#mike setting off one of his own traps and r. mike leaving him to slowly die.

[and-stir-the-stars]

@dire-kumori has an au where Scooped Mike gets time-travelled to before CC and Liz's deaths, and he's filled with such blind rage and self-loathing upon seeing his younger self that he kills young Mike over and over again in a time loop that young Mike barely even understands. Guess who wrote a one-shot for it? (I'm also tagging @serenefig and @cloudwhisper23 bc I feel like you'll be interested in reading)

word count: 3,715

“Have fun with your friends’, brats. Don’t even think about coming back until morning unless you want to spend the night outside, ‘cause I won’t bother unlocking the doors for you.”

Cold lines of metal pressed grooves into Mike’s back as he leaned against the front door threshold and waved his siblings goodbye. His voice resounded in sharp echoes across the tree line; he spoke a bit too loud considering that his little siblings were only a few feet away, but then again, that was the point. 

You never knew what things were lurking in the shadows, listening and lying in wait for the moment they could get you alone. Sometimes, however, you could use that to your advantage.  

Michael’s gaze roved over the tree line as his siblings turned their backs on him and walked down the driveway. The trees surrounded their entire house in a near-perfect circle; shadows crept beneath the trees’ gnarled, grasping finger-like branches. As the sun slumped further down in the sky, the shadows drew steadily closer and closer to the house like a tidal wave of darkness begging to be held back no longer.

The eldest Afton’s jaw clenched as he dug his teeth into his gum with even more ferocity. Slowly, he pulled his Foxy mask from the top of his head to cover his face. 

He didn’t have to be afraid with the wicked smile and sharp teeth covering his face. It was an assurance that Michael could be strong and brave even when– no, especially when he was all on his own, just like the pirate fox he felt so much for. 

If a monster wanted to chase him down, then so be it. But as long as Mike had his mask on, the monster wasn't the only dangerous thing around.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Electricity shot through every nerve ending in Michael’s body. The jolt of adrenaline made every hair stand on end, and heat roared through his veins like wildfire as Mike crouched behind the garage wall with his fingers white-knuckled and half-numb against the cool metal of his bright red bat.

Each breath passed his lips at a crawl. Everything around him seemed to blur and fade to gray as Mike focused his entire being on the harsh slam of rubber soles coming closer and closer. 

A million ghostly aches, sharp and dull and stabbing and pressing aches of a million undeaths, all sparked to life with increasing intensity as the monster drew closer and closer, but Mike pushed away the memories of aches and pains assaulting his limbs.

He only needed to get one good shot in. 

He smelled the bastard long before it got close. It was something like the curdled cup of milk that Mike had found in his room last week, the maggot-infested animal carcasses he and his friends would poke at when they found them on the side of the road, the stank of rotten eggs– all those putrid smells and more clinging to the bastard's skin in an eye-watering stench that made Michael’s stomach churn and his throat burn on principle. 

Mike's heart hammered in his chest, almost to the same beat as the footfalls chasing him. 

There was a flurry of movement as the sicko ran past Mike where he was crouched out of sight behind the wall. 

The reaper's footfalls quickly slowed as though somehow aware that it had been duped, but Mike was already moving. 

The decaying monster didn't even have time to turn around before Mike jumped forward and slammed his bat into the back of its head. 

His years' worth of practice hitting baseballs did nothing to prepare him for the vibrations that rocketed painfully through his arms and shoulders and all the way down his back, nor for the sickening crack of a human skull shattering under his hands. 

The monster went down, but Mike could only stand there even as a voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to run. Vomit burned his throat at the curdled blood and the dark red and purple slimy skin that clung to the metal of his bat before it fell to the ground with a wet plop beside the monster. Thick droplets of the creature’s ice-cold blood dribbled down Michael’s face and smeared against the teen’s lips as he stood there in shock.

Boney claws wrapped around Mike’s ankle. The sharp pain of bone digging underneath his skin jerked Michael’s mind back to awareness, and he brought his bat down on the thing's wrist just before it had time to yank him to the ground. 

The fingers didn't let him go even after the impact of Mike’s bat ground the compact bones along the creature’s wrist into fine dust held together only by moldy stretches of tendon and skin. 

Michael brought the bat down on the thing's arm again and again and again before its other hand finally snaked around and grabbed hold of the slippery dark red metal.

Michael yanked the bat closer, cursing himself for giving the reaper a chance to rip his weapon away. But the reaper didn’t; instead, it used the momentum of Michael’s action against him.

Mike's vision went red with pain as the handle of his bat flew back at him and slammed into his lips with enough force that Mike heard his plastic mask crack on his face. 

Except Michael realized a split second later that it wasn’t just his mask that had cracked. Something sharp and coppery exploded in Mike's mouth and the teen choked on shards of his own teeth as the fractured remnants slid down the back of his throat. 

The thing's fingers were still locked around his ankle, and the moldy strands of tendon and skin keeping its bony purple hand attached to the rest of the monster's body snapped apart as Michael stumbled backward with tears in his eyes and dark red blood dribbling down his chin. He was too stunned by pain to react even as the monster peeled itself off the ground with one arm; its other, handless appendage hung limply against its side in a mess of unnatural angles kept together only by thin layers of rotting skin. 

Its neck snapped down to look at its obliterated arm, but somehow, the creature looked almost bored as its empty eye sockets focused on the mangled stretch of flesh and shattered bone attached to it. The monster’s remaining fingers latched around its broken arm before ripping the twisted limb from its shoulder with enough force that its entire body jerked at the motion. 

The shattered lower part of the arm flopped to the ground in a pile of putrid skin, and the reaper's head snapped back up and its empty eyes focused directly on Michael with its fingers still grasping the remains of its upper arm. 

