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“So it’s sex magic? Like the beacon spell Alice and I cast for Penny freshman year?”
Quentin’s propped up on a bar stool at the far end counter, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie, at the head of the little war counsel going on. Margo’s back from Fillory again, a new wrinkle in her fight against the Dark Prince having cropped up a couple of weeks ago. Apparently there’s some kind of bubble of temporal distortion keeping people from being able to access the capital city. Horomancy is a little, or a lot, outside of Eliot and Quentin’s expertise, but they’ve been trying to help as much as they can. They’d exhausted all avenues of research available to them outside the Library, however, and had eventually caved to calling in Kady for reinforcements. She arrived with an army of hedges, and an idea of how to punch a portal through the temporal distortion.
So, war council. Eliot’s propped up against the counter with his arm around Margo’s shoulders, and Quentin’s swinging his feet from the stool on the opposite side. Josh is... making a souffle? Eliot’s not entirely sure what he’s doing, or why he’s there besides that he’s usually within arms reach of Margo these days. The Hedge Pose’s taken up residence at the front of the counter, and spread out before them is one of the most convoluted spells Eliot’s ever seen. The circumstances required for the casters alone were wild.
“It’s more complicated than that,” Kady sighs, bracing her arms on the countertop in front of her. One of her hedge minions is making a constipated face which Eliot takes to mean ‘complicated’ is an understatement. “If it were just sex magic, any of you could do it. This spell needs to be performed by a married couple. Two Magicians, both skilled enough in cooperative casting that they can channel the energy of the spell together safely.”
“Well, fuck.” Margo leans a little into Eliot's side, and he rubs her shoulders soothingly.
“Anybody know any married Magicians?” he asks, looking around at the gathered faces.
“I barely know any Magicians,” Quentin says dryly, picking up one of the various scattered pieces of paper to look at it closer. “I’m more up on gods and monsters, these days.”
“Everyone I know is in Fillory, and not many of them cast,” Margo says dully.
Kady huffs out a sigh. “See, I know a lot of Magicians and witches, but none of them are married. It probably doesn’t say great things about our lifestyle, how few of us end up with any kind of stability.”
“I’ve only been in possession of my body for about 4 months, so a lot of my networking has fallen apart,” Eliot says glibly. This earns him a (very gentle) jab in the ribs from Margo, and an eye roll from Quentin, who’s still got his nose buried in parchment.
“I didn’t get the impression that the circles you ran in prior to that were exactly the married kind,” Katy quips, giving Eliot an impatient look.
“Excuse me, as the only person who’s actually been married at this table, I resent that.”
“You’re not,” Quentin says, putting down the paper he’d been reading with the obvious expression of someone who’s experiencing a lightbulb moment. “Eliot and I can cast the spell.”
There’s a moment of dead silence in the apartment, in which Eliot experiences the weirdest emotional journey of, well– this week, at least. There’s a spike of adrenaline, that gut-clench fear that always comes with any kind of wider examination of the concept of ‘Eliot and Quentin’ as a unit. With it comes the rush of memories, of a whole lifetime spent with someone, tying hands under a wedding arch, and years later having his own hand tied to Quentin’s. A little bubble of pride follows, because, well. Yeah. Quentin was his fucking husband, and that never really stopped making him giddy, in that other life. But–
But.
“I don’t think either of us is exactly married to anyone, anymore,” Eliot hedges, giving Quentin a sheepish look.
“I’m with Eliot on this,” Margo pipes up. “I know you two are all moony for each other now, and that’s great. We’re all highly enjoying trying not to watch you make out in the living room-”
“Bullshit, you’re definitely watching,” Quentin cuts in, and Margo gives him a dangerous grin.
“–but I don’t know if that counts.”
“The circumstances aren’t really clear,” Quentin says, picking up the paper to squint at it again. “I think we could fake it.”
“You can’t fake a marriage for magic, Quentin.”
“Bambi’s right, Q, I don’t know if this counts–” The withering look Quentin levels at him is enough to snap Eliot’s jaw shut. There’s a beat, two, three, of awkward silence.
