There are many sights Quentin would deem beautiful: birds flying over the New Jersey skyline, pieces of a broken souvenir joining together as Quentin makes them whole again, every single pattern created for the Mosaic -- whether actually executed or just left as chalk marks on paper. Almost all of Fillory.
But none of those can even begin to compare to what’s in front him right now.
Eliot’s on all fours, fingers gripping the satin sheets as he dips down into them, his perfectly round ass on display for only Quentin to enjoy. He’s wearing nothing except sheer thigh-high socks and a pair of scarlet-colored panties that are tangled around his upper thighs like vines around a tree trunk. When Quentin reaches out to take hold of a cheek, he feels like the proud new owner of a highly valued jewel, and he’s finally been granted the power to touch it for the first time.
Quentin kneads Eliot’s flesh, all while Eliot stays statue-still and barely makes a sound beyond a faint hum. It’s something to marvel at -- how he can maintain his posture despite what’s happening to him. Eliot likes to show off and he has copious amounts of stamina that’s rare for any person to have, Magician or not. He takes great delight in being able to withstand anything and everything Quentin doles out. And what screams endurance better than keeping the same pose for hours on end like he’s a model for an art class? He certainly gets better benefits than them.
“Gonna make this ass as red as these pretty little panties. You want that, baby?” Quentin asks, already reeling his free arm back. Eliot doesn’t say anything, but he makes a noise in the back of his throat that Quentin knows means yes.
The first few spanks are soft, just a way to ease both of them into it. And then Quentin lands a sharp smack right onto the highest point of Eliot’s asscheek. All Eliot does is grunt in response.
This is where Quentin makes a mistake. He gets carried away in the silent competition of wanting to see Eliot come undone for once. And that’s when his next hit lands.
Although it’s not exactly the when but the where that’s important.
Quentin wouldn’t have noticed anything if he didn’t see Eliot slump further into the sheets or hear the strangled cry that came from his mouth. His eyes on nothing but the man below him, that’s when he feels where his hand is: In between Eliot’s cheeks, laying right on top of his hole.
“Fuck , sorry about that. Didn’t mean to…” Quentin stumbles out an apology. He really didn’t mean to hit him there, and he hopes that Eliot isn’t hurt and he can--
Eliot speaks up, sounding a little bit wrecked. “Want you to do that again.”
His voice is muffled, face half-buried in one of the pillows. Quentin gathers himself together and runs a hand over Eliot’s back. “Look at me,” he orders.
Brown curls fall over Eliot’s forehead when he turns to him, eyes shining with unshed tears. Quentin smoothes a hand over his back, keeping the other wedged in that furry valley. “You sure? Because I’m not going to let you get hurt in any way you don’t want to.”
Eliot gives a firm nod, rolling his hips towards Quentin with mild impatience. He spreads his legs a little bit more, too. Just for good measure. Quentin knows he’s holding back so much. Part of him wants to get up from his place on the bed and walk out of the room, see how Eliot reacts, if he’ll pounce on Quentin and cage him in. Or maybe he’ll return to his motionless state in order to stop himself from doing the former.
Quentin doesn’t do that. Instead, he grabs Eliot’s cheek once more, raises his arm yet again, and brings it down hard. Victory surges through Quentin’s entire body when he lets out a wail. From then on, Quentin’s more machine than man, administering blows with striking precision, Eliot’s rim nothing more than a pretty-pink target to aim for. There’s a sick sense of accomplishment that he feels as he continues his battering. But that's just like Eliot, isn’t it? To turn him into a sadist because of the simple fact that it gets them both off.
He’s got to give Eliot credit, though. His high-octave squeals have tapered to beastly huffs. He’s not letting Quentin win without a fight, so a fight is what he’ll get. Switching hands, Quentin picks up the pace of each spank. To his delight, Eliot’s carefully built walls fall down as quickly as they were put up. He practically melts into the mattress, and it’s easy to tell that he’s just about ready to tap out.
