Archive of Our Own ^beta

The thing about owning a sex toy shop is that you see all kinds of people. Stone tops and Daddies, bratty subs and switches, vanilla couples trying new things and single folks looking to help themselves. Eliot knows better than to make assumptions about preferences, but he's still pretty good at reading people.

So when he sees the buttoned up blonde with hair straightened within an inch of its life and the most severe baby doll dress Eliot's ever seen being followed around by a shy looking little nerd with nervous hands, it's easy to make assumptions. Shy little nerd is looking around the shop with a kind of nervous fascination which is just delicious, but girlfriend powers directly over to the kink gear, and Eliot's drawing easy conclusions, but come on. Who can blame him?

They linger in the corner for a little while while Eliot checks out a college age girl buying a bullet vibe, and they're still there after he explains the difference between water based and silicone lube to a customer with they/them pronoun pins and blue hair. He's just making his way over to them to offer his advice to Girlfriend on the best way to make her little nerd cry when he's finally close enough to hear their conversation.

"You’re supposed to be in charge here, Quentin. You should pick what we buy!"

Oh, that's not going to work, Eliot thinks, biting down on a startled laugh. But he's a professional, and greets them pleasantly, and listens to Girlfriend talk over Quentin as she explains that they're trying something new and how she wants him to be more aggressive. Quentin, who is possibly the cutest thing Eliot's ever seen, looks like he wouldn't know what to do with aggressive if he met it down a dark alley. Mostly he looks like he really wants to do whatever will make Girlfriend happy, which. There's no way this is going to work.

Still, Eliot's got a shop to run, and passing judgments on other people's relationships doesn't keep the doors of Hard Times open so. He sells them a blindfold which is way overpriced for what is essential a sleep mask and a set of starter handcuffs and wishes them well. Quentin gives him the shyest little smile, and just ever so slightly checks him out, eyes lingering on Eliot's mouth and the stretch of his throat in the open neck of his button up.

Fuck. Not fair.

"It's not fair. I could top him so good," he says to Margo later, lounging regally across a stack of sex swing boxes.

"Girls can top too," Margo shoots back. "Do yourself a favor and keep me from punching you in the balls by stacking those boxes, won't you, sugar tits?"

"I know girls can top," he huffs. As if he hasn't been on his knees for her, both in demos and in private. Still. "The point is that she's not going to. I'm pining, Bambi."

"Pine productively," she says dangerously, and he sighs, sliding off the boxes to help with inventory.

Eliot isn’t hard up for options of attractive people looking to sleep with him, wasn’t even before he opened a sex shop, and the avenues had only gotten wider from there. Generally, he considers himself to be living his best switch life. So what if a pretty boy made his heart skip? He had Margo, and he had his store, and he had another pretty boy waiting around the corner. Putting Quentin from his mind was easy with Idri pushing Eliot down on his knees or with Javier begging to be tied up and fucked.

Pining didn’t last long, especially when Eliot never expected to see Quentin again.

Which is why it comes as a surprise, a month later, when Quentin appears back into the store right before closing. He’s still got that look of wide-eyed terrified curiosity going on, but somehow he’s even cuter that Eliot’s rosey memory of him. His hair, which had been long enough to pull up into a bun at the back of his head, is shorter now, framing his face and inviting hands to grab and pull on it–

Or maybe that’s just Eliot’s healthy imagination.

“Quentin!” He says brightly, because he is excellent at customer service, thank you very much. He knows his regulars, the people who turn up for weekly demos regularly and swing by to talk kink, ask advice, get put in touch with other people. It’s community service, really, that’s why he remembers this particular customer.

Damn, he used to be better at lying to himself.

Quentin startles, like a spooked little foal. Adorable. But he bee-lines it over to the counter, and Eliot puts down his phone immediately, ready to give his undivided attention. Maybe Quentin had more switch in him than expected, and is back to buy something new to surprise his girlfriend. (Ari? Alice? Anna? Something like that.)

“Hi, um, Eliot, right?” Quentin asks, once he’s up at the edge of the counter.

“That’s me,” Eliot says cheerfully, tapping the badge clipped to the pocket of his vest which reads ‘Eliot, he/him, co-owner.’ “What can I do to help you out this evening?”