“Okay, sounds like you two need to go figure out exactly how married you are,” Kady says brightly. “Which is not a conversation I want to have any part of so. Sort your shit out, then we’ll see if we can move forward with this.”
Quentin’s face is pinched, bitter as he hops off the stool, turning on his heel to make his way into their bedroom. Eliot, feeling chastised without even really knowing why, follows.
“Look, this isn’t me trying to– trivialize or down play that life again,” Eliot says, the moment the door swings shut behind him. Quentin’s standing at the foot of the bed, arms crossed over his stomach, looking surly. “Those memories mean the world to me, that life means the world to me, Q. But they’re just memories.”
“They happened!” Quentin snaps, and he’s– fucking waiting for Eliot to break his heart again, Eliot can see it, in every tense, miserable line in his body.
“I know it happened, baby.” For a second Eliot debates if walking closer to Q is a good idea, but he honestly can’t stand him looking so miserable. He reaches out, and Q lets him, lets him step in close, cup his neck, stroke his hair. “I know it happened, I know it was real, I promise that I’m not saying it doesn’t matter, or that it’s not a part of how I feel about you, because it is. But, Q, it didn’t happen to these bodies.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Quentin says hotly, and he’s reaching forward, curling his fists against Eliot’s vest. He’s tiny and furious and Eliot loves him.
“Doesn’t it? Because the man who you married never spent six months playing host to a god-killing monster. The man I married never looked into the faces of gods as they died. We’ve both got some PTSD to slog through that those men never dealt with. It doesn’t change the fact that I love you, but I feel like it might have some kind of fucking difference that a spell might pick up on.”
“Did you read the circumstances?” Quentin insists, and he’s just pushing into Eliot, pushing up to him like he can will his own certainty from his own body into Eliot’s if he just gets close enough. “The root of this spell is closer to secrets magic than anything physical. Which, like, might suck for us because we’re physical kids and psychic magic is like... fucking impossible, but. I think the spell is going to care more about the connection between our minds and souls than if our body’s have been married in this life.”
“Our minds and souls,” Eliot repeats, half incredulous and half... bowled over sideways by the slam of emotion that hits him. The enormity of this, this life-defining love, is still hard to process sometimes.
“Eliot, our love saved the world,” Quentin reminds him softly. “We finished the mosaic, and that meant Jane could get the key to make the time loops to stop the Beast. We created ourselves and this future with our love. Show me a single fucking psychic spell that is going to say that’s not enough.”
“Do you know how incredible your ability to believe in things is?” Eliot asks softly, tipping his forehead down until it’s resting against Q’s. Says ‘things’ and means ‘me.’
And maybe Q’s fucking on to something here, because he hears the double meaning. Sliding his arms around Eliot’s waist and holding on, he says, “I have a lifetime’s worth of experience backing me up, baby. It’s not a belief, it’s proof of concept.”
Eliot laughs weakly, feeling choked up. Every single turn since the mosaic has been met with Quentin’s stead-fast certainty. No matter what he says, Eliot can’t help but think that Q has more faith in him than he’s done anything to deserve. But if this isn’t an opportunity to be brave, when is?
“Okay, so. What happens if we try it and the spell doesn’t accept us?” Eliot asks, because he’d glanced at the papers with an academic kind of mild curiosity, not with an eye towards actually casting it. “Remember that whole ‘spellwork is not unlikely to murder you’ thing? What’s the cost of failure here?”
“I don’t know,” Quentin admits. He sighs and steps back, dragging his hands to rest on Eliot’s sides. “I think most likely just nothing happens, like with secrets magic. There’s no blood or other physical elements involved in the material components, so I don’t think it’ll hurt us physically.”
“Right,” Eliot scrubs a hand through his hair, and opts for honesty, because, well. He promised he’d be brave. And if they’re going to try this anyway, shouldn’t he stop holding on to secrets? “I almost didn’t pass the trials because of the secrets portion. Margo got it right out there, and I was just stuck. I couldn’t fucking open up until she started crying and it became about comforting her.”
Quentin laugh, exasperated and fond. “I almost didn’t get through it either. Alice and I got shitfaced and I was working so hard not to stare at her tits that I couldn’t even concentrate for the first half of it.”
