#dark metal curtain rod

[chordati]

Beach Style Bedroom - Bedroom Ideas for a mid-sized coastal guest bedroom remodel without a fireplace and green walls

[thisisacommentary]

Beach Style Bedroom - Bedroom Ideas for a mid-sized coastal guest bedroom remodel without a fireplace and green walls

[whatsernameanyways]

Guest Bedroom Example of a mid-sized beach style guest dark wood floor bedroom design with blue walls and no fireplace

[giftiaa]

Contemporary Kids An illustration of a mid-sized, contemporary boy's room with gray walls and carpeting.

[scofieldshumway]

Traditional Dining Room - Dining Room Large elegant dark wood floor and brown floor great room photo with white walls and no fireplace

[siilvan]

bloodsport – II

prologue | part one | next

characters: vladimir makarov

summary: you never realized how boring captivity could be. you hate to admit it, but makarov is the only interesting thing around, and perhaps the closest thing you have to an ally in this place.

genre: angst, slowburn, enemies to ?, fem!reader (callsign: petra, no desc.)

warnings: semi-proofread, cursing, canon-typical violence, descriptions of blood/injuries, inaccurate medical procedures, reader gets harassed :/, reader kills a dude, russian written by a non-russian speaker (please correct me if it's wrong!!)

word count: 3.7k

note: the temptation to write the filthiest makarov/reader/yuri fic is slowly taking over my brain. i'm begging activision to reveal my ex-war-criminal husband already bc i have two hands for a reason

true to his word, you don't see makarov for the rest of the day. after you're brought back to your cell and locked away, you take the time to rest and gather your thoughts. the lumpy bed provides little comfort as you try to sleep, but it's better than the cold floor. you manage to drift off eventually, even with every voice and sound in the corridor stirring you awake.

when you finally drag yourself out of bed the next morning, blinking away any lingering exhaustion and gently stretching your sore muscles, the sky is still dark. the storm that was raging all night had subsided for now, and through the single barred window on the back wall, you can see groups of soldiers outside. running drills, training in marksmanship, transporting supplies, patrolling the grounds - it reminds you of the bases you've visited with the team.

the team. you trudge over to the only other furniture in the room, the metal chair that you moved to sit near the window, and plop down onto the seat unceremoniously. with how muddled your mind has been since the conversation with makarov, you've hardly had time to think about them.

they're alive. you just need to keep telling yourself that. they'll come for you as soon as they can. all you can do until then is keep faith and survive.

as a pair of boots stomps down the hall towards your cell, you begin to ponder if taking matters into your own hands is the only way you'll escape. you're just as capable as the rest of your team, surely you can find a way out of this crumbling prison.

you turn your head at the sound of keys jingling. a guard is standing at your door, unlocking it, before looking at you. "let's go," he says, thick accent lacing every word. "you're on a schedule."

with a small wince, you rise from the chair and cross the room. the guard starts down the corridor, heading in the opposite direction that you went yesterday. you follow close behind, clammy palms wringing together. it almost feels like you're restrained again, with metal cuffs digging into your wrists and binding you, keeping you from struggling or defending yourself.

after descending a staircase and passing a few corners, you reach wherever the guard was taking you. he pushes a door open and ushers you inside, revealing a sizeable shower facility. you send him a cursory glance, confused as he motions for you to step further into the space.

"shower." he mutters, standing by the door. you wordlessly turn to the showers, then back to him.

"do you mind?" you ask, nodding towards the door. "i'd like a little privacy. it's not like i can tunnel my way out."

he shakes his head at first, refusing your request, until you decide to do the same, silently staring at him. a beat passes between you until he spins around, grumbling something along the lines of "hurry up," and exits the room. once the door slams shut behind him, you let out a relieved breath and walk over to one of the many stalls.

you scan the area before carefully undressing, paying close attention so as to not mess up your bandages or strain any of your healing injuries. you quickly dive past the thin curtain and toss your clothes over the curtain rod.

a string of curses fall from your lips when you twist the knob and cold water pours out of the shower head, prickling like ice against your skin. cleaning yourself up whilst protecting your bandages is a difficult task, but you manage to keep them relatively dry. you were in need of a fresh set, anyway. grains of sand and dust leftover from al-mazrah is washed down the drain, and as you start to adjust to the freezing temperature, some of your muscle aches follow suit.

a few minutes of relief pass by as you try to relax, though the bliss is short-lived when you remember your conversation from yesterday. you hate the thought of listening to makarov of all people, but did he have a point? are you truly just as bad as him, even with good intentions being your motivation?

you're well aware of what your job entails. as captain price so bluntly puts it: we get dirty, and the world stays clean. you know that some missions leave a sour taste in your mouth and a doubt in your mind. are you truly doing the right thing? can you do better? is there a way to save everyone?

as you shut off the water and attempt to dry off with a clean towel left on a small bench nearby, you realize that you're giving makarov exactly what he wants. he brought up the topic with the intent of messing with your head. he's trying to break you - for whatever reason, you're not sure. all you know is that you can't give up. you have to stay strong for the team.

you pull your clothes back on, nose scrunching at the uncomfortable feeling of damp gauze sticking to your skin. the guards seemed to bounce between civility and cruelty depending on the moment; perhaps you can catch someone in a good mood and request a replacement.

the door swings open and you jolt, spinning around to face the intruder. the man from earlier is standing in the doorway, a look of disinterest evident even through his balaclava. "you are done, yes?"

clearly he isn't the person to ask, you think, following him into the corridor. he leads you back down the same path as earlier, through winding halls and up a set of stairs, stopping once you arrive at the cell you call home. you keep an eye out for anyone along the way who looks to be doing well, searching for a person to seek help from.

no one catches your attention, leaving you only one option: the guard currently locking the door behind you.

"uh– can i ask you a question?" you turn around to look at him, wrapping your hands around the iron bars. he sends a small glare in your direction, but pauses nonetheless.

"what?" he murmurs, standing up straight.

you lift your arms, showing off the damp and gradually loosening bandages. "any chance i can get these changed?"

his eyes flit down to your arms, then back to your face. he sighs, heavy and deep, and grumbles out a reply. "i will get the doctor."

with that, he leaves your sight, lifting a hand to his radio and saying something that you can't understand. "should've agreed to those fucking russian lessons from price," you mumble, staggering across the room and sitting on the bed while picking at your loose gauze.

it feels like an hour passes by before you hear someone coming down the hall again. by this point, you were assuming that the guard had forgotten about you.

you sit up from your slumped position against the metal frame and are immediately greeted by a new person on the other side of the door. an older man, nicely dressed and carrying a heavy bag that you fear will topple him over, regarding you with a grin that feels out of place in this shithole.

"you must be petra," he starts, pushing the door open and letting himself inside. he keeps his distance, both hands visible and wrapped around the handle of the bag in front of his body. "doctor tarkovsky." he continues, introducing himself. you nod, watching closely as he approaches you and places his bag on the bed next to you. the chair is dragged over, much like the other day, and he sits.

"the work you did... you saved my life, doctor." you mutter, allowing him to take one of your arms into his gentle hold. he hums in reply, taking great care in undoing the dressings.

"спасибо, but it was not me that saved you." he chuckles softly, eyes briefly lifting from your arm to meet your gaze. "the commander was responsible for that. by the time you arrived here and into my care, he had managed to stabilize you."

he mumbles something to himself about "his military days" while dropping his gaze back down to your newly exposed skin. your eyes follow his, and you wince at the sight of burn marks and stitched lacerations. a cold breeze enters into the room through the window and stings as it sweeps over you, making you clench your hand into a tight fist.

"the commander? you mean makarov?" you ask, forcing yourself to look away and stare at the wall behind the doctor. the same man that put you here is the one that kept you alive. go figure. you glare holes into a random brick, trying to make sense of it. based on the few interactions that you've had with him, as well as the many things that price had to say, that kindness seems out of character.

the fact that he hasn't tortured you to the brink of insanity is odd enough.

"yes, he demanded that i give you the best treatment. said he wanted you alive and in good condition." the doctor rummages through the bag next to you and begins to clean your wounds and apply new dressings, deft hands making quick work of the process. you remain silent as he wraps your arm in a new set of bandages, waiting for him to finish.

you finally speak once he's halfway through rewrapping your other arm. "is he always so... touchy?" you murmur, almost a whisper.

"touchy?" he repeats the word.

"i think i pissed him off yesterday," you say, tongue darting out to wet your chapped lips. "ended up slammed against a wall. is he always so quick to anger?"

after securing the bandages on your arm, the doctor leans back and shakes his head. "commander makarov is usually the calmest person in a conversation," he replies with a surprised huff. "whatever you said or did must have struck a nerve, made him lose his temper. even the soldiers working under him struggle to do such a thing."

you furrow your brow at him. he waves off your befuddlement and gets started on treating your other injuries - namely, the large gash on your side and the burns on your back. as he's loosely wrapping your back in gauze, he makes another comment.

