magicianskinkmeme | Round #2, June 2021

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Round #2, June 2021

mod post - off-topic discussion - rules - completed fills - rounds

ROUND #2

Rules:
1. Golden rule: YKINMKATO.
2. Book spoilers must be clearly tagged in post titles.
3. All comments must be anonymous.
4. Please title your prompt posts. All prompts are welcome, from fluff to angst to smut.
5. Fills must be posted as a response to the original prompt (links to AO3 etc are allowed) & must have "FILL" in the title.
6. Multiple fills for the same prompt are allowed and welcomed.
7. Content warnings will not be enforced but are appreciated.
8. Please wait until the next round to repost a prompt.

Is it a zombie apocalypse? Perhaps a Season 5 resurrection AU? No, it's the revival of the Magicians Kinkmeme -- we're back for Round #2, baby!

Please hop over to the mod post if you have any questions. When you fill a prompt, please feel free to link to it in the fills post so that others can easily find it.

Have fun, get weird and be kind to each other!

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Kady thinks getting a cold is totally embarrassing and has never had anyone - or maybe more accurately, has never let anyone - take care of her before.

Julia thinks Kady should grow the fuck up, climb into their bed, and let her make her some goddamn chicken soup already.

The boys exchange massages to help them [recover from monster/mirror realm injuries and/or feel better from working on the mosaic all day and/or...chose your own adventure] on a regular basis. It starts out innocently enough but slowly, things become more and more sensual until one of them can't take it anymore...

Maybe Quentin and Eliot, for some reason, find themselves in the forest north of Whitespire with naturally occurring aphrodisiacs (maybe after 3x05?). Or maybe there's a potion gone wrong in a S1 AU setting. Whatever the scenario, I want some desperate, frantic, out-of-their-minds fucking, please.

Margo and Alice's sexual tension finally reaches a breaking point and results in some angry, competitive sex. As things proceed, there's a back-and-forth struggle about exactly who's in charge here.

Everyone wins.

Quentin discovers a spell that will let him feel literally any sensation he can think of. It's too bad that he doesn't realize he's botched a line of the Aramaic.

The result? As Quentin is experiencing what it would feel like to fuck his best friend, Eliot also feels exactly what it would feel like to have Quentin deep inside him. Lucky for Quentin, Eliot doesn't mind--in fact, quite the opposite.

Eliot, desperately pining + Q, clueless but with a huge puppycrush, chilling outside after a party (or whathaveyou). Someone is smoking (joint, cigarette, whatever) and somehow Sexually Charged Shotgunning happens

Pre-relationship, pining stage, no Beast S1 stuff. Gentle angst, big feelings.

Eliot gets too fucked up at a Cottage party. Quentin finds him in a broom closet and gets him to bed. He’s genuinely worried about the intensity of Eliot’s substance use and drinking, lately, and tries to broach the topic with him. Eliot tries to distract him with a kiss, but — despite how badly he wants to kiss him back — Q absolutely refuses to fall for that tactic from a too-drunk-too-vulnerable Eliot.

Quentin is hit with a spell that makes him come whenever ordered to. Coulda happened by accident or as a curse, could be an intentional sex magic spell they try out - either way, they end up having lots of fun with it until it runs its course/they find a cure.

Set in first season, Julia and Marina doing a spell together that requires semi-nudity and a lot of skin-on-skin touching. Julia has a boyfriend, but this isn't cheating, it's magic.

Shadeless Julia tries to seduce Kady. Kady is tempted.

Season one no Beast AU where Quentin isn't friends with Margo and Eliot; Margo sees Quentin wallflowering at a party, takes him upstairs and pegs him

i physically need this!!!

the shift from semi-awkward touches, to more casual ones, to…

somebody plz save a life and write this

After they sleep together in S1, Alice lets slip to Penny that she’s never orgasmed during sex with a partner before.