So maybe he’s laying it on a little thick, but fuck Quentin’s cute. He bites his lip shyly, and Eliot’s insides wriggle pleasantly. It looks like a good lip for biting. He’d like to find out.

“So, um, okay,” Quentin starts, rambling already, hands full of nervous energy, and god Eliot wants to tie him to something and make him be still. “Listen, I know the answer to this is probably ‘no’ but I figured I’d ask anyway. Can I return the stuff I bought last time I was here?”

Of all the thing Eliot had been expecting him to say, that was not one of them. “Have they been opened?”

“Well, yeah, but we never– We opened the packages, and then like– immediately started fighting, and didn’t stop for like three days, and then we broke up. So like– the packages are opened, but that’s literally it.”

There are several very interesting facts in that stream of thought, but Quentin’s not paying attention to Eliot as he digs into his messenger bag, bringing out the blindfold and the handcuffs. They are, indeed, set inside open packaging, though the handcuffs are still in the stiff plastic formfited around them to hold them in place.

“I’m sorry, we can’t take things back if they’re open,” Eliot says brightly, trying not to laugh as Quentin’s face falls.

"But they're not even..." Eliot watches him struggle with the word 'penetrative' in an adorably repressed kind of way, before he settles on: "They haven't even been used. Just opened."

"Nope," Eliot says cheerfully, because Quentin is adorable and Eliot needed that in his day. "Sorry, friend, places like this basically exist on reputation, and our reputation for not being skeezy kind of relies on not selling lightly used sex toys."

"Yeah, that makes sense," Quentin says, and he sounds so defeated Eliot kind of feels bad.

“You can always hold on to them,” Eliot says, gently, because the items in question are pretty vanilla, as kink gear went. Not something that was likely to scare off a future partner. “Never know who you’re going to meet or what they’ll be into.”

“I don’t think I’m into this,” Quentin says, and there’s something in his voice that catches Eliot’s interest. Something almost pleading. Like he wants to be told he’s wrong.

“Oh, honey,” Eliot says, absolutely and totally failing to avoid using his Daddy voice because this guy is just– He’s just so fucking cute. “Just because you don’t want to tie up your girlfriend doesn’t mean you can’t make use of the toys. Have you ever thought about trying it the other way around?”

Quentin’s expressive face goes on an extremely vivid and open journey starting at no I haven’t and ending at oh fuck that’s hot. His eyes flick down to Eliot’s mouth again, and Eliot grins, can’t help himself. Gotcha. “Um,” Quentin starts, still kind of staring at Eliot’s mouth. Then he seems to shake himself out of it, pink blush staining his cheeks as he quickly looks elsewhere in the store. “I don’t even know how I would– I mean– would I be good at that?”

He glances back over at Eliot, looking up under his lashes, and it’s gotta be intentional. No one can be this perfectly, flirtatiously submissive and not know. “I don’t think that’s for me to tell you,” Eliot hears himself say, even as his brain screams yes, yes, you’d be so good, let me show you. “I think that’s something you need to figure out for yourself.”

Quentin’s nose wrinkles up in response, adorable. “How am I supposed to do that?”

What a set up, honestly.

There’s a moment of potential, where possibilities stretch out before them. Eliot could give him a flyer stashed behind the desk for the next Kink 101 class, or point him to a couple helpful informational websites with useful tips. Or–

“I’m closing up the store in 20 minutes,” he says, because fuck it. What’s the point of life if not to be a little bit slutty? “I live a couple of blocks away, I could– help you figure it out.”

“What– really?” Quentin asks, disbelieving, like he’s got no fucking idea how delicious he is in his worn-soft looking jeans that hug his thighs and his soft flippy hair. “I mean– yes! Really?”

God. Fucking cute.

He’s also, Eliot learns approximately 35 minutes later, incredibly eager. They’re barely through Eliot’s front door before Quentin’s crowding into his space and touching the panels of his vest, palming along his sides and tilting his face up, up, up with those big brown eyes and soft pink mouth– he sighs when Eliot kisses him, and hums when Eliot cups the back of his neck, moving his head thoughtlessly so his jaw falls open, all sweet and wet. Both hands on his throat, Eliot backs him up into the door, pinning Quentin’s solid, dense little body to the surface, which earns him a moan and Quentin’s lips opening more, sweetwethot inviting–

“Fuck,” Eliot pants, when he needs to stop fucking his tongue into the sweet open spread of Quentin’s mouth so he doesn’t pass out.