"it could be that you angered him, rather than what you did."

"i angered him?" you parrot back to him, craning your neck to look at him over your shoulder. the doctor nudges you forward again and hums affirmatively.

yet another thing that doesn't make any sense, you think. besides your affiliation with the one-four-one, there's nothing about you that should stand out to a man like makarov. you don't possess any top secret intel or really hold any importance to anyone outside of your team; so, why is he treating you so strangely? is it a game he's playing, trying to mess with his real enemy, the captain?

are you merely a pawn, a bargaining chip between two forces much bigger than yourself? makarov is dangling your life like bait, hoping to catch a better prize. you squeeze your eyes shut and take in a deep breath, considering your options.

makarov would only hold onto you for one reason. drawing out captain price. that means price is alive, at least to makarov. if you stay here, you might be able to confirm this plan for yourself. however, if you can escape and deliver all the intel you've collected so far, you could prevent the plan from advancing any further. no matter which option you choose, rotting away in this prison cell won't help.

as kind as the doctor is, he's still one of makarov's men. you can't trust him. you're on your own.

"so, is it going to scar?" you inquire with a smile, fixing your shirt after he pulls away. he moves to gather his things, reaching into his bag and handing you a dose of painkillers.

he sighs and sends you another smile of his own. "the burns aren't deep enough, thankfully, and the lacerations shouldn't scar so long as they're properly cared for. you are very lucky."

"guess i am. thank you, again."

you swallow down the pills - dry, much to your chagrin - and give him a small wave as he exits the room, the iron door closing behind him with a soft clunk. the guard from earlier reappears to lock it moments later, leaving you trapped in the cell once more.

⋆⋆⋆

another five days pass by, and you mentally curse whatever higher power put you here. your routine remains largely unchanged: at roughly seven o' clock, one of the guards stops by to take you to the showers. by seven-thirty, the doctor arrives to change your bandages. you're given your only meal around noon and left to your own devices until eight in the evening, when the doctor arrives to change your bandages again.

you are slowly beginning to heal, at least. the lack of nutrition was stunting the process, but according to the doctor, you were still on the mend. it won't be long until you can get the stitches taken out.

you've spent several of these past one-hundred-and-twenty hours wondering if that's what makarov is waiting for. he wants you alive to torture, to indulge in breaking something fixed by his own hand. maybe the doctor is in on the plan. you wouldn't be surprised to discover that he's reporting your healing process to makarov, giving him a countdown of sorts.

as you rest on the cold, hard stone floor, with your back propped up against the side of the bed, tossing a rubber ball that you pocketed at the wall, you question if your paranoia is getting the better of you.

the rubber ball rolls across the ground after you throw it at the wall. it starts to come back to you, before bouncing off the edge of your boot and heading towards the door. you lazily follow it with your eyes, until you notice a person standing at the other side of the bars, their gaze transfixed on you.

it's a man wearing an outfit similar to the doctor's, though you can easily tell that he's substantially younger. in his late thirties to early forties, you estimate. he carefully kicks the ball out of his way after entering the room. you watch him like a hawk, an uneasy feeling washing over you.

"i'll be handling your care today." he announces, plopping his similarly-designed supply bag on the mattress. you pull yourself up to stand and dust yourself off, taking a healthy step back from him.

"something happen with doctor tarkovsky?" you ask as the younger man rummages through his bag and slips on a pair of latex gloves. he shakes his head, not even bothering to look at you, and continues searching through his supplies.

"tarkovsky is busy," he responds, motioning for you to sit. you hesitate for a second, but ultimately decide to shake off the nerves and follow his orders. "i'm going to start with your back today." he adds. you nod, moving to face away from him and lift your shirt up.

he's silent while replacing the gauze, and you're not sure whether you prefer that or talking. his touch is slightly less gentle, which you chalk it up to less experience. eventually, he moves on to the gash on your side, settling in the normal chair with an expression that you find hard to decipher.

your unease is suddenly validated as he cleans the stitches. his unoccupied hand comes to rest on your thigh, just above your knee, catching your attention. your eyes fall from the wall to his hand, then to the open bag at your side. laying near the top of it is a scalpel - small, but lethal in the right hands. you clear your throat and shift, bouncing your knee under his hold, testing the waters.

instead of removing his hand, he slips it just barely higher. you squint, gnawing at the inside of your cheek, debating on acting now or waiting a little longer. maybe he doesn't realize it.

as his hand slides higher, though, gloved fingertips digging into the plush of your thigh, that notion goes out the window. you slowly lower your hand closest to the bag and place it on the mattress next to it. the younger doctor pulls back, examining his work, his thumb rubbing languid circles into your skin. you act while he's distracted.

with trained proficiency, you grab the scalpel from the top of the pile and shove the man forward, slicing across his neck in one swift motion. he stumbles backwards, reaching up to desperately grasp at his throat as he chokes on the blood pouring from the open wound.

"don't fucking touch me again," you seethe, fixing your shirt and holding the scalpel in a white-knuckled grip. the sounds of him tripping over the chair and falling to the ground alerts the guards stationed in the corridor, who immediately rush through the door with their guns drawn and pointed at you.

they're shouting at you, but you can't make out what they're saying over the blood pounding in your ears. you turn away from the dying man and stare them down, unmoving from your spot in the middle of the room.

after a brief standoff, the guards suddenly look over their shoulders and shuffle away from each other, revealing a familiar face. one you haven't seen in almost a week, and assumed you wouldn't see for a while longer.

makarov steps to the front of the small group as the ringing in your ears begins to subside. his eyes dart from you to the man lying on the ground, having choked to death shortly before he arrived at the scene. he chuckles, low and controlled, and turns to the guards.

"убрать этот беспорядок," he mutters, waving towards the corpse. the men holster their guns and move past him, lifting the body up and carrying it out. as the group disappears down the hall, you find yourself alone with makarov. the scalpel slips from your fingers and clatters against the floor, pulling his focus back to you.

"well? are you going to punish me for that?" you ask plainly, the pool of red still visible in your peripheral vision.

"should i?" he counters, casually sauntering across the room. his gaze flits from yours to your cheek, which you soon realize is wet with the man's blood.

you shrug, shoulders drooping. "i killed one of your men. most people would punish a prisoner for less."

he wipes the blood off your cheek with his forefinger and huffs softly, seemingly pleased with the situation. it's only now that you notice his slightly disheveled appearance; his white dress shirt is untucked and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, showing off his forearms that are covered in a light layer of dirt. minor cuts and bruises bloom on his skin, resembling self-defense wounds.

"i could never expect a member of the one-four-one to accept capture quietly," makarov remarks, picking the chair up off the floor. "i'm surprised it took you this long, if anything. i was expecting to receive reports by the second day."

he raps his knuckles against the seat twice, urging you to sit. you end up mirroring your first interaction after he sits on the bed across from you, elbows resting on top of his knees.

you grab a set of cleaning wipes from the bag forgotten at the foot of the bed and offer them to him. "so, i'm assuming you're not here to share the fun story behind those obvious self-defense wounds?" you tilt your head to the side, regarding him with a sarcastic smile.

"like i said in our prior conversation," he takes the pack from your outstretched hand and haphazardly wipes his arms clean, the lack of care enough to make you inwardly flinch at the potential pain. "once traitors are found, they are dealt with."

"seems like they got to you first," you snort.

besides a pointed glare, he doesn't dignify your comment with a response. instead, he takes your arm into his hold, removing the old bandages with almost the same level of indifference that he treated his own injuries with.

"ow." you grunt, a bit overdramatic. in truth, his touch isn’t any less gentle than the doctor you just killed.

"stop complaining." he responds bluntly.

"maybe be more careful, then." you snap, tugging your arm back. you're being intentionally difficult, pushing his buttons, but you deserve to be a little shitty to the man holding you hostage.

makarov grabs your elbow, one of the few relatively uninjured parts of your arm, and yanks you forward, until your free hand slams down onto the space next to him to catch yourself from falling. he leans in, your noses nearly touching, and sneers.

"this is the extent of my kindness, petra." he tightens his hold when you try to create some distance, locking you in place. "do not tempt me to withdraw it." he whispers, dark eyes boring into yours.

you swallow back a whimper as his grip tightens again, blunt nails digging into healing skin, nodding in reply. he releases you a moment later and resumes his previous actions, quickly yet effectively rewrapping your arm. you grudgingly decide to cooperate for the other set, making it go by much faster than the last.

