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hazelandglasz · 4 years

Note

Klaine Soulmate AU: "The first words your true love(s) will say to you are tattooed on you and why the fuck are their first words something really ridiculous like ‘I’ll pay you a tenner to punch me in the face’ or ‘quick what’s your favourite animal’ or ‘fucking shit hell holy fuck wow oh my god jesus h Christ fuck me’ etc." - and I'd really love to see your rendition of the 'punch me' or the 'fuck me' one! ❤

On AO3

Until the age of thirteen, Blaine used to think a lot about his Words. What they would be, if it would be short and sweet or long and heartwarming.

Being a big fan of Disney movies, he hoped for something romantic and meaningful.

For a solid week after his first time watching Aladdin, he hoped for a “do you trust me” to appear on his skin on his thirteenth birthday.

But on the morning of said birthday, when he woke up with a long sentence etched on his skin—around his wrist, like a bracelet—Blaine lost his illusions of romance.

“Oh Wow, Jesus Christ, Fuck. Me.”

Punctuation and all.

What kind of True Love would say that upon meeting him, Blaine wondered as he went to the Soulmate Office to get his cuff. Because that was not romantic, and that was not meaningful either.

When some older boys at his school managed to corner him and remove the cuff, they decided that his Words were blasphemous and beat Blaine until a teacher stopped them.

His parents quickly made him change schools, and that’s how Blaine ended up at Dalton, where there was a strict no-cuff touching policy. But deep in his heart, Blaine resented his True Love.

Why couldn’t their first words be something neutral or at least not something as risqué as “fuck me”?

Over the years, though, when it became obvious for Blaine that his True Love would be another man, he started to feel differently about his Words, and he grew to be excited about them.

Because those words have an obvious meaning: his True Love, wherever he is, will think Blaine is hot upon meeting him.

Blaine is not vain, per se, but it’s good for his sense of self to know that he will be, at some point, one very attractive specimen of a man (especially during the hardest years of teenagehood, when nothing makes sense and it feels like your limbs are not coordinating their growth).

When he arrives in New York, Blaine is lucky enough to find a roommate who takes good care of him. Eliot is slightly older, but he doesn’t mind Blaine’s innocence. He introduces him to the best New York has to offer, and particularly, brings him along on his Saturday night outings.

Blaine doesn’t know how, exactly, Eliot manages to find the best parties in the city, but every Saturday is better than the previous one, allowing him room to dance and mingle and create a social circle of his own.

And yet, Eliot doesn’t seem satisfied.

“If only I could get Hummel to come with us,” he bemoans, head thrown back over the arm of their couch. “I’m sure you two would hit it off!”

Blaine snickers, preparing himself tea and getting a can of Diet Cherry Coke for Eliot. “Yeah, sure. Though you do know my motto, don’t you?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Eliot says, rolling his eyes fondly at his roommate. “Nobody but True Love, I get it. Spoilsport. But still, Kurt and you would make a perfect couple. Of friends,” he adds in a rush before Blaine can protest. “You’d make the best of friends.”

“Hm, sure.”

“Here, let me take a picture of you for him, maybe that will be incentive enough to drag him out of his office.”

“Eliot, come on—”

Click.

“—you’re being ridiculous.”

“And you manage to still look good even though I took a picture mid-sentence. That’s so unfair.”

“Is there a compliment somewhere that I lost on the way to your jealousy?”

“Maybe. Don’t fish for compliments, Blaine, it’s really unattractive.”

“I don’t fish, and you know I am.”

“Cocky.”

“Knowledgeable.”

Eliot bursts out laughing before being interrupted by his phone pinging in his hand. “Well, hm. Kurt will be one of us tonight.”

“What did he say?”

“Like Hell I’m telling you. Just know that he will be at the club, so, you know...”

“Look good?”

“Look amazing.”

---

Kurt loves his Words.

What kind of teenager doesn’t enjoy knowing his True Love will say “Fuck yeah” upon meeting them?

He does wonder what he says to provoke such a response, but if anything, that means his True Love is an enthusiastic one, and a life filled with passion looks like one Kurt would enjoy.

Ever since he arrived in New York, Kurt has met plenty of enthusiastic guys, plenty of passionate people, but none of them said those words upon meeting him.

One said “fuck me,” which could have been close enough, but unfortunately for her, Kurt was decidedly not interested.

Mercedes is still his best friend, though, so it ended up well for all parties involved.

But Kurt is not worried. When it’s time for his True Love to find him, it will be the right time and he will be allowed to let his romantic self thrive in this passionate relationship.

For now, he enjoys his life as a busy New Yorker and builds a circle of friends and acquaintances and chosen family members.

Amongst whom, Mercedes, of course, and Eliot “Pain in The Ass” Gilbert.

(There is nothing that can save Kurt from them when they decide to join forces, but God does he love them.)

And right now, they are both being the most annoying people Kurt ever had to deal with.

“Come out with us.”

“I’m busy.”

“You don’t have a life, come on, just one drink.”

“To paraphrase the good philosopher Iliza Shlesinger, that sentence is the way to the party goblin and I don’t have the time for that.”

“Kuuuuurt!”

“Mercedeeeeees.”

“You’re no fun. What will I do without you to stop me from dancing on a table?”

Kurt glares at the window where Mercedes’ face is pouting at him. “You will dance on a table, sprain your ankle and invade my living room for a couple of weeks to keep me as your nurse.”

Mercedes bursts out laughing. “Doesn’t sound so bad when you put it that way, damn you.”

Kurt smirks. “I know how to make a compelling argument.”

Mercedes sighs and shrugs. “Alright, I give up. If you change your mind, we’ll be at ‘Pumpin’.”

“Classy.” Kurt smiles more gently. “Have fun, ‘Cedes.”

“Will be more fun if you join us! Love you too, boo.”

Mercedes hangs up, and Kurt stares blankly at his screen for a moment. He’s in his twenties, after all. It wouldn’t hurt to go out with his friends, would it?

His eyes land on the rest of the screen, where his article still waits for him to write it.

He has the title, which is already something, but he can’t possibly go out when he has to deliver this piece to Isabelle’s desk before noon tomorrow and it could be his big break to move from P.A. to P.A./Columnist.

With a deep sigh, Kurt returns to his notes in order to write his first draft. If he works quickly, he will be able to rework it and have a final draft to propose to Isabelle before the night is over.