Penny prides himself on his patience and skill at taking direction in bed. Most of all - he enjoys a challenge. So, Operation “Make Alice Come - But, Like, No Pressure Yo, ‘Cause I Could Eat That Pussy All Day” turns into a bit of a team project.

I just really need all the slow, thoughtful, highly verbal sex between Alice and Penny while he navigates her body and preferences, and helps her finally get over that tricky partnered orgasm cliff.

GOD BLESS

Oh hell yes let's go

Honestly I just want Eliot being made to feel loved and cared for. Could be sickfic, could be getting tenderly topped, cuddled after a bad day, getting his hair washed, whatever. I just want the boy to come out of it feeling LOVED because Eliot Waugh being cherished is my specific kink. I'd like it to be Queliot primarily, with an optional addition of Margo in either an OT3 or "ride or die bff" capacity.

“Quentin.”

Quentin startles from the lounge chair he’s curled up on—it’s cold outside on the patio, but he’s kinda drunk and sleepy and it hasn’t been cold enough to get up. He turns to find Eliot leaning against the doorway, sleeves rolled up and tie undone. Quentin’s mouth both waters and feels dry all at once. Eliot done up in all his sartorial glory is something to behold, for sure, but Quentin feels special, somehow, being allowed to see him like this—a little less perfect, but beautiful just the same.

It probably isn’t special to Eliot, since he hooks up with boys left right and center at the end of most parties, and he’s probably getting at least somewhat naked during said hookups and—

Anyway.

While Quentin thought-spiraled, Eliot made his way over to the chair next to him and produced a joint.

“Hey, uh, Eliot,” Quentin says, inwardly wincing at his awkwardly late greeting. Smooth. “Is the party over, or…?”

Eliot lights the joint with an elegant gesture and takes a deep drag. Quentin emphatically does not look at his lips. Eliot meets his eyes and smiles like Quentin’s said something charming, and not, like, totally banal.

“It’s winding down a bit, but I wanted to find you,” he says lightly.

“You did?” Why?

Eliot lets out a small laugh, again like Quentin had said something clever—Quentin desperately wants to know what Eliot is actually feeling, rather than his own hopeful projections—and simply says, “Yes. I wanted to hang out with you.”

As if that were something people said to Quentin, much less people like Eliot.

“Oh,” Quentin says, a bit stupidly, “Well. Here I am.” Cringe. Eliot has got to be regretting his decision now. Quentin’s not sure if he wishes he were more sober or more drunk—his ability to interact smoothly with other human beings seems to be at the universe’s whim, and doesn’t seem to follow any discernible pattern.

Eliot takes another drag, slowly exhales, and makes a gesture that molds the smoke into a complex pattern of smoke rings. “You want a hit?” he says, finally breaking the silence.

Maybe, but I mostly want your dick, Quentin thinks wildly and thankfully does not say aloud. Instead what comes out is, “Um, maybe not, if it’s strong? I’m kinda drunk and it’s not, uh, a great time if I get too crossed.”

Something in Eliot’s expression seems a little disappointed. “Ah, yeah, this is one of Hoberman’s. He doesn’t do anything but strong.”

Eliot’s probably going to go back inside and find someone else to hang out with or hook up with and—Quentin panicks, and then blurts out, “Maybe we could shotgun it instead?”

He’s not sure where that came from. He’s not even sure if that would do anything regarding the, like, potency of the joint but. He just wants Eliot to stay a little while longer.

Eliot raises his eyebrows, a grin slowly spreading across his face. “You sure, Coldwater?”

Maybe this was a bad idea. Inviting Eliot’s mouth into his personal space and not leaning forward to kiss him seems like an insane tightrope that kinda-drunk Quentin is not equipped to take on.

“Yeah I’m sure, come on.”

Eliot scoots his chair over and motions for Quentin to do the same, and motions him again when Quentin scoots his chair only the smallest bit closer. “You’re going to make me strain my neck if you’re sitting that far away,” Eliot laughs.