"tarkovsky said you're usually pretty calm," you mumble as he secures the bandages in place. "is it the one-four-one that frustrates you so easily? or, am i just a special case, hm?"

makarov, clearly interested in continuing the running theme since your first meeting, does not respond. you really should get used to it. you say nothing more as he stands up and grabs the discarded supply bag, walking towards the door. he pauses, holding the door open, and you nearly miss the words said to you over his shoulder.

"anyone else would be dead already."

translations:

спасибо (spasibo) - thank you

убрать этот беспорядок (ubrat' etot besporyadok) - clean up this mess

taglist: @sofasoap, @roosterr, @rohansregret, @lonesome-doves, @thorrsexual, @miss-nob0dy, @woodeelf, @fbs-fc-ur-mommy, @soap-mactavish, @itsyellow

⋆ feel free to ask to be added to/removed from the taglist! (18+ only please <;3)

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Blessed Are The Meek 1

Summary: you are trapped in an awkward circumstance with a widowed commander. (Handmaid AU)

Warning: this series will contain violence, dystopian aspects, rape and noncon, blood, coercion, sterility, and other dark elements. Please read these warnings and beware.

Character: Tommy Shelby

Note: thank you for following along. I'm sure yall didn't expect to write Tommy again but here we are. Also feedback and comments if you dont mind. Maybe a reblog. 💕💕💕💕

You climb the steps in the grim glow of the wall sconce on the next floor. Your linen veil weighs heavy over your hair as you keep your head down, balancing the tray in your hands as you make the curved ascent. Your smock rustles with your steps down the long hallway, shadows leaning in the further you get in the groaning house.

The office door is open, as it is at six every night. The routine is fine-tuned and never a second out of rhythm. You enter and place the tray on the broad oak desk that serves as the centerpiece to the space.

You sift through the greyness and pull the chain on the lamp on the shelves set into the wall. The glass shade lights up with hues of amber and jade. You back up and smooth your hands over your apron. You retreat to the door but stop short as you're met by a dark figure.

You stare at Commander Shelby’s lapel. You don’t expect to see him. You rarely do. He haunts this place like a ghost. Some days you wonder if he is even still about. You’re only assured by the few bites taken from the meals you deliver like clockwork or the clothing left for wash and starching outside his door.

He takes a step back, his sole scuffing deafeningly in the silence. You do not hesitate. You take the cue. The rare moment of deference. You angle past him and down the hall. Your only farewell is the sharp snap of the door behind him.

You hurry down the stairs and back to the kitchen to begin your nightly duties. There isn’t much mess to clean up, not more than the dust of indolence. There hasn’t been much life to this place since the Commander’s wife passed. You linger, in limbo, awaiting but never receiving your dismissal.

You set to sweeping the already swept floorboards. Then you shine the cutlery. Dust the cobwebs that don’t exist, shake out the curtains but leave them extended across the windows. You cling to the heavy embroidered drapes as a memory comes. 

The day of her burial, when you dared to let in the sunshine and the Commander hollered and yanked upon them until the rod fell down. Since that day, the anger simmered but did not boil over again, repressed by the stagnant air of grieving.

You wipe the surfaces, finding some end tables you missed. Such a big house to be occupied by so few. A sudden clatter shakes the stillness of the house and you jolt as you look up at the ceiling.

You tuck away the cloth and head back upstairs. It is late and you are worn out from the tedium of aimlessness. Perhaps, at least, you will have a real task to attend to.

You get to the top and go back down the hallway. The dishes, along with their contents, are scattered across the narrow rug. You near cautiously, a tremor flowing in your veins. The commander stands in the door of his office and glares as you approach. You bend to take the metal tray but he steps forward to kick it away.

You stand and fold your hands over your apron, chin bowed.

“Commander,” you address him flatly.

He doesn’t say anything. You sniff and go again to pick up the tray. He comes closer again but does not repeat the act. He stands in the midst of his mess as you tidy up around him. You put the dishes on the tray and take the cloth from your apron as you get to your knees and try to clean up the spilled food.

“You are a martha,” he growls, “you do not pity a commander.”

You don’t argue. You just utter, “yes. Commander,” and continue your duty.

“I could have you sent to The Colonies.”

“Yes, Commander,” you repeat as you continue your work.

He circles you and puts his shoe at the center of your back, stilling you as he leans just an ounce of strength into you. You clutch the cloth tight. You expected to be sent to another household, but The Colonies… perhaps this life is just as bad as a death sentence as it were.

“I always thought it rather amusing the chips you barren bitches wear on your shoulders. A sense of righteousness which would affront the lord himself,” he pushes until your arms are shaking, “how does it feel to have the chip knocked away? How does it feel to cower at the heels of the chosen?”

“Under his eye,” you whisper.

He exhales heavily and shoves off you, sending you to your stomach as he stamps his foot back to the floor. He twists his heel in the smear of potatoes across the rug as he spins and marches back into his office. He swings the door shut and casts you into darkness. For a moment, you do not move. You cannot.

Will you wake to The Eyes coming to take you to a colony?

[themidnightcrimson]

My Girl. | e. olsen

summary: in which you are having a tough time, and lizzie does everything in her might to make her girl feel better.

warnings: literally just 3.7K words of lizzie being so cute and caring, pure fluff, i wish this was me, let me be delulu for a second

masterlist.

The hazy cocoon of darkness in your room was disturbed by the harsh sound of the curtains being drawn apart on their metal rod and the instant flood of bright sunshine that cast directly across your face. Your body awoke suddenly, realizing a heaviness in your eyelids and a weight within you that had you sinking into the bed for however long you had been asleep.

It was a struggle to get your eyes open between how puffy they were and the bright yellow sun beaming into them like a golden laser. Through your squinted eyelids, you saw a blurry yet familiar figure walk towards you, disrupting the light from the window directly across the bed.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Lizzie’s raspy voice emanated—you could barely piece it together from just how sleepy you were.

Groaning, you rubbed your eyes and shifted under the blankets, not daring to move too much. As Lizzie sat on the edge of the bed near you, you glanced at the clock sitting on the nightstand beside your head.

“Lizzie, it’s not even 7 yet,” you croaked, taking the duvet and pulling it up to your nose as you laid on your side, closing your burning eyes.

“Baby, I don’t think you’ve seen 7 A.M. in weeks,” she remarked, and it was then that you could smell the scent of green tea.

Opening your eyes in curiosity, you saw that Lizzie was holding a little teacup from which steam twirled up into the air. Blinking hard, you looked up at Lizzie who was already staring down at you with a look of patience. You haven’t had the best of times as of late. For whatever reason, from whatever origin, a seed of sadness had sowed within you and grown to blossom in the form of a deep attachment to your bed and a general apathy towards everything you used to love.

Before this unreasoned wave of despondency had crashed over you, you loved getting up at the crack of dawn with Lizzie and spending your mornings walking outside to soak up the sun, going on coffee runs, going to the grocery store before anyone else had the heart to be in a Trader Joe’s at that time of morning. You would spend your days productively, whether writing or reading or working on whatever projects you had under your belt.

Now it seemed you were capable of nothing more than laying in bed and mindlessly watching TV. In fact, you hadn’t been outside of your shared home in several days, maybe even over a week.

Not only was Lizzie feeling lonely without her usual companion, but she was worried about you. This low was putting a pallor in your face and blue around your eyes. As much as she had wanted to poke and prod you to know what was going on, with her desperate need to be aware and in control of everything that involved the person she most deeply loved, she had reasoned enough with herself to give you some space. She had seen you in these lows before, but it had never lasted as long as this one.

“I made you some green tea with citrus,” Lizzie whispered softly, her thumb rubbing over the warm handle of the teacup. “Why don’t you sit up and drink some?”

Your languid gaze up at her was enough to tell her it would take more to get you out of your stubborn horizontal state. Although you had been close to hissing at the presence of the sunlight filling the room, you noticed how nicely it lit Lizzie’s face. Her sun-kissed skin was dewy and glowing, signaling she had just done her extensive skincare routine. Her eyes were a bit darker since she was facing away from the sun, but you could spot the sage green sparkling around her pupils. Her lips, soft and pink, were pressed together, the only sign of impatience on her face. Her dirty blonde hair was thrown up into a messy updo with her bangs curtaining over her eyebrows which were damp from whatever products she had put on her face.

Lizzie had always tried to be a gentle supporter, but she was naturally adamant and slightly aggressive. While she resorted to coddling you in the beginning of your lowness, she was now left with her own way to get you out of bed.

Placing the teacup on the nightstand, Lizzie jumped off the bed and grabbed the blankets cocooning you, ripping them straight off your body and onto the floor.

“No!” you whined, instantly hit with the cooler air and the discomfort of not being swaddled up. You sat up to try and reach the blankets on the floor, but two hands on your shoulders stopped you and held you still.