His phone beeps right as he reads through his plan.

“What now,” he mutters, picking it up and opening Eliot’s message.

And then, his words and his breath get stuck in his throat, because…

Because there is no message, per se, just a picture of a man obviously in the middle of a sentence and looking absolutely stunning.

“Kurt Hummel, meet Blaine Anderson,” Eliot sends immediately after the picture.

For months now, Eliot has tried to arrange a meeting between Kurt and his new protégé from NYU, and for months, Kurt has had to excuse himself from all of them.

But now that he sees who this Anderson guy is, Kurt wants to smack his past self.

Holy young Montgomery Clift, is this man handsome or what.

“Are you coming or what?”

Kurt snickers as he types his reply one-handed, saving his work with the other.

“Am about to just from that pic.”

“xflkbdfbhofd”, is Eliot’s interesting reply, followed by the address of the club.

“You win,” Kurt writes, rushing to the magazine’s Closet to snatch a shirt that will elevate his outfit.

He has to make a good first impression. Nay, a memorable first impression.

The Adonis now saved in his phone may not be his True Love, but there is no rule forbidding Kurt to appreciate his aesthetic while he waits for Him to show up.

---

Blaine had his own outfit but one pre-clubbing alcoholic drink on an empty stomach somehow convinced him to let Eliot dress him up, and he barely recognizes himself in the mirror.

He looks awesome. Like the baddest bitch version of himself, sure, but still. Far fetched.

“Own it, Blainey!” Eliot shouts at him as the club’s doors are opened and the music fills their ears.

Instantly following the rhythm, Blaine throws his head back and struts to the dancefloor.

In the distance, somewhere, he hears Mercedes, Eliot and Kitty wolf-whistling for him and he smiles, closing his eyes and throwing the fluffy jacket toward the sound. He slides his hands down his jacket, over the smooth leather and, yes, lives the fantasy.

Eliot is dancing nearby, his hands on some guy’s hips, thus how Blaine hears him calling Kurt’s name.

“Kurt is here!”

Blaine smiles, still shaking and dancing like nobody’s watching (and like he knows everybody is). “I figured!”

“Kurt, over heeeere!”

Blaine chuckles, looking over his shoulder for the newcomer.

“Oh Wow, Jesus Christ, Fuck. Me.”

Blaine freezes, using his momentum to turn and face the man who just uttered those words.

The man, Kurt, is, without a doubt, the most beautiful man Blaine has ever seen.

Lucky him, if the man is indeed his True Love.

“Fuck yeah,” he manages, taking a step toward Kurt.

Whose eyes—those mesmerizing blue eyes, shining surreally in the strobelights of the club—widen as the words leave Blaine’s lips.

“What did you just say?” he asks, moving closer too.

It’s impossible for them to have this conversation here, on the dancefloor, when the words are only audible because they managed to say them during a lull in the playlist.

Blaine doesn’t hesitate or pause to think about his gesture, he reaches out to take Kurt’s hand and pulls him across the room, toward the more quiet rooms in the back of the club, under Eliot’s laughter.

The whole process feels like it happens in slow motion, but Kurt’s hand solidly grips his, and it’s warm and soft under Blaine’s touch.

Blaine closes the door when they get to the room and smiles at Kurt, the music now only a vague background.

“Hi.”

Kurt’s voice really is as beautiful as Blaine thought when he heard it.

“Can I see your wrist?” Kurt asks, voice soft and shy, in total contradiction with his earlier words.

Blaine may have been influenced by his borrowed outfit until now, but he is feeling a bit nervous himself. “S-sure.”

They both reach for their cuffs at the same time. Blaine holds his arm up, next to Kurt’s.

Sure enough, Blaine’s Words and Kurt’s respond to each other in a perfect conversation.

Well, perfect—perfect for them, it would seem.

“I am really sorry,” Kurt says, a blush appearing on his face. “I am not that crass, usually. It’s just—you were just, I mean you are so—wow.”

Blaine scratches the back of his neck. “This isn’t my usual way to dress,” he mutters. “Eliot insisted.”

“I knew I recognized that waistcoat,” Kurt laughs, gesturing at Blaine’s top. “Though I feel like you inhabit it way better than him. Don’t tell him I said that,” he adds precipitously, making Blaine laugh.

“I am really glad I found you,” he says, still giggling, before he can stop himself.

Kurt blinks and smiles so tenderly at him that Blaine feels like they just had the most sensual experience while still being dressed. “Me too,” he replies simply, holding up his hand.

Blaine immediately takes it, letting Kurt pull him closer.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, brushing his knuckles along Kurt’s jaw.

“Fuck yeah,” Kurt breathes with a smile Blaine cannot wait to taste any longer.

In total contradiction of their first exchange, the kiss is soft and tentative and gentle and, yes, romantic.

Blaine lets his lips slide against Kurt’s, happy to kiss him this way forever if he is allowed to, until Kurt reaches for his cheek, tilting his head to the side and opening his mouth to caress Blaine’s with his tongue.

Blaine moans into the kiss, placing his hands on Kurt’s waist to get him as close as humanly possible while keeping upright. Truth be told, the kiss is so earth-shattering that Blaine’s knees are close to buckling.

Kurt’s hand on his cheek is still soft, but the one on his shoulder tightens its grip.

Blaine pulls away because, in this moment, as much as he enjoys kissing Kurt, he needs to see Kurt.

“Hey,” he says breathlessly as they part, caressing Kurt’s cheek until he reaches to cup the back of his head, bringing their foreheads together. “There you are.”

#Anonymous #sometimes i write #klaine au #soulmates au #soulmarks #fluff

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themagiciansreccenter · 5 years

Text

Five @ Five @shmazarov

As a part of our author spotlight, we’ve asked each writer to highlight 5 fics and tell us a little about their experience writing (or reading) them.

If It Makes You Feel Better by lazarov

"Jesus Christ," Quentin moaned. "I am such a fucking asshole! All I remember is that Margo started kissing me, and I was all emotionally jumbled up and she was crying and you were there, passed out -- and this was a huge, horrible mistake.” He paused. “Uh, no offense.”

“Mhmm.” Eliot rolled his eyes and pulled out a bottle of Cuervo, pouring two sloppy fingers into a tumbler and topping it up with what could generously be called a splash of OJ. He slid it towards Quentin. “Tequila sunrise pour vous? ”

“Please no.”