"You're going to regret that,” it whispered in the grinding croak reminiscent of a bag of gravel and forks shoved down a garbage disposal. 

"M-Make me." 

Michael had wanted to sound stubborn and strong, but the words cracked in the air and passed his lips in nothing but a whimpering stammer as he tried not to gurgle on his own blood. 

He should have ran the second he had gotten a hit in on this– this stupid son of a bitch. Things were– Everything was already going so wrong. 

The creature lurched at him. Michael didn't have time to run or stumble away; he barely had time to raise his bat. 

The reaper still had the upper part of its broken arm in hand, but Michael didn't notice the sharp end of broken bone protruding from the severed arm until the jagged point had already buried itself inside Mike’s shoulder. 

Two pinpoints of light sparked to life in the monster’s eyes, and its gaping black eyes looked directly at him as Michael screamed. 

The reaper ripped its broken arm out of Michael’s shoulder and aimed for the teen's heart. 

Michael just managed to ram the end of his bat into the reaper's neck at the last second. 

It was a weak blow. The monster’s close proximity didn’t give the teen enough room to maneuver the long bat and Mike's arms and wobbly legs trembled dangerously, worsening his ability to strike. But by some miracle, it was enough to make the monster stumble a few steps back, though it grabbed onto the teen's bat and ripped it from his hands as it stumbled.

Michael didn’t fight to get the bat back. He turned on his heel and ran. 

The teen’s hands clawed at his own shoulder as the monster’s footfalls echoed behind him once more. 

Tears stung Michael’s eyes as he remembered that bloody, grimy, disgusting bone piercing into him. God only knew what kind of germs that thing had put into his system– what if the wound got infected? 

Not that an infected wound would matter if Mike didn’t keep himself alive and out of the creature’s way.

Michael forced the pain and panicked delirium away. He had to focus; this was the important part. 

The reaper was just behind him, following at a pace closer to a walk than a run. 

Somehow, that was so, so much worse. The monster didn't have to run to keep up with him, and it knew it. It would always catch him in the end, like a hunter casually strolling after the blood trail of a wounded deer. The creature would never tire nor stop chasing him, and it was just a matter of time before Mike got too tired to go on running from it.

‘No. No, no, no– not this time.’

The monster’s slower pace did make this more difficult, though. Michael couldn't move too fast. He needed to always be just out of the creature's reach, or he would risk the monster getting distracted or frustrated and trying to cut him off by going a different route.

This would have a way better chance of success if Mike could keep the monster right where he wanted it. 

Michael dashed into the house from the garage and raced up and down hallways and from room to room. As he ran, he ducked and jumped periodically to avoid tripe wires, avoided stepping on any rugs, and danced around jagged pieces of metal and nails and blades that had been embedded into the hardwood floor. 

He really couldn’t afford to mess up this part. Any wrong moves or missteps would have to be avoided at all costs. But with any luck, the monster hunting him wouldn’t be so careful. 

As he raced up the steps, he made sure to skip the fifth step down. But as he reached the top, it slowly dawned on him that things had been unusually quiet. As far as Mike was aware, the monster never seemed to react much to pain, but there was a distinct lack of surprised grunts or infuriated yells, or whirring gears and mechanical parts snapping as traps were set off. 

Chest heaving as he panted, Michael turned and looked down.

The reaper was standing right there at the bottom of the steps. It looked exactly the same as it had when Michael had fought it in the garage, like it hadn’t set off a single trap during the chaotic chase. 

Its head was tilted back, staring at the kitchen knives and heavy hooks used to hang endoskeletons that Michael had stolen and hung from the ceiling over the steps. They were hung high enough that Mike could race up and down with no problem, but the taller monster should have gotten a nasty surprise as it came after him with that single-minded focus it always seemed to have. 

Instead, the monster looked up at the trap with an annoyed expression before meeting Michael’s eye. 

Keeping its head ducked low, the reaper placed its foot on the first step. 

Michael’s heart leaped into his throat and he stumbled down the hallway, struggling to breathe properly through all the panting and the blood still flooding his mouth and throat. 

How was that thing still walking?! Mike had set death traps up in every inch of this house; it just wasn’t possible that the reaper could have stumbled through the house without setting a single one off! 

The thing on the steps was still way, way too quiet. Had it seen him skip the fifth step down?

Mike turned for a split second to see if the reaper had gotten to the top steps yet. 

A sharp pain sliced through Michael’s throat. 

That single second of distraction had been enough time to throw several hours of analyzing the layout of every trap he'd set up in this house out the window. 

The sharp feeling wrapped around his entire throat as his own momentum forced him further into the trap. The wire tightened, and suddenly Mike’s feet left the floor entirely and he slammed against the ugly red wallpaper. 

Hurricane was a small town. One where there wasn't much to do, especially when your father worked at the most interesting place in town and you had to spend nearly every day there for hours on end.

Michael and his friends had explored every nook and cranny and forgotten place there was to find in the town. Including the abandoned railroad tracks in the surrounding woods.

Those tracks were so old that the rusty spikes meant to hold them together could often be found lying on the ground around the tracks, ripe for the taking; even the ones still riveted inside the old tracks could mostly be removed with some determination, and the sharp, rusty, six-and-a-half inch long spikes were attractive prizes to a group of rowdy teens with nothing better to do. 

Michael had stored a lot of them away in his closet over time. 

Sticking the rivets through a slab of plywood and nailing the plywood plank into the wall upstairs with the sharp ends facing outward had been a lot of effort, just like a lot of the traps he had spent the entire day building, but Michael had deemed it a worthwhile venture because he had been certain those spikes would be able to do some damage. 

