#I don’t know how you could read MY very chaste vanilla boring fics & think i would know how to write cock rings but thanks anyways

[compacflt]

I absolutely adore your writing!!! If you're taking prompts, then anything involving Maverick + Ice's academy ring would be 💖💖

In bed. Early afternoon. The mid-‘90s.

Midsummer sex in Southern California is one of those things that feels more romantic than it probably is, maybe just because of how it leaves you: sweltering and sticky and satisfied. It’s two in the afternoon on a Saturday, and he and Ice are currently sweltering and sticky and satisfied, and working on being asleep, with absolutely no plans otherwise. Which is nice. Nice to just do nothing for once in their hectic lives. Well, they have to go to Bradley’s Little League game around seven, and then take him out to dinner, per Carole’s orders, but that’s it. Otherwise no plans.

He’s just kinda pondering. Thinkin’. They’ve been sleeping all day, so they’re not gonna sleep tonight…maybe Carole will take them out dancing…that would be fun, even if they’re a little old…what was that movie called, Saturday night fever, yeah, he could use some of that…But not right now.

Right now is pretty perfect. Not a hundred percent perfect, because nothing ever is, but pretty close. The sun (maybe too hot, it’s Southern California) is high and strong and golden; the windows (letting in all kinds of bugs because they aren’t screened) are tossed wide open; the curtains (the previous tenant’s, moth-eaten and ratty) are billowing in the breeze; the ceiling fan (creaky and could crash down and kill them any moment) is circulating lazily; Ice (Ice) is dozing next to him. Romantic, in an imperfect, Southern-California way. Easy. Laid-back. No-stress. Maverick is staring up, through eyes-half-closed, at the shimmering ocean-blue caustic reflections of Ice’s Naval Academy ring, swaying on the ceiling in time to his gentle breaths. Kind of beautiful.

And then Maverick has a thought. Well, maybe more of an idea. Which is never good.

And it’s one of those thoughts. One of those ideas. Not necessarily dangerous, per se, but definitely a little impulsive, definitely a little stupid. In college, one of his engineering professors had told him, You know, the problem with you, Mitchell, is that you’re a certifiable genius ninety percent of the time, but it’s that other stupid-ass ten percent that gets you in trouble. Maverick had answered, That’s a solid fucking A.-minus! and nearly got stuck on academic probation. Saying something like that is an A-, stupid-ass ten-percent idea. So, too, is the idea he’s currently having. But he’s not gonna stop himself from having it. He’s fucked-out and still up for anything. He’s in his early thirties. Basically puberty round II, and he’s in bed with Tom Kazansky, who’s resting his big Naval-Academy-ornamented hand on his chest, so excuse him for not thinking straight.

Maverick picks up Ice’s right hand, the one on his chest, and holds it gently, trying not to wake him. He wants to get a good look at this ring. He’s never really looked at it up close before. That ugly gaudy blue stone is almost surely fake. Glass, maybe. What’s it taste like?

He brings Ice’s hand to his mouth. Doesn’t stick Ice’s whole ring finger inside, because Ice would wake up then, but he does lap the jewel of the ring with his tongue (tastes like Ice’s sweat, as expected), and then bites the crown, and then draws as much of the ring into his mouth as possible. Just trying to get it wet. Tracing it with his tongue for sensory pleasure. When he takes it out of his mouth, some of his spit goes with it. And now, sufficiently lubricated, he reaches up with his other hand to wriggle it off, so curious, brain-addled, a little desperate, his chin still wet with his own saliva…

…and Ice whines, “…No.” Barely even a coherent sound. Almost like a moan. Fuck, so close to a moan.

“No?” Maverick whispers. His fingers go still on the ring, indecisive.

“Already tried,” Ice breathes, then sniffs and licks his lips and swallows and sighs. Eyes unmoving behind his eyelids.

This thought goes straight to Maverick’s dick. Ice, experimenting. “…You…have?”

“Doesn’t fit.”

He can hear himself breathing for a moment. Shaky breaths. “…Even soft?”

Ice’s face scrunches in half-asleep annoyance, mock-wounded offense. “You’ve seen me.” You’ve seen me soft, you know I’m not fitting in a ring meant for my finger. Okay. Maybe that should’ve been obvious. But Maverick sometimes loses his mind a little when it comes to sticking his dick in places it shouldn’t be, which is how he wound up in bed with Iceman Kazansky in the first place. And also how he keeps winding up in bed with Iceman Kazansky. “…Even soft.”