“Suit yourself.” He slid the glass back towards himself and took a sip, before furrowing his brow and examining Quentin’s face. “Did you say Margo was crying?”

Twitchily, Quentin shifted under his gaze and shrugged. “It was just leftover bottled-up emotion brain-junk. No biggie.”

“Alright,” he said slowly, and Quentin suspected he wasn’t quite off the hook. But Eliot’s forehead relaxed and he changed the subject, pacing in a circle and waving his drink around, explaining: "Look, you were extremely drunk and hopped up on bootleg magic. The cheap, street stuff is like bottom-shelf tequila: nobody can be blamed for their actions after a few shots, worm and all." Eliot paused, quirking an eyebrow and leaning his elbows on the counter. His robe slid an down his shoulders, revealing a fucking bite mark under his left clavicle, and Quentin dragged his eyes away, doing his best to convince himself that the reddish-bruised imprint was way too small to have come from him. "To be honest, boo, I didn't think you had it in you."

This was my very first fic for the Magicians fandom, and my first attempt at developing an ear for Quentin and Eliot's voices. I didn't quite hit the mark, but I think it was a decent early start. It's satisfying to see how much further I've come in developing a feel for these characters.

Caught You by lazarov

"I thought that after all this turned out to be real, that I wouldn't..." Quentin sighs and thumps his head backwards against the wall, frustrated. "I shouldn't still be doing this. I shouldn't want to..." He trails off.

"Why?" Eliot says. "Because of magic?" He spits the word out like it's vinegar in his mouth, then sighs. "The fact that magic didn't fix all your problems doesn't make you ungrateful. And you're not stupid."

Quentin quirks the corner of his mouth, a doubtful sort of 'maybe.'

Eliot's hand have finally stopped shaking enough that he can let go of Quentin's arm ("You take over," he murmurs) and start to form a spell. There are probably better ones, stronger ones, but his brain feels scrambled and it's the only one he can bring forth with reasonable certainty.

His hands work methodically but cautiously as he moves through the procession: slow, carefully-drawn arcs and deliberate patterns. He nearly stumbles on the third movement, a transition from bhramara to Flamel's Interlock, but he manages to keep going, the energy building in his hands like glowing coals. Quentin watches him with tired eyes, tracking the movements with clear interest; it's not a spell he'd've learned yet, second-year Fundamentals of Wellness spellcasting stuff, and something twits in his stomach as he realizes Quentin is committing it to memory.

I love Caught You, the whole series is so important to me. Not just because I feel it was vital to explore what could've-been with Quentin's depression after Dean Fogg suggested he go off his meds, but also because I think this fic is the one where I found my voices for Eliot and Q as well as my personal style for writing hand-spellcasting.

Stories We Tell by lazarov

They stayed wrapped in each others arms for a long while: warm, slippery skin pressed together in cold water, the immediacy of their thoughts drowned out by the constant, soothing white noise of the falls, only occasionally pierced by the sound of songbirds sweetly singing to each other across the clearing.

"Will you tell me what you thought when you first saw me?" Quentin asked, his breath hot on Eliot's shoulder. He dragged his teeth against Eliot's trapezius, eliciting a shiver.

"At Brakebills?"

Eliot felt Quentin nod. He nosed against Quentin's temple: "I thought you were beautiful" - he pressed a kiss to Quentin's cool skin, over his eyebrow - "and intriguing" - another kiss, between Quentin's eyes - "and I immediately began plotting an intricate plan to make you fall head-over-hells in lust with me."

"You're supposed to tell the truth," Quentin said quietly, giving Eliot a gentle, admonishing bite.

"I know," said Eliot. "I am."

He was.

I generally have an extremely hard time writing romance but this? I was proud of this. There's something about setting a mood and teasing out exactly the moment you want from the setting you've created that is satisfying as fuck. This fic is an off-shoot of Caught You, but stands on its own as well: Quentin and Eliot trying to figure out how to be alone with each other - and take care of each other, despite their respective hang-ups about feeling loved - in Fillory.

One and the Same by lazarov

“Well, I hope that jackrabbit got eaten! Mashed up and squished right between a killer turtle’s teeth so he can’t call me names ever again.” Still draped over Quentin’s shoulder, Rupert did his turtle impression again. He poked Quentin in the back. “Turn me so I can look at dad.” Dutifully, Quentin spun so that Rupert was level with Eliot’s eyes. “What do you think? About him getting eaten?”

“Well.” Eliot tapped his chin with one finger. “First of all, I don’t think turtles have teeth. Second, I guess whether or not I wish a horrible death upon him depends on exactly what name that rabbit called you, buddy.”

“He called me a…” Rupert frowned, reconsidering, and waved Eliot closer. Eliot dutifully leaned forward so that Rupert could whisper with one hand cupped around his ear: “A two-legged idiot.”

“Well,” Eliot said gravely, rocking back on his heels. Quentin’s shoulders were bobbing with silent laughter and Rupert bounced gently along with them. “That is particularly rude. And I’m glad you chose not to repeat it in front of your dad. We both know he’s very sensitive”—

“Hey!” Quentin protested.

“But, if we’re talking eaten-by-turtles bad? I think I could find it in my heart to let that rabbit go. Mercy is a virtue, no?”

Rupert nodded, pleased with the answer, and Eliot stepped towards them. He pressed his lips against the sun-warmed top of Rupert’s head, before nosing at the soft, stubbled spot below Quentin’s ear. Gently, Quentin leaned into his touch

—

“Jesus fuck.” Eliot slammed one angry fist on the table and then buried his face in his hands. The sharp pain in his wrist helped to draw him out of the memory, but he was still stuck half-in and half-out: he could still smell Quentin’s hair and the damp of his skin after working on the mosaic in the afternoon heat. He could still feel a tiny hand tugging at his linen shirt. Eliot suppressed the urge to throw his chair backwards and rip himself away from it. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he said again, wounded, his lips muffled against his palms.

“Hey,” Quentin said quickly, shooting one hand out to gently grab Eliot’s wrist. “El? You okay?”

He couldn’t answer – paralyzed by the memory, he opened his eyes and slowly blinked before taking stock of himself: they were in a shitty diner in midtown. In front of him, there was a scuffed white plate with a bagel on it. There was lox on the bagel. Quentin was sitting across from him. Quentin was wearing a grey sweater. He could feel Quentin’s foot touching his foot. Quentin’s warm hand was on his wrist.