And Michael had been right. 

Michael had put six or seven of those spikes through the plywood, but when Mike slammed into the wall, he only felt one big blast of pain set his back on fire. He didn't even have time to scream before a gush of blood and vomit slid through his throat, staining his shattered teeth and turning his inhuman screech into a quiet gurgle. 

The wire stayed wrapped around Mike's throat and cut deeper as his feet–- suspended by the railroad spikes and wire too high for the teen to reach the ground– thrashed wildly in the air. 

Michael’s vision went black as the thrashing jostled the spikes, widening the holes in his back and sending the sharp, rusted rivets deeper into his flesh until some of them scraped against his ribcage. 

Gasping, Michael sucked in one shaky breath after another and tried to ignore the desperate need to claw himself upward. His throat and lungs were filling with liquid, but he wasn't drowning in water. There was no surface he could rise above to make it all stop. 

What a strange sensation it was to drown in your own hallway without a drop of water in sight.

Bloody fingers clawed at the wire around his throat, but he couldn't pull it away any more than he could clear his airway. 

Salty tears leaked down Michael’s face in a futile attempt to clear away the blood still staining his chin. Between one blink and the next, the red wallpaper and family picture frames in front of the teen were replaced by two hollow black eyes and putrid purple flesh flecked with varying shades of green mold that peeked out of the crusty white bandages holding its splitting skin together

The monster cocked its head at him, and Michael finally got a good view of the damage he had dealt it earlier. The side of its head had caved in like deflated basketball or a sandcastle under an oncoming tide, and yellowish-white shards of bone jutted out from the jelly-like mixture of blood and decaying muscle dripping from the cracks in its head. 

The white pinpoints of its eyes flashed up and down him curiously, watching the blood flow down Michael’s body and drip into an ever-widening pool under his feet. The thing's lips had long ago rotted away, but Michael realized as raspy, cracked laughter spilled between the thing's dried-out, wrinkled gums and bared yellow teeth that the monster was smiling at him.

"You bastard!" More blood dribbled down Michael’s chin and gurgled inside his throat. Mike tried to spit it all out like this was nothing more than his morning mouthwash routine. "You bastard!" 

Floorboards moaned under the reaper's feet as it took another step closer. Michael flinched as it did so, and immediately bit back a cry at the white-hot pain of spikes shifting inside his back and scraping against bone and organs.

"That looks like it hurts," the reaper rasped. 

Michael’s tears stung as they leaked into cuts on his face from his earlier fight with the monster. He had felt hot and sweaty before from all the running and fighting, but now his fingers were iceblocks against his neck as he struggled with the wire digging into his flesh. A frighteningly cold, bone-deep chill cut into Michael's form, and the child trembled as he struggled to breathe through the blood and the pain. 

He couldn't run. Couldn't fight. The monster– the reaper– was going to kill him now. 

At least the pain will stop, a voice whispered in the teen's head. 

A quiet sob shook the young teen's core. He needed the pain to stop so fucking much, but he didn't want the pain to stop– he wanted to live. 

But if he was going to die, at least it would be on his own terms.

"Go ahead," Michael growled. "Jus– Just g-get it over with." 

The creature cocked its head at him again, like it had been too distracted watching the blood seeping from Michael's form to bother listening to what he had said. 

"Just d-do it!" Michael sobbed. "K-kill me, you– you wrinkly, p-puss-filled ball-sack! Come on! Just– just– get i-it over with and kill me!" 

The reaper took another step closer. "No." 

Blood-shot eyes locked onto the reaper's gaping eye sockets. "Why?!" 

Wasn't that the point?! Wasn't that what this– thing– had set out to do, over and over and over?! 

The reaper's hand settled on Michael’s chest. Mike didn't have the energy left to flinch or be wary. He only met the reaper's eye in pained exhaustion.

But then the reaper pushed. 

Michael screamed as his prized railroad spikes dug deeper into him until his bloody back was finally pressed flush against the wall. 

One of the railroad spikes went all the way through Michael’s chest and stabbed into the reaper's palm, but the monster didn't seem to notice. It ripped its hand away before latching onto one of Michael’s wrists as the teen frantically tried pulling the reaper's arm away from him. 

"You want to know why?" Its voice whipped against the air in a wild hiss.

The dull hallway light gleamed off the dark red liquid coating Michael’s skin as the reaper shoved the teen's blood-stained hand in front of his face before it snarled at him. "Because no matter how many ways you try to run or fight it, you will always bring this hell down on yourself with your own hands. You did this, Michael." 

'You're insane,' the teen wanted to say, but there was too much blood in Mike's throat for him to talk, or even to breathe. He tried shaking his head at the thing, but the wire was starting to cut frighteningly deep inside his throat. Michael could only stare at the monster in front of him with wide-eyed horror and beg for it to just end this, like the bastard was supposed to do when it caught him. 

The reaper released Michael’s wrist, and the teen's arm fell limply down to his side. 

He should do something; he should fight. But his energy had been draining away with every second he spent hanging on his own death trap, and there was so little left inside him. 

He couldn't even lean away as the reaper lifted its only hand, moved its fingers around the edge of his mask, and traced the curve of his head with an almost gentle touch. 

The reaper's broken fingers paused on a string looping behind the teen's head. It latched onto the string and pulled, ripping the Foxy mask off of Michael’s head. 

The reaper's teeth ground together as it glared down at the bloody mask before letting the plastic slip from between rotten fingers and fall to the bloody floor with a wet and heavy thunk. And without hesitation, the reaper slammed its foot down on the only thing that had ever made Michael feel strong. 

