#thirteen is an unlucky number right?

[hereforthehitsbaby]

Darkness, Imprisoning Me | Cooper Adams/Abbott x F!Reader

Gif credit to @billy-crudup

Synopsis: News reports of The Butcher leaving his latest victim across the street from your house wasn't enough to spook you, not even into locking your doors. In fact, you were enticed by the idea of him getting in. But is it everything you wanted?

Warnings: Dark!Fic, Angst, Mentions of Murder, Victim!Reader, Cooper is so cute then a baddie, Essentially what I would think would go down with The Butcher

Rating: R

Word Count: 6.2K

A/N: I promise to write fluff pieces with Cooper eventually, but this man has such a choke hold on me I cannot contain. It’s the parasite in me, I blame them. I need the angst, I need the hurt. Originally this was gonna be just straight up porn but, I didn’t want to burn out.

Tagging: @rubyfruitjungle @cherryinterlude @lilly3434 @amethystblackkchaos @rosaleelovesdilfs @babygorewhore @dirtylittlefairytales @redpillbluepill @strangererotica

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“The Butcher is a megalomanic, a typical wolf in sheep’s clothing. They’re meticulous and calculated. They are the perfect killer – and that is exactly why they slipped out from under the FBI’s nose.”

Calculated, that is the best way to describe most things in life, explain most passions as well. It isn’t a bad thing to be calculated, no, it’s a good thing after all. There is something about knowing that you are taking precautions and closing gaps before they can form that is rewarding. The endorphins it sends to the brain get mistaken for happiness and content. Calculated is good, calculated is safe. It means there are no possible tracks to follow or fall back on; A burned, fraying edge of a ribbon. It shrivels up under the intensity until nothing stands but a solid nub of what used to be. Calculated keeps the sanity flowing, for the opposing party that is. It brings a great sense of pride to the killer, knowing they are untraceable. Until they’re not; Their day of reckoning comes quick, quicker than they anticipate. They cannot run or hide anymore – they become infamous, they become hated. They become real.

That’s what your criminology professor used to say before she got on the case of The Butcher – what the media is dubbing him – a psychopath who likes to lure their victims into a sense of security, torture them, and then dispose of them in public places. The kicker? It’s never in one piece. All twelve victims so far have been cut into fourteen pieces, never thirteen. It made sense, thirteen being the unlucky number after all – it created a sense of bad luck for all killers to dwell on. But not The Butcher, they were clean. They clearly were not a loner; this was someone who could blend in at the drop of a hat. Disappear quickly if need be and never look back. Yet in Philly, everyone seemed that way.

Moving here wasn’t ideal for you, but Penn State offered you a great position as a first-year professor while you were pursuing your last year of your Masters. You’d be a fool to pass up that opportunity; The pay wasn’t awful but, it put you right where you wanted to be. Being the trainee of Dr. Josephine Grant was a dream come true, working under her and picking her brain about serial killers was exactly what you wanted. Since you were a kid, growing up watching all of those crime shows when everyone thought you were sleeping, you felt a connection to the field, like it was beckoning you. There was something about putting a psychopath away and finding out why they committed their crimes that intrigued you. What fired off in their synapses to where they thought killing was the only way to conduct their life. You wanted to make a change in the criminal justice field; You wanted to be that change. Philly happened to have a sociopath of their own running amok, and you wanted to be in the midst of the chaos.

Everything fell in line after that – your condo was bought at an extremely low rate compared to other mortgages in the area. You could walk to and from work and classes on the daily, leaving your afternoons open. Hell, it even helped that your grocery store was directly across the street, right across from the park. It was a sweet spot and one you felt like was too good to be true at the end of the day. But alas, you were not questioning fate as it saw you as its pawn. You were just living your life; Single, brazen, and ready to be the face of change in the field. Plus, working close with Josephine meant that you were right at the forefront of The Butcher’s ideas, patterns, schematics. Young, attractive; They all knew he was a male, and not a woman – especially with the craftmanship of the bodies.

It excited you, a man that dedicated to ending the lives of others. You wouldn’t ever admit it aloud but, being a young woman in your position was compromising. If you ever told Josephine your plan of luring The Butcher in to get more information, you’d be fired. But that was your plan at the end of the day – in hopes to uncover more. But truly, you were doing it to entice someone else. When your condo complex became the hub for the police, after another victim was found chopped up across the street from you, you wanted to lay a welcoming hand out for a certain someone. Which is why you stopped locking your doors, your windows, even barricading the deck door. Naivete got the best of you, you were most certain. But it was all for the cause, the further exploration into a serial killer’s mind. You hoped it wouldn’t be him who got in but someone else entirely, yet a girl can dream. As fucked up as it was to think; You were Grant’s pawn, a willing one at that. It was a stupid plan but, God it made you feel alive. The only other thing that did was off the table.

It's always easy to crush on the neighbor next door, not having an establishing factor caused you to admire from afar. Though it was hard not to with how thin your walls were – hearing everything that happened on the other side. It wasn’t provocative to say the least but intriguing. Nature documentaries, Golden Girl re-runs, even some mix ins of Robocop and Midnight Run to lull you to sleep. It was comforting knowing a person was there who happened to like the same things as you. But it only complicated the crush you grew to have. That wedding ring tended to complicate a lot of things – though you never saw anyone but him. It was weird to say the least but, you had no control over it. Pining from afar was the betterment of your time anyways, school took up too much.

The only time you ever talked to him was when The Butcher claimed yet another victim, tossing their remains on campus. It was obvious you were a student worker by your hoodie you always wore, showcasing the department and school. You were notorious for wearing your headphones in as you walked home anyways, which happened to spark his interest. “It’s not safe to do that nowadays – you wouldn’t hear anyone come up on you, sweetheart. I’m just looking out for you.” The sentiment of Cooper Adams’ words struck a deep chord within your body, not ever feeling something so live within you. Having someone car for you was foreign, especially with how your parents were growing up. But Cooper, he really was like a dad – if he wasn’t already. He was the neighborhood watch dog, only wanting what is best for everyone, if everyone wasn’t just you. His autumn eyes never looked away when you left or came home, they watched your every step with ease and precision – notating in case something happened. Cooper was a man, and you needed him.

”I respectfully disagree, I think The Butcher is sloppy and they know it. They keep fucking up and putting themselves on the line. I mean come on, who in their right mind leaves a trail of receipts behind them. For Lady Raven no less! The biggest popstar in the world has a serial killer coming to her concert I mean, it’s alleged but – the odds aren’t out on it, right?”

Grading papers and trying to finish the second of four halves of your dissertation on The Butcher caused you to leave campus late. A fifteen-minute walk down to your home was fine, but something about tonight felt off. October is a beautiful time to enjoy – the sweet and savory smell of pumpkin in the air, the crisp sound of leaves crunching beneath your feet. It was your favorite time of year, but you couldn’t enjoy it like you usually do. You ignored Cooper’s insightful thought to not use headphones on your way home, opting to listen to a podcast instead about The Butcher. Any new leads you could use for your dissertation you were taking, whether they came to full fruition or not. It helped to deepen your argument of what makes a killer, kill. You wouldn’t lie to yourself; The podcast was freaking you out with how soon the Lady Raven concert was coming up. Even if it was alleged, he was going to be at the Lady Raven concert, you didn’t want to take your chances. You knew how to blend in and keep an ear to the ground but, being a victim was not on your list.

Rounding the corner to your block, you saw that Cooper’s light was on in the living room – making you let a sigh of relief out. It meant he was up again watching you come home, keeping you safe as always. It warmed you heart and soaked your panties. It was a no brainer Cooper was extremely attractive; Beekeeping age to be exact. There was something about the power dynamic of an older man with you that lit you up on all cylinders, you couldn’t handle the thoughts. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t touch yourself to the thought of him – taking you soft and slow like you assumed he liked, treating you like a princess. It was what dreams are made of; he truly is prince charming in your eyes. No one is that perfect, that loyal to the job, or that kind. Beloved fire chief Cooper Adams, you wanted him.

Smiling to yourself, you removed your headphones from your ears, shoving them into your purse. The last thing you wanted was for Cooper to see that and think you didn’t heed his warning; in turn you did – the tail end of the trip anyway. Taking a deep breath, you let the weight of the world off of your shoulders, feeling safe again the closer you got to home. You knew it was silly to be spooked about this whole situation; The cleanup crew took the body away days ago and everyone trickled down from there. The caution tape still slapped against the barren tree trunks, shaking leaves from its head. But The Butcher moved on to another place and wouldn’t visit the same place twice you knew. Still though, the thought excited you of Cooper going into your home at some point to make sure you were okay. To reprimand you for keeping the doors unlocked, for seeing how innocent you truly were. You were begging for him, and hoped he caught along eventually.

You were thankful that the steps to your condo wasn’t too long, only a four steps to the front door. Hopping up each one softly, you gently put your hand on the doorknob, pushing the handle down with your thumb. The click of the stopped pushing back into its slot made you cringe, wondering how loud it was compared to what Cooper could hear. Surely, he was going to ask why he didn’t hear your keys tomorrow, and for that you’d had to think of a creative way to tell him. There was no way in hell you were going to come straight out and tell him why you left it unlocked. No, you needed to be smart about it. The heavy front door started to swing backwards for you, creaking at the hinges which in turn made you shy away from it, your heartbeat flooding your ears. The pounding in your head wasn’t helping your current situation, for every move you made was loud – causing your fingers to tremble. “Please don’t be awake,” you muttered to yourself, letting out a deep breath once the door was fully open.

The dark foyer of your condo made you feel safe, knowing once you get upstairs to the kitchen you could be okay – that nothing was coming for you. Letting go of the door caused it to fall back into place, clicking soundly when it is tightly shut. Reaching behind your back, you grabbed onto the top dial for the lock, turning it clockwise, then reaching up to deadbolt the top lock. Now that you were shut in tight – you didn’t have to worry about anything else. It was then the realization struck you; The Butcher couldn’t get into your house if he tried, if it wasn’t the front door. Your bedroom and kitchen were on the second floor. The deck stairs are padlocked shut – he would have to use a ladder. How you didn’t think of that previously was lost on you but – at least you had a good chuckle at the thought.

Grabbing onto the railing, you toed your shoes off by the stairs with a hum to your voice, showing Cooper you were okay – even if it didn’t need to know. Tiredness was setting in hard in your mind, causing a slight headache to erupt at your temple. Using your free hand to massage the tightened muscle, you made your way up the stairs; Every other creaking as you leaned forward. The strawberry cheesecake you bought yesterday was calling your name, all you wanted to do was cut yourself a slice, sit back on the couch and watching some Penny Dreadful. With the start of your weekend now commenced, you just wanted time to yourself to think. The closer you got to the top of the steps, the more you felt the sleepiness roll in behind you, wanting to curl up and snuggle the night away. A yawn released itself from your mouth, causing you to stop in your tracks. On the top step no less, you managed to press your back to the wall, so you didn’t fall, or topple down.

Shaking your head as the aftereffects of the yawn roll through you, you started to make your way into the kitchen to the fridge – feeling the draft of the windows behind opened cascading over you. With a thud on the countertops, you dropped your bag off with your phone – rubbing your eyes to ease the pounding. You didn’t realize how hard it had got to focus once you began, the feeling too good to stop. This was exactly what you needed to start – something brain numbing and desensitizing so you could continue on. You did have half a mind to sleep at the kitchen counter, everything else just seeming so far away. Just a little nap until your felt energized, it would fix everything for you. You dropped your hands at your side to stare forward, trying to let the stars in your eyes disappear before moving. Though, something was out of sorts.

Squinting your eyes in the dark of the kitchen, you strain to see what was at the far head of the kitchen table, wondering if it was just your imagination confusing you, or if there was someone sitting there. Your hand found purchase on the kitchen countertop next to your light switch, thumbing it on with a bright bulbed gleam. “Jesus!” You exclaimed out, jolting backwards into the stove, clutching your chest. There was a person sitting there, and surprisingly the one you hoped for. Your labored breathing echoed in the space as you huffed out a laugh, running your fingers back through your hair. The initial shock of seeing Cooper in your kitchen was starting to wear off, instead it caused you to be giddy. Finally, you thought with an internal smile. But it was clear Cooper did not mimic the same. Instead of looking like his usual sweet, kind, and caring self – he looks pissed off. The softness that laid upon his eyes this morning, we replaced with a darkened line of hard steel – ready to tell you off.

He was wearing that damned stripped sweater you loved so much, the autumn colors contrasting beautifully with his complexion. His biceps building as his arm crossed over his chest, his feet finding purchase flat against the linoleum. Cooper shot his brows up in a challenging way, as if to secretly say seriously. You couldn’t stare in his eyes as he looked at you, feeling the heat creep up your cheeks and neck, causing you to burn up. The tick in his jaw as he focused on you made your knees weak; Sucking down the moan threatening to escape almost broke you. “You didn’t lock your door.” Cooper stated in a non-bullshit tone, causing you to cower. If you looked at him, you knew you’d confess as to why you did. You promised yourself he’d never know about that, no matter the circumstance. “Two days the cops were here because of the body. And you didn’t think to lock your door when you went out?” The fatherly tone in his voice caused you to shrink away, jaw set in a hardened place.

Cooper shook his head back and forth with no change in expression, still so disappointed to see what you had done. “Windows open, doors unlocked. Have you forgotten there is a killer in the neighborhood?” That was the thing, you hadn’t. You left this as an open invitation for The Butcher to try something. Maybe, just maybe he’d let you live long enough to learn more, jot it somewhere or record so when you were gone, at least the evidence was behind. But there were faults in that, The Butcher wouldn’t give you time for anything. You’d be here and done in the next, depending on how long he wanted to play with you. “I’m sorry,” you squeaked, moving to the opposite counter, trying to get closer to Cooper. You could see it in his eyes he didn’t want none of that, he didn’t want an apology. The longer Cooper stared at you, the more his face shifted from annoyed and disappointed, to scared and worried. He must’ve realized how he was being and wanted to correct it before you thought differently.