“What’s that long ass neck even for, then?” Quentin shoots back, grinning as he moves as close as he can. Eliot might be beautiful and otherworldly and completely out of his league, but it’s still surprisingly easy to be with him.

Their laughter dies down. The night feels warm. Eliot is looking into his eyes, seemingly searching for something. Quentin shifts, and tries to give Eliot an out, just in case. “Hey, uh, we don’t have to if—if you don’t want,” he says.

“No, no,” Eliot finally says, “Hoberman is a master of his craft. It’s a must.”

Quentin nods and tries to discreetly wipe his sweaty palms on his ratty jeans as Eliot re-lights the joint, and takes a hit. Quentin leans closer, their knees now in between each other’s, sets a steadying hand on Eliot’s armrest.

Eliot leans in and just before exhaling, gently places his hand on the back of Quentin’s neck. The sight of Eliot’s hooded eyes with smudged eyeliner, the warmth of his face so close to his, makes Quentin’s eyes slide shut as he inhales the smoke from Eliot’s lips. He wants to savor this. It feels childish, but he wants to hold onto that one time that Eliot Waugh almost kissed me.

Quentin comes back to himself when he realizes Eliot is still clasping his neck. He shivers, but doesn’t back away. When his eyes open, Eliot begins to draw back, but as his hand slides off, Quentin grabs his wrist without thinking and holds him there. The corners of Eliot’s lips quirk up along with one of his eyebrows in a question.

There doesn’t seem to be an innocent explanation for why he just—held on to Eliot’s wrist, keeping his hand on his neck, not one that he can think of right now anyway, and before the moment is gone, his hindbrain says—

Time to jump off the tightrope.

“I, um—“ Quentin starts, but he abruptly shuts his mouth in favor of closing the space between them and pressing a firm but chaste kiss on Eliot’s lips. Before pulling back, Quentin says a silent wistful goodbye to their friendship, which has surely gone up in flames just now. It was nice while it lasted.

Quentin lets go of Eliot’s arm before meeting his eyes and shrugging a little like, well, there you go.

The self-deprecating thoughts reflexively cycle through his head—Way to stick the landing! Nice job, Coldwater! Time to drop out of Brakebills, change your name, and disappear off the grid!—but Quentin can’t find it in himself to really regret it. He’s wanted to since he saw Eliot lounging on the sign on that first day, and Eliot still hasn’t recoiled in disgust, so. All in all, not the worst kiss he’s inflicted on someone. (He sends a silent apology to Sarah Cheng from 3rd grade).

Eliot, in fact, is furrowing his brow and smiling in soft, pleased disbelief. With his eyes trained on Quentin’s face, Eliot stubs out the still-smoking joint and brings his other hand up to Quentin’s bicep. His thumb gently pets over his sleeve.

“It’s like that, huh?” he asks. There’s a pleasant rasp to his voice that makes Quentin’s stomach flip.

“Yeah. I’ve wanted to do that for forever,” Quentin forces himself to say. He doesn’t want Eliot to think it was just a drunken impulse, that Quentin is looking to just be one of Eliot’s boys for a night. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. If that’s what’s on offer, Quentin will take it in a heartbeat. But—he wants more. He always wants more.

“Shotgunning? Weird thing to have on your bucket list,” Eliot murmurs. Quentin knows him well enough that he’s trying to deflect, trying to give him an out. He sets his jaw, steels himself, and says, “No, you asshole, and I know you know it. I’ve wanted to kiss you since I first saw you.”

The silence stretches longer and longer, but Eliot doesn’t take his hands back. Quentin shifts uncomfortably, but a part of him feels like this might be a pivotal moment—he can’t back down.

“And now?” Eliot finally asks, quietly. There’s something new in his voice—vulnerability, Quentin thinks, or fear. Quentin suddenly feels a surge of protectiveness. He wants to cradle Eliot’s heart gently in his hands. Dramatic, maybe, but true nonetheless.