Hearing the sharp crack of plastic as the monster decimated the mask and shattered Foxy's maw into pieces wrenched a hopeless sob out of the teenager's chest. 

The reaper stayed still. It didn't move further away, nor did it move any closer.

It only watched as Michael struggled to free himself from the trap one last time before finally giving up. 

Michael struggled to gulp down another shaky breath through his sobbing but was rewarded only with more blood in his lungs and pain searing every nerve ending until even the most minuscule movements lit every cell and nerve in his body on fire. 

Through it all, the reaper stood back and watched with a smile. 

Not wanting to see the monster's smug, rotten face or the blood staining his own body anymore, Michael could do nothing but close his eyes and wait for the moment when the last drop of blood would drip from his body and all the pain would finally end.

(Michael had the sinking feeling that death wouldn’t be that easy of an escape.)

#tw violence #tw blood #tw injury #tw child death #tw death #tw corpse #tw body horror #tw torture #anyway did you enjoy the parallels to the Bite of '83? #and the slight parallels to pizza sim? #and the motif of mike's foxy mask making mike feel brave and like he has a chance until the reaper rips #it from his face so mike can die ''like the coward he is'' (in reaper's mind)? #ik the theme of this au is the *reaper* killing mike but i really liked the idea of #mike setting off one of his own traps and r. mike leaving him to slowly die. #because he doesn't just want mike dead. he wants him to SUFFER. and it's poetic is it not? #mike bringing about (his own) death in more ways than one. you can't escape what you are. #also ''you wrinkly puss-filled ball-sack'' ajdfajksdfhsjfks michael you think you're SO FUNNY don't you #i haven't actually written a teenage mike who isn't subdued and traumatized by the Bite before #it was fun! #10/10 would do again. young mike is so stupid and arrogant. an absolute delight to write. #paradoxical reaper wip #paradoxical reaper au #michael afton #mike afton #scooped mike #foxy mask brother #foxy mask #kats scribbles

[themagiciansreccenter]

Five @ Five @thursdayeuclid

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.

Modified Aspect Ratio by @sabrinachill

Quentin flinches when party hats suddenly appear on all three of their heads - the pointy, cardboard kind, with elastic straps that bite into the soft underside of their chins. Crepe paper streamers float in the air and balloons drop from where a ceiling should be, drifting down to scatter across the white expanse that serves as a floor. Tiny multicolored fireworks explode into shapes like smiley-faces and stars, and a three-tiered cake coated in yellow and red icing pops into existence in a puff of flour, hovering to the monster’s right.

But the biggest decoration - and weirdest, by far - is the enormous blue neon sign with the words “Welcome to Hollywood!” strobing insistently against the white blankness.

The monster is now wearing a wizard costume, for some unknown reason, and bouncing up and down while clapping its hands and performing a horribly off-key rendition of “Party in the USA.”

“This is officially the worst party I’ve ever attended, including the one where we murdered a couple of gods,” Eliot mutters.

Quentin’s answering sigh is epic and professional-grade, containing all the exasperated resignation in the galaxy. “Why is it that everything that happens to us is always equal parts absurd and terrifying? I mean, I could accept regular old fear and tragedy, sure, whatever, everybody gets those. But it’s like the universe gets off on dicking us around.”

He wants to slump, all dramatic and defeated, but he’s still pinned in place by the monster’s powerful will, like a butterfly in a display case.

This has to be my favorite Queliot AU. It's patently ridiculous but just believable enough to really touch your heart. Which, honestly, is most of the show too. I laughed and cried reading this. It's amazing and unpredictable and goes places I would never have imagined.

to be unbroken or be brave again by @milominderbindered

After the fourth time it happens, Josh decides to go for it, and as they’re bathing in the sweaty afterglow, he asks Margo if she wants to go on a date.

Margo looks at him, up and down, and says, “No offence, Hoberman, but no.”

“Oh.”  Josh’s stomach sinks a bit.  He pulls up his pants and takes a joint out of his pocket.  “Okay, that’s chill too. Wanna smoke?”

“Oh, don’t look all sorry for yourself,” Margo says, rolling her eyes as she picks herself up from the bathroom floor and inspects her hair in the mirror.  “It’s nothing personal. You’re nice, the sex is good, whatever. But, listen. Eliot is my best friend, and he’s going through this incredibly shitty time right now.  Specifically to do with love.  It’s been a couple months since that Mike shit went down, but he’s still seriously messed up, and he’s my first priority, capiche?  I’m not gonna start dating someone and just leave him by himself half the time, or shove a bunch of lovey-dovey crap in his face.  No way. I’m not gonna date anyone until Eliot’s dating again, too.”

“Right,” says Josh, slowly, as he lights his joint and thinks about it.  “Not until he’s dating someone too. Got it.”

He thinks about the party raging downstairs, and about what he knows about Eliot.  Eliot’s had no problem hooking with guys recently, everyone knows that, but he’s not kept anyone around for more than a night.  He’s heard Margo calling it Eliot’s attachment freak-outs when he drops the guys as soon as they suggest sucking his dick more than once , which makes sense.  Except. Well, there’s that one first year, with the floppy hair and the Lord of the Rings t-shirt.  Eliot and the first year with the weird name haven’t hooked up, according to Josh’s well-informed rumour mill, but he certainly seems to be the only person other than Margo who Eliot’s remotely interested in spending time with when he’s not drunk.

There aren’t a lot of things in life Josh Hoberman has an excess of.  But he’s not hard up for money. He’s got a trust fund and a drug hustle.  And he’d spotted Eliot’s first year at the school noticeboard taking the number for a three-headed-dog walking ad, the other day.