“There!” Lizzie exclaimed, holding you tightly by your shoulders. As worried as she had been, your wild hair and puffy eyelids gave you a sort of innocent, cute look that made her smile. “You’re sitting up! That’s all I wanted.”

Blinking, you realized that you were, in fact, sitting up in the bed. Clenching your jaw, you gave Lizzie a glaring look for tricking you into sitting up and making you look like a dumbass.

Lizzie’s restrained laughter was apologetic. Keeping one hand on your shoulder as if you would plop back down like a fish, she took the teacup from the nightstand and brought it to your lap, taking your hands and forcing you to hold the cup.

“Nice and warm,” she sighed, sitting in front of you and lovingly patting your ankle which was crossed over your other one, holding it in her hand. “Drink before it gets cold, baby.”

Although the thought of any flavors being in your mouth made you want to puke, as you had lost all appetite over the course of a few days, the teacup was nice and warm in your hands, and it smelled bright and grassy. Glaring a few more daggers into Lizzie’s smirking face, her eyes twinkling as she recovered her small victory in getting you to sit up like a dog, you brought the cup to your lips, taking a very small sip as the earthy tea glided down your tongue and warmed your throat.

“Is it good, baby?” Lizzie gently asked, her eyes noticing a particular strand of your hair that was standing stiff up from your head, her hand following her eyes to gently pat it down.

You nodded, taking another sip as Lizzie fixed your hair. “Thank you,” you whispered almost inaudibly, looking shyly up at Lizzie as something warm swelled within you. She could have just given up on getting you out of bed. She could have just went about her morning instead of taking the time to make you tea. You watched her eyes that were fixated on your hair, enjoying the candid view of her. Gratitude inflated inside you so suddenly that you felt you were about to burst. Emotions you thought you would never feel again were reappearing within you all at once, making you feel so full that you dropped your tea as you lurched towards Lizzie, throwing your arms around her shoulders and squeezing her.

“Oh!” Lizzie gasped at the sudden attack, keeping herself from falling backwards from the force with which you grabbed her. The sound of your teacup hitting the floor made you jump, detaching yourself from Lizzie to see that your teacup had thankfully not shattered, but green tea was now spilling out all over the floor.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” you whispered, the next emotion filling you being guilt. Lizzie had made the tea for you and now almost the entire cup was wasted, not to mention there was a mess to clean up. “I’m sorry, I thought I had set it down on the bed. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“Baby, baby,” Lizzie stopped your apologetic ramblings, placing both her palms on either side of your face and forcing you to tear your eyes away from the spilled tea and look at her. Moisture welled in your eyes as your nose tinged red, and Lizzie was quick to keep her baby from crying. “It’s okay, it’s just tea. There’s plenty more—I made an entire pot!” Her thumb stroked your cheekbone, her eyes meticulously analyzing your face. “It’s just a little spill to clean up.”

Guilt was quick to introduce embarrassment inside you. First, you felt guilty for spilling the tea, and now you felt embarrassed for getting so upset over it. But Lizzie knew you were just feeling extra sensitive, and she made sure to let you know that with her gentle smile and even gentler eyes.

“Come here,” Lizzie whispered, bringing your face to hers and pressing her lips against you, dropping her hands and snaking them around your waist. You melted into the kiss, leaning closer to her until she pulled away.

There was a look on her face that you couldn’t discern, but her lips were twisting into laughter. “Hey, while I go get some napkins and clean it up, why don’t you go brush your teeth and take a nice, hot shower?”

You looked at her for a moment until you realized she suggested you clean up directly after kissing you. Gasping, you pulled away and exclaimed, “Are you saying I stink?!”

Chuckles slipped through Lizzie’s lips as she started to get off the bed. “No, no, of course not, my love. You just… You know… Have been in bed for days.”

Sewing your eyebrows, you pouted up at her, but she only grinned, taking your chin between her thumb and forefinger.

“Go clean up, baby—with no underlying insults intended.” She opted not to kiss you as she patted your cheek and pulled away.

As Lizzie left to go get napkins, you carefully got off the bed, avoiding the pool of green tea on the floor. Your legs felt shaky and weak as you scuffed towards the bathroom, your fatigue seeming to get worse with every step. Halfway there, you considered just turning back and getting back into bed, but you remembered how happy Lizzie looked when she got you to simply sit up and take a drink. She was worried about you and just wanted you to feel better, and it would be torturing her if you discarded all her efforts and went back to bed and refused to do the things she suggested only for your own health and happiness.

So, you brushed your teeth to your own disdain and reluctantly crept into the shower like a cat afraid of water. The warm water eventually soothed you, allowing you to relax a bit and actually take time to wash yourself instead of rushing to just go get back in bed. You even washed your hair, which was much needed at that point because it was starting to stay in place whenever you lifted a strand upwards.

When you turned the shower off and stepped out, you were surprised to see Lizzie sitting on the counter. “Ah!” you shrieked in shock, standing there completely naked in front of her. That wasn’t even the weird part—what was weird was that she had apparently been sitting in the bathroom the entire time as you showered. “What are you doing?!”

“Making sure my hostage doesn’t try to escape,” she said, jumping off the counter and grabbing a towel, handing it to you since you were standing there dripping all over the floor. “I gotta make sure you do your skincare!”

The sound of doing anything else besides sinking into your bed sounded horrible, for just the minimum amount you had done so far had already drained you. You took the towel from her and started to dry off. “Lizzie, I really don’t want—”

“See, I figured you would say that,” she chirped, grabbing your robe from where it hung next to hers on the door. “But don’t worry, darling, this Lizzie Olsen spa is all-inclusive!” She took your towel away from you and held out the robe for you to slip into it.

Glaring at her questioningly, you turned around and let your arms slip into the robe. “What the hell did you put in that tea?”

Lizzie wrapped the robe around you, pressing against your back so she could even tie your robe at the front for you. “Only cheeriness and joy, of course.”

“So… crack?” You tightened your robe once she had loosely tied it and turned around to face her, only for Lizzie to suddenly wrap her arms around your waist and lift you up.

You shrieked, grabbing onto her as she waddled you towards the counter, lifting you up more so she could clumsily set you on top of it. While Lizzie was tall and fit, she was by no means a bodybuilder, panting once she had you on the counter and taking a moment to catch her breath.

“I think we will start off with a nice hydrating mask,” Lizzie said with her hands on her hips, going to the array of skincare products you both had sitting on the counter, taking one of your masks from your side of untouched products to inspect it.

“Lizzie, I really don’t—” You tried to slide off the counter, but she slapped her hands on your thighs and pushed you back up.

“Stay,” she simply said, leaning up to give you a peck on the lips before going back to picking out a mask, trusting you to stay seated.

You did, sighing and letting yourself slump as you waited for her to take the sheet mask she had chosen out of its package.

“Today, I’ve chosen for my client a revitalizing Vitamin C sheet mask to help give your skin a nice, glowing boost,” she announced formally, as if she was talking to an invisible camera. You couldn’t help your lips from smiling a bit as she came closer to you, standing between your legs and carefully placing the sheet mask on your face, patting it down to make sure it clung to your skin.

“This feels like medieval torture,” you said as you looked at her through the eye holes in the white mask.

Lizzie ignored you, instead taking her phone out and pulling up Spotify. A few moments later, some music from a spa playlist was echoing in the bathroom. “Gotta make sure you feel the full effect,” she commented as she set her phone down.

While you waited for the suggested fifteen minutes before taking the sheet mask off, Lizzie decided to go back to her theater roots and start dancing to the spa music, pretending she was in a Greek tragedy. You couldn’t tell what the plot was, but when she pretended to be killed and started prancing around with her hands swatting at her sides as if she were an angel with wings, you laughed so hard you almost inhaled the product from the sheet mask.

Lizzie continued the rest of your daily skincare routine, and you found it sweet how she had paid so much attention to you that she knew your routine step-by-step without you even telling her. Of course, she would pick back up on the Greek tragedy every time a product needed a few minutes to sit, depicting the afterlife in the best way she could with the generic music playing in the background. She ended the spa routine by drying your hair, making funny faces at you in the mirror that made you giggle until your stomach hurt.

Finally, you were done, and Lizzie ran to the bedroom to pick out some comfy clothes for you, coming back and handing them to you with a proper bow as if she were just a mere servant. You made sure to tell her how silly she was, and she made sure to tell you how much she adored her Queen as she bowed and walked out of the bathroom backwards to give you space to change clothes, bumping her spread arms on the doorway on her way out.

Once you were changed, you walked through the house, almost deciding on just getting back into bed until you heard noises in the kitchen. Walking to the kitchen in curiosity, you saw that Lizzie was standing at the island counter, cutting up an avocado. In the time it took you to change, she had already made you an iced coffee that was sitting on the other side of the counter.