Maverick whispers, “…Can I… try?”

Ice grumbles, “No-Gimme-my-fuckin-hand-back.” And he pulls his hand away and half-consciously wipes the spit off on the sheet and then starts moving and lumbering and shifting his weight in bed, preparing, as only half-asleep people can prepare, to roll over onto his other side. As he does, he keeps on mumbling, his brain clearly not online yet, “Not-takin-you-to-the hospital ‘cause you got stuck-in-my…fuckin’…if you wan’ me to jerk-you-off wearing-it, okay, I’ve done that forty-one-thousand-times…but not…” And his other shoulder hits the mattress and Maverick can hear, in the cadence of his breathing, that he’s immediately passed out cold again.

Maverick pokes him and prods him and wakes him up. “Ice.”

“…What.”

“You just said you would. You can’t say it and then fall asleep.”

Ice mumbles something very rude, but reaches back behind himself anyway, gropes around blindly until he finds enough purchase to give Maverick a few half-hearted and not-very-compelling tugs.

Then, apparently getting tired, he pulls his arm back and carelessly orders (rather lucidly for a man who’s supposedly sleeping), “I’m sleeping, Maverick. Finish yourself off.”

“…Gimme it.”

Ice acquiesces, if only to make Maverick leave him alone; and pulls his ring off and passes it over his own freckled shoulder.

No, of course it doesn’t fit, even only half-hard. Maverick’s flopped over onto his back to try. He glances over at Ice—at the downy invisible fuzz on his shoulders glowing white in the sun, at the smooth suntanned plane of his back, at the sheet pooling over the sharp angle of his hipbone—then back to himself. Gives himself a couple pumps, gets himself all the way hard, sets the ring atop his cock like a little crown, looks over at Ice again, wishes he were awake so they could laugh about this together for a minute and then Ice could tell him to not be so fucking juvenile and then suck him off. Ring in his mouth as he does. (That would probably hurt, actually. All that motion and all that metal. Lots of ways that could go wrong. Moving on.)

And then—here’s a thought—Maverick…puts it on. Just slips it onto his right ring finger. Steps into a heritage he’s never owned. Could’ve, but never will.

It does feel powerful, to wear it. Like marrying the Navy. This is forever, Navy-baby. In sickness and in health. Till death do us part. He imagines the life he could’ve had at the Academy; and wonders if Ice, who was twenty-one when Maverick was still only eighteen, would have even given him the time of day. Probably would’ve shoved him into lockers in high school. Okay, that’s a turn-on, too, weirdly. Okay. Things to consider. The brass of the ring is still warm from Ice’s long slender fingers. Feels good. Inspires the question: does Ice keep the ring on when he jacks off out at sea? Probably. It does feel good. Feels powerful. The historical force of America’s Navy, condensed into the force with which he’s gripping his own cock. (And other normal thoughts.) Yeah, Ice probably keeps it on. Definitely. He’s married to the Navy. Jacking off out at sea wearing his Navy wedding ring is just consummating the marriage. (And other normal thoughts.) Maverick wonders how many times Ice has done exactly what he’s doing now. And that’s a turn-on, too, obviously.

He turns onto his side, tips his forehead against Ice’s upper spine, mouths at the velvety skin there, presses his nose against him. Of course there’s the musk and salt of his dried sweat, but also the softer, cleaner smell of him that Maverick’s come to recognize as unmistakably Ice…who left the Naval Academy as Brigade Commander and whose class ring is being worn by the hand Maverick’s slowly lazily fucking…willingly given…Ice has always kept it on, for all their various activities. Married to the Navy even with his fingers knuckle-deep inside Maverick. Sort of like an extramarital affair. Maverick likes being the other woman; and also, those are good memories, the ones where Ice was knuckle-deep inside him, and this ring was pressed up against the most intimate part of him, does the Navy know you’re cheating on her with me? —he comes a little quicker than he had intended, and a lot more quietly than he thought he would; just sort of lets it wash over him, inevitable, unsurprising. Not earthshattering or anything, but he also wasn’t dragging it out.

