#your clever streak is never gone

[shotmrmiller]

soulmate au part 2

john price x f!reader (was feeling mad angsty yall, sorry)

You'd locked your tender heart in a cold, iron box. Sealed it shut, hoping, praying, that if you'd buried it deep enough, the ache would fade. The small key had lain heavy in your palm— disproportionate to its size— with words best left unspoken, with feelings that'll never be returned. Tossed it right into the sea with a shuddering breath that tasted of salt.

Of tears. Of mourning, of grief, loss.

(You told yourself you wouldn't cry yet here you are, eyes prickling, vision blurring. Hold it together, girl.)

And it'd gone well enough for a while. Avoiding him— the act of self-preservation— almost became second nature. You made your exit anytime he walked in, a quiet victory each time you successfully escaped the danger of his presence.

(Be still, your battered heart.)

But it'd only been a matter of time before you were forced into a situation where evasion was no longer a choice. Something that would threaten to shake loose the fragile composure of indifference you'd so carefully pieced together.

Your sneakers squeaked against the linoleum as you ran toward the LZ— the world around you losing its sharpness, smudging into a flurry of colors and fluorescent lights. Errant strands of hair whip across your face, sticking to your lips. Your breath comes in short, ragged, desperate bursts; lungs working overtime. The barking of orders from one of the other medics gives way to the roar of helicopter blades, a deafening sound that drowns out everything else.

Once the helo touches down, its doors slide open and the stark reality of war spills onto the ground. Your heart beats frantically against your ribcage once you drink in the macabre sight. Crimson stains their tattered uniform, their dirt-streaked skin, even the dull grey of the metal beast.

And they're dragging someone out, it's—

John.

His body is limp, the fight now left with the boys as they move him towards the medical team on standby, toward you. The kaleidoscope of colors that paint the world around you flicker, for a fleeting moment— a mere fraction of a second— like the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

Instinct takes over.

Time seems to stand still as you sprint to the ones carrying your soulmate and grab onto his vest— trembling fingers curling around the straps of it, pulling him urgently onto the ground with strength born out of desperation.

The gravel beneath him is hard, unforgiving. It digs into your unblemished knees painfully, a sharp pain that tethers you to reality. Grounding.

Focus.

You fumble around for a pulse, the sound of fabric tearing as you remove his scarf barely registering. Weakening by the second. Your focus is on the rise and fall of his chest, pointedly ignoring the blood bubbling on his lips, staining his mutton beard a vibrant red.

Clever fingers make quick work of the buckles on his vest and the velcro straps. You guide his head through the collar of it, every movement measured, and before it even hits the ground above him, the world drains of color. You look down at your shaky blood-slick hand— monochrome.

His lips, colorless. His hair, the color of rich earth, grey. Everything comes to a standstill. Your mind, once racing with urgency, settles into an empty silence. The type that robs you of your breath. It stretches for too long, a chasm that swallows your thoughts.

Until a violent nudge to your shoulder (ironically) pushes you past the paralysis of shock, and with both palms placed on his chest, you begin to fight for his life.

Your muscles burn with exertion, your forehead is beaded with sweat. Time seems to stretch thin, every second feeling like an eternity. You can feel panic start to bubble under your skin, fear furling like smoke around the edges of your consciousness, beginning to cloud your resolve.

"Take over, take over. I can't— I need—" you choke out, the words choppy due to the compressions. You need to breathe. You need to gather yourself. Immediately, another set of hands replace yours, continuing CPR, and you're jerking away from John, feeling hot tears roll down your cheeks.

You find yourself somewhere, still close enough to hear your colleagues, but far away enough to no longer smell the metallic tang of blood— although you can still taste it, like a penny on your tongue.

But there's no escaping the shades of grey, the somber world you're in. Not the tremors whispering through your anxious hands nor the vulnerability settling over your frayed nerves like a broken tooth, sharp and intrusive.

"I take it you're his other half," a rumbling voice says from behind you.

That in itself is a joke, you'd chuckle if you could. "No, that'd be his wife."

Heavy footsteps get closer and closer until the mountain of a man callsigned Ghost comes to stand in front of you whose stature demands a craned neck to meet his gaze. You pride yourself in not scuttling away from him, instead standing still. He makes you feel small— not just in size.

"You his soulmate?" Twisting the dagger in your chest, your heart.

"No. But he's mine." You look up at him then, only to see the same, colorless world mirrored back at you. He's got sunken eyes, like a corpse. Like the one whom you poured all of your strength into— both mental and physical.

There's no need to ask the imbecilic question of how he knew, knows. You practically shouted it from the rooftops with your panicked actions.

Mistake, so foolish of a mistake. Stupid, fucking girl. You'll get those pity stares, the grim looks. Treat you like some broken thing, a broken mirror barely pieced together, cracks still visible.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other.

"He'll come back. Stubborn, old man always does." His voice is rough as gravel as he attempts to give you some sliver of hope. Ghost gives you a small nod and an unprompted pat on your stiff shoulders and his mask bleeds white. The thin stripes on his UK patch a ruby red.

He must've noticed something change because he let out a deep, steadying breath and murmured, "Told ya. Even death doesn't want him."

No, but your treacherous heart does.

Tragic thing, that. Now to call his wife and tell her the bittersweet news.

[schoenpepper]

Despite Everything (It's Still You)

Intro: When he looks at you, he sees everything he could have been.

Warnings: bad grammar, awful writing, not proofread, kinda angsty, more platonic im pretty sure cus its not specified if ur lovers, might be ooc idk and idc, everytime i write idia i feel 10 years older because i cringe at my own internet slang

A/N: Done! Last request is finished, hope you like it worm anon. On my end, this is super rushed and it's not like, my fave ever so ehhhh.

Masterlist

Riddle thought he’d found a comrade in you. Out of everyone in Twisted Wonderland, he’d thought you would be the one to understand him.

He sees it in your posture, always straight and never slouching. You’re good with academics, a diligent student. Like Riddle, you’d gone through life with the iron fist of a well-meaning parent, so surely, you understand him, right? You agree with him. You believe that rules are important to be upheld lest society fall into chaos. It’s such a refreshing feeling to find a person who, like him, thinks that structure and stability are core values of a proper community.

But you don’t. You don’t understand. No one does. His consciousness is flickering between ink and reality. He’s slipping into the grasp of the phantom and he feels himself slowly being consumed. He’s being devoured. Right before the overblot, even you had stood against him. Why? Riddle wasn’t wrong, he was never wrong—the rules aren’t wrong. Because if they are, then what did he lose his entire childhood for? So you must be the one at fault. This is your mistake. You just don’t understand. You tell him that the rules and the competence and the structure matter less than people. You try to convince him that there’s a better way of living. Is there?

Riddle doesn’t know why. He’d thought you were a comrade because he saw his own experiences in yours, but he’d never been so wrong. While he was still caught up in the chains of his mother’s words, you’d already broken free from the cage. You help him to reclaim the shards of childish wonder he’d never been allowed to have. You help him learn how to breathe, how to relax. Little by little, you bring him onto your path.

He doesn’t understand you anymore.

Leona doesn’t have any opinions about you. You never really talked to him at first, and he can respect that; you don’t go out of your way for bothersome, meaningless things.

Every time he sees you, you’re sleeping or slacking off. Whatever, it’s not like he can judge you for it. You also have a real competitive streak for spelldrive, and your wit’s not half bad, especially when compared to the muscle heads in his dorm. Clever and snarky, talented and strong. He can respect you. Maybe just barely, and he’ll never admit it, but he sees a part of himself in you. So, a sort-of equal. He’s still better than you though.

The taste of sand lingers on his tongue as it swirls in the air through the storm. There’s a part of himself he can no longer control. It makes him wrap his fingers around Ruggie’s throat and Leona… He doesn’t want this. But he can’t stop. He can still recognize you on the edge of his vision. Weren’t you just like him? At birth, everything good was handed right over to your older sibling, leaving nothing but scraps for you. You found it unfair too, didn’t you? So why are you standing against him? This is his chance to be someone worth more than his birthright. Why…are you not agreeing with him?

Leona tried to stay away from you. But call it his instinct or whatever; he can’t seem to avoid you at all. The second prince of Sunset Savanna is awestruck by your words. You tell him that birth doesn’t determine everything. You tell him that you’d learned from your own past. That you can still make something of yourself without that which was given. You sure are chatty now, but who is he to stop you?

You’re not his equal. You’d long since left him in the dust.

Azul sees you as an opportunity. He likes you, really, because you know how to do business and you find a way to compromise that doesn’t step on either person’s lines.

It’s not difficult for him to find out about your past, and to be honest, he’s greatly delighted to find out about all that you have in common. Did you feel the way he did when he was isolated and bullied? Did you feel his pain? You were an outcast too, weren’t you? But wow, look at you (and him) now! It’s rare he sees someone as diligent as himself, as cunning and as smart. Resourceful and oh so benevolent, you’d fit right into Octavinelle!

He’d steered himself long ago; he would never be weak again. He had long, long since forgotten humiliation and defeat. But he’s here again. This time, defeat was brought by your hands. Azul had thought you were allies. Business partners, at least. Why betray him like this? Don’t you get it? He’s powerful now! Why try to stop him? Why did you succeed? He’s left in the aftermath of heartache and debris. He doesn’t know why he did the things he did, but he’s sure that he was so close to being all-powerful. Perfect. A being so beautiful and flawless and strong… You took that chance away from him.

Azul wants you out of his life—your presence now is only a reminder of everything he could have been, and everything he failed to be. Unlike him, you’ve already moved on. You’ve learned to forgive your tormentors, and most importantly, you’ve learned to forgive yourself. You tell him that it was never his fault, but that revenge was never meant to be the answer.