This is an in-progress series about Eliot and Quentin dealing with their memories of the mosaic timeline. I tend to write what I want to read and, if I could read nothing except fic about Quentin and Eliot emotionally processing flashbacks of that timeline for the rest of my days in this fandom? I would be very lucky indeed.

spring sooner than the lark by greywash

"I love you," Eliot says, very quietly; and Quentin says, "I know."

"I'm in love with you," Eliot says; and Quentin says, "I know," and then lifts up his head.

Straightens. Quentin reaches up. Rubbing a thumb against Eliot's burning cheek: Eliot can't stop looking at him. His lovely serious sweet face.

"I think I've always been in love with you," Eliot says, barely breathing; and Quentin nods, cupping his cheek.

"I know, sweetheart," he says, really gently. "But that's not what I asked."

His big dark, sad eyes.

Eliot swallows. There is an odd, unstable sort of a wobble, buried somewhere under his sternum. "If I said no," he says; and then takes a breath, and corrects: "if. If it doesn't work out."

Quentin closes his eyes, and then touches their foreheads together.

"Then we'll figure it out," he says, very quietly, "that's not what I'm asking."

Eliot closes his eyes; and Quentin takes a breath.

"This is your home," Quentin says, very quietly. "I'm—yours, whatever happens, we're yours, I'm not going to leave, and I'm not going to—to take Teddy away from you, or something"; and Eliot—Eliot can't— "Oh, Christ, El": Quentin slides his arm around Eliot's middle.

Pulling him. Close.

Eliot curls up. Tucking his face into Quentin's throat.

"You know you gave him to me, right?" Quentin says, very quietly. "You're as much his father as I am"; and Eliot presses his eyes to Quentin's warm rough sweat-smelling skin.

Get the FUCK out of here with that intensely gorgeous prose. Talk about setting a mood. Ever since I read it, this gorgeous fic has spurred on my desire to write for the Magicians and my desire to WRITE BETTER.

#the magicians #the magicians rec center #author spotlight #author spotlight: lazarov #author: lazarov #five @ five

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sadlittlenerdking · 6 years

Text

Patchwork Love

The Magicians

Word count: 2.8k

Summary: Apparently there’s a spell that can conjure things from memory. Which is all Quentin needs to create a Grand Romantic Gesture to convince Eliot he’s serious about Them.

He’s not even sure it’ll work. But Kady mentioned it once, absentmindedly, from her place at the center of the couch in the physical kids cottage. And they’ve (once again) successfully stopped another disaster, and beat the library, and got magic back.

The only thing that’s not how it should be is entirely Quentin’s fault, and even if this doesn’t work, he has a back up plan. Because things are finally going to be perfect. They’re all going to live, no more monsters are coming to kill them or fuck shit up, and they’re going back to Fillory. For good. He just . . . needs to make something as abundantly clear as is possible, so nobody (read: Eliot) gets it into their thick skulls that what he’s asking for is less than what he wants.

He walks through the shops doors, flinching as he crashes through the curtain of stringed beads, and a loud bell chimes to announce his presence, loud and assuming in his ears.

“Ah! How can I help you?”

Quentin opens his eyes, then, tilting his shoulder up and swiping at the beads clinging to him, until they all fall and clash noisily behind him. “Uh—I,” He looks back at the beads, contemplating an escape, before turning back around. “I hear you, can. My fr—well, she’s not really a friend. I mean, kind of? We’re not close—“

“Sir?”

Quentin clears his throat. “Right. Sorry. I—I hear you can create things pulled from memory?”

The shopkeeper makes a face, before leaning forward conspiratorially, “And who did you say sent you here?”

“Kady? Orloff-Diaz?” He expects he’ll have to describe her, but the shopkeepers eyes brighten with recognition.

“Ah, yes. my favorite little hedge witch. Tell me, how is she? She’s not stopped by in a while. Though, I expect that has to do with the chaos surrounding magic.”

“I—she. It’s a long story? But she’s okay? Now?”

“Brilliant!” He motions over his shoulder, “Follow me, then. I’ll just have to ask a few questions and then we can—“

“There is, uh. One. Thing? I should mention.”

“What’s that?”

“The memory is… from a separate timeline? That didn’t happen, but also kind of did.”

“But it’s still clear?”

“As if I’d lived it in this lifetime, yeah.”

The shopkeeper grins, “Brilliant. That’s all we need. A clear image and moment from which to pull from.” He steps out from behind the counter, and holds a hand out for Quentin. “Come on my little lamb. To the slaughter we go!”

“What?”

“You’ll see. Memory stripping isn’t too much fun. Some women have likened it to child birth.”

“Oh.”

“Doubts?”

Quentin swallows thickly, because no. There aren’t any doubts. Not anymore. Not after six months as Brian, and four more with Eliot as a nameless creature inhabiting his body. Not after quests and deaths and mayhem. No more fucking doubts so long as …. his anxiety reddened mind allows him to go without. Which probably has a time limit of about five more minutes.

“No, but—"

“Best get started, understood. Come along.”

And then they disappear through the back and there’s really no going back from here, is there?

During the quest, he didn’t tell anyone, but he’d created a journal. A timestamp of every quest related moment that mattered, or had an affect.

The day they stepped through the clock, but also didn’t, is preceded and followed up by three empty pages. So Quentin can always find it easily enough, without bookmarking it with hearts and enchantments that basically screams at any onlookers (read: his nosy-ass friends) to HEY COME LOOK AT WHAT QUENTIN’S GOT UNDER HIS BED.

So, he knows what today is. Has known for weeks. Months, even. But the last couple weeks are all that matters. Because there’s a disconnect from their feelings and their actions, now. Whereas before, everything came easy. Or, as easy as things involving Eliot Waugh can possibly grow to become. But now, there’s an invisible wall built up. From Quentin being Brian and crying over Eliot’s (second) death upon getting his memories back, without knowing that Eliot had been very much alive, but hiding beneath the creature, watching everything around them unfold without any control. To that moment, just a few weeks ago.

Of the fire beneath Eliot’s eyes slowly fading to confusion, to Quentin being pulled into a world crushing hug, and all of their friends piling on top of them.

To Eliot looking at him like he wants to say something, but being just as frightened as Quentin for once in his life.

Because so much has happened.

But beneath all their trauma and pain and loss, they’ve still got feelings piling up high and wide for the entire world to see if they just take one look at either of them.