“Is this for me?” you asked as you sat at the stool and pointed to the coffee.

“No, it’s for the neighbors,” Lizzie said sarcastically as she went to the fridge and got out some eggs. She was making you one of your favorite healthier breakfasts. “Unless the mailman gets here first.”

Rolling your eyes, you took the mason jar of iced coffee and sipped through the straw, watching Lizzie get to work on scrambling the eggs. You were feeling a little better. You were all cleaned up and refreshed now, and the cold coffee brightened you even further. Between the sun shining in through the kitchen windows and Lizzie narrating her cooking process as if she were an umpire at a Dodgers game, you were laughing more than you had in weeks.

During a moment between laughter, when Lizzie was fully concentrated on mashing the avocado, you remembered that she was supposed to be somewhere today.

“Hey, weren’t you supposed to go to a meeting today?” you questioned, mindlessly rolling your straw around the mason jar. You had your days mixed up here lately, but you could’ve sworn Lizzie told you just yesterday about her plans.

“Oh,” Lizzie said, stiffening slightly. “No, no, they canceled it.” She continued spreading avocado on a piece of toast, avoiding your eyes.

“Well, that was very last minute. Why did they cancel it?”

Lizzie only shrugged, still avoiding looking at you as she placed slices of tomato on the toast.

She was lying, you knew it. Lizzie was a great actor, but a horrible liar in real life. That was why you always knew Marvel secrets before anyone else. “Lizzie…” you said knowingly, leaning closer to her across the island.

Slowly, she lifted her eyes up to you. “Well, they didn’t cancel it… But it was cancelled!”

“You cancelled it?”

Lizzie paused, her lips stretching into an awkward grin as she started plating your toast and eggs. She knew that if you found out that she cancelled an important meeting just to stay home with you, you would get so angry.

“Lizzie!” you exclaimed, your mouth opening in surprise. “Don’t tell me you cancelled an important meeting just to stay home with me.”

Lizzie nervously laughed as she started grating cheese over the food. “If you don’t want me to tell you that, then I won’t tell you—”

“Why did you do that?” you cut her off, your voice becoming serious. “I’m not worth missing out on a meeting, especially one so important.”

Lizzie’s smile faded as she set the cheese grater down, wiping her hands on the towel before quickly circling the counter to come close to you, her eyes becoming stern.

“Don’t ever say that,” she whispered as she leaned down close to you, resting her hand on the counter. Her eyes analyzed your face as you looked away from her, but her hand gently took your chin and brought you to look at her again. “You are worth more than any meeting, than any project, than any other person.”

You paused, your brain not allowing her words to seep in and only bringing up more reasons to be upset. “You’re pitying me. You stayed home because I’m all depressed, and I’m just weighing you down, and—”

“Stop,” she whispered, interrupting your rant with a kiss to your lips that surprisingly eased you immediately. She pulled away a few moments later, her green eyes staring hard into yours. “Y/n, is it really so out of ordinary for me to want to help the person that I love? I do not pity you. You are not weighing me down. You have been going through something that is hurting you, and if you’re not okay enough to pick yourself back up, then what kind of person would I be to not hold a hand out to you? I love you—so much. While it hurts me to see you so upset, it doesn’t weigh me down and it does not make me love you any less or think of you any differently. Every time I’ve had one of my anxious spells, you’ve always been there for me. But any time you’re going through something, you don’t let me help you. That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Did you just use a Wanda line on me?”

“Please stop rejecting all my love, baby. You deserve it and you need it, and it brings me joy to give it to you. So please, forget about the meeting, stop refusing my attempts to make my girl feel better, and eat your goddamn avocado toast.”

With that, she kissed the top of your head, giving your back a firm rub before going back around the counter to hand you your plate of breakfast.

She was right. She was trying so hard to help you because she cared for you and loved you. She missed out on a meeting because she cares so much for you. Why were you shooting down all that she gave for you?

“Hey, why don’t we go eat outside on the patio?” you suddenly suggested right as she sat down across from you.

Lizzie looked up at you in surprise for a moment, searching your face for sarcasm or anger. Instead, you were only smiling at her, and she matched your grin.

You took your food and coffee out on the patio and sat down on the lounge chairs in the sun, letting your skin soak up the sunlight as you sat together and ate. Lizzie talked about her garden and what she needed to do for it today, and you told her you would help her. You felt immensely better than you would if you didn’t have a Lizzie in your life.

[ussgallifrey]

Home for the Holidays | Part 2

✦ Summary: Never let it be said that you weren’t willing to do just about anything for your squadron. As you find yourself roped into an elaborate ruse to help fool Hangman’s mother for Christmas all seems to be going according to plan. But when that plan spirals out of control, the line between real and pretend begins to blur.

✦ Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Female Reader

✦ Warnings: Anxiety, fake dating, hurt/comfort, Jake’s family being fake and generally awful towards him, mentions of divorce, minor angst.

✦ Word Count: 9.6k

✦ Author’s Note: Did I envision People Magazine’s 2022 Sexiest Man Alive in the role of Jake’s older brother? Perhaps. Also, to the lovely @top-hhun​​ and @andrewrussgarfield​​, thank you for your constant Glen Powell spams - never stop <3

✦ Tags: @callsignbarb​

[Master List]

The moment you blearily pull yourself up from the pleasant hum of intermittent sleep, it takes you far longer than you'd like to admit to realize that you are no longer aboard the carrier. That the rattling of pipes and the pelting sound of rain is nothing more than your companion starting the shower in the adjacent room. 

Your eyes blink against the darkness, face snuggled into the too-soft pillow. Only the faintest ray of early morning light is visible through the black-out curtains.

It's late, about fifteen minutes past your usual wake-up time. With the glowing green digital alarm clock informing you that it's currently 8:16 am - make that over two hours local time past your usual wake-up.

But you and Seresin clearly were well-oiled military machines who had long passed the use of actual alarms to arise. It also meant that the man's shower would be short and to the point. So you pull yourself free from the tangle of sheets - stretching your arms out wide with a satisfying crack between your shoulder blades. You yank the sheets back in place, stifling a yawn as you brush the wrinkles out of the pillowcase. 

Sleeping in a real bed, with a mattress and sheets, would be considered a luxury by most. For you, however, sleep had been a distant dream last night. Between the usual lullaby of the constant thrum of the flight deck and the ship itself, you were unaccustomed to the stock silence of a hotel room. 

You distantly wondered if your roommate had fared any better.

Rounding the bed, you draw aside the curtains. The city of Austin is bathed in a muddied gray and purple this time of day. Dark clouds on the horizon are the harbinger of rain.

You had meant to ask him what the dress code was for the day, having thrown in a few viable outfits for the occasion - and your own family's get-together in two days, obviously. After hefting your bag onto the bed, you pull them out, unrolling the shirts in a nice even row on the remade bed.

The shower shuts off, the metal rings of the curtain scraping against the rod. A minute later, Hangman emerges in a puff of steam, a towel wrapped around his waist that he currently holds in a death grip with his right hand.

He sputters, using his free hand to push his wet hair away from his face.

You stare at him for a long, silent moment. Trying your best not to focus on the water currently soaking the carpet beneath his bare feet or the roll of droplets down his prominently toned abdominals. He seems equally frozen near the bathroom door.

Straightening out the shirt in your hands, you let your brows raise marginally as you ask a clipped, “Yes?”

He blinks, seemingly remembering himself, “Forgot my damn pants.”

“That jet lag really took a toll on you, huh?” you scoff, turning back to the task at hand as he pads across the floor to retrieve his bag. “What are you wearing for this, by the way?”

He hurries back into the bathroom and you hear the sound of clothes hitting the tile floor.

“Slacks and a shirt, why?”

You shrug, even though he can't see it, “Trying to figure out what to wear. I didn't exactly pack an evening gown.”

“Sure whatever you come up with - ” he pauses for a moment. There’s a clinking of what you believe to be a belt buckle and then he lets out a soft grunt, “ - will be fine.”

Looking over your shoulder at the golden glow spilling out of the bathroom, the faint shadow of Jake on the floor, “You're not instilling a lot of confidence right now, you know that right?”

There's a beat of silence before he pokes his head straight out of the door, “Didn't realize I needed to boost your ego any further there, Pits.”

You chuck the first shirt within reach at his head at the use of that awful nickname, but he easily avoids it. Grinning as he reemerges, straightening out his Henley and picking a loose piece of fuzz off the sleeve. He swoops down to grab your thrown shirt at least, offering it back to you with a soft chuckle.

“Why, what d'ya got?” he asks, a softer tone to go with the playful gleam in his eyes as he makes his way to you, peering at the layout over your shoulder.