“I wanted to see if you were up for having a movie night. Imagine my surprise when I see your door open and unlocked.” There was a fearful waver in Cooper’s voice, causing your stomach to sink. The one thing you didn’t want to do in your soon-to-be budding friendship was worry him or scare him for that matter. But there was a feeling of failure starting to weasel its way through your stomach, wanting nothing more than to console Cooper. He couldn’t look your way as he spoke, shaking his head away from you as he focused on the plastered white wall of your kitchen, counting the tiny specks of paint dots in my mind. “I thought…I thought The Butcher had gotten to you.” It was low, but loud enough to break your heart – tearing welling in the corner of your eyes. Your heart was plummeting, you needed to act fast.

Coming around the kitchen island, you stand at the front end of the kitchen table to face Cooper – your eyes silently pleading for him to look at you. His foot tapped against the floor in pointed rhythm with his fingers, tapping along the edge of the table as he unwound them from his chest. His thick fingers came up closer to the edge, grazing over the handle of something. Your eyes were curious, deciding to have a mind of their own as you glanced down to see the silvery glint of a sharp object – eyes going wide, breath going still. Sitting next to your thigh on the table was a meat cleaver from your knife set you just bought, the edge sparkling with attraction – wanting to be used. You understood that Cooper was scared for you, so he grabbed something to protect himself just in case. It was admirable to say the least, you felt your heart warming at the thought.

Cooper let his fingers cascade over the black handle of the knife, pulling it to him without a stutter in his step. Picking the knife up, he tested the weight of it in his palm, dragging the tip of his finger over the serrated edge, feeling it cut him a bit. You winced at the sight of blood pooling out of the small cut, your stomach doing flips. Blood never made you squeamish but self-inflicted wounds did. “I’m so sorry Cooper, I never meant to upset you with it. Honest to God, I forgot this morning.” You were lying through your teeth and Cooper knew, he fucking knew from a mile away. The saddened look in his eyes switched so quickly, if you blinked, you’d miss it. Placating a docile look to his own face, he stared at you carefully, making no quick movements or hasty decisions. He was giving you your chance to confess, and you fucked it up.

“I think you did it on purpose,” he called out, sitting forth on the chair so his elbows rested against his muscular thighs. He chuckled in a sinister way as he pointed the cleaver in your direction, waving it up to your face so you’d look at him, rather than the floor. “I think, you wanted The Butcher to come in here.” The heat sliding across your chest and neck made you feel sick, like you were exposed. A live wire touching a hot nerve ending; It was electric in a twisted way. There was no admiration or happiness but despair and darkness. He was calling you out so fast on your bullshit, it scared you. It made you feel weak just knowing he could read through you. Sweet, doting Cooper was a thing of the past as he kept going. “I think you wanted to catch him on your own and make yourself a hero.” Touch. Fucking. Down. It was the closest Cooper was going to get to the truth – he didn’t need to know the other half of it. Knitting his brows together, a light sheen in his eyes made the ember pupils go misty, your eyes letting the tears slip. “Is that true?”

“N-No, not at all!” It was obvious in your shifty tone that you were lying, that this was all bullshit. Cooper had it down to a tee, he read you like a book before you even stepped through the door. He saw you for what you are, a pusher. Cooper sighed as he lowered his head, shaking it from side to side as he stared at his boots. The leather tightened as he put his weight onto his boots. The stretch of them caused your pulse to shake, your feet moving back at the detection. You knew Cooper wouldn’t hurt you, he would even attempt to kill a fly, let alone a person. He was trying to get the point across to show you just how serious he was, but to you – he was a bit too committed to the bit. Tossing his head back, Cooper slid his calloused fingers through his hair, disheveling the length of it so it draped over his face.

 “Monsters exist, you know. They’re everywhere.” He began, his tone dropping to a lethal level. There was a drop in your abdomen as you heard it, sounding like something otherworldly. It didn’t seem like Cooper had control at all, but something else. Was it aggression? Pent up stress? Months and months of rage he needed to express? He was never wound tight so you were taken aback. You didn’t know how to navigate it, because the second you would try, it would backfire by tenfold in your face. It was the fact that Cooper was almost talking down to you that made you upset – leaning in a little too heavy on the reprimand. “I-I know that.” You shot back without hesitation, ignoring the stutter in your words as you stared at him. There was a venomous bite to your words, to which Cooper was not a fan out.

Cooper began to stand as his body evened out, his six foot three stature towering over you. Gulping down the fight you had in your throat, you focused on his facial expressions, waiting to see what he was planning next. The way he looked down his nose at you made you shiver, dread creeping its winding way across your spine. “No, you don’t. Clearly.” Cooper stated, the bladed ended of the cleaver coming to rest against your side, creeping along your sweatshirt. You didn’t dare to break away from Cooper’s expression, knowing if you did – something bad was going to happen. But it already wasn’t it? He was the bad thing. In that moment, a lightbulb went off. Cooper Adams wasn’t just the fire chief, or a doting father. He is The Butcher.

The revelation caused your palms to grow clammy, balling into shivering fists at your side. It was too good to be true, you never would’ve guessed though. The secret condo, the overt fascination in watching you, making sure you were safe. Always needing to hear you, knowing you were okay. Hell, he played the caregiver role very well – you just were oblivious to the fact that it is because you’re working with the same people trying to take him down. If there is one thing Cooper wouldn’t have, it is that. For years he has gone undetected, twelve victims, bodies brutalized into bits and pieces. “…because you let the biggest one walk through your door. Sit at your kitchen table. Watch you make a fool of yourself, and you’re still turned on.” Cooper ended his statement, causing you to tune back in to what he was saying.

Wrapped up in your own thoughts, you didn’t realize that Cooper had moved the cleaver to sit under your chin, the cold metallic feel against your skin caused your pulse to push. Anchoring you in your spot was Cooper’s free hand against your hip; A punishing strength you knew would leave bruises come the morning. With the cleaver at your throat, Cooper leaned down to whisper in your ear, letting his warm breath fan your flesh. “Don’t lie to me again, I won’t go easy on you.” Cooper growled out, his fingers driving into your hip deeper, causing you to wince at the pain. It was not a threat but a promise. A way of holding that control over you, to show you that no matter what – you were never in control of your life, for as long as he has been in it. You didn’t realize it but, you were wearing your heart on your sleeve. The emotion on your face was feeding some sick, twisted passion of Cooper’s, causing his once evil scowl to turn into a bright, beaming grin.

Stepping hard in front of you, Cooper jolted a bit to spook you – pulling the cleaver back enough so you didn’t get hurt. A cackle slipped past his lips, causing you to press against the kitchen wall closest to the stairs. “How long would it take you to get your locks undone, and get to the corner store before I caught you?” He asked it as if it was a simple question, but it was a challenge. If he could tell you left your door unlocked on purpose then, he could tell you had a crush on him too. His proposition was to showcase loyalty; Would you run and cry like the rest of his victims, or stand your ground and grovel at his feet? In another world the second option would be the best one, but this is reality – not fantasy. You couldn’t, after what he did – what he wanted to do…you were not going to be a statistic in his book – you were not going to be an easy kill. You are a fighter.

“Want to find out?” You didn’t, you truly did not want to but knew it was your only chance. If you stood your ground, it would be bloodshed. At least if you tried a bit more, pushed further – you could stop him once and for all. I mean, that was your plan after all, right? Catch The Butcher, put a stop to his shit. Your plan, a dumb – yet smart plan. But it being Cooper made it difficult for you, like a lump in your throat trying to pass. You didn’t want to believe it, couldn’t in fact, but the more he let his guard slip the obvious it became. You didn’t respond, didn’t look away from his eyes either. You stared ahead and watched Cooper with intent, challenging him to drop everything and stay there. You didn’t feel your feet leave the ground; you didn’t notice your knees hiking up with a sprint. Hell, you barely registered what was going on as your vision went from Cooper to the halfway point of your staircase, the deadbolted door only a few feet away. Jumping from the fifth to last step, you landed right on your booted feet – bringing a shaking hand up to undo the first lock. As you slid the deadbolt out from its place, you reached for the doorknob – but not before both of your hands were pinned to your side.

“Too slow there, princess. Did you even try?” That evil laugh ran your blood cold, a pout evident on his face without even turning. You went to scream but, Cooper cut off your noises with his arm across your neck, your chin sitting in the crux of his elbow. Instantly your nails found purchase in his thick sweater; Tiny fibers coming up as you pull with roughened hands. Donkey kicking your way into his knee, Cooper grunted with an annoyed mewl, letting out a heavy sigh against the side of your face as he pushes you face first into the wall. “Seems like you wanted me to catch you,” Cooper snarled, lips pressed so hard against your ear you felt his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. Fear is the biggest betrayer; When an escape comes your way, you take it. No second thoughts, you go. But alas, the fear of not knowing caused you to panic and stutter with the deadbolt. If only you had been quicker, you’d be at the police station, not at The Butcher’s mercy.

It hurt knowing this was Cooper’s goal all along, to make you lucky number thirteen in his black book of death. Just another name, just another victim, just another live lost because of the inadequacy of the police. Another pair of eyes snuffed out, another brilliant mind gone to senselessness. You know you are a survivor, you know you need to prove it. Placing a tender kiss to your temple, Cooper sways you a bit as he pushes his weight into your back, tightening his hold with a grunt. “Ask me why, come on. I know you want to.” The whisper was one of petulance, like he wanted to give you the reason before you became his thirteenth reason. It was your parting gift on this realm; To know before you met the others. You didn’t want to give in, you didn’t have Cooper Adams to have the upper hand. But the feeling of a small knife poking just under your right lung in the hold made tears fall, a gasp of sorrow spewing out. “W-Why!” You screamed, feeling the anguish and despair wallowing in the open air.

Cooper took a deep breath as you spoke the words, fueling his ego with the emotion you were giving. The glimmer of hope he was snuffing out of you set him on edge, in the best way possible. Here you were, pressed against a wall with his arms wrapped around you. His knee between your legs to keep them open and his face melding with yours. Cooper and you were one in the same, a victim and killer creating a blinding situation. One where the only outcome is red. Running his nose along the backside of your ear, nuzzling into your skull, let out in a low tone: “Because I can.” It was straight forth, no mistaking what he said or the meaning behind it. Cooper was not one to fuck around about the kill, he took it seriously as he should. It scared you how quickly he shifted into The Butcher – there was almost no time to adjust. Now, he confessed. He can so he will, and you are going to be the sweetest one for him.

“Oh, was that not what you were expecting?” Cooper pouted as he asked, feigning innocence as he omitted a sad sound in your ear, causing the silent tears to erupt. Turning your head slightly to try and see his face in the glow of the pale moonlight, your eyes shone with disbelief and tiredness. His lips screwed up into a soft smile, using his free hand to caress your cheek. Every tear that fell, Cooper kissed it away from the back. He was mourning as well, mourning a soon-to-be friend, maybe a love interest, but all in all another brilliant mind. “No one expects me to take a life, and that is the thrill of it.” There was no hesitation, no gallop along bullshit to make you feel better. Cooper was direct, manipulative, psychotic. “I hold power over everyone, and they let me.” It was stated like a prayer, a true belief that it was making the world a better place. Cooper didn’t forget the accusatory stance when he spoke next, making sure you heard his words loud and clear. To know what a mistake this was. “You let me.”

A guttural, wretched wail leaped its way from deep within your body, ripping out through your lungs like a beast fully being unleashed. You dropped your knees slightly to try and get the advantage to slip away, groaning out in frustration as he locked his own. The knife slid across your sweatshirt like butter, not cutting your skin but sending the message. Cooper wouldn’t have gutted you in his sweater, no, it would be too dirty. The blade was dull, but the point was sharp. It was meant to scare you, to keep you in check. Did he think it would cut through cloth? No, but he knew it couldn’t skin. So, Cooper let you drop out of his grasp as the knife slid, backing up only slightly for you to scramble out. Yes, you exclaimed mentally as you crawled across the foyer floor.

Like a silent killer, Cooper turned around ala Michael Myers style and watched you – a blank expression making its way back to his features. He didn’t press forth, nor did he grab at you. Instead, Cooper watched you struggle like a stuck pig in mud, scurrying your way across the stairs and start to gain your balance. The first few steps were tough to keep your balancing, your boots sliding across the laminate wood. Halfway up you started to gain traction on each step, gripping the railing and not daring to look behind. But it was quiet, too quiet. You knew in your gut Cooper was planning something; You had no idea what but, this was something more than you. “You’re so pretty when you’re scared, it’s kind of hot.” Cooper drawled out as he slowly made his way up the stairs, smirking in the moonlight as he crept after you. Turning back around you kept the same speed to keep the distance between you both substantial. Slamming of boots coming from behind you, causing you to panic. But you were able to make it free of the stairs, and jet towards the deck door in the kitchen, thankful it was still unlocked.

As you moved forward on fast feet to grip the handle, a heavy hand came to the side of your head. The weight of it felt unnatural, otherworldly. The skin wasn’t warm on the palm, but ice cold. In a second, a simple blink, your eyes were unfocused. The world around you started to spin, and you reached your hands out, trying to find anything to grab onto. Instead, you felt the boom of pain on the left side of your head, warmth coating the skin as you fell. The floor, or table never came up – you landed in the arms of Cooper, who was now grunting and panting like a dog – perfect hair disheveled, mouth screwed up into an annoyed expression. “Sleep it off, you’ll be fine.” You dismissed off your feeling as he lowered you to the ground. Everything was in a daze, a glowing aura of red around your eyeline. No matter how many times you blinked or trying to focus your eyes, everything spun like a merry-go-round. Bursts of lights coated your vision, your wrists met with hard plastic as they were tied together. Your feet following the same fate.