But Eliot sees rejection and regret, when he looks at Quentin. He knows it. Because every time Quentin’s taken the opportunity to mention his feelings, in the past or in recent weeks, Eliot politely reminds him that he’s passed the point of experimenting and having stress related romps in the darkest nights of war.

Eliot, as closed off as he can be sometimes, is looking for a fairytale. Or, as close to one as he can graze his fingertips up against.

And, in all honesty, after all that they’ve been through, Quentin’s on the same page.

He’s not in love with Alice, or bored, or desperate for a time killer.

He doesn’t want Eliot because it’s convenient. Because it’s not. It’s messy and consuming, and they keep finding ways to hurt each other. They keep fucking everything up. It’s mostly Quentin, but Eliot has his moments, too.

But it’s time for Quentin to take a stand. Because it’s always Eliot, watching and waiting and willing when the time comes. It’s always Eliot willing to take the plunge. To get hurt. But he’s been hurt enough. He’s suffered enough.

So, Quentin didn’t say anything. Until he remembers an offhanded comment Kady said once. About a stuffed bear she loved as a toddler that was stolen. About her mom, tapping her temple and saying, “ My Kady girl, you never have to worry about losing the things you love, so long as you have them up here .” Of the secret magic shop that spells items from memory into existence.

He looks down at the bag as he makes his way up the stairs of the cottage, still surprised the shopkeeper had managed to find it with all his digging. His head and body are still so, so sore. But today is the day preceded and followed by blank pages.

Today is the only day to Make A Point.

There are no girls with baskets of peaches and plums to distract him. Only a girl he once loved, who’s grown into herself, and has moved on. A house full of friends. No distractions. Nothing.

He can’t think of a place he’d rather be.

Which is why, when he reaches the top of the stairs, and stops in front of Eliot’s door, that he shakes his head, turns away, and heads for his own bedroom. He sets the bag on his bed, gently, and thinks, as loud as he can for Penny to appear.

He should know by now to specify, but it’s too late because new and old Penny are standing in his room, staring at him with matching looks of disappointment. “What?”

It’s eerie, how their voices echo when they speak at the same time.

He smiles guiltily up at them. “I was just wondering… if you could help me set something up.”

“ What ?” New Penny asks, just as Old Penny scoffs.

Quentin’s grin turns up three degrees. “I’m going to tell Eliot I love him.”

“Ten years later…”

New Penny shoots Old Penny a glare, and turns his attention back on Quentin. “You know I can’t do that for you, right?”

“No, no, no, yeah. i know. I just. Was hoping, you could convince him to step through the clock and go to Fillory? Maybe, make it seem like a group outing kind of thing?”

“You could just walk into his room and say ‘hey love you, let’s fuck,’” Old Penny says, raising his eyebrows, “It literally doesn’t need to be this difficult.”

New Penny scoffs this time. “Man,” He says, “Did you lose your sense of romance in the underworld or something?” He rolls his eyes and grabs Old Penny by the elbow before shooting Quentin a look. “We’ll get it handled.”

“No we w—“

“No more pining .”

Old Penny stops struggling, and levels Quentin with a look Quentin can’t quite comprehend. “He’ll be there in an hour.”

He just opts to take that as a win and grins.

Not even forty five minutes later, Quentin hears the tale tell sign of someone walking through the woods, as leaves and twigs break beneath their feet. He straights out the blanket beneath him, and adjust the plates of food, swallowing anxiously, as the footsteps get closer.

“Hello? Look—not that I’m not into the cabin in the woods vibe, here, guys, I just—“ Eliot stops mid-sentence as he breaks through the trees and comes face to face with Quentin and the picnic. “Oh.” He doesn’t move. Even his hand stays planted on the side of the tree, where Quentin’s pretty sure the bark is digging into the palms of his hands painfully.

“I thought we could--“

“Where did you get that?”

Eliot still hasn’t moved. But his eyes are drawn to the ground in front of Quentin. And his voice is higher, slightly panicked or shocked, Quentin’s not sure.

But, he will admit that he’s starting to feel a bit panicked as his own eyes slide down to the blanket he’s sitting on. He clears his throat, and shrugs, before looking back up at Eliot. “I was hoping we—we could. Uh. Eat, and you’d notice it somewhere around the strawberries? And then I could give this—this speech. It’s not really a speech. I mean. It is but—“

“Q?”

“Right, sorry. I—“

“How—“

“I had a magician pull it from my memory and give it a form?”

Eliot’s eyes snap back up to Quentin’s, then. “What? Why?”

“Because I—uh. Wanted—Shit.” He shuffles up to his knees, panicking truly now, as the plates and drinks shake dangerously around him, until he can push onto his feet and stand up. He looks down at the slight state of chaos overtop the blanket. “See—you. You ruined it, you know?” He says, looking back up. “You were supposed to—to, just. Walk through and be like, ‘oh, what’s this?’ and I’d grab one of the cups,” He pauses, pointing shakily at the cup that had been by his foot just moments ago, “And I’d say, ‘Happy Anniversary, Eliot’ and you’d think on it, all confused like, what, but then you’d see the blanket. And then, you’d look up at me, then the cup, then the blanket—“

“And then I’d kiss you?”

Can a person's heart stop without it killing them? Can Quentin’s heart stop in his chest? Is that a thing that can happen?

Because if not, help, someone call an ambulance or something because he’s almost definitely dying.

“Q?”

He wills himself to look back up at Eliot, with the tiniest of nods. “Yeah, actually.”

“Like last time.”

“Yeah.”

“Last time, we—“

“We could have done better,” Quentin interrupts, taking a needy step closer. Just because they haven’t been as close lately as they were before, doesn’t mean he doesn’t long for the proof of Eliot’s existence, in either touches, or just the proof of life given by the warmth he emanates. “We—we can. We still have a chance, to. To do this right. We’re not in any danger—“

“Which is the only time you’re—“

“That’s not true. I just—I fucked up. A lot. But I’m not only interested when we’re in peril or something. I—I. I always want you around. And, I—I don’t know. Fuck,” He hisses, reaches up to run a hand through his hair in frustration, “I forgot my speech. You—you weren’t supposed to see it and then this gets all confrontational. It—it was going to be romantic and. And I was going to tell you I love you, in that really weird, all consuming, sometimes fucks up my spells because I’m too happy for them to work, kind of way. But I can’t even—“

“Q.”