“I don't know, sweetheart. I just wanna make a good impression,” your voice is sickeningly sweet, almost sing-song.

Hangman scrunches up his nose at the over-the-top act, his hands fixed on his hips.

“You're the first person I've brought home in over a decade. Unless you insult her cooking or the state of Texas, you should be fine.”

Glancing back at him, you're surprised to see him standing that close to you. You push a hand at his chest to reset the bubble of personal space you were usually afforded. He allows you to move him, though he's basically a living, breathing granite statute with a seemingly permanent shit-eating grin fixed on his face.

His eyes glint in amusement before he finally settles on, “Lose the jeans for this one and pick something that's not this color - ” he tugs at his own burnt umber-colored sweater, “I don't wanna make her think we're that kind of couple.”

“What? You don't want to color coordinate with your girl-friend?”

He grunts in lieu of actual words.

You turn up the shrillness of your voice, “So, I guess that's a no on the matching Christmas pajamas?”

He gives a soft chuckle, running his hand through his still damp hair. And then he's out of your way, snagging up his boots from the closet and sitting down on the edge of the bed to lace them up.

You think you have an outfit in mind now, as you gently pull it to the side and begin rolling the other options back up.

“What time do we need to head out again?”

He drops his hands on his knees with a heavy pat, “Probably close to 13:00?”

You nod in understanding - that would be plenty of time - as he situates himself more comfortably on the bed. Your hand pauses on the bathroom doorway as you watch Hangman pull out his phone and seemingly settle in.

“What, you're not gonna run down to the complimentary breakfast spread?”

His eyes pull away from the screen for a moment to meet your gaze, “Well, not without you. Be fairly rude of me, sweetheart.”

You sigh with realization - he had said practice makes perfect - as you lean against the doorway, “And so it begins.”

Jake laughs, waving you on dismissively, “Hurry your ass up, Pita. I can only be patient for so long.”

Raising the bird in return, you call out from the bathroom, “Better not've used up all the hot water, Bagman.”

“Beat me to the shower next time, sleeping beauty,” he hollers back.

With an amused shake of your head, you close the door and start up the water - relieved to find it to be a perfect scalding temperature. Jake had left the bathroom immaculate, of course. With only a singular used towel hanging on the back of the door to indicate that he had been in there at all.

You step into the tub and let the hot water engulf you as you try to mentally prepare yourself for the day ahead.

Jake slides into the chair across from you at the hotel’s dining area, his plate heaped with the typical continental breakfast servings: pancakes and scrambled eggs, strips of bacon, and a rogue apple that you wonder if he has any actual intention of eating. 

Your own plate reflects the nerves that were surprisingly wracking your system. Plain oatmeal with just a drizzle of honey on top and a white mug of bitter-smelling coffee. 

It was a bit ridiculous, you realize, to feel the way you were. 

You had done this act before - but never on this scale, your mind supplements. And you had agreed to come along for this, of course. But now that you were only a few hours out from go-time, you were genuinely starting to feel like the typical partner would when meeting the parents for the first time.

With only the barest tingling of guilt starting to ease its way in too.

Only a few other patrons are currently dining with the two of you - fairly spread out too. The mounted flatscreen has the Weather Channel playing at a sort of unreasonably loud volume; probably for the benefit of the older couples who were up earlier in the morning.

There's strands of looped garland with twinkling lights throughout the sparsely-decorated room. The little snowmen and thin Christmas trees on the counter are a reminder of the jolly season. Even some of the hotel staff at the front desk had Santa hats on. 

But right now, you were feeling just about anything but the pleasant thrum of yuletide cheer.

After stirring your bowl for another long minute without so much as lifting the utensil up to actually eat anything, you finally let the spoon settle to the side as you eye your companion.

“Okay, Seresin,” you sigh, “Play it out for me again.”

He lets a slow smirk grace his lips as he finishes off the last of his bacon.

“Nerves, Pita?” he mocks, wiping his hands clean on a napkin.

You avoid his gaze as you take a sip of your cooling brew, “Just trying to sell this act.”

He has to bite his lip to keep from outright laughing at the obvious lie, “Right, right. Well, let’s see. We scoot out of here at 12:30, avoid the major roads and show up a few minutes early to contemplate our existence - ” 

His eyes gleam as you snort into your drink.

“My momma flits and fawns over us on the doorstep. She’ll wanna show you around the place, but don’t touch anything. Just compliment her stylistic design choices for a bit. Then food and pleasant small talk. Followed by us trying - and probably failing - to get out of there before nightfall.”

With an accompanying nod, “Sounds easy enough.”

He grins, going back in for his eggs, “Should be a breeze if you use that sweet I just love my boyfriend Jake so damn much charm.”

You scoff, nearly choking on your oatmeal.

He grimaces, “Really selling it, Pits.”

Coughing into your arm, you manage out a gruff, “Fuck off, Hangman.”

He turns his head, waiting for your throat to clear up, slowly working away at his own meal.

“Hmm, okay. You only mentioned your mom. What about your brother…s…?”

There’s a downturn of his lips as his eyes meet yours - annoyed that you had apparently forgotten. As though you weren't constantly bombarded by the stories of thirty-seven other people's families over the course of your deployment.

“Brothers. As in two of them, and a sister 's well. But it’s just gonna be you and me today.”

Before you can stop yourself from prying, you ask a very pointed, “Why?”

Hangman pauses mid-bite. Leaning back in his chair, his spoon clattering to his plate, he stares at your face for a long silent moment. You almost think he’s going to ignore it entirely, but after a full minute, he finally offers up the semblance of an answer.

“I’m the youngest of the bunch. They were out of the house by the time everything with the divorce happened. We all remember things… differently,” he lets out a sigh, settling forward with his arms on the table. “The three of them get on with my old man, me with my momma. Simple as that.”

Not having a proper reply to that, you merely nod, “Okay.”

He waves his hand, as if clearing the air itself of the moment, “Makes our job a hell of a lot easier, that’s for sure.”

You don't ask anything too deep after that, just reassuring the finite details of the visit. He at least helps settle your nerves down to a reasonable level where you don't feel like you're vibrating out of your own skin. And then you're finishing up your breakfast at last and Hangman's collecting your dishes into a careful stack on the table.

Back in the room, the two of you set about relaxing and preparing in your own way. Your companion, for his part, seems too strung now to do much more than doomscroll through his phone from the edge of the bed. You can’t entirely blame him as the minutes tick by and the reality truly sinks in.

Fooling an interested girl or a pushy guy every once in a blue moon was one thing. But putting on the act, for more than an hour, for one of your parents, while sober, well… that was the biggest form of uncharted territory there was.

You try to hype yourself up in the bathroom mirror as you apply some makeup.

Unfortunately, your typical day-to-day life didn’t involve this level of self-care, and you almost regretted bringing it along to begin with, but you were trying to play a certain role. So, you monkey with the blender sponge and hope to god the foundation in your bag matches your actual skin tone.

I agreed to do this.

As strange as it seems, it’s really for his benefit in the long run.

It’s just a few hours of this and then we’re done.

Though you try to remind yourself of the facts - the basic parameters of this strange mission the two of you were on - your own mind seems to want to play against you with every turn of positivity.

No one will buy the act.

You’re fooling an innocent woman.

This is crossing some serious moral boundaries.

And while the rest of your squadron was off enjoying the first real day of their short leave, you were about to do this. You could be back home, taking it slow and easy with the people who mattered; the people who loved you. Instead, you were trying to look like a presentable girlfriend for your wingman.

You’re grateful that your stealth companion waits for you to finish the final coat of mascara before he gives a low whistle from the open doorway. It’s also a good thing that your reflexes are as steady as they are because you have to suppress the startled jump your body wants to take, gripping the counter and uttering a dammit, Seresin instead.

Offering him a tight grimace as you pack away your supplies, Jake steps forward - uncrossing his arms - until he’s standing just behind you.

“You clean up good, Pits.”

If you didn’t think your mascara would smear, you probably would have rolled your eyes. Instead, you meet his gaze in the reflection of the mirror. The two of you looked good together. In fact, if you were an unsuspecting passerby, you could almost say you looked like a typical couple.

“You say that to all the girls, Jake.”

“Ooh,” he recoils, smiling wide. “That’s honestly weird.”

Brushing past him to get back to your bag in the main room, you ask over your shoulder, “What, me calling you by your real name?”

“Yes!”

You just shake your head, sitting down on your bed to zip your makeup kit back into your travel bag, and fix him with a long look.

“Well, that’s what you wanted me to do, right?”

He seems conflicted, challenged by the situation in a way he can’t quite gain control of as he twists the watch on his wrist over and over again.

“So used to you calling me Hangman,” the smile he shoots your way is soft and genuine, “But I can’t exactly have you doing that in front of my momma, now can I?”

