgeous,” Eliot said into his ear, and Quentin flushed from the inside out.

“You're so pretty," he slurred a little. "Drink?”

Eliot kissed the corner of his mouth. “Want me to surprise you?”

Quentin nodded. “Bathroom first.”

Eliot spun him gently and pushed him toward the hallway. “Go. Come find me after.”

Quentin slipped away, stumbling a little with the crowd. The bathroom was cleaner than expected, if humid as hell, and he splashed water on his face, willing himself to feel even semi-coherent.

He was happy. Really happy. And safe. And wanted. And yet…

That conversation was still clawing around in the back of his mind. What are we? he’d asked. And Eliot—perfect, gentle, sexy Eliot—had dodged it like it was too big to touch.

And Quentin had let him. Had smiled and nodded and agreed, because he didn’t want to scare Eliot off.

But now it was gnawing at him. Because if this—all of this—wasn’t something real, what was it?

He shook his head like that could make the thoughts fall out, dried his hands on his jeans, and stumbled back into the din of the club, the sound swallowing him whole.
It took him a minute to spot Eliot. He was standing at the bar, drinks in hand—one of them Quentin’s. His shoulders were tense, his jaw looked tight, mouth pressed in a line he didn’t wear often.

There was a man leaning over him, tall and broad, wearing a tank top and smirking like he owned the world. He was saying something to Eliot—too close, Quentin noticed immediately. One hand braced on the bar near Eliot’s elbow. The other—was that brushing Eliot’s side?
Quentin’s stomach dropped.

He froze, a few feet away, tucked just beside a mirrored column, heart clattering like it wanted out of his chest. For a second, all he could hear was the high white noise of panic in his ears. The rest of the club blurred around the edges, and all he could see was that guy’s smirk. His fingers. The way Eliot was holding so still.
Quentin didn’t see the stiffness in Eliot’s spine. Didn’t notice the subtle angle of his shoulder trying to edge away. Didn’t see the way Eliot’s eyes kept flicking toward the crowd, like searching for someone—like searching for him.

Because all Quentin could feel was the slow, creeping terror that he’d been stupid. That he’d imagined everything. That Eliot didn’t really want him—not the way he wanted Eliot. That the casual way Eliot had described them—“a partnership, a dynamic”—had been a brush-off. A soft rejection in velvet gloves.

That he’d gotten comfortable in a space that had never really been his. That all his insecure thoughts were true.

Quentin stood there, invisible and frozen, and watched.

His hand curled into a fist at his side, nails digging into his palm, breath shallow and uneven.

—------------

He was lightheaded in the best way.

Eliot could feel the bass of the music in his chest, in his ribs, thudding along with the flush of alcohol and adrenaline in his blood. His mouth still tingled from the last kiss Quentin had pulled him into, eager and unsteady. Quentin had bitten him a little, on purpose, which Eliot intended to circle back to later with interest. The memory curled heat in his gut.

Now he was at the bar, waiting on two more drinks. He was grinning, happily drunk, eyes blurry but vision colored in gold.

He was thinking about how fucking good Quentin had looked tonight. Shy and unsure at first, but blooming with every hour — a little drunk, a little reckless. Eyes wide. Lips parted. All warmth. All Eliot’s.

A hand landed on his back.

Eliot smiled, without turning. “You get lost already?” he said, teasing, picturing Quentin back from the bathroom early.

But the hand didn’t feel right.

Too flat. Too confident. Possessive.

The voice behind him said, “Eliot. Wow. You look incredible.”

And just like that, the whole night turned to ash in his mouth.

It was Mike.

He turned his head slowly, every nerve in his body lighting up, his spine stiff and jaw tight.

Mike hadn’t changed.

Not really. Same heavy-lidded eyes and cocky posture, still wearing some basic fitted tank like it made him charming. Same fucking smirk. Eliot used to fall for that smirk. It used to make him feel special. Now it made his stomach twist.

He stepped away without thinking, his shoulder bumping someone else at the bar. He didn’t care.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Eliot said, voice low and sharp.

Mike grinned like it was a game. "Having a drink. Like everyone else.”

“I don’t want to talk to you.”

Mike took a sip of his beer and let his gaze wander lazily over Eliot. “Still dramatic,” he said. “God, I missed that.”

Eliot’s skin crawled. His body was trying to retreat without moving. He felt trapped. Like if he made a scene, it would only make it worse — Mike would push, would escalate. He always had.

“You need to leave,” Eliot said, more quietly now, trying to keep his tone even. “Now.”

Mike leaned in just slightly, voice dropping. “I never figured you for the clingy type, but damn, you really latched on to that kid, huh?”

Eliot flinched, then went still.

“Don’t talk about him.”

Mike smirked. “Saw the way he was looking at you. Puppy dog eyes and everything. You always liked them soft. Easier to mold, I guess, right?”

Eliot clenched his fists at his sides. He wanted to shove him. He wanted to scream. But his body wouldn’t move. He could feel the panic licking at his throat — this visceral fear — the kind that came from muscle memory, from old fights, old guilt, old fear no one could see.

“I said,” Eliot growled, louder now, “don’t talk about him.”

Mike rolled his eyes, but didn’t back off. “Relax. Just saying hi. You used to like that.”

“I used to be stupid,” Eliot snapped. “Don’t confuse that with permission.”

That hit — just a little. Mike’s eyes narrowed, his smile turned brittle.

And then, just as Eliot was about to turn and leave — flee, really — he saw movement from the corner of his eye.

Quentin.

Approaching, freshly out of the bathroom, looking flushed and a little flushed from the drinks. And so fucking beautiful. And completely unaware of the trap he was walking into.

Eliot’s heart seized.

Mike followed his gaze, and grinned.

“Well, well,” he said. “There’s your new one.”

He turned to face Quentin more fully, lifting his drink slightly like he was cheersing him. "Hi, I'm Mike."

“Is this your little pet, Eliot?”

Eliot physically moved, stepping in front of Quentin without thinking. “Back. The fuck. Off.”

Mike didn’t. Not immediately.

Instead, he gave Quentin a once-over and said, “Cute. Hope you’re better at keeping him than you were with me.”

Then, finally, he backed off. Shoulders loose, smirk lazy, like he hadn’t just slashed open the night with a knife made of memory.

And he left.

Eliot exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for an hour.

His hand was shaking. His whole body was shaking.

He turned toward Quentin, already trying to fake a smile, to downplay it, to say it’s fine, because he didn’t want Quentin to know the full depth of what that had felt like.
But Quentin just stood there, frozen. His jaw was tight, his eyes hard to read — unreadable in the dim flashing lights.

And Eliot didn’t know if he was angry.

Didn’t know if he was hurt.

Didn’t know what he’d seen, or heard, or felt.

All he knew was that something had shifted.

And the night was no longer glowing.

Then Quentin turned wordlessly and walked outside.

—-------

Eliot caught up to him quickly outside the club, shoulders tight and cigarette half-lit in shaking fingers, Quentin stormed up, chest tight and stomach boiling. The music was still thudding behind them, but out here it was sharp air and silence and everything else that had gone unsaid.

“What the fuck was that?” Quentin snapped, eyes already stinging, voice louder than he wanted it to be.

Eliot didn’t even turn to look at him at first. “Quentin, don’t.”

“No, what the fuck was that?” he said again, walking closer. “That guy—your fucking ex or whatever—just laid hands all over you like you were his, talked to me like I’m some kind of trained fucking dog, and you just stood there.”

“I told him to fuck off—”

“Eventually!” Quentin cut in, voice rising. “Not before he called me your little pet. Not before he said it to my face, and you just let him. Like it wasn’t wrong. Like maybe he was right.”

Eliot turned, finally meeting his eyes, and his face was pale and rigid, jaw tight. “I wasn’t exactly having a good time, Quentin.”

“You didn’t look like you hated it,” Quentin spat, before he could stop himself. “Maybe it was just easier. Let him say it, because maybe it’s true, right? Just your pet. A warm body. A fucking brat you can boss around until someone better walks in.”

Eliot took a step forward, eyes sharp now. “Are you fucking kidding me? You think I wanted that? You think I planned to run into him?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you want!” Quentin shouted back. “You say this isn’t serious, but then you look at me like it is, and then you kiss me like it is, and then you tell me to behave like I’m yours—” His voice cracked, embarrassingly. “But apparently I’m not.”

Eliot flinched. Actually flinched.

“I should’ve known. You said you wanted this casual,” Quentin snapped, biting into the word like it burned. “No labels. A dynamic. Not a relationship. Not real. Just some sad little toy for you to order around when you’re bored.”

Eliot’s mouth twisted. “You’re acting like a fucking child. You cannot possibly believe that.”

“Sorry,” Quentin sneered. “I forgot I’m supposed to be your good boy.” He could feel it boiling over now, the bitterness slipping out before he could stop it. He knew he should stop-couldn’t “My bad, Daddy.”

Eliot’s whole body went stiff, like he had been slapped. Then something in him cracked. Loud.

“Oh, fuck you,” he barked, voice full of venom. “Seriously, Q. You want to act like a joke? Fine. Because you’re doing a damn good impression of one right now.”

Quentin flinched, then pushed back. He knew he was wrong, should reel it back in, apologize, but he was boiling over, couldn't stop making it worse. “Glad to know the mask comes off so easily.”

“No, you’re just drunk and insecure and spiraling like you always do,” Eliot snapped. “And instead of just saying you’re scared, or even asking what really happened, you pick a fight and run your mouth.”

“Well, maybe I’m sick of playing nice,” Quentin hissed. “Maybe I’m sick of pretending this means anything.”

The air between them went deadly still.

They were both breathing hard, drunk, and fuming, hearts racing and unsaid things clawing behind their teeth.

Eliot was shaking. Not from fear. From upset. From overwhelm.

Eliot’s hands curled into fists, trembling. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You think I don’t see how scared you are but instead of saying that, you lash out and treat me like I’m just another person who’s going to leave? Like I’m some asshole? Like-Like, I’m just like some random person? After everything? Do you even know what he-fuck”

Quentin’s mouth opened. Closed. His chest ached, eyes stung.

Eliot stepped back. “I can’t—I can’t do this right now. I can’t breathe.”

“Eliot,—”

“I can’t believe this,” Eliot said, voice cracking. “I can’t be here. I need to get out of here. I need drugs or- I just. Oh my fucking god—”

He turned and walked fast, then faster, disappearing down the street before Quentin could decide whether to go after him or sink to the ground and scream.

Quentin didn’t follow. Couldn’t. His legs felt rooted in place, the cold air slicing into the heat still radiating off his skin. He’d pushed too hard. He’d said the wrong thing. And now Eliot was gone.

Everything was ruined. And he didn’t know if he could even remember how to fix it.

Chapter Text

He didn’t remember leaving the club. One minute he was standing in the alley with Eliot’s words still echoing in his ears, and the next he was halfway back to campus, feet dragging numbly over cracked pavement.

It was cold.

The kind of cold that should have made him shiver, but he couldn’t feel it. Not really. Not past the raw ache in his chest or the ringing silence in his ears. His hands were tucked into the sleeves of his jacket, shoulders hunched, stomach still twisting with something worse than shame. Worse than guilt.

His cheeks were wet.

He hadn’t even realized he was crying.

He wiped his face roughly, but it didn’t help. His eyes still burned. Everything did.

And then—

“Quentin!”

His name cut through the fog, sharp and urgent. He turned slowly, barely registering the sound of boots clacking against the pavement before a hand wrapped around his arm and tugged him to a stop.

Margo.

Of course, it was Margo.

Her dark eyes scanned him like a threat assessment. “What the fuck happened?”

He blinked at her, lips numb. “I—”

“Eliot stormed off, I saw it,” she said, voice still sharp, but there was worry underneath it. “You weren’t far behind, and you look like someone ran you over with a panic attack. So what the fuck is going on?”

Quentin opened his mouth. Closed it again. Finally, his voice came out hoarse and small. “Some guy. Mike, I think. I think Eliot’s ex. He was all over him. Like touching him. Eliot looked— I don’t know—frozen. But I thought— I thought he wasn’t stopping it. We fought.”

Margo stilled. Her face paled like someone had punched the air out of her lungs.

Quentin kept going, because if he didn’t say it, it’d eat him alive. “He called me a pet- Mike, I mean, not Eliot. I just…lost it. Eliot and I…mostly me, I guess, we said some pretty awful things. I don’t know. Clearly, I’m not as important as I thought I was.”

“Okay,” Margo said sharply, eyes locked on his like she was keeping him from slipping off the planet. “Okay. First of all, stop right there.”
Quentin froze.

“You have no idea what kind of damage Mike did to him,” she said, voice low and deadly serious. “You think this is just some messy ex? Quentin, that man is the reason Eliot couldn’t look anyone in the eye for a year. That’s the man who made him feel like he didn’t deserve to be loved unless he was being punished for existing.”

Quentin’s stomach dropped like stone. “Oh my god.”

“I wasn’t gonna be the one to bring it up,” she added, quieter now. “Not my trauma to spill. But you need to know this. You walking away right now, blaming yourself or him or whatever the hell your brain’s doing—that’s not helping either of you.”

Quentin’s eyes were wet again.

Margo let out a long breath, steadied herself. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” Quentin whispered. “I don’t know where he went.”

“Alright,” she said, already pulling her phone from her jacket. “I’ll text him. You and I—we need to talk. Then we’ll figure out where the hell he is and what we’re doing next.”

Quentin nodded, barely.

Margo didn’t let go of his arm. And somehow, that was the first thing all night that made him feel solid again.

—------------

He didn’t know how far he’d walked.

The city buzzed around him — streetlights humming, tires splashing through puddles, distant voices laughing, living, not unraveling — and Eliot moved through it all like he was submerged in water.

His cigarette shook in his fingers.

His fingers trembled slightly around the filter as he walked, aimless and hunched, like if he moved fast enough, the words wouldn’t catch up.

But they always did.

“Just a dynamic, right?”

God. Quentin had looked at him like Eliot was everything he was afraid of becoming. Like he was Mike.

And Eliot—he hadn’t stopped it. He’d frozen when Mike touched him, when that voice crawled back inside his skin like it still had a right to live there. He’d choked, gone silent, let the wrong things happen too quickly. Then Quentin had appeared, all heat and fire and emotion, and Eliot had snapped back with the same sharpness, the same venom he always carried when he was scared and hurting and couldn’t show either one.

He dragged in another breath, exhaled slow. It didn’t help. He tossed the cigarette.

He shouldn’t have yelled. Shouldn’t have thrown Quentin’s insecurity back in his face like it was proof of something weak instead of something real. Quentin had only wanted to be chosen. Eliot could see that now, behind the panic. The bratty spiraling, the sarcasm — it was defense. It was always defense. And instead of grounding him, Eliot had gone cold.

He was supposed to be the calm one.

He was supposed to be the safe one.

But instead, he’d said things like they were true. Like he didn’t care.

Because the truth was, Quentin being there—waking up in their bed, falling asleep on the couch sandwiched between him and Margo, sleepily drinking tea or coffee at the counter in the morning, laughing with him over dinner—that had become the only thing Eliot really looked forward to. The only thing that made his brain bearable some days.

And now…

He shoved a hand into his coat pocket and gripped his phone.

His reflection flashed in a shop window as he passed: flushed cheeks, red eyes, rumpled shirt, and eyeliner smudged like regret. He looked young. Tired. Feral.

Margo had texted, he ignored it.

He opened his contacts. Scrolled.

Eliot: you home?

He kept walking. Wind slicing up his sleeves. The night too bright, too loud.

Josh: at a house party. what’s up?

Eliot stared at the blinking cursor.

Eliot: Can you meet me at the apartment?

Josh: yeah on my way

Eliot clicked his phone off. Stared at the black screen for a long time.

He hated that he was like this. That even after all the growth, all the trying, the second he felt like someone saw him the wrong way, it still made him want to tear everything down. Made him want to disappear.

But disappearing was easier than vulnerability. And he didn’t know how to fix things with Quentin — not when he’d already broken the thing they hadn’t even had words for yet.

Quentin probably hated him now anyway.

—------

They sat on the curb in silence for a long time, just the two of them.

Quentin didn’t remember how they’d gotten there. Only that he was walking and after Margo grabbed his arm and made him stop, she hadn’t let go. She didn’t yell. She didn’t demand anything from him. She just sat down beside him on the edge of the cracked pavement, the streetlamp above them buzzing faintly, painting the asphalt in dull orange.
Quentin had his knees pulled to his chest, chin resting there, eyes still stinging from the cold and from everything else.

Margo finally broke the silence.

“You don’t know what Mike did to him,” she said quietly, hands tucked in her coat pockets. “Not really. I didn’t tell you because it’s not my story to spill. But since we’re here…”
Quentin didn’t look at her. He wasn’t sure he could.

“He was awful. Not just mean. Not just cold. He—he broke Eliot,” she said, her voice low but steady, no sugarcoating. “In ways I’m not even sure Eliot’s ever fully let me see. He tore him down and told him it was love. Treated him like an accessory when it suited him and a punching bag when it didn’t. Emotionally. Manipulatively. And he did it for a long time.”

Quentin’s stomach twisted. “Jesus.”

“He made Eliot feel like he was lucky just to be tolerated. And that if he wanted to be loved, he had to perform for it. Be perfect. Be charming. Be smaller. Quieter. Easier.”

Quentin pressed the heel of his palms into his eyes, hard. “I didn’t know.”

“I know you didn’t,” Margo said gently. “But I know the way you think. Like he’d let that happen. Like it meant something ugly.”

“I didn’t mean to,” Quentin whispered. “I was just—” His throat tightened. “I was just so fucking insecure.”

She didn’t say anything, so he kept going, the words tumbling out.

“I asked him,” Quentin said, brokenly. “I asked what we were-last night. And he brushed it off. He said something about it being a dynamic, a partnership of sorts—like we didn’t have to label it. Like it wasn’t a big deal. But it is to me, Margo. He is. And I just—” His voice cracked.

“I love him.”

Quentin could feel her looking at him, but he couldn’t lift his face.

“I love him,” Quentin said again, quieter this time, like confessing it might turn the world inside out. “And he just—brushed off any possibility of that. Like it didn’t matter. Like it wasn’t real.”

Margo was quiet for a beat. Then: “No. He brushed it off because he’s scared.”

Quentin blinked, finally looking over.

She gave him a sad, crooked smile. “Because he’s scared shitless, Q. Because admitting he feels something means it’s real. And real things break. You think Eliot hasn’t figured out you’re the kind of boy who could wreck him if you wanted to?”

Quentin shook his head. “But I don’t want to. I just want him.”

“Well, no shit,” Margo said, rolling her eyes, voice thick with affection. “But he doesn’t know that yet. Not deep down. Not in the places that still freeze when people get too close.”

Quentin swallowed hard, cheeks wet again. “You really think he loves me?”

“I think if you can’t see how in love he is with you, you’re a fucking idiot,” Margo said bluntly. “Eliot doesn’t let people in like this. He doesn’t cuddle with just anyone. He doesn’t call just anyone ‘his boy.’ He definitely doesn’t study with someone on the floor under him and make them tea and remember exactly how they take their eggs. We definitely don’t let them basically live at the apartment either.”

Quentin let out a helpless, wet laugh.

“And he doesn’t get that upset and hurt unless it matters,” she added.

“I was awful,” Quentin said quietly.

“Yeah, but also- You were scared. You were drunk. He was, too. It’s messy. That’s not an excuse, but it’s a start. Now we deal with it.”

He turned his head, leaning his cheek against his knees. “You’re really good at this, you know?”

Margo smiled. “I’ve had practice. I grew up emotionally parenting that idiot. Now I’ve apparently adopted you too. You’re both disasters.”

“I really am.”

“Yeah,” she said, bumping her shoulder into his.

—-----
He lit yet another cigarette for the wait on the steps outside his apartment, even though his hands were already shaking and his stomach felt like it was filled with glass. Every inhale burned in a way that wasn’t satisfying. It just… matched.

Josh showed up five minutes later, walking up in an old hoodie and jeans, looking like someone who hadn’t expected to be dragged into emotional triage tonight. His eyes swept over Eliot once.

“You look like shit,” he said flatly, crossing his arms.

Eliot grinned, that same mask he'd been wearing since the bar sliding back into place. “Well, that’s just rude.”

Josh didn’t smile. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing. Just wanted a little help winding down.” Eliot shrugged, too loose-limbed, too breezy. “Midterms. Life. You know how it is.”

Josh narrowed his eyes. “You don’t usually call me when you’re ‘winding down.’”

Eliot raised a hand like he was making an oath. “I’m not in a self-destructive spiral. Promise.”

Josh pulled a small tin out of his coat pocket and offered it over. “All I’ve got is weed. You want anything stronger, you’re asking the wrong guy.”

Eliot took it with a practiced flourish. “Weed’s perfect. I’m going for mellow tragedy tonight.”

Josh just stared at him. “You’ve been drinking already?”

“Do I seem drunk?”

“You seem like you want to crawl out of your own skin, and also yes, a little drunk,” Josh muttered.

“Don’t analyze me, Hoberman,” Eliot said with a tight smile, pushing the apartment door open. “Come up. I owe you a drink.”

Inside, the apartment was warm and quiet, too quiet. The kind of quiet that made Eliot’s chest ache. His coat hit the floor instead of the hook. He didn’t care. He pulled down a bottle of whiskey from above the fridge, grabbed two mismatched glasses from the drying rack.

Josh followed him to the counter, watching him pour. “So, are you gonna tell me what actually happened?”

Eliot didn’t look up. “Not tonight.”

Josh accepted that with a small nod, but his eyes stayed on Eliot the whole time. Josh took out his phone to text Margo.

Josh: Hey at the apartment with Eliot. Something is up.

They clinked their glasses together. Eliot said, “To awful decisions.”

Josh winced as he downed the shot. “Jesus, what is this, battery acid?”

“It’s Margo’s ‘do not drink unless your heart’s breaking’ bottle. Appropriate, don’t you think?”

They both sank onto the couch, and Eliot lit the joint he rolled with too much intention. Passing it over once it was lit.

Josh took the first drag. Passed it back. Said nothing.

Eliot held it between his fingers, eyes on the ceiling. He felt too raw. Too hollowed out. Everything inside him felt scraped and flayed.

And then, soft. Too soft.

“I actually love him,” Eliot said.

Josh turned his head.

Eliot didn’t meet his eyes. He took a slow drag, exhaled through his nose. “That’s the stupid part. I love him. I think I have for a while. And I was so fucking mean tonight I don’t think he’ll ever look at me the same again.”

Josh didn’t speak for a long moment.

Eliot finally looked over. “Say something, or I’m gonna spiral into the couch.”

Josh blew out a slow breath. “I’m guessing this has to do with whatever it is you’re not telling me about?”

Eliot gave a humorless laugh. “What gave it away?”

Josh looked at him. “Be serious, man.”

Eliot bit his lip, jaw tightening.

Josh added, “Whoever he is, if you love him like that…he probably loves you back...or he's a dick. You're not actually a hard person to love, you know?”

Eliot closed his eyes, the room starting to spin.

Josh didn’t push further. He just passed the joint back again, waiting for Margo to rescue him.

—---------

Quentin sat with his arms wrapped tight around his knees, like if he held them close enough it would keep the rest of him from shattering. The cold had sunk into his bones, but he barely noticed anymore. His head throbbed. His chest ached. Everything hurt.

Margo was next to him on the curb, silent until her phone buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and let out a long, steady sigh.

“Well,” she said flatly, standing up. “That’s our cue.”

Quentin looked up warily. “What?”

She was already brushing off her coat. “Eliot’s at the apartment.”

Quentin’s stomach twisted. “So he’s… home?”

Margo glanced down at him. “Apparently.”

Quentin’s face crumpled. “Margo, I don’t—I don’t think I should go back.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Why the hell not?”

He shook his head quickly, voice cracking. “Because I was awful to him. I was so fucking awful, and he said he couldn’t be around me- or couldn’t ‘do this’ and walked away- same thing I guess, and I don’t want to push it, okay? I don’t want to make it worse.”

“Q.”

“No, seriously.” His voice pitched up, panic rising. “What if he doesn’t even want to see me right now? What if I ruined everything? I said things that—god, I don’t even know where they came from. I mocked him, Margo. I said shit I didn’t mean, and now he probably thinks I’m just—”

Margo cut him off with a sharp gesture, her face hardening.

“You’re not staying here and spiraling. I’m not letting you do that.”

Quentin blinked up at her.

“Look, you were a brat,” she said bluntly. “And a jealous little asshole. But he wasn’t perfect either. He shut down. He said dumb shit too. And he didn’t tell you what was going on with Mike.”

“He didn’t owe me that.”

“No,” she agreed, softer. “But now you both need to stop playing the ‘who hurt who worse’ game and talk. You’re not mind readers, Q.”

He looked away, jaw clenched. “I just… I really thought he didn’t want me. Like, at all. Like I made everything up in my head.”

Margo crouched down again, her voice low. “If he didn’t want you, you would have known a long time ago. I promise. He can’t fake that kind of attachment, trust me.”
Quentin let out a shuddery breath.

“He does want you. He’s just scared. Like you are. But unlike you, he doesn’t have me dragging his sorry ass back into the conversation.”

Quentin managed a small, broken laugh.

“Come on.” She nudged his knee with her own. “You love him, right?”

He nodded, quiet. “So much it’s stupid.”

“Then let’s go fix it. Or at least try. If it goes bad, you can go back to your dorm, get drunk, and I punch a pillow for you.”

He smiled faintly.

“Come on, nerd boy wonder.” She offered him a hand. “No more spiraling.”

Quentin took it.

They walked together through the city streets, the wind sharp but invigorating. Lights from corner shops spilled golden across the pavement. A cab splashed past them through the wet. Margo kept a steady pace, one arm looped around Quentin’s shoulder like she was anchoring him to the world.

He didn’t say much, but his mind was a storm.

He thought about Eliot’s hands, his eyes, the soft way he’d called him his boy in the quiet hours of the night. He thought about the laughter, the softness, the rules, the care. The way Eliot looked at him — like Quentin was wanted.

And then he thought about the way Eliot had looked at him last. Shaken. Hurt. Cracked wide open.

He wasn’t sure how to fix that.

But he wanted to try.

He needed to.

By the time they reached the apartment building, Quentin’s heart was racing.

Margo reached out and opened the door without hesitation.

The apartment door creaked open and Margo didn’t hesitate for a second. She strode in like a queen returning to her castle in the middle of a coup.

Josh and Eliot were on the couch — the TV on low, a mostly empty glass of whiskey abandoned on the coffee table, and a haze of lingering weed smoke softening the room. Eliot looked… hollowed out. Beautiful, of course, but in the way a ruin could be beautiful: crumbling and dangerous and painfully sad.

He blinked in surprise when Margo walked in. And then his eyes landed on Quentin, standing in the doorway behind her.

Eliot sat up a little straighter, the mask trying to come back — but failing at the edges.

Quentin froze.

Josh looked between them all, then raised his eyebrows at Margo. “This gonna be a thing?”

Margo ignored him. She turned to Eliot, arms crossed, voice calm but firm. “Alright. You’re done pretending you’re fine. You’re gonna sober up. Quentin and you are going to talk. And no one is going to emotionally combust tonight. Got it?”

Eliot blinked slowly. “You’re bossy when you’re anxious.”

“I’m bossy always,” Margo snapped. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Josh slowly stood. “Well. That’s my cue, huh?”

“You’re not off the hook.” Margo poked him in the chest. “Actually—you know what? We’re going to yours. I’m not playing emotional mediator tonight. I’m on dick-and-sleep duty.”

Josh smirked. “Yes, ma’am.” he said with a small laugh.

Quentin blinked. Then blinked again- finally connecting the dots and holy shit.

“Wait. Josh fucking Hoberman is your—your boy toy?”

Josh just shrugged. Margo winked at Quentin over her shoulder. “You think I hang out with him for his excellent hygiene?”

Eliot barked a laugh — the first real sound from him all night. It was short, rough, but real.

Josh and Margo headed toward the door. “Good luck,” Margo called over her shoulder, tossing the keys onto the counter. “Don’t break anything. Or each other.”

The door clicked shut behind Josh and Margo, leaving Eliot and Quentin alone in the warm, dim silence. The weight of it settled immediately on Quentin’s shoulders — not just the silence, but Eliot in it. Curled on the far end of the couch, wrapped in a knit blanket that looked far too big on him tonight, like it was trying and failing to make up for everything else missing.

Eliot didn’t speak. He didn’t even really look at him.

He was pale, still a little flushed from the whiskey, eyes rimmed red. The usual effortless grace in his posture was gone. He looked… draped. Fragile. Like if you touched him, you’d leave a bruise.

Quentin hovered near the kitchen for a second, then moved to stand by the edge of the couch.

Still, Eliot said nothing.

Quentin’s chest ached. This was his fault. And maybe not entirely, but still enough to burn.

“Okay,” Quentin said gently. “No talking yet.”

Eliot looked at him, confused.

“You’re not sober enough,” Quentin added, moving slowly toward him. “So I’m gonna take care of you first. Like you do for me.”

Eliot blinked, something fragile in his expression. He didn’t fight it when Quentin reached out a hand.

“Come on,” he said softly, almost a whisper. “Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

Eliot blinked up at him, slow and glassy-eyed. He didn’t argue. Just moved like his limbs were made of cotton — heavy, slightly uncoordinated. Quentin took him by the wrist gently and guided him toward the bathroom.

The hallway felt too long. The sound of their footsteps too loud.

The bathroom light was soft. Steam rose slowly from the open shower once Quentin turned it on, adjusting the temperature without a word. He moved like he was doing something sacred.

Eliot didn’t resist when Quentin helped him undress. He kept his gaze slightly averted, like he couldn’t quite bear to meet Quentin’s eyes. His breathing was shallow, quiet. Quentin tried not to notice the bruises under his eyes, the curve of his ribs, the way his hands twitched like maybe he didn’t know what to do with them now that they weren’t holding onto anything.

In the shower, Quentin joined him and gently eased Eliot under the spray. He reached for the shampoo Eliot liked — the kind that smelled faintly of mint and rosemary — and worked it through his curls with slow, careful fingers. Eliot made a small sound and leaned into it, his eyes fluttering shut.

Neither of them spoke.

The water ran over both of them, warm and grounding. Quentin washed him the way he thought Eliot might have washed him, if the roles were reversed — reverent, steady, kind. He toweled him off gently afterward, helped him step into clean clothes. A worn, soft t-shirt. His favorite pajama pants.

He looked smaller like that. Younger, somehow. Or maybe just tired.

Quentin moved around the apartment like he’d done it a hundred times — because, in some ways, he had. He made tea, the same way Eliot always made it for him. Honey. A little milk. Not too hot. He placed the cup on the table next to the couch, then wrapped the blanket tighter around Eliot’s shoulders.

Eliot hadn’t said a single word.

He looked a little out of his body. Drifting somewhere far away.

Quentin didn’t push.

He just knelt down for a moment in front of him, like he was making sure he was still real.

Sat with him while they had their tea in silence, then he stood and held out a hand again.

Eliot’s fingers slid into his without resistance.

Together, they walked to the bedroom.

The sheets were still a little rumpled from the night before. Quentin pulled them back and helped Eliot crawl in, the weight of his body slow and sinking. He looked up at Quentin with eyes too full to name — not crying, not quite. Just… open. Raw. Like the part of him that was always the most elegant had fractured a little, and something vulnerable was peeking through.

Quentin pulled the blankets over him, tucked them in like he might have as a kid, like he didn’t know how else to say I’m here.

He turned to go.

“Q.”

The word was small. But it stopped him in his tracks.

He turned. “Yeah?”

Eliot blinked at him, lashes wet. His voice was threadbare. “Stay?”

Something in Quentin’s chest cracked so hard it echoed through his ribs.

“Of course.”

He climbed into bed, careful, slow. Didn’t touch at first — just lay beside him. Gave Eliot the space to move closer.

After a few breaths, Eliot did.

He turned toward Quentin and curled his fingers into the hem of Quentin’s sleeve like he needed to be tethered to something real. Eliot reached for his hand under the covers and held it like a lifeline.

And Quentin didn’t let go, let him hold on, let the warmth between them rise and settle.

And they lay there in the quiet — not fixed, not anything close to done — but together.

Chapter Text

Quentin woke slowly, his body heavy, limbs tangled in unfamiliar warmth. The bed was empty beside him. That wasn’t what startled him.
What did was the sudden, sharp weight of memory.

It came back in a rush—last night, the club, the fight, Eliot storming out, Margo on the sidewalk, Josh in the apartment, Eliot pale and quiet, so quiet, and Quentin just trying to care for him the only way he knew how. He’d stayed. He’d held him together, at least for the night.

His heart started racing as it all settled in his chest like lead.

God. He’d been such an asshole.

He’d said things he didn’t mean and some things he did, which were worse. He’d pushed and snapped and thrown pain at Eliot like a weapon just because he couldn’t sit still in his own skin. Because he hadn’t known what to do with the depth of what he felt.

Because Eliot hadn’t said what Quentin had needed to hear, and Quentin had let the fear win.

He squeezed his eyes shut. His cheeks were already hot with shame.

And then he smelled coffee.

He blinked. The air carried that familiar smell of something rich and warm and grounding. Eliot’s usual blend. Strong, smooth, with a touch of cinnamon—comfort wrapped in a cup.

The bedroom door creaked open gently, and Eliot stepped inside, two mugs in hand.

Quentin sat up fast, guilt lurching so hard it nearly made him dizzy.

Eliot looked… okay. Not great. But okay. His hair was damp, his eyes clearer. He looked like he’d slept, like the fog that had swallowed him whole the night before had finally lifted—if not entirely, then enough to make room for breath. There was a tiredness in his posture that hadn’t gone away, and a certain tightness around his mouth, but he was here. Awake. Real.

And beautiful.

“Hey,” Eliot said quietly, stepping closer and holding out one of the mugs.

Quentin reached for it with shaky hands. “Thanks.”

“Didn’t know how you’d take it,” Eliot added. “Waking up here, I mean.”

“I’m glad I did,” Quentin said. His voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and took a sip.

Silence stretched. Not uncomfortable. Not yet. Just full.

Then Quentin’s grip on the mug tightened, and he glanced up, throat working.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered.

Eliot opened his mouth, but Quentin shook his head, the words pouring out too fast to stop now.

“I was—I was awful. I know I was. And I knew I was being mean, and I still kept going. You were clearly upset, and I just—kept pushing. I was drunk and scared and jealous and I couldn’t think straight. But it’s not an excuse. I said things I didn’t mean and I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me.”

“Q—”

“I was upset about the conversation we had, about what we were, and I knew I shouldn’t have brought it up like that—used it like that—but I was spiraling and insecure and—God, I just—” He let out a frustrated breath and covered his face with his hands. “I feel like I fucked everything up.”

Eliot sat down on the edge of the bed beside him. Close, but not touching.

“I’m sorry too,” Eliot said quietly.

Quentin looked at him, surprised. Eliot kept his eyes on the mug in his lap, fingers curling around it.

“I didn’t mean to shut you down when you asked that night. About us. I wasn’t trying to be cold. I was…” He sighed. “Scared.”

Quentin swallowed hard. “Of what?”

“Of telling the truth and losing everything. Of it being too much. Of you not feeling the same and walking away.”

Quentin stared.

“And then Mike showed up,” Eliot went on, softer now, “and I already felt cracked open and off balance. He’s… he’s not someone I talk about. Not because he was important, but because he made me believe I was small. Like I was nothing unless he said I was something. And when I saw you hurt, and I saw him again—I just panicked. And I know I’m supposed to be the one who has it all together, who knows what to do, but I don’t. I have my shit too, and sometimes it still gets the better of me.”

Quentin’s eyes burned.

“You didn’t have to take care of me last night,” Eliot said. “But you did. And I don’t know how to thank you for that.”

“I didn’t do it for thanks,” Quentin murmured. “I just didn’t want you to be alone like that. You always take care of me….I just wanted to take care of you, too.”

Eliot nodded, still not quite looking at him. “I’m sorry I walked away. I’m sorry I let myself snap. I’m sorry you saw me like that.”

“I’m not,” Quentin said, and Eliot looked at him finally. “You don’t have to be perfect all the time. You don’t have to keep all that locked up. Especially not with me.”

Eliot’s eyes shimmered.

“I could never hate you,” Quentin added, voice breaking a little. “Even when I was being a jackass. Especially not now.”

Eliot gave a wet, breathless laugh. Then he went still, like he was weighing something in his chest.

And then, softly—almost too softly to hear—he said, “I love you.”

Quentin froze.

“I know I fucked it up,” Eliot said, rushing now, “but I do. I love you, and I didn’t say it because I didn’t think I was allowed to want it. Not really. Not us. I was so afraid you’d realize I wasn’t what you wanted. That I was too much, or not enough, or too complicated, just..temporary or—”

“Stop,” Quentin said.

Eliot looked startled.

Quentin set his mug on the nightstand and shifted closer, brushing his hand over Eliot’s. “You’re exactly what I want. You’re—more than I ever thought I could have. And yeah, I was scared too. But it was never about not wanting you.”

Eliot exhaled shakily. “You mean it?”

“I love you,” Quentin said, smiling now, even as his eyes spilled over. “Like—actually love you. It’s not even subtle. I told Margo a long time ago, actually.”

Eliot let out a shaky laugh that dissolved into a sob.

And then Quentin leaned in and kissed him.

It was slower than their usual. Deeper. Anchored by something steadier than lust. It tasted like coffee and hope and exhaustion and relief.

When they pulled back, Eliot pressed their foreheads together.

“Can we just stay like this for a while?” Eliot whispered.

“Yeah,” Quentin said. “We’ve got time now.”

—--------------

They stayed close after the kiss, tangled in sheets and breath and warmth, pressed together like they were afraid distance might make the moment unreal. Eliot's thumb brushed slowly over Quentin’s cheekbone, as if committing him to memory. Quentin watched him like Eliot was the only thing that had ever made sense.

“I love you,” Eliot whispered again, almost reverent.

Quentin grinned, soft and crooked and adoring. “Say it again.”

“I love you.”

“Again.”

Eliot leaned in, kissed the edge of Quentin’s mouth. “I love you, Quentin Coldwater.”

Quentin's heart stuttered in his chest. He tugged Eliot closer and kissed him again—slow, deep, a little breathless now. He could feel it spreading between them, the shift. Still tender, still grounded in the afterglow of confession, but electric too—something blooming low and hot in his belly, curling between their bodies.

Quentin sighed into Eliot’s mouth, tilting his hips just slightly. “God, I can’t believe you’re real.”

Eliot chuckled, kissing down his jaw. “You’re one to talk.”

“Mm, shut up and kiss me again.”

Eliot did. Thoroughly.

Quentin clung to him, kissing with a kind of urgency that was all heat and emotion and ache. His thighs spread around Eliot’s hips. Eliot moved slowly, letting himself sink into it, but it was getting heady fast—hands slipping under shirts, tongues tangling, hips moving just a little too much to be accidental.