“I’d like to kiss you again,” Quentin says. “Like, right now, but also, um, tomorrow. And the day after that, if you’re open to it. And, you know, so on and so forth. Not just kissing or sex, I also still want to just hang out, because I like you a lot as a person but also—”

His words get cut off when Eliot presses back in.

He feels Eliot’s smile against his lips.

Eliot Waugh's take on hysterical literature, aka Quentin has to read out loud while Eliot gets him off, but if Quentin stops, so does Eliot

(reference, safe enough for youtube but nsfw: https://youtu.be/09R7YRW3IU4)

“It’s like that, huh?”

oh I am WEAK, not op but I adore this

Eliot, in fact, is furrowing his brow and smiling in soft, pleased disbelief. With his eyes trained on Quentin’s face, Eliot stubs out the still-smoking joint and brings his other hand up to Quentin’s bicep. His thumb gently pets over his sleeve.

“It’s like that, huh?” he asks. There’s a pleasant rasp to his voice that makes Quentin’s stomach flip.

the sound that just left my body was more animal than human. AGHHHHH. 😮‍💨

prompt requester here and JESUS CHRIST JESUS CHRIST I AM VIBRATING OUT OF MY OWN BODY

Quentin's little surge of protectiveness after several paragraphs of insecure crises is my EXACT SHIT, THANK YOU SO MUCH

Maybe they were high school/college sweethearts, broke up for whatever reason, and run into each other again like 10 years later. Doesn’t have to be this exact scenario!

(yes I know there’s an amazing WIP with this premise right now but… I can’t get enough of this trope)

Margo’s in a very specific mood tonight: a black minidress and red-soled heels kind of mood. A vicious-with-a-hint-of-generosity kind of mood. A some lucky first year isn’t gonna know what hit them kind of mood. And she spots him, and he’s perfect.

He’s doing his level best to blend into the wallpaper in the far corner of the common room, eyes casting around for friends who must have abandoned him to go dance, chin-length hair falling in front of his terrified face. For all his wariness, he doesn’t notice her approaching, and he jumps about a foot when she puts a hand softly on his shoulder to get his attention.

“Welcome to the Physical Kids Cottage,” she says with a liquid smile. “First time?”

He immediately looks behind her, an instinctive reaction, trying to spot the hot, mean girl’s gaggle of hot, mean friends who might be waiting around the corner to point and laugh at him if he tries anything. Not finding any, he relaxes just enough to actually speak. “Um, yeah. It’s— kind of wild.”

His name is a ridiculous mouthful, but Q will do just fine as something to scream, should he prove worthy of that. She initially turns on the charm, but then backs off when that makes him shut down, mumble embarrassed answers into his half-empty solo cup. Interesting. This one needs a different angle of approach. This one is, truly, one of the quiet ones. That’s fine, though; the quiet ones are always the most fun.

On another night, she’d actually be interested in continuing the discussion they end up in about film adaptations of fantasy novels. She briefly considers leaving him with a friendly smile, looking elsewhere, so she can track him down some afternoon and make him understand just how very wrong he is about Game of Thrones. But he’s too delicious, with his fluttery hands and his wide brown eyes and the perfect pout of his lower lip, to waste this opportunity. So she waits hungrily until the moment is right, and then, in that tiny window where he’s finished a thought but hasn’t yet started feeling awkward about the lull in the conversation, she hooks the collar of his t-shirt with one finger and pulls him in to kiss him.

She feels him make a little surprised noise against her mouth. Based on his — well, everything — she’s expecting him to freeze up, to need some coaxing — but his lips part just a little, tentative but interested. He lets her lead the kiss, doesn’t drown her in spit or grab for her tits, all good signs. And when she hums with approval and grazes her teeth across his lip, he shudders.

Damn, does she know how to pick ‘em.

When she pulls back, he looks slightly shell-shocked, which is exactly what Margo was going for. She lets the corner of her mouth curl up in a devastating smirk, her eyes drift down the length of his body. He shudders again. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it.