And then he has another thought, ooh, goody! —lodging itself inside his honey-thick burning pleasure. So he indulges this impulse, too, and before the last couple spurts, he thumbs Ice’s ring off into his palm and then cups himself loosely and finishes half onto the ring and half onto the sheets. (It’s laundry day. That’s why they were up all night having sex, and not exactly stressing about the mess. Ice has Maverick’s laundry schedule memorized by now.) Fuck. That’s good.

Before the clarity can hit him and take all the fun out of his idea, he catches his breath, solidifies, and holds the wet ring back over Ice’s shoulder—has to tap him to drag him back into the land of the living. Ice startles a little, but he accepts the ring back into his hand. What’s he gonna say? What’s he gonna do? It’s got Maverick’s come all over it! Maverick is instigating. Intentionally.

…Ice just sleepily puts it back on, and in a couple seconds is dead to the world again.

Maverick’s stuck there for a minute, his brain going clear and his mouth open idiotically, but then he closes it. There’s nothing he can say. Yeah. That was the logical conclusion of that interaction. Whatever.

He smiles to himself, yawns, and rolls over to doze off again. Deal with it later.

And a few slow golden hours later, when the sun is floating orange and swollen above the horizon outside, and the alarm Maverick set on his digital watch goes off, ensuring they don’t sleep through Bradley’s baseball game, Ice groggily comes to and sits up on the side of the bed and yawns big and fucks up his already-fucked hair a little more with his fingers. Sighs, drowsily drags a hand down his stubble, scrapes a hand over his stomach, itches the hair on his chest. Then he looks at his right hand, at the glinting ring, glinting a little duller because of what’s dried on it; then he glances accusingly down at Maverick, who’s still stretching next to him long and lazy like a cat, silently inquiring, …did you…? And Maverick (who hates being accused of anything, even and especially if he’s guilty) huffs and rolls his eyes at the presumption, but finally relents, yeah, I did. And Ice just exhaustedly nods and smiles and shrugs his shoulders in common understanding, saying, yeah, I get it; don’t worry about it; it does that to me, too… and then tiredly heaves himself out of bed to go wash his hands.

[howtosingit]

Fic: And Every Birthday After

TK makes a decision about his relationship with Carlos.

*

AU after 1x05.

3K | Also on AO3

A/N: This is up a day later than I wanted it to be, but considering it’s the first thing I’ve written in two months, I’m still going to take it as a win. Happy reading!

- - - - -

TK climbs out from the car, his eyes on his phone as he shouts a quick “thank you” over his shoulder to his Uber driver before closing the door behind him. The car pulls away from the curb as he glances up at the glowing Austin Police Department sign before him, his bottom lip trapped between his teeth while he thinks about what he wants to do next.

With another look down at his phone to check the time, he nods, turning his back on the precinct to cross the street. It doesn’t take him long to find what he’s looking for: Carlos’s blue Camaro draws attention no matter where the police officer parks it. 

TK gently runs his fingers along the shiny, unblemished surface, his attention divided between the car in front of him and the building across the street. Carlos should be appearing any moment, fresh off his shift, and TK smiles as he leans back against the door, crossing his arms in front of his chest, trying to adopt a casual pose. He can practically hear Carlos’s laugh now, his brain supplying him with the memory of the last time he failed to casually lean against the Camaro, while they waited for Paul outside the 126. 

(TK thinks that just because Carlos has perfected the art of a casual lean, he shouldn’t get to laugh at those who are still learning.)

“TK?”

He’s so lost in his memories of that night - dancing close to Carlos in the club and sneaking kisses whenever the lights left them in the shadows - that he misses when the man himself appears right in front of him. TK jumps when he hears his name to find Carlos already halfway across the street, heading right for him.

“Hey there, officer,” he calls.

“What are you doing here?” Carlos asks, and TK’s eyes shift down just in time to see Carlos hide a giant green gift bag behind his back. “I thought we were meeting a little later.”

“We were, but I got out of work earlier than I planned and thought I’d surprise you.” 

TK waits for Carlos to come a little closer, maybe even give him a kiss the way he usually does, or at the very least a smile, but the officer does none of those things. Instead, Carlos stops a few feet away from him, his beautiful brown eyes wide as he presses his lips together in a tight line. TK notices the gift bag peeking out behind his back, fidgeting in his fingers. “Did someone get you a gift?” TK asks, breaking the weirdly awkward silence with his mounting curiosity.