And Quentin was the one to break the kiss, breath hitching as he whispered, “Eliot. Please.”

Eliot paused. “What is it?”

“Fuck me,” Quentin said, desperate now. “Please. For real this time. I want—I want you.”

Eliot stilled. His eyes searched Quentin’s face like he wasn’t sure he heard him right. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, actually, yeah.”

“I just… ” Eliot said quietly, brushing his fingers along Quentin’s side. “I wanted it to be… important.”

“It is,” Quentin said, eyes shining. “I found out the man I’ve been madly in love with—who I thought could never love me back—does. That’s pretty fucking special.”

Eliot inhaled slowly, something visibly shifting in him. Something raw and real and wanting.

He nodded once. “Okay. Okay.”

Their kisses turned hungrier. Eliot pulled their shirts off gently, murmuring praise with each inch of skin revealed, and Quentin drank it in like water in a desert. Eliot kissed down his chest, then slid off the bed just long enough to grab the lube from the nightstand. When he came back, he kissed Quentin again and whispered, “Lie back, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

Quentin melted into the mattress, eyes wide and trusting. He trembled a little when Eliot knelt between his thighs and hooked them over his shoulders.

Eliot kissed the inside of his knee. “Color?”

“Green,” Quentin breathed.

Eliot smiled. “Good boy.”

The first finger slid in slowly, lube slick and warm. Quentin gasped, his back arching slightly, hips twitching. Eliot took his time, whispering softly as he worked him open.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “Letting me in so easy.”

Quentin whined, hands fisting the sheets. “More—please, Eliot—”

“I know, baby, I know,” Eliot said, adding a second finger. Quentin was panting now, flushed and shining with sweat, pupils blown wide.

By the time Eliot worked in a third, Quentin was writhing, babbling—nonsense and praise and begging all tangled together. “So good—feels so good—please, Eliot, I want—I need—”

Eliot withdrew his fingers slowly, leaned forward, and kissed him. “Shh. I’ve got you. Gonna fuck you now, okay?”

Quentin nodded frantically. “Please.”

Eliot slicked himself up, took a deep breath, and lined up. “Deep breath, baby.”

He pushed in slowly, watching Quentin’s face the whole time, giving him every chance to stop—but Quentin only moaned, mouth falling open, fingers clutching Eliot’s shoulders like lifelines.

“Fuck,” Eliot hissed, burying himself all the way in. “You feel—god, you feel perfect.”

Quentin couldn’t speak. He just nodded, tears in his eyes from the sheer intensity of it. It wasn’t pain—it was too full, too overwhelming, too much, and exactly what he wanted.

Eliot moved slowly at first, letting Quentin adjust, brushing kisses over his face and telling him how good he was, how beautiful, how proud he was.

“My good boy,” Eliot whispered, hips rocking in a slow, deep rhythm. “Taking me so well.”

Quentin sobbed out a moan. “I love you—love you—fuck, Eliot, I—”

“I know,” Eliot said, kissing his mouth. “I love you too.”

Every thrust was languid, deliberate—Eliot was fucking him like it meant something, like it was a promise, like he was trying to pour all of it into Quentin’s skin, his bones, his soul. And Quentin was gone—a boneless, pliant, wrecked thing under Eliot, taking it all with a blissed-out expression that bordered on holy.

He was hard and leaking between them, untouched, and Eliot was smirking above him.

“You want to come?” Eliot asked, voice low and rough.

Quentin nodded frantically. “Please—please, Eliot—”

“You don’t get to touch yourself.”

Quentin whimpered.

“You come like this,” Eliot said softly. “Just from me, or not at all.”

“F-fuck, please—please, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good—”

“Say it,” Eliot said. “Say who you belong to.”

“You—I’m yours—I’m your good boy—”

Eliot kissed him hard, reached down, and gave one particularly deep thrust that brushed just right—and Quentin shattered.

He came with a cry, body arching, whole frame trembling. Eliot fucked him through it, murmuring praise the whole time, then came with a groan against Quentin’s throat, filling him up with a final, stuttering thrust.

They stayed like that for a moment, catching their breath, wrapped around each other like they never wanted to let go.

Eventually, Eliot pulled out gently, cleaned them both up with the towel they’d had the foresight to grab earlier. Quentin didn’t move. He just lay there, limp and glowing and utterly gone.

Eliot slid back into bed and pulled him close.

“I’m never letting you go,” Eliot murmured into Quentin’s hair.

“You better not,” Quentin whispered, grinning.

—-------

Quentin was wrapped up in Eliot, warm and sleepy and so full of joy he didn’t know where to put it. His cheek was pressed against Eliot’s chest, listening to the steady thrum of his heartbeat, while Eliot lazily traced circles into his back beneath the blanket.

“Hey,” Quentin said quietly, tipping his chin up.

Eliot looked down at him, soft and impossibly fond.

“So… what are we?” Quentin asked, smiling. “You know. Officially. On paper. In this reality.”

Eliot huffed a quiet laugh. “God, you’re such a nerd.”

“Only for you,” Quentin said, grinning.

Eliot tilted his head, lips quirking. “Boyfriends?”

“Boyfriends,” Quentin repeated, like he was trying it on and liked how it fit. “Unless you want to go full adult and call it ‘partners.’”

“Maybe both,” Eliot said, brushing his thumb along Quentin’s cheekbone. “But yeah. If you want that, I want that.”

Quentin nodded, expression turning a little sheepish. “I do.”

They kissed—slow and smiling—and then Quentin pulled back just enough to ask, hesitantly, “Is it still okay if… if you’re my Dom? I know things have been kind of…I just… I was a bit of a wreck and mean and bratty and I guess I wanted to double check that you still wanted that.”

Eliot’s brow furrowed slightly. “Quentin.” His voice was so careful, so gentle. “I love being your Dom. I love how you give yourself to me, how open you are. I love watching you float. I love the way you look at me when you’re in it, the way you fall apart just because I say a few words.”

Quentin flushed deeply, eyes wide and vulnerable. He nodded.

“But I only want it if you do,” Eliot continued. “This is always a choice. Every time. If you want to take a break, reframe, shift anything—we do that.”

“I don’t,” Quentin said immediately. “I really don’t. I just… felt guilty. I know I was awful. I didn’t want to assume everything was okay.”

Eliot reached down, entwined their fingers. “Then tell me your color.”

Quentin smiled and whispered, “Green.”

Eliot grinned. “Good. Because that means the rules are still in place.”

Quentin groaned softly, burying his face in Eliot’s shoulder. “So strict.”

“And that means you’re getting up,” Eliot said, smacking Quentin’s ass under the covers. “Because I’m making you a real breakfast. Something that doesn’t involve coffee and my dick.”

Quentin burst out laughing, bright and free and dizzy with love. “Are you sure that’s not the breakfast of champions?”

Eliot rolled them over so Quentin was flat on his back and leaned down to kiss him, lingering. “I’ll give you the breakfast of champions after you eat some actual protein.”

“Okay, okay,” Quentin giggled. “Bossy.”

“You love it,” Eliot murmured.

Quentin’s grin softened into something a little dreamy. “I really do.”

—----------

The apartment smelled like garlic and butter, and coffee. The kind of smell Quentin would now forever associate with being safe, being home.

Eliot stood at the stove in one of his stupidly elegant sweaters that hung off one shoulder and a pair of sleep-wrinkled pajama pants. He moved with familiar grace, stirring something in the pan, humming under his breath — and looking so at ease it made Quentin’s heart ache in the best possible way.

Quentin sat at the table, cradling a hot mug of coffee that Eliot had made exactly the way he liked. The sun through the kitchen windows was warm and hazy. Everything felt like a slow, soft dream. Like they’d slipped into a new version of life that fit better. That made sense.

“You’re staring,” Eliot said, not turning around.

Quentin smiled behind the mug. “What can I say? The view’s pretty decent.”

Eliot glanced over his shoulder, eyes shining, lips twitching into a smirk. “Keep objectifying me like this, and I might have to file a formal complaint.”

“Yeah, but you’d file it with yourself, and we both know you’d get distracted reading it and start sexting me instead.”

Eliot laughed, a light sound that seemed to shimmer through the room. “Touché, boyfriend.”

Quentin bit his lip. Boyfriend. It hadn’t stopped making him feel like his ribs were full of glitter.

Eliot plated the food—perfectly folded omelets, a few roasted potatoes, and some sautéed spinach because Eliot “couldn’t serve a meal without color,” apparently—and brought them to the table just as the door opened.

Margo walked in, oversized sunglasses and yesterday’s eyeliner still intact, hair pulled into a high messy ponytail. She looked like she’d either just come from battle or was ready to start one.

“Well,” she said, sliding off her sunglasses and eyeing them both, “no dramatic texts, no one sleeping on the bathroom floor, so I’m guessing the two of you managed not to ruin everything?”

Eliot arched an eyebrow. “Define ‘ruin.’”

Quentin set his coffee down, beaming. “We’re boyfriends now.”

Eliot turned to him with a soft smile and gave a small, proud nod. “Officially.”

Margo blinked once, then twice. Her face didn’t change immediately. Then she let out a sharp, satisfied breath, crossed the room in three strides, and smacked Eliot squarely on the shoulder.

“Ow,” he said mildly, rubbing the spot.

“That’s for scaring the shit out of me last night,” she said. “You absolute mess.”

“Fair,” Eliot admitted. “I owe you.”

“Damn right you do,” she muttered, accepting the plate he handed her with the grace of a queen receiving tribute.

She slid into the chair next to Quentin, kissed his temple—gentle, surprising—and muttered, “You owe me too.”

Quentin blinked. “What?”

“I’m always right,” Margo said with zero modesty. “I pushed you into talking to him. Therefore, I’m responsible for your current boyfriend status and the sappy looks you’re giving each other.”

Quentin flushed but didn’t argue. “Okay, yeah. Not wrong.”

“I never am.”

They dug into breakfast, the clinking of forks and the soft hum of the city outside filling the gaps in conversation. Quentin glanced at Eliot once, who was already watching him, something calm and steady and so full in his gaze it made Quentin’s stomach flip.

“This is nice,” Quentin said softly.

“It is,” Eliot agreed, voice low. “Better than nice.”

Then, because he couldn’t help himself, Quentin smirked. “So, Josh fucking Hoberman, huh?”

Margo didn’t even pause her chewing. “Shut the fuck up.”

Eliot choked on his coffee.

Quentin grinned.

Margo gave him a withering look. “You’re on thin ice, Q.”

“You stayed at his place.”

Eliot raised a hand. “If it helps, I already knew all of this and still approve.”

“It does not help,” Margo said flatly.

But she was smiling.

They all were.

And for a while, the three of them just… sat. Ate. Talked. Teased each other. Margo took half of Eliot’s toast, Eliot stole one of Quentin’s potatoes, Quentin kept accidentally brushing Eliot’s foot under the table and pretending he wasn’t doing it on purpose.

—-------

The rest of the day unfolded like honey — slow, golden, and just a little sticky around the edges. A recovery day in every sense of the word.

After breakfast, they drifted into the living room with steaming mugs and blankets, turning on a movie they half-watched through a haze of exhaustion and affection. Margo sprawled over one end of the couch with a pillow covering her face, dramatically groaning every time anyone spoke too loudly. Quentin was curled up against Eliot’s side, legs tangled, head tucked under his chin.

At some point, Margo muttered something about needing a “blackout sleep to delete the last forty-eight hours” and vanished into her bedroom.

Later, Eliot pulled Quentin into the shower with him, warm and quiet and gentle. He washed Quentin’s hair with slow fingers, rubbed conditioner in like he was handling something precious. Quentin stood boneless under the water, letting himself be taken care of. They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.

Now, the two of them were curled up again on the couch, dressed in soft clothes, wrapped in a throw blanket. Quentin was sitting beside Eliot, their thighs pressed together, Quentin’s toes tucked under Eliot’s calf like he needed the contact.

Outside, the city breathed softly. Inside, everything felt quiet. Still.

Except Quentin.

He kept fidgeting.

Eliot didn’t say anything at first. Just let it happen — Quentin chewing his bottom lip, readjusting his seat, opening his mouth and then closing it like he thought better of it.
Eventually, Eliot set down his tea and turned to him, one eyebrow raised.

“Okay, come on,” he said softly. “What’s going on that very pretty but very busy brain of yours?”

Quentin hesitated, then gave a little laugh, eyes down. “I, uh. Was wondering if you’d want to go on a date with me.”

Eliot blinked. “Like, a real date?”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah. Like, I take you out. I get a little overdressed, maybe forget what I was gonna say halfway through, probably trip on a curb or something, but I try really hard to make it nice and make you smile.”

Eliot’s heart squeezed. “Of course I want to go on a date with you,” he said, smiling.

Then his voice dipped lower, teasing, familiar. “But ask nicely.”

Quentin rolled his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips was fond. “Can I please take you on a date?”

Eliot cocked his head. “Can I please take you on a date… what?”

That stopped Quentin in his tracks. His breath caught. His expression faltered just a little — like he’d tripped on something he hadn’t seen coming.

“…Is it still okay to call you that?” he asked quietly. “Daddy, I mean?”

Eliot’s face softened instantly, his brow furrowing in gentle confusion. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Quentin glanced away, fidgeting again. “Because of…everything. Because I said it like that. Because I used it to hurt you and… I don’t know. I just didn’t want to assume it was still… okay.”

His voice broke on the last word. His throat bobbed, and he blinked hard, like he wasn’t quite expecting to feel so emotional about it.

Eliot moved fast but tender, pulling Quentin into his lap without hesitation, arms wrapping around him securely. Quentin folded into the embrace like it was instinct, like that’s where he belonged. Eliot pressed his cheek to Quentin’s temple, holding him close as Quentin’s breath hitched.

“You can always call me that,” Eliot whispered. “I want you to. I love the way it sounds coming from you. And I know you were hurting, baby. I know that wasn’t the real you. We both got scared and messy. That doesn’t mean it’s not still ours.”

Quentin buried his face into Eliot’s neck, breath shaking, arms coming up to cling. A few tears escaped, quick and silent.

“I just didn’t want to mess it all up,” Quentin whispered. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I didn’t want to break it.”

“You didn’t,” Eliot said firmly, cupping the back of his head. “You didn’t break anything. We’re here. We’re okay. And you’re still my good boy.”

That broke something soft in Quentin. He cried in earnest this time. Eliot just held him tighter, rubbing circles into his back.

After a bit, Quentin hadn’t moved from Eliot’s lap. His knees were drawn up, head tucked against Eliot’s shoulder like it was the only safe place left in the world. Eliot could feel the steady thrum of Quentin’s heartbeat where their chests pressed together. Slower now, but still a little uneven.

Eliot had wrapped them in one of the big throw blankets, tucking it around Quentin’s shoulders with the same hands that had held him through every rise and fall of the past twenty-four hours. Outside, the afternoon light was soft and amber through the windows. The city sounded far away. In here, it was just them — the two of them in a bubble of warmth and aftermath.

Eliot kissed the top of Quentin’s head. “You don’t need to keep punishing yourself, baby,” he murmured. “We talked it through. We both had our moment. It’s done now.”

Quentin shifted slightly, drawing back just enough to meet Eliot’s eyes.

“I know,” he said quietly. “Like… intellectually, I know. But my body doesn’t.”

Eliot frowned, gently tucking a strand of hair behind Quentin’s ear.

Quentin gave a soft, shaky laugh. “I still feel awful. Like I did something irreversible, even though you’re here and you forgave me and told me you love me. I can’t turn it off. It’s like I’ve swallowed it.”

His voice cracked, and Eliot held him tighter, arms banding around him protectively. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to feel things deeply.”

There was a beat. A silence that was heavier than the rest.

Then Quentin whispered, “Would you punish me?”

Eliot froze. His breath caught, just slightly.

“Q…”

Quentin pulled back a little more, just enough that Eliot could see the flush in his cheeks, the way he was chewing the inside of his lip.

“I know that’s not what last night was about,” Quentin said quickly, tripping over the words. “I know it’s not your job to make me feel better by hurting me or something, I know that’s not how this works. But I’m not asking because I hate myself. I just…” He faltered. “I want something that can help me feel… finished with this. So I can stop holding it.”

Eliot searched his face, watching the way Quentin’s mouth trembled, how his eyes were too wide, too open. He didn’t look like someone chasing punishment out of self-loathing. He looked like someone chasing clarity. Forgiveness he could feel on his skin.

Still, Eliot had to be sure.

“I don’t want you to think you have to pay penance to earn my love,” Eliot said, quiet and firm.

Quentin’s eyes welled up again. “I don’t. I don’t. But it’s like there’s this static in my body and I can’t get it out. I don’t want to be punished because I’m broken or I want to hurt myself or something. I want to… let go of the guilt. I think it would help.”

Eliot exhaled slowly, thumb brushing over Quentin’s cheek.

“You think the structure will help.”

Quentin nodded. “I think… you’ll help.”

Eliot felt something ache in his chest. That kind of trust — the raw, terrifying kind — it was the most humbling thing in the world. Quentin wasn’t asking to be hurt. He was asking to be held, fiercely and fully and without question, in the way only Eliot could do.

“You know I’ve already forgiven you,” Eliot said.

“I know,” Quentin whispered. “But I haven’t. Not yet. Not really. Not in a way that sticks.”

Eliot kissed him then — a slow, steady thing meant to anchor, not ignite. Quentin melted into it.

When he pulled back, Eliot rested their foreheads together. “Then we’ll do this right. If we’re doing it, we do it carefully. Deliberately. I’ll decide what you need — and you’ll use your words if anything’s too much.”

Quentin nodded, breath shaky. “Yes.”

“Color?”

“Green,” Quentin said, without hesitation.

“Good.” Eliot brushed their noses together. “Because if this is about getting back into your body — then we do that gently, even if it’s firm. You’re mine, Q. I’m going to take care of you.”

Quentin’s eyes fluttered shut at the words, a breath leaving him like he was exhaling the fear itself.

“I want that,” he said, voice almost reverent. “I want you.”

“You have me,” Eliot said, kissing him again. “You always do. No matter what.”

He held Quentin for a long moment, just breathing with him. Letting the moment stretch and settle. He felt Quentin’s muscles soften slowly, inch by inch, in his arms — like the decision itself was already part of the healing.

After a while, Eliot shifted just enough to glance at the clock. “Think you’ve got it in you to follow instructions for a while, sweetheart?”

Quentin gave a small, wry smile. “I’ll be your best-behaved boy.”

Eliot’s eyes sparkled. “We’ll see.”

—-----

The bedroom was softly lit, early evening spilling in through the windows in warm streaks, casting everything in golden hush. Eliot led Quentin in by the hand, not like he was taking him somewhere to be punished, but like he was taking him somewhere safe.

Quentin’s chest was tight with nerves and relief all at once — a strange, bracing contradiction. He wasn’t trembling exactly, but he felt like his whole body was tuned a half-step sharp, every sensation more vivid, more deliberate. But he followed Eliot willingly, barefoot on the cool floorboards, until they stopped beside the bed.

Eliot turned to him and smoothed both hands up his arms, thumb rubbing circles into the crooks of his elbows.

“I want to ask you something,” Eliot said, calm and measured. “What exactly are you carrying? What do you feel guilty about?”

Quentin took a breath. He looked away, then back again, because this was the part that mattered. “For not trusting you,” he said softly. “For believing the worst. For… letting someone else’s words get in my head and not giving you the benefit of the doubt.”

Eliot nodded, saying nothing yet.

“For lashing out at you. For being cruel — on purpose.” Quentin’s voice cracked. “I knew I was hurting you and I just kept going.”

Eliot’s hands came up to cup his jaw, gentle but firm. Quentin leaned into it instinctively.

“And—” Quentin added, voice a little watery, “—technically I broke a rule.”

Eliot raised a brow. “Which one?”

Quentin gave a tiny laugh through his nose. “Not lashing out in anger.”

Eliot snorted, fond despite himself. “You really are such a good boy.”

“I just… I want to get it out of me,” Quentin said. “Like I need to shed it. Then I can move on for real.”

Eliot nodded once. “Okay. We can do that.”

He paused, searching Quentin’s face with quiet seriousness. “But after this — it’s done. No more spiral. No more dragging it back out to flay yourself with. After this, you’re fully forgiven. Clean slate. You trust me to make that call, don’t you?”

Quentin nodded. “Yes.”

Eliot narrowed his eyes, gently but pointedly. “Try again.”

“Yes, sir.”

Eliot smiled, small but warm. “Good.”

There was a stillness between them. Eliot let it stretch — let Quentin breathe in the reality of what they were doing, not rushing him through the fear or the weight of it.

Then Eliot stepped back a little. He spoke with clear, calm authority.

“Here’s what’s going to happen.”

Quentin straightened without meaning to, heart thudding a little faster.

“You’re getting a spanking. Over my lap, bare. It’s going to hurt. That’s the point.”

Quentin flushed, but nodded. He didn’t move.

“After that,” Eliot continued, “you’re going to stand in the corner — ten minutes, no talking. And you’ll think. Not about how awful you are, not about what you did wrong — but about what you’re letting go of. What’s done.”

Quentin nodded again. “Yes, sir.”

“And then,” Eliot said, his voice softening with something like amusement, “you’re going to sit on your sore little ass and write me a list.”

Quentin blinked. “A list?”

Eliot crossed his arms, brow lifted. “Of ways we — both of us — can cope when our feelings are too much. Healthier strategies. Even dumb ones. I want it in your handwriting. I want it on my desk.”

There was a flicker of surprise across Quentin’s face. Then embarrassment. Then something that looked a little like gratitude.

Eliot stepped forward again and kissed his forehead. “It’s to make you feel better. That’s what punishment is for. It’s not about shame. It’s about repair.”

Quentin swallowed hard. “Okay.”

“Good,” Eliot said. “Now. You remember your rules?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Say them.”

Quentin closed his eyes for a second, gathered himself, then spoke with quiet reverence.

“Be honest. Answer verbally. Use my colors if I need to.”

“Good boy.”

Quentin’s whole face went soft at the praise, like a knot in him was already beginning to loosen.

“Color now?”

“Green.”

Eliot kissed his cheek, then took a seat on the edge of the bed, smoothing his palms across his thighs. He looked up at Quentin with that calm, settled certainty.

“Then come here, Q.”

Quentin moved slowly, reverently, as if the act of placing himself over Eliot’s lap was a kind of surrender ceremony. He eased down across Eliot’s thighs, Eliot guiding him with steady hands, one pressed lightly to the middle of his back as the other helped him balance.

“Good,” Eliot murmured. “Just like that.”

The room was quiet except for the small, hitching breath Quentin let out. He rested his cheek against the softness of the bed, his arms curled under him, fingers curling into the duvet like he needed to ground himself in something.

Eliot’s palm smoothed over the curve of his ass, warm and firm and not yet hurting. “You still green?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good boy.”

Quentin exhaled, shaky.

“I’m going to start now,” Eliot said. “It’ll be slow at first. Just breathe through it. And remember, this isn’t because I’m mad at you. I’m not. I love you. That hasn’t changed. It doesn’t change.”

Quentin whimpered, already unraveling at the seams just from that.

Eliot’s hand lifted — then came down in a sharp, clean smack. Quentin jerked slightly, a soft gasp escaping, but he didn’t flinch away.

Another. And another.

“I’m doing this,” Eliot said between strikes, “because you asked me to. Because I know what it feels like to carry something heavy and not know how to put it down.”
He landed another slap, a bit harder, the sound sharp in the stillness of the bedroom. Quentin whimpered again, tears starting to prick his eyes already — not just from pain, but the relief that came with it.

“We trust each other,” Eliot said firmly, his rhythm steady. “That’s how this works. Not because we’re perfect. But because we show up. Because we talk. Because we fix it together.”

The next smack made Quentin cry out softly — the pain was mounting, blooming warm across his skin.

“I’m not mad at you. Not even a little. But I want you to let this out. To stop punishing yourself in your head.”

Another strike. Quentin sobbed once, quiet and aching, and Eliot paused to rub his back, gentle circles, grounding touch.

“You’re not bad, Q. You made a mistake. That doesn’t mean you lose love. That doesn’t mean I stop wanting you. Love doesn’t work like that.”

Quentin let out a broken little sound and shifted, but didn’t try to get away.

Eliot’s hand came down again, a little harder now, more deliberate. “You don’t need to earn forgiveness,” he said softly. “You have it. I already gave it to you. This is just the exhale. The letting go.”

By now, Quentin was crying openly — not loud, not dramatic, but real. Wet cheeks, soft hiccupping breaths. Eliot slowed the pace, each strike more spaced out, each one followed by a gentle rub or a murmur: You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe. I love you.

The final few smacks were lighter, more symbolic than punishing, and Quentin was melting into the aftershock, breath quivering, heart stuttering against the weight of it all.
Eliot rested his palm on Quentin’s back again and just let them breathe.

“You’re a good boy,” he said quietly. “Even when you’re upset. Even when you’re scared. You’re still my good boy.”

Quentin let out a soft, broken “thank you,” and Eliot helped him sit up, carefully guiding him off his lap.

His thighs were flushed, pink and hot, and Eliot rubbed circles into them as Quentin knelt on the bed, catching his breath. When his breathing evened a bit, Eliot tipped his chin gently and kissed his forehead.

“You ready for the corner?”

Quentin nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Eliot pointed to the far wall — not far, just a few feet away — and Quentin stood shakily, walking over. He faced the corner, hands clasped behind his back, tears drying on his cheeks. His ass throbbed, but something in his chest had gone quiet. Clean.

“I’ll set a timer,” Eliot said. “Ten minutes. Then you’re coming back here and we’re making that list. And then it’s over. No more guilt, no more shame. Just us.”
“Yes, sir,” Quentin said softly, already breathing easier.

Eliot sat back on the bed, watching him with quiet pride, eyes soft and steady. And for the first time in almost three days, Quentin believed him when he said everything would be okay.

The corner was quiet.

Quentin stood still, his back straight even though the throbbing in his ass made him want to shift. He didn’t. His hands were clasped behind him like Eliot had shown him once, as if to say: I’m listening.

Tears still clung to his lashes. Not sobbing now—just soft, slow tears that felt more like relief than pain. He sniffled once and let out a quiet breath.

His thoughts, no longer racing, moved like warm syrup.

He felt lighter. Not in a giddy, joyful way. Just… clearer. As though something toxic had been pulled out of his skin and released into the air.

He was still ashamed—he’d lashed out, said cruel things, and the guilt clung like static—but underneath all of it, he felt loved. Still. Even now. Eliot hadn’t left. Hadn’t yelled. Hadn’t scolded him in anger.

He’d held him, soothed him, reminded him what love was supposed to look like.

Quentin’s chest ached with it. He loved Eliot. God, he loved him. There was no part of him that didn’t feel tethered to Eliot’s presence. Not in a needy way, not anymore, but in that deep, soul-knotted way that said: this is home now. This is safe.

He didn’t even realize time had passed until Eliot’s voice broke through the quiet.

“Q. Come here, sweetheart.”

Quentin blinked and turned. Eliot was sitting on the surface of the desk, gesturing him over with a soft look and a gentle smile.

Quentin went over slowly, still floaty, still bare. The air felt cool on his skin. He felt oddly small in the best way.

Eliot pulled out the desk chair and tapped it with two fingers. “Sit.”

Quentin hesitated for only a second, then obeyed, wincing as the hardwood met his sore skin. His cheeks flushed as he settled. Eliot handed him a pen and a piece of lined paper.

“Your task,” Eliot said smoothly, “is to make a list. Practical things we can do next time emotions run high. Ways to cope that don’t involve yelling or pushing each other away. Things we agree on.”

Quentin nodded, holding the pen like it was a sacred object.

“I want your very best handwriting, Quentin. You make it messy, and I swear, I’ll make you start over.”

Quentin flushed, ducking his head. “Yes, sir.”

Eliot didn’t move. Just sat there and watched as Quentin started to write.

The first line came slowly. Quentin wanted it to be good. Wanted it to be clear and neat and something Eliot would be proud of. His fingers trembled slightly—not from fear, just from how deep the care went.

He wrote:

1. Tell each other when we’re upset or not feeling good. Even if it’s embarrassing.
2. Use our safe words if things feel bad, even in vanilla situations.
3. No lashing out. No name calling. Take a breath instead.
4. Ask for space if we need it, but promise to come back.
5. Trust each other, even when it’s hard. Especially then.

He swallowed hard, tears in his eyes again. But this time, they weren’t even sad. Just overwhelmed with how held he felt.

When he finished the fifth one, Eliot leaned over, reading.

“This is good,” Eliot murmured. He bent, kissed Quentin’s temple, then the top of his head. “You did a really good job, baby.”

Quentin’s heart swelled, lips trembling around a smile.

Eliot plucked the page from his hands, carried it to the corkboard beside the desk, and tacked it up with a gold thumbtack—like it was art.

“Now we have a plan,” Eliot said softly. “And it’s written in your very best handwriting. Which means I’ll believe you meant it.”

Quentin let out a small breath, laughing a little.

Eliot turned back, opened his arms. “Come here.”

Quentin went, curling into him like it was second nature. Eliot wrapped both arms around him, kissed his hair.

“Feeling better?” Eliot asked, voice low and warm.

“Yeah,” Quentin whispered. “I really do. Thank you. I… I don’t know how you do this.”

Eliot smiled into his curls. “You let me. That’s how.”

—-------

The world felt quieter now.

The bedroom was dim and warm, wrapped in that late-night hush where everything outside the apartment stopped mattering. The sheets were soft, pulled up to Quentin’s waist, and Eliot’s chest was warm behind his back, one arm around his middle and the other gently carding through his hair.

They’d brushed their teeth together. Quentin had changed into boxers and one of Eliot’s old shirts. Eliot hadn’t let go of him since—except to pull the covers back and help him climb in.

Now they were wrapped around each other, close and safe, the electric hum of the day replaced with a slow, syrupy calm.

Quentin felt settled. Not just in his body, though the ache in his muscles was real and satisfying—but in his heart. The guilt had been scrubbed away by love, by structure, by the tender way Eliot always seemed to know exactly what to say and do.

“How are you feeling, baby?” Eliot asked softly, fingertips brushing under the hem of the T-shirt at Quentin’s hip.

Quentin turned his head just enough to see him. His eyes were heavy, but there was no hesitation in his answer. “Good,” he murmured. “Really good. A lot better.”

Eliot smiled. Leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, then again, a little firmer, like a reward. “That’s my smart boy.”

Quentin flushed, smiling faintly as he tucked his face into Eliot’s shoulder. But then Eliot pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him.

“Noticed something though,” Eliot said, voice still light but just curious enough to feel deliberate. “That was a lot of sir tonight. Not a single daddy. Any reason for that?”

Quentin blinked, caught off guard. His cheeks warmed instantly, and he half-covered his face with one hand. “Oh,” he mumbled. “Um. I don’t know. It didn’t feel right? I guess?”

Eliot hummed, hand drifting in slow circles across Quentin’s ribs. “Didn’t feel right because it was a punishment?”

Quentin peeked up at him. “I think so? I wasn’t even thinking about it consciously, but… it felt like I didn’t deserve to say it. And maybe because that part of me feels more tender? Soft or…sweet. And this wasn’t really about that. This was about… fixing something.”

Eliot considered that, then nodded thoughtfully and kissed Quentin’s forehead. “That makes sense. You don’t need to force anything. You always get to say what feels right for you, when it feels right.”

Quentin nodded, pressing closer, relaxing more into Eliot’s body, until Eliot shifted again, holding him just a little tighter.

“So,” Eliot murmured, “where are you taking me on this date you so sweetly asked for?”

Quentin perked up a bit, his eyes going soft and excited. “I was thinking—since it’s school break and we’ve got time—maybe we could go to the art museum? Or dinner? Or both? We could do something cute and sweet and ridiculous and you could wear that one shirt I really like, and I’ll pretend not to stare.”

Eliot grinned. “Pretend poorly, you mean.”

“Obviously.”

They both laughed, soft and quiet, and Eliot kissed his cheek again. “Art museum sounds perfect. Then dinner. Then dessert, if you behave.”

Quentin laughed. “I’m never going to behave again, actually.”

Eliot’s voice dropped, teasing and warm. “You’ll behave. Or I’ll make you regret it.”

Quentin shivered in delight, and Eliot pulled him in closer, resting his chin on Quentin’s shoulder.

The silence stretched out again—not heavy or awkward, but full of warmth.

“Hey,” Quentin whispered, just before he drifted off.

“Yeah, baby?”

“I love you.”

Eliot smiled against his skin. “I love you too.”

Chapter Text

The apartment felt like it had been claimed by some gentle, benevolent spell ever since midterms ended. The sunlight through the windows was golden and heavy, the sheets always smelled like skin and sleep and sex, and every hour seemed to stretch languidly toward pleasure. They’d been doing nothing for days, and everything.

Mornings bled into afternoons without meaning, punctuated by long, slow kisses and Eliot’s impeccable coffee, Quentin’s ridiculous giggles when Eliot touched just the right spot, and Eliot's voice like honey praising him for being such a perfect boy. They barely wore clothes. They barely left bed. They fucked until Quentin couldn’t speak and then napped tangled in each other like a pair of overfed cats, waking only to start again.

“I love you,” Eliot had said so many times now it barely made Quentin short-circuit anymore. Barely. Not completely. And Quentin said it back every time, sometimes through gasping moans, sometimes through quiet, snuggled hums into Eliot’s chest.

It was bliss. Disgustingly domestic bliss. Margo had taken to slamming the door dramatically every time she left just to announce she was not witnessing this.
But even paradise needed laundry.

“I should probably go back to my dorm tonight,” Quentin mumbled, from where he was lazily sprawled across Eliot’s chest, lips brushing his collarbone. “Just for a bit. I haven’t seen it in over a week, and I think my clothes have unionized.”

Eliot blinked slowly, looking down at him with mock outrage. “You’re abandoning me.”

“No! No, I’m—” Quentin propped his chin on Eliot’s chest, sheepish and pink in the cheeks. “I just want to take care of some stuff. Laundry, my good charger, maybe shave. And—” he hesitated, cheeks getting redder, “I was thinking it might be nice to, I don’t know… pick you up for our date tomorrow. Properly. Like a real date.”

Eliot went still. Something shifted in his expression—something soft, so openly vulnerable for half a second, Quentin almost panicked. Then Eliot smiled. It was warm and bright and just a little bit wicked.

“You’re such a hopeless romantic,” he murmured.

Quentin groaned and buried his face again. “Maybe.”

“You want to pick me up. Are you going to knock on the door with flowers and everything?”

“I might! Shut up.” Quentin peered up at him. “I just… I want it to be special. You’re special.”

Eliot’s hand slid up his back, gently. “You don’t have to go. I’d keep you here, you know. Naked and needy and trapped in my bed forever.”

“I know,” Quentin whispered, smiling. “But it’ll make tomorrow even better.”

Eliot considered that. “Fine. You may go. But—” His voice changed, slipping into something low and commanding. “You’re still under every single rule.”

Quentin blinked. “Okay.”

“All of them,” Eliot said smoothly. “You eat a real dinner. You hydrate. You check in frequently. And—” he leaned in, lips brushing Quentin’s ear, “—you don’t get off.”

Quentin made a strangled noise. “What?”

“No coming. No touching. Not even humping your stupid pillow like a pathetic little virgin.”

“Eliot!”

Eliot smiled slowly. “You want to make tomorrow special, baby? Fine. That means you come back to me desperate. Ruined with it.”

Quentin’s face was brilliant red now, his mouth opening and closing helplessly. “That’s evil.”

“Correct,” Eliot said, all smug amusement. “You agree to the terms?”

Quentin swallowed. “Y-yeah. Yes.”

Eliot raised an eyebrow.

“Yes, Sir,” Quentin added quickly, flustered and squirming already.

Eliot kissed him slow and deep, then gave his ass a light smack as he sat up. “Go. Before I tie you to my bed forever.”

Quentin dressed reluctantly, throwing things into a bag and avoiding Eliot’s amused glances. As he stepped into the doorway, Eliot called out, “Q?”

Quentin turned.

“You’re gonna do great.” Eliot’s voice softened. “I’m excited. And I’m proud of you.”

Quentin smiled so hard it hurt. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

—------------------

The apartment felt quieter without Quentin.

Not bad, exactly—just... strange. Strange how quickly Eliot had gotten used to him being there, padding around in his socks, sipping coffee too slowly, chewing the end of his pen while he read. His absence left a subtle silence Eliot couldn't ignore.

He sent the text without overthinking it.

Eliot: Q’s gone for the night. I need Margo time. Bring snacks.

Margo: Say no more. Be there in twenty.

Sure enough, twenty-three minutes later, Margo strolled in with two bags of chips, a pint of something alcoholic, and a box of mini cupcakes. She dropped everything onto the counter and raised an eyebrow.

“You look like someone just stole your emotional support sub.”

Eliot laughed. “That’s not entirely inaccurate.”

She hopped up on the counter and opened the drinks. “I brought you sugar, salt, and alcohol. Pick your poison.”

“Cupcake,” he said instantly, unwrapping one. “God, I’ve missed this.”

“Right? It’s weird without him here. Like, objectively weird. Isn’t it wild how fast he became part of our little fucked-up domestic circus?”

“It’s alarming,” Eliot agreed, mouth full of frosting. “I keep looking up expecting to hear him whining about something.”

Margo popped open a bag of chips and nudged it toward him. “Speaking of—how are you?”

He glanced at her. “I’m fine.”

She didn’t blink. “Try again, bitch. I saw you after Mike. That wasn’t ‘fine.’ You were like, four seconds away from throwing a chair.”

Eliot sighed and leaned back against the counter. “Yeah. It was bad. But… I mean, Quentin saw it. He was—he took care of me, Margo. Like, actually took care of me. No judgment. He helped me shower. He made tea. Tucked me in. And the next morning I… I told him. That I loved him.”

Her eyes softened instantly. “Yeah?”

“He said it back,” Eliot said, almost reverent. “He’s been in love with me, apparently. For a while.”

“I know,” Margo said, pointing a chip at him. “He told me. Weeks ago. Poor boy was so head over heels and absolutely sure you didn’t feel the same.”

Eliot laughed, quiet and breathless. “He begged me to fuck him the next morning. Like, really fuck him. It was… yeah. Amazing. Emotional. Hot.”

“Okay, gross, but I’m happy for you.”

He gave her a look. “You started this conversation.”

“And I will end it if you try to say the phrase ‘emotional load-bearing anal’ or whatever disgusting thing you’re thinking.”

They both cracked up, and Margo took a long sip of her drink.

“No, but seriously,” she said after a moment. “I wanted to check in. Because you weren’t okay. Not after Mike. And now you seem like you’re glowing and it’s great but... are you actually okay?”

Eliot nodded slowly. “I think I am. Or at least—I will be. He gets me. Not just the glitter. Not just the Dom. All of it. And he stayed even after I had a breakdown. I feel like… I’ve never had that. I didn’t think anyone could love me like that. And then he did. And still does. Even after all that.”