“You’re so tall,” Quentin groans, fingers twisting in the fabric of Eliot’s vest as he pushes up on his toes, dragging their mouths, noses, mouths mouths together through heavy breathes. “Oh, god, I like that. It’s been a while since I’ve been with a guy.”

That makes something hot and possessive and animal curl in Eliot’s stomach, the ridiculous desire to do it better than the last guy who kissed Quentin against a door. Which– is probably dumb, but Eliot’s animal brain is so much more interested in petting his hands under the sides of Quetin’s shirt where the skin on his hips is velvet-soft and warm. “I’m supposed to be showing you something,” Eliot reminds him, mouthing at Quentin’s lower lip and then the scratchy line of his jaw, the sweet-hot expanse of his throat. Tongue flat against skin, Quentin tastes salty and rough and he smells like boy and it’s making Eliot’s dick so fucking hard–

“Oh, god,” Quentin groans, going loose limbed and pliant as Eliot sets his teeth into Quentin’s skin. “Show me whatever you want.”

Catching Quentin’s hand, Eliot takes it, tugs it down. Flattens Quentin’s palm against the front of his trousers, so he can feel, so Eliot can grind against it. “What about that? Can I show you that?”

“Oh, Jesus.” Quentin nod vigorously, jolting Eliot off his neck in the process. “Yeah, yeah, I wanna see, fuck. You feel huge, fuck, Eliot.”

Which is very gratifying, honestly. But Eliot’s in control of himself enough to remember there’s a plan here. A plan which should not end with them just grinding against his front door until they both come in their pants like 14 year olds, though that does– making Quentin come in his pants does sound fun. Make him come in his pants until he’s all messy and wet and loose and relaxed, and then just... work him open, slow, until Eliot can just... fit inside... mmm, delicious.

Except, no.

Plan.

“You know, I do have a bed,” Eliot breathes, and then– gets distracted sliding his tongue into Quentin’s hotwetsweet mouth again, until Quentin sucks on it, and Eliot’s knees almost buckle.

“How boujee of you,” Quentin replies, and Eliot’s confused for a hot second about what that’s supposed to mean, until he remembers what he said.

“Wanna see it?”

“Mmmhm,” Quentin hums, and gives Eliot’s cock a friendly little squeeze.

And well, Eliot had meant the bed that time, but– that works too.

They strip naked on the way to the bedroom, a total cliche that Eliot will regret in the mornings when he finds his shirt creasing near the ottoman or whatever, but now he won’t complain about all the soft warm skin under his hands. Quentin’s thin chest and surprisingly hairy arms are so fucking lovely to touch, his dusky pink nipples pebbled to hard points in the cool air of the room as he falls to sit on the foot of the bed. It leaves him with an eye level view of Eliot unbuckling his belt, opening his pants. The feeling of being watched, the hungry look in Quentin’s eye, makes Eliot’s skin feel tight with heat, sweat prickling on the back of his neck and the base of his spine.

Quentin licks his lips as Eliot pushes his trousers down.

“Fuck,” Quentin breathes, eyes fixed on Eliot’s cock as he reaches down to stroke it lightly, just enough to send little shivers of pleasure crawling up his spine. “Eliot– I want to– can I suck it?”

“Hmmm,” Eliot hums. Grins. “How bad do you want it?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Quentin breathes with a chuckle, cheeks staining red in a beautiful flush, but he meets Eliot’s eyes, steady. Brave, god, he’s brave. “My mouth is fucking watering, asshole.”

Well. Fuck. Power tightens at the base of Eliot’s spine, and he reaches out, brushing the tips of his index and middle finger against the sweet soft swell of Quentin’s lower lip. “Show me, baby,” he says, soft but– it’s that Daddy voice again, and this is the first real test here. Will Quentin like this? Will he be able to let go, let Eliot give him this?

His cheeks burn, but his mouth falls open for Eliot’s fingers. And god, his mouth is watering, hot and slick as his velvety tongue trails the seam of Eliot’s fingers. “Good boy,” Eliot beathes, and god, fuck, his voice sounds rough, scraped over. Quentin shivers visibly, and yeah, yeah, fuck yeah. Eliot was so right about him, this right here– this is proof of concept. “You wanna suck my cock? How about this, baby? I’m gonna use those handcuffs you bought and put your hands behind your back. Are you okay with that?”