You felt your body move, sliding down the kitchen floor. It was cold, dry, and yet warm all at the same time… then everything went black. You no longer felt a thing.

To Be Continued…

[aliteral-ghost]

There is a ghost on the empires server, and it's not Pixlriffs. Scott finds himself skipping over a spot at spawn, almost like his eyes can't quite ever rest there. Joel veers away from an area near spawn, almost instinctively, as if he can't even fly over it. Even Pix himself, curator of all things forgotten, counts the artifacts he's gathered from each empire and frowns when the number doesn't feel right. 12 is the right number, not 13, right? Why would it be... no, there was a thirteenth member, wasn't there? But she hung around with those hermits all the time, so she must have gone home with them.

It's unlucky to have thirteen, anyways. Why else would something (everything, really) be telling them that there have only been twelve?

[wrightingdungeon]

Dear Diary

Evelyn and George, I love them so much.

ANGST! GET YOUR ANGST HERE!

POV Evelyn’s Diary - shes 19/20 RN - WILL HAVE TIME SKIPS - None of this is cannon beside pop pop blowing up - BTW George still blows himself up oop - Imagine getting snips of her Diary not the whole book - Im not sorry for how I end this - fight me

I did make a kinda sequel right here featuring Alex a lot more angst over here "The Past Reborn"

"Happy ends"

Today is Spring, 8, 1965.

While working in the clinic today, a miner came in, but he wasn't like the other miners. He almost dropped his cap taking it off while trying to introduce himself. His name is George, and he came in for an injury on his hand. The rope he was holding had slipped from his grip, causing a severe rope burn across his palm.

He apologized for tracking coal dust into the clinic, which no miner has ever apologized for before. I don't think their mothers explained how hard it is to get coal dust out of the bed sheets, but it's my job, so I shouldn't complain much. I just hope George will be okay. I told him he should inform his foreman that it's doctor's orders he not work until his hand heals completely.

Today is Spring, 12, 1965

The doctor was out of town today, having a call outside of town. The clinic ran as usual, although I had to tell some people to return tomorrow to see the doctor. Despite a few cases, today was a good day. Mr. George came back, and his hand has healed phenomenally. It still has a bit more healing to do, but it doesn't look like it will leave a bad scar.

I must admit, when I was holding his hand and inspecting his burn, I couldn't help but feel light-headed. George is not a bad-looking man, and his smile is so kind, His miner's cap always tosses his brown hair, and his eyes always have a twinkle in them. I’m afraid I’m a horrid nurse, feeling these things for someone in my care.

Today is Spring, 20, 1965.

George came by the clinic today. His hand looked better, but that wasn't the reason he came. He brought me a bundle of tulips, thanking me for all the care I had given him. I'm looking at them in my window right now, and I can't help but smile. He is such a kind man. I can't quite figure out how he knew what flowers I fancy, but does that matter? They are so beautiful.

I am sad, though, because George's hand has healed fully, and now he has no reason to come to the clinic. I should be happy—he's healed, and I did my job—but my heart aches knowing I won't see his smile or his twinkling eyes again. Like I said, I must be a horrid nurse.

Today is Summer, 4, 1965

I saw George again today. I was at the market shopping for dinner when I reached for a leek, and my hand touched his. His laughter is much more boisterous than his voice, which was a pleasant surprise. It's nice discovering things about him—he is like a book I don't want to put down.

He offered to cook me dinner as a proper thank you for helping him. I should have said no, but I said yes. Now, I'm sitting here, terrified to go to his home. I've never had anyone other than my mother cook for me. My heart is fluttering.

Today is Summer, 13, 1965

I have heard the number thirteen is unlucky, but I believe it to be lucky. This evening, I heard a knock at my door. It was George, dressed nicely with his hair neatly fixed. He handed me flowers and asked me out to a gridball game.

What do I wear? I want to impress George. I haven't been on a date before.

The date went so well! George's team won, and he was so happy. We got sorbet afterward to celebrate, and George took my hand in his as we walked. I really do believe the number thirteen is lucky.

Today is Summer, 28, 1965

It has been two weeks of me and George going steady, and it feels like a dream. When George finishes his shift in the mines, he comes to the clinic and walks me home. He is such a gentleman, nothing like the other miners I have met. Tonight was just magical. As George walked me to the door, I could tell something was off. His hands sweat when he is nervous, and I swear they were dripping.

He looked at me, his face as red as a beet, and asked if he could kiss me. His lips are soft and warm. It's embarrassing to admit, but his mouth does taste like cigarettes. Oh, I think I am in love, and I don't know what to do.

Today is Winter, 20, 1965

I can't believe it… George asked me out again today. He took me to the cliff to watch the sunset. He was sweating again and refused to look at me. When I asked him what was wrong, he just caged up further. I thought he was breaking up with me, but then he grabbed me as I got up to leave. His words fumbled over each other, and he almost fell over as he rushed to his knee.

George proposed to me. He told me I was the most beautiful woman he had ever met and that he couldn't stop thinking about me since he burned his hand with that rope. I'm so excited—I'm going to be George's wife soon. I just wish Mother was still with me so she could see this.

Today is Fall, 14, 1970

I can't sleep. George had an accident today at the mines. It was terrible; they had to rush him to the city. The doctor sent me home, saying I was a wreck. I can't stop crying, picturing him covered in blood and bruises on the operating table. Someone said he dropped dynamite.

Please, Yoba, don't take my George. After losing my parents, he's all I have. I can't bear to be alone again. He's my everything—the love of my life. The house feels empty without him. Every corner holds memories of him, and I can't imagine life without him.

Yoba, you've always answered my prayers. Please, I was so alone after Mother and Father passed, please don't take him from me as well.

Today is Spring, 2, 1971

They finally allowed George to come home from the hospital, albeit in a wheelchair. But that doesn't matter to me. What matters is that he's home and on the mend. It's a new chapter for both of us, one filled with challenges and uncertainties. Sometimes, George can be a bit rude, but I can see the fear in his eyes.

I made a promise to stand by him no matter what: for better or worse, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. And I intend to keep that promise. I'll be there for George, caring for him and cherishing our time together, no matter what lies ahead.

Today is Winter, 2, 1976

This is a happy day! Me and George weren't sure I could become pregnant, but I am! We are so excited to see our child. George has been working in the nursery non-stop, making sure he can care for our baby, not allowing that wheelchair to stop him.

I have decided on two names: Clara for a daughter and Coy for a son. I don't care what we have; I know they will be perfect.

Today is Summer, 10, 1977

Clara is perfect. With George's rich brown hair and my green eyes, she's a sight to behold. Despite her small stature, her eyes hold the same glimmer of curiosity as her father's. I know she will cause all kinds of trouble as she grows up just like her father.

As I watch George cradle her with such gentleness, his protective gaze never leaving her, and the tears of love that well up in his eyes as he whispers soothing words to her, I'm reminded once again of how blessed I am to have him by my side. In moments like these, it's crystal clear that I've married the most wonderful man.

Today is Summer, 13, 2000

I knew the number thirteen was lucky. Today, our grandson Alex was born. As I held him in my arms, I couldn't help but notice how much he resembled his mother, right down to the tiny button nose that mirrored hers when she was born. George was worried about Clara, complaining that everyone was here to see just Alex and not his baby girl. He has always been such a good father; he will be the best grandfather as well.

Looking at my family as it has grown, I’ve gone from an empty home after my parents passed, to a husband, a daughter, and now a son-in-law and a beautiful grandson. I love my family dearly and can't wait for the years ahead of us.

Fall, 16, 2004 This page is heavily tear stained

We took Alex for the day taking him to the fair as Clara wanted him to experience it. I can't believe we got lucky enough to have Alex… George's scream echoes in my mind… Did he scream with that pain when he was blown up?

We thought the phone call was Clara telling us that they would be late picking up Alex. The phone call shattered our hopes—it was the Zuzu Highway Patrol delivering the tragic news. Clara and her husband are gone… Victims of a drunk driver on the wrong side of the road. They didn't survive.

But we have Alex…. We have to tell our four-year-old grandson he can't go home anymore… He can't see his Mother or Father ever again

Yoba, why didn't you shield them?

[brandyllyn]

Silk from their soul (26)

The Ghoul / Cooper Howard x f!reader [no use of y/n]

Rated: T Words: 1.2k Summary: Lotta time between now and later

Series Masterlist My Masterlist

If the facility weren’t built by Vault-Tec it’s damn close to it. Every line and door reminds him of those damn commercials he used to do. It’s even underground, although it doesn’t look like it was ever used the way the Vaults were.

“You gonna turn some lights on?”

She glares from the console she’s squatting next to. He could help, but he’s as liable to rearm the security system as he is to lend a hand. Instead, he leans a shoulder up against a rack of boxes, chewing the inside of his cheek and squinting into the dark.

This facility of hers ain’t much to look at. One of those big blast shield doors and an elevator down to just a couple of rooms. She’d ignored the first two, so he’d done the same, but if they were just gonna stand in the dark he might as well go see what was worth salvaging.

“While you’re messin’ with this shit I’ll-”

He winces at the sudden light, tipping his head down so the brim of his hat shades his face. After he blinks away the spots he glances around the room, noting that she’s working on a big computer terminal.

It’s a lab of some sort, not that he has a clue what kind. The space is large, one wall taken up by refrigerators full of strange colored liquids. There’s a few tables scattered throughout, and past them he can see the human-sized tubes that must be for making more of her.

He shifts his feet, antsy to get back above ground. This was her mission, and he was here to support it, but being down in a Vault made the soles of his feet itch. Behind him the rack creaks and he adjusts so he can see what he’s leaning against.

It’s not very big, maybe the size of a large bookcase, with drawers about a foot square. Each one has a number and he makes note of the closest ones.

#055  06/12/2267 -  #054  03/14/2262 - 

He scans the cubbyholes, frowning at the dates. Some are only days apart, but most are a few years. On his end there’s several with only a single date.

“What the hell are these?”

She glances over from the console she’s working on and frowns. “What’s left of my sisters. After he got the hang of it he only made new ones when he needed to sell us.”

He does some quick math. “These are only a couple of years apart. There some kind of nursery round here?”

“We’re made fully grown, or thereabouts.” She waves a hand at the rack of human-sized tubes. “See?”

He didn’t see but he wasn’t worried about that. There’d be plenty of time to figure all this shit out. Some of the ones to the left had two dates - presumably both birth and death - while others… well, he had to assume they were still alive out there.

“These the ones we’re going after?”

“I’d like to.”

Looked like less than a handful, shouldn’t be too bad a job. Out of curiosity he moves to the beginning of the line.

#001  07/18/2143 - 07/30/2143 #002  07/18/2143 - 09/03/2144 #003  02/05/2145 - 06/22/2146

He grunts, tracing a finger over the short dates. These must’ve been failures, clones that didn’t mature. Pausing, he scans across the fifty-odd drawers. What was it she’d said? Just missed unlucky thirteen?

#014  05/13/2153 - 

The date halts him in his tracks and his jaw drops as he looks over at her.

“This right?”

“What?”

“Twenty-one fifty-seven, that the year you were born?”

“Made,” she corrects, finally moving from the console to walk towards him. She’s gorgeous, skin unmarked and hips swaying under that scrap of dress. “And yes, I believe so. I was always Galen’s favorite, he never wanted to sell me. But… things happen.”

“But that would make you…”

“Hundred and twenty? Something like that.”

He gapes, stunned for the first time in years. She laughs and touches his chin, gently pushing it up.

“Don’t look so shocked, I get the feeling you’ve got a few more on you than that.”

“Yeah, but I look every one of mine.”

He’s not jealous. Well, he’s a little jealous. But mostly just that she got to keep her hair. He still misses his.

“You do,” she agrees, sliding her arms around his neck. “And I love it.”

He harrumphs and lets her kiss him. She tastes as sweet as always and he wracks his brain for the nearest available surface. It turns out to be a lab table and it only takes a sweep of his hand to clear it of detritus and hoist her giggling body onto it.

“So just how many gals we gotta go rescue?”

She’s nibbling on his neck and he tilts to give her better access. “Two out there, two in cryostorage in here.”

“Cryostorage?” He hums softly, pushing her dress to her waist. “So there’s two more of you in here just waiting for me to lock lips with them?” She nips and he shudders, jerking her hips forward. “A whole harem of beautiful women, begging to do what I tell them.”

He’s goading her and it works. She bites at his neck, hard enough to leave a mark, and it makes his cock go so instantly hard it hurts.

“You’re mine,” she growls, gripping the back of his head and forcing him to look in her eyes. “I’m not sharing.”

“Good,” he grunts, “I don’t think an old man like me could keep up with more than one of you anyway.”

Her warm chuckle makes his toes curl. “You planning to keep up with me Cooper?”

“Long as you’ll have me,” he tells her solemnly. Something soft enters her eyes and she wraps her fingers into the collar of his coat. He leans forward of instinct, intending to nuzzle against her, and at the last moment turns it into a soft sweep of his lips across hers instead. “I don’t know how many days I got left, but every one of ‘em’s yours.”

She kisses him and he holds her close. There’d be time later to figure out what to do with numbers fifty-four and five over there. Time to talk about his own mission and what her part would be in it. 

But there were a lotta days between now and later, and he intended to enjoy every one of ‘em.