“Because you deserve it,” she said. “Even on your worst days. Especially on your worst days.”

Eliot blinked at her. “That’s what he said. Almost exactly.”

“Because he’s smart. And maybe slightly masochistic, given how chaotic we are, but smart.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “He begged me for a punishment too, you know. After begging me to fuck him.”

“Hot.”

“I mean—yes,” Eliot said, laughing a little now. “But also… kind of devastating. He felt so bad. And I didn’t even think he needed punishment. But I realized… he needed to forgive himself. And he needed my help to do that.”

Margo tilted her head. “And did he?”

“Yeah.” Eliot smiled, faraway. “I think he really did.”

She exhaled like she was finally letting go of some breath she’d been holding for days. “You scared me that night, El. I didn’t like seeing you that way. I wanted to go nuclear on Mike.”

“I know.”

“I would have, too.”

Margo slid down from the counter and wrapped her arms around him. “You deserve it. You deserve someone who loves you, even when you’re a mess.”

Eliot rested his cheek against her temple. “I already have that. You.”

“Well, yeah,” she said, smirking. “But now you have someone who’s legally required to make you come at least twice a week.”

“Margo.”

“Twice a day, then.”

He groaned, but he was smiling.

“Okay, emotionally available time is over. Time for sugar therapy round two.”

Eliot grabbed the snacks without hesitation. “God, I fucking love you.”

She grinned. “I know.”

—----------

The apartment was lit in the lazy gold hue of early evening—lamplight glowing soft and low, casting long shadows across the living room. A half-finished bottle of red wine stood on the coffee table beside an open bag of fancy kettle popcorn and a box of cupcakes Margo had picked up on the way home, swearing Eliot needed sugar “to recover from being a whiny little drama queen all week.”

Eliot was tucked into one end of the couch, barefoot, wrapped in his robe like a gay Gatsby, long legs draped over the edge. Margo sat the opposite way, her knees propped against his thigh, balancing her wine glass on her knee with the grace of someone who had spent years perfecting the art of high-functioning dysfunction.

The TV was playing something deeply unwatchable, which meant Margo had chosen it.

Eliot wasn’t paying attention.

He had his phone in hand and a stupid, dreamy little smile curling at his mouth as he scrolled through messages. He didn't notice he was doing it, didn't clock the way his entire face softened.

Margo did.

She made a sound halfway between a sigh and a gag. “Oh my God. You’re texting him, aren’t you?”

Eliot blinked up, pretending for exactly half a second to be innocent. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She threw a popcorn kernel at his face. “You look like you just got proposed to by a boyband member in a Disney Channel Original Movie.”

He batted the popcorn away and grinned. “Well, he did say I ruin him.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I didn’t ask for these powers,” Eliot said, sipping from his wineglass with theatrical grace. “But who am I to waste them?”

Margo rolled her eyes. “You're such a menace. You’ve got him tied in knots, you know that, right?”

Eliot tilted his phone toward her so she could see the most recent message from Quentin:

I can’t believe you left me like this. I’m dying. Please. Please.

Margo blinked. “Wait—left him like that?”

“I may have told him,” Eliot said casually, swirling his wine, “that he’s not allowed to touch himself until we see each other again.”

“Oh my fucking God. You dommy little shit!” Margo laughed, full belly, eyes bright. “You are actually a monster.”

“A loving, benevolent monster,” he said sweetly. “He agreed.”

“Of course he did. He’d walk into traffic if you told him to do it like a good boy.”

Eliot flushed faintly, glancing back at his phone. “I mean. I did say it nicely. Mostly.”

Margo drained her glass and leaned closer. “You should mess with him. For fun.”

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

“Obviously,” she said. “He’s probably already curled up in that weird blanket of his with tears in his eyes. Kick the boy while he’s down.”

Eliot gave her a look, then turned back to his phone, thumbs moving quickly. He knew exactly how to wind Quentin up without crossing a line.

Eliot:
Are you being good for me, baby? Or are you already whining and squirming like a desperate little brat?

He didn’t have to wait long for Quentin’s reply.

Quentin:
I hate you. I’m going to combust.

Please. Please let me at least touch it. You’re not even here. This is torture.

It’s not fair.

Eliot laughed softly under his breath, that dreamy little smile blooming again.

Eliot:
Good. You should suffer beautifully for me. Don’t even think about touching.

He sent it with a smug smile, then leaned his head back against the couch with a pleased sigh.

Margo topped off both their glasses. “You’re having way too much fun with this.”

“Of course I am. He’s soft and desperate and all mine.”

Margo studied him over the rim of her glass. “It’s weird.”

“What’s weird?”

“That he fits,” she said simply. “Like, in this. In our whole thing. You and me and our fucked-up codependence. He just… folded in. Like he’s been here the whole time.”

Eliot glanced over at her, and something gentle settled in his chest.

“He’s family,” she added, too casually. “Our emotionally repressed, nerdy little third wheel. He belongs.”

Eliot swallowed around the lump in his throat and smiled at her. “Yeah. He really does.”

Margo reached over, grabbed a chip, and tossed it in her mouth. “I swear to God, you are both so far gone it’s painful to witness.”

“He’s so gone for me,” Eliot said, only a little smug. “He’s not even trying to pretend anymore.”

“You’re worse,” Margo replied. “You look like someone hit you over the head with a glitter brick and now you only speak in honey-dripping filth.”

“That’s an incredible- if not confusing- metaphor, thank you.”

She gestured lazily with her wineglass. “Honestly, I didn’t think you had it in you. Loving someone this much. Or rather letting yourself love someone this much- letting them too.”

He glanced at her, caught off guard.

“I mean,” she said, quieter now, “you’ve had a lot of walls up, El. You used to keep people out on purpose. Then came this hoodie-wearing, anxious disaster of a man and suddenly you’re letting him boss you around with his stupid mouth and putting your whole heart on the floor.”

Eliot’s smile dropped a little. But not in a bad way. Just softened into something real.

He set his wine aside, tugged the blanket over his lap, and leaned back with a sigh. “Yeah. He’s… everything.”

Margo didn’t say anything for a moment. She just looked at him, the way only someone who’s known you forever can.

“I’m glad he’s ours,” she said finally. “In whatever weird, codependent little trio we’ve built. I like him.”

Eliot’s eyes crinkled. “He’s lucky you didn’t claw his eyes out.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong. I would if he hurt you.” She sipped her wine. “But if he makes you smile like that again, I might actually die of secondhand affection.”

Eliot turned back to his phone and typed one more message to Quentin:

Eliot:
I miss you. Be good for me. I’ll know if you’re not.

Margo glanced sideways at him and grinned. “Gross.”

Eliot’s smile was soft, reverent, warm.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “I know.”

—------------------------

Quentin stood in front of the mirror with his shirt half-buttoned and three different ties hanging around his neck like he was auditioning for some tragic college theater production of Confessions of a Chronically Anxious Twink.

His dorm room looked like a clothing bomb had gone off. Two sweaters lay abandoned on his bed, a button-down shirt with wrinkled sleeves was draped over his desk chair, and his nicest pair of jeans had already been tried on and dismissed—too tight, too something. He was officially spiraling.

“This is stupid,” he muttered, yanking off the tie he’d just tried and flinging it toward the laundry basket. “We literally had sex yesterday. We’ve done…everything. Why am I nervous?”

But he was nervous. He was pacing-nervous. Heart-in-his-throat nervous. It felt like too much and not enough all at once. Because tonight was different. Not a scene. Not just hanging out. It was a date. A real, actual date. And even though they’d been orbiting each other for months—living together more often than not, sharing a bed, sharing everything—this felt official in a way that made Quentin’s stomach twist up like a pretzel.

He ended up in a dark green sweater over a white button-down, soft jeans, and his worn brown boots. He combed his hair and immediately regretted it, mussed it up a bit, and then finally gave up. He spritzed on a bit of cologne Eliot had once offhandedly said made him “smell like old books,” then turned to his messenger bag.

He carefully packed it while also making sure he had:

His good phone charger

Deodorant

Condoms and lube (just in case—he wasn’t that much of a hopeless romantic)

His tiny notebook (because he still occasionally wrote poems and Eliot had been a source of inspiration recently)

Finally, with one last nervous swipe of chapstick, he left the dorm.

The walk to Eliot and Margo’s apartment was brisk, cold enough to sting his cheeks but not enough to make him regret walking. He needed the air, the movement, the solitude.

It helped settle him.

He hesitated only once in front of their door before knocking.

And then Eliot opened it.

And Quentin’s breath punched out of his lungs like he’d been winded.

Eliot was…God. Ridiculous. He looked like he’d stepped off a fashion week runway with a martini in one hand and someone’s heart in the other.

“You’re—” Quentin tried, blinking.

Eliot smiled slowly, the kind of smile that had wrecked lesser men. “Devastating? Dashing? Irresistible?”

“All of the above,” Quentin murmured, half under his breath.

Eliot looked him over—slowly, appreciatively. His gaze lingered on Quentin’s soft sweater, the bag slung over his shoulder, his flushed face. “You clean up nice, Mr. Coldwater.”

Quentin blushed, tugging at his sleeve. “Thanks. You too. I mean, you always—look like that. But especially now. You look like you own half the Met, actually.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Eliot said, stepping forward. He reached out and smoothed a wrinkle on Quentin’s collar. “You ready?”

Quentin nodded, then hesitated when Eliot didn’t drop his hand.

Eliot’s eyes twinkled. “Have you been good for me?”

Quentin’s ears turned scarlet.

“I—yeah. I mean. I followed all the rules.”

Eliot leaned in, close enough for Quentin to smell his cologne. “No touching?”

Quentin gave a small, helpless shake of his head. “No touching.”

Eliot kissed his cheek—soft and possessive—and whispered, “Good boy.”

Quentin’s knees nearly buckled.

Eliot grinned, smug and fond. “Let’s go, then. The art world awaits.”

They headed off together toward the train—Eliot’s hand brushing against Quentin’s as they walked, not quite holding but never far. Quentin felt full of warmth and nerves and something bigger than either—love, maybe?

—------------

The train ride into the city was filled with casual conversation and subtle touches—knees knocking together, hands brushing, Quentin leaning into Eliot’s shoulder when the car jostled too hard. They both pretended not to notice the older woman across the aisle smiling at them. It felt good. It felt normal.

Quentin couldn’t stop fidgeting as they stepped off the train and walked toward the museum. He was technically the one who had planned this, picked the time, sent the link to Eliot with “Would this be okay?” like it was the most daring thing he’d ever done. But Eliot had said yes — and then picked the dinner spot himself, which felt like a fair trade-off, one that kept Quentin grounded and floating all at once.

It was early afternoon, sun high but mellow. Their hands brushed together once, twice, and then Eliot caught Quentin’s fingers and laced them through his own.

“You’re fidgeting,” Eliot murmured without looking, like he just knew. “What’s got you all buzzy?”

Quentin shrugged, a little too fast. “I don’t know. Maybe just—nervous?”

Eliot finally turned to look at him. His eyes were warm. “We’ve literally had sex on my lap.”

“That’s not helping,” Quentin said, his voice catching on a laugh. “This is different. This is a date.”

“And I look hot enough to rattle your nerves?” Eliot teased, cocking his head, mock-serious.

Quentin flushed, then rolled his eyes affectionately. “You always look hot. That’s the problem.”

The museum was one of Eliot’s favorites, with polished floors and high ceilings and warm pools of light cascading across the exhibits. Quentin was enthralled.

The museum was quiet enough to feel intimate but not empty. Quentin kept thinking about how different Eliot seemed here — same quick wit and elegant composure, but also something softer. He would pause in front of a painting, tilt his head, and look so genuinely absorbed that Quentin couldn’t look away. A few times, Eliot leaned close and murmured a thought about the brushstrokes or color palette, and Quentin found himself genuinely trying to keep up — even though mostly he was just watching Eliot’s mouth move.

They wandered slowly. Quentin stopped in front of a Rothko and tilted his head. “This one always makes me kind of sad.”

“Why?” Eliot asked, leaning in beside him.

“I think because it’s just—too much feeling and no shape to hold it. It’s like when you’re spiraling, and everything’s bleeding together.”

Eliot was quiet for a second. “You’re kind of brilliant when you’re not catastrophizing.”

“Wow,” Quentin said, grinning. “Romantic and insulting.”

Eliot bumped their shoulders together. “You bring out the best in me.”

They made their way into the sculpture wing, and Quentin stopped in front of a tall, abstract piece that looked vaguely humanoid but twisted, like someone had tried to sculpt longing out of melted copper. Eliot stepped up behind him, so close Quentin could feel the warmth of his chest.

They walked around for a bit more. Quentin got very excited about a particular piece and started babbling in a way that made Eliot’s heart go soft.

Eliot watched him like he was the exhibit.

“You know,” Quentin said as they stood in front of a huge modern installation, “I think you belong here.”

Eliot raised a brow. “In the modern art wing?”

“No,” Quentin said, turning toward him with all the weight in the world behind it. “Here. With the rest of the beautiful things. You’re—” he floundered, helplessly sincere. “You’re art, Eliot.”

Eliot turned him gently by the shoulders. “Quentin Coldwater. You sappy little fuck.”

“Don’t act like you’re not flattered.”

“Oh, I’m not pretending. I’m absolutely preening.”

For a second Eliot didn’t say anything. Then he stepped closer and cupped Quentin’s jaw with one elegant hand, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “You say things like that,” he murmured, “and you expect me not to kiss you in public?”

“I’m counting on it.” Quentin laughed, and Eliot kissed him — right there in the gallery, surrounded by strangers and silence and art. It was soft, sure, but full of intent. He kissed Quentin like he meant it. Like he was claiming the moment for himself.

By the time they left the museum, Quentin was floating again. Not subspace, but maybe something adjacent — dreamy and overwhelmed in a good way.

They were halfway down the block when Eliot pulled him to a stop just outside the museum’s tall marble facade. His eyes were shining with some unreadable emotion.

“What?” Quentin asked.

Eliot didn’t answer. He just grabbed Quentin by the collar and kissed him, hard. A sudden, breathless thing that stole the air from Quentin’s lungs. One of those kisses that makes you think you’ve been kissed wrong your whole life.

When Eliot pulled back, he was flushed, just slightly. “You’re not going back to your dorm tonight. I won’t allow it.”

Quentin blinked at him.

“I’m taking you home,” Eliot said, his voice lower now, nearly a growl. “I’m going to ruin you.”

Quentin’s knees nearly buckled. “Okay.”

Eliot laced their fingers again, effortlessly. “Dinner first. Then debauchery.”

Quentin just nodded, dizzy with affection and want.

He had wanted this to be a real date. Something normal and soft and separate from their rules and rituals. And it was. But it was also them — flirtatious and warm and absolutely electric. It was everything Quentin hadn’t known he needed.

And he couldn’t wait to see how the night ended.

—--------

Dinner was at a little Italian place Eliot had chosen, tucked into a quiet corner just off the main drag—half candlelight, half twinkle lights, and fully too romantic for Quentin’s frazzled brain. The hostess smiled when she saw them holding hands and led them to a cozy corner booth with red seats and a single tea light flickering between them. Quentin slid in across from Eliot and tried not to combust from how unfairly beautiful he looked in the low lighting.

“So,” Eliot said, once they’d ordered—wine for Eliot, a fizzy nonalcoholic thing for Quentin, who said he didn’t want to dull any of this. “Did you learn anything life-changing at the museum?”

Quentin grinned, twirling his straw. “Yeah. I learned you absolutely could’ve been one of those portraits. That one upstairs? The French one with the smug noble in all that embroidery? It’s you. Unfairly hot. All smug bone structure and attitude.”

Eliot tilted his head with a smirk, clearly pleased. “So I’m a nobleman and you’re the wide-eyed peasant with a library card?”

“I’m the starving artist, obviously,” Quentin shot back. “Desperately in love with his unattainable muse.”

“Unattainable?” Eliot raised a single brow. “I’m literally going to ruin you when we get home.”

Quentin nearly choked on his drink.

Eliot winked and took a sip of his wine like he hadn’t just delivered a line worthy of melting steel.

They kept talking. About the art, about dumb things from classes, about the strange serenity of having a night without stress for the first time in weeks. Quentin was soft around the edges with it, watching Eliot laugh and toss his head back and make jokes so effortlessly. They flirted and teased and stared too long across the flickering candlelight, Eliot’s leg brushing his under the table, Quentin’s hand drifting into his lap at one point just to touch his knee, like he couldn’t stop reminding himself Eliot was real and here and his.

Their plates came—Quentin’s filled with gnocchi, Eliot’s with chicken over saffron risotto—and they ate while making faces at each other every time someone in the restaurant did something weird. Eliot stole bites off his plate, claimed it was for research. Quentin let him, secretly delighted.

“I’ve never felt like this,” Quentin said softly at one point, fork resting in the half-finished gnocchi, his voice shy. “Like... it’s just easy. And fun. And sweet. And I don’t feel like I’m performing, or failing.”

Eliot reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “You’re not. You’re just being you. And I like that person very, very much.”

Quentin bit his lip, eyes wet. “I like you very, very much, too.”

The walk back to the apartment was slow, hands laced between them, the air cool and the night quiet enough that their footsteps echoed slightly on the sidewalk. Quentin was saying something about how maybe next time they should go to the science museum—he had a weird fondness for old telescopes—when Eliot stopped them mid-step.

“You did good today,” Eliot said, voice low and pleased. “The date. The rules. You were good yesterday too, being patient, listening, taking care of yourself.”

“Trying,” Quentin mumbled, cheeks pink.

“I noticed,” Eliot murmured, then suddenly moved a hand up and scruffed the back of Quentin’s neck, fingers sliding into the longer bits of his hair to give a firm little tug.
Quentin whined.

It came out embarrassingly easy, automatic, his knees going a little weak at the sensation. Eliot smirked.

“God, you’re cute when you melt like that,” he said. “I should do it more often.”

Quentin tried to recover, face flaming. “That’s not fair.”

“Oh, darling.” Eliot turned to face him more fully, walking them backwards a few steps into a shadowed doorway, just out of the path of foot traffic. His hand stayed at Quentin’s neck, fingers pressing lightly into the base of his skull, grounding. “Thank you for tonight,” Eliot said, voice a low purr. “For being sweet. For taking care of both of us the other day. But now,” and here his fingers tightened just enough to make Quentin go still, “I’m going to take you apart a little. And I expect you to be a good boy about it.”

Quentin’s mouth opened and closed. He nodded quickly. “Y-yes, Sir.”

Eliot leaned in, brushing his mouth against Quentin’s ear. “You’ve been so good. But I’ve been thinking about ruining you all day.”

Quentin whimpered. “Oh my God.”

“Shh,” Eliot said, kissing his cheek, then guiding him out of the doorway. “Let’s go home.”

They walked the rest of the way with Quentin’s heart racing and Eliot’s hand snugly gripping his.

—-----------

The door to the apartment slammed softly behind them, Eliot crowding Quentin back against it almost immediately, hands braced on either side of his head. His mouth was on Quentin's before he could speak, stealing the breath from him like it belonged to him—because it did.

“Fuck,” Quentin gasped when Eliot finally pulled back, lips swollen, chest heaving. “You—”

“On your knees,” Eliot said, voice a low, decadent purr, already undoing the buttons of his shirt as he stepped back. “Right now.”

Quentin obeyed so fast it was embarrassing. His bag slid off his shoulder and hit the floor with a soft thunk as he dropped to his knees. His fingers trembled against his thighs, head bowed slightly even as he tried to keep his eyes on Eliot, pupils blown wide with desire.

“You’ve been good all day,” Eliot said, starting to unbutton his cuffs with deliberate slowness. “You planned the date. You asked nicely. You looked so pretty in the museum I nearly dragged you into a supply closet.”

Quentin flushed, chest warm and fluttery. His knees already ached a little on the hardwood but he didn’t care. “You’re the one who looked like walking art,” he mumbled.

Eliot tilted his head, smiling fondly. “Compliments will get you everywhere. But tonight? You don’t get to come until I say so. And not a second before.”

Quentin whimpered, his cock twitching in his pants. “Yes, Daddy.”

Eliot moved like a man with a plan. “Hands behind your back. Don’t move.” He disappeared for a second into the bedroom, came back with the soft black rope Quentin loved—the one Eliot always used when he wanted things to feel romantic and intense, like a secret ritual just for them.

He knelt in front of Quentin and tied his wrists behind his back, fingers brushing gently against his skin, tugging the knots just tight enough. “There,” he said softly. “Now you’re mine. No distractions. Just this.”

And then he stood, and unzipped Quentin’s pants right there on the floor. Pulled him out and stroked him lazily, watching his face, his reactions.

Quentin was already panting, leaning into the touch, flushed from his throat to his hairline. “Fuck, Eliot, I—”

“I didn’t say you could speak,” Eliot interrupted, thumb brushing the slit of Quentin’s cock. “Do you want to be edged tonight? Like a good boy? Or do you want to misbehave and get left wanting?”

That shut Quentin up fast. He nodded frantically, swallowing back a whine.

Eliot laughed and tugged him to his feet, led him to the bedroom, and pushed him gently onto the bed. He undressed Quentin slowly, like he was unwrapping something precious. By the time Quentin was bare and breathless, Eliot was climbing over him, pinning him down with a hand to his chest.

He teased him with fingers, with tongue, with hot words, and the weight of his body. He edged Quentin once, twice, three times, until Quentin was a wreck beneath him, shivering and whining and begging. When Eliot finally pushed inside, slow and thick and deep, Quentin shattered.

“Daddy,” he moaned. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy—”

His voice caught and clung to the word like it was the only one that existed. Like it was oxygen.

Eliot fucked him deep and slow, cradling his jaw with one hand, the other gripping his hip. “That’s right,” he murmured. “Say it for me. You’re doing so well. My sweet, sweet boy.”

Quentin sobbed, blissed-out and completely lost to it, nothing left but the feel of Eliot, the overwhelming fullness, the warmth curling through his whole body like sunlight.

“You feel that?” Eliot whispered. “That’s me. That’s love. That’s what you get for taking me on the best goddamn date of my life.”

"Please- Please I need to-"

Eliot kissed him deeply. "Such a smart boy for asking," he praised. "You can. Been so fucking good for me. Let go baby."

Quentin came undone a few minutes later, screaming Eliot’s name—his hands still tied, his body trembling—and Eliot followed, groaning as he emptied himself inside, keeping Quentin close, grounding him through the comedown.

They collapsed together in a tangled heap of limbs and heat and quiet gasping breath. Eliot kissed Quentin’s temple, his cheeks, his shoulders. Untied his wrists slowly, rubbing at the tender spots, whispering soft praise.

“You’re everything,” he said against Quentin’s mouth.

Quentin, still a little floaty, just whispered back, “Daddy,” and let Eliot hold him as the world went warm and soft again.

—------

Eliot didn’t let Quentin move at first. Not right away. He stroked his hair back from his sweaty forehead, kissed the corner of his damp, swollen mouth, and murmured quiet things that didn’t need to be words. Just tone. Warmth. Steadying. The kind of comfort Quentin hadn’t even known how to ask for until Eliot gave it to him over and over.

Eventually, when Quentin had stopped shivering and the floaty buzz in his limbs had ebbed into something softer, Eliot leaned in to kiss his cheek.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispered. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Quentin groaned sleepily in protest but let himself be coaxed into the bathroom. Eliot turned the water warm and wiped them both down gently with a cloth, his touch reverent. He helped Quentin into one of his oversized sleep shirts—something deep blue and soft that fell halfway to his knees—and pulled on his own pajama pants and a loose robe before leading Quentin to the kitchen.

“Sit,” Eliot said gently, and Quentin obeyed, curling up at the table while Eliot put on the kettle. His legs were still a little wobbly, and his head was a cottony cloud of sweetness and quiet. He didn’t say much—just watched Eliot move around the kitchen, precise and calm and familiar.

When the tea was ready, Eliot set the mugs on the coffee table and sank onto the couch, tugging Quentin close. Quentin climbed into his lap like it was instinct, his legs folding up to the side as he nuzzled against Eliot’s chest.

Eliot passed him a mug and kissed the top of his head. “Drink, baby. You’ll feel better.”

They sipped tea in silence for a while, letting the movie Eliot had queued up—some old romantic black-and-white thing—flicker across the screen like background noise. Quentin didn’t care what it was. He just wanted Eliot’s hand tracing circles on his thigh, the feel of his pulse slowing, the faint scent of lavender in the tea.

Eventually, their mugs sat half-finished on the coffee table. Eliot slouched lower into the cushions. Quentin tucked his face against Eliot’s neck. They were both warm, and full, and quiet in the way that only love can be. Quentin’s breathing slowed. So did Eliot’s.

They didn’t even hear the door open.

Margo stood in the entryway for a second, staring at the scene in front of her with a slow, fond exhale. She took in the two of them tangled together, clearly post-sex and post-aftercare, tea forgotten, movie barely playing. Eliot’s arms were still loosely wrapped around Quentin, and Quentin’s lashes were brushing Eliot’s collarbone.

She rolled her eyes and smiled like she couldn’t help it.

“Disgusting,” she whispered to herself. Then, quieter: “You adorable little shits.”

She went softly over, pulled the knit throw blanket from the back of the couch, and tucked it around both of them with expert hands. Eliot stirred slightly, murmuring something unintelligible without opening his eyes. Quentin didn’t move at all, already dead to the world.

Margo tucked a lock of Eliot’s hair back from his forehead, then brushed her knuckles over Quentin’s shoulder.

She turned off the TV, left the mugs where they were, and tiptoed back toward her bedroom, smiling the whole way.

Chapter Text

The weekend ended in the same kind of bliss it began with—slow mornings, shared breakfasts, music playing softly through the apartment as the sun spilled across the hardwood floors. Their little trio curled into one another on the couch, laughing at old inside jokes and clinking mugs of coffee and tea throughout the day like champagne. It was warm, it was still. And Quentin kept finding himself startled by how happy he felt in a way that didn’t demand proof or apology.

But Sunday night came anyway.

The sky outside the living room window was tinged with the blue-gray hush of evening. Dinner dishes sat drying in the sink. Quentin had his knees pulled up to his chest on the couch, half-wrapped in the throw blanket Eliot had tucked around him, his hair still a little damp from a shared shower. Eliot sat beside him, fingers carding absentmindedly through his hair, and Margo had claimed the armchair opposite, sipping something- probably spiked, watching them like she always did—with a mix of affection and brutal insight.

Quentin was quiet.

Not the floaty kind of quiet he got after scenes, or the sleepy kind from too much cuddling and not enough moving. This was the heavy, thinking-too-hard kind. The kind Eliot had come to recognize by now.

“You’re spiraling,” Eliot said gently, voice low and knowing.

Quentin blinked, as if he hadn’t realized he’d gone silent. He looked over at Eliot, then Margo, then stared down at his knees. “I just…” he started, then let out a shaky breath. “Tomorrow it all starts again. Classes. Responsibilities. Emails. I haven’t even checked my inbox in days, I’m probably already behind on something and the semester’s only halfway through and—”

“Breathe, Q,” Margo interrupted, firm but not unkind.

Quentin tried. Failed. Scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s just… we’ve been in this bubble, you know? And I liked it. I don’t want to lose it. It felt like I finally exhaled for the first time in months.”

“You’re not going to lose it,” Eliot said, hand still in his hair, steadying. “This”—he gestured around them, their nest of an apartment—“this is still here. We're still here. Real life can suck, yeah, but it doesn't get to take this away from you.”

Margo leaned forward, resting her arms on her knees. “You’ve got me, and you’ve got Eliot—who, by the way, may be a giant pain in the ass but is also absurdly in love with you.”

Eliot scoffed dramatically, tossing a cushion at her. “Rude.”

“True,” she shot back.

Quentin smiled, small and sheepish. “I just… I think I’m scared of letting all the little things pile up again until I drown in them.”

Eliot’s tone softened. “Then let us help you carry them. That’s what we’re doing here, remember? You don’t have to carry it alone. I’ll help you stay on track.”

“And when it gets to be too much,” Margo added, “we’ll remind you that the world isn’t ending just because your dumb professor sends an all-caps email at 2 a.m. demanding your soul in MLA format.”

That got a real laugh out of Quentin, brief but honest. “Okay. Okay.”

“You’ll go to class,” Eliot said, brushing his fingers down Quentin’s cheek. “We’ll all do our jobs, write our papers, pretend we’re functioning adults. And at the end of the day, we come home to each other. That’s the deal.”

Quentin leaned into his touch. “That’s a pretty good deal.”

Margo drained the last of her drink and smirked. “Damn right it is.”

—------------------

The alarm went off at 7:30 sharp. Quentin groaned into his pillow and curled deeper under the blankets like if he ignored reality long enough, it might disappear.

Eliot, of course, was already up. Quentin heard the sound of water running, the clink of ceramic. The smell of coffee filtered in, unfairly comforting. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to get up—it was just that everything was about to be loud and hard again. Class. People. Expectations. Stress.

A minute later, the mattress dipped gently beside him. He felt a hand slide over the back of his head, fingers slipping into his hair, stroking lightly.

“You have to join the land of the living, sweetheart,” Eliot said softly. “It’s Monday.”

Quentin peeked one eye open. Eliot was fully dressed—perfectly, obscenely put together for this early in the morning. He looked like someone who had never once in his life been anxious about anything, which made Quentin want to cry and climb into his lap at the same time.

“There’s still time to drop out and live in the woods,” Quentin mumbled.

“You’d hate the bugs,” Eliot said, handing him a coffee mug. “And you couldn’t bring all your books. You’d be feral in forty-eight hours.”

Quentin sat up slowly, wrapping both hands around the mug. “What if I’m bad at everything today?”

“You won’t be.”

“But what if I am?”

Eliot was quiet for a second. Then he reached out and touched Quentin’s wrist, brushing his thumb along the soft inside. “Do you want something to carry with you today?” he asked. “Something to help remind you you’re not alone?”

Quentin nodded without speaking.

Eliot got up, opened the drawer in the nightstand, and pulled out a small silver chain—subtle, slim, and easy to tuck under a sleeve. “Hand,” he said.

Quentin held it out. Eliot fastened the chain around his wrist with practiced care.

“There,” Eliot said. “This is mine, but I want you to wear it today. Just a little reminder that you’re mine, and I’m yours. You’re not doing today alone. And when you come home, I’ll be here.”

Quentin’s throat felt tight. “That’s kinda intense for a bracelet.”

Eliot gave a half-smile. “I’m an intense person.”

Quentin looked down at the chain, thumb brushing over it. “It helps.”

“I know,” Eliot said gently. “And tonight I’m making dinner. We’re going to sit on the couch and be absolutely useless together. But first, you’re going to get through the day like the brilliant boy you are. Sound good?”

Quentin nodded. “Yeah. That sounds really good.”

“Good.” Eliot leaned in and pressed a kiss to his mouth—slow and steady, like they had time, like the day hadn’t started yet. “Now get dressed. Or I’ll start enforcing a morning routine.”

That made Quentin smile. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

And for the first time that morning, Quentin laughed.

—----------------------------------

Quentin had spent the entire day with his fingers curled around the little silver bracelet Eliot gave him, rubbing the chain between his thumb and forefinger whenever he felt himself starting to drift. The first lecture back after break was brutal—his brain couldn’t settle, and every time he tried to take notes, he second-guessed the phrasing of even the most basic sentence. He nearly spiraled twice. But then his fingers found the cool metal at his wrist again, and everything softened.

He’d glance down at it sometimes, heart hiccupping, reminded of Eliot’s fingers fastening the clasp that morning before Quentin left the apartment. The way Eliot had kissed the inside of his wrist, like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t just ….nothing. Not to Quentin.

Not when it meant he belonged somewhere. To someone.

By the time he made it back to the apartment, his chest was buzzing with a thousand thoughts, but the weight of the bracelet kept him tethered.

“Hello?” he called, easing the door shut behind him.

“In here,” came Eliot’s voice from the kitchen—warm, rich, melodic. Quentin dropped his bag by the wall and followed the sound of Eliot in the kitchen, heart already softening at the sight of Eliot, brow furrowed in concentration over a book on the counter.

The moment Eliot glanced up and saw him, his entire expression changed. His shoulders loosened. His mouth curved. “There’s my boy,” he said easily, like that wasn’t the most disarming thing he could possibly say.

Quentin couldn’t help it. He smiled, wide and real.

“Hey,” he murmured, stepping closer.

Eliot closed the gap completely, leaning in for a kiss. It was gentle, unhurried, and Eliot lingered with his mouth brushing Quentin’s like he had all the time in the world. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

“First day back. How bad was it?” Eliot asked, finally pulling back just enough to speak, hands still at Quentin’s waist.

“I mean…” Quentin shrugged. “Nothing actually terrible happened, but I overthought everything to death, so you know. The usual. You?”

Eliot nodded solemnly. “Tragic. Mine went okay, I have a bunch of projects already. Did we panic about our classes?”

Quentin rolled his eyes. “They’re intense this semester!”

“They always are,” Eliot said, mock-soothing. “So, how did you survive?”

Quentin lifted his wrist. “This helped.”

Eliot followed the motion with his eyes, gaze softening as it landed on the chain bracelet. “Yeah?”

Quentin nodded, a little shy. “I, uh… kind of touched it all day. Like a nervous habit, but nicer. It helped me feel… tethered, I guess? Is that stupid?”

A beat passed. Then Eliot’s smile curved into something quieter, deeper. He brought Quentin’s wrist to his lips and kissed it again, right where the bracelet lay. “Of course that’s not stupid, baby. That’s good. That’s exactly what it was for today.”

Quentin felt his chest tighten, full and warm.

Eliot turned back to the counter, marking his page and gathering his papers. “You know,” he said casually, “if that helped, maybe I should invest in a day collar.”

Quentin’s entire body locked up.

He blinked, processing, and then let out a completely involuntary choking sound.

Eliot looked over his shoulder, one brow arched. “What?”

“I—” Quentin flushed. “Was that—were you joking?”

Eliot tilted his head, hand paused midair. “Was it funny?”

Quentin sputtered. “I mean, no—but also yes—I mean, it was surprising! I just—uh—wasn’t expecting you to say that.”

Eliot turned to face him, amused and clearly enjoying every second of Quentin short-circuiting. “Noted.”

Quentin let out a strangled little groan and buried his face in his hands. “Oh my god.”

“You’re very cute when you melt,” Eliot said, and walked over to wrap an arm around Quentin’s waist again, pulling him in. “Relax, Q. I’m not going to throw a locked collar on you without discussing it first. But—if you’re interested...”

Quentin peeked up at him through his fingers.

Eliot’s tone dropped just slightly, more sincere beneath the teasing. “A day collar’s not just a piece of jewelry. For some people….for me, it’s important. A symbol. And if that’s something that would help you—remind you—you’re mine? We could talk about it.”

Quentin stared at him. His chest ached in the best possible way. He wanted that. He wanted that so badly.

“You’d want to do that?” he asked, voice smaller than he meant.

Eliot nodded. “I’d only offer if I meant it. But I’m not rushing you into anything, Q. We go at your pace. Always.”

“I—” Quentin swallowed. “I think I’d like to talk about it. Maybe not today. But… yeah.”

Eliot leaned in and pressed a kiss to Quentin’s cheek. “Perfect. It’s a conversation for later.”

Quentin nodded, still red, still overwhelmed in a good way, and Eliot moved back to the counter like it hadn’t been a conversation that would live in Quentin’s chest forever.

—---------------------------------

It was late afternoon when Margo flopped onto the couch beside Quentin, a glass of wine in her hand and a mischievous look in her eye. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of some playlist Eliot had put on earlier before heading out for groceries. Quentin, curled up with a book on the far end of the couch, looked up at her warily.

Margo clocked it the second she had walked into the living room—fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the little silver chain at his wrist. She grinned like a cat spotting a canary.

“Well, well, well,” she said, folding her arms. “Would you look at that.”

Quentin blinked. “What?”

Margo pointed. “You’re wearing Eliot’s leash.”

Quentin’s entire body flushed red. “It’s not a leash.”

“Mmhm.” She sauntered closer, peering dramatically at his wrist. “Sure looks like one. Next thing I know, he’ll have you in a matching collar and monogrammed plug.”

“Margo!”

She laughed, sinking into the couch with a satisfied sigh. “Relax, Q. I think it’s cute. Little subby boy with his little bracelet. You look downright smug about it.”

“I’m not smug,” he mumbled, but the way he smiled down at the chain gave him away completely.

Margo just winked. “You’re gross and in love. I’m thrilled.”

She stared at him a moment longer, and Quentin started to squirm.

“What?” he asked, eyeing her.

“Nothing,” she said innocently, sipping. “Just thinking about how the entire vibe of this apartment has gone from casual chaos to domestic kink dungeon.”

Quentin flushed. “Okay, well, it’s not like we’re hanging paddles on the wall.”

“Yet,” Margo said, raising an eyebrow.

Quentin groaned and buried his face in the book, but he was smiling.

Margo leaned sideways to nudge his arm with her foot. “Relax. I’m not judging. I’m happy for you. I mean, it’s a little soft for my taste, but that’s the whole point—it works for you.”

Quentin lowered the book a bit, peering over it. “Soft?”

“Yeah,” she said, swirling her wine. “You’re soft. Eliot’s soft. It’s sweet, it’s emotional, it’s got that starry-eyed romance thing going. You cry, he calls you ‘baby,’ there’s probably a million candles involved—”

“There are definitely candles involved,” Quentin muttered.

“—and that’s fine. It’s beautiful, in a tragic poet sort of way. It’s just not how I like to play, as I’ve said before.”

Quentin’s cheeks warmed, but he found himself laughing. “You and Josh don’t do candles?”

“We do fire,” she deadpanned.

Quentin nearly choked. “Jesus.”

Margo smirked and drained her glass. “I’m kidding. Well… Mostly. But for real—what you and Eliot have? It’s good. You listen to each other, you check in, and he clearly adores the ever-loving shit out of you.”

“He does,” Quentin said quietly, a little shy but smiling. “And I adore him back.”

Margo leaned her head back against the couch and looked at him, expression fond now. “I know you do, Q. And you’ve been really good for him. You get under that armor of his in a way no one else does. That’s rare.”

There was a pause, and then she added more casually, “That said—don’t let the soft fool you.”

Quentin blinked. “What do you mean?”

Margo tilted her head toward the hallway. “I mean Eliot Waugh may be a wine-sipping, poetry-quoting, Dom-with-a-heart-of-gold, but he also has a drawer full of mean little toys stashed away somewhere in this apartment.”

Quentin’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again. “He—what? Since when?”

“Since always,” Margo said, grinning. “We’ve been friends for a long time. We’ve… experimented. Swapped stories. He’s not all silk and candlelight when he doesn’t want to be. You should ask him about it sometime.”

Quentin sat upright. “You’re saying Eliot has a secret stash of evil sex toys?”