“Great, we’re definitely the perfect candidates for this.”
“We’re not the same people we were in our Freshman years,” Quentin points out, and his eager, earnest face, Eliot’s going to fucking expire just from looking at him. “El, this is why the spell requires a married couple. I can be honest with you in ways I just can’t with anyone else.”
“Well, I suppose you have seen me covered in baby puke. What else have we got to hide, really?”
Quentin laughs, shakes his head a little. “Nothing at all.”
Eliot leans down to kiss him and Q pushes up into it, warm and soft and comforting. Q in his arms is like nothing else, and Eliot wants to keep kissing him, kiss him until everything feels simple and easy again. But there’s about eight hedge witches and Margo sitting in the living room watching Josh bake and waiting for them, so maybe now isn’t the best time.
“We’ll give it a try,” Quentin announces to the room at large when they emerge, leaning back into Eliot’s body. Like this, he just fits under Eliot’s chin, back to chest. Eliot wraps an arm around him, drawing comfort and strength from Quentin’s sturdy little frame.
“Great,” Kady says, “Confusing, don’t know how you two had time to elope with everything going on, but who am I to judge. So whoever you’re portaling in is gonna have to be ready to go before you start the spell, because once you uh- finish, there's like a 30 second window before the portal closes.”
“Sex magic is a real dose of reality, isn’t it,” Margo says cheerfully, hoping off her stool to come over to them. “If this works, I claim best man spot for your vow renewal and none of the responsibilities there in. I can’t reclaim a kingdom and manage groomzilla Eliot at the same time.”
“I literally just got him to wind down, why are you doing this to me,” Quentin whines, and Eliot would be offended, except he had felt a prickle of fear at her words.
“Again, I think I’ve been married more times than anyone else in this room. I’ve been married like 2 and a half times.”
“We know you’re a slut, baby,” Margo says fondly and grabs Q’s shoulder to leverage herself up to kiss Eliot’s cheek. “You just go about it in weird ways.”
“Serial monogamist, that’s me,” Eliot mutters, and Quentin has the gall to actually laugh at him.
__
The physical components for the spell are easy to come by, some oils and dried herbs, some iron filings sprinkled around the entry point for the portal, and weirdly, roasted almonds.
“These are gonna smell like shit when we light them,” Quentin grumbles, from where he’s assembling the material bowl.
“We’ve cast spells with actual shit,” Eliot points out, and snickers at Quentin’s cute pinched little face. “Okay, so. Logistics issue. This spell is like... not socially advanced enough to assume that same sex partners might be married, therefore pretty much has a tab-A, slot-B kind of thing going on. And there’s not really time once we start casting to like... prep.” He finishes lamely, gesturing at Q in some vague way that makes Quentin snicker.
“I love that you’re assuming you’ll be fucking me.”
“We’re doing this together because I know you, Baby Q, remember?”
“Yeah,” Quentin says happily. He turns once he’s finished sprinkling the dill into the bowl, coming over to climb onto the bed next to Eliot. He looks down at the papers spread out in front of them, and then over at the notebook in Eliot’s hand, where he’s been figuring the specific circumstances. “Jesus, this spell is ridiculous.”
“It is,” Eliot agrees, leaning into Quentin’s side, burying his nose in Q’s hair for a moment just because he smells nice today, like shampoo and Q. “I also don’t think we can have any kind of substance not a part of the spell involved, so like... silicon lube is out.”
“So you’re going to have to prep me before hand, and also not with the good lube,” Quentin repeats back, crinkling his nose. “So what, we’ve just gotta use the oils from the spell?”
“Almond oil is body safe,” Eliot says thoughtfully, ignoring the amused look Quentin gives him. “Look, sometimes I know things for mundane reasons, okay?”
“Is this one of those times?”
“... No.”
Quentin snickers. With a thoughtful little hum, he reaches over for the notebook, which Eliot passes over to him. “So we’re basically going to have to stop in the middle and text Margo to be ready, and then start the spell.”
“I mean, if you want to like... prep yourself, you can. I won’t be offended. This is really more for the outcome than for the pleasure of it.”