Quentin stops momentarily to survey his damage: A thin film of sweat and red splotches from exertion cover Eliot’s body, and when he looks at his hole -- having to pry his cheeks apart, on account of them already sticking together -- it’s the same color and slightly swollen. Quentin gives it one last slap that has Eliot keening and arching, and then brings his head down to run his tongue over it. He repeats this several times, laving at the fluttering muscle in hopes it will act as some sort of balm. Wiry, saturated coils of hair sweep across Quentin’s skin and he can feel the scant streaks of moisture left in their wake as Eliot moves against him. Sometimes the tip of his tongue gets caught in the hot clutch of his hole. During one of these moments his dick twitches and a particularly large bead of precome dribbles out, and Quentin grips at the bulge in his sweatpants while his other hand slides under Eliot’s body and onto his cock.
Quentin jerks the both of them off simultaneously as he eats Eliot out. Half of Eliot’s dick is trapped in his panties, the fabric damp with his own fluids. It doesn’t take long for him to reach his end, letting out a long yell into the pillows as his come leaks out from its lacy confines and covers Quentin’s palm. Detaching himself from Eliot’s rim and kneeling upright, Quentin brings his hand to his mouth and gathers the bitter mess on his tongue, taking his dick out from below his waistband with the other. With a couple of frantic pulls, he paints those nylon-sheathed thighs white, collapsing onto the empty side of the bed so he doesn’t land directly on top of Eliot’s prone body.
“Look at you, leaving me here all disheveled. The perfect gentleman.”
When he turns his head, Quentin sees Eliot smiling brightly at him. “Drama queen,” Quentin mutters before tiredly tutting out a basic cleaning spell. He watches as Eliot wriggles out of what little clothing he has on, flinching every so often, and suddenly there’s a question crawling up his throat.
“How-- did I do good? Tonight, I mean,” he has to keep from cringing once the words leave his lips. It sounds like he’s fishing for praise -- which he kind of is, but the main concern on Quentin’s mind is Eliot’s comfort and safety. No matter the amount of pain he thinks he can handle, Eliot has his limits. He’s only making sure that they haven’t been broken, is all.
Eliot gives a shrug. “There’s always room for improvement.” He says it in a playful, teasing manner, and all the worry and doubt Quentin was holding on to starts to slowly ebb away, because Eliot is smiling and relaxed, clearly satisfied with what’s just happened. Which means Quentin can allow himself to be the same.
“Oh, yeah?” Quentin replies, falling into their usual banter. “Got any tips you can share?”
“What was it you said earlier? Something to the effect of you ‘making my ass as red as these pretty little panties’, right?”
Quentin narrows his eyes at that. “Come on, that’s semantics! I was very close.”
“But no cigar,” his face is twisted up like he’s trying not to laugh, and that sends Quentin into his own fit of hysterics. He moves to hover over Eliot -- who is now laughing alongside him, a low, rich rumble that never fails to warm him from the inside out -- and kisses him deeply, groaning at the soft weight of Eliot’s tongue on his. Quentin could stay here like this forever; all of his senses filled with Eliot as their bare bodies slot into place against each other, leaving no space for anyone or anything else, just the pair of them.
That’s why he makes a rather embarrassing sound when he feels the hand on his neck drop down to his shoulder and gently push him away from that welcoming heat. Eliot’s staring at him, amused. His lips are spit-slick and puffy, and it takes every bit of Quentin’s might to not surge forward and continue what they started.
“This is great, honestly it is, but I want to cuddle now.”
Quentin chuckles, landing onto his side of bed and turning around, his back facing Eliot. Thankfully it doesn’t take long until an arm wraps around Quentin’s middle and he’s being reeled back into the comfort of heated skin-to-skin contact. And with Eliot holding him close, his chin resting on top of his head and the beat of his heart almost feeling like something tangible, Quentin drifts off.