She has a feeling that pure, unadulterated honesty is going to be the way to go here, so: “I’m in the mood to fuck someone. You game?”

Panic sparks in his eyes, and he looks around again for the posse of snickering friends, the hidden cameras. She waits it out patiently. “Uh,” he stammers. “Yeah?”

She offers a hand and leads him through the crowd and up to her room.

He’s not too tall, which is perfect — tall guys are such a pain to maneuver, she thinks as she grabs him by the front of his shirt and pivots neatly on her heel to send him sprawling backwards onto her bed. He looks stunned, almost confused. It’s adorable. Dear Penthouse: I never believed it could happen to me…

“Have you done this before?” she asks while he’s catching his breath between kisses.

His eyebrows dip together as he frowns. “Yeah? I’m not a virgin.”

“That’s not what I meant.” She stretches over him, her breasts brushing his face, and snags her harness from its ready place on the bedside table. He gapes at the nylon straps dangling from her hand, the sleek rounded jut of her favorite beginner toy. “I did say I was in the mood to fuck someone.”

He can’t take his eyes off it. Margo waits, waits, reminds herself to trust in her instincts. It could all fall apart here, and she’ll have to start tonight’s hunt over again. But she doesn’t think it’s going to.

“I thought you, uh— you meant…” he says absently. “I mean, the word fuck is used a lot of different ways by different people, so.” His hand is drifting, floating, his body fully aware of its own curiosity even if his mind hasn’t quite gotten up to speed yet. When his fingertips brush the silicone, he jolts like it electrocuted him.

Margo waits.

“I, uh, haven’t,” he says finally, running his thumb down the length of the toy. “So if that’s like, a problem—”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Margo purrs, the thrill of success singing in her veins, “that’s the opposite of a problem.”

He’s tense, jittery. Margo’s an expert in taking apart pretty little nervous things, though; she knows the difference between bad I don’t really want this tension and good I had no idea I wanted this tension, and Quentin’s full of the good kind, not a hint of the bad. She can read it in the light trace of his hands up her sides as he works her dress over her head, in the eagerness with which he mouths over her neck. It’s plain as day in the stutter of his hips when she palms him through his boxers. Even when she takes him in hand, strokes him, it only winds him up tighter.

Okay, then. A tricky case. Easy to get into bed; not so easy to loosen up. She keeps stroking him — his cock is solidly in the “good enough to get the job done” camp, a pint-sized treat to go with his pint-sized everything else — while she kisses his chest, flicks her tongue across a nipple to hear him squeak. She looks at his face: flushed and starting to sweat up by his hairline, teeth sunk into his lower lip.

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asks as she crawls up over him, kisses the indent where his teeth were a second ago.

He arches his neck to kiss her, open and needy. “Um,” he pants — her hand hasn’t stopped moving on his cock, her thumb smearing a bead of precome around his tip. “You— you like it, right? It’s good for you?”

Oh, Margo could just eat him up. “Don’t worry about me, baby. I know what I want.” She sits back on her haunches so she can show him the little vibrator built into the base of the toy. That eases about a third of the tension out of his shoulders. She flicks her fingers in a simple tut, turning the toy on to a low buzz, then flips it around to press the vibrating part to the head of his cock; he yelps and clutches at her thighs and when she pulls it away he relaxes even further. She holds back a slightly mean giggle. These fucking first years, especially the boys — they’re all so caught up in their need to prove themselves. Give them the slightest hint of permission to let go of all that, and they melt into putty.

Margo runs her hands down his chest, nails angled to draw faint pink lines all the way to his hips, then while he’s distracted she does the simplest loosen-up spell she knows. His mouth falls open, a low moan punching out of him. “What— oh—?”

“It’s gonna feel even better when I’m actually inside you,” she promises. She doesn’t need to ask if the spell feels good. She’s used it on herself before, it definitely does, and anyway she can see shocked pleasure written all over his face. When she rolls off of him to pull on the harness, his knees splay out wide, and he reaches a hand down — not to his cock, but lower, fingers trembling like he’s scared of what he’ll find. “Oh,” he says again, nearly reverent.