So, just like that.  The threads tangle together.

So this is a 10 Things I Hate About You AU (which was itself a reimagining of Taming of the Shrew), and I'm living for it, just right off the bat. I love Hoberman wanting Margo so badly he goes to all this trouble. I love Quentin being morally compromised but just wanting to spend all his time with Eliot... I love it. This story deserved more attention. It made me laugh and 'aww' and have feelings, plus it's on the shorter side so you have no excuse not to read it.

we can kiss like real people do by VeryImportantDemon

“No offense,” Quentin began, squinting at the stranger, “but I don’t know you, um… Janet.”

“None taken,” the man said. “And my name’s not Janet, it’s Eliot. None of the names on these things are right, we just grab a nametag.”

“Oh,” Quentin said. He supposed that made sense. “But I still don’t know you.”

Eliot shrugged again, taking a sip of his coffee and licking his lips afterwards. Q tried to pretend like he wasn’t staring, but he and Eliot both knew that he was. “In that case, it can’t hurt to tell me, then,” he added.

“Why are you even here?” Quentin asked, stalling for time. Maybe the ridiculously attractive barista was on break and if Quentin talked long enough, that break would be up and he wouldn’t have to confess his embarrassing predicament.

“You’re sad and cute and I was bored,” Eliot said. “Now, spill.”

He was not to be deterred so Quentin didn’t have very long to dwell on the fact that he’d just been called cute. “I, um… I kind of lied to my dad,” he said.

“Ooo,” Eliot said, leaning forward. “Exciting. About what?”

“It’s not that exciting,” Quentin said. “I just… He’s worried I’m lonely and he keeps asking if I’ve met someone. I just told him I had a boyfriend once to get him to stop asking and now he wants to see a picture of us.”

“Mmhm,” Eliot said. “I think I’m following. Why didn’t you get that snack that was here earlier to take a pic with you?”

“I can’t,” Quentin said, wondering how his life had gotten to the point that he was having an impromptu therapy session with a barista. “That’s Penny. He’s my… Sort of friend? And he’s kind of an asshole.”

“Pity,” Eliot said. “This your phone?” he added, gesturing to the phone on the table.

“Yeah,” Quentin said. Before he said anything further, Eliot scooped it up, unlocked it with Quentin’s face, and then set about doing something Quentin couldn’t see. “Hey!” he protested. “That’s my phone!”

“I know,” Eliot said. He rose from his chair, crouched down beside Quentin, and flashed a mesmerizing smile. Quentin was sure he looked a little startled and confused in the selfie because he really was confused. Eliot moved fast. He tapped on Quentin’s phone for a few more seconds as he crossed the table and sat down in the chair he had previously occupied before tapping a few more times and sliding the phone back to Quentin. “There,” he said. “Problem solved.”

I am a complete sucker for fake dating, and this story has a delightful array of truly ridiculous fake dating tropes. Also, it has transgender Penny dating Margo, and as a trans man, I can only aspire to such absolute game. Well done, trans Penny. Godspeed you, good man. There's a scene where I was freaking out and very upset and the author had to reassure me in comments it would be okay, so I kept reading, and everything was lovely in the end.

The Honor of Your Presence by Page161of180

One of the first years-- Elliott (oh no, that is too confusing, even in his own internal monologue), ah, Todd doesn’t remember her name, not because he doesn’t care, but because there are two Emilies and an Emilia in the new class and he hasn’t quite sorted them out yet. Maybe he should ask them about their middle names?-- makes it halfway down the stairs, before coming to a dead stop at the sight of the PKC’s friendly neighborhood post-grad locked in a silent stare-off with a six-foot-something R-rated Disney prince in head-to-toe-- Todd’s pretty sure it’s brocade? It’s very shiny and kind of between mint and seafoam. Definitely a nice color, against pale skin and dark hair. Which Todd knows from dressing himself , not because he spends that much of his time thinking about-- Not that there’s anything wrong with--

Ha. Ha ha. What? Not the point.

Todd shakes his head frantically at Emily, Emily, or Emilia, and she gets the message, turning back up the stairs and retreating to the safety of her room. Todd wishes he could go with her. Not, like, with her , specifically; he’s more into Emily (other Emily? Or maybe she’s Emilia?), honestly. But, you know, away . Would be good. 

Neither Eliot nor Quentin seem to notice she was ever there.

Eliot has been staring at Quentin for one minute and forty-five seconds, Todd’s face going more ashen with each moment that slips away, when the former (still?) king finally says, “I’m sorry. What ?”

And if it were Todd facing down Eliot like that (not that it would be; why would he be dating Eliot? Crazy.), he would have basically just, become one with the carpet, because that only sounds like a question. It is very clearly, obviously a trap. But Quentin-- man . Quentin has always been, just, super brave. Way braver than you would probably expect from someone who’s all, sort of, pocket-sized and, um, no judgment but, not really all that good? At magic? Like, not bad-- definitely not bad! Just. Kind of normal and-- soft? If that makes sense? He just sort of always looks like he needs a hug. Which is maybe why Eliot basically always has at least one arm wrapped around him.

Not now, though. Now, Eliot has both arms down at his sides, hands dangerously still, while Quentin crosses his own over his chest and sets his jaw.

This is just one of the greatest fics I've ever read in any fandom, for any pairing, and it's hilarious and feelsy and I had to keep pausing when I was reading it just to sit with my emotions for a minute. I recommend it to absolutely anyone who likes Queliot at all.

Ask Me, I Won't Say No by @veganshailseitan

None of them linger too long in their booth after they collect the gift certificate that will almost cover their drinks for next week-

Wednesday Night Trivia Rule 2: Only Penny and Alice are allowed to handle the gift certificates because they are the only ones who won’t lose them.