Carlos freezes for a nearly imperceptible moment, looking like he’s been zapped by his own stun gun, before he lets out a sudden high-pitched laugh, his face morphing into a mask of forced normalcy. “Oh, this?” he asks, pulling the bag out from behind his back. TK watches as his eyebrows furrow - truly an adorable sight - as Carlos glances between the bag and TK. “This is from my boss, for Employee Appreciation Week.”

A smile suddenly appears on Carlos’s face as he steps closer, swinging the bag at his side before wrapping an arm around TK’s waist and pulling him in. TK goes willingly, his brain still trying to catch up to Carlos’s abrupt mood shift, and lets Carlos press their lips together in a chaste kiss. 

“Thank you for surprising me,” Carlos murmurs against his mouth. “Seeing you was exactly what I needed after today.”

“Long shift?”

Carlos hums in reply, stealing another quick kiss before backing away to pull his keys from his pocket. “Something like that.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Maybe later,” Carlos admits. TK notices the way his eyes are twinkling under the streetlights. “Right now I’m starving. Did you finally decide on a place to eat?”

“What do you think of that Greek place on Lavaca?”

“I think,” Carlos starts once they’re both in the car, tossing the gift bag in the back seat before leaning over the console to invade TK’s personal space, “that if that’s what you want, then that’s exactly what I want.”

TK lets out a breath at Carlos’s claim, a feeling of contentment running through his body from head to toe. He feels Carlos’s hand on his cheek, his breath on his face. It’s overwhelming in the best possible way.

“You’re kind of sickeningly sweet, you know that?” TK teases, pressing forward to steal another kiss. 

“That doesn’t sound like a complaint,” Carlos fires back, his eyes crinkling as a cocky smile takes over his face.

“You’re far too confident.”

“Now I know that’s not a complaint,” Carlos smirks, his eyebrows practically dancing. 

“Shut up,” TK whispers, claiming Carlos’s lips again to ensure that he does just that.

- - - - - 

“No, I’m telling you, Paul actually said that, no hesitation whatsoever. It was pretty badass.”

“Sounds like it. Though, I’m guessing Marjan didn’t really appreciate it, did she?” Carlos asks, pulling the front door closed behind him as TK flips on the light before toeing off his shoes.

“Oh, she definitely did not. I kind of thought flames were going to shoot out of her eyes, she looked so pissed.” He flops down on the couch, pulling his feet up to get comfortable. 

“I know I’ve only met her on calls, but I can still picture that face so perfectly,” Carlos laughs, cutting through the room to the kitchen, where he drops his gift bag on the counter before opening the refrigerator. “I have cake for dessert, if you want any?” he asks, glancing back over at TK.

“Oh my god, yes,” TK moans, pulling himself off the couch and towards the alluring appeal of something disgustingly sweet. He drops his phone on the table before taking a seat on one of the barstools, watching as Carlos pulls out a small chocolate bundt cake before reaching into the freezer for a pint of vanilla bean ice cream. He flits about the kitchen with a casual ease that TK is more than happy to observe, his eyes drawn to his striking figure. There isn’t a single part of Carlos that TK doesn’t like, and he knows he could sit and watch the other man every minute of every day and never get bored. 

He gives himself a little shake, trying to clear his head, and his eyes land once again on the gift bag sitting on the counter next to him.

“So,” he starts, his tone laced with curiosity, “what exactly does APD give their best patrol officers for Employee Appreciation Week anyway?” He smirks, rolling his eyes. “I’m sure it’s got nothing on AFD, we all know firefighters have you badges beat.”

It’s not something he really believes in - the whole firefighters versus police officers rivalry - but that doesn’t mean that he and Carlos don’t like to joke about how they’re “sleeping with the enemy” every now and then. It’s even made for some very satisfying, competitive moments in bed, though they’re always followed by laughs and kisses and comments about how ridiculous it all is.

TK turns back to Carlos to find him completely frozen for the second time tonight, the ice cream scoop clutched firmly in his hand with ice cream melting down the sides as he looks from the bag to TK. 

This time, TK doesn’t let it go unnoticed.

“What is it with you and this gift?” he asks, reaching out to flick the bag with his finger. “You’ve been acting weird about it all night.”

Carlos swallows, his tongue darting out to lick his lips as he drops the scoop back in the carton. 