“I’m saying,” Margo said, placing her glass down and giving him a pointed look, “that just because your scenes have been gentle doesn’t mean that’s all he’s capable of. He’s been patient with you. And you’ve both been building something solid and emotional, which is good—but if you’re ever curious to explore more…and I have a very strong feeling you are,” She shrugged. “Don’t be afraid to ask. He likes giving you what you need. But he also likes playing when someone can take it.”

Quentin’s face was burning now, but his eyes were wide with curiosity. “Oh my god.”

Margo laughed and reached over to tousle his hair. “Don’t act so scandalized. You’re already wearing his symbolic collar and following rules like a good little houseboy.”

Quentin groaned, dragging a pillow over his face, muffling, “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Margo said sweetly. “You love me. I’m the emotionally unhinged fairy godmother of your perverted little romance.”

He peeked out from the pillow, laughing despite himself. “Thanks for the talk, Margo.”

She winked. “Anytime, Q. Just do me a favor?”

“Yeah?”

“Next time you get railed so hard you cry, try to keep the noise level down. I’m trying to study.”

Quentin made an inhuman sound and threw the pillow at her.

—------------------------------

It was a quiet night in their little haven of an apartment. The dishes were done, the tea had been drunk, and Eliot had pulled Quentin into his lap on the couch, arms wrapped around him like a soft, secure net. They weren’t talking much—just the rustle of clothing and the low hum of whatever comfort show was playing in the background.

Quentin nuzzled closer, tucked under Eliot’s chin, breathing in the scent of his skin: something clean and sharp edged, softened by warm, familiar things like cedar. He'd been thinking about Margo’s words all day. Turning them over in his head like a worry stone. He hadn’t really been able to stop.

“Eliot?” he asked, voice soft.

“Hmm?” Eliot’s fingers stroked lazily along his spine.

“Can I—ask you something kinda… weird?”

Eliot pulled back just enough to glance down at him, amused. “You’re asking me what’s weird?”

Quentin blushed. “Fair.”

“Ask me anything, baby.”

Quentin took a breath. “Margo said you, um. Have… toys.”

Eliot blinked once, then smiled, slow and sly. “Ah. She told you about my little collection.”

Quentin shrugged against his chest, not meeting his eyes. “Yeah. I mean. She kind of dropped it into conversation like it wasn’t the biggest news I’d ever heard.”

“It’s not that big,” Eliot said lightly. “Just… things I’ve collected over time. Nothing scary.”

“Can I… see?”

Eliot raised a brow, studying him for a moment, then pressed a kiss to his temple. “Yeah. Of course you can.”

They moved to the bedroom, Quentin’s heart thudding against his ribs. Eliot opened the lower drawer of the wardrobe. Nothing dramatic. No hidden dungeon behind a bookcase. Just neatly folded items, kept clean and safe, and organized. Of course.

There were ropes in various colors—soft and braided, clearly well cared for. A leather collar or two. Dildos in varying sizes. A few types of paddles and impact toys, from firm and flat to soft suede. Wax play candles in sealed containers. A flogger with long, soft-looking tails that Quentin instinctively reached toward.

Quentin knelt down, fingers hovering before he dared to touch. He looked up at Eliot. “This is…wow.”

“You okay?” Eliot asked, kneeling beside him.

“Yeah,” Quentin whispered. “Just—overwhelmed. Not bad overwhelmed. Curious.”

He picked up the flogger. Ran his fingers through the tails. “What does this one feel like?”

Eliot took it from his hand, smiling gently. “Here. Give me your arm.”

Quentin held out his forearm. Eliot swept the flogger lightly over his skin. It was soft, teasing, like a whisper. Then he gave a firmer flick. Not pain exactly, but sensation—spread out, heavy.

“It’s…kinda nice,” Quentin said, surprised.

“It can be,” Eliot agreed. “It’s all about intention. Rhythm. Some people like sting. Some like thud. Some just like the feeling of giving it all over.”

Quentin looked at him. “Would you… ever want to use this on me?”

Eliot blinked. “Do you want that?”

“I think I do,” Quentin said. “I don’t know yet. But I trust you. And I want to try things. Explore. If you’re okay with that.”

Eliot exhaled, slow and steady. He leaned forward, pressing their foreheads together. “I’m more than okay with that. But I need you to be sure. Not just because Margo said something. Not because you think you’re supposed to want it.”

“I do want it,” Quentin said quickly. “Not everything, not all at once, just—this? I want to know what it’s like. I want to give that to you. Give me to you.”

Eliot kissed him, slow and reverent. When he pulled back, his voice was low. “Then here’s the deal. You’re gonna earn it. If you’re a good boy this week—take care of yourself, follow your rules—I’ll give you a real scene. You’ll get the flogger. I’ll set it up safe and slow. You’ll be taken care of every second.”

Quentin’s breath hitched. “Promise?”

“I promise,” Eliot said. “I’ll push you enough to float. But you’ll be safe. And mine.”

Quentin beamed. “I like being yours.”

“I know,” Eliot murmured. “And I like owning you.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Eliot smiled crookedly. “You’re gonna think about this all week now, aren’t you?”

“Absolutely,” Quentin said, eyes wide. “Every second.”

Eliot laughed and kissed him again. “Then consider that part of your reward.”

—--------------------

By Tuesday morning, Quentin was on a mission.

He had set alarms the night before to make sure he had time for a real breakfast, not just coffee and panic. When Eliot walked into the kitchen, Quentin was already dressed, toast browning, eggs halfway done, and a banana sitting at the edge of the table.

Eliot paused in the doorway, watching him. Quentin was humming to himself. His hair was still damp from the shower, his collarbone visible in the slightly too-wide neckline of his shirt, sleeves pushed up like he meant business.

“Well,” Eliot said, moving into the kitchen, “aren’t you chipper this morning.”

“I’m being good,” Quentin said instantly, turning around with a proud smile. “So good. Ridiculously good.”

Eliot raised a brow. “Is that so?”

“I made breakfast. I packed my bag. I even matched my socks today.”

“Truly,” Eliot murmured, grabbing a mug from the cabinet, “a model of excellence.”

“I’m serious!” Quentin pointed a spatula at him. “You said if I was a good boy all week, you’d—” He cut himself off, face pinking. “You know.”

Eliot smirked, pouring himself coffee. “I do know. And I remember.”

Quentin turned back to the stove, but not before Eliot saw the pleased little smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

The next few days followed the same pattern: Quentin trying his absolute hardest to be Eliot’s best boy, and Eliot pretending not to be utterly charmed by every second of it.
He sent photos of his meals, screenshots of completed assignments. Even did the chores Eliot ordered to do- testing him, of course- without being a brat.

Later that night, as they were getting ready for bed, Quentin stood beside the bed with his shirt half off and asked, “You’re still planning to...do the thing this weekend, right?”
Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Do the thing?”

Quentin flushed. “You know. The thing with the flogger. The...more intense scene. I’ve been thinking about it literally every night.”

Eliot walked over slowly, placed his hands on Quentin’s hips, and pulled him in. “You’ve been very good,” he said softly. “I’ve noticed. And yes, I’m still planning to give you what you’ve earned.”

Quentin practically melted into him, arms winding around Eliot’s neck. “Good. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget.”

“I forget nothing about you,” Eliot said, kissing his temple. “Now get into bed before I have to spank you early for being sleep deprived.”

By Thursday, Quentin was buzzing with barely restrained energy.

He finished his homework in record time, neatly packed his lunch for the next day, and checked his planner three times before bed. At one point, he stood in front of Eliot holding up his calendar like he was submitting evidence in a court case.

“Look,” he said. “All my assignments are done. I ate three real meals. I drank water. I even flossed.”

Eliot blinked. “You flossed?”

“That's how serious I am about this.”

Eliot leaned back on the couch, tilting his head. “And this is all just because you want me to play with my toys on you this weekend?”

“Yes,” Quentin said, completely shameless. “I want to be the best boy you’ve ever had.”

Eliot’s eyes sparkled. “You already are.”

That shut Quentin up real quick, lips pressed together like if he opened his mouth, he might start crying or begging or both.

Eliot smiled slowly. “But if you want to keep showing off, I’m certainly not going to stop you.”

Quentin grinned. “Oh, I will. I’ll be so good. So annoyingly good. You won’t even know what to do with me.”

“Sweetheart,” Eliot murmured, reaching out to pull him into his lap, “I always know exactly what to do with you.”

—-----------

The apartment was quiet when Quentin came in, the door clicking softly shut behind him. Margo was out for the night—some party or sleepover at Josh’s, Eliot had said offhandedly—and for once, the space felt enormous in its stillness.

Quentin’s heart was hammering in his chest as he slipped off his shoes, palms already a little clammy. He was excited. He was nervous. He was everything all at once.
Eliot appeared in the hallway, leaning against the doorframe with a slow, warm smile and that subtle shift in energy that made Quentin's whole body react. There was something darker in his eyes tonight. Not mean. Never mean. But heavier. Intentional. Dom mode, fully present.

“Hi,” Quentin said, voice soft, eyes flicking up and then away again.

Eliot tilted his head. “Hi, sweetheart. You ready?”

Quentin nodded before he realized he should probably speak, and corrected himself quickly. “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

“You think so?” Eliot pushed off the wall and stepped closer, his voice calm but firm. “I need to hear you say it properly, baby. This is more intense than anything we’ve done before. So let me ask you again.”

Quentin swallowed hard. “Yes, Eliot. I’m ready.”

Eliot steps forward, gaze steady. “Safewords?”

“Green, yellow, red,” Quentin recites without hesitation. His voice only wobbled a little.

“Good boy,” Eliot murmurs, and Quentin practically lights up.

Eliot smiled, still gentle but now with a thread of steel underneath. “Color?”

“Green,” Quentin said immediately. “Definitely green.”

Eliot nodded, brushing his knuckles across Quentin’s jaw. “That’s my good boy. I’ll keep checking in, but I want you to remember—you use your safeword if you need to. I don’t care if you think it’s dumb or you’re handling it fine. If anything changes, you tell me. That’s part of being good, too.”

Quentin nodded, dazed already from the intensity of Eliot’s voice. “Yeah-Yes. Okay. Promise.”

“Then go to the bedroom,” Eliot said. “Strip. Kneel by the bed and wait for me. Eyes down.”

A shiver ran through Quentin. “Yes, Sir.”

He obeyed immediately, stripping with trembling fingers and folding himself into the kneeling position Eliot had taught him. He was already buzzing with anticipation, his thoughts spinning and yet laser-focused on every sound from the other room—the soft clink of a drawer, the faint creak of leather, Eliot’s slow footsteps approaching.

The door opened and Quentin instinctively sat up straighter. Eliot walked in, dressed in black—button-down sleeves rolled just enough to show off his forearms, belt looped casually through his pants. He was carrying the flogger in one hand, dragging it slowly through the other.

He set it down on the edge of the bed and came to stand in front of Quentin. “You look beautiful like this,” he murmured. “All mine. Waiting so nicely.”

Quentin flushed. “Thank you.”

Eliot knelt suddenly, one knee on the floor, and lifted Quentin’s chin. “Before we start, one more time—do you still want this?”

“Yes, Sir. I want it.”

“Even if it hurts a little differently?”

Quentin hesitated just half a breath. “Yes. I want to try. I trust you.”

Eliot smiles widely, “Then beg me.”

He looks up, eyes wide, already a little glassy. ”What?”

Eliot’s face doesn’t change, but he speaks slower, condescendingly. “You heard me. Beg me for it. Go on.”

Quentin swallows, takes in a sharp breath through his nose. “Please, Eliot. Please let me do this. Please. I want it. I’ve been good, I’ve done everything you asked all week—I need it.”

Eliot hums, walking behind him, fingers trailing lightly across Quentin’s shoulder. “Keep going.”

“Please, Daddy” Quentin amends, voice catching. “Please, I want to feel it. I want to be good. I want you to hurt me and take care of me. I need it—I need you. I was so good.”

Eliot kisses him, soft and reverent. “Good boy. Up onto the bed. On your stomach, arms out above you.”

Quentin moved carefully, feeling the coolness of the sheets against his skin. He could hear Eliot behind him, adjusting something, maybe setting things down. His heart was pounding, and yet he felt calm. Safe.

Eliot began with his hand, warming Quentin’s skin, slow and steady. The spanks weren’t hard—just enough to sting, to coax the blood to the surface, to make Quentin squirm a little against the bed.

Then he picked up the flogger.

The first strike landed across Quentin’s upper back, a broad, dull thud that spread outward instead of a sharp sting. It took his breath away for a moment—not because it hurt too much, but because it was new, all-consuming.

“You still with me?” Eliot asked.

Quentin nodded into the sheets. “Green.”

Eliot smiled to himself and continued.

He worked in slow patterns, across Quentin’s back, down over his ass, even lightly against the backs of his thighs. He was methodical, watching closely for every twitch and shift in Quentin’s posture. Occasionally, he’d pause to rub a hand along his spine, grounding him, letting the moment breathe.

“You’re taking this so well,” Eliot murmured at one point. “I’m so proud of you.”

Quentin made a soft sound, halfway between a sob and a moan. “Thank you.”

“Such lovely manners. You like this?”

“Yes. It’s—it’s a lot, but… love it. I love you.”

Eliot’s hand paused over him. He didn’t say anything in that moment—just resumed, a little slower, a little more deliberate.

Eventually, Quentin was crying softly into the bed. He had lost track of time. Everything blended into that hazy space he only fell into around Eliot. It was more hazy than normal though, he was deep in it now, floating, every muscle loose, every thought quiet. He was warm all over, like sunlight under his skin. Each strike of the flogger only sank him deeper.

Then Eliot stopped.

He set the flogger aside, climbed onto the bed, and rested a hand gently on Quentin’s shoulder. “Color?”

“Green,” Quentin whispered. “Still green.”

“Then I’m going to stop now,” Eliot said softly. “You did so well. You were perfect.”

Quentin whimpered “More…I can…I’m good? More?”

“Quentin.” Eliot’s voice was a little firmer now, but still full of care. “I’m stopping because I decide when the scene ends. That’s how this works. Not because you did something wrong. Not because you weren’t good. You were so fucking good, but you took a lot, more than I think you’re aware of at this second.”

Quentin whined—not from disappointment, but from a desperate, overwhelming need for touch. For Eliot.
.
Eliot leaned down, pressing kisses along Quentin’s back. “Breathe, baby. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

Eliot sat on the edge of the bed, breathing just a little heavier than usual, hands still tingling from the rhythm he’d built up. He reached for Quentin, whose cheek was pillowed against the duvet, lashes fluttering in a way that told Eliot everything he needed to know.

“Hey, sweetheart,” Eliot murmured, brushing a hand down Quentin’s back. “Still with me?”

Quentin made a sound—more exhale than word—and turned his face toward Eliot like a sunflower tracking light. His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, pink and kiss-swollen, his whole body loose and warm like his bones had melted out of him.

“Jesus,” Eliot said softly, smiling as he leaned down and kissed Quentin’s shoulder. “You’re gone. Gone, gone. That was good for you, huh?”

Quentin hummed again. No real words. Just sound. He blinked slow, floaty and dazed, then reached out blindly, fingers brushing Eliot’s thigh like he needed to confirm he was still there.

Eliot caught the hand gently and brought it to his lips. “You’re okay,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to each knuckle. “You’re safe. You were incredible.”

Quentin’s fingers twitched in his grasp, and then he mumbled, very softly, “M’yours.”

Eliot’s chest tightened. “You are. Mine. Always.”

He climbed fully onto the bed and coaxed Quentin into his arms, pulling the weighted blanket up around them both. Quentin clung immediately, pressing in as close as possible, making tiny contented noises as Eliot rubbed soothing circles into his back.

“Floaty little brat,” Eliot said fondly, brushing the hair back from his forehead. “That was a lot, huh? You were such a good boy. Took it so well.”

Quentin burrowed deeper into Eliot’s chest, pressing his nose against the hollow of his throat. “Mm. Good,” he managed, voice syrupy and soft. “So good.”

Eliot wrapped his arms tighter around him, grounding pressure in every touch. “You don’t have to talk if it’s hard right now. Just stay here. Let me hold you.”

Quentin nodded against him and sighed, utterly boneless.

Eliot stayed there for a long time, just rocking him slightly, kissing his hair, whispering how proud he was. Quentin didn’t say much, but every little sigh and squeeze of Eliot’s shirt spoke volumes. He was safe. Loved. Floating in the best way.

And Eliot would hold him for as long as he needed.

He stayed close, holding Quentin gently, his hands a balm over warmed, sensitive skin. He didn’t ask for words. Just gave Quentin his presence, his praise, and the weight of being so thoroughly his.

—----------------------

The morning after their scene was soft, quiet, easy. Eliot had woken Quentin with slow kisses and a hot mug of tea already brewed—his other hand stroking slowly down Quentin’s spine while murmuring praise. “You were incredible last night,” he’d said. “I’m so proud of you.” Quentin had glowed under the attention, still a little floaty, smiling softly against Eliot’s collarbone as they cuddled.

Eliot had a study group to meet with—some dense collaborative presentation he couldn’t reschedule. “Just a few hours, baby,” he’d said, cupping Quentin’s face and kissing him sweetly. “Make sure you eat, okay? I’ll be back before you can miss me.”

Quentin had nodded. “Yeah. I’m okay. I feel really good. Promise.”

And he had felt good. Until he didn’t.

By the afternoon, things started to shift.

Quentin sat curled up on the couch, still wearing one of Eliot’s oversized sweaters—navy and soft and a little threadbare at the cuffs. The sleeves swallowed his hands. His knees were tucked to his chest. The TV was on, some movie playing that he couldn’t name, the sound a dull hum in the background. He wasn’t really watching. His brain was foggy, like the static behind old glass. Nothing was wrong exactly—but everything felt a little…off.

Empty.

He blinked slowly, throat tight, and then tighter. His jaw ached from clenching it. He felt like he was underwater—watching the world through a pane of thick glass, every sensation muted but heavy.

Margo found him like that.

She came in with a bag of chips and a sparkling water, fully expecting to find him on the floor with a textbook, maybe humming to himself. Instead, she froze in the doorway.

“Q?”

His head jerked up. His eyes were red, wet. He hadn’t realized he was crying.

Margo’s voice gentled instantly. “What’s going on?”

“I’m okay,” he said quickly—too quickly. His voice cracked.

Margo didn’t call him on the lie. She just came over and sat down beside him, setting the snacks on the table.

“Yeah?” she asked, resting a hand on his back. “Because you look like you’re about to disappear into the fucking ether.”

“I don’t know,” Quentin murmured, voice shaking. “I was okay this morning. I was. Eliot made me tea and everything, we talked, and it was perfect. I just—”

He broke off. Swallowed.

Margo’s palm began to rub slow, grounding circles between his shoulder blades. “You dropping?”

“I dont know?” he said. “I thought it was fine? That I was fine? I mean…I am. Or maybe I’m just being dramatic? It was fine. It was so good. It was perfect.”

“And now?”

“I feel…like I can’t catch my breath. Like I’m inside a memory of being happy instead of actually being happy. And I don’t know why. It was amazing. I feel awful for feeling like this when nothing bad even happened.”

Margo sighed, soft and warm. “That’s a drop, silly.”

He curled closer to her instinctively, forehead pressing into her shoulder.

“You’ve been flying,” she murmured, resting her cheek against his hair. “Last night was intense right? Even the good kind of intense fucks with your nervous system. Your body’s crashing after the high. That’s all.”

He gave a small, broken nod and clutched the front of her shirt. “Why didn’t it happen right away?”

“Because brains are weird,” she said. “It hits when it hits.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re literally not allowed to apologize for having emotions,” she said, faux-stern. “Not in this apartment.”

He laughed, weakly. Then hiccupped a sob.

Margo just held him tighter. “You’re not broken. You’re not wrong. You’re not ruining anything.”

He sobbed harder at that. She pulled him fully into her lap.

“Jesus,” she muttered fondly, brushing hair out of his damp face. “You are such a good boy, Q. You really are. Eliot’s lucky. And he’d say all of this, too, if he were here.”

Quentin shook his head. “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Don’t be. I’ve carried Eliot through a few drops in our day. You’ve seen the way he can float after scenes? He crashes hard, too, from time to time. You should ask him about it sometime.”

Quentin blinked up at her, wet and glazed.

Margo kissed his forehead. “You’re not alone, bunny. You’re not. We’ve got you.”

She leaned over, grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the couch, and wrapped it around them both. Tucked his face into her shoulder and rocked him while he cried—quietly, then not so quietly. Let him get it out.

She didn’t say anything when her shirt got wet. She didn’t move when her arm fell asleep. She just held him.

Eventually, when his breathing had evened out a little and his tears had slowed to a sniffle, she pulled out her phone behind his back and typed:

Q’s dropping. Come home soon. I’ve got him.

She tucked the phone away and whispered in his ear, “Let yourself rest. I’m not going anywhere.”

And Quentin—so tired, so wrung out, fell asleep.

—------------------------

The apartment was dark when Eliot slipped inside, the door clicking shut behind him with an anxious finality. He set his keys down a little too hard on the side table, ran a hand through his hair. He was still keyed up, twitchy under the skin. Group work always made him antsy, especially when the people involved couldn’t organize their way out of a wet paper bag. But he wasn’t thinking about that now.

He was thinking about Quentin.

“Q?” he called softly, peeking into the kitchen, then the hallway.

The living room light was dim, the TV casting low flickers of color across the walls. He spotted them on the couch—Margo sitting upright with her legs tucked under her, Quentin curled up against her like a sleepy cat, his head pillowed on her thigh. He was wrapped in a blanket, face soft and slack with sleep, tear tracks still faintly visible on his cheeks.
Eliot’s heart cracked open like a fault line.

Margo looked up as he approached. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he murmured back. “What happened?”

She kept petting Quentin’s hair, gentle and steady. “He started spiraling a little while after you left. I think the scene yesterday just hit late. He held on through the morning, but by mid-afternoon, he was all pale and quiet and…” She shook her head. “He dropped.”

Eliot cursed under his breath. “Fuck. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve—”

“You didn’t know. Neither did he,” Margo cut in softly. “This isn’t about fault. It’s about chemical reaction, unrelated to you. And he needed someone. So I was here.”

He dropped down beside the couch, kneeling in front of them, brushing Quentin’s hair back with trembling fingers. “God, he looks so little like this.”

“He is little,” Margo said with affection. “Which he likes being called, by the way you should try that out sometime. I get a kick out of it. But you make him feel safe. Even when you’re not here.”

As if on cue, Quentin stirred slightly, brow furrowing. “Eliot?”

“I’m here, baby.” Eliot pressed a kiss to his temple, then his cheek. “I’m right here.”

Quentin’s eyes fluttered open, glassy and unfocused. When he registered Eliot’s face, his breath hitched, and he reached out blindly, grabbing at Eliot’s wrist.

Eliot caught him and wrapped both arms around him tightly. “Shh. You’re okay. I've got you.”

Margo started to move, but Quentin made a soft, distressed sound and reached for her too. “Don’t—don’t go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” she said gently, resettling. “Scoot over, make room for Auntie Margo.”

They all ended up on the couch, Quentin cocooned between them, his hands gripping their sleeves like lifelines. His face was flushed with leftover tears, nose a little red, but his breathing was evening out.

“You’ve been such a good boy,” Eliot whispered into his hair. “You did so well.”

“We’re so proud of you,” Margo added. “You handled it like a champ, even when your brain got a little messy.”

“I was just… I don’t know what happened,” Quentin murmured. “I was fine, and then I wasn’t.”

“You dropped,” Eliot explained gently. “It happens. Especially after a scene that intense. Sometimes your body just… catches up later.”

Quentin nodded slowly, but still looked uncertain. “I didn’t mean to ruin the day.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Margo said firmly. “You’re allowed to need help. That’s kind of the point of this whole thing.”

Quentin’s eyes closed again, and he let out a long breath, like something inside was finally letting go. He shifted to lay with his head in Eliot’s lap now, fingers still clutching Margo’s.

Within minutes, he was asleep again.

Eliot kept stroking his hair. “I hate that I wasn’t here.”

Margo leaned her head back against the couch. “But you are now. That’s what matters.”

“He looks so peaceful now,” Eliot said, his voice breaking a little.

“Because he is. He knows he’s safe with us.”

Eliot met her eyes. “You’re amazing. You know that?”

“Obviously,” she said, smiling faintly. “And so are you. You’re doing a good job.”

“Even when I’m terrified that I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“Especially then,” she replied. “That’s when it matters the most.”

And together, they sat in the soft quiet of their apartment, Quentin safe between them, love settling into all the spaces around them.

Chapter Text

Quentin wasn’t fully awake, not really. But he knew softness. Knew warmth.

There was something about the way he was being handled—tender, slow, precise—that filtered dimly through the syrupy edges of his brain. A hand on his shoulder. The scent of Eliot’s cologne. A low voice, close to his ear.

“You’re okay,” it murmured. “We’ve got you.”

He drifted.

He didn’t remember the walk from the couch to the bedroom, didn’t recall the feel of sheets being pulled back or his body being guided down, but now he was sinking into something familiar and soft. The duvet smelled like lavender dryer sheets and something that was just Eliot—sharp and elegant and warm. He heard the rustle of fabric, the faint click of a light dimming.

Then fingers. Through his hair. A thumb brushing over his temple. Quentin made a small, content noise, almost like a purr, not even realizing it left him.

“You did so good today,” Eliot said, so quietly he might have imagined it.

A kiss to his forehead. A hand trailing down the side of his face. Quentin curled inward, boneless, helpless in the best way. There was the distant feeling of someone tucking the blanket in around him, one corner at a time. He exhaled slowly, the edge of a smile playing on his lips. Safe. He felt safe.

And then he was gone again, slipping easily back into the fog of sleep.

Eliot shut the door to the bedroom almost all the way, just enough of a crack left to hear if Quentin stirred. His hand lingered on the handle for a second longer than necessary. The sight of Quentin tucked under the covers like that—flush still warm on his cheeks, breath soft and even, hair mussed from Margo’s lap—was enough to make something in Eliot ache.

He turned to find Margo waiting, arms folded, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Out like a light?” she asked, voice quiet. There was no edge in it for once. Just concern.

“Yeah,” Eliot said, his throat a little tight. “He was so far under he could barely keep his eyes open. I didn’t expect it to hit him that deep. I should’ve—”

“You were careful,” Margo cut in firmly. “You stopped when you needed to. You gave him what he asked for, and you paid attention. He just… dropped late. It happens.”

Eliot leaned his weight against the wall, rubbed a hand over his face. “I owe you. For being here. For staying with him. I don’t know what would’ve happened if he was alone.”

Margo rolled her eyes, but it lacked heat. “You don’t owe me shit, Waugh. I love that weird, anxious boy. I wasn’t about to leave him alone when he looked like a broken baby deer.”

That startled a laugh out of Eliot, quiet and grateful.

“He just curled up,” she added, her voice gentling. “Didn’t even really talk, just… leaned on me like he needed it. Let me rub his back. Cried and fell asleep.”
Eliot closed his eyes. “Fuck.”

“He trusts you,” she said. “And me, apparently. That’s a big deal.”

“I know.” Eliot opened his eyes again, blinking against the prick of tears. “He’s so—open. With me. And I love that, I do, but it scares me sometimes. Because I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. I’m still learning.”

“You’re doing fine,” Margo said. “More than fine. You’re good with him. And he’s fucking good for you, El. You’re not spiraling. You’re not bottling. You’re—grossly in love. And it looks good on you.”

Eliot let out a breath, unsteady. They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, letting it settle. The apartment was quiet, low hum of the refrigerator in the background, the windows letting in faint city noise.

“I’m gonna crash,” she said finally, squeezing his arm. “Let the boy sleep it off. You okay?”

“I am now,” Eliot said honestly. “Thanks to you.”

“Always,” she replied. “And El?”

“Yeah?”

“You tuck him in like that again without taking a photo, and I’m revoking your gay license.”

He rolled his eyes, chuckling, but the affection in his gaze was unmistakable as she padded toward her bedroom.

Left alone, Eliot glanced back toward the bedroom. He stepped closer again, just to peek in.

Still asleep. Curled under the blanket, his fingers loosely curled around the corner of the pillow, hair mussed, a soft furrow in his brow even in rest. Eliot exhaled quietly.
Then he turned off the hall light, and went to curl up in bed next to him.

—-----------------

Quentin woke to stillness.

It was early—too early. The kind of early where even the city seemed hesitant to stir, buildings shrouded in soft gray light, the apartment silent except for the occasional groan of old pipes or the muffled hum of traffic far below. His body felt rested in a way it hadn’t in a long time. Grounded.

The first thing he noticed was Eliot, still asleep beside him, one arm slung loosely over Quentin’s waist, face half-buried in the pillow. His lashes cast delicate shadows over his cheeks. Quentin stayed still for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, letting himself just breathe. A soft little smile tugged at his lips.

It wasn’t often that he woke up before Eliot. Practically never. But after sleeping on and off since yesterday afternoon—through Eliot’s return, Margo’s soothing voice, and the warm weight of being held between the two of them—he supposed his body had finally caught up.

He slipped out of bed slowly, trying not to wake Eliot. There was a lingering twinge of guilt in his chest—ghosts of shame still clinging to him from the drop—but they didn’t claw as deeply now. Just a little ache behind his ribs. A whisper of I’m sorry I was so much.

Barefoot and quiet, Quentin went into the kitchen. He made himself coffee, kept it black and strong, and grabbed his favorite well-worn copy of Fillory and Further from the shelf in the living room. The spine was cracked, pages soft from years of rereading. He curled into the corner of the couch, pulling one of Eliot’s throw blankets over his lap, and opened to a dog-eared chapter.

He didn’t read at first.

He just sat with the book in his lap, coffee cooling beside him, and let the quiet settle in his bones.

Eventually, he did start reading, letting the familiar cadence of the words wash over him. Comforting. Reassuring. Like coming home to a version of himself he’d forgotten.
That was how Eliot found him an hour or so later—curled under the blanket, lips moving soundlessly along with the lines, eyes soft with that dreamy, half-here half-there look he got when lost in Fillory.

Eliot stood in the archway for a moment, watching. He didn’t speak right away.

Then: “You’re up early.”

Quentin startled just slightly, looked up and gave a sheepish smile. “You’re up late.”

“Touché.” Eliot padded into the room, barefoot, rumpled in a robe that hung open a bit at the collar. His voice was rough with sleep. “You feeling okay?”

Quentin nodded. “Better. A lot better.”

Eliot sank onto the couch beside him, pulled the blanket back over both of them. “You should’ve woken me.”

“I didn’t want to. You looked peaceful.”

They were quiet for a second. Then Quentin said, quietly, “I feel kind of stupid about yesterday.”
Eliot’s head turned sharply. “Don’t.”

“I mean—” Quentin closed the book, toyed with the edge of the page. “I know it’s just drop. I’ve read about it. I knew it might happen. But I still feel like I was being… I don’t know. Too much. Like I ruined the perfect scene by falling apart after.”

Eliot placed a hand over Quentin’s, stilling his fidgeting fingers. “You don’t ever have to apologize for dropping. It’s not your fault. It’s not a failing. You didn’t do anything wrong, Q.”

“I know,” Quentin whispered, but his voice trembled a little anyway.

“I mean it.” Eliot shifted closer, thumb stroking slow circles into Quentin’s wrist. “If anything, I feel bad I wasn’t here. You were hurting, and I wasn’t here.”

“That’s not your fault either,” Quentin said quickly. “You had a class thing. And honestly… Margo was kind of perfect.”

Eliot huffed a soft laugh. “She usually is.”

“She told me I was a good boy, like, ten times.”

“She’s right.”

They fell into silence again, warm and easy. Quentin leaned his head on Eliot’s shoulder.

“I’ve been thinking,” Eliot said after a moment. “About the scene. I’ve been worried. That maybe it was too far. Too much. Too soon.”

Quentin sat up a little, alarmed. “No—Eliot, no. It wasn’t. It was… amazing. I meant it when I said green. I loved it. I was just… I don’t even know. My brain did a weird thing after. But the scene itself? It was perfect.”

Eliot looked at him closely, eyes scanning his face. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Quentin nodded, fierce and certain. “I want more of that with you. I just—maybe I need more aftercare or something next time. I don’t know, but I do know it was perfect.”

“That I can do.” Eliot squeezed his hand. “And next time, I’ll be there more.”

Quentin smiled. “You always are. One way or another.”

Eliot leaned in, kissed the tip of his nose, then the corner of his mouth. “Come here, you sap.”

Quentin grinned and melted into his arms, snuggling close. They stayed wrapped up like that for a while, Quentin nestled against Eliot’s chest, the apartment slowly filling with morning light. It was calm. Soft. Until Eliot shifted just slightly and said, his voice low and careful, “Q… I’ve also been thinking about something else.”

Quentin hummed against his shirt. “Dangerous.”

Eliot huffed a laugh, but there was a thread of tension in it. “I just—can I ask you something? And I need you to be honest.”

Quentin lifted his head, blinked at him, suddenly alert. “Of course.”

“Did you…” Eliot hesitated. “Did you push yourself too far? To… fit something you thought I wanted?”

There was a flicker of surprise in Quentin’s expression, and then understanding. “No. No, Eliot—God, no. I mean… maybe I was trying to be extra good because I wanted to make you proud, but not in a bad way. I wanted it. All of it. I loved it. You have no idea how much.”

Eliot’s brows were still drawn, uncertain. “You dropped. And it scared me. Not just because of what happened, but because I don’t want to ever take you somewhere you didn’t really want to go.”

Quentin shook his head, frantic and sure. “It wasn’t like that. It was just… intense. In the best way. And yeah, I had a big emotional response after, but I think it was because I let myself go so completely. Because I trusted you so much. That’s not a bad thing. That’s… kind of a miracle.”

Eliot stared at him for a long moment, then exhaled, like something in his chest unclenched. “I was thinking maybe we take a break. From scenes. Just a few days, let everything settle.”

Quentin went still.

And then he sat up abruptly, panic written all over his face. “No. Eliot, no—please don’t.”

Eliot blinked at him. “Q…”

“That would make it worse,” Quentin said, voice cracking with urgency. “I need this. Not because I’m trying to prove anything or chase something I don’t understand. I need this with you. If I’m supposed to trust you to take care of me, then you have to trust me when I say I’m okay. That I know what I want. And I want you. This. All of it.”

Eliot’s throat bobbed. “I just don’t want to be a bad Daddy.”

“You’re not.” Quentin’s hand found Eliot’s face, cupping his cheek. “You’re the best Daddy. You take care of me so well, even when I’m a mess. Especially when I’m a mess.”

Eliot leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “This is… honestly, it’s my first real relationship where this kind of dynamic actually works. Where we talk, and build something instead of pretending it doesn’t exist or using it as a band-aid for everything else.”

Quentin smiled softly. “Well, I’m new to this, too. So we can be learners together. We’ll fuck up sometimes, probably. But we’ll fix it, too.”

Eliot’s smile was watery. “You’re kind of perfect.”

“I’m an anxious disaster half the time.”

“Perfectly mine, then.”

They sat in that quiet glow again for a moment until Quentin shifted a little, biting his lip. “I’ve….also been thinking about something?”

“Oh?”

Quentin blushed faintly. “You joked, sort of, about a day collar.”

Eliot stilled.

“I want one,” Quentin said, firm but gentle. “Not just because it makes me feel safe, but because of what it means. I want to mean that, for you. I want people to see me and know I’m yours, even if they don’t know what it means.”

Eliot didn’t speak right away. He just looked at him—really looked at him—like Quentin had said something that cracked open a space in his chest. Slowly, Eliot nodded. “Okay,” he said softly. “Okay, my love. I’d be honored.”

Quentin’s eyes shone with quiet joy, and Eliot leaned in and kissed him, long and slow, reverently. “We’ll find the perfect one,” Eliot whispered against his mouth. “And you’ll wear it, and know you belong.”

Quentin nodded, a little overwhelmed and so deeply happy he couldn’t speak.

So he just kissed Eliot again, full of love.

—----------------

The morning air was crisp but not unpleasant, the kind of cool that nipped at your cheeks and made warm coffee taste better. Quentin had suggested bagels—his idea entirely—and Eliot had agreed immediately, mostly because Quentin had said it with that shy, hopeful look that Eliot could never say no to.

So they bundled up, Eliot in a wool coat and Quentin in one of his oversized sweaters, and headed out into the quiet of the early city. It was still sleepy outside, the sidewalks just beginning to stir, but Quentin laced their fingers together the moment they stepped off the curb, and Eliot squeezed his hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
They stopped for iced coffees at the little corner shop Quentin liked, because Eliot had declared Quentin couldn’t be expected to make bagel-related decisions without caffeine.

Quentin, in turn, insisted on paying, which led to some teasing and mild bickering that made both of them grin like idiots.

“You know,” Eliot said as they waited in line, fingers brushing Quentin’s under the table, “we’re really leaning into this whole domestic couple thing.”

“I know,” Quentin said. “I kind of like it.”

“Kind of?”

“Okay, fine. I love it. Happy?”

Eliot leaned over and kissed his temple. “Deliriously so, yes.”

The world felt slow and soft. Eliot let Quentin ramble about the Fillory reread he’d started that morning, and what his classmates were probably doing right now and how Margo was going to make fun of them for being domestic again. He smiled through all of it.

“You really love bagels, huh,” Eliot said, nudging him with his shoulder.

“I love Margo,” Quentin said, without missing a beat. “And she was really there for me yesterday, so I wanted to do something nice. It’s bagels or, like, heartfelt poetry, and I think we all know which one she’d accept.”

Eliot laughed. “She’d eat the poem just to make a point.”

They got two everything bagels, one sesame, and a plain with scallion cream cheese because Margo always stole someone’s extra. The warm bag crinkled between Quentin’s arms on the walk back, and he held it like a present.

By the time they got to the apartment, Margo had just shuffled out of her room in one of Eliot’s shirts and a bleary scowl. Her hair was a mess, and she had that familiar expression of “if someone talks to me before caffeine, I will kill them,” but Quentin offered the bag of bagels anyway. Excited.

“For you,” he said. “Thank you.”

She blinked at him, visibly confused. “For what?”

“For yesterday. For taking care of me when I dropped.” Quentin shifted, then added, “And for being so soft, even when you pretend you’re not.”

Eliot raised an eyebrow and subtly backed toward the kitchen. This wasn’t his moment.

Margo narrowed her eyes. “I was not soft.”

“You were so soft,” Quentin said, smiling gently. “You let me put my head in your lap and cry while you comforted me and petted my hair, Margo. That’s, like, top-tier soft.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue.

“I just…” Quentin stepped closer. “I know you don’t love the big emotional stuff, but I do. And I need you to know that you’re really special to me. I love you. And I know you care, too. You wouldn’t have been so gentle with me if you didn’t.”

Margo’s mouth twitched. “Ugh, Q.”

“I mean it,” Quentin said. “You’re part of my weird, fucked-up emotional support system and I couldn’t do this without you.”