-exchanging hugs and kisses on cheeks. He’s walking out of the bar while texting —a grave mistake he should have learned from by now, but he just has to let the sitter know he’s going to be late real quick— when he suddenly smacks into something solid, sending his phone clattering to the floor.

Something solid which oh, fuck happens to be a person.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” the stranger says, despite the fact that Quentin should clearly be taking the blame here. 

He’s ducking to pick up his hopefully-not-shattered phone before he can even spare a glance at the person, “You’re fine, I wasn’t paying attention to-” he loses the sentence as he stands back up, looking up to a face he’s only seen from across the room “-you?”

His brief interaction with the enemy-

”I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Eliot. Waugh.”

“Um, yeah, I’ve seen you here before, hi. Quentin Coldwater.”

“Quentin Coldwater?” -sticks in Quentin’s mind for the next week. He’s excited for trivia. More excited than the usual eagerness for his night out of the house with grown-ups, and nervous for the first time since he could remember. Which is so dumb and shows Quentin how painfully out of practice he is at interacting with other human beings.

He and the guy —Eliot— had barely exchanged two sentences and he’s pretty sure one of them had just been Eliot making fun of his name. But then again, his type has always been the ones that pulled his pigtails on the playground —which, yeah super healthy there Quentin, way to go— except for Arielle.

And there it was: the surefire way to kill whatever ill-advised excitement he’d been holding onto for the night.

He’s early this week, for reasons he’s already overthinking, so he goes ahead and grabs their usual table. It’s his week to pick-

Wednesday Night Trivia Rule 1: The person in charge of choosing the team name will rotate on a weekly basis in alphabetical order. That week’s decider can only be overruled by a unanimous vote from the rest of the team (per the March 2018 addendum).

-so he lets the group chat know he’s there, checks them in with the Quizmaster as To Be Perfectly Queer, (because he’s at least self-aware at this point in his life) and heads to the bar, trying to focus on whether or not he wants to try the new local craft brew they were pushing this month-

And immediately runs into Eliot.

Thankfully not literally this time.

“Well, hello, Quentin.” Eliot looks as surprised to run into him as Q is, which is stupid on both their parts.

“Uh, Eliot. Hello. How are you?” just talk like a normal human, Quentin, Jesus.

Eliot smiles, sultry and so over the top that Quentin almost laughs, “Fraternizing with the enemy, are we? I’m sworn to hold our knowledge in secrecy, so don’t you dare try to seduce it out of me.”

Quentin does laugh at that, somehow put at ease by Eliot’s carefree flirtation, “I’ll try to restrain my charms. Scout’s honor.”

I actually -just- got around to reading this one and I liked it so much it made me squee out loud on a couple of occasions. It's hot, it's kidfic, it's sweet, and there's feelings and fluff and smut. Basically a ridiculous AU where Eliot and Quentin are on opposing pub trivia teams. However, that premise accounts for only a fraction of this story's considerable charms. I didn't expect to love it like I did--I did, in fact, expect to love it in a totally different way--and then it hooked me and dragged me panting and squirming through a smorgasbord of emotion. 

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

[scalymusings]

Vines and Viciousness

FR OCT Round 2

@flight-rising-oct

my Chalice VS @nezclaw‘s Mike

And in a blink, Chalice was somewhere else once again. Gentle, dim light filtered down, obscured greatly by a thick green canopy. The trees around Chalice were tall and thick, old as ages and covered in teeming life of all kind. Large, thick vines tangled together, forming jagged but clear walls.

Chalice felt ease flow into him, ease that felt normal, and yet tinged with certain life and energy. This was the trademark of nature’s power. His previously sleek pelt began fluffing up again, his sense of smell keened, his hearing began picking up even the slight movements of leaves, his claws extended. Chalice was felt with the need to run wild, and enjoy the forest-

“Let the game begin!”

Chalice shuddered, having listened through the Shadeling’s spiel. There was no time to enjoy the woods. There was another fight, another dragon to face.

The Skydancer glanced at the maze entrance before him, like prey staring into the maw of a predator, and began to walk forward. His temporary magic had him sensing the vines, and their intent on keeping him away. Everything here was turned against him, per the Shadeling’s magic. Chalice wanted to shrink down and sit in a corner, but he couldn’t. Who knew what his captor would do if Chalice ruined his fun? Chalice briefly recalled his previous opponent’s desperation- he wondered what had become of Sparrow? Did she really lose her precious… belonging… forever? Chalice’s gut pained with guilt, and he shook his head. There was no time to think about that right now. He had to focus. He had to find his way through the maze.

Chalice closed his eyes as he continued to move. The vines, he could lead himself with the vines! ...Or so Chalice hoped. It was better than blindly guessing, anyway.

Time stretched on as Chalice paced through the maze, his eyes closed to the world, relying on sensing the energy of the forest around him to lead him. It began to feel like Chalice would never reach the center.

And then, something was different. Chalice’s fur stood on end, and his eyes snapped open. Chalice was standing at a fork. Something was nearby- something, or someone? Chalice couldn’t tell, but he could feel sinister energy seeping into him. Something mischievous and dark. Chalice wasn’t sure, but something about it made him doubt it was his opponent dragon. “Watch out for my little ‘friends’,” his captor’s words echoed in his mind.

He looked down one path, and then the other. From one, he could feel the vines’ energy getting stronger- but also that of the darkness. The other, the energy weakened. Chalice groaned. He did not want to see what these friends are. But it looked like he didn’t have a choice, lest the chance he get magnanimously lost.