“I lied to you.”

TK stares at him across the counter, taking in the tense set of his shoulders. It’s been awhile since Carlos was this uncomfortable in front of him, and he really doesn’t like it.

“What are you talking about?” he asks, having no idea where this is going. 

“This,” Carlos says, pointing to the gift bag as he circles around the island to stand next to TK, “is not a gift for Employee Appreciation Week.” 

“Okay, what is it then?”

Carlos stares at him for a moment, his eyes wide, before nodding and taking a deep breath, looking like he’s about to jump off a cliff.

“It’s a birthday present.”

“I don’t understand what…” TK trails off, his confusion disappearing as his brain works to put all of the pieces together: the gift bag in front of him, the chocolate cake and ice cream sweating a few feet away. His mouth goes dry, his heart hammering in his chest. His gaze darts back to Carlos, standing in front of him looking a little terrified but also a little eager, like he’s waiting to see what happens next. “It’s your birthday?” TK asks, his voice tight and barely more than a whisper.

Carlos nods.

“Oh my god, Carlos, it’s your birthday!” TK exclaims.

“It is, it is, but it’s fine, it’s nothing, it’s not a big deal,” Carlos rushes to assure him, reaching out to take his hands in his own.

“Not a big deal? It’s your birthday!” TK cries, trying to figure out what to do with this new information. His brain unhelpfully supplies a detail he had forgotten. “Wait, you’re the one who said we should get dinner together tonight,” TK reminds him.

“Yeah, we both had the night off and I wanted to see you,” Carlos mumbles, staring down at their fingers, intertwined between them. TK feels his breath stutter in his chest.

“You wanted to spend your birthday with me?” TK hedges, the words uneven as his heart threatens to choke him from where it’s become lodged in his throat.

Carlos wordlessly shrugs, a complete inversion of his confident attitude from just a few hours ago. TK takes a moment to appreciate how layered he is, how he sometimes feels like a million people in one, but how he’s still always Carlos, no matter what. “I like spending as much time as possible with you,” Carlos states, still not making eye contact. 

TK lets the words roll through him, feeling the way they light up every single nerve ending in his body. He’s surprised to find that they don’t scare him like he thought they would. Ever since the failed dinner date, they’ve both been careful to keep things from getting too serious. They’ve been having fun, hanging out and exploring Austin before coming back to Carlos’s place to roll around in bed together. They’re friends - TK is sure that Carlos is his best friend - and they’re a little bit more than that. 

Maybe TK’s finally ready to face the reality of what that could mean.

He thinks about finding out about his dad’s cancer diagnosis a few weeks ago, and how Carlos was the first person he ran to with the news. He remembers how Carlos talked him down from his uncontained anger and hurt, how he held him tight when he cried. 

Carlos was there for him when he needed him. TK’s only known him for a few months, but Carlos has always been there, strong and steady and grounding. A beacon of safety and comfort.

And TK knows that he wants to be there for Carlos in the exact same way. He honestly can’t imagine being anywhere else, now that he really thinks about it.

“Come here,” he says, tugging gently on Carlos’s hands to pull him closer, opening his legs for Carlos to stand between them. Carlos lets out a sigh, moving to place his hands on TK’s waist when TK wraps his arms around his shoulders. They rest their foreheads together, taking a moment to stare at each other, truly open and honest for maybe the first time. 

“Happy Birthday, Carlos,” TK whispers, waiting for Carlos’s smile to break through his frown before leaning in to steal it from his lips.

His breath catches again as their tongues tangle, their bodies sinking into each other as they give into their embrace. Every kiss with Carlos is worth writing a poem about, if TK was the type of person to write poetry, but this one would definitely inspire TK’s best work. He has a feeling that it’s because of him; he knows that Carlos gives his everything every time, but it’s TK who is now meeting him there with his whole heart. It’s like the wall that he’s put up has fallen away, crumbled to dust in the blink of an eye. Honestly, TK can’t even be bothered; no wall stood a chance against Carlos Reyes anyway. 

Carlos pulls away much sooner than TK thought he would, and as his eyes blink slowly open, he finds the other man staring at him, his brows furrowed once more.

“Are you mad that I didn’t tell you?” Carlos asks, his voice tight.