Margo looked at him for a long second. Then she reached out and grabbed his wrist, tugged him in, and pressed a quick kiss to his temple.

“I love you too, you sappy little idiot,” she muttered. “But if you ever tell anyone, I’ll smash your laptop.”

“I would never,” Quentin swore, beaming. “You’re terrifying.”

“Good,” she said, but she looked just the tiniest bit misty-eyed again. She snatched the bag of bagels from his hands and turned toward the couch. “Now give me ten minutes and I’ll be ready to emotionally support you again with insults and unsolicited dating advice.”

Eliot reappeared with plates and napkins. “You two done having your little breakfast soap opera?”

“Stuff it,” Margo said, but she was smiling.

They ate their bagels curled up in the living room, Quentin wedged between them, the sun filtering in through the windows. It felt like the softest kind of magic.

—------------------------------

The new school week slips into gear with all the grace of a train screeching back to life. Papers, lectures, cold walks to class. Quentin is back to juggling books and half-filled notebooks, work-study shifts and caffeine-fueled evenings. Quentin tries to stay on top of everything — he really does. The return to routine feels strange after their weekend bubble of bliss and blood-warm intimacy, like stepping out of a dream and into a cold shower. He misses Eliot in every class, every quiet moment. Misses the lazy touch of his fingers. Misses his voice, rough with sleep. Misses kneeling between his knees and being called good.

Eliot is still Eliot—steady, commanding, quietly protective—but there’s something different in how he holds Quentin’s gaze now. How he touches his shoulder. How he praises him.

Gentler.

Too gentle.

Eliot is perfect. And that’s the problem.

Everything is soft and soothing. Praise instead of orders. Teasing instead of rules. His dominant energy has been dialed down into something almost paternal, careful, and watchful, like Quentin’s a skittish deer who might bolt at any second.

Quentin notices it immediately — the first time Eliot sees him hesitating at the apartment door Monday night and doesn’t say “On your knees, baby.” Just smiles and opens the door and cups his cheek and murmurs, “You okay?”

It makes Quentin feel… off-balance. Like the very structure he relies on has been padded in cotton.

He knows Eliot’s worried after the drop. He gets it. That moment curled into Margo’s lap still lives in Quentin’s body, too. But he also remembers how the flogger felt: heavy and rhythmic and just enough to melt the noise in his head into something quiet and beautiful. He loved it. He really, really loved it.

Quentin’s had enough.

And Quentin gets it—he really does. He dropped hard after their last scene. Scared both of them. But the thing is: Quentin feels good. He feels steady again. He’s thought about it over and over, and he still can’t stop thinking about how right it felt. How it helped him settle in his skin in a way nothing else ever has.

And now Eliot’s treating him like glass.

So Quentin pushes back.

Little things, at first. The hoodie that Eliot asked him to hang up is instead crumpled on the floor. The kitchen sink fills with all his coffee mugs that he stopped washing. Eliot notices. Quentin knows he does. There’s the brief arch of a brow, the small sigh—but no real consequence. No sharp command. No orders.

Each time Eliot glances at him, Quentin sees the gears turning — irritation, confusion, restraint.

And that’s what makes him keep going.

Because maybe, just maybe, Eliot will snap out of this over-cautious parenting energy and handle him.

So Quentin doesn’t fold the laundry. He leaves his jeans inside-out and tossed over the arm of the couch, and when Eliot raises a hand to comment, Quentin just grins and says, “Oops.”

By Thursday evening, Eliot is at the kitchen table, working on some of his own classwork, and Quentin is curled upside down on the couch like a teenager. His legs are hanging off one armrest, hair flopping over the other, phone in hand, smirking faintly to himself.

The hoodie’s on the floor again. Next to a mess of books and pens.

Eliot doesn’t say anything for a moment. Then, without looking up, he asks, “Are you planning to pick that up?”

Quentin barely looks over. “Eventually.”

Eliot closes his laptop with a soft click. “Quentin.”

“Yes, Eliot?” The grin widens.

Eliot stands. Slowly. Walks over. The tension in the room shifts like the air before a thunderstorm. Quentin pretends not to notice the way his own pulse starts to thrum, loud and hungry.

“You’re pushing me,” Eliot says evenly.

Quentin blinks up at him, all innocence. “No, I’m not. Maybe I’m just messy.”

Eliot’s jaw ticks. “And maybe you want to be reminded how this works.”

Quentin’s stomach flips. His breath catches. But he plays dumb, flippant. “You’re not doing a great job of reminding me.”

There’s a beat of silence. Quentin thinks he’s pushed too far — but Eliot doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t snap. Doesn’t storm.

Eliot just stares at him, calm, steady, assessing. “Is there something you want to say to me?”

“Nope.”

“Are you being honest with me right now?”

A beat. Quentin shrugs, his mouth twitching, but he doesn’t answer.

Eliot’s tone sharpens, just a fraction. “Quentin. Verbal answers only. You know that.”

“Maybe I forgot,” Quentin says airily, flipping onto his side with his back to Eliot.

That does it.

Eliot’s expression doesn’t change — but something in him sharpens. Quentin can feel it in the way his name is said next, low and calm and final:

“Quentin. Corner. Now.”

Quentin’s head snaps back. “Wait. What?”

“You heard me,” Eliot says, still calm. “Go stand in the corner and think about where you’d like the rest of this conversation to go. Because right now, I see two options. You’re either overwhelmed and not saying so—or you’re being a little brat because you want something and refuse to communicate it with me.”

Quentin's ears go red. “That’s not—”

“Corner,” Eliot repeats, firmer this time. “I’ll be here when you’re ready to talk.”

Quentin’s heart is thudding. That tone — not angry, but firm. Certain. In charge. It sends a pulse straight to the base of his spine.

“Fine,” he mutters, sliding off the couch.

And just like that, something flips in Quentin. His smug grin slips, his heart stutters. That tone—steady, knowing, in control. He can feel it all the way down to his toes. Eliot’s not mad. But he’s handling him. And God, Quentin wants to be handled.

He stands, shuffling slowly to the corner like a naughty child. He can feel Eliot watching him. Feel the heat prickling up the back of his neck.

Maybe this is exactly what he wanted after all.

—-----

The corner is quiet, but Quentin's thoughts are anything but. The white wall in front of him doesn’t do much to calm the simmering agitation under his skin. The initial relief — the grounding sensation of being told what to do, placed somewhere — has started to morph into something more chaotic. His fingers twitch at his sides. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, the familiar, creeping edge of humiliation licking at his stomach, making it flip in that awful, addictive way.

From behind, Eliot’s voice cuts clean and sharp:

“Still, please.”

Quentin bites his lip. Swallows. Tries. For about two minutes.

Then: “How much longer?”

Eliot doesn’t respond right away. The sound of the pen tapping against the desk halts. Then he speaks — calm, maddeningly calm.

“Until you’re ready to behave like an adult,” Eliot says. “And be honest with me.”

That pisses Quentin off. It’s the tipping point. His whole body spins around like a spark caught in the wind.

“I am being honest!” he snaps, arms folded defensively across his chest. “I’m fine. I’ve been fine. You’re the one acting like I’m made of glass or something. You’re treating me like I’m gonna break if you say anything too sharp or make me actually follow any of the rules, and I hate it. It’s not fair.”

Eliot stares at him — quiet, unreadable.

“I dropped. Once. And yeah, it was intense, but it’s not the end of the world. It happens! You even said it happens.” Quentin’s voice is high now, brittle with frustration and shame. “And now you’re acting like I can’t handle anything at all.”

He takes a breath, realizes his hands are clenched into fists. “I didn’t sign up for this dynamic so you could coddle me every five seconds, Eliot. I signed up because I liked the way it was. And you’ve barely touched me in days.”

There’s a beat of silence so loud it feels like thunder rolling beneath the floor.

Eliot’s voice, when it comes, is low and cold. “Is that how you’re supposed to speak to me?”

Quentin freezes.

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Then shakes his head.

Eliot’s eyes narrow. “Verbal response.”

Quentin’s cheeks burn. “No, Eliot,” he says, but it comes out sullen, with the edge of a bratty little whine.

That’s all it takes.

Eliot stands — and Quentin’s heart slams into his ribs. His knees nearly go weak, the blood rushing down and between his legs as much as to his cheeks. He knows that posture. That look. That tone.

Eliot doesn’t yell. He just walks over, steps close — close enough for Quentin to tip his head back to meet his eyes — and reaches up to grab him firmly by the ear.

“Ow—!” Quentin yelps, breath catching in his throat as Eliot tugs, turning him around and marching him across the room like a misbehaving schoolboy.

They stop in front of the couch, where Quentin’s hoodie and books are still scattered.

“You live here,” Eliot says calmly. “You respect this space. You respect me.”

“Yes, sir,” Quentin whispers without thinking.

Eliot doesn’t comment — just releases his ear and points. “Pick it up. Now.”

Quentin scrambles to obey. He bends quickly, gathering the hoodie, stacking the books, doing it as fast as he can without dropping anything. His hands are shaking slightly. He feels like a balloon stretched too tight, just waiting to burst — but God, he needs this. Maybe Eliot does too.

Eliot watches him silently the whole time.

When Quentin’s arms are full, he glances up.

Eliot nods once. “Put it away. And then I want you waiting in the bedroom. You can kneel or sit on the bed, your choice — but I expect you waiting.”

Quentin's pulse jumps. “Yes, sir,” he says again, this time softer, more reverent.

He doesn’t dare look at Eliot as he hurries to the bedroom — the chaos in his chest finally starting to settle into something quieter, deeper, richer.

He doesn't know what's going to happen next.

But the sharp click of Eliot’s shoes against the floor behind him makes the hair on the back of his neck rise.

Finally. Finally, something real.

And he knows, instinctively, that whatever comes next — it’s exactly what he needs.

—----------

The bedroom door opened slowly.

Eliot stepped inside, calm and composed—his silhouette framed by the golden hallway light, the kind of stillness in him that always made Quentin ache with longing. His hands were in his pockets. He shut the door behind him with a soft click and looked down at Quentin kneeling.

“You’re a good boy for waiting,” Eliot said, voice smooth but unreadable. He took his time crossing the room, walking around Quentin in a slow circle before sitting on the edge of the bed. Quentin could feel him looking down.

Quentin didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Tried to still the jittery energy sparking under his skin. He didn’t know what was coming, and he wanted it—deserved it—but he also kind of wanted to curl into Eliot’s lap and cry.

Eliot let the silence stretch before finally speaking. “You were right,” he said simply. “I have been gentle with you this week. Softer. More lenient. I’ve been—afraid, honestly. The drop scared me, Q. Seeing you like that scared me.”

Quentin bit his lip, his throat closing around the ache that crept back in at Eliot’s words. But Eliot wasn’t done.

“That doesn’t mean you were right to lash out,” Eliot said. “You had a valid concern, but you handled it in all the wrong ways.”

Quentin flushed, lowering his gaze. His chest felt tight again, but for different reasons. “I told you I didn’t want you to treat me differently.”

“Yes,” Eliot agreed. “Once. In the middle of drop recovery. You said it, and I heard you. But what you didn’t do—what you should have done—was come to me again when you were concerned. You could have said, ‘Eliot, I’m feeling off. I think you’re holding back with me. Can we talk about it?’ That would’ve worked just fine. But instead?”

He let the silence fill in the answer. Quentin swallowed.

“Instead, you acted like a petulant little boy,” Eliot said softly, and the words went straight to Quentin’s chest, shame and arousal pooling together into a feeling so big it made him dizzy.

“I just—” Quentin tried, his voice strained. “I didn’t know how else to get you to—”

“You do know,” Eliot interrupted firmly. “You do. We’ve spent weeks building ways for you to talk to me. You know how.”

Quentin looked up, frustrated, his cheeks hot. “It felt like you were deciding what I could handle without asking me. It felt like—like you didn’t trust me to know my own limits.”

Eliot’s expression softened a little. “That’s fair,” he said. “But if you want me to trust you with your limits, you have to trust me with mine too. And you have to express yourself in ways that don’t involve bratting for days straight.”

Quentin huffed, eyes watery with too many feelings, his lip trembling like he was six seconds from another tantrum. “I tried,” he muttered under his breath. “You weren’t listening.”

And then, irrational and overwhelmed and still tangled up in too many emotions to be good, he leaned forward and lightly bit Eliot’s thigh where it curved under his pants. A soft, not-actually-painful chomp.

Eliot’s brows rose, genuinely surprised.

Quentin blinked up at him, almost defiantly.

Eliot exhaled slowly, then gave a single nod. “Okay,” he said quietly, standing again. “That’s how it’s going to be?”

Quentin’s heart thumped hard. He was suddenly aware of how breathless he felt, how exposed, how fucking bratty.

“I was trying to talk to you,” Quentin said, like that somehow justified everything.

Eliot reached down and caught Quentin’s chin in his fingers, tilting his face up so their eyes met. “You don’t bite your Dom to make a point, Quentin. You don’t act out when you know better.”

Quentin swallowed, trying not to melt. “I didn’t mean to actually hurt—”

“You didn’t,” Eliot interrupted, “but that’s not the point. You’re getting punished.”

The words hit Quentin like a heatwave. He felt everything at once—ashamed, relieved, thrilled, a little scared. His breath caught.

“Get on the bed,” Eliot said. “Face down. Now.”

Quentin scrambled to obey, crawling onto the mattress and flattening himself against the sheets, heart hammering. He felt Eliot’s presence behind him, the weight of his attention like a hand on the small of his back.

Eliot didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t have to. The weight in his gaze alone was enough.

“You wanted my attention,” Eliot said. “Now you’ve got it. And you’re going to listen very carefully.”

Quentin nodded, heart hammering.

“I’m not angry,” Eliot continued, “But I am disappointed. You could’ve talked to me, and instead you decided to act out—testing me. You didn’t trust me to understand you, so you made sure I couldn’t ignore you. I did see you, Q. I always do. And now you’re going to feel that.”

A hand in his hair, firm. Eliot tilted Quentin’s head up, kissed his mouth gently. “Safe words?”

Quentin swallowed. “Green. Yellow. Red.”

“Good boy.”

Without further warning, Eliot shoved him down forward, and his hand cracked down hard over Quentin’s ass. Quentin gasped at the first blow, the sting biting into his skin—but he arched back into it, needing more.

Eliot obliged, hand landing again and again, alternating cheeks, building heat, turning Quentin’s skin pink then red. His voice stayed low, controlled, grounding.

“This isn’t because I’m angry,” Eliot continued, calm and level as he pulled Quentin’s pants down to his thighs. “This is because you broke the rules. You lashed out. You disrespected me and this dynamic. And you know what happens when you do that.”

Quentin whimpered, burying his face in his arms. “Yessir.”

Eliot ran a gentle hand over the curve of his ass, like he was drawing a map. “You’re not broken,” Eliot said quietly. “I don’t think you’re fragile. But I do think you need structure. And you’re about to get some.”

And then another smack landed—sharp, clean, grounding. Quentin gasped, breath catching as relief flooded through his system.

“Biting me like a fucking toddler. What were you thinking?”

A hard, sharp one. Quentin cried out, tears springing to his eyes.

“Pouting instead of speaking. Bratting instead of asking.”

Eliot paused only to run his hand over Quentin’s back, smoothing over the trembling. “You wanted me to treat you like normal again? This is what that means. Structure. Rules. Consequences.”

Quentin, breathless, nodded against the sheets. Getting lost in the rhythm of pain and the feeling of sharp, stinging over and over again, until he was gasping out little “Sorry, really sorry, I’ll be good’s”. Babbling really. Didn’t even know what he was saying anymore.

Eliot slipped a hand between Quentin’s legs—no warm-up, no teasing, just fingers gripping him, stroking deliberately, expertly. Quentin moaned, already so wound up he felt dizzy from the shift. The line between pain and pleasure blurred too fast, too much—he could barely breathe through it. Confusing, overwhelming and magnificent all at once.

Eliot worked him until Quentin’s hips were trembling, thighs shaking, little desperate whines leaking out of his mouth. He was so close. He was almost—

And then Eliot pulled back.

Cold air, cold absence. Quentin cried out in confusion, hips rutting against nothing, body still aching for touch.

“N-no, please, please—”

“Oh, no, my darling boy,” Eliot said calmly. “You don’t get to come.”

Quentin blinked at him, wrecked and stunned.

“You don’t get to come, and I’m not touching you again tonight,” Eliot said firmly, straightening his spine as he stood back from the bed. “Boys who throw tantrums and act like little fucking brats to get their way don’t get rewarded.”

Quentin shook, full-body trembles that had more to do with shame and arousal than anything else. It burned, but not in a bad way. It felt good, right. He was back in the orbit of someone who understood him.

Eliot leaned down, kissed his temple.

He helped Quentin back into his underwear, then into bed, smoothing the blanket over him as Quentin curled toward him instinctively, eyes wide and still dazed. Eliot pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“Tomorrow,” Eliot said softly, brushing hair back from Quentin’s forehead, “you’re going to clean up the entire mess you’ve left around this apartment with your free time. No complaining, no excuses. And you’re going to do it right. Fully. Is that clear?”

Quentin flushed, still floating somewhere between turned-on and blissed-out. “Yes, Eliot.”

Eliot gave him a look. “Mm. Don’t think that’s the game we’re playing tonight, is it?”

Quentin’s breath caught. His whole face bloomed with red, but he whispered, voice low and reverent, “Yes, Daddy.”

“There’s my boy,” Eliot murmured, climbing into bed behind him and pulling Quentin into his chest. He wrapped him up, warm and safe, one arm under Quentin’s neck and one hand rubbing gentle circles into his hip. “You’re a good boy. You just needed a little help remembering.”

Quentin exhaled shakily, finally letting go of the tension that had been buzzing in his chest all week. He pressed his cheek to Eliot’s chest, clung tightly to his shirt, and whispered back, “Thank you. I—I needed it.”

“I know,” Eliot said, kissing his hair. “That’s what I’m here for.”

And just like that, Quentin felt good again. Not just turned on, not just happy—but understood. Wanted.

Whole again.

He signed with content and burrowed down into the soft space between Eliot and the pillows. Happy to drift. He felt settled. Things felt right again.

—------------

Quentin was up early, determined.

He moved around the apartment with quiet purpose, hair still messy from sleep and a mug of coffee in hand. There was a soft flush on his cheeks—not just from the early chill of morning, but from the anticipation coiled in his chest. He wanted to do this. Wanted Eliot to see. To notice. To be proud.

The rule was clear: clean up his messes. And he was going to do it right.

First, the pile of laundry he’d abandoned by the washing machine. Then, the collection of empty mugs and notebooks that had taken over the coffee table. Every time he paused, he repeated Eliot’s words from last night in his head like a mantra: “It better be done fully and the right way.”

When he started organizing the stack of books he’d left on the floor by the couch—books he absolutely had meant to return to the shelf two days ago—Margo strolled into the apartment. Proud and smug about her very obvious early morning walk of shame, clutching a sparkling water.

She blinked at the domestic scene before her.

“Well, well, well,” she drawled, leaning dramatically against the doorframe. “If it isn’t our very own Cinderella.”

Quentin didn’t look up. “I’m being good,” he muttered, bending to dust the TV stand.

“Obviously,” she said, walking closer. “But why are you being good? What’d you do, Q? Did you finally push Daddy too far?”

Quentin flushed deeply, nearly dropping the rag in his hand. “Margo.”

“Oh my god,” she said, delighted. “You did. You brat-spiraled so hard you actually got punished.”

“I—” Quentin started, then bit down on his lip, shoulders hunched like he could hide the blush blooming all over his face.

Margo let out a delighted noise and plopped down on the couch. “He make you write lines? Clean the floors with a toothbrush? What level of humiliation are we operating at?”

Quentin straightened the pillows beside her wordlessly.

“Hmm,” she said, squinting up at him. “You’re smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“You are. Like, disgustingly so.”

Before Quentin could respond, Eliot’s voice drifted in from the hallway. “Oh, are we tormenting my boy without me?”

Quentin froze, caught between indignation and a full-body shiver of pleasure.

Eliot stepped into the room. Loose pajamas, sleep-warmed eyes, a knowing smile tugging at his mouth. He glanced around, noted the clean floors and folded laundry, and gave an approving nod.

“Look at you,” Eliot said, walking over. “Cleaning like your life depends on it.”

Quentin ducked his head. “You said to do it right.”

“I did. And you are.” Eliot leaned in, brushing his knuckles across Quentin’s cheek. “Good boy.”

Margo made a mock-gagging noise from the couch. “God, you two are the worst. And somehow it’s cute, which I hate.”

Quentin bit back a grin and moved to tuck a throw blanket neatly over the arm of the couch. “I like it,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Eliot turned to Margo. “Royalty must be served, after all.”

“Damn right,” she said, stretching luxuriously. “Should’ve made him do it in an apron. Or naked.”

Quentin made a helpless noise.

“You’re both terrible,” he mumbled, but his voice was soft, happy. His heart was light in his chest in a way it hadn’t been for days. All of it—the teasing, the orders, the praise—it felt right again.

Once everything was spotless and in its place, Quentin sank down between them on the couch with a satisfied little sigh. Margo immediately slung her legs over his lap, and Eliot pulled him in by the shoulders, pressing a kiss into his hair.

“You did a good job,” Eliot said softly.

“The place looks great, babe,” Margo added, ruffling his hair in a way that made him scrunch his nose but lean in anyway.

Quentin let out a quiet hum of pleasure, sinking into the warm press of them on either side. “Thanks,” he murmured, content and glowing.

Eliot stroked his fingers through Quentin’s curls, slow and rhythmic. “I’m proud of you,” he whispered against his ear.

Quentin melted, fully and completely.

Chapter Text

The morning sun streamed through the apartment windows in soft golden slants, pooling on the hardwood and warming the kitchen with a sleepy glow. Eliot stood at the stove in pajama pants and a worn sweater, a spatula in one hand as he expertly flipped eggs into the skillet. Toast popped behind him. The smell of butter and sizzling herbs filled the air.

At the kitchen table, Quentin and Margo sat like sleepy cats in the sun. Or rather, Quentin was slouched with his head nestled in the crook of one arm, clearly not quite awake, while Margo sipped her coffee with one hand and idly scrolled her phone with the other.

"Morning, my little sloths," Eliot said cheerfully over his shoulder.

Margo made a vague noise of acknowledgment, but Quentin groaned. "It's too early."

"You have an early class," Eliot reminded him.

"I know," Quentin mumbled into the table. "I'm just... mourning my freedom."

"Oh, come on, you love school."

Quentin lifted his head just enough to glare at him. "I tolerate school. I love you."

Margo snorted. "Gross."

Eliot grinned as he plated up eggs and toast and brought them over. He slid a plate in front of each of them, setting a fork on Quentin's napkin with deliberate care. Quentin blinked at it, then gave a soft little smile.

Margo cut into her eggs and looked over at Quentin with the casual air of someone about to throw a grenade. "So. You were totally in trouble yesterday."

Quentin froze, mid-chew. "What?"

She smirked. "You know. Trouble. I was waiting for it. You were acting like a total brat last week."

Eliot raised an eyebrow but kept his tone mild. "He bit my leg."

Quentin choked.

Margo turned to stare at him in delighted horror. "You what ?"

"I—" Quentin glanced helplessly at Eliot, cheeks flushed pink. "It wasn’t like, hard."

"Oh my god, Quentin," Margo said, grinning like a devil. "I didn't know you had it in you."

Eliot sipped his coffee calmly. "Neither did I."

Quentin groaned and dropped his face into his hands. "Can we not?"

Margo leaned back in her chair, still smiling. "Hey, I’m glad he finally took you in hand. You were getting insufferable."

"He was ," Eliot agreed, as if Quentin weren't right there between them, turning redder by the second.

"You both suck," Quentin muttered.

"You're the one who bit me," Eliot said lightly, reaching out to smooth a hand down Quentin's back. His tone softened. "But. You made up for it."

Quentin peeked up at him with a small, sheepish smile.

Margo waved her fork toward the living room. "And the apartment looks amazing. So, thanks for that."

That seemed to mollify Quentin somewhat. He finished the last of his toast, eyes flicking occasionally toward Eliot with something close to quiet pride.

After breakfast, Eliot helped him gather his things for class, slipping his lunch into the bag and tucking a travel mug of coffee into the side pocket.

Quentin shouldered the bag and hovered by the door. "I’ll see you later?"

Eliot stepped close, brushing hair out of Quentin's face. "Be good."

Quentin nodded, already a little pink again. "Yes, Eliot."

Margo made another gagging noise behind them.

Eliot ignored her. He kissed Quentin softly, lingering for a moment before letting him go. "I’ll see you after. Text me if you need anything."

"Okay." Quentin hesitated. "Bye, Margo."

She gave him a lazy little wave. "Don't bite anyone."

Quentin groaned as he stepped out the door, but he was smiling.

—-------------------

Eliot watched the door shut behind Quentin and stood still for a long moment, the silence settling around them like the warmth of a blanket. He sighed through his nose, then moved back toward the counter to pour himself another cup of coffee. When he turned back, Margo had tucked her legs up on the chair and was watching him over her mug.

"Okay," she said. "Spill."

Eliot raised a brow. "About what?"

"About how you’ve been walking around like a man freshly returned from war. And about your boyfriend, the human disaster."

Eliot laughed, sliding into the chair across from her. "He bit my leg , Margo. Like a feral child."

She snorted. "God, I love him. I didn’t think he had it in him."

"Neither did I," Eliot said, shaking his head. "I mean—I was holding back. After he dropped. I got scared. I didn’t want to push him too far again. So I pulled back. Took it easy. I thought I was protecting him, but he needed... more."

Margo tilted her head, her voice quieter. "You pulled back because you were scared?"

Eliot nodded, staring into his coffee. "It scared me, Margo. Seeing him like that—so small and vulnerable. I didn’t know if I’d gone too far. I didn’t want to hurt him. Not really. So I softened everything. I thought I was doing the right thing. But he... he needs the structure. He needs me to be me."

"And instead of saying it outright, he bit you?"

"Apparently." Eliot gave a soft laugh, but there was still something bruised in his expression. "He was acting out because he didn’t know how to ask for it. And I think I needed it too. Taking control again—it felt like exhaling for the first time in days."

"Cathartic," Margo said, nodding.

"Exactly. You should have seen him. A sulking, petutlant little thing."

They sat for a moment, sipping coffee. The apartment was quiet now, the kind of peaceful that only followed a storm.

"There’s more, isn’t there?" Margo asked, eyes sharp.

Eliot hesitated, then nodded. "He asked to be collared. Officially."

Margo’s eyes widened. "No fucking way."

"I told him what it meant. That it was serious to me. That I didn’t take it lightly. But he still wanted it. Said he wanted it to mean as much for him as it does for me."

Her face softened. "Eliot... that’s huge."

"I know." He exhaled. "And I want it too. I really do. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. He trusts me with all of himself. Even the messy, bratty parts. Especially those. And I want to give him something to hold onto."

Margo set her mug down and leaned forward. "Then we’re going to find him the perfect collar. Something soft and strong. Something that says ‘he’s yours.’"

Eliot smiled, eyes shining. "I was thinking a leather cuff. Dark, maybe charcoal or espresso brown. Something durable. He can wear it every day."

"I know exactly the place," Margo said. "The guy who did my harness—he does gorgeous custom work. I’ll take you. We’ll make a day of it."

He reached across the table and squeezed her hand, overwhelmed with gratitude. "Thank you."

She squeezed back. "You’re in love, El. What else am I supposed to do?"

They sat there a while longer, planning and laughing softly, letting the golden hush of morning stretch around them.

—----------------

The day Quentin had back-to-back classes and a shift at his work-study job, Eliot and Margo made their move.

It wasn’t a mission, exactly. But Eliot was buzzing with something like anticipation, nerves and excitement knotted together in his chest in a way that made his steps quicker than usual, his hands fidgety, his voice a little too light when he explained the plan to Margo that morning.

"Okay," Margo said, slipping on her sunglasses as they stepped out into the sun. "We’ve got, what, six hours before Q’s done for the day?"

"Roughly," Eliot said, glancing at his phone. "More if he runs late at the library, which he always does on Wednesdays."

"Perfect."

The train ride into the city was easy, familiar. They didn’t talk much at first, just sat next to each other, sharing a set of earbuds, watching the blur of buildings and trees. Eliot was lost in his thoughts, his fingers tracing patterns on the inside of his wrist.

Margo nudged him lightly. "You nervous?"

Eliot exhaled a shaky little laugh. "I don’t know. Kind of. This feels like a big deal."

"It is," she said simply. "That doesn’t make it bad."

"I just... he’s so soft, Margo. He lets me see every inch of him. I’ve never had that before."

Margo looked over at him, her expression gentling. "And you’re giving it right back."

He nodded, throat tight. "I want this to be perfect."

They arrived at the leather shop late morning. The bell above the door jingled as they stepped inside. The smell of treated leather and warm wood filled the air, grounding and rich. The shop owner, a broad man with careful hands and kind eyes, greeted Margo like an old friend.

"This is Eliot," she said, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "He’s got something special in mind."

The owner smiled. "Let’s see what we can do."

Eliot explained what he was looking for — a dark, soft leather cuff that Quentin could wear every day. Discreet but meaningful. Strong. Something beautiful that would hold up over time.

The man nodded thoughtfully, pulling out swatches of leather for Eliot to touch. Eliot ran his fingers over them, pausing at a particular shade — a rich espresso brown, almost black, but with a depth that glowed in the light.

"This one," he said softly. "It feels like him."

They sketched out the design together — a simple, elegant cuff with subtle detailing. A small clasp hidden on the inside, almost invisible. Not flashy, but intentional.

"It’ll be ready by next week," the man said, smiling. "You can come pick it up whenever."

Outside, Eliot blinked in the sunlight, a little dazed.

"It’s happening," he said, a bit breathless. 

Margo hooked her arm through his. "You’re already his. This is just making it pretty."

They went to lunch after — a little French café with tiny outdoor tables. Eliot ordered wine, even though it was barely noon. Margo didn’t judge.

They talked about other things — professors, campus gossip, the new TA in Margo’s media class who was apparently an aspiring actor and devastatingly dumb. But Eliot kept drifting. His mind, his heart, kept circling back to Quentin. To the way his eyes went soft when Eliot praised him. The way he bloomed under care and structure. The way he’d smiled, flushed and shy, when he asked for a collar.

It was late when they got home. Quentin’s bag was by the door — he must’ve only just gotten in.

Eliot found him in the kitchen, hunched over his laptop with a mug of coffee. His hair was a mess and his eyes were already tired.

"Hey," Eliot said, voice low and warm.

Quentin looked up, instantly brightening. "Hi. You’re home."

Eliot stepped in, pressed a kiss to his forehead. "Get your homework done. Then you’re mine."

Quentin blinked, startled but visibly thrilled. "Yes, sir."

Eliot made dinner while Quentin worked, occasionally checking in with a hand on his shoulder, a brush of fingers through his hair. When dinner was done, he served it with deliberate care — nothing fancy, just roast chicken and vegetables, but Quentin ate every bite with flushed cheeks and soft eyes.

After, Eliot handed him a dish towel. "Clean up." He loved watching how Quentin’s eyes lit up when he acted like this. Knew how much it made him feel. It made Eliot feel just as good to watch his reactions. 

Quentin obeyed without question, drying the dishes and putting everything away while Eliot leaned against the doorway and watched. The tension in Eliot’s shoulders, the buzz of energy under his skin — it hadn’t gone away. He didn’t want it to.

When the last glass was in the cabinet, Eliot said, "Bedroom. Now."

Quentin went.

Eliot followed, closing the door behind them. "Strip."

Quentin did.

They didn’t speak much. Eliot pushed him down into the mattress, slow and firm, and took his time with him — not punishing, not soft, just present . In control. Eliot guided every breath, every moan. He took Quentin apart with hands and mouth and voice until Quentin was keening, eyes blown wide and glassy.

After, when they were curled up together in the dim light, Quentin tucked against his chest, Quentin hummed. "You seemed like you were in a good mood."

Eliot laughed softly, burying his nose in Quentin’s hair. "I’m just in love with a good boy. What’s a man supposed to do?"

Quentin melted. Then, after a few moments, he said, very softly, "Can I ask something?"

Eliot pulled back to look at him. "Of course."

"Can we... try um, wax?  sometime? I read about it. I know you-you have candles. The body-safe kind. I just... I’d like to try it. I mean-If- If you want to."

Eliot blinked, surprised. But Quentin’s eyes were open and earnest. A little nervous, but hopeful.

He stroked a hand down Quentin’s back. "You’ve been thinking about it."

Quentin nodded. "Since... before. I was scared to ask."

"And now?"

Quentin gave him a soft, lopsided smile. "Now I want to. And I trust you."

Eliot kissed him, slow and deep. "Then we’ll try it."

He didn’t add that he already had a plan in mind. That the collar was coming. That he was going to ask Quentin to be his in the most permanent way he knew how.

For now, he just held him. Let himself enjoy the quiet magic of being loved back.

—------------

Eliot picked up the collar on a quiet afternoon the following Thursday. The leather craftsman had wrapped it neatly in soft tissue and placed it in a small black box, tied with a simple string. Eliot tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat and tried not to feel like he was carrying a grenade.

It was beautiful. The espresso-dark leather, the elegant stitching, the discreet clasp—it was perfect. It felt like Quentin. It felt like a promise.

He didn’t give it to him.

Not yet.

He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for. A perfect moment, a perfect day. A chance to do it right.

When he got home, Margo was sprawled on the couch with a bag of kettle chips and an episode of Chopped on low volume.

"Did you get it?" she asked, not looking up.

Eliot sat beside her and nodded, pulling the box out and holding it in his palm like it might burn him. "Yeah."

Margo paused the TV, finally turning to him. "So?"

He opened the lid just enough for her to peek. She whistled.

"You’re really doing this, huh?"

"I want to."

She nudged his arm. "So do it. Give it to him."

Eliot hesitated. "I want to take him out somewhere. Make a day of it."

Margo rolled her eyes fondly. "God, you’re such a romantic. He’s gonna cry."

"Probably." Eliot smiled, then carefully closed the box and tucked it into his drawer, hidden under some folded sweaters. It felt like a secret.

That night, he told Quentin, "I want to take you out. Just us. A proper date."

Quentin looked up from his textbook, blinking. "Really?"

"Really."

Quentin's whole face lit up, the joy so radiant it made Eliot's chest ache. "I’d love that."

"If," Eliot added, raising an eyebrow, "you’re a very good boy tomorrow... maybe I’ll torture you a little with wax."

Quentin flushed. Bright red, eyes wide. "Yeah?"

"If you’re good."

Quentin bit his lip, clearly already trying to behave on the spot. "Thank you."

Later that evening, the three of them ended up on the couch—Margo in leggings and a hoodie, Eliot in a silky robe, Quentin in his favorite threadbare t-shirt and sleep shorts.

Margo was already hogging the throw blanket when Eliot stepped into the living room with a glass of wine in one hand and gestured toward the floor. "You. Sit there."

Quentin blinked, then flushed. "What?"

"Royalty needs space," Margo said, stretching her legs across the couch dramatically. "Get your peasant ass on the floor."

Quentin gave an exaggerated huff but sank to his knees in front of them anyway, settling cross-legged by Eliot’s feet. He tried to act annoyed, but the flush on his cheeks and the shy smile tugging at his mouth gave him away. The three of them all knew how much each of them enjoyed it. Quentin loved being put in his place and Eliot and Margo loved playing along.

"Look how obedient," Margo said with mock admiration. "He’s learning."

Eliot reached out and ran a hand through Quentin’s hair lazily. "I like him like this. Quiet. Submissive. Decorative."

Quentin squawked, burying his face in Eliot’s knee. "I hate both of you."

"You love us," Margo said, smirking. "And you like being our favorite little bottom."

Quentin didn’t argue.

They watched TV like that—cuddled and half-teasing, the glow of the screen casting soft light across the room, Eliot’s fingers occasionally carding through Quentin’s hair.

Domestic. Ridiculous. Perfect.

The cozy nightly routine the three of them have fallen into on quiet school nights. 

And under Eliot’s sweater, tucked safely in the drawer, the collar waited.

—------

The next night was quiet, the apartment low-lit and warm, scented faintly with whatever candle was burning and the subtle spice of Eliot’s cologne. Margo was out again—some art party or a date, Eliot hadn’t asked—and it left him and Quentin blessedly alone. Eliot had planned it this way. He’d waited, watched Quentin carefully all week. His boy had been soft, sweet, trying so hard. He'd earned this.

Quentin was already kneeling when Eliot came back from the bedroom, a thick towel folded over his arm, a small box of supplies in his other hand. The sight of Quentin—bare-chested, hands resting obediently on his thighs, eyes wide with nervous excitement—made Eliot pause in the doorway and just look at him for a moment. Quentin had that breathless look he sometimes got before a scene, like anticipation was already scraping along his skin.

Eliot walked slowly toward him, letting the silence stretch. Quentin’s gaze tracked him, reverent, so open it made something low in Eliot’s stomach clench.

"Tell me why you want this," Eliot said softly, setting the towel down, arranging the body-safe wax candles on the table beside them. "Out loud."

Quentin flushed but didn’t hesitate. "I—it looks beautiful. I don’t know….I guess? The way it drips, and... and I think I’ll like the way it feels. I want to know what it’s like. I trust you."

Eliot crouched beside him, fingertips brushing under Quentin’s chin, lifting his face up. "Do you remember your colors?"

Quentin nodded. "Green is go, yellow is slow, red is stop."

"Good. What about if you can’t say them?."

"Um…taping?."

"Very good. Now. Are you ready for this, Quentin?"

Quentin’s mouth twitched. "Yes, Eliot."

Eliot’s brows lifted pointedly.

Quentin swallowed, then gave a shy, perfect smile. "Yes, Sir."

Eliot’s pulse jumped. "That’s what I thought."

He took his time setting up, positioning Quentin where he wanted him—kneeling first, then lying stomach-down on the towel laid over their bed, arms loose at his sides. Eliot straddled him for a moment, just above his hips, and ran his hands up the soft expanse of Quentin’s back, grounding him with gentle touches.

Then he lit the first candle.

The wax took a few minutes to melt. Eliot used the time to kiss Quentin’s shoulders, whisper praise into the nape of his neck. Told him how good he looked, how soft and sweet he was being, how proud he was. And then, when the wax was ready, Eliot dipped his fingers near the edge of the candle and let a single, deliberate drop fall onto the small of Quentin’s back.

Quentin gasped. Not in pain—more like surprise. The wax was hot, yes, but not dangerously burning. Eliot watched the skin react, watched the tremor run through Quentin’s body. It hardened quickly, little jewels of color against his pale skin. Eliot let another drop fall, then another. His rhythm was patient, purposeful. He didn’t speak. Just watched.