“—do that right because I’m such a fucking disaster. And I just wanted to prove—“

“Q.”

“—to you that I’m in this for the long run, and that I’m not—“

“Q, you’re panicking.”

“—just looking for a quick, time killing problem solving fuck, or anything like that. I mean, obviously—“

“Quentin—“

“—I want to sleep with you again, because hello, but I—“

Eliot comes striding forward in four long steps until he grabs Quentin by his shoulders. “Q, you’re spiraling. Stop.”

“But I—“

“Stop.” He looks him in the eye, mimes taking a deep breath, which makes Quentin realize that he’d somehow said everything without taking any breaths in, so he follows the mime, until he’s not panting for air. Until they’re standing beneath the Fillorian trees, staring at each other. He’s not sure if it’s the exercise, or just because of how intoned they are with each other, but their chests are rising and falling at the same rate. Touching on the inhale, and separating on the exhale. Again and again.

Quentin keeps getting little glimpses of the feel of Eliot’s heartbeat.

“Are you good now?”

“Am I ever?”

“Are you going to faint?”

“No.”

“Good.” He half expects Eliot to pull away, but the concern in his eyes slowly fades, as the crinkles at the corners of his eyes appear until he’s staring down at Quentin like he knows something Quentin doesn’t—which is always dangerous.

“What?”

“You told me you love me.”

“What?” He furrows his brow, before sighing, because yeah, he had just blurted it out. “Shit—I—“

“Don’t apologize, Q.” He leans down, pressing his forehead to Quentins. “You got the blanket. From the night we kissed outside the house by the mosaic.” Quentin nods, his eyes fluttering shut. “You didn’t buy something similar, or go to a shop in Fillory and see if there were any. You went to a hedge witch parlor, and had it literally ripped out of your memory like it's some kind of mix tape CD from the early 2000’s.”

“A mixtape would have been a lot less painful.”

Eliot chuckles. “Physically, maybe. But mentally? The emotional harm? It wouldn’t be worth it.”

“Are—“

“For the record, I love you, too.”

Quentin opens his eyes then. “But you’ve been avoiding me. I thought—“

One of Eliot’s hands come up, his thumb grazing against Quentin’s cheekbone, while the palm of his hand wraps around his jawline. “I figured it’d be less traumatic.”

“What?”

“What the creature did to you…it was in my body. I figured the less you had to look at me, the easier it’d be.”

Quentin swallows thickly. “I mean,” He says, “I kind of never want to—to stop looking at you.”

“Oh?”

“No.”

Eliot grins down at him, and before Quentin even realizes what's happening, he finds himself pushed up against the same tree Eliot had held onto. And Quentin was right—the bark is sharp. But so are Eliot’s teeth, and they’re glinting in the sunlight as Eliot looks him over. “Then you don’t have to,” He says, leaning back in, until his nose presses against Quentin’s.

“Okay. That—that’s—“

“Do you want to keep talking, or do you want to make use of the blanket you so painfully collected?”

“I—I also—cooked…”

“I’m hungry,” Eliot nods, “But not for food.”

“That was—disgustingly cheesy.”

“Coming from you? The one who had his friends trick me into thinking there’s a big, creepy picnic in the woods. When instead it’s a poorly crafted love confession?”

“Ouch.”

Eliot chuckles, “I’m sorry,” He says, “But you really didn’t think it through, at all.”

“Do I ever?”

“….Fair enough.”

They stand quietly for a few moments, breathing each other in. Until Quentin, impatient and expectant, pulls back enough, just to say, “So… are you going to kiss me? Or?”

Eliot’s laughter is the last thing he hears before he feels his lips on his.

When they get back to the cottage, they wash the blanket, and fold it up, setting it alongside the back of the couch, so they can see it whenever they’re home, to remind them.

“I swear to god if that is the sex blanket on the couch that we all sit our happy asses on, I am actually going to murder you both. I don’t care if Eliot is my best friend! ”

It finds its new home on Quentin and Eliot’s shared bed.

#the magicians #queliot #quentin coldwater #eliot waugh #riz writes

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janeaustentextposts · 7 years

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What is your favorite non-Austen period novel? Movie?

Okay I’m gonna do a rundown of all my favourites because making me pick one is just mean. (Also at one point in my notes on the following books and films I just wrote “Bagels” and I can’t for the life of me think what I might have meant or autocorrected that from. Maybe a shopping list started to take form. I don’t know.)

(If the film Miss Austen Regrets and book Longbourn by Jo Baker count as non-Austen then include them.)

Films:

Lagaan: Once Upon a Time in India - 2001 (Sports! High stakes! Sticking it to the Colonial Man!)

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Mozart’s Sister - 2010 (Beautiful music! Gorgeous androgyny! GIRLS CAST TO PLAY THEIR ACTUAL AGE AND NOT SOME 20-SOMETHING PRETENDING TO BE FOURTEEN!)

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Possession - 2002 (I’ve tried the novel, and A.S. Byatt has some beautiful prose but her structures sometimes do my head in, so never finished it. Ignore Paltrow as best you can and enjoy lush Victorian Gothic mystery and the ending is one of the most poignant things I’ve ever been pleasantly surprised with on film, and it leaves you wondering about many, many things…)

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Jodhaa Akbar - 2008 (You could put Hrithik Roshan and Aishwarya Rai in the worst commercial ever made and I would watch it. Costumes, scenery, and, as a friend once put it “I’m not sure how they did it, but they just had a sex scene without any sex.” Bravo.)

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Water - 2005 (Deepa Mehta is such a fantastic filmmaker and I loved this whole trilogy but Water is my favourite.)