Quentin hums, nodding a little around Eliot’s fingers, be he doesn’t pull off. If anything, he pushes forward deeper, harder, more, until the tips of Eliot’s fingers are sliding along the back of his tongue. His eyelashes flutter, beautiful, beautiful smudges of darkness, making his eyes look huge. God, he’s not even fucking– wearing eyeliner or mascara or anything, he just looks like this. Eliot reaches out with his free hand, brushing along the thin skin under Quentin’s eye, touching the creases in the corners.

“I’m not going to use your blindfold, though,” Eliot breathes, entranced, watching close enough to see the flicker of disappointment in Quentin’s dark eyes. Eliot grins. “I sell them, but I don’t like using them. It’s a little bit of possessiveness, maybe, but– I’d like to see you wrapped in something of mine instead. A tie or a scarf– okay baby?”

This time Quentin does pull off, leaving Eliot’s fingers feeling cold, damp with his spit. Eliot misses the hot-wetness of his mouth, even as Quentin swallows and says– “I’d like that.”

And oh, it is a treat, isn’t it, to wrap royal blue silk around Quentin’s head. His hair is fine and silky under Eliot’s hands, and he shivers when Eliot touches it. Rolls his head into Eliot’s hand like an over-eager cat, asking to be stroked, petted. Soft, short, silky brown hair, that Eliot smoothes carefully down before knotting the blindfold at the back of his head. Some boys like it when you catch their hair, like the tug of it, and Eliot suspects Quentin might as well but... he finds himself wanting to take more care than that.

“How’s that feel,” Eliot asks, murmurs really, where he’s sitting next to Quentin on the bed, one hand cupping the back of Quentin’s head, the other just– stroking, gently, under the blue silk. Across his cheekbone.

“Um. Not sure yet?”

“I mean, is it too tight,” Eliot rephrases, smiling to himself a little because Quentin can’t see him and he’s feeling, suddenly, a kind of desperate kind of affection. God, this isn’t really going how he’d pictured, he’d had notions of looping Quentin’s hands to the headboard and railing him until he was screaming, and now he finds himself– gently–

–guiding–

–Quentin down to his knees, in between the stretch of Eliot’s spread thighs.

“Hands behind your back,” Eliot prompts, and Quentin does, breathes out a shaky breath but laces his fingers together just above the curve of his ass. Positioned like they are, Eliot has to bend over him to get the cuffs in place, but it’s– it’s doable, because Quentin’s so small, isn’t he, really? He tucks into the curve of Eliot’s body so well. His nose brushes against Eliot’s collarbone, slides down his sternum as Eliot gently rearranges his wrists into the cuffs, but Quentin’s– tilting his head. Putting his mouth there instead, on the skin at the edge of Eliot’s pec, trailing up with hot, wet, open mouthed kisses.

“You smell good,” Quentin breathes, and Eliot shivers, god, his voice, he sounds– far away. “You smell amazing, Eliot.”

Eliot just hums, sitting back onto the edge of the bed with one hand cupping the back of Quentin’s skull, the other petting– his throat, the hinge of his jaw, his pretty neck. Eliot watches him test the restraints, come to terms with the fact that his hands are bound and he can’t see, how– helpless, that makes him. He breathes out a shaky breath, turning his face in towards Eliot’s wrist.

“I’m here,” Eliot cooes, and it takes everything in him not follow that up with Daddy’s here. Because that probably would scare Quentin right off, wouldn’t it? “I’ve got you. I’m going to take care of you.”

Quentin just... shudders, with his whole body, unspooling a little under Eliot’s hands. “Okay, yeah. Okay,” he whispers, barely audible, face tipped up towards Eliot. Then: “Can I please suck your cock now?”

“So polite,” Eliot murmurs, pleased, brushing his wandering hand against the corner of Quentin’s mouth. “Yes, of course you can, baby. You’re being so good for me.”

Quentin whimpers, shifting restlessly on his knees, and Eliot can see his cute little cock, hard and getting wet at the tip between his legs. God, okay, god. Cock as a reward for good behavior, noted. Eliot can work with that. Quentin’s lips are pretty, soft and red from kissing, and when Eliot brushes his thumb against the corner of his mouth, they part, just a little.