Quentin made small noises, each one precious. A whimper when the wax landed on the curve of his spine. A bitten-off moan when it kissed the side of his ribs. Eliot adjusted the angle, let the wax trail lower, onto the soft flesh of Quentin’s ass. He varied the pace, alternating heat and pause, drawing patterns like he was painting.

"You’re doing so well," Eliot murmured. "Look at you. My brave, beautiful boy."

Quentin whimpered, trembling, already sliding into that floaty place. Eliot could see it in the laxness of his limbs, the way his breathing had deepened. When Eliot leaned close to kiss between his shoulder blades, Quentin made a tiny, pleading sound.

"Color?" Eliot asked.

Quentin’s voice was barely audible. "Green."

Eliot kissed his skin again. He kept going until Quentin’s thighs were quaking and the wax decorated him like some pagan altar. Until the tension in his frame turned into something pliant and pliable and absolutely undone.

When he finally stopped, Eliot whispered to him, coaxed him through the coming-down. He retrieved a warm, damp cloth and carefully cleaned each place he’d marked, smoothing his palms over the wax-flecked skin with infinite care. Quentin was pliant under his hands, pliant and quiet and perfect.

Once every bit of wax was gone, Eliot kissed his spine all the way down, then turned him over gently.

Quentin blinked up at him, pupils blown, face flushed and open in that sweet, post-scene haze.

Eliot knelt between his legs, one hand cupping the back of Quentin’s thigh. "You want to come, sweetheart?"

Quentin nodded eagerly, lips parted. "Please."

Eliot smiled, then bent forward and took him into his mouth.

He did it slowly, reverently, hands splayed on Quentin’s hips to keep him grounded as he sucked him with firm, deep pulls. Quentin cried out—soft, desperate—and tangled his fingers in the sheets. He was already so far gone that it didn’t take long, and when he came, Eliot swallowed every bit of it, kissing his thighs afterward.

He crawled up beside him, pulling Quentin into his arms.

Quentin melted against him with a shuddering breath, eyes glassy, skin still warm.

Eliot held him, stroked his hair, whispered praise into his ear. Told him how proud he was, how perfect he’d been, how much he loved him.

Quentin didn’t say much—just curled in close and buried his face in Eliot’s neck. But his body said everything.

And Eliot held him already wondering how he’d ever lived without this. Without him.

Later, Eliot helped him into the bath. He didn’t say much—just let Quentin settle into the warm water and sat nearby, quiet and watchful, sipping his tea while Quentin soaked. Afterward, he towel-dried his hair gently, letting Quentin lean into the touch, into the care.

They curled up on the couch with blankets, Eliot’s arms wrapped securely around Quentin’s middle, a movie playing low in the background. Quentin blinked sleepily, his head resting on Eliot’s shoulder, breath warm and even.

“You still with me, sweetheart?” Eliot whispered.

Quentin nodded slowly, dazed. “Still floating. But I’m good. I feel... good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Quentin turned slightly, nuzzled his nose into Eliot’s neck. “That was... really, really good.”

Eliot smiled and kissed his forehead. “You were perfect. So proud of you.”

Quentin didn’t answer with words, just hummed, his whole body relaxed and happy. Eliot rubbed his back in slow, soothing circles until Quentin drifted off, safe and warm in his arms.

—-------------------

Saturday morning came wrapped in the golden kind of warmth that made even the city feel gentle. Eliot had been planning this day all week. The collar was hidden, wrapped carefully and tucked away until later. He hadn’t told Quentin a thing. Not about the trip to the leather shop with Margo. Not about the custom cuff waiting in his dresser drawer.

But today, if everything felt right—if Quentin looked at him with that softness, if Eliot found his courage—he would give it to him.

Quentin was all bright-eyed and sweet when he arrived at the kitchen that morning, hair a mess, still yawning. Eliot handed him a coffee, pressed a kiss to his cheek, and said, “Get dressed, sweetheart. I’m taking you out.”

Quentin perked up immediately. “Our date?”

Eliot smiled, brushing a hand over his hair. “Exactly, yes. Our date.”

They stopped at their favorite café for iced coffees and pastries, then hopped on the train to the park. Eliot had packed a picnic, of course—he always did things with flourish. A soft blanket, cheeses, fresh fruit, a little bottle of wine he’d snuck into his tote.

The park was lush and buzzing with soft sounds—dogs barking in the distance, kids laughing, the wind playing in the trees. Eliot laid the blanket out beneath a shady tree and Quentin flopped down beside him, already reaching for strawberries.

They talked and laughed and touched constantly—brushing fingers, leaning in close, Quentin tangling their legs together like it was second nature. At one point, Quentin pulled a dog-eared Fillory book from his bag and curled against Eliot’s side to read while Eliot worked through a crossword.

It felt like a dream.

But Eliot’s chest had a fluttering nervousness to it that never quite went away. Every time he looked at Quentin’s hands, or the little curve of his smile, he thought about the collar waiting for him at home. About what it would mean. About what it meant already.

Quentin looked up from his book at one point, caught Eliot staring, and smiled.

“What?”

Eliot shook his head, voice soft. “You look happy.”

“I am,” Quentin said simply. Then, after a pause, “You look nervous.”

Eliot blinked. “I’m not.”

Quentin raised an eyebrow.

Eliot leaned in to kiss him, tasting sun-warm skin and sugar. “Maybe just a little overwhelmed with how disgustingly in love I am.”

Quentin flushed, glowing. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They spent the whole afternoon stretched out like that—reading, talking, snacking, basking. By the time the sun started to dip low, Quentin was all lazy affection and long looks. Eliot helped him pack up the picnic with hands that trembled only a little.

Tonight, he thought. When they get home. Tonight he’d give it to him.

—----------------

The apartment was dim and quiet when they returned from their perfect date, a late golden hour still painting streaks of light through the windows. Quentin was glowing—soft and smiling, his eyes bright in that particular way that only Eliot could summon in him. Eliot, meanwhile, felt like he was holding something delicate and burning in his chest.

He guided Quentin toward the bedroom with quiet purpose.

“Sit,” Eliot said gently, nodding toward the bed.

Quentin obeyed, confused but trusting. Eliot turned to the dresser, opened the drawer, and pulled out the small velvet box he’d hidden days ago. He stood there for a moment, box cradled in his hands, letting the weight of it settle over him. Then he turned back.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the night you asked,” Eliot said, voice low and reverent. “About giving you a day collar. About what that means—for us. And not just the symbolism or the kink, but everything it carries. Belonging. Intention. Devotion.”

Quentin’s breath caught, and he went still, his eyes never leaving Eliot’s face.

“I’ve never done this before,” Eliot continued. “I’ve never wanted to. Not until you. And I needed you to know that this—it’s serious. To me, it’s sacred. You asked for it knowing that. And that means everything.”

He stepped closer, kneeling in front of Quentin, and opened the box.

Inside was a cuff of soft, dark leather. Subtle. Understated. Beautiful. It had been chosen carefully—durable enough for everyday wear, discreet enough for Quentin to feel safe wearing it in public, and still meaningful in every way.

“I love you,” Eliot said, his voice breaking just slightly. “All of you. The kind and curious and anxious parts. The smart, bratty, soft-hearted boy who turned my world upside down just by being exactly who he is. I love being your friend. Your boyfriend. Your Dom. I love what we’re building. What we’ve already built.”

He looked up at Quentin. “If you’ll let me, I want to make it more…offical..”

Quentin was crying now, tears slipping silently down his cheeks. But he was smiling too. Radiantly.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes. Please.”

“Then kneel for me, baby.”

Quentin slid to the floor with reverence, breath shaky, eyes full of love. He tilted his head slightly, offering himself up with complete trust.

Eliot reached out with trembling fingers and fastened the cuff gently around Quentin’s wrist.

“There,” he said softly. “Mine.”

Quentin let out a trembling, joy-laced breath that turned into a half-laugh, half-sob as he surged forward and wrapped his arms around Eliot. “I love you,” he whispered fiercely. “I love you so much. Thank you.”

Eliot held him just as tightly, one hand sliding into his hair, the other wrapped around the back of his neck. They kissed, slow and messy and full of every emotion they didn’t have words for.

When they finally pulled apart, Eliot leaned in and pressed their foreheads together.

“You’re my good boy,” he murmured. “Now and always.”

Quentin nodded, breath catching again. “Yours.”

They stayed there on the floor for a long time—wrapped up in each other, in love, in this new shared promise of something lasting, something sacred. A bond neither of them had ever imagined having. A home they’d made in each other.

—-------

They must have dozed off. Eliot woke first to the sound of the apartment door opening and Margo’s unmistakable footsteps padding down the hall. He didn’t move, just glanced at the clock. Still early enough in the evening. Quentin was snuggled into him like a sleepy barnacle, his new cuff peeking from beneath the sleeve of his hoodie.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

“You two decent?” Margo’s voice was muffled.

“Define decent,” Eliot called back.

The door creaked open and Margo slipped inside, already grinning. “God, you’re insufferable.”

Quentin blinked awake slowly, blinking in the light from the hallway. He looked up, confused and drowsy. “Margo?”

“Hey, sweet stuff.” She padded over, looking them both over. “You look wrecked. In a good way.”

Quentin flushed. Eliot rolled his eyes but didn’t bother trying to hide the fond smile.

Margo plopped herself down at the foot of the bed. “So? Did you do it?”

Eliot reached for Quentin’s hand and turned his wrist, letting the dark leather cuff catch the light.

Margo let out a delighted gasp. “No fucking way.”

Quentin stared at her. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew, dumbass. Who do you think helped him pick it out?” She grinned wickedly. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Quentin’s mouth opened, then shut again. He looked completely overwhelmed. “You... you really had planned this?”

Eliot pressed a kiss to Quentin’s temple. “Wanted it to be perfect.”

Margo reached over and tapped the cuff. “Looks good on you, Q.” Then, more softly, “I’m really happy for you. Both of you.”

Quentin blinked again, eyes suspiciously glassy. “Thanks. I—thanks for helping.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Margo said, nudging him with her knee. “Now scoot. I’m claiming some blanket real estate.”

Quentin shifted obligingly, making room as Margo climbed under the covers with them. Eliot pulled them all closer, laughing as Margo complained about cold feet.

They curled up in a warm pile, and Quentin retrieved his laptop to queue up a movie. He ended up in the middle, tucked between them like the center of gravity.

By the time the movie started, Margo had an arm slung over Quentin’s stomach and Eliot was carding fingers through his hair.

“Love you guys,” Quentin mumbled sleepily.

Margo snorted. “Yeah, yeah. Shut up and watch the movie, Baby Q.”

But she smiled as she said it, and when Quentin finally drifted off halfway through, neither of them moved. Exchanging knowing glances over his head that said it all. 

And for that moment, everything was exactly as it should be.

Chapter Text

The thing about Quentin was that he was kind of fundamentally fucking broken . No matter how good things were, it never felt good for long. His brain was always working against him, and at this point, he accepted it as a lifelong problem.

Which sucked. Because lately, things had been perfect.

Classes were still hard, sure. Stressful. He had exams looming and more reading than he could realistically manage in a week, let alone a day. But it was manageable. Because when he came home to the apartment— their apartment, even if his name wasn’t on the lease—there was order. There were rules. There was Eliot.

And Eliot had taken to their dynamic like he was born for it. Firm, deliberate, caring. He made sure Quentin ate at normal human hours, made him get at least six hours of sleep (more, if Eliot caught him trying to sneak a late-night study session or Fillory re-read). He gave Quentin purpose and structure, and more importantly, he gave Quentin himself —not just the Dom, not just the boyfriend, but Eliot. All of him. Steady and bright and maddeningly composed. And Quentin was addicted to it.

The cuff had not left his wrist since the moment Eliot fastened it on. A simple band of dark leather, subtle enough to go unnoticed by the average person or fellow student, but meaningful enough that Quentin touched it constantly. Fingertips over the edge during lectures, palm flat over it when he was anxious, thumb tracing the stitching during meals when he thought no one would notice. But Eliot always noticed. And every time he caught Quentin doing it, he’d smile. Just barely. Just for him.

And Quentin—Quentin was happy. Really, truly. He slept at the apartment every night now. His dorm bed might as well be a storage unit. Mornings were shared coffee and domestic teasing from Margo. Evenings were homework and low-humming playlists, and Eliot letting him curl up on the couch with his head in his lap. Weekends were sex and intimacy, and laughter. It should’ve been perfect. It was perfect.

But the thing about Quentin was—

Eventually, the bad feeling always crept in.

No real reason. Just a whisper of a doubt at first. The thought that maybe Eliot was too good at this. That he was humoring him. That Quentin was just one more project Eliot had taken on with his usual grace and charisma. That he wasn't good enough, wasn’t anything enough. Maybe he was just…bad. Built wrong. No good for anyone. 

He hated that part of himself. The part that couldn’t just enjoy it. That needed to tug at the edges until the whole thing unraveled.

He hadn’t said anything. Not yet. He didn’t want to ruin it. And nothing was wrong , exactly. He followed the rules. Did his work. Got praise, affection, and attention.

The other thing about Quentin is that when his brain was broken or on overdrive, or letting doubt creep in, he had a tendency to lash out or self-sabotage. A major character flaw not yet remedied. Unfortunately for him. 

—-----------

It started slowly, like a pot boiling over. The first few days, Eliot was buried in a group project from hell—some multimedia collaboration that counted for 40% of his final grade. Which meant long evenings huddled around a laptop with two other students in the library, lots of frustration, and not much time left for Quentin.

Quentin understood. He really did. Eliot hadn’t even had to explain—it was obvious. But that didn’t make the silence easier to sit in. It didn’t make the empty evenings feel any less hollow. Left to his own devices, Quentin spiraled. Not in a dramatic, fall-to-the-floor kind of way. More like slow erosion. Doubt and insecurity gnawed at the edges of him. He already hadn’t been doing as great mentally, which no one knew but him, but still. This wasn’t helping.

By Thursday, he was restless and irritable, hating every paragraph he read, hating every note he tried to scribble down. His brain was sticky and distracted, and nothing was coming easy. Everything felt loud and wrong and off-kilter.

He sat at the kitchen table, a textbook open in front of him, highlighter abandoned halfway across the page. His jaw was tight. His whole body hummed with restless, nervous energy. A half-eaten piece of toast sat on his plate, crumbs scattered like evidence of defeat.

Margo breezed in, her boots clicking across the hardwood floor, sunglasses still perched in her hair. She paused when she saw him, looking him over with a tilt of her head.

"Hey, Q," she said lightly. "Did you eat dinner yet?"

"Yeah," he said without looking up.

Her eyes drifted to his plate. One corner of toast. Half-stale. "Toast doesn’t count as dinner."

"It’s fine," Quentin said, flipping a page too hard. "I’m working."

She crossed her arms. "That doesn’t answer the question."

"Margo," he snapped, sharper than he meant to, irritation curling around his voice like smoke. "Please. Just leave me the fuck alone, okay? I’m trying to get this done."

Margo raised her brows slowly, the air in the room going still. Her posture shifted from casual to coiled, a slow, deliberate tilt of her head.

"Excuse me?"

Quentin swallowed. The bite of guilt hit even before the words settled between them.

She didn’t yell. She didn’t need to. Her voice was even and cold. "I’m texting your Daddy on you."

He blinked, startled. "What? No. Margo—"

"Don’t Margo me. You don’t get to lash out just because your brain is chewing you up again. You know better. We’ve done this dance before."

"I said I’m fine."

"Bullshit," she snapped, taking a step closer to the table. "You’re not fine, Q. You’re running on toast, and you’re biting the heads off people who love you. That’s not fine. That’s meltdown mode with a side of self-destruction. I fucking know you, remember?"

He looked down at the page in front of him, blinking fast.

Margo’s voice softened, but only a fraction. "I know Eliot’s busy. That sucks. But you don’t get to fall apart just because he’s got his own shit going on. And you definitely don’t get to take it out on me. I’m not your punching bag, Quentin."

His throat clenched. "I didn’t mean to. I’m just—"

"Just what?"

"Just tired. And stuck. And I can’t concentrate and nothing I’m reading is sticking and everything feels too loud and Eliot’s been gone all week and—" His voice cracked. He bit down hard and looked away.

Margo didn’t say anything at first. She just stood there, looking at him. Then she moved, pulling out the chair across from him and sitting down.

"So tell me that," she said, voice calm but firm. "Tell me the truth. Don’t lie and tell me toast is dinner. Don’t snap at me like I’m the enemy. Talk to me. I’m here."

Quentin’s jaw clenched. "I don’t know how."

She reached across the table, laying her hand over his. "Then start small. I’m not Eliot, but I’m part of this too. You don’t get to shut down on me."

He nodded, barely. Still didn’t meet her eyes.

"I’m still texting him," she added, squeezing his fingers before letting go. "Because he needs to know. It’ll be okay."

Quentin didn’t argue. Couldn’t. He just stared at the page, the words swimming uselessly in front of him, and hated how much he wanted someone to fix it.

The worst part was, he wanted to be good.

He just didn’t know how to be when he was like this.

—-----------------

Eliot was exhausted.

The kind of bone-deep, soul-heavy exhaustion that came from too many late nights and too many obligations piling up at once. His group project was spiraling into a logistical nightmare, one that demanded endless meetings, late-night revisions, and mediating between two classmates who hated each other on principle. His reading load had somehow tripled this week, and he hadn’t seen the inside of a wine glass or his own bed at a decent hour in days.

And he missed them.

Missed the quiet ritual of curling up on the couch with Margo and Quentin, all of them tangled together under a throw blanket, watching garbage reality TV. Missed the way Quentin would wordlessly curl into his side like a cat seeking warmth, how Margo would drop her legs into his lap with no warning and demand a foot rub. Missed the rhythm of their evenings, the easy domesticity of it all.

He was nearly finished for the night—just had to close out his laptop and drag himself out of the library—when his phone buzzed.

Margo. Not alarming. Until he read it. 

Your boy is being a fucking brat and I'm telling on him.

Eliot blinked at the screen. Margo had a flair for drama, after all—but something about the timing made his stomach twist. Quentin had been off this week. Not overtly, not in a way that set off alarms, but there had been a tension in him. A tightness to his smile, a stiffness in the way he held himself when Eliot passed by in the apartment.

He’d chalked it up to the routine shift. Eliot had been less available than usual, and Quentin was someone who thrived on attention, structure, and affection. Still, he’d figured they'd coast through to the weekend and have time to reset. He’d even been making vague plans to surprise Quentin with a breakfast date Saturday morning—just something quiet and sweet, a reward for how well he’d been doing.

Apparently, he’d been wrong.

Eliot sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, shoving his laptop into his bag. He texted Margo back a quick, what happened? before slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading out into the crisp night air.

As he walked home, boots crunching over grass and gravel, and brain still foggy with footnotes and frustration, he tried to prepare himself.

It probably wasn’t a disaster. Quentin could be dramatic, too, in his own soft, catastrophizing way. Maybe it was something small. A fight with a professor, a bad quiz grade, a spilled coffee that had ruined a full afternoon of notes.

But he couldn’t shake the weight pressing into his chest.

The truth was, when Quentin unraveled, he didn’t do it loudly. He did it quietly, insidiously, with silent guilt and swallowed sadness and self-inflicted shame. He wouldn’t scream for help. He’d just sit in it, stewing, slowly folding in on himself.

And Eliot had missed it.

He should’ve noticed sooner. Should’ve made time, or asked more questions, or seen past the tight little smiles Quentin offered. At the same time, sometimes it’s impossible to know, and they’ve been working on him not doing this….on communicating more.

He sighed again and picked up his pace. It was almost the weekend. Almost time to breathe again.

But first, he had to get home. And take care of his boy.

—-------------------

Quentin felt bad. Not just bad like he fucked up and knew it, but bad in the deep, marrow-hollow way that made his chest ache and his limbs feel heavy.

His homework was spread out in front of him, abandoned. He stared at the words on the page until they stopped making sense. Eventually, he gave up entirely, pushing the book away and curling onto his side on the living room floor. Sometimes the world didn’t feel right unless you were laying on the floor. It was a thing. Couches and beds just wouldn’t do. Too soft. Too high off the ground. The floor was honest. Unforgiving.

He lay there quietly, cheek against the cool wood, eyes unfocused. Guilt pooled in his stomach, thick and sour. He shouldn’t have snapped. He knew better. Margo didn’t deserve that. She never did. But also... maybe it hadn’t been that bad? Maybe she hadn’t actually texted Eliot. Maybe that had just been an empty threat, a warning shot. It wouldn’t be the first time. And Eliot wouldn’t even care, right?

Right.

They were both busy. It had been a long week. Eliot was drowning in that monster of a group project, barely able to keep his own head above water. Quentin was just a little frayed. It didn’t mean anything. He’d be fine. Probably.

He exhaled shakily, trying to make his brain quiet. It wasn’t working

Footsteps pulled him out of his spiral. Margo, walking in from her bedroom, headed toward the kitchen. She paused mid-step when she saw him sprawled on the floor.

"You’re doing that thing again," she said flatly, hands on her hips.

He blinked up at her. "What thing?"

"That thing where you go full dissociative possum and lie on the floor."

He sat up slowly, rubbing at his face. "I’m just—thinking."

"That’s your first mistake."

He tried to roll his eyes, but it came out too weak. His voice was quieter when he asked, "Did you actually text him?"

Margo raised an unimpressed brow. "Damn right I did. You were being a brat, and something’s clearly going on with you, and if you’re not going to talk to me like a civilized human being, then yes, I will absolutely summon the Dom."

Quentin groaned, flopping back onto the floor. "Fuck."

"Yeah, you should be a little nervous."

"It wasn’t that bad," he mumbled.

She crouched beside him, expression sharp. "Q. I love you, but you snapped at me. You lied. You shut down. That’s not nothing. And lucky for you, we don’t have an agreement, because if I were in charge and you mouthed off like that?"

He swallowed, stomach twisting. "I’m sorry. I am. I didn’t mean to—I just. My head's kind of a mess."

Her face softened, but only slightly. "I know. That’s why you need someone to help pull you out of it. You're lucky you've got someone who actually wants to do that."

He nodded, eyes on the floor. His fingers toyed with the hem of his sleeve.

Then the sound of a key in the front door turned both their heads.

Quentin's stomach dropped.

The lock clicked open. The handle turned.

—---------

Quentin sat stiffly on the living room floor, legs crossed and back curled, hands clutched tightly in his lap. The anxiety roiled hot and acidic in his stomach, made worse by every passing second of silence. Margo sat beside him, nursing a sparkling water like nothing at all was wrong, but Quentin knew better. The moment the front door unlocked, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

Eliot stepped in, his expression already tight with exhaustion. His coat was slightly askew, the strap of his messenger bag digging into his shoulder, and he looked like someone who’d been breathing recycled library air for far too long. Quentin tried to smile, tried to play normal, but it didn’t even come close. Not with Margo perched beside him like a disappointed big sister and Eliot staring at him like he already knew something was up.

Eliot set his bag down without a word, shrugged off his coat, and walked all the way in before sitting on the couch. He looked between the two of them, the sharpness in his gaze softened only slightly by how clearly tired he was.

Eliot scanned them with quiet intensity, eyes landing on Quentin, then Margo, then back again.

"Okay," he said, voice even but worn thin. "What happened?"

Quentin opened his mouth, then immediately closed it again. His eyes dropped to the floor, stomach churning.

" Quentin ," Eliot said, firmer this time. "Look at me."

Slowly, painfully, Quentin dragged his gaze up.

"Verbal answers," Eliot reminded him. "That’s your rule. You don’t get to go quiet just because you’re uncomfortable."

Quentin swallowed hard. "I—It wasn’t that big of a deal."

Eliot raised a brow but said nothing.

Margo sighed and took over. "He was being a brat. I asked if he’d eaten, and he snapped at me. Toast. For dinner. When I called him on it, he got bitchy and told me to leave him the fuck alone."

Eliot’s jaw tightened. He turned back to Quentin. "Is that true?"

Quentin’s voice was barely a whisper. "Yes."

There was a long pause. The kind of silence that you could actually feel the tension of. Eliot leaned back against the couch, running a hand through his hair.

"Quentin," he said slowly, "what is with you and lashing out instead of just talking to me? Or to her? We’ve worked on this. We’ve talked about this. You know better."

Quentin’s eyes stung. His chest clenched. Guilt bubbled up sharp and raw. "I didn’t mean to," he said, voice breaking. "I didn’t... It’s just..."

Margo sat down again beside him on the floor. Her voice gentled, but she didn’t let him off easy. "Then talk to us, Q. Don’t curl in on yourself and make it everyone else’s problem. What’s going on?"

He didn’t answer.

She narrowed her eyes. "Quentin."

He gave a pitiful shrug.

"That’s not an answer."

Another shrug. Quentin could feel the tears building. His head was buzzing, his body too hot and too cold all at once.

Eliot’s voice dipped again. "Verbal answers, Quentin."

Quentin opened his mouth, tried to speak, and then just shook his head. His lips trembled, jaw locking up entirely. He shook his head again, this time more desperate.

Eliot sighed deeply, in a way that went right through him. "I’m disappointed in you."

The words hit like a slap. Quentin’s eyes went wide. The tears he’d been holding back broke free in a sudden, wrenching sob. He curled forward, both hands covering his face. The shame, the guilt, the twisting nausea in his belly—it all poured out in hiccupping, messy tears.

For a second, no one moved. Startled by the rapid change.

And Quentin sobbed. 

Margo and Eliot exchanged a glance over Quentin’s slumped shoulders, one of those near-silent communications that came from years of shared experiences and battles. They both moved at once, not even needing to coordinate—just instinct.

Eliot sank down in front of Quentin and gently coaxing him into his arms. Quentin came willingly, almost collapsing into his lap like the weight of the past hour had finally pulled his bones out from under him. He was trembling, eyes still spilling tears, face blotchy and red. Eliot wrapped his arms around him and held him close, rocking him slowly.

"I've got you," Eliot murmured, voice low and steady. "Shh, baby. Breathe. You're okay. I've got you."

Margo returned a moment later with a cold washcloth, carefully placing it in Eliot’s hand. Eliot murmured a thank you without taking his eyes off Quentin and began gently dabbing the cloth over Quentin's flushed cheeks and damp forehead.

"You're okay," Eliot whispered again, repeating it like a mantra. Quentin let out a hiccuping breath and curled further into Eliot’s chest.

"Just try and breathe," Margo said, kneeling down beside them now, one hand rubbing slow circles on Quentin’s back. "You're just feeling things really big right now. That’s all."

Quentin’s tears started to slow, but the shame hadn’t lifted. He scrubbed at his eyes and muttered, "Sorry. I didn’t mean to freak out."

Eliot pressed a kiss to his temple. "You didn’t freak out. You had feelings. That’s allowed."

Margo nodded. "And anyway, it’s not like this is new. We’ve seen you melt down harder than that over the end of a book."

A weak, watery laugh escaped Quentin, and that was enough to ease the tightness in Eliot’s chest a bit.

"You need to talk to us," Eliot said gently, brushing Quentin’s curls back from his forehead. "You scared me. What’s going on in that beautiful brain of yours, hmm?"

Quentin tensed, breath catching. "I don't know."

Eliot waited.

Quentin hesitated. Then, with a broken sort of exhale, he said more frustrated, " I don’t know . That’s the worst part. I don’t know. Everything’s perfect right now. You’re perfect. This is the best my life has ever been. So why am I still so fucking sad sometimes? Why is my head still like this?"

He was crying again before he realized it, voice rising in volume and pitch. "School’s been so much and you’ve been gone so much this week and I know you’re stressed too and I just wanted to be good, I wanted to be easy, but I wasn’t, I lashed out, and now you’re disappointed in me, and I hate it. I hate it. I don’t want to be bad."

Eliot tightened his hold and kissed the crown of Quentin’s head. "Hey. Quentin. Baby. That’s a lot, I know. And you’re right—sometimes your brain doesn’t care if life is good. Sometimes mental illness is just... messy. It doesn’t listen to reason. It’s not your fault for feeling this way."

He pulled back just enough to look Quentin in the eyes, his voice firmer now. "But it is your responsibility to talk about it. To let us help. You know better than to bottle it up and let it fester until you explode. You’ve got people now. You know that"

Quentin nodded, still sniffling. "I know. I’m sorry. I really am."

Margo slid in beside him and stole him for a hug, wrapping her arms tight around his middle and kissing his cheek. "You’re a pain in the ass but you’re our pain in the ass. And I love you. So stop being a martyr and let us actually be there for you."

Quentin gave a damp, broken laugh again and nodded. "I didn’t mean to cry so much."

"Yeah, well," Margo said, stroking his hair. "Too late now. Might as well commit to the bit."

Eliot gave him one more kiss, this time on the cheek. "Go take a shower, get into your soft clothes. We’ll regroup after, okay?"

Quentin stood up slowly, limbs heavy with exhaustion and the aftershocks of his emotions. He nodded again and disappeared down the hall.

Eliot turned to Margo and sighed, rubbing at his temples. "Jesus."

"Yeah," she said softly. "But he’ll be okay. He has us."

Eliot nodded, his heart still tight, but a little lighter knowing Quentin wasn’t doing this alone anymore.

—------------

The apartment was quiet again.

Quentin had retreated to the shower, red-eyed but obedient, doing exactly as Eliot told him. The bathroom door clicked shut behind him, and a moment later, the water started running. Eliot sat back down on the couch with a heavy sigh, rubbing his hands over his face. He felt frayed around the edges, all the energy drained out of him now that the storm had passed.

Margo handed him a fresh glass of water and flopped down beside him. She didn’t speak at first, just let the silence settle until it wasn’t so brittle anymore.

"You okay?" she asked eventually.

Eliot exhaled again, slower this time. "No. That felt awful."

"Yeah, well. Watching him cry like that wasn’t a party for me either, El. But he needed it."

Eliot frowned, staring at the floor. "I didn’t want to make him break down. I just—he wouldn’t answer me, and he was being so..."

"Bratty? Moody? Classic Quentin when he’s spiraling?"

He huffed a quiet laugh, but there wasn’t much humor in it. "I think…. maybe I should just let it go. He’s clearly been stressed. Maybe backing off would help."

"Wrong call, and you know it," Margo said sharply, nudging his knee with hers. "You let him get away with sulking and pushing us away and he’ll convince himself he deserves to be alone. He needs the structure. He needs the consistency. And frankly, he needs you reminding him he’s not allowed to self-destruct."

Eliot blinked, turning that over. "I just didn’t want to add more pressure."

"This isn’t about pressure. It’s about boundaries. Safety. You said you were disappointed, and yeah, he broke down—because maybe he needed to. Maybe he needed the release. You saw him, El. He melted as soon as you touched him. He doesn’t need soft right now. He needs you."

Eliot’s shoulders loosened slightly. He tilted his head back against the couch and closed his eyes. "I hate that you’re always right."

"I know," she said sweetly.

They sat in silence again for a few long moments, the distant sound of running water filling the space between them. Then Eliot turned toward her, more settled now.

"I have an idea," he said. "For something that might help. But I need your blessing to be involved."

Margo perked up. "Is it humiliating?"

"Potentially."

"Will it make him squirm and be very grateful afterward?"

"Hopefully."

She grinned, eyes sparkling. "Then I’m in. What’s the plan, Daddy?"

Eliot rolled his eyes but smiled anyway. "I’ll fill you in once he’s asleep."

Margo leaned back with a pleased sigh. "Delighted to be of service. You know I love watching our little nerd boy get all flustered."

Eliot’s smile softened into something fonder, deeper. "Yeah," he murmured. "Me too."

The water shut off in the bathroom. A beat later, the door creaked open.

Game on.

—------------

Eliot stood in the doorway to the bedroom, leaning against the frame, arms crossed loosely. His eyes softened as he looked at Quentin, already curled up in bed, hair mussed, eyes glassy with exhaustion.

"You're going to bed early tonight. No phone, no reading, just resting." Eliot said quietly.

Quentin blinked up at him. "Okay."

Eliot stepped inside, pulling the blanket up a little higher over Quentin’s shoulder before slipping into the space beside him. He wrapped an arm around Quentin and pulled him in close. Quentin didn't resist—instead, he nuzzled in, small and quiet, like something fragile.

"You’re not getting out of punishment," Eliot added, voice still gentle. "That’ll happen tomorrow."

Quentin nodded into his chest. "I know."

Eliot brushed his fingers through Quentin’s hair for a while, just letting the silence settle.

Eventually, he asked, "Why is it so hard for you to talk to us when you're not doing well?"

Quentin tensed slightly. "I don't know."

Eliot sighed. "It’s a pattern with you. When things start slipping, you pull away. Is spanking you not enough? Do you need something more?"

Quentin flushed, a little overwhelmed and caught off guard. His voice trembled. "I don't know."

Eliot pulled back slightly so he could look at him. Quentin's eyes were shiny again, and he looked so young like this, so vulnerable.

"My head just gets noisy," Quentin whispered. "Like, I don’t even think about it until it’s too late. Until I’ve already... fucked it all up."

Eliot touched his cheek gently. "You didn’t fuck everything up. But you scared us, Q. You scared me. I just want you to talk to us."

Quentin nodded, eyes closing. "I'm sorry."

"We’ll talk more tomorrow," Eliot murmured. "For now? You’re staying in bed. You’re sleeping. Got it?"

Quentin hummed in agreement, already halfway to unconsciousness.

Eliot kissed his temple, then slid out of bed slowly. "I'll be back in a bit to sleep."

Quentin gave the faintest of nods, already drifting.

Eliot turned out the light and stepped back into the hallway, heading for the living room.

—----------------

Eliot sat back on the couch, one arm flung over the back cushion, his fingers absently toying with a loose thread. The apartment was quiet in that soft way it only ever was late at night, after Quentin had been tucked into bed and the chaos of the day had settled. Margo came out of the bathroom, her hair up, eyes still sharp despite the hour. She dropped into the armchair across from him, curling her legs up under her.

"He's finally out?" she asked.

Eliot nodded, sighing. "Completely. Poor thing could barely keep his eyes open."

Margo leaned forward, her voice steady but kind. "El. You’re a good Dom. And you’re a good boyfriend. But you know as well as I do that if you let this slide, it’s gonna fester. He needs that structure from you—consistency, clarity. Especially when he’s spiraling."

Eliot looked down, then up at her again. "I know you’re right. I do."

"Maybe he needed to break a little," Margo said, voice softer now. "Crying’s not the worst thing. You said you were disappointed. And yeah, that stung—but he heard you. He felt it. Maybe for the first time in days, he actually felt grounded."

Eliot swallowed hard. "He said he doesn’t know why he gets like this. That he knows everything is good but he still feels... off. Sad. And then he blames himself for not being perfect."

Margo reached out, resting her hand over his. "He's not supposed to be perfect. He’s supposed to be real. And messy. And loved anyway."

Eliot looked up at her, eyes glassy. He didn't say thank you—he didn’t need to. She squeezed his hand and let go.

"So," Margo said, leaning back, eyes glittering now with mischief and resolve. "Let’s talk punishment."

He gave her a sideways look, already more relaxed. "You in?"

"El, I love that boy. I’d do anything for him. You both know that. And he needs this. We all do."

Eliot nodded slowly. "I was thinking... since he snapped mostly at you, maybe you take the co- lead. If he consents."

Margo’s grin was immediate and predatory. "You know he will. You could tell that boy he’s being publicly auctioned off for charity and he’d say yes as long as you were holding the paddle."

Eliot laughed, surprised and relieved by how good it felt. "God, you're not wrong."

Margo sat forward again, more serious now. "We want this to be a real lesson, right? Something that sticks. So it’s gotta be just the right kind of punishment. Embarrassing, yes. Humbling, maybe. But also— Familiar. Loving."

Eliot nodded. "Exactly. We want to reinforce that he’s safe. That he’s loved. But that acting out like that has consequences."

"And that he needs to talk to us," Margo added. "Not bury his feelings under three layers of repression."

They spent the next half hour sketching out ideas, talking through what would make the most impact, what tone to strike. Eliot wanted it to be a scene that started with discipline and ended in comfort. Margo wanted it to involve some public-ish embarrassment—something that would make Quentin squirm but in a way he could handle, process, and come down from with love.

By the end of the planning, Eliot felt steadier. More sure of himself. Of them. Of what they were doing together—for Quentin.

"You’re amazing," he said quietly as Margo stood to refill her water.

"I know," she replied, not turning around. But when she glanced back at him, her eyes were warm. "And I love you. Both of you. Don’t ever forget that."

He didn’t. Not for a second.

—-----------------

The apartment was quiet when Quentin woke up, which was the first sign that something was off. Sunlight was already streaming through the windows, slanting warm across the bedroom floor, and when he checked the time, his stomach flipped. It was later than he usually slept, much later. Eliot was always up before him, sure, but usually he’d get woken up with a kiss to the shoulder, a mug of coffee, an alarm, something. Today? Nothing.

He sat up in bed, disoriented, still wrapped in Eliot's soft-smelling sheets. The sound of clinking dishes and quiet conversation filtered in from the kitchen. Quentin went out into the apartment,  feet quiet against the floor.

Eliot and Margo were standing together at the stove, moving with practiced ease. Margo was sipping coffee, Eliot flipping something in a pan. The air smelled like butter and cinnamon. Margo spotted him first.

"Sleeping Beauty lives," she said, grinning into her mug.

Eliot turned with a soft smile. "Morning, baby. Have a seat."

"What time is it?" Quentin asked, voice still scratchy.

"Late enough," Eliot said easily. "You needed it."

Quentin blinked at them both. "Aren't we supposed to be in class?"

"Mental health day," Margo said with a wink. "We declared it last night. We're taking the long weekend for ourselves."

Quentin frowned, confused. "What? But—"

"No buts," Eliot said firmly, walking over to hand him a plate stacked with French toast and berries. "Sit. Eat. You're not in trouble. Not right this second, anyway."

That last part was said with a teasing smirk, but Quentin still flushed and sat down stiffly at the table. He picked at the edge of the toast, then looked up, the words bubbling out of him before he could stop them.

"I'm sorry," he blurted. "I mean, about yesterday. I-I know I was shitty and I shouldn’t have snapped at you, Margo, and I do know better and I just—I don’t know what happened, and I—"

Margo cut him off with a sly smile. "Don’t worry about saying sorry, Q. You’re absolutely going to be."

He froze, eyes darting between them. Eliot took a seat beside him with his own plate and placed a hand lightly on Quentin's thigh.

"We talked about it last night," Eliot said, voice calm. "And since you were especially rude to Margo, she’s going to be helping me today."

Quentin blinked, panic prickling under his skin. "Helping… how?"

Margo raised her brows and sipped her coffee, all innocent mischief. "Think of it as a change in format. You keep struggling with the same lessons, so we’re trying a new teaching strategy."

Quentin flushed deep red, the words catching in his throat. "Wait—like—you’re both going to…?"

"Discipline you? Yes," Eliot said simply. "But only if you’re okay with that."

He paused, watching Quentin closely. "Color check, baby."

Quentin hesitated, processing everything—the way Margo was watching him, amused but steady, and the calm warmth in Eliot’s voice. His breath caught. "Green," he said, voice quiet.