☢ ☢ ☢

For updates follow and turn on notifications for @brandyllyn-writes

[cherrycola27]

Until I Found You

Table 13

That's what the card in your hand read as you scanned the gala floor for your seat for the evening. Normally, most people would consider thirteen to be an unlucky number, but for you, it was the opposite.

Thirteen had been your lucky number for as long as you could remember, and maybe it would bring you some luck tonight during yet another Navy function you had to sit through alone.

It was one of the downsides of being a woman in the Navy, especially a fighter pilot. Many men found you intimidating, and it made it hard to find a serious relationship.

You gazed out at all the beautifully dressed women who were draped on the arms of handsome men, and for a fleeting moment, wished you had that.

You must have been lost in thought and not paying attention because the next thing you know, you're colliding with a man in dress whites.

He reaches out to catch you and make sure you're stable on your feet.

"I'm so sorry ma'am, wasn't watching where I was going." He apologized. You look up and meet the most beautiful honey brown eyes you've ever seen.

"Don't be sorry, I was the one who wasn't paying attention." You reply quickly.

"Are you alright?" He asks. "Yes, I'm fine, just looking for my table for the evening." You tell him smoothing out the front of your dress and taking in his features.

He's tall, over six feet for sure, broad shoulders, curly , golden-brown hair. He has a mustache that should have gone out of fashion in the eighties, but somehow, he makes it work.

"What table are you at? Maybe I can help you find it. It's the least I can do after running into you. Unless you have a date you're waiting on—" He trails off, you can tell he is looking over you just like you were him.

Suddenly, you're thankful you chose to wear the emerald green dress that made your strawberry locks pop.

You were also thankful for the tasteful slit and low back that left just enough to the imagination.

"No date, I'm flying solo, which is how I normally fly anyway." You chuckle out a laugh. God, you must sound pathetic. He quirks his eyebrow at you.

"Pilot?" He questions. "Yes. Single seater, so I literally fly solo." You say trying to recover.

"So do I." He tells you. "Well something we have in common." You grin, starting to calm down and recover from your awkwardness.

"And your table number?" He asks, gesturing to the small slip of paper in your hand. "Oh, um thirteen." You reply cooly.

"Something else we have in common. I'm at thirteen as well. Care for an escort?" He extends his arm to you, and you take it without hesitation.

"What's your name ma'am?" He asks as you make your way to the table

"Lieutenant Y/N Miller, but you can call me Georgia. That's my call sign." You tell him.

"Well, nice to meet you, Lieutenant Miller. I'm Lieutenant Commander Bradley Bradshaw, but you can call me Rooster." He replies as you two make it to the table. He pulls your chair out for you as you sit.

"Such a gentleman, your mother must have raised you right." You stare.

"She tried to before she passed." He replies.

"Oh, I'm sorry." You grimace, not sure what to say.

"It's fine." He smiles back at you. "So why do they call you Georgia?" He asks taking the seat next to you.

"Because everyone says I'm like a peach, sweet on the outside, tough on the inside. But I didn't want to be called 'Peach' for my call sign. I'm pretty sure that's a stripper name." He snorts out a laugh.

"So why do they call you Rooster? Does it have a PG meaning behind it, or is it a little more X-rated?" You ask, leaning closer to him and placing your hand on his leg. He chokes on his water, shocked by your boldness.

"Well—um—" He laughs and takes another drink.

"It's a bit of a nod to my dad. He was a RIO. He died when I was about two in a training accident. His call sign was Goose, with two Os, that was the joke he'd make. So I wanted to have something similar. Rooster has two Os, also I've always been an early riser, so it made sense" He explains as a blush creeps across his face.

"I'm not buying it." You say taking a sip of your water.

He looks at you confused. "Maybe that's what you tell people, but I don't think it's as PG as you make it out to be. I'll have to ask your date." You reply, leaning back into your chair.

"I'm flying solo tonight too ma'am" He replies with a smile.

"Well, look at us, two peas in a pod, huh?" You grin.

As the evening goes on the two of you swap stories and witty remarks. He learns that you've just transferred to San Diego to teach at Top Gun. He is internally excited that you'll be working together.

Later, after speeches are made and dessert has been served, a band plays, and a dance floor opens up.

"Care to join me?" He asks, extending a hand.

"I'd be delighted." You reply.

He's light on his feet as he leads you through a few songs. Suddenly, a familiar melody creeps into your ears.

"Georgia, wrap me in your all, I want you in my arms—" Rooster begins singing the beginning of the song to you softly.

You smile and chuckle at his actions as he spins you.

"So, why are you single?" He asks almost out of the blue.

"I'm in the Navy, fly fast planes, never in one place too long. Intimidates most men." You explained. He nods.

"What about you?" You counter. "You're handsome, polite, well mannered, can dance... how come no girl's scooped you up yet?"

"I've found that a lot of the women I've tried to date don't want anything serious with me. They want a cool story to tell their friends. And I don't want that. I want a love like my parents had. I want to be in love with someone so much it hurts." He tells you.

"My mom, even after my dad died, never remarried. I asked her about it one time, and she told me it wouldn't be fair for her to try and love someone else because she could never be IN love with them. My dad was it for her. If I can find something like that, then maybe I won't be single." He finishes.

"That's beautiful." You say as the song finishes and you break apart. You notice the time on a clock on the wall. "Wow, it's getting late." You say.

"Yeah, it is, can I walk you to your car?" Rooster asks you.

"Actually, I'm staying here at the hotel. But you could walk me to my room. Not for that reason!" You tell him quickly as he smirks.

"But, I have enjoyed your company tonight, Mr. Bradshaw and I'd like a few more minutes of your time." You clarify.

"Of course." He states as you grab your things. He walks with you out of the ballroom and to the elevator. You punch in your floor number and wait in comfortable since until the bell chimes.

The two of you walk down the hall until you reach your door.

"Well, this is me." You say turning to face him.

"Georgia, I hope I'm not being too forward—" Rooster begins, "but I've had a great time with you this evening. Could I have your phone number so I could take you on a real date sometime?" He asks you almost shyly.

"Of course you can." You tell him. He quickly hands you his phone, and you type in your number. You send a quick text to yourself so you have his.

"And what do you mean by a 'real date', that's what I thought this was?!" You laugh and lightly push his chest.

"What makes you think this was a real date?" He asks laughing with you.

"Well, I mean, dinner, dancing, drinks, great conversation, and you walked me home. Here I was thinking I was going to get a goodnight kiss. Guess I was wrong about that." You laugh again.

"Well, when you put it that way, it does sound like a real date." Rooster smiles at you.

"So, is that goodnight kiss still on the table then?" You ask, looking up to meet his eyes.

Rooster doesn't answer, instead he places his hands on your waist and gently leans down to kiss you.

The kiss is sweet, slow, and romantic.

You both pull away breathless and smile at each other.

"Goodnight, Rooster." You tell him as you open your door.

"Goodnight, Georgia. I look forward to our second real date." He says before turning and walking down the hallway.

"Bradshaw, what's got you so giddy this morning?" Hangman asked Rooster as the two of them walked into the briefing room the next Monday morning. The Daggers would be getting their new class and co-teacher assignments for the next group of Top Gun recruits today. Rooster had been looking for you all morning on base.

"Nothing Hangman. Just had a good weekend is all." Rooster replied, quickly taking a seat.

"Had fun at that gala, huh?" Jake asked with a teasing smile on his face.

"You end up taking a pretty girl home?" Ha asked Rooster.

"No, but I did get a beautiful woman's phone number, and if I'm lucky, she'll be my co-teacher" Rooster informed him.

"Rooster, you sly dog." Jake smirked.

You quickly made your way down the hall to the briefing room you had been directed to. You were getting your first assignment as an official teacher here at Top Gun, and you were extremely excited. You were also hoping to see Rooster again today. The two of you had been texting all weekend, and you had plans to go out with him and some of his friends tonight at the Hard Deck. However he made it clear that this was not your official first, or second date, but a chance for you to meet and get to know everyone, and he also let you know that he had full intentions on taking you out, for real, he said.

You slipped into the room and scanned the group of pilots and WSOs. There were a few women, but not many. Soon, you spotted a set of familiar brown curls.

You walked over to where he sat and tapped him on the shoulder. "Excuse me? This seat taken?" You ask. He looks up to meet your gaze, and a smile instantly spreads across his face. "For you? Never." He replies before you sit down.

You can hear the hushed whispers of what you can assume in one of his friends teasing him.

The man at the front of the room, Captain Mitchell, or Maverick, as you would later learn, rattles off assignments for the group.

"Lieutenant Commander Bradshaw, you'll be working with Lieutenant Miller. She's new to us from the East Coast, and I trust that you will show her the proper way things are done around here." Maverick explains.

"Yes, sir... I'll do my best." Rooster assures him.

"I'm sure you will Rooster." His friend from earlier cackles out.

That night, you met the rest of the Dagger Squad, including the other pilot from earlier, Hangman. You got along well with everyone, which made Rooster happy. The thought that someone he was interested in getting along with his little found family made everything so much better.

That weekend, he took you out on a real date just as he had promised.

That real date turned into several more. Three months later, you were curled up with him in the couch in his apartment when you said it.

"I love you, Bradley." You stated, cupping his face in your hands.

You had used his first name, so he knew you really meant it.

"I love you to Y/N." He spoke back earnestly before kissing you and taking you to bed to show you that he did infact love you.

From then on, everything seemed to flow naturally between you and Rooster.

A week later, against the advisement of Hangman, Coyote, and Fanboy, you were moving in. But Rooster didn't listen to them, he didn't care what they had to say. He knew in his heart he had found the kind of love his mom talked about. He knew you were the one for him.

Three weeks after you moved in, your family came out to San Diego. Your father was a three star admiral, and your mother was a retired captain. They wanted to see how you were settling in at your new position.

Your parents and your brother immediately took to Rooster and loved him almost as much as you did. You didn't know it, but on the visit, Rooster had asked for your father's blessing, and he had gladly given it to him. He told Rooster he had never seen you so happy before.

From the day you met Rooster to the day he proposed to you, you had known each other seven months.

You had no clue it was coming. He had truly taken you by surprise.

You had spent the day shopping and getting mani pedis with Phoenix and Halo. The three of you had become close as the only women instructors.

When you arrived home that evening, Rooster was nowhere to be found. Instead, a bouquet of peach roses and a note greeted you.

You read the note that Rooster had left, which directed you to get ready for a special date and make sure you wear the new dress he had laid out for you.

You tumbled up the stairs giggling. Once in the bedroom, you noticed a beautiful emerald green dress, and some golden sandals were waiting for you.

After quickly refreshing your makeup and doing your hair, you changed into the outfit.

Moments later, your phone chimed with a text from Rooster, letting you know he was downstairs waiting for you.

He was leaning against the side of the Bronco, waiting for you when you came down the stairs.

"Georgia, you look—amazing" He greeted you before helping you in the car.

The ride to dinner was quiet, but a comfortable quiet.

The two of you ate at a new Italian restaurant on the water. After dessert, Bradley had insisted the two of you go for a walk to watch the sunset. You had happily agreed.

Now here you were walking hand in hand along the sand as the sun sank down and painted the sky a beautiful pink and orange.

"Georgia," Rooster began as the two of you stopped.

"Yes Rooster?" You replied facing him.

"I never thought I would meet anyone like you. Someone who was smart, funny, kind, beautiful. Someone who wanted me for me. Someone who didn't care that I wasn't perfect. Honestly, I never thought I would find someone who loves me the way you do." Bradley explained as he took your hands in his.

Tears sprang into your eyes as you realized what was happening. "Bradley I—" but he cut you off before you could finish.

"If you had told me seven months ago that a chance meeting at a Navy gala would have led me to meeting my soul mate, I would have told you that you were crazy, but now, I'm so thankful that it did." He smiled at you as some stray tears slipped down your face. Rooster knelt down in front of you.

"Georgia, that night I told you that I would never fall in love until I found someone to love like my parents loved each other. And when my mom told me about that kind of love all those years ago, I never understood what she meant by it. Until I found you. Then suddenly, everything she ever said made sense. So, Georgia, Y/N, will you marry me?"

You couldn't stop the tears from falling at his words.

"Yes!" You breathed out. "Yes, Bradley, I'll marry you!" You beamed. He rose up from the sand and kissed you before placing the ring on your hand.

You held it up and admired it. It was a simple round cut diamond set in a gold band. I was a classic, elegant piece. The most beautiful thing you had ever seen.

"It was my mother's." He tells you. "Bradley—" you gasp as he pulls your hand to him and kisses it.

"Before she died, she made me promise that I would keep it and give it to the next Mrs. Bradshaw. I always knew that I whoever I gave it to would have to be someone just as special as she was. She— they would have loved you, honey." He tells you.

His words have you crying even harder now as he pulls you in for another kiss.

You break apart and smile at him. The two of you walk back to his car as the sun dips below the horizon.

You travel back to the Hard Deck, where a celebration is waiting for the two of you. Everyone is so excited and happy for the two of you.

Maverick almost loses it when Rooster tells him that he gave you Carole's ring. "There's no one more deserving of it, Kid." He says before hugging you tightly.

As the night winds on, Rooster beckons you over to the piano. He takes a seat on the bench and pulls you into his lap.

His fingers dance across the keys before a familiar melody, one you know all too well, fills the room.

You sigh as fresh, happy tears slip out of the corner of your eyes. You lean back against Rooster as his voice fills the bar. Your smile stretches from ear to ear as you look at him while he sings, happier than you've ever been.