He finds that he had nothing in common with you, after all.

Jamil is perceptive. Next to the one who’s attracting the attention of the whole room with a bright smile and sunny disposition, he finds a kindred spirit in you.

You seem responsible enough, and like a mirror, he sees you taking care of that person the way he does with Kalim. It’s easy to pierce through your act because he knows how to do it too. Seemingly not too smart, not too dumb, not too strong, not too weak. You’re good at pretending to be average. Like Jamil, you’ve lived a life of servitude. Are you tired of forced humility? Of feeling like your life isn’t worth anything when compared to the one you serve?

He’s tired too. He’s so, so tired. Why was freedom unreachable to Jamil right from the moment he was conceived? Was he unworthy of a life unbound by shackles? You’re looking at him like he’s a stranger. Jamil looks at you like you’re a mirror. A mirror that’s shattered, and damaged, and every piece is covered with ink and regret. You know what he’s been through, so why are you in his way? You should be an accomplice. Do you not yearn to be your own person? The phantom is whispering promises he knows it won’t keep. But nothing is more tempting than just…one day of happiness. Of his own happiness.

Jamil is inevitably drawn to you. You live so brightly; you see your master as a friend. You tell him he doesn’t need to do the same. That the only thing he needs to do is find a way that works for him. And you’re asking about things he hadn’t thought of before. An employment contract? The legal status of slavery in the Scalding Sands? Wait, you’re serving that person out of your own volition in exchange for salary and other related benefits?

In you, he sees a light at the end of the tunnel.

Vil approves of you. Like looking in a mirror almost, he sees beauty and a passionate drive to remain beautiful in every single way.

You’re a person with a consistent goal and a persistent drive to do better and be better; a hard worker with tenacity like that of the Queen herself. You are no potato. You are a diamond that has found a way to shine uniquely, and like him, you are already a master at your chosen profession. And yet, he sees the trophies and the medals are all silver and never gold. It is frustrating, but Vil knows that you as well know what it’s like to always be second best.

He’d worked so hard. He’d tried his very best. Professional music and choreography, styling and costumes. He’d set up a multi-week boot camp for his team members in order to whip them into shape. It’s all swept away by that person. Again. And again. And again and again and again and— No. No more. He will take matters into his own hands. But you stand in front of him with a familiar determination, only this time, you’re determined to stop him. Rook had betrayed him and now, you do too. Is he not worthy of a victory? Not even once? The blot is so, so ugly. But if it means he’ll get to wipe out everything that’s opposed to him, he’ll take that blot and use it to his own advantage. Like the queen who’d disguised herself as an ugly witch in order to take down the princess; everything can be sacrificed for the sake of ultimate beauty. If you’re not with him, you must be against him.

Vil apologizes sincerely for his faults. He knows he was wrong, even if it hurts his pride to admit it. But you accept him so easily, so readily, he can’t believe you’re acting like he’d never even hurt you. You forgive him. You help him accept his losses and continue to strive. Because you’d been in his position before, but you’d grown to be happy and appreciate the wins in life instead.

You are no mirror image of him. You are better.

Idia’s never been this happy before; through his screen is someone who just gets him. You’re good at games, and an introvert too? Score!

It’s not like, ever, that someone who vibes with his genius just comes strolling through his life, so Magicord bears witness to long, late night chats about anything and everything. You’ve got some real fucked up childhood trauma too, big mood tbh. It’s easy to spill his guts out over the internet, because even then, you still don’t really know him. You like the games and animes that he likes, and he’s so glad that for once, there’s a person out there who’s lived through the same villain-arc that he has.

He can’t rebuild the world if so many noobs are trying to stop him. Why? What’s so wrong with wishing for a world that can fit him and Ortho right in? Why is that too much for him to ask for? Why are you, the person he thought was his cool moots, acting up too? Don’t you like Ortho? Bro…no…you’re not actually doing a protagonist monologue rn, are you? Seriously? You think you can defeat him and his phantom through the power of friendship? Lolz, you’re so lame. If the world was a fairytale, he wouldn’t have been born with this dumb curse. If the world was a fairytale, he would never have been trapped in STYX with no way out. If the world was a fairytale, Ortho would still be alive. But it’s not. So he’ll remake it to be the story he’d always dreamt it to be.

Idia thinks you’re 110% cringe, like actually barf-inducing. But you did kinda save him or whatevs, so he can put up with you. Like, begrudgingly yk. You’re just such a weirdo. He really thought you were just like him, but no. You’ve had therapy. That’s like, actually wild. You try to counsel him too, talking about feelings and whatnot, and how to move past grief so that it no longer consumes you from the inside out.

So it turns out you didn’t have a villain arc like Idia did. You’re the main hero.

Malleus finds you absolutely delightful. To see another who can speak to him without fear or nervousness is a marvelous thing that he cherishes.

You are no fae or long-lived species, but he finds you fascinating. You are intelligent and wise beyond your years. You are powerful in your own right. You are familiar, in every sense of the word. Even your experiences seem to be shared. You’d been orphaned too, and experienced loss and grieved. You’d mourned for far too many loved ones who have left before you. Do you see the present as he does? Do you embrace the past as he does?

The world is a sad, sad place. He would like to change it. Into one with happy ever afters, into one where there is no hunger and no poverty. There will be no suffering. In his hands, he will mold the world into one that is kinder to its people. There will be no death and separation. He’s had far too many of those, enough to last his long lifetime. He’s not wrong. So why…why do you stand against him, weapon pointed towards him? The only thing he wishes for is permanence. Do you not see the vision? There is so much sadness in the world, why do you choose to wake from your beautiful slumber and face it head on? No matter. He will help you, even if you deny him.

Malleus is more than happy to take your hand when it is outstretched towards himself. You teach him so many things he hadn’t realized before, like how to cherish the present and treasure each memory more than attempting to find a solution to make them everlasting. He had believed wholly that he was right; that the answer to death was a long period of dreams in which everyone lives in a happy ending. He had believed you to be similar to himself—he is wrong about many, many things.

You’ve always looked to a brighter future than he could even imagine.

[maybeelse]

"I saw her!", the man shouts. "Under the water! In the river. I have to help her, I have to ..."

His name is Ronald. He is not a bad man, as men go, and his friends will do their best to restrain him until the mania which has crawled into his mind and extinguished his senses fades into the morning mist.

Ronald's friends are not clever men. They will drink coffee to stay awake but they will also drink too much beer, and when they wake, a few hours after dawn, they will blearily find that Ronald has slipped out of his ropes and squirmed through the bathroom window. When his corpse is found, miles downstream, it will be mutilated, waterlogged, and thoroughly unidentifiable. They will never see Ronald again, and they will try a bit harder the next time one of their number sees a face in the river.

Perhaps next time they'll succeed. The odds are against them, though: in the morning they'll be staring down the wrong end of a 5-0 losing streak.

Watch as they hustle Ronald out of the bar, a huddle of football jerseys and unkempt beards eager to get as far away from the river as they can—not far, this time of night. The sun's only just gone down and the temperature's still dropping and there are worse things in the hills, outside our precious little bubble of warmth and gaslight. All the river will do is kill you.

Turn back to your drink. Don't get involved. That's how you survive, out here beyond the ice.

It's not good whiskey. The cold's bad for your throat and its burn feels worse, but it puts a fire in your belly and makes the world seem a bit better. Drink a bit more and you'll be borrowing happiness against future pain; drink a lot more and you'll quiet the voices rattling around your skull.

You can't afford enough drink to make me go away, but your own thoughts are such small, reedy things. They'd be easy to drown.

Have another glass, doll. Tell the bartender to leave the bottle.

It'll be just fine.

[nomazee]

The thing about Dazai is that he's cruel when he wants to be.

You know this—you've known this even before he admitted in his long-winded way that he's an ex-mafia member. He has a clever tongue, knows how to use it to his advantage when it comes to swooning women or interrogating suspects. He's multifaceted in that regard.

You've only really seen a glimpse or two of his mean streak, a vague memory of when you were ushered out of the Agency infirmary while Dazai was left alone with Kouyou Ozaki that one time. It's best not to think about it, you tell yourself, but all you can think about right now is that you really, really wish he could be that mean right now.

It slipped out somehow—in your rambling, you didn't even notice when you'd stupidly admitting your more-than-cordial-platonic-coworker feelings for him. But you did, and these are the consequences, just not the ones you were expecting.

Fingers twitching, joints tight and stiff in the cold, you look up at Dazai's blank eyes and the flat line of his lips. Stupid. You feel so utterly stupid, and you're waiting here for his response and yet there's none to be given.

What makes it worse is that his eyes are soft. He's not poking fun at you or rolling his eyes or brushing this off. You really, really wish he would, you wish he'd make a joke out of this and humiliate you, you wish he'd run to Kunikida and laugh about it with him and group you in with all the other people he's swooned before, but he just stands there. There's pity in his eyes, or maybe something like careful consideration as he chooses his next words.

"You..." and a thoughtful hum escapes him before he goes quiet again. You hate this. You hate every second of it and you just want him to laugh at your stupid feelings and leave you in the dust so you could cry alone and not in front of him. A burning feeling pricks the backs of your eyes and you're going to die right in front of him, because that'd be much better than dealing with this awful, awful silence.

"I don't think you really mean that."

And you hate him. You hate Dazai, because of course he'd say something like that. In all his self-loathing, he wouldn't think for a minute that you know what you're talking about—that you mean it. You hate him. This is crueler than anything else he could've done.