You shrug in understanding, settling your arms on your knees as you seem to contemplate your options, “I guess I could pull out one of those cute little pet names you love so much?”

Mulling it over for a second, he ultimately nods, returning to pacing a small circle in front of the dresser.

“Nothing too… gooey, for my sake, please. I won’t be able to keep a straight face.”

Crossing your heart and holding up your hand like you were swearing an oath, “I’ll keep it simple for your poor conservative heart, promise.”

Hangman grins, going to grab his phone off the charger, “You’re a saint, Pita.”

Giving a half-hearted thumbs up for him, you go searching through the inner pocket of your bag for the small metal case you had brought along from home. Flicking open the switch lock, you pull out the small gold chain. Having to dip your chin down to lay the necklace around your neck and work the clasp into place.

Only when you lift your head back up do you notice your companion’s very pointed gaze. Almost self-consciously, you grab hold of the golden heart dangling from the chain - resting just above your sternum.

“Thought it’d be a good touch,” you mumble, dropping your hands to your lap once again.

When you do meet his eyes, his gaze is easy and his lips are quirked into a playful smirk, “What, did I buy that for you?”

Glancing down at the chain once more, you merely lift your hands in a vague if that’s what you want kind of gesture.

“Well, all right then,” he grins.

In truth, it had been a gift from your parents before you left for the Academy. A familiar reminder of the family you had waiting for you across the country and, eventually, across the ocean. 

But, for today only, it could serve as the supposed token of loving affection from your fake boyfriend.

Anything to sell the act, right?

The rental car comes to a stop in the driveway. Jake’s knuckles are nearly paper white from where they’re gripping the steering wheel.

You don’t want to say anything, for fear of making the situation worse. 

While things had been fine leading up to leaving the room, everything seemed to change the moment you were actually sitting in the car. The entire ride had been traveled in near silence with the tension so palpable it was almost strangulating. At one point, three stop signs back, he had made the fraught suggestion of just turning around and going back to the hotel. 

But here you were.

In the cookie-cutter model home neighborhood of peak upper-class Austin suburbia. 

The house you’re parked outside of is practically identical to every other one on the street. A newer two-story, gray-sided building with white windows and doors, black accents, and fake-stone columns. The only difference seems to be that the main walkway is lined with two perfect rows of immaculate pink begonia flowers.

You glance back over at Hangman and find that he’s not moved from his position of looking like he’s seconds from reversing the car and driving all the way back to Lemoore.

“So…” your voice is disturbingly loud in the cabin of the car and you wince at the unintentional volume, “Are we doing this?”

He grips the wheel tighter, breathing out through his nose. 

Raindrops lazily make their journey down the windshield. While the weather had offered you nothing more than a late-season drizzle, the real storm seems to be brewing in the driver’s seat next to you. The air tenses for a final assault, the formation of thunder clouds before the initial clap of lightning.

“Yeah,” he grits out through a drawn breath, “Fuck it.”

Jake pulls the keys from the ignition and props open his door, urging you to do the same. You wait for him, dutifully, as he rounds the front of the rental car before the two of you head up the path to the house.

It feels a lot less like a companionable holiday visit and much more like the final walk up to the executioner’s block. Even the ornate blow-mold snowman on the front stoop does nothing to change the mood.

When faced with the white and gold ribboned wreath on the front door, he pauses, angling his head down toward your ear to say, “I owe you so much.”

You crane your neck to meet his eyes, his face is so close to your own that the scent of his aftershave lingers in your senses.

“Thank me when it’s over.”

With a curt nod, he reaches out to knock three times on the door before recoiling his hand and immediately placing it on your lower back. You’re barely able to force a smile onto your face before the door is opening up.

It almost begs to question just how long she had been standing on the other side, waiting for that signaling knock.

“Oh! Look at you.”

Patricia Seresin is a thin-faced woman with honey-colored eyes and sharp dimples, much like her son’s. Her hair is more of the boxed-dyed blonde variety than natural and her tanned complexion stands out against the collar of her white turtleneck. 

She spreads her arms wide open, almost as though going in for a hug, her hands coming so close to touching both yours and Jake’s faces before ultimately stopping a good inch short. Her lips form a tight smile as she brings her hands back close to her chest, gripped tightly together.

“Hi, Momma,” he smiles from beside you, his fingers digging in further against your back. “This is - ”

Jake introduces you by rank and name, though you’re a little more distracted by the rogue Yorkie in a miniature Christmas sweater that comes barrelling through the doorway to yap at you.

Patty swoops the pup into her arms, flicking it on the nose, “That’s downright rude and you know it.”

Hangman coughs into his fist as the tiny dog begins to snarl at the two of you.

You quickly step forward, “It’s nice to finally meet you!”

Her eyes light up, clearly delighted, “Well, it was a bit of a shock to me, dear. He talks about you often enough that I thought something might be going on but I never expected - oh, gosh. Look at me! Come in, come in!”

She moves ahead into the foyer while you glance back at Hangman who gives you an approving nod. So far, so good.

As the two of you kick off your shoes and boots, he says, “Momma, I didn’t think that thing was still kicking after all this time.”

“Jacob Daniel!”

You snort at the use of his full name and he merely smirks at you.

“Peppi has been in this family for fourteen years now, he’s far from death’s door, thank you very much.”

While the dog in question has seemingly had his fill of you both, his tiny little nails clacking against the wood-grain linoleum, Patty watches the two of you from just across the entryway.

“Where were you two staying again?”

“The, uh, Hilton. On Burnet,” Jake carefully places your boots next to his on the designated rug by the door. All the shoes are in a perfect line, actually - without so much as a speck or scuff on them.

She hums, glancing over at the large black ornate clock on the wall that reads just five minutes after the hour. Her eyes appraise the two of you for another second before she heads into the kitchen.

“I have two perfectly good guest rooms, Jacob. You know that. I would have been more than happy to have you and your beautiful girlfriend spend the night here.”

While you mouth the word beautiful at him in a moment of surprise, he just sighs and throws a forlorn look your way. The two of you follow after her into the kitchen at the rear of the house.

“I know that, Momma.”

You can’t help but stare at the bare gray walls, the few metallic gold pieces of decor on the entry table, a single glass Christmas tree mold on the island counter. You were almost afraid to breathe, let alone touch anything of hers. It was just so minimalistic.

Grabbing hold of Jake’s arm instead, with both of your hands, you smile, “I think what Jake means to say is that he didn’t want to intrude. We’re both still stuck on ship time right now.”

She pauses what she’s doing near the stove, turning back to properly look at you. It takes a second but she smiles and nods.

“I don’t know how you put up with it,” she laughs, incredulous, “He was such an awful guest whenever he came back home. If he bothered to come back at all.”

“Momma,” he sighs, all too good-naturedly.

But the last part had been said so abruptly, so coolly, that you barely have the chance to school your features. Even though he seems to deflect the comment with a roll of his eyes and a can you believe this jokester sort of attitude. 

Jake merely squeezes your arm and walks across the room to his mother’s side, with a hey, anything I can help with, while you’re still trying to process the words.

As a naval officer, you prided yourself in maintaining a certain composure under pressure. From day one at the Academy, you knew what the expectations were when it came to inspections and standing at stock-still attention. Upperclassmen screaming instructions in your face during Plebe Summer had you trained to be as cool as a cucumber. Infallible.

But right now, for the first time since that initial intake day, you were genuinely struggling. And it wasn’t even your family, let alone your drama. Hell, it was barely even one comment of ill contempt. And yet…

Remember the act, you remind yourself. Schooling it in, forcing that oblivious and sweet smile to grace your lips once again as you move to join Jake and his mother.

Each stovetop burner is in use, with different pots of food steaming away. It all smells delicious, of course - a classic holiday spread. The counter along the window is covered in foil-wrapped platters and serving trays. From the looks of it, it's far more food than what three people and a senior dog could possibly eat.

She bats his hand away from one of the pans with her wooden spoon, a warm smile on his face as he leans down to kiss the top of her head.

“It’s good to see you outside of those grainy video calls,” she admits, turning around to wipe her hands on an ornate dish towel. “Now, this’ll just take another hour to finish up, so what can I get you in the meantime?”

While Jake seems more than comfortable going straight to the fridge in search of his own drink, you glance down at the array of trays on the island - already uncovered and waiting. There’s so much food.

“Oh, honey, please grab a plate and help yourself. Those deviled eggs are my specialty!”

Jake’s suddenly at your side, “She’s gonna have to pass on those, Momma. Thought I told you?”

Patricia scrunches her brows as you try to ease your way out of your fake boyfriend’s grasp to get a plate for yourself, “It’s okay, really.”

He sidesteps you again, leveling you with a playfully stern expression.

“Baby.”