“No,” TK assures him immediately, reaching up to cup Carlos’s face in his hands. He feels the way Carlos sinks into his hold, letting him take some of his weight, like he trusts TK to keep him upright. “I’m not mad, Carlos. Though, I do wish I would’ve known.”

“I know,” Carlos sighs, reaching up to grip his wrists, dragging his thumbs along TK’s skin. “I know, I should’ve told you. It just… I didn’t want to make it a whole thing, spending my birthday together. I didn’t want to freak you out, I know you’re not looking for that kind of thing, I know this is just us having fun and I don’t want you to feel pressured or anything…” Carlos trails off, his grip tight as if he’s scared TK will jump up and run out of the house again. 

TK feels Carlos’s fear as if it’s hammering against his heart, but he definitely can’t blame the other man for his thoughts. Their past mistakes are all the evidence he needs to understand why Carlos hid this from him. He nods, biting his bottom lip, trying to figure out how to make it clear that he feels differently now, that he actually wants this to be a whole thing. That they’re on this path together now.

The idea comes to him so suddenly that he almost barks out a relieved laugh. Instead, he smacks a quick kiss against Carlos’s lips before jumping up from the stool, watching as Carlos’s eyes widen in panic.

“Wait, what-”

“I think I know how to make sure this never happens again,” TK interrupts, continuing to hold Carlos’s face in his hands as he backs him up a few steps towards the dining table. He pushes Carlos against it, taking pleasure in the way the other man automatically widens his stance, allowing TK to step between his legs and press their hips together. Without a word, he reaches down to grab his phone, smirking as he brings it up between their faces. 

“There,” TK says a moment later, turning his phone to show Carlos, who has stayed silent and slightly terrified this entire time, if his face is anything to go by. He looks over at the screen. “Now I’ll never miss your birthday again.” TK can tell the moment that he processes what he’s seeing, watching as Carlos’s face softens and his arms come up to wrap around his waist. 

“You want to remember my birthday next year?” Carlos clarifies, and TK is surprised to see tears in his glassy brown eyes. He tosses his phone back down on the table, reaching up to run his fingers along the stunning features of Carlos’s face.

“Babe,” he says, testing out the word for the first time and thoroughly enjoying the way it causes Carlos to vibrate against him, “I want to remember everything about you.”

There’s barely any warning before Carlos is on top of him, their lips attached once again as Carlos lays claim to him like a man unleashed. TK gives it all back to him, the two of them speaking paragraphs in touches and tastes and sighs and moans. There’s no holding back, not anymore.

When they are finally forced to pull back for air, TK takes pride in Carlos’s disheveled appearance, his curls wild and his face flushed and his lips bruised. He knows he probably looks the same, and he loves seeing the proof of their want and desire and need for each other with his own two eyes. He drags his fingers along Carlos’s plump lips, realizing for the first time that they are his to kiss, for as long as Carlos will let him. 

“This is the best birthday present I’ve ever gotten,” Carlos sighs, and TK meets his eyes to find them blown black but fixed on him, his gaze never wavering. 

“While I am obviously very glad to hear that,” TK begins, leaning forward to press a quick kiss to his favorite lips again, “you should see what kind of birthday gifts I give when I’ve had time to plan them. I can promise you, you’re not ready for next year.”

“I’m ready for anything, as long as I’ve got you,” Carlos says without hesitation.

TK groans, falling forward to press his face into Carlos’s neck, feeling the vibration of his soft chuckle against his cheek. “You’re so sickeningly sweet, I can’t stand it.” Carlos merely hums, dragging his hands up and down TK’s back to soothe him. 

They stay like that for a few moments, just enjoying the way they get to hold one another, before TK pulls back to give Carlos a look.

“Speaking of sickeningly sweet,” he teases, his fingers dancing along Carlos’s thighs on either side of him, “what do you say we take that cake and ice cream upstairs and unwrap some other presents, birthday boy?” He finishes the suggestion with a raise of his eyebrows, watching as the blush on Carlos’s face deepens before he lets out a loud, bright laugh, the two of them falling into each other as they struggle to remain upright against the table.

And TK decides that this, right here, being deliriously happy in Carlos’s arms, is everything that he could ever want or wish for.

On this day, and every birthday they’ll spend together after.