"I do, Dazai," and your voice is strained, and choked, and your face is hot with embarrassment because this is stupid and ridiculous and just supposed to be a workplace crush gone out of hand. "Just shut up. I do." And when he opens his mouth again to protest, you shake your head and roll your eyes and try not to make this whole thing more dramatic than it's already gotten.

"Whatever. I mean— whatever. I didn't say any of that. I didn't mean it like that. Can you forget it, please, and don't tell anyone, this is awful, Dazai, you're awful, you know."

"I know. I'm sorry."

In your years of working here, you've never heard Dazai Osamu say sorry, not like this. Not with gentle eyes and a hesitant breath. This is ridiculous. You're going to kill him.

"I wouldn't tell anyone," he keeps talking, he keeps talking and you're going to kill him, "That's cruel. I'm sorry."

Cruel. You want to laugh. He would know a lot about that.

[kevin-day-is-bi]

i just saw that halloween ask game you're doing for this month 👀👀

so trick or treat, dealers choice on ship 🥰🍬

- mel 💜

Dick absentmindedly pressed on the cut on his arm as he watched his target. The man was standing in a small office in a warehouse, talking on the phone. He didn't look happy. Dick could relate.

"Nightwing, report. Your tracker is offline."

Ah, that had been an argument and a half. Of course, if Bruce would stop sneaking tracers onto Dick's suit, Dick wouldn't have to keep ruining them. They couldn't be cheap.

"I'm on a case."

"Your tracker should be online. I need to know your location."

In the window, the man hung up the phone. He was smug now. He had never made that expression, before.

"No, you don't," Dick responded, before pulling the comm out of his ear. He glared at the device in his hand before gently tucking it away in a pocket.

The man was gone. Dick straightened. This could be a chance to place a bug in his office. Not really Dick's style, honestly. He preferred the physicality. But with any luck, he wouldn't have to get physically near the man ever again. Without fully meaning to, he pressed on his wound again.

He heard the footsteps a split second before the voice spoke.

"You're getting awfully snoopy, dick."

Dick stood from his crouch slowly, hands out and low. He turned head first, the sight of the white streak of hair still sending a wave of shock through his heart.

"Jason."

Jason had a gun aimed at his head. Not particularly surprising. Dick had been trained out of being startled by guns a long time ago, but that didn't mean he was stupid. It was still a loaded gun.

"You have ten seconds to say what you're doing here."

"I wanted to...to see you." Dick was a little unhappy to be so truthful so early. He wanted to fire a quip off, maybe some clever wordplay.

Jason cocked the gun. He wouldn't shoot Dick. Maybe.

"Why."

God, Jason looked...he looked exactly how he was supposed to. The rage that had been present in his fifteen-year-old self had looked so out of place, but now the hard line of his mouth fit him perfectly.

"I want you to-"

Come home. No. Dick didn't, really. The Manor hadn't been his home in a while, longer than it hadn't been Jason's. And what would that achieve? An argument ending in a fight ending in a trail of bodies. Dick didn't want Bruce to have Jason. He wanted to have Jason.

"I just needed to-to make sure it was..."

Jason tilted his head, looking every inch the villain that the Red Hood's file painted him out to be.

"I'm sure the old man ran a dozen tests to make sure it was me."

No, that wasn't what Dick meant. He couldn't find the words, didn't really want to find the words. Jason had sliced open Dick's arm. Dick had felt him, felt the warmth of his skin, the solidity of his body. Dick...missed that, maybe? Having Jason close again had felt like a drug, and now Dick was pretending he wasn't craving it.

He hadn't touched Jason all that much before his death. Too much teenage angst, not enough clear roads between Blüdhaven and Gotham. There was no precedent for this.

"I missed you," Dick said, aiming for honesty. As close to it as he felt capable of getting.

Jason laughed. It was a creepy sound that died too soon in the cold air.

"Last time you saw me I beat your ass. Time before that you didn't know it was me. Time before that I was fifteen. You either have a death wish or haven't gotten the message yet. Robin doesn't exist anymore." Jason's shoulders stayed low and his voice remained even. He sounded a little bored, actually. It felt like there was a hook behind Dick's ribcage, yanking him forward. He needed to be interesting. He couldn't have Jason leave again.

"The first thing," Dick said before he had really planned to say anything at all.

Jason scoffed. Dick kept going, distantly aware of the fact that he was tripping down sentences without actually knowing where he was going. "Maybe you're just really good at fighting. All my bad guys this week were too easy."

Jason's chin dropped. Dick had been rubbing the bandage on his arm against his hip without realizing it.

The gun wobbled. Jason's chest rose and fell.

"Take off your mask."

Dick blinked. This felt like a test. Slowly, he reached up and peeled the mask off. It hurt like hell, and he was left blinking in the altered light. Jason kept the gun trained on him.

"Say it again. Look at me and tell me again why you're here."

This was Dick's chance. Honesty could win. He still wasn't sure what winning meant, but whatever. He would make it work. He stared at Jason's mask and said,

"I miss you."

"What's your goal here?" Jason sounded amused, which wasn't what Dick had been aiming for at all. Annoyance and frustration mixed in his stomach.

"I don't know, okay? I just-" Dick gestured helplessly. Jason's face, half amused and half blank, was no help. "I want...I want you..."

He had nothing else.

Jason's face was doing something complicated. His mouth couldn't seem to agree with what his forehead wanted to do.

"Will you do anything to have me?" Jason's voice was a little too loud now.

Dick hesitated. He imagined Jason pressing the gun into his hand and shuddered.

"No," he whispered.

"No, you wouldn't...let's say for example, shoot a drug dealer for me."

Dick felt sick. There was something about that for me that made him want it horribly. He wanted to do things for Jason.

"Oh," Jason said, and then he started laughing so hard that the gun wavered. "Oh, if only Bats could see you now. That's pretty damn pathetic."

Dick needed to leave. He had well and truly lost control of the situation, and he needed to get the hell out. But when he started to take a step back, the gun went back to being steadily present.

"Don't. I will shoot you." Dick froze. Jason started moving forward, each step solid and loud. "I think we should play a game. You want me, huh? Then let's see what you're willing to do to get me."

Dick contemplated what would happen if he hurled himself off the roof.

"On your knees."

Dick dropped to his knees. This was a very bad idea.

"Take out your escrima sticks and toss 'em over here."

Dick hesitated for half a second before doing so.

"Unzip your suit. To your stomach." Dick's pause didn't go unnoticed and Jason sighed. "You used to wear that stupid suit where the neckline when halfway down your torso. Don't get shy now."

Dick undid the hidden catches and pulled the zipper down. And then, for good measure, he pulled his arms out so he was topless. He needed some sense of agency.

Of course, now Jason was masked, armed, fully dressed, and standing above Dick. Dick obviously could fight like this, but there was something...

Jason kept moving until he was right in front of Dick, so close that he had to bend his elbow to keep the gun trained on him.

"Tell me again why you're here. The full reason."

It was so cold. Dick's stomach was churning.

"I miss you. I...I want you."

Jason's breath hitched. He was shaking. The shock of it made Dick's mouth drop open.

"Please come back to me," he whispered, barely knowing what he was saying.

Half certain Jason was going to blow his brains out for it, Dick reached out and laid a hand on Jason's knee. The nearness of him was intoxication. Dick wasn't really sure he would tell Jason no to just about anything right now. He wanted to see Jason's eyes.

The gun moved and Dick shut his eyes. Several seconds after a shot would've happened, the knee under his hand moved, and he opened them again. The gun had been sheathed. Jason crouched in front of him, face inches away. Dick could still feel the shaking.

"Are you cold?" he asked. He needed Jason to see that he cared about him, noticed the shivering, wanted to help.

"Always," Jason said, barely an actual word. Dick's heart broke, and then his thigh felt like it was on fire. He yelled, unprepared for the sudden pain, suddenly leaning on Jason as the pain spread. Jason's mouth was parted slightly. Dick looked down to see a knife embedded in his thigh. Jason wrenched it free and Dick made a breathless noise of horror. Jason ripped one of his gloves off and sliced the knife across his fingertips. Dick hadn't processed what was happening yet, his brain still stuck on "Jason stabbed me?", so he just watched as Jason shoved his bloody fingers into the wound. Dick screamed, the pain mounting and spreading in waves. He hadn't been prepared, he was usually better than this.

"You want me?" Jason asked, fingers still pressed into the gash. "Fucking have me."

His other hand came up to pull Dick closer, digging his face into Dick's neck, and then just as suddenly he stood, leaving Dick hunched over and breathing unsteadily. He held up his bloody hand.

"I'll treasure this. Maybe make a painting with it. The Failure of Yet Another Robin. Every time I see it, I'll remember how the original came crawling to me, thinking he could fix me."

Dick didn't understand what was happening. Jason's blood was inside him.

Jason brought his hand up to his face and his tongue flicked out, tasting the blood. Dick's stomach roiled. He was really beginning to think that wasn't disgust.

"Mm." Jason grinned. "Taste's like B's disappointment. I can't even tell our blood apart now."

He turned and walked away. Dick was starting to hyperventilate a little. He heard Jason's steps pause, and then, from a small distance away,

"Next time you come a-stalking, I'll see if you look this pretty with a bullet hole inside you."

[stray-kaz]

Sugar & Spice : a Theodore Laurence x reader FF : one

The door to Jo’s attic room rattled with a quiet but insistent knock just as you were finishing tying the violet ribbon at the end of your plait.

“Are you almost ready, honey? Laurie is waiting to escort you girls to the dance.”

You turned with a swish of lavender skirts to open the door, Marmie waiting on the other side. You smiled at the woman who had taken you in when your father was stolen by war, your mother long gone, struck by illness. She had accepted you as her fifth daughter.