“Do you remember what cooperative casting feels like?” Quentin points out, and when he turns his face to look up at Eliot, they’re inches apart. Eliot can feel Q’s breath on his lips. “The way it makes every nerve ending on your body hypersensitive? You think this isn’t going to be a pleasurable experience?”
Eliot swallows. “I, um. Hadn’t thought about that. Jesus, I forgot you’ve done sex magic.”
Quentin shrugs, and then kisses him once, soft and sweet. “I don’t want to start it myself. I want to share this with you. All of it. That spell might have been the best sex I ever had with Alice. Though– I’m not entirely sure it wasn’t because she was telling me what to do the whole time, upon reflection.”
“Oh, Q,” Eliot sighs, delighted, feeling a desperate surge of love. “The things you never knew to know about yourself, it’s a shame, really.”
This earns him an eyeroll, but he chooses to ignore that.
It isn’t the most romantic start to sex he’s ever had, or the most erotic, really. Eliot doesn’t mind, they’re doing this for a purpose, and there’s a unique kind of thrill that comes with the easy intimacy of this. Quentin’s a little awkward as he strips naked, but he’s always a little awkward, that’s just the makeup of him. He’s not shy, however, not ashamed or nervous with his body around Eliot, not anymore. It’s practical, but it’s also special, the ease of this. Eliot watches him from where he’s sitting on the bed, stripped down to his own underwear and button up shirt, hanging open on his chest.
Q camblers up onto the bed once he’s naked, a little gawky and unsure of his limbs, but he gets settled straddling Eliot’s lap, and grins at him. “Hi,” he says brightly, and Eliot’s helpless heart turns over. A hundred lifetimes with you wouldn’t be enough, he thinks, and reaches up to cup his hands around Quentin’s sides, running up and down the smooth skin.
“Hello,” he replies, probably more than a little dopey, and Q’s smile turns small and private. Eliot watches his dimples with hopeless reverence, reaching up to brush his thumb against one.
“Can you reach like this?” Q asks, wiggling his hips a little like that’s somehow supposed to clarify his meaning.
“Yeah, baby, I can reach,” Eliot murmurs, tipping forward to brush their noses together.
Straddling him, up on his knees like this, Q is almost the same height as Eliot. Quentin hums, a pleased little sound, and Eliot chases it. He catches Quetin’s lovely mouth for a kiss, hot and slick and wanting. Q’s hands flail around for a moment, then find purchase on the open sides of Eliot’s shirt, holding on as Eliot cups his neck and kisses. This is always so good, 50 years once and 4 months now, and Eliot’s never gotten tired of this because Q fucking loves being kissed.
He’s also never gotten tired of the soft, surprised way Quentin moans when Eliot slides his first finger in. It’s like he’s still fucking startled by it, surprised that he can feel pleasure this way, or any way, like his body’s not used to feeling good. The smell of almond oil is new though, and vaguely interesting, though the oil is thinner than Eliot would like.
“You fucking hands,” Q moans, his own hands coming loose from Eliot’s shirt, one moving up to tangle in Eliot’s curls, the other bracing on his shoulder so Q can get some leverage to ride back.
“Fuck, look at you,” Eliot breathes, because he can’t stop looking at Quentin, the way his head keeps dropping back when Eliot brushes against his prostate, the way he gasps when Eliot slides in another finger. And, hell, Quentin’s getting hard from this, even though that’s not the point yet, even though he can’t come yet. He just loves it so much. “You look so good, baby. God, you love this.”
“Yeah, asshole, I do,” Quentin replies, half-laughing, tipping forward until he’s leaning most of his weight into Eliot. Eliot snakes his free arm around Q to hold him, brace him up. “You know you’re good at this.”
“Mm,” Eliot hums, because well. He’s still himself. But– “Better with you, though.” If Quentin shivers a little at that, no one’s going to mention it.
Eliot takes his time, as much as he can, given that he can’t aim to work Q up that much right now. The point really is just to get him ready for the spell, no matter how much he’s enjoying the process. But there’s no such thing as too much prep, in Eliot’s personal opinion, and the almond oil really isn’t the best lube option in the world. It’s a little too thin and runny, but at least it isn’t going tacky or drying out.
