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our second year at this

Chapter 8: one year, two months, and one day

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Eliot wakes up, and it’s another morning after. And just like the first time, when they were a year and a day into this, he knows he’s in deep trouble.

This time he intends to see where that trouble can take him.

Next to him, Quentin makes a disgruntled noise in his sleep and turns his head away from the sunlight streaming through the window. Eliot smiles helplessly. He should let Quentin sleep in longer, probably, he’s insufferable when he’s cranky. But Eliot very much wants to hold him, whether or not that will wake him up, and Eliot is once again done denying himself what he wants.

He carefully loops an arm over Quentin’s waist and pulls him closer. As expected, Quentin half-opens one eye and sits up a little as Eliot does it, and Eliot uses the opportunity to slide his other arm under Quentin’s neck and draw him into a full hug.

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he murmurs against Quentin’s forehead.

Quentin hums, sounding sleepy but pleased. “G’morning.”

“It really is,” Eliot says, then winces. “Christ that was sappy. Who am I? Who have you turned me into, Coldwater?”

“Dunno,” Quentin says. He arches his back, stretching his whole body, but makes no attempt to break out of Eliot’s grip. “I hope it’s someone who knows how to make us a new bed frame.”

“We can put that to the test today,” Eliot says. The pieces of their destroyed bed are piled in a corner, and maybe there’s a spell that can put them back together. Or maybe Eliot’s going to be teaching himself carpentry.

Quentin tilts his face up and Eliot kisses him slowly, taking his time, enjoying every scrape of stubble along his jaw, every soft millimeter of Quentin’s lips. His tongue slips into Quentin’s mouth, and Quentin makes a soft noise that Eliot can feel vibrate against his chest.

He pulls back for just a moment, grinning when Quentin leans in, trying to chase him. “Although if we gave up on having a bed frame and just kept the mattress on the floor, we’d be at no risk of fucking the new one to pieces as well.”

Quentin smiles at him, then in a blink his face goes nervous and then determined, like he’s made a decision. “Yeah,” he says, “but we’d also have no headboard for me to hold onto while I ride your dick, so, is that really a tradeoff you want to make?”

Yes, Eliot, you can kiss him absolutely breathless for saying that, holy fuck. You can roll him over, pin him down and press your dick against his thigh to show him exactly how much you don’t want to make that tradeoff. Quentin moans under him and presses up into Eliot’s touch. He’s getting hard against Eliot’s stomach, and he shivers deliciously when Eliot sneaks a hand between their bodies to stroke his hip, his inner thigh, everywhere except his dick.

“Is that what you want?” Eliot asks, when the last few blood cells not currently occupying his erection make their way around to his brain and he can speak again.

“God yes,” Quentin groans. He gets one leg out from under Eliot, hooks it over Eliot’s legs. The motion changes the angle, presses Quentin’s cock up against Eliot.

“You’re sure?” Eliot has to ask, just to check. He’s never had a guy who was just experimenting want this before, but Quentin is— something else. Quentin is inexplicable.

Quentin kisses him hard, fucks into Eliot’s mouth with his tongue, fuck. “Extremely fucking sure,” he says.

And Eliot has decided he’s not in the business of denying Quentin what he wants, either, so they rearrange, Quentin straddling Eliot’s hips. Eliot drinks in the sight of him: serious case of bedhead, dark pink nipples and light scatter of chest hair and gorgeous hard cock, strong arms and sturdy hands. He’s horribly torn between just keeping Quentin exactly where he is so he can truly look his fill, or pulling him down to kiss that beautiful, wet, panting mouth again.

Quentin makes the decision for him, planting his forearms on either side of Eliot’s head, trapping him in for another deep kiss. Quentin’s a biter, apparently, and Eliot moans when he catches Eliot’s lower lip between his teeth, then sucks on it, soothing away the sting. And while he does it he rocks his hips, sliding his crack against Eliot’s cock and Jesus fuck who is this man? Eliot should have trusted his very first impression, should have known that mouth and that ass could do incredible things.

“Have you done this before?” he asks when Quentin bends even further down to bite at Eliot’s throat, leaving his mouth free.

“Um,” Quentin says, and suddenly he’s the man Eliot knows again, a little nervous at totally straightforward questions. “Yeah, but it’s been a while. Like, a couple years maybe? So I’m, um. I’ll probably need a bunch of prep. Fingers, or, uh, tongue, if you want, I like that too.”

He’s the man Eliot knows, stammering and uncertain, and also not at all the man Eliot knows, asking Eliot to rim him the fucking third time they’re having sex, Jesus Christ. Eliot wants to do everything to him, and since Eliot wants it, he’ll do it. But today Quentin is grinding back against Eliot’s dick so fucking greedily, tonguing at Eliot’s nipples, and— there will be time for everything later.

“I will absolutely do that another day,” Eliot says, and Quentin lifts his head, looks confused. “But I am far too impatient right now. Sit back.” Quentin follows instructions, and as Eliot moves his hands through a series of tuts he hasn’t used in — well, certainly more than a year — his lovely face moves from confusion to understanding.

“Of course you know a fucking spell for this,” he mutters. “I should have expected— oh,” he breaks off, as Eliot finishes the spell. Eliot grins at him, knowing what he’s feeling: open and relaxed and slick. Eliot holds Quentin’s hips, slides him backwards just a bit, and he does slide, the lube Eliot’s just conjured inside him and over his entrance easing the way.

“All right?” Eliot asks.

Quentin slides his fingers into Eliot’s hair, kisses him hard. “El, fuck, get inside me,” he breathes into Eliot’s mouth and Eliot makes a strangled noise.

“You said you wanted to ride me,” he manages. “So this one’s on you, cowboy.”

He can feel Quentin’s grimace against his lips. “Jesus. No nicknames.” Quentin sits up, raises up on his knees, has to stretch a little higher to get Eliot’s dick all the way under him and lined up.

“No nicknames at all?” Eliot asks, to keep himself from just coming immediately at the sight of this. “So I can’t call you Q? Oh my god,” he gasps, as Quentin begins an agonizingly slow descent. Prep spell be damned, he’s tight, it’s fucking intense.

“You can call me Q,” Quentin says, unbelievably composed for someone who’s lowering himself onto a fat dick. He has done this before.

“How about baby?” Eliot asks. Quentin is most of the way down now and starting to shift up and down a tiny bit as he goes, not just one smooth stroke but fucking his way onto Eliot’s cock.

“Baby’s fine.”

“Darling?” Eliot asks, and grins as Quentin is momentarily speechless, settling all the way onto him, his mouth hanging open in a silent moan.

“Dramatic, but fine,” Quentin says after a moment. Eliot can feel his thighs relaxing as he adjusts to the stretch of Eliot’s cock inside him.

“Love?” Eliot asks, before he quite realizes what he’s saying.

Quentin stares at him, and Eliot’s terror at what just slipped out of his mouth falls away at the look in his eyes. Open, searching, curious. And whatever he’s searching for, he finds it in Eliot’s face, because he smiles a slow smile, cheeks dimpling, and bends himself in half so he can kiss Eliot without letting Eliot’s dick slide out of him even an inch.

By the time Quentin pulls back a little, Eliot is panting, his fingers are tangled in Quentin’s hair and his lips are tingling. Quentin smiles again, nuzzles Eliot’s face so the tips of their noses bump together.

“Works for me,” he says, “as long as I can call you that too.”