“Yes, Marmie, I am ready. Has Laurie been waiting long?”

The young man in question appeared at the foot of the stairs, his hands clasped behind his back. He arched one dark eyebrow and one corner of his mouth twitched.

“Never too long for you, my love” he said smoothly, and winked.

You rolled your eyes, but felt your face heat in spite of yourself. Marmie touched your hand and leaned forward to murmur into your ear.

“He is a clever, kind boy, and I like him well enough, but he has a mischievous streak a mile wide. Be careful.”

You nodded and squeezed her hand.

“I will be.”

You lifted your skirts an inch off the floor to make your way down the stairs to where Laurie stood at attention. He reached out for you hand, gripping it delicately at the second knuckles, his fingertips brushing your glove. He raised it to his lips and kissed the white fabric. You stuck your tongue out at him, your back to Marmie at the top of the staircase.

“I saw that” Jo announced, eyeing you with a wicked grin. “How unladylike of you, sister.”

You dropped into a mock curtsey.

“You’re one to talk, Josephine” you retorted, grinning at her. “Ready?”

“Never. Come on then.”

Even though Laurie knew it was against propriety, he couldn’t help sliding his hand against the curve of your waist as he moved past to open the door to the carriage, your shoulder brushing his arm. You didn’t dare meet his eye in that instant, his closeness to you sending heat crackling over your arms, bare due to the late summer night air.

He handed you up first, your hand lingering in his for too long, your gaze locked on his. Eyes the colour of a wild sea stared back at you. After what seemed entirely too long and impossibly too short, Jo coughed and broke the spell.

“Help me up, would you, Teddy?”

Laurie nodded quickly and kept her steady as she stepped up into the carriage. He leapt up after them and swung the door closed. Marmie backlit by the blazing golden lights in her home was the last thing he saw before the carriage jolted away down the lane, swaying gently with the horses.

Jo left you alone the minute you arrived, sending you a knowing glance as she wended her path through the densely packed room, no doubt heading for the farthest away quiet room to sequester in until the noise was over.

It was both the best and the worst thing she could have done for you. No other young men came near to offer you a dance, as Theodore Laurence was hovering so near you. His arms were folded across his chest, but his eyes were fixed on the side of your face and you were striving to ignore him, your heart beating in your ears.

At last, you glanced sidelong at him, your mouth skewed into a half scowl.

“You know, Mister Laurence, that you are scaring off any potential suitors from asking for a dance. You are turning me into the worst kind of wallflower: an unwilling one.”

Laurie took a step closer and lowered his head just enough for his mouth to rest right by your ear. He watched as you shivered and your eyes fluttered closed for a split second before widening, dark pupils expanding beyond your control.

“Do you mind, really?” he said softly. “Do you want their attention? Or simply mine? You know that ribbon in your hair is my favourite colour. Hmm?”

You self consciously started to play with the end of your plait, tracing the soft lines of the ribbon with your fingertips. Before you could open your mouth to deny this knowledge, Laurie shook his head.

“You know it, just as I know sunflowers are your favourite. You cannot keep passing us off as just friends, and you know it. We are not just friends, my love.”

He spoke with conviction, but his eyes were still full of uncertainty as he looked at you. You sighed and reached up to touch his hair, your palm skimming the outline of his ear; he pressed into your touch, his eyes warm.

“Laurie...” you said quietly. “I have never felt so much depth of feeling for one person in my life up to now, but...”

You trailed away and he stared down at you, still side on to him, and waited. You didn’t carry on.

“But what?” he prodded, needy and impatient.

You sighed again and shook your head.

“I have nothing” you told him, your own gaze pleading with him to understand you. “I have no money, no property, nothing to my name. It’s all gone.”

Laurie threw his hands up and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, wanting to shake you and kiss you at the same time.

“You know that money is not an issue. You know it does not matter to me that you do not own property. I am yours. With all I have, I am yours.”

You stared up at him, aware that your mouth was slightly open, your mind shocked.

“With all my heart, I am yours” you whispered, barely able to get the shaky words out. “I love you, Theodore Laurence.”

He shook his head at you, coming round to stand right in front of you, forcing you to tip your head back slightly to meet his eyes.

“Call me Laurie” he said, and kissed you.

The music ebbed away, the dancers faded into pastel shadows, and all you knew was the feel of Laurie’s lips on yours and the sudden heat in the room making your head spin. His hands cupped your cheeks, fine, long fingers disappearing into your hair and pulling strands free. Then one hand left your face and meandered down past your shoulders until it reached the violet ribbon. Fingers tugged insistently until it slid loose and he pocketed it, one end poking out slightly from the edge of his trouser pocket.

The room and its dancers slowly came back into focus as Laurie pulled back, his eyes gleaming and a smile unravelling across his face as he looked at you.

“You look beautiful tonight, my love” he told you, biting his lip. “Especially now.”

You didn’t even glance at the room to see if anyone was looking before you yanked him back, an amused chuckle escaping his lips before they were pressed to yours once again.

A/N: Please comment and let me know what you think of this first installment!

[bonebabbles]

Thunder Chapter 6: Trial by Kittens

As usual, the trials for acceptance into another Clan are absolutely stealing the show. These are absolutely the most enjoyable parts of ASC so far.

I really hope that the characterization being given to Spotfur's three kits remains, they're all fantastic and I adore them. I haven't seen anyone compile these new personalities, or really point out the dynamics at play in this little scene though! So I'll do just that!

Misc Info

Apparently, Spotfur cusses in front of her kids lmao. This is the singular most important thing about this book, actually. Stemkit says "SHIT" and Sunbeam is like "WATCH YOUR PROFAMITY" and he protests with "MOM curses all the time"

They had never been outside of camp before, Spot's anxious about this! It's nice seeing her being a protective mom.

UNRELATED SIDE NOTE: I miss how in TPB kits seemed to have "their first prey" as a major developmental milestone, but those times are loooong gone. This situation is scratching an itch for me, though!

Sunbeam's first prey was frog; frogs apparently taste canonically like blackbird. (another side note, i should make a taste guide as a clan culture expansion and check if there's any validity to that... i would have guessed it would taste more like duck.)

She takes a good amount of time just chatting with them, and the dialogue here is actually fantastic. It feels just like being in the middle of a conversation with my nespring, it's great. The writer really nailed the cadence of little kids.

Sunbeam also realizes that she needs to keep all three kids engaged, and so creates a particularly convoluted setup so they're all doing something. Clever!

Graykit Gray-and-white tom

IS REALLY interested in hunting.

He chased after a mouse the same size as him when he was half a month old, though obviously he couldn't catch it.

Dreams of one day catching one of every type of prey around the lake. That's such a fun goal actually?? Completionist Graykit wants to 100% the hunting speedrun challenge. That's fantastic.

Stemkit Solid orange tom

Seems to be the most thoughtful of the kits.

Asks the majority of the questions, responses tend to be very "philosophical" towards things. Will say outright that he does not know something if he doesn't know the answer.

A wise child.

Cusses because he missed a vole lmao. VERY cute. I hope this boy grows up to have a mouth like a sailor. I love vulgar philosophers.

Bristlekit White-and-orange molly

Most impatient, and seems to have a little bit of a mean streak.

Scoffs when Graykit brings up his mouse story, saying that "nearly doesn't count." A bit of a perfectionist!

Also interjects the most when her brothers are rambling.

But is able to back this all up! She is the most focused, and is the first one to scent the vole den.

She also catches two voles when her brothers only catch one each.

[13eyond13]

a friend of mine who isn't into Death Note asked me why people ship Lawlight. I gave her a pretty good answer but I feel that couldn't encapsulate it fully and you are the most articulate/analyzer person I can think of here, can you help me?

omg, I'm flattered you think that, but a bit worried I won't be able to speak for everybody about this! I'll probably just have to mostly say why I like to ship it and hopefully that will suffice...

1) the constant tension and the mind games between them is the heart and soul of the series to me. Light's a complicated character that is both very entertaining to follow and also sort of an infuriating bastard to watch as well, so when L waltzes in being like "HOLD ON A MINUTE HERE I KNOW IT'S YOU AND I'M DEFINITELY GONNA PROVE IT" and Light both seems to get extremely excited about how clever he is and also horrified and determined not to lose, that makes for a very charged dynamic that keeps you on the edge of your seat. Light's curiously positive reactions to L opposing him, as well as the way L intuitively understands him and pushes his buttons so effectively, is definitely one of the funniest and most intriguing things to watch in the entire show.

2) there's a lot going on in the narrative to continuously draw parallels between them and to sort of suggest that they're the true equal and peer that the other one has never actually had their entire lives, the solution to the boredom and loneliness and aloof superiority they've both been feeling due to their above-average intelligence and privileged positions and ambitious competitive stubborn streaks and so on. People love that and also find it super tragic/angsty or fascinatingly ironic and darkly funny that they end up only meeting in an enemies, "you're the closest thing to a real friend I've ever had but one or the other of us will have to die" sort of way

3) This part of their relationship also gets me as well - they probably would not have easily met if Light HADN'T been Kira, because L never has to meet any of the people he works alongside nor any of the criminals he catches in person - Light was just good enough at being a criminal to force L to meet him in person, basically. And there's also no guarantee that if they DID meet in other circumstances that they would have clicked so weirdly well as they do, because their cat and mouse game was probably the best way they could both impress each other the most and prove their own intelligence and entertainingness to each other as well. The immense difficulty of setting up this ship so that it actually works is part of the enduring appeal to me.