"Oh I used to say 'I would never fall in love again, until I found her'

I said, 'I would never fall, unless it's you I fall into'

I was lost within the darkness, but then I found her

I found you"

Eeek! I hope everyone enjoyed this! This is the first of my contributions to @roosterforme 's love is in the air challenge! I hope you all enjoyed this piece inspired by "Until I Found You"

Tag List: @dreamingathighaltitude @shanimallina87 @luckyladycreator2 @mak-32 @katieshook02 @samhapner6 @rosiahills22 @thedroneranger @roosterforme

[myhauntedsalem]

Christmas Tree Ghost Ship

From 1898 to 1912 Herman Schuenemann was the Captain of the wooden schooner Rouse Simmons.

Captain Schuenemann was considered as much a part of Chicago’s Christmas as Santa Claus because his ship was better known as the “Christmas Tree Ship.”

Every November he would set sail on Lake Michigan from Thompson with a full cargo of spruces, pines and balsams piled high.

As Schuenemann reached his destination– he would steer the Rouse Simmons down the Chicago River and up to the Clark Street Bridge were thousands of waving Chicagoans would wait in anticipation.

Once the ship had docked, people swarmed onboard to choose a Christmas tree. They cost 50 cents to a dollar.

“Chicago’s Yuletide season began when the Christmas Tree Ship arrived with evergreens lashed to her masts and rigging… Her skipper would welcome throngs of Chicagoans aboard as soon as the ship’s moorings were secure. Whole families would hurry to the dock to get the pick of the crop. Many wandered on deck to watch the Captain’s daughter, Elsie, weave pine branches into wreaths, which were also for sale.”

–Reminiscences of Phil Sanders when he was a boy.

Herman Scheuenemann and his brother August before him– from 1876-to 1898– always made sure no one left without a tree. Both brothers gave away hundreds of trees to needy families, churches and orphanages.

August was carrying a load of trees to Chicago when his ship went down in 1898 in one of Lake Michigan’s fierce November gales. His brother, Herman made another trip just two weeks later determined Chicago would have its Christmas trees that year.

Unfortunately, fourteen years later Herman would suffer the same fate.

Lake sailors as well as ocean sailors are a superstitious lot–they have to be. Generations of “old salts” pass down what a sailor needs to be aware of–this includes everything that happens on and around their ships.

Captain Schuenemann was a competent and cautious sailor but for some reason he ignored a significant number of ominous warnings in November of 1912.

He was planning to sail from Thompson, Michigan on a Friday with a large cargo of trees despite severe storm warnings. His crew was nervous for there was an obvious storm brewing and the captain wanted to start their journey on a Friday.

Sailors considered it extremely unlucky to begin a voyage on a Friday. In the 1800s the British Navy was so annoyed by this superstition they purposefully launched a new ship called HMS Friday on a Friday.

Needless to say this ship and its crew were never seen again.

Captain Charles Nelson, Herman’s partner who had been a lake captain for 50 years tried to persuade Herman to delay but he could not convince him. Herman didn’t want to take the risk of being iced into the harbor and having his ship dashed against the docks by gale-force winds.

Schuenemann then ignored several more bad omens. Just before the schooner left the harbor several sailors watched in horror as droves of rats fled the ship. This is believed to be a sign a ship is in imminent danger.

Three crew members afraid now left the Rouse Simmons forfeiting their pay. This left just 13 crewmembers on the ship. Sailing with thirteen crewmembers was considered to be as dangerous as starting a voyage on a Friday.

Ships at the time nailed a horseshoe to the side of their vessels for good luck. Just as on land it is considered bad luck if these horseshoes are hung upside down–all the luck will run out.

As the Rouse Simmons set sail, the horseshoe that was hung on its side was loosened by strong winds. It was now hanging upside down on a single nail.

Captain Schuenemann left the harbor on November 22nd and sailed right into the now infamous Big Storm of 1912.

The temperature immediately dropped from 40 degrees to below freezing. Rain turned to snow and ice, which coated the ships’ rigging, sails and spars–and the Christmas trees that were on deck.

The next day witnesses in Kewaunee, Wisconsin saw the Rouse Simmons pass by flying her distress signals. They wondered why the ship with its tattered sails did not just stop but instead sailed into a blinding snowstorm.

“The Two Rivers Life Saving Crew was informed of the ships’ distress signals and set out in search of the schooner but it was never found.”

–From an article in the Chronicle of Two Rivers

This mystery was not solved until 1971 when the wreck of the Rouse Simmons was found at the bottom of Lake Michigan.

Its wheel was missing so the experts concluded that the ships enormous cargo of Christmas trees had basically turned into ice blocks on deck, which then slid into the wheel leaving the captain unable to control the ships’ course.

One popular sailor superstition is that when a ship’s bells are heard ringing of their own accord, as in a storm, this foretells death.

In the days after the Rouse Simmons was lost several people near Two Rivers, Wisconsin reported hearing phantom bells and phantom cries in the wind.

A ghost ship has also been seen through the years. It is often spotted on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day gliding in the waters near Two Rivers. People have watched as it just vanishes into a mist.

[sixminutestoriesblog]

Friday the 13th

I wouldn't be much of a blog about folklore and superstition if I didn't take Friday the 13th into account, now would I? I also wouldn't be much of a tumblr blog if I didn't acknowledge one of tumblr's mini-holidays. So what makes Friday, especially the 13th one, so special and just how did it all get started?

Let's start with the number 13 since that's fish in a barrel. Or is it? For instance a lot of us were always taught that the number thirteen was considered unlucky because that's the number of disciples that sat down with Jesus for his Last Supper and obviously that didn't end well. In fact, in Victorian times, having thirteen dinner guests was believed to be courting death for you or someone else at the table.

On an interesting aside note, there was apparently a club in the late 1800s, started by a man named William Fowler that used to meet for dinner on the 13th night of every month to sit down to a thirteen course meal in room number 13 of the club Fowler owned. After they walked underneath a ladder to get to the table of course. Four US presidents, including our hearty Teddy R, were members at one time or another. The club was simply called, what else? The Thirteen Club.

There might be more to the number thirteen's public image than just a divine dinner gone horribly wrong however. Or - more than one divine dinner gone horribly wrong. Tradition has it that in Norse mythology, Loki became the thirteenth dinner guest to show up at the feast where he would then go on to trick Baldr's blind brother Hodr into killing him. Baldr's death was seen as the beginning of the end for the Norse gods.

Thirteen is also the victim of being the sibling immediately following the 'golden child' of numbers, 12. In some circles, the number 12 is considered the perfect number. There were 12 loyal disciples of Jesus, 12 tribes of Israel, 12 gods of Olympus, 12 labors of Hercules and 12 months in a year. What can you be after following such sheer popularity but unpopular?

The Code of Hammurabi, the oldest recorded set of laws, skips law number 13. Most historians chalk that up to clerical error but its enough to make others speculate.

Friday though is usually seen as a good thing, at least in our modern world where it marks the last day of work before a weekend of freedom for both workers and school children. There's even a chain restaurant named TGIF, the positivity associated with Friday is so ingrained. Friday, going back to our Norse myths, was also considered 'Frigga's day', an extremely lucky day to get married on since it was the day dedicated to the goddess of homes and families. By itself, Friday seems a perfectly fine day, even one with good associations.

Slip it back just a bit however and we're right back to the Last Supper and the subsequent 'Good Friday' and a crucifixion. Friday's bad timing doesn't stop there either. In some Christian traditions, Friday is also the day that Adam and Eve ate the fruit that got them booted from Eden; its the day that Cain killed Abel; its the first day of Noah's flood and its also the day the Temple of Solomon fell. None of those have actual dates in the Bible, much less weekdays assigned to them, but the tradition persists. By itself, Friday might squeak by but when you add a 13 on the end, suddenly its not getting off so easily anymore.

What might have helped seal the deal about Friday the 13th, in at least the European conscious , happened in 1307, when King Philip IV of France had the Knights Templar, one of the most powerful, wide-spread and well-known military organizations of the time, rounded up, tortured and put to death. The date? October the 13th.

It was a Friday.

[flayedintheusa]

Hallucinogenics

// ao3 // Hallucinogenics - Matt Maeson: YouTube // Spotify //

They thought it would be funny. 

Every idea is always real funny, in theory. And, like, super smart pre-practice. A real brain-baby. Extreme intelligence. 

And then you’re standing in a hallway wondering why your legs feel like rivers, not quite sure what that means, only that it’s true. There’s no other way to describe the feeling of muscles turning into rivulets of water over stones, vibrating incessantly and wondering, if you dared to take a step, would you sink into an amorphous puddle from your heel to your hip?

The answer is no, you don’t. You do, however, feel the answering thud of every footstep reverberate through your body, all the way up your bones, crawling up your spine, giving your organs vertigo; the only reason the nausea doesn’t meet the proper brain waves is because you’re so focused on why you are moving and what you are moving to. Or through. 

The air feels like liquid— or at least like the heaviest steam ever endured from the post-practice showers. It’s thick, and Steve's lungs don’t expand enough anyway. They can feel the way his skin stretches on inhale— his abdomen, his chest, his back and shoulders— and they don’t like it. At least not right now. They’re very busy, his lungs, maintaining the pulsing of a heart that feels like it’s been wrapped tight to his spine with Saran wrap. 

There’s also, like, thirteen different colors he hasn’t seen before, and one of them has to leave because thirteen is a very unlucky number. 

The warp of the walls swallows him whole as he moves toward the living room, the beat of whatever is playing turning his brain from its current spiral-state into a drum-induced fuzz. His reckless heartbeat tries to keep pace with it, ignoring the plastic wrapped around it— how it tightens the walls around his lungs. 

The hall spits him out into the living room. Some people move quickly, others very slowly. Some not at all. None seem to notice him. He watches them, aware of nothing but themselves. 

The plaid of Nancy’s skirt extends into the space around itself, the yellow crosshatching lines leaning in to grip the pockets on Jonathan’s pants. He’s swinging his beer bottle slightly, and it lags on the back bow, the glint of it colliding with Eddie’s pocket chain. It slithers away from him, and Steve feels like he should let him know. It’s on the run. 

Steve glances up to look at him, with his long, feral hair and devil-horned shirt, realizing in the moment that noises are futile. His throat is lined with psilocybin; his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth like a suction cup to glass. When their eyes connect, Eddie lifts his hands into horns and widens his eyes, sticking his tongue out past his grin. His face swirls around in circles and Steve feels his own eyes widen at the spiral. 

There’s suddenly large, warm hands on both of his shoulders that instantly cause him to turn cold with shock, the immediate surprise slipping down his body like ice water, like the foam of a wave as it slides down the shore; he feels every part of himself as it cascades over him until the floor swallows it. The hands move his body to the side— out of the way of the hall— and Argyle’s large, closed grin appears over his shoulder, very close to his face. His eyes are hardly visible, and the blanket of his hair swallows him like a shroud. Like a funeral veil. Or Morticia Addams. 

“Do you feel it?” he asks, his face unmoving, the voice echoing under the music. It bounces around in Steve’s brain, lagging, deeper than it should be, synapses firing slowly. Argyle turns his face to the crowd in slow motion; he looks at Eddie, gives him a labored thumbs up, or maybe Steve’s just seeing everything like a fish in a tank. 

He watches the taller teen’s shadow leave with a blur trailing behind it, like time struggles to keep up with the movement, and a new song kicks up. Eddie points at Steve knowingly as he sips his bottle, time apparently unwilling to slow for him as he moves about wildly, yet languorously. 

Pushing past the limit Trippin' on hallucinogenics My cigarette burnt my finger  'Cause I forgot I lit it

He doesn’t know why Eddie’s smiling. He can’t hear it. Everything’s warbled except the hollow pulse of the strum; and that’s mainly because he can feel it. It demands him, swallows him up via the floor and unrelenting until it reaches the crown of his head. A body moves past him, a dark shadow, and he follows it with his eyes on instinct. It enters the passage to the kitchen, fairy and Christmas lights tacked carelessly to the ceiling to illuminate the dark. Some of them flash. It overwhelms his senses. The bar counter juts out into the living space, chairs littered about and caricature bodies taking up the seats like people in a painting. Ribbons float between them, and his eyes follow the spiritual amalgamation of mist to its source slowly. Not mist, smoke. 

At the edge of the bar, a cigarette sits limply between two fingers. Two fingers that belong to Billy Hargrove, who stares at him from ten feet away. 

Rippin' with my sinners  'Cause fuck it, man, I ain't no beginner

He’s smiling, teeth bright in the shine of the Christmas lights, eyes lidded and elbow propped on the back of his chair. Steve tries to understand which of the dark curls twined about him are real, and which are shadows. 

And then I crawled back to the life  That I said I wouldn't live in

The lights glint off of that faultless hair, some steady and some flashing, and the reds and blues and greens bounce back from the curls into his irises like a dented halo. His leg is stretched out before him, the other bent to rest his boot against the foot bar of the stool. He looks measured, and relaxed. Like composure with the backbone of a puddle. 

'Cause I just couldn't open up I'm always shiftin'

Steve feels the directness of his stare a little too deeply. He’s facing him fully, and Steve feels like, somewhere in the quicksand of his mind, there’s always some kind of game. He always has to match it. He lets his shoulder drag against the wall, steadying himself as he turns. He tilts his head against it, the leisurely hum of the music more prominent, and in an instant the sound opens up to him. Hargrove’s smile shifts, pinching his bottom lip between his canines. 

Go find yourself a man  Who's strong and tall and Christian

The following silence is loud. The word Christian lingers in the air between them, rests on these ropes he feels tethered to each of their chests, like some kind of mockery. He reaches a hand out slowly in front of him like he could swipe the ropes away, or at least follow it to find where it’s linked to him and untie it. Hargrove follows his movements steadily, studying, copying him like a perfect mirror. Steve wonders if that means he’s smiling, too. 

The sudden sound is loud, bright, like simply the entrance of booming noise has caused the sure, definite lines of solid things to bounce and reverberate and change color. He jumps. 