“Open,” Eliot coaxes, heat crawling through his whole body with the headiness of this power, fuck– Eliot loves this. Quentin’s jaw falls open, tongue coming to rest all softpinkwet against his lower lip, and Eliot’s dick jerks, god. Christ above, this boy. “Good, sweet boy, you’re doing so good.”

One hand still– twisting, ever so slightly, in the soft flippy hair at the back of Q’s neck, as Eliot takes a hold of his own cock with the other. Pushing his hips forward as he pulls Quentin in, gently easing the head of his cock on to Quentin’s tongue, feeding it to him slow and– hot. Quentin moans, vibration singing up the length of Eliot's cock, making his balls clench and his nipples go tight, and–

"That's– shit. That's it, baby," Eliot murmurs, as Quentin sinks forward, mouth just– wet, so wet, eager and sweet and when Eliot's hips hitch up on their own accord, Quentin takes it, and– shivers, under Eliot's hands.

It’s– oh. It’s so good.

Quentin pliant, easy, responsive under Eliot’s hands, as they settle into his hair. He looks like a fucking vision, beauitful boy between Eliot’s knees, mouth stretched wide around the fat head of Eliot’s cock, just– waiting, open. Open and– messy, just fucking– drooling all over Eliot’s dick, really, all over himself, but he’s– moaning. And Eliot can’t not lift his hips up, chase the hot wet inside of Quentin’s mouth. Working through it sends sweat prickling along his spine, in his hair. Quentin’s– messy and eager and not exactly skilled but he also seems pretty thoroughly in control of his gag reflex, even as he lets go over everything else.

And that, fuck, that makes Eliot want to push. It means changing the angle a little, but he can nudge Quentin’s shoulders down and his head back until the column of his throat is stretched out more and Quentin let’s him. Just, sucks needily at Eliot’s cock and let’s himself be move just right so Eliot can push in deeper and nudge, ever so gently, into the back of Quentin’s throat. It’s– fucking heaven, it’s hot and wet and tight and Quentin’s not swallowing because he apparently knows what he’s doing in regards to deepthroating but it’s still– fucking direct pressure, stimulation right on the head of Eliot’s cock and Eliot’s going to lose his mind.

Cupping his palm, gentle, over the span of Quentin's throat, Eliot can feel the slide of his dick inside and that's just– everything is so fucking wet, Quentin face and his throat and Eliot's cock and Quentin's cock, leaking steadily down onto Eliot's fucking hardwood floors in a quiet drip, drip, drip. It's so messy, sloppy really, and it's driving Eliot fucking insane. This sweet boy, loose, pliant in Eliot's hands, trusting, hands behind his back and blue silk standing out against the pretty red flush of his cheeks. Quentin is gorgeous. He's a fucking wet dream, a picture of exactly the kind of sweet submissive men that make Eliot feel– wild–

"I'm gonna come down your throat, baby boy," Eliot cooes, rubbing his thumb right against the side of Quentin's throat, right where he can feel the movement of his– own cock–

Quentin just moans, can't say anything, probably couldn't even if his throat wasn't stuffed full of dick, he's so pliant, so blissed out, so loose and trusting, so good for me–

Orgasm hits like a wave spreading outwards from Eliot's core out to the very tips of his fingers, tingles he can feel a crossed his scalp. Quentin takes it like a champ, mostly, until the very end. Then he jerks against Eliot's hands, pulling off to cough when Eliot let's go of him immediately. The last streak of Eliot's come hits his chin, instead, and that's just–

"Come here," Eliot croaks, before he's even got his breath back, tucking his hands under Quentin’s armpits and helping him stumble up, blind on half-numb legs, onto Eliot's lap. He can't balance, not really, with his shoulders and arms still pulled back by the cuffs on his wrists, so Eliot just winds his arms tight around Quentin’s torso and just– keeps him close. Presses Quentin’s entire hot little body against him, messy and wet as his cock drags over Eliot's stomach and he– whimpers, as Eliot licks the streak of his own come off Quentin’s chin. Feeds it to him, gently, on his own tongue.

The sound Quentin makes is high and punched out, rutting forward against Eliot's stomach, squirming in Eliot's lap. "Eliot– mmh, fuck– pl– oh," Quentin moans, when Eliot finally gives him the use of his mouth back.