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Elizabeth - 1998 & Elizabeth: The Golden Age - 2007 (The costumes! The caMERA ANGLES!!! The compli-fucking-cated mess that is Elizabeth I.)[Okay Tumblr won’t let me embed any more trailers, but those ones are easy to find, they’re out there.]Vatel - 2000 (Any foodie who is also a fan of The Sun King and his era will dig this one. A great score, baddie Tim Roth.)Alternatively, in the same era: A Little Chaos - 2015. Storyline is a little weak, but it’s so beautiful and the cast is great and the M U S I C. Kate Winslet. Alan Rickman. Helen McCrory. STANLEY TUCCI.)Also: they’re not films, but TV shows - honourable mentions to the Spanish series Gran Hotel. It’s like a good version of Downton Abbey, only sorta on crack and with a tonne more murder mysteries; and while I have some Issues with its so-called hero and some comparatively weirdo plot-points in S3, overall, it’s fantastic and I’m obssessed. Please don’t mix it up with the Italian re-make which looks horrible in every way. Like, main actors dressed in a poorly-sewn-table-cloth-bad.And shout-out to the new CBC/Netflix series Anne. I will defend this show to the DEATH, alright? They’ve gone bolder and fresher and have managed to involve period realism in a moving way while retaining the sunshine-and-pinafores element that so many people love about L.M. Montgomery’s work. There’s heaps of women with production credits, and I think it shows. Geraldine James is already my favourite Marilla after one episode, and I feel like R.H. Thompson (HEY JASPER DALE HEEEEY!) and Amybeth McNulty are likely going to become my favourite Matthew and Anne, too. People have complained about this series going off-book and in particular some have condemned it sight-unseen because the writers/directors are putting a feminist spin on it and OH GOD THEY SAID FEMINIST QUICK WE GOTTA SET EVERYTHING ON FIRE BECAUSE CHILDHOOD IS RUINED, but honestly it’s just perky and gorgeous and scrappy and nobody can tell me to my face that Kevin Sullivan didn’t go all the fucking way off-book from the very beginning so I am not gonna sit here and insist that the Megan Fallows Anne of Green Gables was perfection which could never be improved upon because that’s just a plain lie. It was nice and it has its place but it’s time for some new blood. (And NOT the telefilms they’ve also come out with recently with Martin Sheen, bless his heart, but they took a brunette child actor and dumped an atrociously stark box of red hair-dye on her before drawing on her freckles and then telling her to please play everything theatrically to the back of the house even though there is a camera ten inches from her face.) I am HERE FOR ANNE. RIDE OR DIE.

AND NOW, FOR BOOKS!

After that you might assume my L.M. Montgomery recommendation would be Anne of Green Gables and sure I won’t say DON’T read them, but for my money the Emily of New Moon trilogy is more my jam and I wish to God and Netflix in all my prayers that there might someday be a decent adaptation of them.I was really into Cassandra Clark’s Abbess of Meaux mystery series for a time, but then things went a bit pear-shaped in what I think was the fourth(?) book and everything was OOC and honestly I haven’t caught up on the later books after that and they seem to be self-published now but I am a sucker for nuns and mysteries so I’ll probably get back into it when I have time.

The Princess Priscilla’s Fortnight and The Solitary Summer by Elizabeth von Arnim. Vacation-reads! Beautiful prose, some wry wit, and fun hijinks. If you’ve ever wanted to run away and live in an isolated cottage in the wilderness for a little while, these are for you. [ETA: I recently got my hands on a copy of The Jasmine Farm so THANK YOU to one of you who recommended it I am loving it so far only I don’t see the appeal in Andrew so wtf Terry you can do better.]Edward Rutherfurd’s geographical history novels–Sarum is the classic to start with, but the others I’ve read are very good, too. (London, New York, and I’m now working my way through a first-edition of Russka.)Amy Levy. A M Y L E V Y. Criminally under-recognized Jewish Victorian novelist and poet. Novellas Ruben Sachs and The Romance of a Shop. (RS a beautiful and bittersweet story about the conflicts between love, identity, and expectations, and some would say a response to George Eliot’s Daniel Deronda. TRoaS reading a bit like a less treacle-sweet variation on Little Women, where four sisters try to make their way in the world by setting up their own photography studio in late 19th century London.)The Making of a Marchioness by Frances Hodgkin Burnett. Colonialist racism appears in this one, so be warned. Still the book is a THOUSAND times better than the utterly dreadful adaptation known as The Making of a Lady. Jane is better, Emily is better, Walderhurst is better, pretty much EVERYONE IS BETTER. The pacing is better. The plotting and suspense make actual sense.

The Scarlet Pimpernel by Baroness Orczy. A classic, and the grand-daddy of every secret-identity superhero.

The Forsyte Saga by John Galsworthy. Like, it makes me MAD how good these books are.

And last but not least, a non-fiction selection in Vere Hodgson’s WWII diaries: Few Eggs and No Oranges. Nothing else has ever brought the experience of living (or trying to) under the shadow of the bombs and the threat of invasion quite like these diaries. Fascinating details, engagingly written, and at times a stark reminder that the Allied victory we take for granted in our history could by no means be counted on by the millions who dwelt in daily uncertainty.

#Ask Me Anything Austen-Adjacent #AMAAA #books #movies #films #afirewiel

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kacheeking · 7 years

Text

the lost years/months/days

haven’t revisited/thought about things that I’ve been reading on my own terms for a while, but this was the last time I was taking note roughly from July 2015 to May 2016:

no. 3 shit i’ve been reading: circa march 2016

Fasting Girls: The History of Anorexia Nervosa – Joan Jacobs Brumberg (Found this incredibly illuminating re: sainthood and 16/17th century starvation in the name of religion. Made me think more about the intersections of appetite, power, religion and how this came to a head in that age. The Victorian era sections were also really interesting, I think since I’ve never thought specifically about how food and physical appetite came into the picture even though I’ve known so much about social mores of the time and how that would have been in line? I think reading this overall, esp when they started getting closer to the modern age, I just held this sheer sense of being appalled by medical practice and how eating disorders were treated, viewed and patients subjected to unfair/uncomfortable/even dangerous power dynamics. Feel like it’s so difficult to be a woman, though it’s improving, and my feminist self balked at so much that went on in the book re: this screwed up relationship between physical appetite (sexual and food-related), madonna-whore complexes, freedoms and rebellions and how in the face of so much external pressure women turn inwards and into and on themselves.)

Living Beautifully – Pema Chodron (Last Buddhist book that we had to read for class as part of a course that aimed at understanding the conception of “self” through various lenses e.g. psychoanalytic, evolutionary-biology, religious, etc. Still struggle to reconcile a lot of Buddhist concepts with the reality of a modern nation-state framework that we have to live in. Can see its merits on an individual level but in class, was agitated when the professor seemed to dismiss/relegate discussions of privilege, and power to the sidelines, or equate sufferings that in my mind seem absolutely incompatible. Maybe I’m not “enlightened” yet? Maybe I don’t want to be.)