Pushing past the limit Trippin' on hallucinogenics

Across from him, Hargrove’s body moves in a steady twitch, and Steve realizes he’s laughing. He suddenly jumps himself, visibly hissing as he throws his cigarette behind him. 

My cigarette burnt my finger  'Cause I forgot I lit it

The perfect timing of the lyrics, delivered by that grieving voice, makes Steve laugh too. To his surprise, Hargrove is still smiling when he resettles. When they connect again. His smile slowly closes, his eyes shuttering heavily, and he looks away to reach ever so slowly to the floor behind the corner of the bar. Steve watches the way the lights fight to rest on his hair, growing and flowing and dancing on a floor they grace for mere moments, with what other than enrapture. 

He leans back up with two bottles gripped into his hand, rests the cap of one on the edge of the counter and smacking it down, followed closely by the other. He looks at Steve again, hardly arching a single brow. 

Steve wonders if he can trust the rivers of his legs to move more than they already have. 

Drunken in Seattle Two more Xans and without a paddle I don't remember your face  Or your hair, or your name, or your smile

He’s sharpened up close. Almost too sharp. 

Steve can track the shadows as they grow over him, as he moves closer. How his hair becomes easier to discern from shadow to curl, how his lashes develop their own as they flit over his cheeks, which themselves become sharper as the lights stake their righteous claim above him. His tan, his freckles, his pores, his blush, his dimples, they’re all littered with a glow that seems… well, lovely, doesn’t it?

It’s hard to think he’s ever had any bite, here, glittering with the psychedelics in his system. Unbidden. Uncaring. Enamored. Enthralled. 

There’s something pulling on the ropes. He feels it viscerally. 

He finds a way to uncurl his fingers, feels every bone. They wrap around the bottle. The index finger of his other hand slides the bottle cap toward himself, spins it. 

'Cause I just couldn't open up I'm always shiftin' Go find yourself a man  Who's strong and tall and Christian

“Are you Christian, Harrington?” Hargrove smirks, slightly blocked by the neck of his bottle. The words are clearer than Argyle’s. They strike him, resound in his skull, lose definition the more he thinks about how they sound before he can even think to ponder what they mean. 

The bottle is cold in his hand. Wet from the cooler it was sitting in. He brings it to his lips, wondering how anything in the world claiming to be a drink can make his mouth feel dryer, somehow. “Don’t know him,” he says, sliding the cap toward Hargrove. “Heard he’s a pretty good doctor.”

Hargrove laughs. It’s a nice sound. He shakes his head, the mullet ruffles, he wants to touch it. 

Pushing past the limit Trippin' on hallucinogenics

“That's miracles, not treatment,” he offers. Steve wants to ask if he’s Christian. He sinks his fingers into his hair instead. 

And then I crawled back to the life  That I said I wouldn't live in

His smile disappears. His eyes, as hooded as they were before, don’t shift. His lips part on their own accord, a small cave of risk that allows Steve to feel the uninhibited breath that falls past them and ghosts over the inside of his forearm. It’s softer than he’d thought it would be, Billy’s hair. The curls hug his fingers as they wrap around his digits, unfurling lightly as they move through to the ends. He twists them between his fingertips as he reaches their tips, the soft tug enticing Billy to follow. 

Steve leans closer, over the plane of the counter, and does it again. The stone sends cool pricks through his skin, taking the majority of weight he didn’t know until now was a task to hold up. 

Billy leans forward too, following the tug of Steve’s fingers. His body turns only slightly, facing Steve fully again; his elbows rest on the bar, eyes unable to cease their scour of his face. 

'Cause I carried on like the wayward son And now through and through, I've come undone

It seems to echo in Billy’s mind, based on the way he traces the word undone voicelessly. Steve traces his lips with his eyes as he does. The swell of his bottom lip. The curves of his cupid's bow. The gap left between them as he seems to stare at Steve’s own. The way his tongue darts out to wet it, catching on the dry skin and memorizing the way it pulls. He mirrors it subconsciously, and Billy’s eyes flash to his. 

And now I am just but the wayward man What with my bloodshot eyes and my shaky hand

Steve reaches the ends of his hair again, and he thinks of a time when he’ll be allowed to touch it after this. How it might not come. And that’s just… not something he wants to think about. He wants to think about the way it feels, silkily sliding down the joints of his fingers, softly slipping over their pads. The traces of his prints left on each strand. What it would feel like if… if—

He doesn’t quite formulate the thought before it happens, those freezing, ice blue eyes driving deep into his as he reaches up again. No sign of halting him. He pushes his fingers midway into the longest strands— the locks that cascade over his shoulder, resting easily on his collar bone— and winds them up over his knuckles, until they rest by the root, and tugs. 

A small moan. 

'Cause I carried on like the wayward son And now through and through, I've come undone

Steve sighs. The opposite of a gasp; it leaves him softly, hot, in a quick breath. Billy’s fingers wrap suddenly around his wrist. His eyes—at some point having closed— flutter open. Lids heavy. Steve’s mouth feels dry for a completely different reason. He realizes he feels hot. Unbearably warm. Like there’s fire all around him, inside of him, and it’s consuming him at a much faster rate than he wishes to allow, wanting this moment to last forever. 

Those pools delve into him, and he swims. The lifeguard with eyes that look exactly like the water he maintains. He carries them with him everywhere, wherever he goes, and Steve drowns in them. Wonders if Billy will pull him out, if he’ll save him. Or if this is what being saved feels like. 

His fingers are tight around Steve’s wrist. Almost bruising. It anchors him, only slightly. To his detriment, it also pulls him in. 

And now I am just but the wayward man What with my bloodshot eyes and my shaky hand

His grip tightens again, tugging, and Billy leans further in. And he’s not sure who fills the space, but suddenly his lips feel the fire. A furnace of lit heat, as they move across Billy’s. Whatever the trip was before seems to narrow down into a fine tip, fitting on the head of a needle, as his brain zeroes in on this one point. The slotting of his mouth against his own, Billy’s hand reaching up into Steve’s own hair, tugging and trailing down as it brushes over his ear, holding his jaw tight and forceful. Like he’s afraid he’ll fly away. Dissipate into a mirage. 

They fall apart and come back together fast, needy, release and recapture, and Steve’s head spins. Billy Hargrove tastes like beer and cigarettes and cherry gum. He smells like smoke and mahogany and coconut and chlorine. He feels like timber and granite and silk and fire. He sounds like a dream. 

His tongue drifts out against Steve’s lip, and he hauls Billy in closer, opening easily, moaning softly as it swipes against his own. Positively laves it. He needs purchase, needs it like the minimal air he’s receiving, and needs to hold onto this because he’s never felt anything quite like Billy Hargrove’s mouth. 

Steve’s other hand slides up around his cheek, fingers lining the hairline at the top of his neck, tilts his head further to delve into his mouth, it’s his turn. He steps into his space, Billy’s palm tightening on his jaw as he eases back onto his stool. He takes his place between Billy’s knees, nipping at his lip, pulls it with his teeth. 

His other fist is wrapped into Steve’s shirt, his eyes glazed as he looks up under those shadow-cast lashes at Steve, too close, not close enough. There’s almost a question somewhere in the depths of his deep blue eyes, darkened by something discreetly impure. Something indignant. 

Steve feels his tunnel vision spiral. His heart rate is no longer influenced by the music. His lips buzz; they taste like cigarettes, like cherry gum, when sucked into his mouth. He takes the leap, leans in to what he wants. Swings his leg over Billy’s thigh, presses fully against him. Watches, feels, through his chest, his neck, his mouth, as Billy groans, and catches it as it falls past his lips. Hungry. Savage and feral. 

His hands sink into his hair, fisting it tight. Billy’s wrap around his hips like a vice, pushing him down, pulling him forward. 

“Fuck,” he groans. 

Pushing past the limit Trippin' on hallucinogenics

Steve presses a thigh into him. Licking into his mouth, addicted from the first hit. His skin is a livewire. It buzzes everywhere Billy touches. His lips slide with purpose, press to eat him alive, consumption the only drive. His head spins, and Billy’s going to kill him. 

He always thought it would be from his fists. 

Not from the pure ecstasy of his mouth. His lips. His tongue. Driving him wild. Carrying him away like a tidal wave. 

My cigarette burnt my finger  'Cause I forgot I lit it

[ndrayton]

Ghost Stories Postmortem!!!

It’s me, FieryGaze!!! Now that Chapter 13 is out and posted and my brain has freed up about 75% of its RAM, I wanted to make a post just to reflect on the journey, drop some fun facts, & explain the intent behind some of my choices. Here they are in no particular order.

Spoilers beware, obviously. I'm going to be talking about the whole fic here.

Episode Titles

Each episode title refers to two things at once – the monster or challenge the group is facing, plus one other important thematic element. “The Demon King” is the simplest one, referring both to the actual Demon King and then to Kim Dokja gaining that power for himself. The others are a little more open to interpretation, but were chosen with the intention of referring to 2 specific things.

Constant reappearance of the number “Thirteen”?

I’d like to say there was a lot of thought behind this, but there wasn’t. I just went “ooo, unlucky number” and ended up repeating it as often as possible. 13 years since KDJ and HSY met; 13 years spent in the spirit world chasing the Endless Cycle; 13 loops before KDJ met YJH. It was a lucky coincidence that the chapter count also happened to be 13 (I’d initially planned for twelve, and everything that happened in Unseen World was supposed to be squished into the end of Infinite Loop Part II. When I realized that was absolutely NOT going to give me enough space to resolve everything, I was delighted to realize that I could make the chapter count 13 and have it be thematically relevant and Not just a case of poor planning).

Lee Seolhwa also states that the number 7 is significant for certain spirits. I just think it’s fun that the total chapter count ended up as 13 and the total Episode count as 7.

Perspective and Tense Changes

From the beginning, the use of first person was actually a bit of a false flag—it’s meant to represent the ghost of Kim Dokja, trapped in the loop, imagining himself as the living version of himself going on these adventures. Kim Dokja as the narrator states this outright.

It was about time I stopped pretending that “I” was really this person called Kim Dokja. (Ch. 11)

Maybe I pretended for a while, for a long while, that it was really “me” who was fighting at your side. (Ch. 13)

The first person narration also tends to flip between present and past tense, especially in later chapters when Ghost!KDJ begins using second person to refer to Han Sooyoung and Yoo Joonghyuk, but also when he’s making general observations about the world. It’s not technically grammatically correct, but I was trying to grant a small step of separation between him and the other characters, whose perspectives are written more strictly in third person past tense.

The final monologue is also in present tense, unmooring it from the sequence of events of the story, hopefully making it feel a little more dreamlike/internal. I feel like I’m allowed to mess with tenses this much only because it’s an orv fic and I’m not afraid to get meta.

I also used present tense during almost all of chapter 10. I wanted it to feel like a whole separate fic-within-a-fic, and a lot of fanfic is written in present tense, so I was deliberately evoking that (including See You Yesterday, undeniably a MAJOR inspiration for this chapter). I also wanted to provide a sense of immediacy—Yoo Joonghyuk truly believes that what he’s experiencing in the dream is really happening to him, right now—that I could pull back on once he realized he was dreaming, returning to past tense and the main flow of the larger story.

As a side note, by the time I finally finished chipping away at chapter 10 I thought it was awful, so I was surprised and delighted when it became everyone’s favourite chapter, lmao. This is probably why people have beta readers, to get a little bit out of their own heads. Anyway, the positive response to that chapter really brightened my week.

… My favourite scenes 😊

The first scene I really had a blast with was probably the possession scene—what can I say, you don’t make a “Paranormal investigation AU” without wanting to play with a few of its standard tropes. That’s when I realized I could happily keep writing this fic for as long as it took to finish it (I initially planned for 2 months. It became 4.)

I also had such a fun time writing all of “Blank Message”, from the kids bullying poor Dokja to what amounts to me basically just drawing hearts around Yoo Joonghyuk’s name as he fails to use technology but also gets to be the most specialest boy in the world. That episode practically wrote itself, honestly. I accidentally wrote like 12,000 words of it in my phone notes app because I kept having ideas at work and had little else to do during our slow season.

My actual favourite scene, though, might be Yoo Joonghyuk cooking in Han Sooyoung’s kitchen in Ch. 12? I just thought it was sweet. Maneuvering those two into a position where they could be emotionally vulnerable with each other was a challenge. My notes for that section are funny to me, I’m just struggling to get to the heart of the scene and yelling at them to please be emotionally vulnerable.

... There was like 500 more words of this.

I can’t help but feel the yoohan corner of yoohankim got a little neglected in this fic, but it’s because they had so many unresolved issues that I couldn’t just leap ahead to the romance angle without first addressing them… and by then the fic was kinda over. Please understand, however, that they love and understand each other deeply despite (because of??) being the way they are. Maybe I’ll explore that more in future stories. Who could say.

Most challenging part to write?

Wrong Room Part II, Forgotten Boy Part II, and the first bit of Devourer of Dreams Part II before Kim Dokja showed up (it was way easier to write once he was there because the joongdok dynamic really pulled the plot along).

All three of these had significant rewrites and Forgotten Boy Part II took me like… an entire week to figure out. The Part II’s tended to be tricky because that’s when I was making all the setup from Part I pay off, but I wanted it to be engaging and exciting and not feel too paint-by-numbers. I learned a lot writing these!

What was Yoo Joonghyuk saying at the end of Blank Message that got censored?

“▪▪ ▪▪▪ ▪▪▪▪▪▪ ▪▪▪ ▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪ ▪▪▪▪▪▪▪▪ ▪▪ ▪▪▪▪▪”

“Do you really not remember…”

Well, maybe you can intuit the rest from context clues (what Mia was saying just beforehand).