[spiders-hth-is-an-outlier]

13 Queliot recs 4/4

of places where you thought that love would be found by @margosfairyeye

I’m not much for soulmates, but that means that I’m often fond of stories that start off with soulmates and soulmate marks, then do something weird with it.  This is a great example of that subgenre; Quentin has a mark that’s unlike any other (a nice parallel to his canon problem of being a Nothingmancer for so much of his life); Eliot has Margo’s mark.  And yet, and yet, and yet.  Obviously this is one of those rewrite-the-stars stories; it’s not really full of surprises, but it’s lush and sensual and draws you in, laying out the longing and the edge of hopelessness and then the hope in a very visceral, intimate kind of way.  This one really could do almost anything and scrape by on sheer aesthetic quality, but I think what it does is exactly the right call.  It’s not terribly long, and I’d love to see sequels; I think it’s an interesting universe, and I’d like to see their in-universe nontraditional relationship unfold further.

* His name is Eliot, he says, and Quentin doesn’t think he knows a nicer name.  Quentin can’t stop looking at Eliot’s form, his long legs and the fabric wrapping closely against his chest; but more than that he can’t stop looking at his eyes.  Quentin remembers some cheesy quote about the eyes being the window to the soul. He thinks it might be less bullshit that he’d thought. 

Quentin watches Eliot’s eyes look him up and down, and he feels excited, and confused, and slightly nauseous.  He remembers something someone told him, recently, about how the first time they saw their soulmate, it was like being hit simultaneously with the flu and a contact high.  Quentin doesn’t feel dissimilar to that description. 

He tries to look at Eliot’s hands, his arms as they walk, but Eliot doesn’t give him a lot of time for study.  It’s presumptuous to ask someone what their soulmate mark says, most people consider it slightly personal information (with the exception of people like Julia who just give no fucks). But Quentin thinks that if Eliot has a picture, like his, he’ll be able to tell from a quick glance, and he can’t figure out a way to phrase asking that, anyway. 

He can barely contain how excited he feels as they walk, and have snippets of conversation, and his wondering grows into full-on hope.  Eliot opens a door and Quentin finally catches enough of a glimpse. It’s on the wrong side of Eliot’s arm for him to see clearly, but Quentin can definitely see a distinct letter ‘M’.  So not him, then.  *

press your love into my palm by @propinquitous

There are a lot of Mosaic stories in the fandom, many of which share the basic plot of “they have sex in the Mosaic timeline.”  And a lot of them are really good!  I picked this one because it’s a stand-out example for me; it really just picks up from the moment of That Kiss and just keeps going, so what you’re going to get is what you expect.  But I just think it’s so beautifully done, the sweet edges of humor, Quentin’s shivery, hopeful boldness, Eliot being so blown away at how much he’s sold Quentin short in his mind.  I love a story that could seamlessly be canon, and this is exactly that story -- no one can tell me it didn’t happen just like this, because I read it, and I am a believer.  Just a blue-ribbon, five-star, standing-ovation They Have Feelingsy Sex story.

* Eliot pulled him in without hesitation. In some former life he'd been embarrassed of this kind of tenderness, save for maybe with Margo. It was always in him, though, and Quentin had been tugging at its thread for years. He'd almost completely unraveled in the time they'd spent working on the mosaic; every night that Quentin spent curled against him, desperate to quell his fear and frustration, frayed his edges. By the time Quentin kissed him, Eliot felt as threadbare as the clothes he'd arrived in.

Then, after. The second kiss was less chaste, more everything else. Eliot opened his mouth against Quentin's and ran his thumb over his cheek, felt him go slack under his touch. He tested, bit at Quentin's lower lip gently and tugged at the shorter hairs toward his nape. Eliot curled his fingers over Quentin's and he could feel the slight shudder as the arm supporting Quentin buckled and threatened to give out.

"Hey," Eliot said again when he finally pulled away. He didn't sit back and he didn't take his hand from Quentin's face. Instead he breathed in Quentin's heavy exhales and leaned his forehead against his, watching and waiting until Quentin opened his eyes.

"Hey," Quentin finally whispered.

"This conversation is riveting," Eliot said. Quentin smiled then and, Eliot thought, looked almost bashful.

"Well, I mean," he managed to say before he pushed forward again and didn't stop, his mouth firm against Eliot's until he had pushed him back and straddled his lap.