Brave New World – Aldous Huxley (Liked this more than other sci-fi that i’ve picked up. Can see why it’s a “classic”. also read this at a time when i was very much alone/wanted the experience of solitude. want to pick up more sci-fi in future, wondering why i was biased against this genre in the past??)

Devotional Poems – Joe Hall (didn’t seem clean enough, like some phrases were superfluous/didn’t add anything to the force of a poem. a lot of imagery, sound and fury but with no object or point. cacophonous but i didn’t enjoy this collection)

Once in the West – Christian Wiman (really enjoyed this. at first was disappointed – somehow poems that have monosyllable lines or single word lines strike me as irregular/ineffective (?) but this is unwarranted bias i suppose because a lot of the poems ended up having an unexpected resonance. reading wiman and also other poets in class i think you gain an appreciation for what objectively good poetry is. people say that art is subjective but that’s some bullshit at least at the preliminary stages because being an editor for a creative literary magazine i have read a LOT of bad writing and it is clearly not subjective. anyway, what was i on? always enjoy religious/devotional poetry specifically, and most of the time it is circa 16th/17th century, but wiman combines the modernist poetic aesthetic with something enduring and that always wins me over.)

Why be happy when you can be normal? – Jeanette Winterson (read this over two days, and by that i mean it took slightly over 2+/3 hours to get through it all maybe? incredibly easy to read which was why it went so quickly. liked this a lot and want to read more by winterson)

Nobody is ever missing – Catherine Lacey (read this over three days but grew more exasperated as it progressed. think i’m done with self-indulgence/characters who i perceive as self-indulgent. there is more draw for me, now, i think, to contemplate urgencies to others instead of urgencies only to yourself. i want to read not about escapism but about handling ties to history, ties to others, ties that threaten to envelope you but also uplift. this novel was about a woman who leaves a decent life to stay in a sullen silent space of isolation and somehow i cannot accept that anymore.)

numero dos: shit i’ve been reading circa jan 2016

Completed

The Bone Clocks – David Mitchell (i liked this and the fact that david mitchell writes so comfortably and well about/when placing his narrative in irish/english contexts. re: this book, i guess we handle/respond to mortality differently. the dystopian end made me think about wanting to recycle/be more environmentally-conscious) – January

Civilization and its discontents – Sigmund Freud (read this for class, again with all freud that i’ve read, some resonates and some i call total bullshit on (everything related to his gender theory tbh).

Man’s Search for Himself – Rollo May (read this for class. every time i read something approximating insightful about self-knowledge i somehow find a crack of doubt that then spreads across the text. there was a short segment about physicality and self-consciousness that i could see be true (and even then only in my context), but i lie in the crevice and believe that the self is unknowable so maybe this class is really just an exercise in futility 4 me?)

A General Theory of Love – Lewis et. al. (read for class again. Generally found this interesting, esp because it put a scientific spin on a theory of attachment and human connection. felt like the presence of objective science, though that is debatable, gave credence to the kind of subjective emotions we have all felt, and so was comforting in some small way.)

February: The Moral Animal – Robert Wright (for class again. basically an evolutionary biology perspective/explanation of morality. Interesting to see but idk, something about attributing so many things/our choices, etc. to biology feels inherently…wrong? but maybe that’s his point.)

Mlodinow, Leonard. Subliminal: How Your Unconscious Mind Rules Your Behavior (fascinating but Mlodinow jumps around a lot when writing and it makes me less inclined to believe him?)

What the Buddha Taught – Rahula (feel like the more I read about Buddhism, the more confused I am esp wrt to its metaphysical concepts. felt like a good introduction to something that’s been familiar all my life but i’ve never gotten to know intellectually. but there is something inherent about “unknowable” concepts that may be just shy of religious concepts, but still unacceptable to me)

Four Quartets – TS Eliot (probably one of the best collections of poetry that i’ve ever read. eliot goes into abstractions but grapples with the heart of the matter and there is anguish and brazen honesty and no hesitance to be ugly if that makes sense. need to reread this, probably aloud)

The Monk and the Philosopher – jean-françois revel, matthieu ricard (complicates/simplifies the ideas of buddhism? I can’t quite make up my mind. but the comparison to philosophy and subjecting it to the kind of ‘scientific’ and dialectical method was useful for me to understand it further. that is, beyond metaphors. side note: am q taken with this format of prose—conversation printed)

shit i’ve been reading circa July 2015

Not that kind of girl – Lena Dunham (felt pretentious at a lot of points) – July

The diving bell and the butterfly – Jean Dominique Bauby (quite good) – July

Madness – Marya Hornbacher (this made me cry) -July

Eat and Run – Scott Jurek (motivation to run as all books about running are) – July

AWOL on the Appalachian trail – David Miller (gets boring if you haven’t been to the AT)

The Omnivore’s Dilemma – Michael Pollen (liked this. made me think about my choices and the exact ethical structure behind it – read also: consider the lobster by david foster wallace for a similar/alternative perspective) – August

What I talk about when I talk about running – Haruki Murakami (long time coming to read this, perfect short prose about the draw of running. feel like most people who enjoy running and associate it with thinking/contemplation will get it) – August

Bad feminist – Roxane Gay (brutal at points, beautiful mostly) – August

Under the banner of heaven – Jon Krakauer (this was incredible. well-researched and comprehensive but extremely smooth narrative about mormon fundamentalism.) – September

Valley of the Dolls – Jacqueline Susann (enjoyed this) – September

Consider the Lobster – David Foster Wallace (title essay is a gem, the rest ranged from obscure to mildly intriguing) – September

Everything I Never Told You – Celeste Ng (above average) – November

The People’s Republic of Amnesia – Louis Lim (emotional reporting, slated to go one way, but expectedly so) – November

History of Chinese Philosophy – Wing-Tsit Chan (need to reread, slowly, and in detail)

Drinking: A Love Story – Caroline Knapp (well-written and need to stop reading memoirs on vice/transferable behaviours) – November

Modern Romance – Aziz Ansari (ok. choice) – November

A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius – Dave Eggers (liked this a lot, eggers has great arrogant style that works) – December

Slade House – David Mitchell (perfect short read. thrilling. fantasy.) – December

Fates and Furies – Lauren Groff (liked this but it ) – December

The Wind-up Bird Chronicle – Haruki Murakami (took a while to get into, but enjoyed this, esp folding routines that appeared in the book into my mind. there is a quietness that steals its way through the pages when the protagonist makes his sandwiches, thinks, goes deep into dry wells) – December

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