There was a bunch of other censoring when Kim Dokja was trying to explain to Yoo Joonghyuk where all his special knowledge of the time loop came from, but I didn’t actually note it down as it was all pretty much able to be inferred, like “the loop is actually based on a book series”.

There’s certainly more to find, but that’s all I have to say for now!

I fun with foreshadowing, but I’m not going to call out anything specific, because I think it adds to reread value. There’s an especially mean bit of “foreshadowing” in one part that had me absolutely cackling. Let me know if you find it.

Anyway!

I had no plans to put so much time and effort into writing fanfic this year, and yet here I am with 120,000 words in four months, which is… FAR AND ABOVE my normal writing pace, especially lately. What can I say? Omniscient Reader’s Viewpoint is a really special story and I don’t have any friends who have read it, which put my brain into an absolute pressure-cooker for which the only release could be writing orv a novel-length love letter.

I’m seriously thankful for everyone who read the story and left so many emphatic, excited, and kind comments. The readers absolutely transformed this experience from something I was plodding away at by myself just to see if I could do it into something I was really excited to share with others, and as a result I put a lot more effort and care into the story.

I do have a few other ideas for this AU—for which the seeds are actually already planted in the story—but, as I mentioned in my author’s note, I desperately need to take a fanfic break for a while. I can’t promise if/when I’ll get back to it, but I would definitely like to at some point.

IN ANY CASE, FOR THE LAST TIME ON THIS ADVENTURE….

THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[isfjmel-phleg]

So the following morning the party started on the journey to the Emerald City, which they reached in due time without any important adventure. It was a sad journey for Ojo, for without the wing of the yellow butterfly he saw no way to save Unc Nunkie—unless he waited six years for the Crooked Magician to make a new lot of the Powder of Life. The boy was utterly discouraged, and as he walked along he groaned aloud. "Is anything hurting you?" inquired the Tin Woodman in a kindly tone, for the Emperor was with the party. "I'm Ojo the Unlucky," replied the boy. "I might have known I would fail in anything I tried to do." "Why are you Ojo the Unlucky?" asked the tin man. "Because I was born on a Friday." "Friday is not unlucky," declared the Emperor. "It's just one of seven days. Do you suppose all the world becomes unlucky one-seventh of the time?" "It was the thirteenth day of the month," said Ojo. "Thirteen! Ah, that is indeed a lucky number," replied the Tin Woodman. "All my good luck seems to happen on the thirteenth. I suppose most people never notice the good luck that comes to them with the number 13, and yet if the least bit of bad luck falls on that day, they blame it to the number, and not to the proper cause." "Thirteen's my lucky number, too," remarked the Scarecrow. "And mine," said Scraps. "I've just thirteen patches on my head." "But," continued Ojo, "I'm left-handed." "Many of our greatest men are that way," asserted the Emperor. "To be left-handed is usually to be two-handed; the right-handed people are usually one-handed." "And I've a wart under my right arm," said Ojo. "How lucky!" cried the Tin Woodman. "If it were on the end of your nose it might be unlucky, but under your arm it is luckily out of the way." "For all those reasons," said the Munchkin boy, "I have been called Ojo the Unlucky." "Then we must turn over a new leaf and call you henceforth Ojo the Lucky," declared the tin man. "Every reason you have given is absurd. But I have noticed that those who continually dread ill luck and fear it will overtake them, have no time to take advantage of any good fortune that comes their way. Make up your mind to be Ojo the Lucky."

The Patchwork Girl of Oz, L. Frank Baum

[kyeomyun]

— My Unlucky Number is THIRTEEN ; AU

— EPISODE 1. (SOONHAN)

3AM elmo ritual gone wrong (not clickbait! almost died?)

pairings: none

genre: crack, thriller/horror, comedy, mostly just insane crack.

warnings: HEAVY vulgar language, implications on death, ghosts, elmo, a very stereotyped ritual, that's it i think ;-;

word count: 1.1k

synopsis: hoshi and his sacrifice best friend, jeonghan (who was just brought along) both ought to do an elmo ritual at 3 AM. you can maybe guess what happened afterwards...

s.n: here is the first episode of me and weiss out of pocket au collab! kinda an impulsive idea but it was planned out HEAVILY. we spent a soild week on this AHAHAJ

network(s): @kflixnet @preciousillusions-net

previous ◇masterlist◇ next (mingyu) ->

it all started because of horangi audacity.

bro went into the gc with the rest of the members like "the elmo challenge doesn't sound THAT bad, right" which is obviously a bad idea and while everybody else was trying to talk him out of it, only one man was so brave enough to say that he'd do it with him to "make sure he didn't die".

this is how yoon jeonghan, the enabler of all enablers, ended up in hoshi's apartment with a possibly ancient elmo plushie he'd bought from god knows where.

(note from weiss: this improvised rendition of the elmo challenge isn't real and if i see that somebody reblogs that they tried it, i might actually be concerned for your safety)

it wasn't long before the ritual finally began to take it's shape. well, after googling the specific words "how do you start a ritual with a stuffed toy" (to get the full experience of course).

jeonghan honestly didn't think that it'd actually do anything, because usually, the 3AM challenges were just clout-making machines. soonyoung would just be disappointed, he'd thought to himself.

the steps were like... out of fucking pocket though- the fuck do you mean, this starts by literally drowning the elmo in a filled kitchen sink? why specifically a kitchen sink? with himalayan salt? (tf).

(wherever the hell soonyoung bought it.)

and not just himalayan salt. two bay leaves and pepper corns were needed too. while hoshi was extremely confident in this ritual and jeonghan was helping as best as he could, the guy was asking him every ten seconds, 'why are we cooking elmo' and all he'd get in response was 'because!!' and then nothing else.

for extra experience and effect, hoshi found some dry ice as if he was deadass about to summon some shit. (possibly)

and right after, he'd gotten some scented candles he'd bought earlier that night, smelling like pumpkin spice. yes, the shit you get at starbucks. putting the candles on either side of the faucet, they were lit with matches. yeah. matches. what else. (why not a lighter? we'll never know.)

and so, everything was ready (and jeonghan let out a sigh of relief). but he wasn't relieved for very long when he found out that they needed to sing 'la la la la la, elmo's world' six times.

begrudgingly, he followed along. they did as the other said, and as the dry ice was beginning to fill the kitchen with smoke, the flames of the two candles flickered. there was no wind in the apartment whatsoever, besides them singing the elmo's world theme song.

with eyes closed and all. for the experience.

after singing elmo's world one more time for good measure (jeonghan almost left hoshi with this drenched and crusty ass elmo toy), they heard a chilling laugh that sounded identical to elmo's squeaky, very much child-like voice.

"soonyoung. be completely honest and don't fuck around. was that you?" jeonghan was beginning to feel a little unsure of the doubts of doing this… supposed clout machine of a ritual.

the other's eyes snapped open and shook his head. "we both heard that! i couldn't even do elmo's laugh even if i tried-" well, he could, if he wanted to. but the laugh sounded like it was further away from the two. it wouldn't be hoshi since the two were right next to each other.

"... did we actually manage to summon something-?" the question everybody's dying to know the answer of (and an answer somebody did not fucking die for).

unable to help himself, hoshi turned right around just before jeonghan could stop him. the rest of the apartment had gone dark, the only lights remaining being the candles surrounding the faucet. "oh shit-"

oh shit indeed when the candles died, too.

heavy and shallow breathing came from the two men, and then the erie sound of swooshing water coming from the sink that was arm's length from them. but being mortified, they didn't want to come into terms that they were hearing such, so… "hyung.. are you pissing right now?" hoshi asked out of fear, slightly hopeful for one answer and one answer only. even though he knew damn well that it wasn't the case.

"why the fuck would you ask me that-?" taking out his phone that he thankfully thought to keep pocketed, the older turned on the flashlight to have a look around. "of course i didn't piss myself. i should be asking you that question, soonyoun…" when the light hit the still-filled sink, he trailed off. silence followed his words, and before the younger could say anything, jeonghan beat him to it.

"... i didn't take elmo. and you didn't take elmo. right?"

"as if i'd touch that while it's wet," he responded matter-of-factly, but was still downright shaking in the new pair of jeans dino bought for him just weeks ago.

even through the darkness, it was obvious how even the yoon jeonghan paled as he stuck his hand in the thoroughly seasoned water. "then where the hell is elmo?" the question prompted the silence that followed, thick enough to be sliced in halves if it was physically possible. soonyoung turned to the sink and the other's hand wasn't touching anything.

"... hyung," he placed his hand on his shoulder. "if we die, i want you to know that i was the one who broke your hair dryer." the possibility of them dying was high, but it wasn't as high as jeonghan's blood pressure, probably.

"what the-"

then something damp seemed to splat right onto the kitchen counter behind them. in a rather comical manner in contrast to the tension, the two slowly turned, eyes wide and almost fearful of what they'd see. they made eye contact with the elmo plush they had previously drowned in seasoned water, and this lasted for about five seconds. nobody was breathing throughout this pause.

then the two men screamed in unison, the elmo plushie screaming right back.

they all proceeded to scream for about two minutes before soonyoung shoved jeonghan towards the damp elmo plushie, plotting his escape route and possibly never looking back once out of this horrid place. "it's either you or me, hyung- and i choose you!"

(disclaimer: this is not a pokémon au.)

"yah, don't leave me here with this thing!" the other tried to follow, scrambling to get up considering he'd fallen on his ass, before something was launched at his head, causing him to fall flat on his face. it felt extremely wet.

"la la la la la," he would never hear that song the same ever again. "elmo's worl-"

the camera footage cuts off and so does the video. the groupchat didn't hear from jeonghan or hoshi for a week besides updates from seungcheol and woozi. what happened after the infamous elmo summoning of '23 would stay a mystery that the two would take to the grave. (at least the hair dryer incident was solved.)

did you enjoy your order?

if you did, please roblog, like, (pls) comment, all of that jazz :>

have a good day, sweets ^^

tagging: @etherealyoungk @rubywonu @trblsvt @icyminghao @odxrilove @stormyjisung @slytherinshua @star1117-archives @selenicives @fairyhaos @gyu-effect @jaehunnyy @luvhyun3 @wqnwoos @wheeboo @m4rsluv <3

[screaming-universe]

i see you want some more emojis!!! 🏹🏹🏹🏹🏹

yes, thank you! :3 (make me write game)

🏹and so the flint strikes

Eddie knew that there were twenty-six slips of paper with his name in the first bowl. Supposedly chance decided what bowl your name was in but when people wanted to keep their children safe, they were ready to bend the rules—obviously. And while this was an open secret in the district, having somebody’s name be drawn twice during the Reaping would certainly put an end to this trade of safety for money. And probably also bring reprisals from the Capitol that Eddie did not even want to think about. So all papers with his name were in one bowl and this year he had even been asked what bowl he wanted them to be in. Apparently the [position???] had felt about putting Eddie’s name in one more time in exchange for her son’s. He’d chosen the first, so that at least he’d know quickly. There was a good chance his name would be pulled out of the bowl, higher than it had ever been in fact. He never tried to let it on but the Reaping always had his heart rate heightened and his breath short. Not many would admit it—Eddie himself would never—but most if not all were afraid of being reaped. And why wouldn’t you? In the whole history of the Hunger Games there had barely been a handful of victors from District 12. There was only one alive now: Robert—Bobby—Nash who’d won the 93rd Hunger Games and been drunk probably ever since. Eddie was afraid to be reaped but this year he had Adriana to worry about too: she had just turned thirteen. So here he stood in the square, his heart beating so fast he was afraid he would pass out. […] The escort [Carla?] pulled a paper from the first bowl and Eddie held his breath. The probability that his name would be pulled was higher than average but probability wasn’t everything, he tried to tell himself. There was a sad smile on her face as she stepped back to the microphone. No escort ever chose District 12 voluntarily but she at least seemed sympathetic. They probably would not see her for another year. “Evan Buckley!” she announced the unlucky tribute. Eddie knew him, from when he had still been in school. The first day of secondary school Eddie had walked into the classroom and Evan Buckley had decided to hate him for some reason. That had been about it for the rest of the school year: glaring and posturing. And after that he had apparently decided to follow Eddie’s lead and just they had just ignored each other. Eddie had hardly been in school since he had been fifteen though, so he had not seen Evan in quite some time. Now Evan stepped out of the section in front of Eddie’s, the one for the eighteen-year-olds. Eddie could not see his face but he did not need to. Evan walked like a lamb to slaughter which wasn’t nearly as metaphoric as Eddie wanted it to be. He might not have gotten along with the guy but he did not wish for anybody to be reaped. Not that that had ever helped, it was inevitable. Evan walked up the steps to the stage and [escort] motioned for him to stand in front of the first bowl. His face was stony, his whole body tense. [Escort] stepped up to the second bowl with a small sigh and drew a second piece of paper. Eddie felt himself breathe a bit easier, now that he could not be reaped anymore. But his newfound breath was knocked right out of him when she announced the second tribute. “Adriana Diaz!” For a moment, Eddie heard nothing, felt nothing—it was as if time stood still. And then he heard the commotion behind him, heard Adriana crying, then screaming. Before he knew what was happening he had left his section just as two peacekeepers marched Adriana past him—her small hands reaching for him—and he heard himself scream: “I volunteer! I volunteer as a tribute!”

As you might be able to tell by the number of Hunger Games that have already taken place, I am trying to go for something a little bit different from the original story but I don't know if I'll actually like it so I'm still figuring that out ^^' I am very tempted to deviate from the original plot lien but at the same time that would mean that it takes longer for Tommy to join the plot. So I may switch back to having this be the 74th Hunger Games yet.