4) I think there's just a lot of intrigue to how much is left unsaid between them the entire time. They literally never get to have an actual straightforward heart-to-heart even once in the story, but they're seen obsessively thinking about each other the entire time (and Light continues to do so for years after L's death, even to the point of comparing everyone else who opposes him to L unfavorably after his death and admitting he feels bored again now that L is gone). I think a lot of fans were kind of dying to see them interact in a more straight-forward way

5) the handcuffs are certainly fairly suggestive and kinky hahaha... and the memory loss arc definitely brings up a lot of interesting "what if" type scenarios in every shipper's mind. Not everybody is convinced that they really hate each other, and seeing them work together on the case like that causes a lot of people to think about how they might get along if Light had never picked up the notebook in the first place. The fandom has a lot of people who really like the idea of them together whenever Light isn't Kira, and also a lot of people who think their dynamic is superior and works better when Light IS Kira - and having both of these different dynamics between them presented to us in canon makes for even more interesting possibilities to explore

[cascadeclan-gen]

Moon 7

“In honor of your keen senses and observant nature, you will be known as Pebbleridge.” Snowstar gracefully leaps from the roots of the upturned stump, and steps forward to touch his nose. A warm breeze ruffles Pebbleridge’s fur.

The Clan cheers his name. The cats gather around him, congratulating him and wishing him well. Otterdive and Hyssopbloom promise to prepare him a nest; the kits weave under and around his paws in a dizzying display of excitement.

When the Clan finally disperses to return to their duties - and the kits to their afternoon nap - Snowstar approaches with a large bird. The leader flicks his tail towards a sunny patch and Pebbleridge gladly follows him over. He settles next to his former mentor. Snowstar is practically radiating pride as they begin to eat.

“You’ve grown into a fine young tom,” Snowstar tells him. “I am honored to have taught you and help you grow.”

Pebbleridge purrs. Snowstar’s praise warmed him more than the sunshine did. “If I’m being honest, I still feel like I have a lot to learn,” he confessed. “I almost don’t feel ready to be a warrior, all on my own.”

“You are never on your own, kit,” Snowstar replied, giving him a comforting lick on his head. Pebbleridge had to tilt his head down towards the leader for the gesture to reach him. He’d grown tall in the past few moons, nearly a head taller than Snowstar. “And you will never stop learning. A warrior has merely learned enough to be safe in the territory. You will learn and grow all of the moons of your life.”

“It’s true,” Doveshade agrees as she settles on Pebbleridge’s other side. The deputy has her own meal, a plump-looking shrew. “Why, this very morning I learned that the kits are sneaky enough to start leaving thorns in my bedding.”

“I’ll give them a talking-to,” Snowstar promises, shaking his head.

“I don’t know that it’ll do much good,” Pebbleridge snickered, watching Skystripe try to wrangle them back into the nursery. Lightkit and Currantkit were both healthy young cats. Unfortunately they both had a mischievous streak, and often encouraged each other to break the rules.

Doveshade hummed her agreement. “How was your border patrol this morning?”

Pebbleridge’s final assessment had been to lead his own border patrol; Doveshade had let him choose the cats, and he had to show his ability to create a good team and his ability to lead it. He’d done quite well, in his opinion. They needed to patrol the birder with the coyote pack, so he’d chosen Hyssopbloom and Otterdive. He hadn’t had many cats to choose from, but the three of them got along well, and Otterdive knew the territory well enough to keep them out of trouble, and Hyssopbloom was clever enough to get them out of any trouble they found. The patrol had gone well, with Pebbleridge able to avoid encountering any of the pack while ensuring the border was well-marked.

“Good. Although I think I may need a dip in the lake to get the coyote-stench off my fur,” he replied.

Doveshade laughed. “I know what you mean! It’s not the worst smell, but it clings like cobweb.”

“Exactly!” Pebbleridge purred, taking another bite of his meal.

Pebbleridge thinks Lightkit isn’t very considerate. The kit was whispering loudly throughout Pebbleridge’s entire warrior ceremony!

Snowstar and Hyssopbloom find an injured molly while on a border patrol. She seems to have had a run-in with the coyote pack. They bring her back to camp, and she decides to join the Clan! Newtwing (ginger molly with amber eyes) becomes a warrior.

[wellpresseddaisy]

Long Ago (and far away) Part 16

Sunday morning, Slytherin Common Room

"Bulstrode, could I speak with you, please?" Parkinson fidgeted on her feet, twiddling the end of her braid as she did.

Mercy's sake, they hadn't even had breakfast. Millicent sighed, thinking mournfully of steaming porridge and spiced apple compote. This had better not take long. She hadn't even got her tea.

"Of course, Parkinson." If the little twit started anything, she could just shove her into a trunk and pretend she knew nothing of her whereabouts until after breakfast. 

They went back to Millicent's room, her roommates having gone on ahead. They, at least, wouldn't try to eavesdrop. Thankfully they'd carried Greengrass off with them. A more wretched little sneak she'd never met. 

"I'm sorry!" Parkinson burst out as soon as the door shut and promptly dissolved into tears. 

Millicent sighed, but patted Parkinson on the shoulder and spoke bracingly. "Do pull yourself together, Parkinson, please."

Parkinson sobbed, but took a few deep breaths. 

"I didn't mean to go to pieces like that." She sniffed. "I've just been ever so worked up."

"Yes. I can see that." Millicent sat on her bed. 

"I don't want to be like them." Pansy admitted rather damply. "I don't want to be horrible to people and snobby and cruel. And father was awful to your mother and I don't want to be like him either. He wrote me about it thinking he was so clever. Your mother was so kind to us and my parents…" 

Millicent pulled the girl to sit next to her when she looked like she might start crying again. 

"I expect mother handled him." She replied. "Why are you telling me all this?"

"To apologize! And…and to ask for help. You have more sense then anyone in our year and you don't gossip. I am sorry for everything I've said to you." Pansy propped her elbows on her knees and leaned forward, covering her face with her hands. "I just can't see a way through it."

Millicent did some quick thinking. For one, anyone as vain as Pansy wouldn't go weeping at other people if she weren't sincere. Her complexion went all blotchy. Pink-and-white little girls weren't designed to cry prettily. And…well, she'd have to speak to her roommates first for that. But there was something Pansy could do to help herself. 

"Your family, well, did your mother marry out?" That was the first point to nail down.

"No." Pansy spoke faintly. Millicent poked a handkerchief onto her knee. "My parents worked it out so the girls were under mother's family and the boys were under father's. That's why Anemone and Alyssum and Marigold and I all have flower related names."

It sounded stupidly complicated to Millicent, but people made all kinds of compromises in their lives. 

"Who is the head of family for you, then?" 

"My Auntie Agapanthus."

Millicent blinked. Could be worse, she supposed. It could be Ranunculus. 

"Then write your aunt. Tell her everything you told me and ask if you can go and live with her. If, of course, she's better than your parents?"

"She's so much nicer. Auntie always says that you know a true gentleperson by their manners. She'll be so disappointed in me." By the twist in her voice, fresh tears might be forthcoming.

"Then you're going to have to face up to it. Be completely frank with her. I, er, I know you can do it, Parkinson. Just apply some common sense."

This nonsense, Millicent thought, was what you got when you overindulged children with things while giving them no attention. At least that was mother's opinion. 

"I will. Thank you." Watery and weepy, but also stronger than before. 

"And I'll speak to my roommates about asking Professor Snape for another bed in here. If you're serious about changing then you'll probably want to be away from the Greengrass set." 

"Would you?" Pansy looked up, damp and tear-streaked and blotchy but also hopeful. "When I've been awful to you for years?"

"It was last year and on the train, you goose. You weren't horrible before your parents shoved you at Malfoy and Greengrass. It isn't settled, but I'll ask." 

"Thank you. And…" Parkinson trailed off, biting her lip.

"What would you like help with? An essay?" 

"Would you cut my hair?" The question came in a rush.

"Pansy…what?" She'd tried to keep her distance, but that question shocked her back into their usual familiarity.

"Please, Mills?" Pansy begged. "You're good at it. I saw Ermengarde's hair and it looked so lovely. And mine is awful. It shouldn't be so long but mother thinks long hair is just so feminine and so refined. I almost refused to get on the train I felt such a fright! It's thin and straggly and it's even worse plaited because the plait is so thin! And I trust you."

Millicent sighed again. If she kept it up she'd be sent to Madame Pomfrey to check for breathing problems, no doubt. 

"Fine." She agreed. "But if anyone kicks up a fuss…"

"I'll say I bullied you into it." Pansy promised quickly. "Or, er, something like that. But I'll take the blame for it."

Because Millicent knew that anyone who really knew her also knew precisely how poorly bullying worked on her. Strength of character could sometimes be a drawback. 

"Stand up then. I know the spell to vanish it, too, so you'll be safe that way. How short do you want it?"

"Bob it. It waves when it's short, so maybe not a shingle or a crop?" Pansy answered. "But definitely short. And no fringe. I look a fright with a fringe."

"I think I know what to do for you." Millicent remembered a picture in a hairdresser's window. They called the style a 'girlish bob' and she thought it would suit Pansy. 

She raised her wand and Pansy shut her eyes. Magical hair cutting required a great deal of visualization. She held the image of that style in her head as she cast. Once, twice, and it was done. She vanished the long, shorn tresses before she spoke.

"Open your eyes, Pansy. I think you made an excellent choice."

Pansy scampered over to Millicent's dressing table and peered in the mirror. 

"Oh." She fingered the ends of her softly waved bob. "I'm…I'm pretty." Her lip wobbled dangerously. 

It was true, too. Pansy's long hair dragged down her face, making her retrousee (never pug or upturned, Millicent, always retrousee so we do not insult our customers) nose and narrow, pointed chin more prominent. The short hair combined with both features gave her a piquant air. 