“Are you okay to pause?” Eliot asks, because Quentin really seems to be feeling it, and just... yanking out feels cruel.
“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, gets a grip on Eliot’s shoulders and breathes through it as Eliot pulls his fingers free. “Okay, so, text Margo and let her know it’s almost go-time yeah?”
“You text Margo,” Eliot grumbles. “My hands are all lubey.”
Quentin’s a little shaky, a little clingy, tucking himself into Eliot’s side next to the ritual bowl once Eliot’s finished stripping off the remainder of his clothes. He’s messing with his phone and snorts, holding it up to Eliot so he can see Margo’s reply. Eggplant, peach, waterdrops.
“I guess she’s ready to go,” Quentin says dryly.
They stand next to each other in front of the metal bowl, and Quentin (the receiving partner, fucking stupid hetero magic) strikes a match, dropping it into the bowl. They start the tut together as the flames lick across the herbs in the bowl, hands moving in mirror with each other, and oh–
Oh, Eliot can tell right away that the spell is going to work. The magic catches and takes hold, that heady sparkly buzz of cooperative magic that’s a high like no other. They turn to each other, hands coming to rest palm to palm, leaving Eliot looking down at Quentin’s excited, eager face.
Coming together with a kiss is easy, the familiar made new by the swell of magic settling between them. It’s not releasing, it’s just growing, channeled through their bodies and staying there. Every single nerve ending feels lit up, crackling, and when Q opens his mouth, inviting, Eliot grips him close and takes. Moans, when Quentin sucks on his tongue, because every single inch of his skin feels almost unbearably sensitive.
They tumble back onto the bed, and it’s only familiarity and ease with each other that keeps it from going sideways into painful disaster. But they make it, and Eliot finds himself cradled in against Q’s hips, held between his open thighs. Fuck, Eliot wants to be inside him, inside, inside–
Magic crests between them, and there’s a moment where it’s blindingly bright, it’s all Eliot can feel, and then that inside, inside, inside need rise up again, except it’s different, it’s something different, he’s not quite sure until he feels– bright and shuddering and undeniably familiar, the edges of Quentin’s mind–
“What the hell,” Eliot gasps, and he feels– he feels the confusion and curiosity and excitement coming off of Quentin where that tendril of conscious thought is curled up against the edge of Q’s brighthotwetlovely mind, wanting– inside, inside, inside.
“I didn’t know,” Quentin gaps, and Eliot can feel his body arch and his mind open, blooming– “Baby, please. I want to– Please, Eliot, give me. I need you inside me, I need. Every way I can have you–”
Eliot can feel it, that radiating need, hunger pouring off of Quentin where the edges of their minds are pushed together. It’s almost to easy, to sink his body into Q’s where he’s hot and wet and ready, and to curl that tendril of thought against him, push in just a little and feel Q yield–
Inside, inside, inside–
Inside Quentin’s mind, they mix together through his feelings, his excitement and elation and love, so much love. Oh god, how could Eliot for one second have doubted this, when Quentin is so full of love it’s practically spilling out of him? There’s hurt too, fear and anger and sadness, memories of a grey emptiness Eliot’s seen from the outside but never felt himself.
Come see me, Quentin invites, open, reaching, pulling Eliot deeper inside, and it feels–
He thinks his body’s probably still fucking, but he can’t really tell, when the feeling of behing inside another mind like this is so overwhelming. Q, who’s been brave and open with Eliot so long, welcomes him into every single recess of his mind. It’s overwhelming, it’s terrifying, it’s so much–
Don’t be scared, Quentin thinks, and Eliot burrows deeper, curling around the warmth of him. The radiating love takes on a comforting edge, like a hug, a petting hand, Quentin’s patience with Eliot’s fear.
Understand me, Eliot practically begs, and it’s– it’s an act of bravery on the scale he’s never managed before, opening up his own mind in return, inviting Quentin inside, showing him–
All the ugly pieces.