[onionhaseyeoo]

World Serpent lore oneshot

FEATURING. Kaguya Fuma, Miran Hwayeon and Vega Chase

In honor of Hwayeon becoming my new top fav oc after Seiun, here, take some lore as I write her very dramatic backstory

Woes

"That's right, Hwayeon… You're one of the last of the original thirteen Fangs. That's exactly why I'm seeing you today. To defeat that Imperial Level Ethereal, we paid a heavy price. We can no longer afford to be too picky about who we select. Moreover, given the current state of affairs, the Hollows and Ethereals are evolving in response to our measures. It's hard to say whether Fangs will be as effective against them…"

"In that case… Vega, is our establishment still necessary?"

"Don't underestimate yourself, Hwa. You're still the most valuable fighting force among us. There are plenty of situations only you can handle. And… it wasn’t my idea to assemble you into a separate squad, but I thought his proposal was worth a try."

"Whose proposal?"

"It was mine, of course!" The door closed as Fuma stepped into the room. "Is there anyone other than me who actually cares about the fate of all of us? What do you think, Hwa?"

"…Fuma. If I remember correctly, you should be tracking the abnormal concentration of Hollow energy in Riverfield."

"Damn, Hwayeon, I didn’t know you were so interested in me. You're making me blush. But that stuff is unimportant compared to this proposal that might finally unite us. How about it, Hwayeon? Are you opting in?"

"… Sorry, I'm used to…"

"Wait, don’t turn me down just yet!" He leaned close to Hwayeon’s ear, his louder voice dropping to a whisper. "Hwa… The situation is urgent, so I won’t repeat what I’m about to say. You must keep a poker face and show no surprise. There’s a reason I traveled those three thousand kilometers from the location to here. The source of the Hollow energy is the next Corrupted Ethereal, but he wasn’t there. Currently, only I know the truth of this matter, so we still have a chance. The next Corrupted Ethereal, he…"

"…He what?”

"…He’s your brother, Hwayeon."

…

Hwayeon showed no signs of astonishment. She did not even react to those words. She could only nod numbly to keep the conversation going. She sat there in a daze, her mind both frantic and paralyzed, until a voice pulled her back to reality.

"Thirteen is such an unlucky number. We’re all going to end up dead, aren’t we?"

She jerked her head up to see who spoke, but there was no one there.

@paintedgrilledcheese

@myluckymoon

@sugarthebee

[haggishlyhagging]

St. Lucia of Sweden on December 13th. The festival of the Greek Hecate on August 13th. Thirteen members in a witch coven. Is the number 13 seen as unlucky because of its association with matriarchal religion? Among pagan Scandinavians Friday the 13th was celebrated as a beneficent day; Friday is Freya/Frigga's day, the Great Goddess of the north, and thirteen is the number of lunar months in a year. Many patriarchal "bad omens" are simply reversals of what was sacred to matriarchy and the Goddess religion. The left-hand path, in patriarchal religion, is called the path of evil, of woman, of black magic. The left side of the body, where the heart beats, was considered by the ancients to be the seat of divine feminine power; all life comes from her heart. The word sinister, which originally meant "left," has come to mean everything suspicious, evil, ominous; while dextra, meaning in Latin "right," or "right-handedness," has acquired wonderful meanings like skillful, mentally clever, correct. In Europe, an "illegitimate" child was long signified as bar sinister, meaning "child of the left side," i.e., the mother's side. The right-hand path is supposed to be the path of goodness, or of white magic; and children are encouraged to favor the right hand, the hand of righteousness. In Christian imagery, the "good sheep" sit on God's right hand in heaven while the "bad goats" go to the left. That these connotations remain with us in modern politics is not accidental; the right is father-fascistic, the left is mother-communal.

-Monica Sjöö and Barbara Mor. The Great Cosmic Mother: Rediscovering The Religion of the Earth.

[mythandlaur]

Code: July Day 12 - Hopeless

There's no way I'm getting all the ones I want to done in July at this point, so you'll probably see a few stragglers posted in the next couple weeks.

This one's based on the prologue of the fangame IFSCL, but since the whole story isn't out yet I've kind of taken my own spin on it. The premise should mostly explain itself, at least.

And no, I'm not doubling this up with day 30's prompt, because I want to actually show them being happy for that one.

...

13-04-2010

If you could live your life over again, what would you do differently?

It was one of those lofty questions you only got in philosophy questions or as essay prompts to judge your character. Jeremie had always hated that, the kind of question that has no right answer, a problem with no solution. It always leaves him flailing trying to figure out what he's supposed to say in response--he's much more comfortable with math and science, where things aren't necessarily simpler, but every consistent action has a specific result. Two plus two always equals four. Baking soda and vinegar always makes carbon dioxide.

Even in the quantum sciences where there was far more uncertainty, he still held the belief that it all fit into a paradigm people just hadn't figured out yet. Time moves in a straight line, unless it doesn't, according to some rule that hadn't yet been discovered.

Computers, most of all. If you delete something (really delete it, not just your grandma wiping the Recycle Bin), it should be irretrievable.

If you could do things over again. It was supposed to be a hypothetical. But all the laws he knows have already fallen to pieces--and behind it, he's forced to face that question in a terrifyingly real way.

It's hard for him to read the flickering blue display on the screen across the room with one of his glasses' lenses rendered a useless conflagration of spiderweb cracks. 30...20 seconds left, maybe? Jeremie could've force-executed the special RTTP immediately, of course, but he hadn't been able to bring himself to enter the last command. Did that make him a coward? It's not like an extra minute would make much of a difference.

Maybe he should've known this was coming the moment he'd looked into the news article, and the strange events that had immediately followed.

Dr. Hugh Tyron found dead in his home...asphyxiated...no signs of struggle...under posthumous investigation for cyberterrorism and possession of confidential documents and technology. The name had struck Jeremie as vaguely familiar, like he'd seen it in passing, and a bit of digging revealed a paper trail perfectly parallel to Waldo Schaeffer and the other members of Project Carthage he'd managed to identify.

Immediately after the article, those other members began dying one after another, in either a set of serial murders or horrific accidents usually involving power lines or out-of-control industrial equipment.

Mr. Delmas had, out of the blue, sent a friendly email to Jeremie asking about info security--apparently, the Kadic school records had been breached and he was concerned about student safety, but had no idea where to start in upgrading their outdated systems.

A fire had broken out at the old Renault factory, putting it back on the city's radar and resuming talks of demolition.

A prolonged blackout had struck the entire city of Valence, France, where Jeremie's parents lived and where he would've still been at the time if he hadn't left for college in America a couple of weeks early.

Twelve times, they'd tried again to destroy it. Twelve times, they'd succeeded, but got less and less of a reprieve, had less and less hope. It only figured that number thirteen was the unlucky one.

And now, here he is, running the last resort RTTP, one so extreme none of them would remember anything once all was said and done. He wouldn't be doing it if he was completely hopeless--he was sure there had to have been something they could've done to prevent this outcome, maybe when XANA was weaker. But it's not like he'll be able to do much to change things, just relying on their scattered half-memories to guide them down another path. It's a long shot, but maybe it'll work. He has to believe that.

Jeremie wishes he'd had time to leave something behind for his younger self, a message or a bit of advice or something, but there's no way something like that would survive a RTTP as big as this one anyway, so he's left simply speculating to pass the last few seconds. He's probably going to miss his own perspective the most--because XANA had been big, yes, but so many things had seemed equally as big and scary back then when they just weren't, things as simple as talking to his friends or having a crush or telling the truth--dear god, he's going to have to come out all over again isn't he--

Maybe...maybe he would tell himself to spend more time with them, not to just save it for a later he hadn't been sure was coming. Not to get so worked up over little things, because he only ever got so annoyed because he was scared. Tell them more, in general. Several incidents could've been avoided like that.

Like William. That's one of the things that was obvious in hindsight--he wasn't angry at William, only a tiny bit of it had ever been at William. It was a whole mess of mistakes on everyone's part, but it wasn't William's fault that Jeremie had spent an entire summer break sulking and come back full of spite.

Yeah, Jeremie thinks, that's definitely one thing he'd want to change. He'd devirtualize William instead of freezing up and yelling at him uselessly. Maybe they'd be a little closer at the end.

He sees the counter hit single digits. He considers telling Yumi, on the other side of the door to the busted cargo elevator behind him, but decides against it. The whine from the mainframe, this time loud enough to be clearly audible two floors up, should be enough of an indicator.

Aelita's stuck upstairs. He wishes he could call her. He hopes she understands. He hopes that she can hope alongside him, because she's always been like that, even on her worst days.

Really, if anyone's going to figure out what's going on and how to stop XANA this time, it's going to be her, out of sheer stubbornness if nothing else. He can't hope to match that.

The whine reaches a fever pitch, but the air doesn't grow thick like he's used to it doing. He can move perfectly fine, without time seeming to slow to a crawl while his brain runs too fast to keep up.

A white light springs from the center of the laboratory, and Jeremie shields his eyes--but not fast enough to miss a flicker in the air in front of him.

It...is him, he realizes as he peeks out from in between his fingers. Younger and dumber and looking like he's staring into an oncoming train, but definitely himself. The elder tries to scramble to his feet, tries to wave a greeting, think of something to say, I'm sorry, I forgive you--but before he can get a word out his world goes green, then white in a shower of painful sparks.

09-10-2003

Jeremie lurches backwards, the weight of his own backpack nearly sending him tumbling. He grips onto the side of the bridge to steady himself and takes a moment to catch the breath he'd suddenly lost.

What had that been just now, on the other side of the bridge, looking at him?

He rubs his eyes with the heel of a hand, glancing over to where he'd seen it, but...the stranger who'd been standing there is nowhere to be seen.

"What was that?...I really need to get some sleep."

For a moment, he looks over his shoulder, considering going back and telling Maya. But--that's dumb, what's he even supposed to say to her, that he'd had a weird dream? He hadn't even explained those to her properly yet. Besides, once he got the remote connection set up, he would be able to talk to her whenever he wanted--and as of right now, he'd be in enough trouble if he got caught outside of the dorms.

He ignores the chill down his spine, or the sudden weight on his shoulders, as he hops down the ladder to the waterways where he'd parked his scooter.

(A boy sits bolt upright, whipping his head around towards the other bed in his room with a long-since-dulled venom on his tongue for being woken up--but then he remembers that he's never had a roommate.)

(A girl presses her ear to her doorway, but she doesn't hear her parents arguing. So why can't she sleep? She checks her phone out of habit, but that's stupid. No one ever calls her. And--she likes it that way, doesn't she?)

(A boy--or at least they think they must be a boy, at the time--scrambles about trying to keep a small, hyperactive dog from destroying a hotel room so he can get a few seconds of peace to call his family and let him know he'd gotten there safe, despite already knowing the call's going to go to voicemail. He really hopes whoever he's rooming with will be cool about dogs.)

(An older boy's in the middle of writing his twenty-sixth love letter that night when his stomach suddenly drops out from under him and his eyes sting with frustrated tears. He sits back in his chair, stares out the window, and decides he's done enough work on his little project for one night.)

(A virtual girl lies on her back and stares up towards the vanishing point of the datastream far above, suddenly convinced that there must be an infinite amount of life to live beyond it, despite having no evidence. She does not know that world. She has never known it. So how can she miss it with such ferocity?)

(And a blond with broken glasses opens his eyes to find white as far as he can see, except for a line at the horizon where a rainbow sits like a smeary soap bubble, as if the light itself has slowed enough to split into its constituent colors--or, perhaps, he was moving too fast. He slumps down against a door that isn't there anymore, realizing abruptly that he is both Schrodinger and the cat, in one place and time and another, existing and not existing.

He settles in for a millisecond that will last an eternity. But perhaps, if he goes unobserved, he can be in that other place, just for a moment.

And if that's right, he vows to do whatever he can to fix the odds, this time.)

[phoenix-is-the-hottest-thing]

you know i think the fact that they never show elysia having negative emotions or when she did its muted and very off screen (the talk about her being scared the FCS will hate her) is abysmal. and the fact that they portray elysia as always being genuine is even more devastating to this point. its hard to empathize with a character when they never have a lowpoint in their life, even in the period where elysia is literally homeless as a child she look at her situation with such a rose colored glass its odd. its just overall disturbing and off putting if you met a person who literally never cried, got angry, or feel any negative emotions.

i get that they try to show elysia as a character who sees the positive side in everything but it will tug at readers and players heartstring more if they show how elysia the one who always puts on a smile and is genuine also has her moment of vulnerability. that even she sometimes cant handle the gravity of their situation. they can how elysia being vulnerable and still emphasize how she looks at life with rose tinted glass.

for example they could show a scene where elysia cried by herself in her bedroom on the day she decided to "betray" the FCs and she would be questioning why shes crying and tries to smile it off even though she knows well of the reason shes crying deep inside, and just eventually breakdown. how she wanted to stay with the FC a little longer, how she wanted to see griseo next paiting, how she wants to keep listening to edens singing, putting pink clothes in mobius dresser. things like this would still show how even in a world that is basically ending, elysia can still find joy in their situation and the little things she does. and how much she loved the FCs to the point thinking about parting ways with them absolutely tears her

:’) you’re very right anon. and… they were actually doing that back in ch1/ch2 of ER.

Extract of Sakura’s recollection Woes:

Sakura showed no signs of astonishment.

She did not even react to those words. She was only able to nod her head numbly to keep the conversation going.

She sat there in a daze, her mind at once frantic and totally paralyzed… until a voice pulled her back to reality.

“Thirteen… is such an unlucky number.”

“We’re all going to end up dead, aren’t we?”

She jerked her head up to see who spoke, but there was no one there.

It’s implied in this scene that the one who spoke was Elysia— they had just been speaking together, and Sakura is unusually perceptive, after all.

Where did that go Mihoyo