"You look very well." Millicent let her admire herself for a moment. "We do need to get to breakfast, though."

"Do you think I'll cause a sensation?" Pansy asked excitedly. 

"Probably. We…we should probably go in separately. I'll speak to everyone after breakfast and we can go to Professor Snape tomorrow morning. I don't want it to get hot for you, so…can you pretend nothing's changed for twenty-four hours?" Millicent gathered her things again.

"I'll have to." Pansy agreed. "I'll write auntie tonight and ask about just going to her for holidays."

"And I have some ideas for how you can prove that you don't want to be how you were." Millicent finished as they left her room.

"Oh, Mills, no. You're going to make me do something horrid. I know you are."

"Mm." Millicent suppressed a smile at Pansy's dismay. "You can help Granger out with her clothes. And…how to behave here."

"Not Granger, Mills, please. How about the Lovegood firstie? She needs help?"

"After Granger, Pans. I think she could use some friends who aren't boys, you know."

"She bites her nails. Although…" Pansy trailed off, looking thoughtful. "Her hair is amazing. And she does know what colors are becoming. Maybe…well, I suppose I could help. Just a bit, though."

"Of course, Pansy. Come on, before Borley notices we're gone." 

Millicent chivvied her out of the SCR and, hopefully, into a better future.

One filled with less waspishness, in any case.

[augment-techs]

Torn between "That noise... keep making it" and "Don't close your eyes, baby. Look at me" for O&A SkullBilly... so writer's choice 👍

SHORT VERSION. I feel the need to expand on AO3...

Stress, stress, stress, stress, stress-- 'We're getting into those dangerous heart attack years and I'm not one to look forward to waking up in the morning without you on the other side of the bed.' Billy let out a deep breath, hands holding fast the the doorway he stood in, back against one side and fingers kneading the wood of the other, careful not to tighten too much as his reinforced Ranger strength was still active now after all the shit that had gone down in the last year. That issue with mentoring the Cosmic Fury team, getting Mr. Akana a therapist that treated Rangers so he could start to healing process as well as take up some new social skills he'd been desperately in need of (poor thing; it was a wonder he and Amelia had dated at all—her being so sure of herself and his being all front and cover. Billy wasn't at all surprised when they had an actual mutual break up and started seeing Javi and Aiyon, respectively); then losing Trini and taking up Minh with Zack and just...everything. The tip of a clever tongue flicked against the head of his cock, snatching a gasp out of his throat that curled into a soft moan as the flat of the tongue pressed further down and slid under Billy's foreskin, circling in earnest to cause little sparks of delight as warm fingertips smoothed against his balls. Another hand reached up to smooth against his cheek, Billy blinking his eyes open languidly as the tongue pulled back, but the fingertips kept on; lovely eyes with crow's feet at their edges stared pointedly up into his bright Blue. "Hey now sweetheart, don't close your eyes," Eugene smiled, whispering at the head he continued to play with, thumb and two fingers tracing up and down the baby soft skin to lightly jack his partner, "Look at me. I'm right here and you're going to have a good time and not think about anything else." "But--" Skull opened wide, tongue relaxed and accepting Billy's length into his throat with the practiced ease of years. His upper lip smoothed to cover his teeth as he started a steady bobbing motion that worked open Billy's mouth into a pretty little 'O' at the appreciation of his technique and practiced trade. Billy let go of the doorframe with one hand to steady it at the back of the head with lovely thick black hair that was starting to get little streaks of grey the genius well and truly adored spotting and combing his hands through in the mornings. He didn't clench against the roots, but he palmed the little hook at the meeting of head and neck when his hips canted a little. The jeans Skull had expertly worked open when Billy had come home after pulling yet another all-nighter slid further down so Skull was no longer playing with his balls through the open fly; his hands now traveled to the 'goddamn righteous' ass. Billy made another deep noise as those fingers—completely expert on most instruments and more than serviceable with Billy's body—pulled his cheeks apart and brushed against his hole as Skull really started working to swallow. Skull's nose was in the little dusting of blond pubic hair that Billy often whined about wanting to shave because he thought of it as, "A very 70s state of cleanliness," but Skull always talked him out of since, "You need the protection, babe. You never appreciate the soft stuff until you're all skin and vulnerable and then it starts growing back and you hate wearing literally everything. And also, I like it."

[esta-elavaris]

Do you have any advice for someone trying out writing for the first time? No matter if it’s fanfiction or an original work is there something you would suggest or a mantra you try to go by? Or maybe advice you would have told your younger self?

I started stupidly young (like I decided when I was nine that I wanted to be an author) so I can't specifically remember what worked for me when I started, but I still have a few things that I think/hope will be helpful! There was a period around 2017-2019 where I wrote an abysmally small amount because of shitty mental health and then I revamped/reclaimed my writing habit at the very beginning of 2020 and there are a few things that were helpful there.

This book is very, very good (The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, if the link doesn't work) to the point where I literally buy it as a gift constantly for creative folk in my life. It's a very quick read, I reread it often, and it frames procrastination and that sort of self-conscious anxiety that makes writing difficult at times in a really new and clever way. The author has done a few podcast appearances if the book isn't something you can access.

Another person who I've found really inspiring/motivational is David Goggins - his stuff is more overtly tailored towards physical exercise and that sort of realm, but what he says can absolutely be applied to creativity, too, but he's a bit more of a divisive figure - some people love him and his brand of encouragement, others despise it. He has a couple of very good books, a tonne of podcast appearances, and he posts smaller clips on IG. Personally, I adore it, he's one of my favourite humans.

At the heart it's all about not letting the shit your mind tells you impact what you actually do, and a massive part of writing (at least for my anxious self) is ignoring that voice in the back of your mind screaming that every sentence/paragraph/chapter is hot shit and you should just quit. So I don't really have specific mantras, just stuff by those guys as well as a few different songs that hype me up.

In terms of specific advice, the game changer for me was deciding to write every single day as a rule. It's the best thing I ever did for my writing. The original plan was to only do it for the entire year of 2020 to get back into good habits, but then that year ended and I haven't stopped yet, with no plans to do so - I'm literally on my 1200th+ consecutive day right now. It's tough for the first few months, especially when you're getting used to consciously making time for it (I've literally written on my phone at bus stops, or when everybody else has gone to bed at a sleepover/party, the works to maintain the streak), but eventually it becomes second nature. Not every day can be good and groundbreaking, but you have to get through the mediocre days to earn the great ones and writing as much as possible sort of streamlines that process. Creativity is like a muscle in that regard, the more you use it and the more you show up, the more it'll show up for you.

Kind of linked to that last point, I'd also recommend working on a couple of different things at once. That way if you're stuck on one project, you can switch to the other - and by the time you get stuck on the other one, you'll probably be ready to go back to the first one. It's a good way to keep writing and keep yourself in the habit of writing even if you're taking a break from one specific thing. I could never just work on one thing 24/7 because I'd end up getting painfully bored and it would show in the project.

ALSO final bit of technical advice - the pomodoro technique is great for this sort of thing. There are plenty of YouTube videos that do the timing for you if you search for stuff like "study with me pomodoro" etc. and it frames things in a much more doable light. It breaks down your time into 25 minute chunks of work, and then rests in-between, so working on a project no longer feels like "man I need to write a whole chapter", it's just "I need to write for 25 minutes".

Finally, books in general are your best friend. Not just for inspiration, but because they can really help with insecurity. If I think I use too many dashes as punctuation, I pick up a few books and go hunting for them and see I don't use a stupidly higher amount than some of my favourite authors. If you look at books as a writer, you can find paragraphs that exist just to get the characters from point A to point B without containing any groundbreaking bits of literary prose. The sort of stuff you don't usually notice if you're just reading as a reader.

You can even find passages you don't personally like but that don't ultimately detract from the book being good (or if it does in your opinion, you can probably then find droves of people online who ADORE the book and think it's perfect, which is a good reminder of how subjective this whole thing is - I love reading negative reviews of my favourite books for that reason, it's a good reminder that there's no pleasing EVERYBODY so there's no point in trying) just to counteract any perfectionist tendencies.

Essentially, write as much as possible, read as much as possible, and have fun doing it. The only thing I'd really tell my younger self is to keep going for it, and to never quit.

This is a whole ass essay now, sorry about that -- if there's anything specifically that I didn't talk about, feel free to lmk. And thank you for asking! I'm majorly flattered that you'd want my advice on the topic 💜 good luck!

[wytfut]

windows

Most if not all of my posts here are observations....

This one is no different.

My early years, we didn't have A/C. And I remember when we finally got it....

Before all of that, we'd open windows, and have a fan blowing.

As kids then and now, we just really didn't notice how hot it was. We could sleep thru anything.

A school buddy back then, his family held off from A/C as one of the last ones. One of their tricks to keep cool when going to bed, was to keep their pillows in the freezer. I've never done this, but thought this was really clever at the time.

Hospitals all had windows that would open. Which was great, especially if your room mate had post surgery gas problems (I was a first hand witness to this with my knee surgery back in the 70's).

I can remember from back in the mid80's, a family here in Waverlyville.... badgering other family members in their own house, about installing A/C and using it.

I have a neighbor, who to this day will not turn on the A/C, unless it is dramatic temps, and a huge relentless heat wave. For example todays weather (mid 90's all this week), 101 tomorrow, I know they won't turn on the A/C. I know this as their windows are all open. He also in a strange way will brag about not turning it on.

Another long gone neighbor, would not turn on the A/C never ever, until June 1. A few decades ago, that wouldn't have been a big deal, but today, we can get a hot streak in march and april.