Margo watches his shoulders curl off the bed as he reaches, tries to get enough reach to push a fingertip inside. If Margo were in a different mood, this could easily be the main attraction: getting a sweet boy loose and uninhibited enough to play with himself in a way he’s never tried before, watching him explore, maybe encouraging him along.

But that’s a game for another night. She pushes his hand out of the way, smacks him on the hip. “Hands and knees, honey.” He’s smart: he grabs her pillows and piles them under his chest to collapse onto if he needs to. “You sure you haven’t done this before?” she asks, amused.

“I mean, I’ve been on the other side of it,” he grumbles.

“Oh yeah?” His ass is shockingly nice. She’s made very good choices tonight, picking him. She tuts the vibrator to a medium setting and lines up. Tension ripples up his spine again when he feels her against his entrance. She smooths a palm up between his shoulder blades. “Let’s see which side you like better.”

He makes a short, choked noise when she starts to push in. He’s not hurting, the spell made sure of that. He’s just still surprised — that this is happening, that it’s in him, that he likes it. That he really likes it, she amends, as she eases in a little more and he moans out loud, his head dropping forward, a shiver running over his skin.

When her hips are flush with his, she takes a moment to grind hard against him, readjust the angle until the vibrator sits just right against her cunt. He whimpers, his hands scrabbling a little against the bedspread, finally managing to get enough purchase to push back against her. She laughs breathlessly and starts to fuck him.

Every stroke is poetry: the shockwave of force that flows from her body into his, the desperate little unh noise he makes, seemingly involuntarily, the pulse of pleasure in her cunt, heating up her core. It takes about two seconds for his arms to give out, and once his face hits the mattress it’s like the last dam breaking on his inhibitions. He moans wantonly, his voice muffled but still loud enough to be music to her ears. She grips his waist harder, shifts her angle and grins when it changes the pitch of his moaning.

“Talk to me, baby,” she says, when she knows he can’t, he’s too blissed out on it. “How’s it feel?”

“M-Mar— Margoh fuck—”

“That good, hm? You still hard for me?”

“Nngood— yeah—”

“You think you can come like this?” He lets out a needy whine. “Not just from this,” she amends, “but if you jerk off while I’m fucking you?”

He tries to shift his weight to move his arm. It would probably be polite for her to ease off for a second to let him readjust. She doesn’t feel like being polite. The vibrator rumbles steadily against her cunt, building her up and up to what’s going to be a truly world-shattering orgasm, and she doesn’t want to falter. His skin glistens with sweat, his long hair sticking a little to the back of his neck. He whimpers and groans and with a Herculean effort shoves up onto his elbows, then onto his hands. Carefully, like a baby gazelle on shaky legs, he balances on one hand — she fucks him rhythmically, unstopping, full of curiosity about what he’ll do next — and shouts when he gets a hand on his cock, immediately collapsing forward again, smashing his face into the pillows.

He accomplished his goal, though. His arm works frantically, shudders rippling through his body. She can imagine what his cute little face looks like right now: eyes shut tight, pretty mouth open in a wet O. His whole body tenses by degrees. She fucks him harder.

She’s so focused on the euphoria of taking him apart that her orgasm sneaks up on her — one second she’s pounding savagely away, watching her toy disappear so smoothly into his stretched little hole, and the next she’s at that oh-god-too-good place where every press of vibration into her body makes lightning shoot up her spine and then she’s coming, throwing her head back and screaming out in wild pleasure.

She’s fucking fabulous, so of course she doesn’t lose her rhythm, just keeps fucking him while she rides it out, and — oh, sweet boy, good little wannabe feminist, it seems like that really does it for him, makes him make all sorts of beautiful moans in response. She wonders how often he’s heard a girl actually come. This could be a few different firsts all in one night. The muscles in his arm bulge as he jerks off as fast as he physically can, and his back is arching — good instincts, this one, it’s like he was fucking made for this — and he chokes, gasps, yells into the pillows and she keeps fucking him hard even as she can feel him shake apart under the tight grip of her hands.