Chalice began to slowly pad down the worrying path, stepping softly. The further he went, the lower he creeped. The dark energy was pressing his mind, and Chalice gritted his teeth. This was the energy of the Shade- Chalice could feel the agonizing dark magic sweep into him, and he had to fight the migraine it began to set on.

And then, another feeling began to mix in. Frustration, anger, fear and desperation. Chalice gave a low growl. He was feeling some temper setting in. In addition, he could feel himself slightly calm, and a light feeling of confidence. Earth magic. This began to fight with the darkness, and Chalice had to take a moment for the opposing forces to settle.

Not a moment after the magic began flowing into him, he heard the sounds of movement. Quick, random shuffles and the rustling of leaves, the tearing of claws into ground, the rumble of moving earth- it was unmistakingly a battle. His blood began to pump as he got closer, his heart beat quickening.

He reached an edge of the wall he was following. It seemed the noises were originating just beyond the edge. Chalice took a peek around the corner.

A green Wildclaw with gray wings and brown outfit was facing off a quick, agile shadow. It was somewhat shaped like a dragon, but shimmered like the reflection on a lake, uncertain and indistinguishable. A Shadeling.

The Shadeling was faster than the Wildclaw- odd, for Wildclaws were usually fast and lithe. It would bound from vine wall to vine wall to the ground, then leap at the Wildclaw, claws and teeth outstretched. Sometimes the Wildclaw managed to bat the Shadeling away, sometimes the Shadeling managed to score a gash on the Wildclaw. Now and then the Wildclaw would make an odd movement- a shift, or a stomp- and the ground would rumble slightly. The ground would crack open right before the Shadeling’s path, and trip it up, giving the Wildclaw an opportunity to strike- only for the Shadeling to whip away again.

It was almost a stalemate, neither was making much progress as far as Chalice could tell. But as Chalice watched for a few moments longer, he knew the Wildclaw may lose. The Shadeling was scoring the Wildclaw’s hide, and any longer, and the Wildclaw would start taking wounds that would bleed him to death.

Chalice shivered. He could win… But the Wildclaw…

He didn’t take much time to think about it.

The Wildclaw trapped the Shadeling once again, and Chalice took that moment to strike. He sprung out from around the corner. Chalice reached out mentally to the vines surrounding him, urging them that the Shadeling was as much of an intruder as he. He was successful, and the vines shot out from the wall and snagged the shivering pretension of a dragon, rendering it immobile. In the second after, the Wildclaw took the opportunity to finally land a strike, leaping at the trapped shadow and scoring it with his Wildclaw talons. The shadow let out a screech, before tearing apart into nothingness.

Chalice and the Wildclaw were left staring at each other, the Wildclaw breathless, and Chalice winded by the sudden disappearance of the Shadeling’s energy.

“...Thanks,” the Wildclaw broke the silence, with an accent Chalice never heard before.

Chalice merely stared back, not feeling any want to respond- was that his own feelings, or the Wildclaw’s?

The Wildclaw seemed mildly perturbed by the silence, and was again the first to break it. “Th’ name’s Mike,” he introduced himself, nodding his head. “I uh. Recon you’re my opponent this time ‘round?”

Chalice nodded. “Yea. M’ name’s Chalice.” Chalice raised his eyebrows at his own voice. He mimicked the Wildclaw’s accent perfectly.

The Wildclaw seemed surprised and confused. “Y’re- uh. Not from- Texas- by any chance, ‘r you?”

Chalice shook his head in the negative. He’d never even heard of such a place- was it some far off star, or galaxy? The Wildclaw looked disappointed. “Well uh- ne’rmind that then.”

The two looked at one another, unsure. Eventually, the Wildclaw sighed and closed his eyes. “I ‘unno what that blighter took from you, but uh- I have to get Mickey back.” He stared at Chalice, determined but wary. “Y’ must understand this…”

Chalice sheepishly looked at the ground, then back up. He did understand- there was no way around it. “I do.”

“I’m real sorry,” the Wildclaw murmured as he squatted into a position ready to pounce.

“I am too,” Chalice replied, mirroring the Wildclaw.

In a flash, the two leaped at one another. Both scrabbled in the air, hoping their claws would reach their mark. The Wildclaw was successful- Chalice less so. The two landed on the ground not a second after, the Wildclaw left with stinging but minor scratches, Chalice with a gaping slash on one foreleg. Instead of blood, black haze seeped from the wound. Either way, Chalice limped, but he barely felt the pain. Adrenaline was kicking in again, and the fight was still going on.

Both now attempted magic. The Wildclaw tapped the ground with his foot and the earth shook, a gaping crack sprawled under Chalice. Chalice was quick to avoid it, before using the vines’ aggression once again to strike at the green dragon. The Wildclaw managed to leap out of the way of one, two, all of the vines that struck, but now the vines formed a barrier between the two.

The Wildclaw took a moment to process. Chalice took that moment to act. With the barrier between the two, Chalice stomped his foot, exactly like the Wildclaw had previously, and cracked open the ground beneath the Wildclaw. This took him by surprise, and his foot fell into the shallow crack. With even more time on his hands now, Chalice took the chance- to run. He turned around and bolted in the other direction, quickly rounding the corner he was initially hiding behind. Chalice heard a sharp swear, and then a shout. “Come back here!” But he wouldn’t give the Wildclaw the satisfaction. He ran down the path he’d come from before, and just before he reached the end, he jumped into a void pocket.

He waited.