"Want to come?" Eliot asks, and fuck his own cock hurts, twitching, trying valiently to get hard against even though he can't, because this boy, this boy– "Yeah, come on me, baby, get me wet."

Quentin comes with a strangled little cry, and Eliot hates, for the first time, that he can't see his eyes. God, he's probably... Fucking beautiful, when he comes. Hot liquid hits Eliot’s stomach, smearing through the hair as Quentin works himself through it with tiny little half-thrusts.

He collapses forward, like a puppet with all his strings cut, once he's done, spent across Eliot’s stomach. He’s– shivery, a loose pile of limbs and warm boy, and Eliot’s stomach clenches. Careful to make sure he’s still got a secure hold of him, he tucks Quentin’s head down into the crook of his neck, and reaches back to thumb open the quick release on the handcuffs. Quentin makes a pained little nose that scrapes raw across Eliot’s suddenly too-tender heart, and– Eliot shushes him, softly, nuzzling into his silk-soft hair, still trapped under the blindfold.

Aftercare is desperately important, Eliot needs to– work out the pinches in Quentin’s shoulders, probably, get them both cleaned up, get them some water, talk about it, even if they’re– especially because they’re two strangers who just shared something incredibly intimate. But Quentin tilts his face towards Eliot’s and Eliot kisses him and that’s all he can do for a while. Kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss into the sweetness of Quentin’s mouth.

“Hey,” Eliot, breathes, eventually, rubbing his nose against Quentin’s to get him to just... stop for a second. Take a breath. “Let me– keep your eyes closed, baby, I’m gonna take the blindfold off. Okay?”

Quentin makes a garbled sound, which might be an ‘okay’ mixed with a ‘sure’ and maybe Eliot’s name. Careful of his hair, Eliot works the knot of the blindfold free and unwinds it, leaving Quentin blinking in the low-light of Eliot’s bedroom, his lovely big brown eyes meeting Eliot’s and–

–oh.

“Hi,” Quentin says, soft, still, tucked warm and naked in Eliot’s lap– and it must be– it must be the rush of hormones and happy-chemicals from the intensity of the play that’s making this feel so right. Right?

“Hello,” Eliot echos back, as his heart– races, dumb stupid thing with no sense of self-preservation at all. But Quentin just smiles at him, his hands on Eliot, fingers sinking into the hair on his chest, like he’s... holding on. Eliot swallows against the dryness in his throat. “Feeling okay? Wanna lay down?”

“Sure. I think I’m jelly now,” Quentin says, a little dazed sounding, and Eliot. Laughs, helpless, kissing his sweet soft mouth, scooches them back until he’s sprawled out on his back, still sticky with Quentin’s come, but– warm, with Quentin tucked into his side.

“What do you think,” he asks, trying not to sound personally invested in the answer at all. “Do you like it this way around better?”

“Yeah. It was– sweeter, than I expected,” Quentin admits, somewhere from the vicinity of Eliot’s armpit. Lifting his arm, he can just see Quentin’s face, eyes shy but– playful, maybe? “You were just gentler that I would have thought.” Like Eliot hadn’t just gotten done fucking his throat, pulling his hair, making him wait to get any touch on his cock when he was so turned on he was leaking.

Eliot swallows. “Yeah, that’s– Kind of just how I am? As a Dom, I guess. There’d be other people who would be happy to be– I dunno, be more distant or more cold with you or whatever.”

“Mm, no, I liked it,” Quentin murmurs, nuzzling against the side of Eliot’s chest, up across body until the point of his chin is digging into Eliot’s pec. “Made me feel safe. Small. I liked it.”

And God, fuck, that's exactly what Eliot's wants to do to him, isn't it? Make him feel small and safe? Heart in his throat, Eliot seizes a single terrifying moment of bravery. "Any interest in trying some other stuff?" The ‘with me’ gets stuck in Eliot's throat, trapped behind a sudden crush of fear.

"Don't think I'll be able to get it up again, tonight," Quentin sighs, pushing up onto his elbow, hovering over Eliot. "So we'll just have to see each other again, I guess."

"Tragic," Eliot agrees, but he's grinning, grinning when Quentin leans down to kiss him, grins against his mouth, brain already spinning.

Thinking, already, of 'next time'.