When he’s almost done, a few last quivers running through him, she pushes all the way in and holds there, shoving her cunt hard into the vibrating base of the toy — he yelps out a broken-sounding moan — folds her body forward and grinds in like that and shouts against the trembling muscles of his upper back as she comes a second time.

He manages to stay up on his knees until she sits up and starts to pull out, and it’s only then that he collapses in a panting heap. God, she made excellent choices tonight. She smacks the meat of his thigh approvingly. “So, what do you think now?”

He rolls gingerly over onto his back. His stomach is a mess of sweat and come, so her bedspread is too. Occupational hazard. She tuts out a quick clean-up charm. “Huh?” he asks, his eyes glassy but still tracking the motions of her fingers.

“Are you a fan of that side of getting fucked?” She stretches out a kink in her back, then digs in her dresser for a robe.

“I think I am?”

She raises an eyebrow at him. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

His face is still hazy with post-orgasmic bliss, so he doesn’t get nervous about the teasing. “Telling. I just, um.” He licks his lips. “I didn’t know I would be.”

“What’s grad school for if not for learning new things?” She snags his jeans and shirt off the floor, tosses them his way. His reflexes are sluggish; they hit him in the chest. “You’re welcome to chill for a minute, but if I start snoring, you gotta clear out. Mama doesn’t do bed-sharing.”

He looks a little hurt, but he takes it in stride. That’s good. It’s such a pain when they get clingy. “Fair. Um.” He runs a hand through his hair, wincing as he hits tangles. “I feel like I should say thank you?”

His uncertainty touches something inside her that she doesn’t often let loose, a pool of well-guarded tenderness. She steps over to where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed and grabs the back of his neck -- firm, not too nice, not sweet about it -- and kisses him slow and messy.

He’s only limping a little bit when he leaves the room. Quick recovery, that’s good. He really is just perfect, in more ways than she’d realized when she decided to take him upstairs. He was perfect for this mood she was in tonight, but those eager kisses, the deer-in-headlights eyes, his objectively incorrect but surprisingly well-considered opinions about Ned Stark — he could be good for nights, too. Or days. For other moods.

Margo settles satisfied into bed, rubbing absently at the insides of her thighs, and decides then and there that this won’t be the last she sees of Quentin Coldwater.

foams at the mouth A+, 10/10, will reread many times

“She lets the corner of her mouth curl up in a devastating smirk, her eyes drift down the length of his body. He shudders again. He doesn’t even seem to realize he’s doing it.”

god, yes.... this was wonderful top to (heh) bottom

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

Page 1 of 4

Round #2, June 2021

Wickoff -- Established Relationship / Fluffy Sickfic

Quentin/Eliot - Sensual Massage

Quentin/Eliot, sex pollen

Margo/Alice - angry sex

Quentin/Eliot - Sex Magic

Queliot - Shotgunning

Question/Eliot & the end of a shitty night

Quentin/Eliot - spell to make Q orgasm on command

Julia/Marina, cooperative magic and plausible deniability

Julia/Kady, Shadeless Julia

Margo/Quentin, pegging

Re: Quentin/Eliot - Sensual Massage

Alice/Penny, orgasm exploration

Re: Margo/Quentin, pegging

Re: Alice/Penny, orgasm exploration

(Mar)Queliot - Eliot-centric fluff/HC

FILL: Queliot - Shotgunning

Quentin/Eliot: hysterical literature

Re: FILL: Queliot - Shotgunning

Re: FILL: Queliot - Shotgunning

Re: FILL: Queliot - Shotgunning

Quentin/Eliot - Exes to Lovers

FILL: Margo/Quentin, pegging

Re: FILL: Margo/Quentin, pegging

Re: FILL: Margo/Quentin, pegging