Tendrils of Quentin seep into him, and Eliot tries to show him, help him see: a whole life of never really being seen. Other people’s perceptions blocking the way, until Eliot was old enough and smart enough and tempered enough to wield their assumptions like a weapon, wear camp like armor and indifference like a shield.
Quentin carefully handles all of it, the softness of his thought as he filters through years of using sex and drugs and booze and magic and more sex and more drugs just to try to find some moment of clarity– a single instant of genuine human connection. Warmth radiates into him when Quentin sifts through the memories of Bambi, the first person to really see–
I understand, and memory blooms of Quentin and Julia, little and giddy with childish excitement, staring up at the underside of a table, older and pushed apart by magic and brought back together by magic but still the only person who Quentin knows will follow him on a quest no matter what and that love is familiar, Eliot knows it–
The wisps of Quentin in his mind brush against something tender and painful, something raw, and he can feel the moment Quentin goes to pull back. Not pushing. Not hurting. Eliot– finds Quentin’s own bravery, and pulls it into himself and opens his mind and shows–
Mike– eyes blue with the Beast, power flowing through Eliot’s fingers in battle magic he barely knows, as he slices through the first person who Eliot thought maybe might– and then Idri, a political alliance but maybe a chance at a life that might actually be something except– then Quentin, standing arms folded and saying I stay with the Monster.
The surety of the knowledge that, when presented with any other choice, no one of sound mind would ever chose Eliot–
I chose you, Quentin’s mind pushes You idiot, I always choose you when you let me into his mind as Eliot pushes into his body and welcomes his mind as Quentin’s body welcomes his body and–
The spell, building between them, bursts outwards, magic spilling wild and reckless into the universe as they twine together, mind and body and soul. They come, they must, as the spell releases, but Eliot’s not present for it, not when he has bare few moments left with this open connection and how am I supposed to go back to being just me when I’ve been us?
Quentin’s thought curls with Eliot’s thought and he just feels love, and understanding, and joy cycling between them. Can you feel how much I love you too? he wonders.
Yes, and he feels it, Quentin’s wonder at it. Holds on to it as long as he can until their minds start to slip apart, as the spell fades, a lasting impression of sweet, sad, loving, loyal Quentin embedded forever on his heart.
He feels oddly bereft, lonely inside his own mind for a moment, until Quentin kisses him, soft and sweet and open and Eliot–
Knows him. Loves him. Oh, what a thing to share with someone.
But they’re both sweaty and sticky with come and almond oil and Eliot’s arms are too weak to hold him up at the moment so he’s kind of squashing Q. With what remaining strength he has, he rolls off, rolls over onto his back next to Q on the bed.
“Holy shit,” Eliot says, because what else do you say in a moment like this? Thank you for letting me literally fuck your mind? Eliot swallows, and clings to the feeling of closeness still floating through him. “That felt– I don’t know what I was expecting, but it was not that. Penny incepting us never worked like that.”
“I get why the spell needed to be– Anyone else, and that would have felt like a violation.”
Eliot rolls his head over to look at Q, who’s staring up at the ceiling. His hair is damp at the temples with sweat, profile beautifully silhouetted by the light seeping through the blinds. “But not with me?” Eliot asks, just because he needs to be sure.
Quentin’s head tips over towards him, catching his eye. A small smile breaks on his lips, and he’s rolling over, tucking himself into Eliot’s side so they’re face to face. “Not with you,” he confirms. “With you it was– incredibly special.” Fuck, what did Eliot ever do to deserve this, to deserve something so warm and pure and good. He reaches up to gently brush Q’s short hair off his face, and keeps touching him just because he can.
“I think I’m going to marry you for real some day,” he whispers, because his chest feels too full, like he’s still bleeding magic out into the world.
The stunned look on Quentin’s face is worth it, worth the ache of vulnerability. Then he smiles, dimples tugging at the corners of his mouth. How lucky am I, to be the person who makes you happy. “Are you proposing?”
Eliot scoffs. “My dear Q, when I propose, you will know.”
“Mmm,” Quentin hums, soft and sleepy, dropping his cheek to rest on Eliot’s chest. “I look forward to it.”