Eliot reached over and took his hand. "Are you sure? You don’t have to say yes. You know that."

Quentin nodded, biting his lip. "Green," he said again, firmer this time. Then, after a beat: "I trust you. Both of you."

Margo leaned across the table, smirking but gentler now. "You’re sure you’re okay with me being involved?"

Quentin flushed again, then nodded. "Yeah. I mean, as okay as I can be. Yes."

"Good boy," she said, her smile deepening.

Eliot leaned in, brushing his fingers along Quentin's wrist where it curled around his fork. "Finish your breakfast, sweetheart. You’ll need the energy."

And just like that, Quentin's appetite returned in full force—along with a fluttery, nervous heat low in his stomach. He picked up his fork and got to work, cheeks still burning.

—-----------------

Quentin cleaned up breakfast slowly, every motion heavy with anticipation. His hands trembled slightly as he stacked plates and wiped down the counters, and his mind spun with nerves. The quiet clicks of Eliot and Margo moving around the apartment only heightened his awareness. They didn’t speak much while they waited, and somehow that was worse.

When he finished, he walked into the living room where Margo and Eliot were already waiting, He swallowed hard.

Eliot was  there, perched casually in the armchair, one leg crossed over the other. Margo stood nearby, arms folded, coffee in hand, watching him with a smirk that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

"Kneel," Eliot said, voice smooth and firm.

Quentin dropped instantly, his knees pressing into the carpet, eyes darting up to meet Eliot’s for just a second before dropping again. The silence stretched. Margo and Eliot stood, circling him slowly like predators assessing their prey.

Margo paced slowly behind him, circling once. "So, Q," she said, tone conversational. "What the fuck has been going on with you lately?"

He swallowed. "I don’t know."

Eliot’s hand threaded into his hair, tugging just enough to make Quentin gasp and tilt his head back. "Try again, sweetheart. We’re not doing the 'I don’t know' routine today. We had quite enough of that yesterday."

Quentin was absolutely sure he couldn’t get any redder than he was currently.

"I’ve just been... stressed," Quentin said, voice small. "And tired. And I didn’t mean to—"

"You’ve been spiraling again," Margo said after a beat, folding her arms. "And instead of coming to us, like a grown-up, you acted like a sulky teenager."

Eliot moved behind Quentin, one hand threading into his hair and tugging his head gently back. "Why is that?"

Quentin’s breath caught. "I... I don’t know."

Margo stepped in front of him, eyebrow raised. "Try again. And look at me."

His eyes lifted slowly. "I….I got overwhelmed," he admitted. "And I didn’t know how to talk about it."

"So instead, you snapped at me. Lashed out."

"Yes."

"Yes what?" she pressed.

His face turned red. He hesitated. Eliot’s hand tightened in his hair until it stung.

"Yes, ma’am," Quentin whispered, voice strained with embarrassment.

Margo grinned. "There he is."

They kept circling. Eliot crouched down beside him, tilting Quentin’s face toward his with one finger under his chin. "What are you supposed to do when you feel yourself spiraling?"

"Talk to someone."

"Who?"

"You. Or Margo."

"And what are you not supposed to do?"

"Act like a…a brat."

Margo hummed. "Funny how you seem to forget that part."

"I didn’t mean to," Quentin said quickly. "I didn’t— I just couldn’t stop myself."

"You’re responsible for yourself, Q," Eliot said gently. "Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard."

"I know," Quentin murmured.

"Say it properly."

He swallowed. "I know, Daddy."

Margo clucked her tongue. "So many reminders for such a smart boy."

"Stand up," Eliot commanded.

Quentin obeyed, wobbly on his feet.

"Corner."

His feet moved automatically. When he reached the corner, Eliot’s voice rang out again. "Posture."

He straightened slightly.

"No. Back straighter. Hands behind your back. Chin up."

Margo walked over and adjusted his shoulders herself, nudging him into position with cool, practiced hands. Quentin flushed darker, the humiliation rising hot in his throat.

"You're lucky we love you," she said, tapping his ass lightly before stepping back.

"Don’t move until we say," Eliot said. "Or Margo will reset the clock."

He nodded, unable to speak.

Behind him, they took their seats again on the couch. And then they began to talk. Like he wasn’t right there. 

"I’m going to spank him," Eliot said casually. "Over the couch, probably. I want him red and squirmy."

"God, same," Margo replied. "Then maybe he can write me a nice hundred lines about not being a little shit when he's upset. In his neatest handwriting."

Quentin felt his face burn. His heart pounded in his chest.

"It’s been a while since we tag-teamed anyone," Eliot mused. "He’s so responsive though. I bet he’ll cry."

"Oh, definitely. He’s already twitching."

Quentin fidgeted instinctively and immediately heard Margo’s voice behind him. "Ah ah—still."

He froze.

"If I have to come over there and reset you, Q, you won’t like it."

His knees wobbled slightly, but he steadied. Focused. He let the hum of their voices wash over him, warm and humiliating and grounding all at once. The shame, the guilt, the overwhelming sense of being seen and known—it settled into something else. A low, dreamy heat under his skin. A floatiness just starting to form.

He took a deep breath and stayed still.

After a while, Eliot and Margo exchanged a look, then Eliot stepped forward and beckoned Quentin from the corner with a small curl of his fingers.

"Come here, baby," he said gently.

Quentin turned, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, every inch of him pink and pliant from the long minutes of standing still, their words still echoing in his head. He walked over on unsteady legs, and when Eliot cupped his jaw, Quentin leaned into it with something close to relief. Floaty.

"You did well," Eliot murmured, brushing his thumb across Quentin's cheek. "Are you going to remember all of this?"

Quentin swallowed, then nodded. "Yes, sir."

Margo moved beside them, arms crossed, but her tone was softer than before. "And?"

Quentin turned his gaze to her. It took a beat longer, but then: "Yes, ma'am."

His voice was quiet, but the words were clear. Margo's expression flickered with satisfaction.

"Good boy," she said. "We meant what we said. The problem isn't that you were feeling overwhelmed or anxious. It's that you didn’t talk to us. You lashed out instead. Again."

Quentin winced but nodded. "I know. I do. I just—sometimes it all builds up and I don’t even realize it’s happening until it’s too late. I don’t know why I keep doing it. But I want to be better. I promise."

Eliot’s eyes softened, but his tone stayed steady. "We know you do. And we love you. Which is why we’re going to make sure this sticks."

Quentin nodded again, eyes glossy. "Okay."

"Good. Because next," Eliot said, tilting his head slightly, "you’re going to be spanked. Thoroughly."

Quentin flushed, breath hitching.

"And when that’s done," Margo added, stepping forward, "you’ll be sitting at the kitchen table—the nice hard chair—and writing lines. Chosen by yours truly."

Quentin swallowed, pink all the way to his ears. "I understand."

Eliot touched his cheek again, then leaned in. "It’ll just be me for the spanking. Margo’s going to go get the paper ready."

There was a visible loosening in Quentin’s posture at that, a rush of relief that softened his whole frame.

Margo smirked knowingly and ruffled his hair. "Don’t think that means I’m not going to check your work after. Every word better be perfect."

"It will be," Quentin whispered.

With a nod, Margo turned and sauntered toward the other room, calling behind her, "Make it count, El. He’s got a lot of lessons to write."

Quentin stood still, hands twitching at his sides, while Eliot watched him closely. He wasn’t out of the woods yet, not even close. But this—being seen, being held accountable, being cared for so firmly—made something in him settle.

He was ready.

Eliot didn’t say a word at first. He just gave Quentin one long look that said everything: the judgment, the care, the lingering sting of worry beneath his frustration. Then, finally, he crooked a finger and Quentin followed, quiet and still a little wobbly on his feet, the blood rushing in his ears.

He let Eliot guide him wordlessly over the arm of the couch, his breath catching when Eliot placed a steadying hand at the small of his back. There was a quiet kind of ceremony to it, something reverent about the way Eliot didn’t rush. Quentin braced his palms against the cushion and let his forehead rest there too, curling inward as the tension built in the silence.

"You're allowed to feel however you feel, Q," Eliot said, his voice low and steady, fingers smoothing over Quentin's back like he was preparing him, grounding him. "But you don’t get to lash out. You don’t get to take it out on the people who love you."

Quentin sniffed, eyes already starting to prickle. His ass was bared and the vulnerability was doing something complicated to his breathing.

"This isn’t new, baby," Eliot continued, tapping his fingers lightly against Quentin’s lower back. "We’ve had this talk before. About how this works. About communication. About trust."

The first swat came then—firm, stinging, not overwhelming but not light either. Quentin gasped, the sound breaking in his throat.

"You don't tell us when you're spiraling."

Another smack. His hips jerked slightly.

"You shut down."

Smack.

"You lie."

Each one a punctuation mark, crisp and deliberate. And they just kept going.

Quentin was crying after an embarrassingly short amount of time. Real tears, hot and messy and overwhelming. His hands fisted in the couch cushion, and he mumbled something that might’ve been an apology.

Eliot paused only to rub a warm hand over the flushed skin of Quentin’s ass, soothing for a breath before continuing.

"You think if you bottle it up and put on a smile, we won’t notice. But we always notice."

Smack.

"And you don’t lash out at Margo. Ever."

That one was sharper, more stern. Quentin’s knees nearly buckled.

"We’re not doing this every time you start feeling off," Eliot said, voice thick with emotion now. "You’re going to learn, Quentin. You’re going to get better. Or we will wind up right here every single time. And I’m a creative man—trust me, I can make this worse and worse if that’s what it takes."

"I’m sorry," Quentin choked out, the words muffled by the couch arm. "I—I promise I’ll try harder. I’ll be good. I will."

Eliot gave him two more smacks, not quite as hard, then leaned in close, pressing his chest to Quentin’s back.

"What are two things you can do differently from here on out?"

Quentin hiccuped through a sob, trying to think. His brain was fuzzy with tears and sensation, but Eliot didn’t rush him.

"I—I can… I can tell you when my head starts getting loud," he said, shaky but sincere.“Talk to you,” Quentin choked out. “And—tell you when I start feeling bad. Before I get mean.”

Eliot kissed his shoulder, warm and soft and proud.

"Good boy," he murmured, and finally—finally—stopped.

He helped Quentin stand, fix his pants, and the moment Quentin was upright he folded into Eliot’s arms like a puppet with the strings cut. Eliot held him close, kissed the top of his head, and rocked them gently side to side while Quentin cried into his chest.

"Almost over," Eliot whispered, thumbing away tears and cradling Quentin’s cheek. "You did so good. So, so good."

After a minute or two, Eliot pressed a water bottle into Quentin’s hands and kissed his temple. Then he stepped away just long enough to call into the other room.

"He’s ready."

Margo returned with a stack of paper and a pen. Her eyes softened when she saw Quentin’s face—red and splotchy, eyes swollen from crying—but her smirk was still wicked.

“Hi, sweetheart. You look like a very sorry boy.”

Quentin nodded, eyes still glassy. “I am,” he whispered.

"Aw, our poor little punished prince," she cooed, brushing his hair back affectionately. "Come on. You know what’s next."

She led him by the wrist to the kitchen table and gently nudged him down into one of the wooden chairs. Quentin flinched and hissed at the contact—his ass already throbbing—but didn’t complain. Not when she kissed his temple. Not when Eliot sat down nearby, watching him with something fierce and fond in his gaze.

"One hundred lines," Margo said, placing the pen in his hand. "In perfect handwriting. ‘I will communicate instead of lashing out. ’ Start over if you mess up."

Quentin nodded, cheeks burning, heart fluttering.

"Yes, Ma’am."

Quentin winced but obeyed, settling more into the chair at the table with a quiet gasp. The chair was hard. His thighs were burning. His heart was light.

He picked up the pen.

“I will communicate instead of lashing out.”

Again.

And again.

Eliot and Margo sat on the couch nearby, watching him like art they’d commissioned—smirking at each other with quiet satisfaction for a lesson well taught, a boy thoroughly handled, and a bond reinforced.

—---------------

Quentin sat at the kitchen table, head bowed low, the lines before him slowly stacking into a neat column. His handwriting was careful, maybe even the most meticulous it had ever been—each letter a deliberate act of penance.

I will communicate instead of lashing out.

Again and again. Over and over.

His ass throbbed where Eliot had spanked him. The dull, warm ache pulsed beneath his skin like a memory branded into muscle. He could still feel the echo of Eliot’s hand, the sharp sting of the last few swats, the cool breath of Eliot’s voice against his ear when he was pulled close after. But what stayed with him most wasn’t the pain. It was the relief.

He should, maybe, feel worse than he did. Humiliated, thoroughly punished, squirming in every sense of the word. But instead, he just felt… clean. Like something had been rinsed out of him. Like he’d been scrubbed raw and soft, and was finally breathing again.

The guilt that had clung to him all week had lifted. His chest didn’t feel like it was folding in on itself anymore. He felt light. Floaty. The kind of floaty that only came when he really let go. When he didn’t have to think so hard about being good, because he was good. Because they made him feel that way, again and again.

He finished the last line, capped the pen with trembling fingers, and stood. The page was smooth, unmarred, filled with perfect loops and careful curves. He walked softly into the living room, flushed and still a little dazed, and held out the paper to Margo with both hands like an offering.

She took it, eyes scanning the page. Her lips curled in a slow, satisfied smile. "You did a beautiful job," she said, and Quentin’s shoulders dropped just a bit.

Eliot reached for his hand, tugging him gently closer. "Did you learn your lesson, baby?"

Quentin nodded quickly, still glassy-eyed.

Eliot raised an eyebrow. "Use your words."

"Yes," Quentin said, voice hoarse. "I did. I—I learned it. I promise."

Margo’s grin sharpened with delight. "Good. Now thank your Daddy for punishing you."

Quentin froze.

His brain skidded like a car hitting ice, wheels spinning for traction. He turned to Eliot, wide-eyed, like maybe he hadn’t heard right. But Eliot just smiled at him, slow and warm and knowing.

"Go on, sweetheart," he said. "I think you can manage that."

Quentin’s cheeks went impossibly red. He swallowed, opened his mouth, and stumbled over the words like they were made of glass.

"Thank you, Daddy. For… for punishing me."

Eliot nodded with approval and gently cupped his cheek. "Good boy."

Margo nudged him playfully. "And me?"

Quentin bit his lip, the heat in his face spreading to his ears. "Thank you, Margo. Ma’am. For helping."

Her smile softened into something fonder, something closer to affection. "You’re welcome, Baby Q. You took it well."

Eliot pulled him down between them on the couch, wrapping him up in a cocoon of warmth and praise. He pressed a kiss to Quentin’s temple, murmuring against his hair. "It’s over now. You’re okay. We’re proud of you. We love you."

"We’ve got you," Margo said, ruffling his curls. "No more spiraling. You did good. All forgiven."

Quentin melted, the last bit of tension slipping out of him as he nestled into their arms. His head dropped to Eliot’s shoulder, one of Margo’s legs slung across his lap as she twisted to kiss his cheek. He let out a soft, content sound that was almost a purr.

Margo got up a few minutes later to grab him a snack and some water, and Eliot queued something gentle and silly on the TV. Quentin barely noticed what it was—he was already halfway to sleep, floating somewhere between waking and dreaming.

Wrapped in warmth, held on both sides, safe.

Lighter than he’d felt in more than a week.

Chapter Text

Quentin woke up slowly, blinking against the filtered morning light coming in through the blinds. The bed was warm, the sheets soft, and he was cocooned in the lingering scent of Eliot and the comfort of knowing he was safe. And yet, his cheeks flushed before he even moved, the memory of yesterday’s punishment already sparking back to life like a lit match in his chest.

Mortifying. The corner. The questions. Saying “Yes, ma’am” to Margo , of all people. The spanking. Writing lines with his sore ass burning against the chair.

It should have left him feeling raw and ashamed.

Instead, he just felt...lighter. Still embarrassed, of course—he wasn’t a robot—but clean in a way that only came from being stripped down and rebuilt by the people who cared enough to hold him accountable. And Margo, who pushed harder than Eliot sometimes did, but not out of cruelty. It had been tough, intense, but she was there to hold him afterward too, to kiss his hair and rub his back and tell him she was proud.

And Eliot. God . Eliot had wrapped him up after everything and murmured that it was over, that he’d done well, that he was loved.

Quentin pressed his face into the pillow, taking a deep breath. He’d needed it. All of it.

Still, facing them after was something else. Eliot always knew what to do with him. And Margo… she was Margo. Sharp, brilliant, terrifyingly intuitive. And she’d seen him undone. Would it change their friendship? Would she somehow see him as less ?

He knew she wouldn’t…but…still.

Eventually, the smell of coffee pulled him out of bed. He walked quietly into the main room of the apartment hesitantly, tugging his hoodie tighter around himself. His cuff caught the light as he passed through the sunlit kitchen, a quiet reminder of where he belonged.

Margo and Eliot were curled up on the couch together, their mugs in hand, legs tangled. They looked like a perfect magazine spread—chic and sleepy and warm. Margo spotted him first.

“Well, well. If it isn’t our favorite shame-faced boy,” she drawled with a lazy smirk.

Quentin groaned quietly. “Please let me die in peace.”

Eliot chuckled and held out an arm. “Come here, babe. We’re not going to tease you too much.”

Quentin shuffled over and let himself be pulled between them, curling up as close as he could get without crawling into Eliot’s lap.

“You sleep okay?” Eliot asked softly, fingers already threading through Quentin’s hair.

Quentin nodded. “Yeah. Better than I thought I would.”

“Good,” Margo said, nudging his knee with hers. “You did good yesterday.”

Quentin let out a shaky breath. “Thanks.” Then, quieter: “It was… a lot. But I think I needed it.”

Margo looked over him at Eliot, then back at Quentin. “You okay with how it all went down? The corner stuff, me being there, all of it?”

Quentin hesitated. “I mean… I’m still mortified . But… yeah. I was okay. I— It felt like… like I was really being understood? In my own way.  And held accountable.”

Eliot’s hand cupped the back of his neck gently. “That’s kind of the goal. And you handled it. You took it so well, Q. We’re both proud of you.”

Quentin melted a little at that, pressing his face into Eliot’s shoulder. “Thanks. For not giving up on me. For making it feel okay again.”

“Always,” Eliot said. “And just so you know…”

He pulled back slightly to look at Quentin properly. “I was already planning a little date day for us. Just the two of us. Before everything happened yesterday.”

Quentin’s eyes widened a bit. “Really?”

Eliot nodded. “Really. I want to take you out. Somewhere nice. Maybe some coffee, bookstore wandering, a late lunch. Whatever you want.”

Quentin’s heart jumped. “That sounds amazing.”

“Then it’s a plan,” Eliot said, pressing a kiss to his temple. “You’ve had a rough week. You deserve something soft.”

“And I get to keep you all to myself for a whole day?” Quentin teased, already feeling a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Margo grinned. “Don’t worry, Q. I’ll survive one day without you both up my twat.”

Quentin giggled and nestled further into Eliot’s side. Everything was okay. 

—------------------

The day was warm in that almost spring way, just enough sun to coax jackets off, just enough breeze to keep hands brushing together as Eliot and Quentin strolled toward their favorite café.

It was still early enough that the streets weren’t too crowded. Quentin was soft-spoken but glowing, hand loosely clasped in Eliot’s as they walked. Eliot kept glancing over at him, cataloging each little smile, each distracted half-thought murmured under Quentin’s breath about his midterm reading or a dream he half-remembered from the night before.

They got coffee—Quentin’s was sweet, full of cinnamon, just the way he liked it—and Eliot ordered something more bitter and balanced, though he took great pleasure in sipping Quentin’s and making a face.

“Too much,” Eliot said.

Quentin grinned. “That’s the point.”

From there, they wandered into a little indie bookshop tucked between a florist and a secondhand clothing store. Quentin lit up the moment they walked through the door. His eyes went wide, almost reverent, as he stepped past the new arrivals table.

“Oh my god,” he said, voice low with awe. “They have the out-of-print Fillory edition—look, the one with the weird extra footnotes I told you about!”

Eliot didn’t even glance at the book. He was too busy watching Quentin glow, practically vibrating with excitement as he rambled about obscure series, hidden meanings in footnotes, and worldbuilding intricacies. Eliot didn’t care about the books, not really. But Quentin did. And Eliot cared about Quentin.

So he listened. And he smiled. And when Quentin finally glanced up, flushed and sheepish for rambling, Eliot reached out and tucked a piece of hair behind his ear.

“You’re very cute when you nerd out,” Eliot said.

Quentin ducked his head. “Shut up.”

They grabbed a couple books and some lunch to go—sandwiches and pastries in a brown paper bag—and made their way to a quiet little park with a pond tucked behind a grove of trees. The grass was dry enough to sit on, and Eliot spread out his coat for them to picnic on. Birds chirped in the distance. The sun danced off the surface of the pond.

They ate. They kissed. They curled up together like a couple from a postcard, Eliot lying on his back, Quentin propped on one elbow beside him, fingers trailing lightly along Eliot’s collarbone. Eliot watched Quentin laugh over something silly, mouth open and eyes crinkled, and it hit him—not just a warm sense of love, but a bone-deep certainty that he could spend the rest of his life like this, with Quentin. He could come home to this, wake up to this. Grow old with this.

And it scared the shit out of him.

He’d never thought of forever as something he’d want, not really. Not until now, with Quentin glowing in the afternoon sun and looking at him like he was the most important thing in the universe. It made his stomach twist, but it also made something in his chest settle. He wanted it. Even if it terrified him.

After a long stretch of quiet, Quentin said, “Thank you.”

Eliot glanced over. “For what?”

Quentin was looking down at their hands. “For… being in my life. For loving me. For seeing me, even before all of this. When we were just friends and I was a mess and you didn’t have to see anything in me but you did.”

Eliot sat up slowly. Quentin’s voice was thick.

“You saw something I couldn’t,” he continued. “I still don’t, most days. But you… you make me feel like maybe there’s something worth seeing.”

“Q,” Eliot murmured, heart aching.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Quentin said. “And I don’t know what I did to deserve you, but I’m so fucking glad you’re here.”

Tears shimmered in his eyes, and Eliot—already overwhelmed, already feeling his heart stretch too wide in his chest—leaned in and kissed him. Slow. Deep. Reverent. Like a promise.

“I love you,” Eliot whispered. “So much it’s kind of stupid.”

Quentin let out a choked laugh against his mouth. “Yeah. Same.”

They stayed there until the sun started to dip low, warmth lingering in their skin.

On the walk home, Quentin squeezed Eliot’s hand. “Think we should pick up a smoothie for Margo?”

Eliot smiled, love soft and easy in his chest. “Absolutely.”

He held Quentin’s hand tighter and let himself imagine a life full of moments just like this. The future didn’t feel so terrifying. It felt possible. 

—-------------

The apartment was dim and quiet, the kind of hush that settles only after a perfect day. The windows were cracked open to let in the night air. Quentin was curled on the bed in Eliot's room, fresh from the shower, hair damp, wearing one of Eliot's soft tees and nothing else. He looked so soft, so open, like everything inside him had been scrubbed clean by the afternoon sunlight and Eliot's kisses.

Eliot stood at the edge of the bed, watching him for a moment. The tenderness in his chest was nearly unbearable. Quentin looked up at him through his lashes, expectant and a little shy, like he knew what was coming but couldn’t quite believe it.

"Take it off," Eliot said softly, nodding at the shirt.

Quentin obeyed without hesitation. There was something reverent in the way he moved, like offering his bare skin was an act of worship. He tossed the shirt aside and knelt on the bed, gazing up at Eliot like he was the only thing that mattered.

Eliot stepped close and brushed his fingers along Quentin's jaw. "You're so beautiful," he murmured.

Quentin's breath caught. "Eliot..."

"Lie back for me. Head on the pillows. Legs spread."

Quentin moved instantly, skin already flushing with anticipation, eyes fluttering shut as he settled in.

"No," Eliot said gently but firmly. He climbed onto the bed, kneeling between Quentin's thighs. "I want your eyes on me tonight. You're not allowed to look away."

Quentin opened his eyes, wide and glassy. "Okay."

Eliot kissed him slowly, tasting the lingering mint of his toothpaste and the warm sweetness of the day they’d had. He kissed down Quentin's throat, over his chest, pausing to mouth at his nipples until Quentin was panting, writhing, hands gripping the sheets.

"You're mine," Eliot said, voice low and certain. "My boy."

"Yes," Quentin whispered, eyes locked on Eliot's. " Yours ."

When Eliot pushed into him, slow and careful, Quentin gasped, fingers digging into the sheets. His head tipped back, but Eliot caught his chin and gently guided his gaze back.

"Eyes on me, baby. I want you to see how much I love you."

Quentin nodded, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes.

Eliot thrust slow and deep, savoring every sound Quentin made, every flutter of his lashes, and whimper of pleasure.

"You feel so good around me," Eliot murmured. "So warm. So tight. You're perfect. You know that?"

Quentin whimpered , cheeks flushed and wet now, eyes never leaving Eliot's even as they blurred. "I love you," he gasped. "I love you so much."

"I know. I love you, too."

He kissed Quentin deeply as he fucked him, slow and tender but with enough force to make the bed creak. Every movement was a promise: I'm here. I love you. You're mine.

Quentin started to tremble, gasping his way toward the edge. Eliot slowed his pace, grounding him, whispering praise against his mouth.

"You're so good for me. So special. You're everything."

Quentin came with a soft cry, body arching into Eliot's, eyes still locked with his. Eliot followed a few strokes later, burying his face in Quentin's neck as he let himself go.

For a long moment, they lay tangled together, nothing but breath and heartbeat and the press of skin.

Quentin reached up and stroked Eliot's cheek. "That was..."

"Yeah," Eliot murmured. He kissed Quentin's temple. "You looked so beautiful like that."

Quentin flushed, eyes fluttering closed.

"Nope," Eliot said, smiling. "Eyes on me, remember?"

Quentin laughed, a soft, breathless sound, reaching up to shush him with a kiss. 

—------------

The room was dim now, cast in the amber haze of the bedside lamp. The sheets were tangled around their legs, still warm from the slow, drawn-out rhythm of earlier, Quentin’s head tucked just beneath Eliot’s collarbone, breathing deep and even.

Eliot didn’t move.

He didn’t want to risk breaking whatever spell had settled over the room. He just… lay there. One hand lazily curved around Quentin’s back, thumb rubbing slow circles over soft skin. Quentin was fully out, lips parted, hair a mess, absolutely boneless in the way he only ever got when he was fully wrung out and safe. His fingers twitched once, curling around the edge of Eliot’s sleep shirt, and Eliot felt something tight and sharp break loose in his chest.

He should have been sleeping. He was tired, too. But his mind was humming in that strange, post-everything kind of way, equal parts soft and raw. He stared up at the ceiling and let it wash over him.

How the hell had this happened?

How had it gone from a silly little crush—sharp and stupid and hopeless—to this? To Quentin curled up against his chest with a collar on his wrist and Eliot’s name on his lips like a prayer.

He could still remember it. That first fucking week of class. Quentin awkward and twitchy in the back of the seminar room, biting his lip and nervously tapping his pen against the edge of his notebook. He’d been wearing some worn-out cardigan and muttering to himself like a lunatic, and Eliot—jaded and amused and fully convinced no one would ever surprise him again—had felt something in his chest twist sideways.

He never expected it to mean anything. Never expected Quentin to become a friend. Or to look at him the way he did now—like Eliot was something safe and steady and worthy.

And fuck, he wasn’t. He knew that. Not really.

He had a habit of building walls and then decorating them like home. He’d been cruel before. Distant. Selfish. Sometimes still was.

But Quentin loved him anyway. And not the glossy, easy version either. He loved all the broken, thorny pieces, the sharp corners, and complicated edges. He let Eliot lead, trusted him, gave himself over in ways Eliot hadn’t even let himself hope for.

And somehow, impossibly, he got to have this.

This night. This boy. This warm, sleeping body wrapped around him, all loose limbs and total trust.

It scared him sometimes. How much he wanted it. How much he needed it.

But it didn’t feel fragile. Not like it used to.

It felt… durable.

Like maybe, if he was careful, if he kept showing up, if he didn’t fuck it up, this could be something lasting.

His hand stilled against Quentin’s back, and he let out a slow breath.

He didn’t deserve this. Not entirely. But he’d protect it with everything he had. He’d earn it, every single day. Because Quentin was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and Eliot was going to make damn sure he never forgot that.

He looked down and pressed a soft kiss into Quentin’s hair. 

Quentin shifted in his sleep, pressing in closer.

Eliot let his eyes drift shut at last, arms full, heart full, and ideas of a future—terrifying, beautiful, real—unfolding quietly in the space between them.

—---------------

Somewhere between one week and three, time blurred in the best kind of way.

Things had been easy lately.

Not boring— never boring, not with Margo’s razor wit and Quentin’s overactive brain and Eliot’s deliberate, teasing smirks—but… good. Steady. The rhythm of their little life had clicked into place like the final tumblers of a lock.

Classes were a lot, as always. With papers piling up, exams and quizzes always coming up, homework and endless assignments—but even in the chaos, Quentin had been… good. Better than Eliot could’ve hoped for. He followed the rules, ate real meals without being reminded more than once, did his homework on time (even when he complained about it), and curled up beside Eliot every night like he belonged there. Like it was the only place he ever wanted to be.

The sex was good. More than good. Sometimes slow and tangled and breathless with adoration; sometimes sharp and needy and filthy in the best way. Quentin always asked, always gave , and Eliot never stopped marveling at how beautifully he bloomed under praise and pressure both.

Margo was still Margo—biting, dazzling, terrifyingly perceptive. But things between her and Quentin had changed in quiet ways since that one intense day. She teased him, yes, but it was threaded through with something more solid now. Trust. Affection. A kind of silent acknowledgment that she’d seen him stripped bare, and instead of laughing or leaving, she’d stayed. She’d helped build him back up.

They were closer for it. Not romantic, but more… real. They shared more inside jokes now. Late-night study snacks. Soft, casual affection that made Quentin blink like he didn’t quite know what to do with it—and then lean into it all the same.

Evenings were shared homework sprawled across the couch, Margo’s feet in Quentin’s lap and Eliot’s fingers in his hair while he muttered about some article he was too tired to understand.

They were, in every sense, a unit.

Life always had a way of making sure Eliot never felt too good for too long, though. A lesson he always forgot and then subsequently remembered immediately after.

—---------

Eliot woke up to the unmistakable sensation of being profoundly, thoroughly fucked .

Not in the fun way.

His skin felt clammy and too hot at once, like he’d been dipped in wax and then left to dry. Sweat soaked through his t-shirt and plastered his hair to his forehead. His head throbbed like a bass drum was pounding behind his eyes, and every muscle in his body ached like he’d been hit by a car in his sleep. It took real effort to crack open an eye and glance toward the clock, but the numbers blurred and wavered.

Fuck.

He turned over with a groan and immediately regretted it. His stomach churned at the movement, a wave of nausea rolling through him. His entire body pulsed with fever heat. Underneath the covers, he shivered violently.

He was well and truly sick.

Eliot must have dozed off again—or passed out—because the next time he opened his eyes, the sun was higher and Quentin was standing beside the bed, looking deeply alarmed.

" Jesus , Eliot," Quentin said softly, his voice full of concern. "You look like death."

Eliot tried to manage a smirk, but it came out more like a grimace. "Flatter me more, why don’t you."

Quentin didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he crouched down and pressed the back of his hand to Eliot’s forehead, frowning at the heat.

“Fuck,” he muttered. "You're burning up."

"I'm fine," Eliot rasped, but his voice was hoarse and thin.

Quentin ignored him. He disappeared into the bathroom and returned a moment later with a cool, damp washcloth. Gently, he wiped Eliot’s forehead, brushing damp hair back with slow, careful fingers. Eliot sighed under the touch, eyes slipping closed.

“You slept in,” Quentin said quietly. “You never sleep in this late. I figured something was wrong.”

Eliot forced his eyes open. "I’ve just been busy—"

“Nope,” Quentin interrupted firmly. “Don't even try. You’re sick. Stay down. No arguing.”

He moved around the room gathering things—a bottle of water, some Tylenol, a fresh t-shirt. When he came back to the bed, he nudged Eliot gently until he could help him sit up enough to take the pills and drink.

Eliot leaned back against the pillows, dizzy and disoriented, watching Quentin bustle around with a kind of bossy tenderness he didn’t usually get to see firsthand. It was…strange. Not unpleasant. Just rare.

“You’re being very assertive this morning,” Eliot said, voice gravelly. “Is this the same shy boy who panics about asking for more lube?”

Quentin rolled his eyes and tugged the damp t-shirt off Eliot, replacing it with a soft, dry one.

“You’ve taken care of me enough times,” Quentin said simply. “Now it’s your turn.”

Eliot blinked at him.

Quentin sat on the edge of the bed, brushing the washcloth down Eliot’s neck. “I think you caught that virus going around campus. You remember how Lydia canceled her section last week? And that kid in my seminar? It’s been everywhere.”

“That’s just what I wanted to hear,” Eliot mumbled.

“Well, tough,” Quentin said, expression soft but voice firm. “You’re staying home today. You’re going to rest. You’re going to drink water and take medicine and let someone else look after you for once.”

Eliot tried to protest. "I have—"

"Nope" Quentin cut in. He crossed his arms. "You’re always telling me to take better care of myself. Follow your own advice, Daddy ."

Eliot blinked, mouth falling open a little. The sass shouldn’t have made his heart skip, but it did. Even bleary and half-conscious, it lit something warm in his chest.

"Brat," he muttered.

Quentin shrugged, but there was a faint grin tugging at his mouth. "Yeah, but I’m your brat. And I’m taking care of you, so shut up and let me."

Eliot swallowed around the emotion rising in his throat. It wasn’t just that Quentin was offering—he wasn’t. He was insisting. Like it was a given, a fact of their lives.

He didn’t have the energy to say anything more. Just let himself sink back into the pillows, eyes fluttering closed again as Quentin tucked the blanket over him and returned with a new, cool cloth.

Being cared for wasn’t something Eliot was used to. Not like this. Not without having to ask, or pretend he didn’t need it.

Eliot let out a hoarse laugh. "You're so bossy when I can't even fight back."

"Exactly," Quentin said smugly, pulling the blanket up over Eliot again.

Eliot lay there for a moment, overwhelmed and achy and barely coherent, but somehow feeling…okay. Safe. Loved.

It was strange to be the one being fussed over. Strange, but kind of nice. Quentin wasn’t offering to help—he was just doing it. As if it were obvious. As if it had never been a question.

Eliot’s chest ached in a different way as Quentin tucked the blanket around him and pressed a kiss to his hair.

“I’ll be right back,” Quentin murmured. “I’m gonna go make some tea and steal the thermometer from Margo.”

Eliot grabbed his wrist weakly before he could stand.

Quentin turned back, brow furrowing. “What?”

Eliot looked up at him, eyes a little glassy, voice rasping with emotion now. “Thank you.”

Quentin softened instantly, squeezing his hand. “Always.”

And Eliot let go, closing his eyes again, already dozing off to the quiet sound of Quentin moving through their apartment, taking care of him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

—---------------------

Quentin wasn't sure when the last time Eliot had looked this bad was.

He’d been managing a whole day of subtle but increasingly insistent anxiety after waking Eliot that morning and seeing how pale and sweat-soaked he was. Now, several hours later, Eliot had been settled on the couch with a blanket and fever meds and was clearly crashing again, cheek smushed against a pillow and breath a little raspy but even.

"Soup," Quentin announced, walking in from the kitchen with a steaming bowl in hand. "Margo made it. I supervised. So it should be edible."

Margo followed close behind, still drying her hands with a dishtowel. "He didn't burn the apartment down, which is a new high bar."

"Hey," Quentin protested, placing the bowl carefully on the coffee table and crouching next to Eliot. He smoothed a hand across Eliot’s hair, watching him blink awake slowly. "Hey. You need to eat a little something, okay?"

Eliot groaned. "I want to die."

"Dramatic," Margo chimed, dropping onto the other end of the couch and kicking her feet up. "But relatable."

"You're not dying," Quentin said firmly, slipping an arm under Eliot’s shoulders to help him sit up. "You’re just gross and flu-ridden. Which is honestly a first. I thought you were genetically immune to looking like shit."

Eliot gave a half-smile, leaning into Quentin’s hold. "You’re surprisingly mouthy for a nurse."

"He’s mouthy for everything," Margo muttered. "But he’s turned into quite the little service sub, hasn’t he? Running errands, fluffing pillows, fetching meds. Adorable."

Quentin flushed hard, ears going pink. "I’m helping."

"You’re obeying," Margo corrected. "And it’s hot."

Eliot chuckled weakly, tipping his head toward Quentin. "She’s not wrong."

Quentin groaned, glaring at both of them. "You’re impossible. Both of you."

"But you love us," Margo sang.

Eliot slurped a spoonful of soup and hummed. "She’s right again."

After a while, Eliot leaned further into the cushions, eyes drooping, the bowl half-finished but progress made. Quentin traded it for a fresh glass of water and tucked the blanket tighter around him.

“You’re not staying on the couch all night," Quentin said softly. "You need to actually sleep, in bed, like a person."

Eliot blinked at him, bleary and amused. "Since when are you the boss of me?"

Quentin folded his arms. "Since you got taken out by a minor virus and lost all your authority. I don’t make the rules."

"Oh, you are getting spanked," Eliot muttered. "As soon as I stop feeling like roadkill."

Quentin’s eyes sparkled. "Are you serious?"

Eliot’s smile was slow and fond. "Absolutely. The second my immune system recovers, you’re getting your ass reddened for being so damn bossy."

Margo raised her eyebrows in delight from the other end of the couch. "Can I help?"

"No," Quentin said quickly, trying to maintain some level of dignity.

"Maybe," Eliot said at the same time, which made Quentin groan.

“Up,” Quentin said, regaining some control and offering his hand to Eliot. “You’re going to bed before you melt into the couch permanently.”

Eliot sighed but allowed himself to be tugged up, leaning into Quentin’s side as they made their way down the hall.

“You’re very lucky I love you,” Eliot mumbled.

“I know,” Quentin said, smiling as he led him toward the bed, heart full and aching at once. “Believe me. I know.”

—-------------

By the third day, Eliot was starting to feel a little less like death warmed over. The worst of the fever had passed, and the coughing was still annoying but not chest-deep anymore. He was up more, drinking fluids on his own, cracking jokes again. He was finally starting to look like a person again.

Still pale, still tired, but upright, coherent, and—most importantly—grumpy in the specific, charming way that meant his fever had broken and his brain had returned to baseline function. He had even managed to shower that morning without Quentin hovering like a helicopter parent. A win for everyone involved.

Quentin, much to his own surprise, hadn't stopped fussing over him once.

It started small. A refill of tea without being asked. A hand on Eliot’s forehead, brushing back his hair to check for lingering warmth. Quiet, patient check-ins. Then Margo joined in the teasing, in the orchestrating of needs, both real and exaggerated, and Quentin kept rising to the occasion.