Today I'm finding more and more buildings and homes with windows that don't open.

I've also been to such places that even though they have windows that will open.... they don't ever open them.

For me this is odd. Patti and I will open windows on our place in a second, if its nice enough outside. We do like the fresh air, but there are other reasons.

With the house open even for a little bit, it'll get that musty dog smell out. And It'll cut back on energy bill.

Even with all the traffic noise we get (interstate 80 200yards south of our house), I love to sleep with the windows open.

But for me to sleep that way, the temp has to be correct. I cannot sleep in the heat, like in the old days. If its over 70 in the house, forget it.... the A/C is coming on.

........

No windows, or not opening windows... is it a trend today? What started it? Folks don't like the insides of their home to get dusty? Can't sleep with the noise? Allergies? Security?

I'm dumbfounded, as I can't just put out a blanket category to cover all the guesses I have why this is becoming common.

And I don't want say its a bad thing or a good thing, either way. I just know we both like to open the window when it works out.

I can't category this to an age group from what I see. Luke's family will open windows, Josh will open windows. But my neighbors rarely do.

And it doesn't appear to be related to the households economic income is either....

.......

Well, I don't live/sleep there. So I suppose it doesn't matter who sets up the rules. As long as I can go home to the comfort of my house, so be it....

[cooledtured]

Silent Hill 2 is beckoning us once more

The fog of Silent Hill never truly dissipates, even when years pass. So, when whispers of a Silent Hill 2 remake began swirling, it felt like a forgotten nightmare creeping back, eager to reclaim its place in our collective subconscious. But this wasn’t a mere rumor. Konami, with the cryptic subtlety of a Pyramid Head love letter, released the first gameplay images, and let me tell you, they’re more than just pixels on a screen. They’re a portal back to a world of chilling beauty and unsettling familiarity.

The very first image throws you right into the grimy comfort of James Sunderland’s shoes. We see his reflection in a cracked mirror, his bloodshot eyes mirroring the rust clinging to the edges of the frame. The details are both faithful and horrifyingly enhanced. The rain-streaked window outside wasn’t present in the original, but its presence here speaks volumes. Is it symbolic of James’ internal turmoil, or a harbinger of something more sinister lurking in the mist?

Then there’s Pyramid Head, bathed in the sickly glow of his oversized helmet. He’s undeniably more grotesque, the rusted metal of his butcher’s garb now caked in what could be grime, or maybe… something worse. His stance is less aggressive, more contemplative, almost sorrowful. Does this remake hint at a deeper exploration of the iconic monster’s psyche, or is it simply a clever visual trick to unsettle us further?

But the most striking image belongs to Maria, James’ deceased wife, now a figment of his guilt and desire. Konami could have easily gone for a photorealistic approach, but instead, they chose to enhance her ethereal beauty. Her white dress seems to shimmer with an otherworldly light, her eyes pools of bottomless sadness. This Maria isn’t just a pretty face; she’s a haunting reminder of everything James has lost, and everything he fears.

These are just glimpses, mind you. But they’re enough to set our imaginations ablaze. Is the remake aiming for pure nostalgia, or will it delve deeper into the psychological abyss that is Silent Hill 2? Will the gameplay stay true to the classic fixed camera angles, or will we explore the town with newfound freedom? Only time, and perhaps more cryptic releases from Konami, will tell.

One thing’s for sure: the fog is thickening, and Silent Hill 2 is beckoning us once more. Are you brave enough to answer its call?

— — — — — — — — — — — — — — — — —  DANIEL SIMMONS | Writer POP-COOLEDTURED SPECIALIST cooledtured.com | GROW YOUR COLLECTION

[mecharose]

Hello again my friendo, I was just looking outside my window, past the rain the sleet and fog, and I thought oh my god! I hadn’t sent out any rhyme-dos. (I swear I’m not as bad at this as I am)

oh dearest bard anon, is it you?

[licensedqueerio]

Could you do a Fred Benson x reader where they were dating and reader finds out he died? And maybe they're friends with Eddie so when they hear he is the main suspect in the murders they try to find him to figure out what happened?

I wrote this so fast omg, but I was so excited to!! I will gladly write more about this if prompted, but for now, here you go!

---

Word Count: 3.1k

Pairing: Fred Benson x Reader

Warnings: Stranger Things season 4 spoilers, swearing, violence, death

Request Here

---

You met Fred Benson when you were thirteen years old.

You fell for him immediately. And you fell for him hard. He was nerdy, snarky, clever, and genuinely a good person; he ticked all your boxes. But you thought he was too good to be true, so you tried to ignore your feelings for him throughout your last year of middle school.

But come freshman year, you were put in almost all of the same classes together, so the two of you becoming friends was inevitable. And it was wonderful. But it did nothing to stop your budding feelings for him. You finally got the nerve to ask him out sophomore year and he said yes, to your utter delight.

The two of you have been going strong ever since. He was the managing editor of The Weekly Streak while you took the front cover photos. You got to see each other almost every day and have a beautiful relationship.

You were totally, one hundred percent in love with him.

Even when he became insecure about your relationship; insisting that you deserved better than him. He believed he was a murderer. You knew he wasn’t and that the car crash had been an accident.

He never forgave himself though. For letting the driver die. Though, ‘let’ was a strong word. There was nothing Fred could have done for the driver, he should have died on impact, but it took his brain a little longer to catch up to that fact.

You did everything you could to reassure Fred that he wasn’t a murderer. Assuring him that yes, he should have helped, he couldn’t help that he panicked and ran. He definitely should have gone to the police, but you understood why he did it.

That didn’t make it okay.

But it also didn’t make you love him any less. You’d been through a lot together, and honestly, you didn’t ever want to give him up.

The two of you worked through that, and were still working through it, but Fred’s view of your relationship had improved significantly since the crash. He was doing a lot better now, but it still haunted him.

You wished there was more you could do for him.

This morning you’d woken up with a budding sense of dread, which usually meant today was not going to be a good day. So you did what any normal person would, you went back to sleep. You woke up later that morning, your mom informing you that Fred had called for you earlier. You called back, leaning against the wall besides the phone, holding a mug of too hot coffee.

Fred picked up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Hiya, lover,” you greeted, yawning after the words. “You called?”

“You didn’t show up,” Fred stated the obvious. “You slept in? Again?”

“Hey woah, is that judgement I sense in your tone?” You laughed, blowing steam from your mug before taking a hesitant sip. It scalded your tongue, but you powered through it. “I just graduated, I can sleep in whenever I please, thank you very much,” you continued.

“Alright, alright,” Fred conceded. “I was just making sure you were okay.”

“...love, are you okay?” You asked, brows furrowed as you finally picked up on the shakiness of his voice, the slight breathlessness. As though he’d just had a panic attack. You were very familiar with what he sounded like after one.

“Fine,” he responded. “Totally one hundred percent fine. Shouldn’t you be getting out of bed yet?”

“Don’t try and shift the subject,” you replied. “Fred, babe, are you okay?” You repeated. “What happened?”

“I’m fine,” Fred repeated.

“Come on, Fred. Get off the phone,” a faint female voice said in the background.

“I have to go,” Fred said quickly. “I’ll see you later. I love you.”

“I love you too…” You murmured, listening to him hang up. You sighed and hung the phone back on the wall, going to properly start your day.

---

The next morning, the feeling of dread was one hundred times worse. You barely managed to drag yourself out of bed, half asleep, and feeling as though you’d been hit by a car. On top of that, you couldn’t sleep all night.

You went into the already empty kitchen and began brewing your coffee. You happened to take a peek between the blinds and out the window, which happened to be your worst mistake.

Because there you saw a police car pulling into the empty drive way, two police officers getting out and removing their hats. They were here to tell you someone had died. You already knew the drill; you’d gone through this last year when someone close to you had been found dead.

Today though, you had no idea who’d they be reporting dead to you.

That was the most depressing part.

You heard that when Chrissy's body had been found, the police went to Jason, and that's how he found out she died. You were praying that this isn't what the police visit was about. But you hadn’t heard from Fred since yesterday morning, so it wasn’t impossible. That’s what worried you most.

You forced your body to move forward when a hard knock echoed through your house. You shut the coffee maker off, crossing the kitchen and living room to unlock the front door. You pulled it open and stared at the cop. "...who's dead?" You asked quietly, fingers trembling where they held the door frame for stability. "That's why you're here. Isn't it? I know the drill.”

The cops shared a look between each other before one spoke. "Can we come in?" He asked.

You shook your head, you didn’t want to drag this out. "Please, just tell me," you requested. "Don't try to skirt around this, I'm not an idiot. So who?"

"We've been informed that you're dating one Fred Benson? Is that correct?" The cop asked. "His body was identified this morning, I'm sorry for your loss. We were asked to relay this information by a friend."

Your knees gave out beneath you and you collapsed against the doorframe, clutching it tightly in an attempt for something to ground you. "No," you choked out. "No, Fred can't have—no! No, you must be mistaken!" You exclaimed in disbelief, tears beginning to roll down your cheeks.

"I'm sorry," the cop repeated. "Truly."

"How did he die?" You managed to ask through the knot in your throat. “When?”

"I'm afraid I can't disclose that information," he replied. “You’ll be informed later on with the rest of the town.”

And somehow that answer was so much worse than any real one. Because that meant he'd likely suffered. That he was murdered. "It was by the same person who killed Chrissy. Wasn't it?" You asked. "Do you even know who did it? Who killed my boyfriend!?" You demanded, getting your feet back underneath you. 

"We have suspects," the second cop said. "But like my partner said, we can't disclose—"

"Just tell me!" You shouted. "Please…please, I need to know who was responsible." You sobbed, shaking like a leaf.