Soon enough, the Wildclaw came barreling down the path himself, teeth gritted. He had a face of grim determination and desperation. He neared the place where Chalice was hiding, and stopped. Chalice’s scent must’ve dropped there. The Wildclaw looked around in confusion. They couldn’t fly over the maze, so there was no way the Skydancer could’ve done that. Then how did his scent just disappear. The Wildclaw began to move forward. His best bet would be to take it slow- his opponent had to appear sometime, neither could proceed without defeating the other. And when he appears-

The Wildclaw’s back was now to Chalice’s hiding spot. The perfect chance. Chalice lept out, relieved to be out of nothing again. Summoning the power of the vines once more, he propelled them towards the unsuspecting Wildclaw. They slammed into the dragon, wrapping him tightly.

“You-” The Wildclaw squeaked in surprise, struggling all he could against the vines. His sharp Wildclaw talons managed to tear some apart, but the vines quickly overwhelmed him by wrapping around and holding his limbs. The Wildclaw was trapped.

“Don’t do this,” he begged. “You don’t know what I have to lose!” He was completely at Chalice’s whim- desperation called for him to use begging if he had to.

The pang of guilt was there again. Chalice furrowed his brows. Guilt was fighting the desperation flowing from the Wildclaw. He had to win, he had to, he had to!

“I- I have ta win this!” The Wildclaw cried out. “I-”

Chalice couldn’t take this anymore.

“Shut up!” He shouted, pleading the vines to stop this.

The vines converged around the Wildclaw’s neck. His shouts quickly turned into gargling. The Wildclaw’s wild thrashing slowed, until it stilled. Not a peep was coming from him anymore.

Chalice looked up. The Wildclaw was limp. The vines let him go, at Chalice’s bidding, placing him on the ground. Chalice walked up to the dragon, pushing him with his nose. There was a pulse- he was still alive, just unconscious. Chalice breathed a sigh of relief. It was over.

Or so he thought.

Chalice turned around, casting one last, forlorn glance at the dragon he was leaving behind, before beginning to walk back to where he felt the vines lead him. He will get his bag back… And Sparrow’s and the Wildclaw’s items too. Even if he had to tear them from the Shade himself. Chalice snarled. He will tear that Shadeling apart. To bare bits and pieces, for making them suffer like this, for hurting his friends.

Wait. What friends?

Where was this aggression coming from?

Chalice stood, quizzically angry, before turning around fearfully. It couldn’t be- But it was.

The Wildclaw was standing again, but something about him was different. His gaze, his eyes- they were wild, filled with pure rage. The Wildclaw charged forward, claws outstretched and snarling. Based on the emotions Chalice himself were feeling, Chalice was in for a world of pain if he didn’t do something. Chalice hopped into the void pocket, just barely dodging the claws.

In the pocket, Chalice panicked. What was going on? How was this happening? Did he not win? He watched the Wildclaw stomp around, his instincts keeping him there, knowing his enemy- or his prey- would appear soon. Was knocking him out not enough? Chalice did not want to kill him. He couldn’t do that. But if knocking him out wasn’t enough, what could he do?

A minute passed. Then another.

The Wildclaw was still pacing expectantly, his face in a permanent scowl. Chalice was starting to strongly miss existence. He could feel himself blending with the void, losing thought, losing consciousness. If he did not get out soon, Chalice feared he would lose it.

The Skydancer lept out, calling to the vines again- but before even the vines could react, the Wildclaw was upon Chalice, tearing into the Skydancer. Chalice just barely managed to throw the Wildclaw away from himself, leaving the Skydancer with many more large wounds. The Wildclaw barely touched the ground before launching himself upon Chalice again- but this time he was interrupted by the vines. They snatched him from the air, attempting to capture and strangle him again- but this time, he fought much more fiercely, tearing plant apart with tooth and nail. More and more vines sprouted from the walls in an attempt to capture the Wildclaw as he tore through them like a knife through butter.

Chalice was watching the spectacle unfold, limping from the wounds. He could barely feel the pain, but the wounds were deep enough to affect his mobility. He mulled over what he could do, fighting against the Wildclaw’s intruding emotions and need to simply attack viciously. Then, he had an idea.

Just as the Wildclaw managed to tear himself out of the mess of vines and charge at Chalice once again, Chalice stomped on the ground. The ground gave way to a large crack, and the Wildclaw, charging at full speeds, hadn’t the time to react, and fell right in. Chalice tapped the ground again, and the ground rumbled. The Wildclaw screeched, as the walls of the crack squeezed against him, trapping him in place, before stopping. He thrashed his head wildly, biting at the air. He growled as Chalice straightened out. Chalice willed the vines to cease their attack, and they slithered back into place, torn apart.

Chalice stared at the Wildclaw’s thrashing head. Trapped like this, it wouldn’t matter if the Wildclaw was conscious or not. Despite seeing him use that very same earth power earlier, he was not using it to get out now. Something changed when he went unconscious. Either way, he was trapped in place for now. Chalice won.

He passed by the angry, trapped Wildclaw as he made his way towards his destination once again. The Wildclaw snapped at his feet while he passed, and Chalice growled beastily in return.

He left the Wildclaw growling madly, and breathed a sigh of relief as he began to feel the anger leave him. Chalice was exhausted. His wounds were impeding his movement, and it sapped his energy as they healed, very slowly.

His surroundings began to quiet, into the silent, watchful forest maze it was in the beginning. Once more, Chalice closed his eyes.

It wasn’t long before Chalice entered a different area. His eyes snapped open as he felt something change. Fearing another Shadeling or the Wildclaw again, he looked around wildly. Neither was to be found. Instead he was staring at a square clearing, edged by the vine walls. At the center stood a small, marble podium. And on it- his napsack.

#fr oct #fr oct round 2 #chalice #mike #flight rising