"Babe, can you grab my laptop from the kitchen? I left it next to the fruit bowl," Eliot asked from where he was sitting propped up on the couch.

Quentin nodded immediately. "On it."

"And maybe a snack while you're in there," Margo called after him, not even looking up from her phone.

"Yes, Margo," Quentin answered automatically before he could stop himself. The moment the words left his mouth, his ears flushed pink.

Margo smirked. "God, I love this version of you. So obedient ."

"Shut up," Quentin muttered, but brought her trail mix along with Eliot’s laptop anyway.

Later, when Eliot coughed into his sleeve and asked for more tea, Quentin darted up again, hurrying to fulfill the request.

"You are being so good," Eliot murmured as Quentin tucked a blanket more securely around him. "Like, insanely good."

Quentin flushed deeper, eyes cast down as a quiet, pleased noise escaped his throat. He didn’t say anything, just nodded, but Eliot exchanged a knowing glance with Margo.

"Hey, Q," Margo said an hour later as he fetched a cold compress for Eliot’s neck. "You do know you’re allowed to sit still, right?"

Quentin hesitated. "I don’t mind. I like helping."

"You like being praised," she said, grinning.

That earned a choked sound from him, which only made her grin widen.

"You're so sweet," Eliot said gently from the couch. 

"You’ve been a very good boy," Margo added from her perch on the armchair, not even looking up from her tablet. “Gold star. Perfect little helper. If we had a chart, you’d be topping it."

"Stop," Quentin mumbled, immediately pink in the ears.

" No ," Eliot said with a wicked grin, reaching out to tug him close. "You’re thriving on this and you know it. All that praise is making you melt. Look at you. You’re so blushy."

Quentin sputtered. “I am not.”

“You are,” Margo confirmed, finally glancing up. “All dazed and sparkly-eyed. It’s sweet. You’re sweet.”

"You're so sweet," Eliot said gently from the couch. "My perfect helper. My good, good boy."

That was what did it. Quentin froze for a second, then his shoulders dropped just slightly. It wasn’t immediate, but something cracked open in his chest. His limbs felt light, too loose. The world narrowed a little, like the edges of it were getting fuzzy and safe. That warm buzz just beneath his skin started to thrum louder.

Eventually, after a brief round of bickering between Margo and Eliot over what movie to put on, Quentin wandered back into the room with a book in hand. He looked at the couch, at Eliot stretched out with a pillow behind his back and a blanket across his lap, and hesitated only briefly before sinking down on the floor beside him.

Not on the other end of the couch. Not in the chair. Just—down, close, tucked against Eliot’s side.

It felt right.

Eliot raised an eyebrow but said nothing, just brushed his fingers through Quentin’s hair with the kind of casual affection that made Quentin's chest ache. He started reading.

Margo glanced over and saw it immediately.

"Uh oh," she said softly, sitting up from her spot at the table. "You broke him."

Eliot tilted his head, studying him for a minute. "Q? You floaty, sweetheart?"

Quentin blinked slowly, dreamy and quiet. He nodded. "Hmm. A little. Just… warm? You’re both being nice."

"Because you’re being amazing," Eliot murmured, stroking his hair. "You’ve taken care of me better than I ever thought I’d get to be taken care of. You’ve been perfect ."

Quentin made a soft noise at that, melting a bit more, his posture going loose.

"Okay, you need to be horizontal," Margo said, not unkindly. "Come on. Couch snuggle time."

"Wait," Eliot said, holding a hand out. "I want him up here."

He reached down and tugged gently at Quentin’s hand, guiding him to crawl into his lap. Quentin curled into him without hesitation, pressing his face into Eliot’s chest like it was the safest place in the world.

"There we go," Eliot murmured, wrapping his arms around him. "My perfect boy."

Margo joined them on Eliot’s other side, one of her arms slinging around Quentin’s waist. "We are…. the weirdest, cutest little trio I’ve ever known."

Quentin didn’t answer, too blissed out to manage words.

They stayed there like that, the three of them wrapped in warmth and comfort, letting the quiet hum of the room and each other lull them into peace. Eliot drifted off first, head leaning back. Quentin was next, breathing soft and even, curled like a cat against him.

Margo looked over them both fondly and picked up her textbook, settling in for an evening of homework, cuddles, and keeping watch over her favorite idiots.

Chapter Text

The apartment was quiet and dimly lit, the golden glow of the bedside lamp casting soft shadows across the room. Eliot was still sick—though not nearly as bad as before. The fever had broken, but he was still stuffy and drained, the kind of lingering sickness that left him heavy-limbed and exhausted. He lay curled under the blankets, one arm draped lazily around Quentin’s waist, his head tucked against Quentin’s shoulder.

Quentin ran his fingers gently through Eliot’s hair, slow and soothing. The room smelled faintly of eucalyptus and menthol from the vapor rub Margo had insisted Eliot wear to bed. Eliot’s breathing was congested but steady, warm puffs of air brushing Quentin’s collarbone.

“Hey,” Eliot murmured, voice rough and low.

Quentin looked down. “Yeah?”

Eliot shifted closer, nuzzling his face briefly into Quentin’s neck. “Thank you.”

Quentin blinked. “For what?”

“For taking care of me,” Eliot said, so softly it was almost a sigh. “For being such a good boy.”

Quentin felt a flutter in his chest at the praise. He ducked his head slightly, cheeks pink. “Of course. I like taking care of you.”

“I know,” Eliot murmured, eyes still closed. “But still. I see you. I appreciate it.”

They were quiet for a long moment, Eliot’s fingers tracing lazy patterns against Quentin’s ribs under the blanket. Then Eliot spoke again, more teasing this time, but still tired.

“Told you you were a natural born sub.”

Quentin huffed a laugh. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet,” Eliot rasped, cracking one eye open to peer at him. “You’re still here.”

“I must be a masochist,” Quentin said dryly.

Eliot grinned a little, then sank back into the pillows. “You absolutely are. And I love that about you.”

The mood shifted again, growing softer, quieter. Eliot’s voice was more hesitant this time, a little vulnerable.

“Hey,” he said again, more gently. “The semester’s coming to an end sooner than we think. Are you... going home for the summer?”

Quentin hesitated. “I was gonna see my dad for a week or so?  But I was planning to stay here, mostly. On campus.”

Eliot’s fingers stilled against his side. “Oh.”

“You?” Quentin asked.

Eliot shook his head slowly. “Haven’t been home in years. I’ll be here.”

Quentin tilted his head up, looking at him. Eliot looked different in this light. Unarmored. Soft around the edges. Honest.

"I’m glad," Quentin said. "That we’re staying. That we’ll still... be us."

Eliot looked down at him, something raw and warm in his gaze. "Yeah," he said. "Me too."

He shifted closer, resting his head more fully on Quentin’s chest, letting his weight settle. The vulnerability hung in the air between them—not heavy, but honest.

“I don’t really want to be apart,” Eliot admitted, barely above a whisper.

Quentin kissed the top of his head. “Good. Me neither. I like it here. I like... you know. Being with you. Margo. This little….bubble of the world. I don’t want to leave that."

The two of them lay there, tangled together in the quiet hum of the evening, comforted by the shared knowledge that they didn’t have to go anywhere. 

—------------------------------

It was late afternoon by the time Quentin made it back to the apartment, his bag slung heavily over one shoulder and his fingers sore from note-taking. He'd only missed two days of classes, one last week and one this week, but it felt like a small eternity. He still wasn’t sure how he’d managed to fall so behind—or rather, he did, but he didn’t want to think about it.

During the day, he'd exchanged a few texts with Eliot between lectures—quick check-ins, mostly. Eliot letting him know he was still feeling a little shitty but definitely better, and Quentin offering reassurances that class was going fine even though he could feel the weight of all the work still waiting for him.

When he opened the door, the apartment was still and warm. The soft sounds of a playlist drifted from the living room. It was comforting, domestic, familiar in the way Quentin had only dreamed about a year ago.

Eliot was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket with a steaming mug of tea in one hand and his laptop perched on his lap. He looked a little less pale than he had yesterday, though his hair was still slightly mussed and his voice, when he spoke, was low and a bit stuffy.

"Hey," he said, lifting his gaze. "You’re home."

Quentin dropped his bag by the door and toed off his shoes. "Yeah. How are you feeling?"

Eliot offered a tired smile. "Still a little gross, but improving. You? How was class?"

Quentin shrugged and wandered over. "Fine. Just catching up. You know."

Eliot gave him a knowing look. "You seemed a little fried over text. You sure you're not buried?"

Quentin hesitated, gaze flicking away for the briefest moment. He could admit the truth—he was behind, stressed, anxious about it. But Eliot looked so cozy, so comforted, and Quentin just wanted a few more hours of peace. Didn’t want to deal with it all yet. It wasn’t really lying right? 

Right. 

"Not really," he said, his voice too casual. I'm not worried."

Eliot studied him for a beat but didn’t push it. Instead, he patted the couch. "Get some water and come sit with me."

Quentin obeyed, grabbing a glass from the kitchen and gulping most of it down before going back to Eliot and folding himself into the space beside him. He let himself go soft the second Eliot wrapped an arm around him, exhaling a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

"Do you know how good you’ve been?" Eliot murmured, brushing a hand through Quentin’s hair. "You've taken such good care of me this week."

Quentin ducked his head with a bashful noise. "You were sick. Of course, I was going to take care of you. Don’t have to keep thanking me. I love you….I’ll always take care of you. You take care of me all the time."

Eliot hummed, pleased. "Still. You could’ve half-assed it. But you didn’t. You’ve been such a good boy for me. I’m so proud of you."

The words hit Quentin like a wave, rushing through him in warm pulses. He flushed immediately, cheeks going pink as he buried his face into Eliot’s shoulder with a quiet whimper.

"Q," Eliot said gently, but with unmistakable command. "Look at me."

Quentin peeked up, shy and glassy-eyed.

"Aren’t you going to thank your daddy for saying such nice things about you?" Eliot murmured, his voice dropping into something soft and dangerous.

Quentin’s breath hitched. His heart pounded in his ears. He licked his lips, nervous, flustered, and completely head over heels.

"Th-thank you, Daddy," he whispered, voice trembling and full of warmth.

Eliot smiled, cupping his cheek and kissing him, slow and tender. "Good boy."

Quentin practically melted.

Eliot leaned back, brushing his thumb across Quentin’s cheek. "I think my boy deserves a reward."

Quentin blinked, still a little breathless. "Reward?"

Eliot chuckled, fond and a little wicked. "Mhm. You’ll just have to wait and see what I have in mind. Maybe later tonight."

Quentin’s stomach flipped, nervous excitement thrumming through him. He curled in a little closer, letting the safety of Eliot’s arms and the low hum of affection lull him into something warm and eager. Whatever the reward was, he had a feeling it was going to be very, very good.

—------------------

Quentin and Eliot ate dinner together quietly, the apartment warm and hushed with Margo out for the evening. The leftover soup had been reheated by Quentin, and they ate it on the couch, knees brushing, the familiarity and intimacy of it grounding. Conversation stayed light—how classes were going, a weird squirrel Quentin had seen on the way home, Eliot’s irritation with one of his classmates. But even with the low hum of domestic comfort, Quentin felt a buzz just under his skin, a barely-contained anticipation curling low in his stomach.

He kept sneaking glances at Eliot, wondering what the promised reward would be. Eliot seemed content to draw it out, not giving any indication of when or what it would be. Quentin’s nerves wound tighter.

After dinner, Quentin took their bowls to the kitchen and was about to start rinsing them when Eliot leaned against the doorway and said, “Wash the dishes. Then come meet me in the bedroom.”

Quentin froze for a beat, his spine straightening slightly. “Yessir,” he murmured, a thrill running through him.

He scrubbed the dishes quickly but thoroughly, dried his hands, and padded toward the bedroom barefoot. His heart was hammering by the time he opened the door.

Eliot was inside, calm and composed, waiting with that familiar glint in his eye. The bedside lamp was on, casting the room in warm golden light. Laid out neatly on the bed were Quentin’s favorite ropes—soft, well-used, dyed in a plum purple that brought out the color of his flushed skin when he wore them.

Quentin’s breath caught in his throat.

“Strip,” Eliot said, voice smooth and low. “Underwear too. Then come to the bed.”

Quentin nodded quickly and began pulling off his clothes in a rush, practically tossing them across the room in his eagerness.

“No, no.” Eliot’s voice cut through the room, sharp and sure. “Pick them up. Fold them. Neatly. You know better, don’t you?”

Quentin froze in place, heat flushing through his chest and face all at once. His stomach flipped. That voice. That tone. He swallowed hard, embarrassed but very much turned on.

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly, already moving to gather his discarded clothing. He folded each piece carefully this time, the deliberate motion making him hyperaware of Eliot’s gaze on him.

Once his clothes were folded and set aside, he turned back to the bed. He paused at the edge of the bed, skin warm and nerves alight.

"Are you sure you're okay enough to do all this?" he asked softly, searching Eliot's face. "I mean, you were still kind of sick."

Eliot smiled, slow and indulgent, stepping closer. He cupped Quentin's jaw, his thumb stroking the edge of his cheek.

"Don't worry," Eliot murmured, eyes gleaming. "What I have in mind won't be taxing."

He leaned in, his breath warm against Quentin's ear. "Well, not for me."

Quentin's breath hitched, heart leaping into his throat as Eliot's words sent a rush of heat straight through him. He climbed onto the bed, already aching with anticipation, already his.

Eliot took his time because time was a luxury they’d earned. The room was dim and warm, quiet except for the soft pull of rope through his hands and the hushed, eager way Quentin was breathing. He guided Quentin onto the bed, the mattress already prepped—pillows arranged, the ropes laid out carefully beside them. His eyes followed every move Eliot made, like he was being hypnotized.

“Hands first,” Eliot murmured, voice low and sweet but commanding.

Quentin offered them up instantly. He was always so eager, Eliot thought, so desperate to sink for him, to be good and pliant and cherished. The first loop was snug and firm, Eliot’s fingers deft and reverent as he wrapped and knotted the soft rope around Quentin’s wrists, binding them tightly together in a way that already made Quentin shiver.

Then came his ankles—pulled together, wrapped in gentle but unyielding spirals of rope. Eliot ran his fingers along Quentin’s calves as he worked, watching goosebumps bloom in his wake. “Such a good boy,” he whispered. “You love this, don’t you? Being all tied up, all mine?”

Quentin whimpered. Nodded.

“Rule,” Eliot chastised lightly. 

“Yeah-Yes. Yes, Eliot.”

“Mmhmm. Knew you would.”

Eliot continued up his legs, crisscrossing rope over thighs, careful with the tension, artistic even, until Quentin was restrained in a beautiful web that connected his wrists to his legs, bound in such a way that he couldn’t move much at all. It made him breathe deeper, slower. That delicious weight of helplessness setting in, the quiet click of something in his mind loosening its grip.

His brain quieted. His body softened.

“There you are,” Eliot said, brushing Quentin’s hair off his forehead, voice full of awe. “You go under so sweetly for me. Brave little thing. I love seeing you like this.”

Quentin’s eyes were hazy, almost unfocused. “Feel good,” he murmured.

“I know, darling. That’s why I’m going to make it even better.”

Quentin didn’t notice Eliot reaching into the drawer until he heard the low hum. He blinked slowly, lifting his head as much as he could to see Eliot holding the familiar slim black vibrator—one Quentin recognized from Eliot’s drawer of toys. His cock twitched at the sound.

“Oh,” Quentin whispered, nerves and excitement blooming all at once.

Eliot’s grin was soft but devilish. “You’re going to stay just like this for me. Let me watch.”

He turned the vibrator on low and pressed it against Quentin’s inner thigh first, teasing, making him gasp and try to shift. Then he moved it closer, closer, until it was positioned snugly against the head of Quentin’s cock, and then—secured it in place with a clever wrap of rope.

“Eliot,” Quentin breathed, already struggling, already flushed.

“Shh,” Eliot cooed, curling up beside him now. One hand ran down Quentin’s chest, soothing, the other steadying the vibrator. “You’re gorgeous like this. Just look at you. My pretty boy, all bound up and dripping. You make the most perfect picture.”

The stimulation was steady, just enough to drive him mad. Quentin couldn’t do anything but feel. His hips twitched in the ropes, thighs clenching and unclenching, helpless to do anything about it.  His breath came in gasps. “F–fuck.”

Knowing Eliot was just watching him, while Quentin was…undone, exposed, panting, and bound. It made it even more…incredible. The humiliation turning him on even more. Feeling Eliot’s gaze on him. He was so close. “Can’t… I can’t”

“You can’t come yet,” Eliot said firmly. “You have to ask.”

Quentin’s whole body trembled. “Please,” he whispered.

Eliot raised an eyebrow. “Not good enough.”

Quentin flushed deeper, humiliated and turned on all at once. He opened his mouth, closed it, then finally managed, actually begging: “Please, Daddy, can I-please please ?” 

Eliot purred. “That’s better. You may.”

The permission undid him. Quentin came hard, a broken sob tearing from his throat as his body jerked in its bindings, straining and then collapsing into them as white heat flooded through him. The orgasm hit so hard he thought he might pass out, body gone limp and buzzing and overwhelmed.

Eliot reached over and turned the vibrator off, watching Quentin melt into the mattress, breath stuttering, skin flushed, lips parted. “You did so well, my love,” he said, kissing Quentin’s damp temple. “So fucking beautiful.”

Quentin didn’t register much at first. Just the pleasant hum still lingering in his bones and the warm, comforting sensation of something solid beneath him. He blinked slowly, breathing shallow and uneven, completely limp. Somewhere far away, he knew Eliot was moving, shifting next to him, but his brain was cotton.

Hands touched him gently, untying the knots with quiet reverence. The sound of rope slipping away from skin. Quentin sighed, not quite capable of words, of anything but existing. Eliot massaged his wrists as he freed them, thumbs circling softly over tender skin. His fingers moved to Quentin’s legs next, rubbing out the marks, soothing any pressure with practiced care. He wiped him down with a warm cloth, tender, intimate.

Quentin just watched him. Eyes wide, glassy, soft. Somewhere between awake and dreaming.

"You’re beautiful," he murmured, words slurred, barely a whisper.

Eliot glanced up, startled for half a second before his whole face bloomed with affection. He leaned in, brushed a kiss to Quentin’s forehead. "Sweet floaty boy."

He helped Quentin under the blankets and crawled in behind him, wrapping an arm around his waist, pulling him close. Quentin clung, soft and pliant, burying his face against Eliot’s chest. He focused on the rhythm of Eliot's breathing, still slightly congested and stuffy from his cold. It was grounding, that warmth and imperfection. The weight of Eliot's body behind him, the smell of their skin, the slow stroke of fingers through his hair.

Quentin let out a quiet, needy whine. Reached blindly for Eliot's hand and brought it to his mouth.

"Hmm?" Eliot murmured, but then Quentin was sucking at his fingers, eyes half-lidded. Eliot chuckled, surprised and charmed all at once. "My sweet little thing. Look at you."

Quentin closed his eyes again, cheeks pink, heart full.

He must have drifted off for a bit, because the next thing he knew, Eliot was gone. The room was dim, just the bedside lamp on. Quentin blinked awake slowly, sleep-hazy and boneless. Eliot appeared a second later with a glass of water and a small bowl of cut fruit.

"Hey, baby. I know you’re tired, but you need something in you. Drink, and eat at least a little."

Quentin nodded, groggy and obedient. He sipped the water, let Eliot feed him a few bites of fruit until Eliot was satisfied, then they both curled up under the blankets together. Eliot tucked Quentin in against his chest, nose buried in Quentin's hair.

"There we go. That’s my boy. Did you like your reward?”

Quentin nodded sleepily. “Loved it. Love you.” then exhaled deeply and let himself sink. Safe. Loved. Wanted.

He slept like a rock in Eliot’s arms.

—---------------------

Two days later, Eliot was still on the mend, but finally up and moving around more. His cough was mostly gone and though he still tired easily, the worst seemed behind them. Quentin had returned to classes the other day —sort of. He'd gone physically, but emotionally? Not so much. His homework pile had steadily grown, a low hum of stress building just beneath the surface.

Margo had asked him once, maybe twice, if he was keeping up. Eliot too, giving him a soft look over the top of his tea mug with a gentle, "You good with school stuff, babe?"

"Yeah, totally," Quentin had lied….had kept lying. 

It wasn’t even intentional at first. He had meant to do it. Meant to sit down and knock out the readings, respond to the discussion boards, catch up on the labs. He kept telling himself he’d do it after Eliot was asleep, after Margo left for class, after dinner. The time never felt quite right. And then it wasn’t just a few things. It was everything. A weight that got heavier each day he didn’t pick it up.

He couldn’t exactly say he regretted it. Eliot had been sick. Quentin hadn’t even thought twice before shoving everything else aside to take care of him. And honestly? Being useful like that had made something in him feel good. Settled. And…okay, fair he had only skipped two days of classes…and maybe had plenty of time to do his work and just…didn’t. It really wasn’t a big deal. 

But now the guilt was starting to creep back in.

By Thursday night, Eliot had gone to bed early, still easily tired from lingering fatigue. Margo had left for Josh’s place a few hours ago, which left the apartment unusually quiet. Quentin curled up on the couch with his laptop and textbooks, finally trying to make a dent in the pile he’d spent days ignoring.

He had his favorite throw blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a cold mug of forgotten tea at his side, and his reading glasses slipping down his nose as he scrolled through lecture slides and overdue assignments. The quiet buzz of the apartment, punctuated only by the ticking kitchen clock and the occasional creak of the building settling, felt unnerving rather than peaceful.

His eyes were gritty. His back hurt from the angle he was sitting at. But he kept going.

He didn’t even realize how late it had gotten until the front door opened, the lock clicking softly. Quentin startled, his pen skidding off the side of his notebook as his head snapped up.

Margo stepped inside, heels in one hand, her makeup slightly smudged, and her hair windblown. She looked up and did a double-take.

"Jesus Christ, Q," she muttered, kicking the door shut behind her. 

He blinked, eyes darting to the clock on the microwave across the kitchen. 2:41 AM.

"Shit."

Margo stepped in fully, getting closer to his space. He instinctively shrank back, feeling small in the worst way. "Do you know what time it is?"

Quentin immediately went on the defensive. "Do you?"

Margo raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "Yeah, I do. I also know I don’t have any classes tomorrow. You, on the other hand, have an 8:30 seminar. So what the hell are you doing up? And why does it look like you’ve got half the library spread across our living room?"

Quentin glanced down at the open books and notes scattered on the coffee table and his lap, guilt creeping into his spine like ice water. He didn’t answer.

"Q," Margo said more seriously now, stepping further into the room. "Have you actually done any schoolwork this week?"

He squirmed a little, rubbed at the back of his neck, and gave a pitiful shake of his head.

“So you lied to me?”

Quentin swallowed, couldn’t meet her gaze anymore. Nodded.

Margo stared at him for a long second before sighing and dragging a hand down her face. "You’re going to class tomorrow. No arguments. So finish what you’re doing and go to bed. Now."

"I- I uh…can’t," Quentin said softly, barely above a whisper.

Margo narrowed her eyes. "What do you mean you can’t ?"

"I haven’t done the reading," he said. "Or the paper. Or anything. I missed those two days and now everything’s just—stacked. I can’t walk in tomorrow and pretend I’m caught up."

There was a long silence as Margo processed that.

"Jesus, Q," she said again, but this time there wasn’t irritation in her voice. Just tired concern. "You’re that far behind? That’s a lot."

"I know," he said, eyes cast down, shoulders tight with shame.

She sighed again, softer this time. "Look. I’m not waking Eliot up for this; he still sounds like a pitiful child coughing in his sleep. So here’s what’s happening. You’re going to bed. Tomorrow, you’re doing every single one of your assignments. You’re catching up. And if it’s too much, you’re emailing your professors. Asking for help, asking for extensions, asking for extra credit if that’s what it takes. You’re not going to sit in this weird academic purgatory while your brain eats itself alive. Got it?"

Quentin nodded, still quiet.

"Nope," Margo said, stepping closer. "I want verbal confirmation. Eliot set that as a rule for you and as a stand-in, I’m enforcing it."

"Okay," he murmured. "I will. I promise."

She paused, then tilted her head. "Why did you lie about it? Earlier in the week? When we asked if you were keeping up?"

He opened his mouth, closed it. Then stammered, "I didn’t mean to. I just… I meant to do it, and then Eliot needed stuff and I wanted to be good and take care of him, and then we were reading and cuddling and—"

"Quentin," Margo said firmly.

"Yes," he admitted, deflating. "Yes. I lied. I just wanted to be good, and then I got overwhelmed, and I didn’t want to admit that I was already behind."

Margo rubbed her temples. "I had really good sex tonight, and I’m too tired to launch into the lecture you absolutely deserve. But we’re not dropping this. You’re going to bed, and tomorrow we’re fixing this."

Quentin nodded again, properly ashamed. His stomach flipped at the idea of her talking to Eliot in the morning.

"Go," she said, pointing toward the hallway. "And Quentin?"

He paused, turning back.

"Next time you want to be a good boy, try being honest too. It works wonders."

He flushed, mumbled another apology, and slunk off to bed, already dreading the next day.

—-------------------

Quentin tried to go to bed, but it was useless. His brain was buzzing too loudly—worry and guilt winding around each other in a tangle he couldn’t unravel. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the disappointed look on Margo’s face, heard her voice telling him she was going to talk to Eliot. He tossed and turned, shifting under the blankets, trying to calm down, but it was no use.

He managed to doze for maybe an hour at best, restless and uncomfortable, before finally giving up. Around 6 a.m., the first weak light of morning just beginning to bleed through the window, Quentin got up and padded out to the kitchen in his pajamas. The apartment was quiet, still. He made coffee in a daze, then curled up on the couch with his laptop and books, trying to make some headway on his backlog of work.

He wasn’t even sure when he fell asleep—curled sideways, a pen still loosely clutched in one hand, head tipped back against the couch cushion—but it was the murmur of voices that woke him. The warm, familiar smell of coffee drifted through the air, and Quentin blinked awake to find Eliot and Margo standing in the kitchen, speaking in hushed tones.

The moment they noticed he was awake, both of them turned to look at him with identical expressions—serious, calm, but unmistakably displeased.

"Good morning," Eliot said, voice even but not overly warm. "Come sit."

Quentin rubbed his eyes, heart starting to race as the anxiety returned full force. He stood, gathering his blanket around him like armor, and shuffled into the kitchen. He sat across from them at the table, acutely aware of how small he felt under their gaze.

Eliot folded his hands on the table. "So. Want to tell us what happened?"

Quentin fidgeted. "I just... I was worried about you," he said softly, looking at Eliot. "And then I missed a day or two of class, which you knew. Not a huge deal.  And then homework started to pile up, and I didn’t want to go too far from you in case you needed something. It wasn’t a big deal at first, but I kept choosing to stay close and then I’d just read, or scroll, or nap, and suddenly it felt like it was too late to catch up and I didn’t know where to start…and then it was just…comfortable to be reading or whatever and I didn’t–"

"You didn’t mean to lie," Eliot said slowly, cutting him off before he could finish the sentence. "But you did."

"I was going to do it," Quentin said, a little defensive now. "I meant to—"

"But you didn’t ," Margo said sharply. "You lied to us. Eliot asked you directly, and you told him you were fine. Shit, I even asked you. You lied to both of us, more than once."

"Because I thought I would be!" Quentin insisted. "I didn’t think it would get this bad."

Eliot raised an eyebrow. "It got this bad because you let it. You made a series of choices. You chose not to do the work, to skip class, and to lie about it. And now, instead of owning it, you’re trying to make excuses."

Quentin flushed and stared down at the table. "I wasn’t trying to make excuses," he mumbled.

"You literally just did," Margo said, arms crossed. "Multiple times."

There was a beat of silence, the weight of their disappointment settling heavily in the space between them.

"You missed two days of class, Q, and now, because of this, you’ve missed a third day. Very close together," Eliot continued. "That’s a big deal, especially this late in the semester. You said it yourself—you're overwhelmed. And you chose to lie. That’s not okay."

“I didn’t mean to lie,” Quentin insisted quickly. “I was going to do it. I kept thinking I’d start that night, or the next day, and then it just got bigger, and I didn’t know how to start.”

Margo gave him a sharp look. “Regardless of what you meant to do, you didn’t do it. And you did lie. More than once.”

Eliot crossed his arms. “You chose not to. Over and over. Don’t pretend this just happened to you.”

 Quentin bristled, voice sharp with guilt. "So did you! You missed class, too."

Eliot blinked, caught off guard, then narrowed his eyes. “Excuse me?”

Quentin immediately regretted it.

“I had a doctor’s note. I had my professors send me assignments and notes. I was literally running a fever and shivering through three layers of blankets. That is not the same thing, and you know it.”

Quentin opened his mouth, then shut it again.

Margo winced. “Drop the brat act, Q.”

Eliot nodded. “Before you wind up in more trouble than you already are.”

Quentin ducked his head. His cheeks burned with shame. He sank back in his chair, arms crossing defensively, sulking even though he knew he deserved every bit of this.

He didn’t know why he did this. Why being wrong made him petulant and defensive, why being caught in something made him want to argue even when he knew better. It was stupid. He was stupid.

Quentin looked down, face burning. He hated this part—being called out, being wrong. His brain twisted it into shame before he could stop it. He knew they were right. But it didn’t stop the sting of it, or the instinct to defend himself.

Margo watched him for a long moment, then sighed. "I get it. It's hard to admit when you've messed up. But Q, you've got to stop making this worse for yourself. We’re not mad at you for being overwhelmed. But we are disappointed that you lied and let things slide so badly."

He nodded slowly, the guilt finally starting to win out over the defensiveness. He’d screwed up. 

Quentin sat stiffly at the kitchen table, the weight of Eliot and Margo's combined disapproval still heavy in the air. The conversation had quieted, but the tension was far from gone. He traced the edge of his coffee mug with his finger, feeling like a kid caught sneaking candy before dinner.

Eliot watched him for another long beat before speaking again, his voice gentler but still firm. "Okay. Here's what's going to happen. You're going to take all your schoolwork, go into the bedroom, and you're not allowed out until it's caught up. We'll check in. Understand?"

Quentin blinked. "Wait, what? I—"

"Your phone, too," Eliot added, holding out a hand, palm up.

Quentin's jaw tensed. "I'm not a child, Eliot."

"No," Eliot agreed calmly. "You're not. But you act like one when you're overwhelmed, and instead of asking for help or handling it like an adult, you spiral and then lie about it. So either you're not a child and you take responsibility, or you keep playing the role and get treated accordingly. You're not a child, but you act like one often enough," Eliot said. "And let me be clear, Quentin. The way out of being treated like this is simple. You use your safeword. Or you do the things you’re supposed to do. "

Quentin flushed, eyes dropping. Margo leaned back in her chair with a quiet snort. "You always get bratty when you're guilty. It's basically a Quentin Classic at this point."

Eliot’s expression softened just a hair, though the steel in his tone remained. "You have me as your Dom. Margo’s a...Dom-adjacent chaos demon. We’re here, but that doesn’t mean we’re your excuse. You don’t get to pin this on anyone but yourself. You chose not to do your work. You chose to lie. Repeatedly. And you know better."

Quentin stared at the table. The guilt curled in his gut, sharp and sour.

"Color?" Eliot prompted.

Quentin rolled his eyes. "Green."

Margo raised an eyebrow and spoke up sharply. "Try again. Without the attitude."

Quentin’s shoulders hunched slightly. He took a breath and said it again, softer. "Green."

Eliot nodded. "Good. Then go. Take your laptop, your textbooks, whatever you need. You’re not coming out of that room until you’re caught up. We’ll bring you breakfast. We’ll check your progress."

Quentin opened his mouth to argue again, then closed it. Shame and irritation prickled in equal measure, and beneath that, something warmer, quieter—relief. He didn’t have to make the decisions right now. He just had to do what they told him.

He pushed back from the table and stood, still flushed. Gathered up his laptop, his charger, his notebooks. Margo wordlessly handed him a highlighter and a spare pen.

He took them without meeting her eyes, murmured a quiet, "Thanks," and disappeared into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

Eliot let out a long breath once he was gone. "That went well."

Margo rolled her eyes. 

—--------------------

Quentin paced the bedroom like a sulking cat, arms crossed and face twisted in a scowl. His laptop sat open on the bed, a stack of textbooks splayed across the comforter like a crime scene. He hadn’t touched any of it yet. He was too busy muttering to himself under his breath, occasionally stopping to glare at his own reflection in the mirror or flop dramatically onto the bed before springing back up to pace again.

It wasn’t fair. Well—okay, it was, technically. He had ignored his homework for days. He had lied. He had let it all pile up. But he’d just wanted to take care of Eliot. He’d been good. So fucking good. So why did it still feel like he’d messed it all up?

After another useless lap around the room, Quentin finally collapsed onto the floor with a loud exhale. The hard wood felt grounding beneath him. Couches and beds were too soft, too forgiving. The floor told the truth.

With a groan, he dragged his laptop onto the rug and opened up his school portal. One assignment. Then another. Slowly, begrudgingly, he started to work.

The more he chipped away at it, the more the edge of his frustration dulled. He wasn’t enjoying himself, but it felt better to do something than to stew. Still, the mix of embarrassment and self-directed annoyance curled hot in his chest. He couldn’t stop replaying Eliot’s voice in his head. "The way out of being treated this way is to safe word or do the things you know you're supposed to do." He wanted to yell that he had been doing everything. But that wasn’t true, was it?

He’d been doing everything except the part where he took care of himself.

A soft knock interrupted his spiraling. Margo slipped in with a tray in her hands.

"Eliot fell asleep on the couch," she said by way of greeting. "I brought you real food. Coffe doesn’t count."

Quentin didn’t even look up. Just kept typing, jaw tight.

She hovered a moment longer. "Alright, silent treatment. Cool. Enjoy, but this isn’t really helping you beat the whole ‘acting like a child’ thing."

She set the tray down on the edge of the bed and left him be.

Eventually, miraculously, Quentin reached the final assignment. It was a blur of citations and frustrated typing and stretching out on his stomach to relieve the tension in his back. But he was doing it. Actually catching up. He had no idea how many hours had passed, but his eyes were gritty and his brain felt like cotton.

That was when the door opened again. Eliot stepped inside, looking better—much more himself. He leaned in the doorway, arms crossed.

"You’re still alive, then."

Quentin looked up, blinking blearily. "Barely."

Eliot came closer, crouching beside him. "You look like a feral grad student who got trapped in the library basement."

Quentin didn’t smile. He wanted to, but his pride still felt tender.

"Q," Eliot said more gently, "I love you more than anything in this world, but this? This is still your fault."

Quentin bristled, but didn’t argue. Eliot smoothed a hand over his hair, pulling a little to make him look up.

"No one was punishing you for being a good caretaker. But you can’t do that by disappearing on your own needs. That’s not care. That’s martyrdom."

Quentin swallowed hard.

"When you’re done," Eliot said, "come hang out. Maybe we can go for a walk. I need air."

Quentin just shrugged, still sulky.

Eliot sighed, kissed the top of his head. "Finish up, Quentin. I’m not asking."

He left without waiting for a response.

Quentin stared after him, heart doing something warm and painful all at once.

Eventually, he finished. Every single assignment, turned in. Every email, sent. He saved his last file, set the laptop aside, and dropped his head onto his folded arms.

And finally, after nearly no sleep, a marathon of guilt and labor, and the overwhelming press of his own feelings, Quentin passed out cold on the floor, his breathing slow and even, a tangle of limbs and exhaustion.

A sleeping mess of a boy, utterly wrung out—but finally caught up.

—--------------------

Eliot pushed open the bedroom door slowly, Margo just behind him. They expected to find Quentin still working—maybe pacing, maybe sulking, maybe buried beneath a pile of blankets in a half-hearted tantrum. What they found instead made them both pause in the doorway.

Quentin was passed out cold on the hardwood floor.

His laptop was nudged to the side, papers scattered around him like fallen leaves. His head was pillowed on his arms, legs stretched out at odd angles. His mouth was slightly open, a tiny smear of drool darkening the rug beneath him. He looked utterly and completely wrecked.

Margo snorted, but it was soft, fond. "Jesus. He really didn't sleep, huh?"

Eliot shook his head, moving closer but not waking him. "No. Guess not."

They stood together in the doorway for a moment, watching him. The edges of Margo's smirk softened as she took in the full picture—the exhaustion, the stubborn determination, the deep vulnerability that came from letting his body crash like this.

"You know," Eliot said, voice low, "I really appreciate you. For helping with all this."

Margo glanced at him. "He's not my sub, El, but…I don’t know. We had a weirdly close, co-dependent relationship before him and…I care about him too."

"I know," Eliot said. "But you love him. Not like I do. But you do. And he listens to you, even when he’s being a brat."

She tilted her head in reluctant acknowledgment. "Yeah. I do. In my own twisted way. He’s also such a fucking sub . It’s easy. "

"You didn't have to step in like you did. But you always do. You look out for him. For me."

Margo's smile turned softer, more real. "Of course I do. I always will. I’d go to the ends of the fucking earth for you….him too.  But that doesn't mean I'm not pissed. He lied to both of us."

Eliot's expression darkened slightly. "I know. I'm already thinking about how to handle it."

As if summoned by the sound of their voices, Quentin stirred. His nose scrunched up first, then his brow furrowed as he blinked himself awake. He sat up abruptly, realizing where he was and who was watching him.

"Oh. Shit. I..." He wiped at the corner of his mouth and flushed deep red. "Hi."

He glanced between them, sheepish and still a little sleep-blurry. "I finished my work," he said quickly, trying to preempt whatever scolding might be coming.

Eliot nodded, but didn’t offer the praise Quentin had been hoping for. Not right away.

Quentin noticed.

Margo crossed her arms. "Come on, dumbass. You need dinner."

Quentin got to his feet slowly, wincing from how stiff his body felt. He followed them out, quiet and subdued, the echo of their disappointment weighing heavier than any punishment could.

And Eliot was already planning exactly how to make it stick.

Chapter Text

Eliot sat curled into one corner of the couch, tea cooling on the side table beside him, a blanket draped over his lap from his earlier nap. His eyes stayed fixed on the bedroom door Quentin had disappeared behind hours ago. Occasionally, he heard faint tapping of keys or the low sound of movement, but mostly it was just quiet. Too quiet.

Margo came back from the kitchen with a sparkling water and dropped down onto the couch beside him. She didn't speak right away, just observed the stiffness in Eliot's shoulders and the pensive worry flickering across his face.

"He's working, I checked in. He ignored me, but he’s listening." Margo finally said, cracking open the can.

Eliot nodded but didn’t look at her. "I just don’t get it. Why does he keep doing this? The same thing, over and over. It's like the lesson never sticks."

Margo hummed. "You think you’re doing something wrong?"