"Should I keep talking?" Quentin asked, running his hands up Eliot's chest. *

Shine Through My Memory by PanBoleyn, @eidetictelekinetic

This is kind of two separate stories in one, covering all of season 4, beginning with the alternate Brian and Nigel identities as they meet and fall in love, vaguely aware that there’s more to their connection than they can make sense of, and dropping into an alternate Monster plotline.  I don’t always like s4 stories, just because -- all the reasons and all -- but this is a really good Quentin, stubborn and fierce and heartbroken, juggling for all he’s worth to keep the layered memories of Brian/Nigel and the Mosaic timeline and the current clusterfuck separate and under control before he snaps under the weight of them.  It’s a little heavy, but there’s one chapter left to go, and I’m really looking forward to the release of the ending.  You really can’t get a more balanced and sturdy combination of dark canon!fic and romantic fix-it -- it’s truly the best of both worlds.

* “Colored chalk on my hands,” Brian murmurs, tasting the vanilla-caramel-white chocolate of his latte but remembering the taste of plums instead. He doesn’t even like plums, which makes the whole thing weirder, because in this not-memory he does. “I don’t understand any of this. Tell me it’s as weird for you, because I -”  A long-fingered hand closes over his own, and Brian looks up into gold-hazel eyes that he knows/doesn’t know and sees - all of it, reflected back. “I don’t get it either,” Nigel says, voice soft. “But I think maybe I’m better at just rolling with the punches than you are, hmm?” “I don’t. Roll with, with anything,” Brian says, and his voice isn’t steady anymore. “I don’t know how, my life is a predictable bore and I like the predictable part if not the bore part. But I think you have to tolerate being bored to keep things predictable so. So I tolerate it.” Tolerates a job he hates because teaching is better than a cubicle at a 9 to 5, and because the paintings and the newly-begun manuscripts that are Brian’s only love won’t pay the bills. “I’ve dated the same woman off and on six times because neither of us care enough to say no the next time one of us is lonely enough to offer, there’s been a man or two in the off points but no one. Nothing like -”

My dreams make no sense, and I feel more in them than I’ve felt in years. It’s not something he can say out loud, though. *

Veins Fit to Bursting by @amagpie

It’s a Buffy the Vampire Slayer fusion!  It’s a REALLY GOOD SMART WONDERFUL Buffy fusion!  Everyone kind of maps onto BtVS characters in a clever way, but it’s by no means a remake -- they remain very much themselves.  BtVS is obviously deep in the DNA of The Magicians, in terms of layering worldbuilding on top of an essential bone structure of coming-of-age, and this story is just an absolute bullseye in terms of understanding that.  Quentin’s general depression encompasses but isn’t limited to his feelings of being the useless sidekick, and Eliot’s transformation from mousy nerd to the undead version of the Champagne King is not only very William/Spike, but it builds this lovely foundation of connection between him and Quentin, neither of whom are living quite the life they once imagined they would.  There’s a very quarterlife-crisis vibe to the whole thing, which is perfectly in harmony with both shows, and a light touch to the voice that suits this slightly lost Quentin perfectly -- honestly, it may be my very favorite version of Quentin’s inner voice.  It’s early days yet in this WIP, but it’s fully earned my confidence in the first few chapters, and I am 100% down for the ride.

* “Okay, so I guess you could maybe say I’m a vampire hunter. But it’s not like it’s my job or anything,” Quentin pushes out in a rush.

A slow smile spreads across Eliot’s face: scary and genuine. There seems to be real interest in his eyes. Eliot settles himself onto a bench, patting the seat next to him. Quentin settles himself on the very far end of the bench to put at least a few feet between them. He’s down for a chat, not to get murdered.

“So it’s an extracurricular?” Eliot prompts. Quentin chuckles with how close to the truth it actually is, looking away. They do have an official college club to make research sessions easier -  the Ancient Sumerian Culture Club . They have a budget and everything - which Quentin submits as treasurer - although it more often gets used for pizza and wooden pegs than flyers. 

“More like a duty. Or well, not exactly my duty.” Quentin furrows his brows. “Do you remember Julia?”

“I think so? Your friend, really tiny…?”

“Yeah, so, um, Julia is the slayer.”

Quentin looks back at Eliot to take in his reaction to the news. Eliot’s eyes widen, his hands tightening for a second on the bench beneath him. Something like pride coils up in Quentin. 

“Huh,” Eliot finally says. *