"Like I said,” he sighed, “We have several suspects in mind—"

"Eddie Munson," the first cop cut in. "He is a prime suspect. So you need to keep yourself safe, okay? If he came for your boyfriend, he might try and come for you. Make sure you lock your doors and stay inside if you can, alright?"

You stopped listening after he said Eddie's name. Because…no way. No way in hell could Eddie ever kill someone. He was a D&D nerd. And what the hell would he have against Fred!?

Fred. Whom you'd…never see again.

The realization hit you hard, and the fact that he was dead finally settled deep in your bones. You quickly got the cops out of your home and shut the door. You pressed your back to the wood and slowly sunk down, drawing your knees to your chest to hug them, as sobs bubbled their way past your lips.

You'd been with Fred for years, it felt…surreal. But he was gone. The love of your life was gone. 

---

The following day, after giving yourself time to grieve Fred, you set out to find Eddie. Lucky for you, you happened to know exactly where he would run if fleeing the police.

You arrived at Reefer Ricks house about mid afternoon. Like the previous day, getting up seemed nearly impossible, but you did it because you had a goal in mind. You were going to find out what happened to Fred. Eddie was going to fill in the blanks left by the police,

The front door of the house was already open, so you walked right in. You ran into Eddie in the kitchen. He was at the stove, eating some sort of soup straight out of the pan. But when he heard you he immediately tried to run, before fully processing who you were.

Once he did, his face lit up, before dropping into sadness, then finally ending in concern. "Y/N?" He asked carefully. "How'd you find me?"

"I'm not an idiot," you replied. "What happened?"

"With what?"

"Don't act stupid now, Eddie. It's never worked in the past and it especially won't work now. Did you…kill Fred?" You hedged. You didn’t think he did, but if he was the murderer, then you didn’t want him to run now.

"What!?" Eddie exclaimed in genuine offense. "No! No no, I did not kill Fred! Who told you that!?" He demanded. "Why would I kill Fred? I liked the little fella!"

"I know, I know," you said in an effort to stop his defensive tirade, holding your hands up. "I know. But I had to ask. The cops said you're the prime suspect."

"Of course," Eddie muttered bitterly, arms crossed. "I am sorry though."

"What happened?" You asked. "The police wouldn't tell me what happened. All they told me was he's dead. So what happened?" You prompted.

"You wouldn't believe me," Eddie dismissed with a wave of his hand. "It's insane—even to me. Besides, I don't even think I can tell you. It's not really my—"

“Are you fucking serious, Eddie?” You scoffed. “You can’t tell me, the cops can’t tell me. What the fuck happened to my boyfriend!?” Your volume rose at the increasing frustration of not getting an answer. You just wanted to know, you sought the closure that knowing would bring.

“Okay, okay, don’t yell!” Eddie shouted back. “It’s going to sound crazy though,” he warned.

“If you don’t tell me in the next five seconds, I’m bringing you to the police,” you threatened.

Eddie lifted his hands in surrender. “You’re going to want to sit down.”

And then he told you exactly what happened to Fred.

You promptly laughed in his face.

You stood up from the chair you’d pulled out to sit in, covering your face with your hands as you laughed in utter disbelief and what you’d heard. You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Some undead creature from an alternate dimension had killed your boyfriend? How the hell was that a logical explanation!? “You really expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth, Y/N!” Eddie insisted. “It’s completely true and once the others get back, they’ll tell you that it’s true, I swear.” He held up a walkie talkie. “I just can’t reach them now. They’re busy investigating Vecna—the thing that killed Fred.”

You shook your head. You wanted to scream. Or cry. Or both.

“Fuck!” You settled on screaming. “Fuck, Eddie! I can’t believe you! You know I’m starting to believe the police’s theory that you—”

“Don’t say that!” Eddie exclaimed. “I didn’t kill Fred and I didnt kill Chrissy! Christ, Y/N, why the hell would I do that?”

“Why would you make up some elaborate story if not to cover your own ass!” You gestured around wildly.

“Y/N, look at me. I’m not a murderer!” He insisted, grabbing your biceps and forcing you still. He shook you gently. “I swear to you, I did not kill Fred. And I swear I’m not making this up. You just have to trust me on this, okay?”

“How can I trust you, Eddie?” You seethed, trying to escape his grip. “My boyfriend is dead and the police think you’re the killer. You were there when Chrissy died, Fred died not too far from your trailer, you’re actively on the run, and you just made up a very elaborate story about a fictional D&D villain!” You ranted.

“Oh my god! I—”

The loud rumble of a car pulling up immediately shut him up. His eyes went wide as saucers as he let go of you, stepping back rapidly. “You called the cops?” He hissed, rushing to the window to see who had pulled up. “You called Jason!?” He reiterated in even more disbelief, ducking down away from the window.

“I didn’t call anyone!” You immediately defended. “Why would I call Jason fucking Carver?”

“Because you think I’m a serial killer!?” Eddie hissed. “Fuck! Fuck what am I supposed to do!?” He whirled around to face you, panic etched into his features.

You turned around in a circle, looking for something to help. You stopped when you spotted the boat. “Get in the boat and don’t stop rowing. I’ll try and turn them away, okay?” You said, already hurrying to remove the tarp and unload all the junk inside the boat.

“They could kill you!”

“They’ll kill you,” you corrected. “Hurry up! Get in the boat, Eddie. You need to leave.”

Eddie realized that, yes, they would most definitely kill him without a second thought, and quickly untied the boat, pushing it into the water and climbing inside.

You tossed the oar at him. “Don’t stop rowing til you get to the other side,” you repeated.

“Yup, got it,” Eddie said as he began to row out of the boathouse, casting a final glance back at you. You turned your back on him, going and peeking out of the window. You stared at Jason, who was on the second floor of the house. The two of you made eye contact, and you tilted your head questioningly.

Jason was down at the pool house a minute after that, aggressively shoving the door open, Patrick right behind him. “Where’s your freak friend, Y/N!?” He demanded.

“Obviously, I don’t know,” you said flatly, spreading your arms to punctuate the empty pool house. “I thought he’d be here. I was wrong.”

“Bullshit,” Jason spat, shoving Patrick forward and urging him to look around while he crowded into your space. “You’re hiding him. Aren’t you? You and the other Hellfire freaks!”

“Why would I be hiding him?” You replied, standing your ground. “I’m looking for answers, same as you. The cops think he killed Chrissy, right?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jason hissed, grabbing the front of your shirt and shaking you. “Don’t talk about her.”

You didn’t raise a hand to defend yourself. Because really, the last thing you needed was for him to shove you back into the water. “They think he killed my boyfriend,” you said. “I understand. I’m here looking for Eddie because I need to know what happened to Fred.”

Jason abruptly let go of you. “He killed someone else?” He breathed.

“Ay, Jason,” Patrick said. “This is a boathouse,” he stated.

“No shit,” Jason snapped.

“Where’s the boat?” Patrick replied, expectantly looking at his friend, then you. “You’re helping him. Aren’t you?”

“I got here right before you did,” you said quickly. “He must have heard me and ran. He’s good at that,” you spat, which was true. Eddie was good at running away. “He’s probably long gone by now. You should try searching the other end of the lake,” you suggested, anything to buy Eddie more time to get across the lake.

“No, fuck that,” Jason said viciously. “Let’s go. Swim team captain, right?”

You stared at him in disbelief. Shit. Now what were you supposed to do? You didn’t think he knew or even remembered that.

“Now! Unless you don’t want to find the person who murdered your boyfriend?” He demanded.

You swore in your head before following him and Patrick outside and around the boat house, where Jason began to shed his outer clothing. “Hey freak!” He bellowed. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Eddie whipped around, and began trying to start the boat's motor, swearing as he did.

“What? Are you scared of a little water? Let’s go, Captain!” Jason shouted at you.

Patrick began to also shed his clothes. And after a moment's hesitation, you swore out loud. You pulled your sweater up and over your head, tossing it aside. You kicked your shoes off, tossing your socks somewhere to the side before jumping in after Jason. You gasped at the freezing water seeping into your bones, teeth beginning to chater. But you propelled yourself forwards anyways.

You heard a splash that was Patrick, who came to his senses faster and got a head start on you. You began to swim, and just as you surpassed Patrick, he stopped. After a moment passed without splashing that signaled he was still swimming, you turned. “Patrick?” You asked.

Jason seemed to notice the two of you stopping, since he shouted, “Patrick! Y/N! Let’s go! We almost have him! Guys!”

“Somethings wrong!” You shouted back, alreading swimming back towards Patrick.

Then he went under, and everything was silent.

“Patrick!” You shouted at the same time as Jason. You may not have liked the guy, but you couldn’t stand around as he drowned. Just as you were about to dive under, his body was yanked out of the water and he began to ascend up into the air.

You screamed, flailing your arms and propelling yourself backwards. You stared in horrific disbelief at his body, suspended in the air as if he were nothing more than a rag doll. You heard a splash behind you that must have been Eddie falling into the water, but you were unable to rip your eyes away from the gruesome sight now unfolding.

You didn’t think you’d ever be able to get the sound of bones crunching and breaking out of your head. Of the squelching of wet meat against his bones.

Patrick’s limbs bent at angles they were never meant to, his bones snapped as if they were twigs. And you realized that Eddie wasn’t lying. He’d been telling the truth the entire time about Fred and everything else; you just didn’t want to believe it.

As Patrick’s body smacked against the water, you had an even worse realization. That had been Fred. Your snarky, nerdy, adorable boyfriend had been jerked into the air just like Patrick. His limbs had been twisted, bones snapped. He had died alone. And he had died afraid.