The way he drawls out the pet name is such a good touch, you almost want to high-five him for it. 

“We don’t need you sick in the bathroom before the main course even comes out.”

You’re a little surprised that he remembered your egg intolerance. Not that it was a closely guarded secret or anything. But yeah, probably a good call on his part. Considering there was a rather large tray of them too.

“Oh,” she sighs, a hand to her chest, “Honestly, would one little egg really do that much damage, Jacob? See - ” she reaches out to guide you along the island, “Just about everyone uses paprika in their recipe. But me? I use chipotle. You taste this and tell me it’s not the best deviled egg you’ve ever had.”

Suddenly faced with the aforementioned appetizer, you gulp down a reflexive gag and try to smile a polite apology.

“Nope, not happening - ” Jake immediately swipes the morsel from his mother’s hand and shoves it into his own mouth.

Patricia, for her part, seems to give up the argument after glancing over at you. Instead, eyeing her son with a tired sort of look that spoke of dealing with several years of similar antics growing up.

“Honestly, Jacob.”

He just grins, licking his fingers clean.

“Just looking out for my girl, Momma.”

Your heart does swell a little bit at that. He was selling this part so well. You would have to up your own game to match his level - just like when you were flying together. There was a reason Manning always paired you two up for training: you were always pushing each other to do better.

“Sorry, they do look delicious,” you lightly schmooze, moving to wrap your hand around his left arm, leaning your head just slightly so towards his shoulder.

She sighs reluctantly, “Well, if they would be that much of an inconvenience to you…” with another shake of her head, she moves back to the stove, “Jacob, why don't you show her around while I finish this up?”

After nabbing another egg for himself, he gives a little nod and gestures with his chin further into the room. Feeling bold, you drag your hand down his arm until you’re able to clasp your palm with his. His soft green eyes gleam as he tugs you along into the adjoining seating area.

“So,” you keep your voice low, “I’m guessing this isn’t where you grew up?”

Jake glances down at you, “Uh, yeah. She got this place right after they, you know - ” he makes a general slashing motion with his right hand.

“Well, it’s very pretty,” you say, a little louder for her hopeful benefit.

He seems to disagree, stopping in front of the corner fireplace where a light draping of sparkly white garland rests.

“It’s plain and sterile, I'll give it that.”

While you didn’t necessarily disagree with his sentiment, you certainly wouldn’t say it out loud.

There’s three picture frames on the mantle. A black and white portrait of two blonde boys holding a baby wrapped in a blanket. The middle frame holds another baby, a newborn photoshoot from the looks of it - also in black and white. And on the far side is an outdoor shot of three little blonde girls and a boy, also in a monochromatic scale.

“Are these the - ”

“Grandkids,” he nods.

You let out a low whistle, “Could probably form a baseball team in a few years.”

That makes him laugh, slipping his hand from yours to rub at his chin.

“God, I think we’re missing one in here,” he squints at the picture on the far right, “Yeah, yeah. This was before June was born - my niece. Sister’s youngest.”

He lets out a soft hum as he stares at the frames for another moment more - almost like he was preparing to comment further on it. But then he finally jerks his head towards the front of the house.

“Come on, I’ll give you the grand tour.”

As he leads you toward the dining room, you glance back to see Patricia watching the two of you with an unreadable kind of expression on her face. You can only hope that you’re selling the act as well as you thought you were.

In the privacy of the adjoining room, he admitted that he thought the two of you were being pretty convincing. Promising that you just had to make it through dinner and then you would be in the home stretch.

You ended up back in the kitchen, not that long after the short tour of the downstairs area. Hovering next to the island counter, not willing to touch it after you spotted Patty with a bottle of disinfectant shortly after you returned. If Jake’s earlier words hadn’t given it away, then the bare-bones and precision-made state of her home made it pretty apparent that the woman was very much concerned with cleanliness.

In truth though, it doesn’t take long at all for her to finish the final touches of prep. With the two of you helping to at least bring the food to the table - though she ultimately directs where everything is put down and how it’s placed. But, you figure she made all of this food so she deserves to have it done her way.

The long dining table is set for three, though it’s obvious the space was made for a much larger crowd. Gentle instrumental Christmas covers play from a CD player in the corner of the room. Jake makes easy enough conversation with her at first. Asking after her gardening and her weekly aerobics class.

But, fairly soon, the conversation turns over to you.

“So, do you have one of those pilot nicknames too?”

“Callsign, Momma,” Jake sighs with a gentle smile, shaking his head like it was a common mistake he dealt with.

You grab a second piece of cornbread from the plate in front of you. Almost sheepish to explain it out loud to someone outside of your squadron, “Uh, yeah. They call me Pita.”

She pauses, her fork halfway to her mouth as she glances from you to Jake.

“You’re- you’re not one of those vegetarian types, are you, dear?”

“Uhm - ” you balk, looking towards your wingman.

“Ma - ” Jake runs his hand down his jaw, “P-I-T-A, like the bread. Not the animal rights group.”

She gulps, then smiles - a little uneasily - “Well, all right then.”

“It’s, uhm, it’s an acronym, actually,” you smile awkwardly gently pulling apart the roll, “It’s not because I just really love pita pockets or anything.”

The moment it leaves your mouth though, you realize you might have made a grave mistake after looking over at Jake. It wasn’t, exactly, the most appropriate of words. And maybe, based on how sweet bless your heart southern Patricia was, you should have known better.

You watch the way that his Adam’s apple bobs for a moment before he reaches over to squeeze your hand on the table.

“Yeah, it stands for Pretty Terrific in the Air. Can you believe that?”

You’re fast to nod in agreement - like he didn’t just pull that out of nowhere. But, to be fair, he did know the woman better than you and probably knew what she could reasonably handle. 

He kicks your foot under the table.

“Oh, now that is sweet,” she fawns, “I know this boy here was given his little nickname because he’s just so good at that hangman game.”

Your brows raise in surprise because that was definitely not why he was given that callsign. You thump his foot with your own and he immediately traps the toe of your sock with his own, shooting you a pointed don’t you dare look. 

“Yup, that’s it, Momma.”

You have to bite down on your tongue to keep from smiling too wide. Man, if only the rest of the squadron could hear this crap. They would have a fucking field day with Ms. Pretty Terrific in the Air and the apparent reigning kids' word-game champion.

Another minute passes as you work at the food on your plate. It was good, pretty filling, very heavy on the butter content, and definitely not as good as the stuff your own family made - not that you would ever say that to your hostess, of course.

“Mmm,” she sets her water glass back down on its designated coaster. “So, are you two going up to see your family too?”

Ah, this was one moment the two of you had discussed, luckily.

“Yup,” Jake grins. “We head out Wednesday. Figure we’ll have an extra night here to recover from all the traveling.”

In actuality, you were both going to the airport on Wednesday. With you traveling to Detroit Metro and Jake heading off to Fresno once again. While you would be spending the last few days of your leave in the company of your own family, he had plans to relax and unwind back in California.

But she certainly didn’t need to know that.

Patricia nods, “And where is home again? Jacob didn’t mention, I don’t believe.”

The man in question seems very focused on his plate, refusing to meet your eyes. 

While some of the squadron were vocal about home, or it was apparent in their regional accents and - in Jake’s case - his football team of choice. The topic of home more often than not was focused on the family and people you left behind. And, much like how you hadn’t been able to recall the number of siblings he had, you doubt Hangman had been able to remember that little tidbit about you.

“Michigan.”

“Oh, quite a ways up there then!” she exclaims with a laugh. But then she places her cutlery down on the sides of her plate and fixes you with a focused stare. “And what exactly do your parents do, dear?”

Swallowing the food in your mouth before responding, feeling a little bit like you were on the receiving end of a subtle interrogation.

“They, uh, they own a bed and breakfast. That’s where we’ll be staying actually,” you glance over at your companion, “They always decorate it so pretty this time of year too. Though I just love your decor here, it's really quite beautiful, Patty.”

She holds a hand to her heart, “Why, thank you! No one quite knows the amount of work that goes into making this house look the way it does.”

And then she’s off on another tangent about the places she shops and the amount that every little thing costs. Jake seems very resigned from the conversation at that point, tiredly glancing out the front window, while you try to appear interested and excited at her words.

It’s only when she teasingly chastises you for not taking a second helping of her famous mashed potatoes, that things take a rather interesting turn.

“What the - ” Jake murmurs around a mouthful of turkey.

He wipes his lips clean with the white cloth napkin and cranes his head towards the window at the end of the table, nearly leaning into the contents of his plate.

“Uh, Ma. Were you expecting company?”

One glance over at her and you can see the obvious brewing of excited anticipation, like a kid trying to hide the gift they made for their parents for Christmas.

A sudden rush of dread hits you, seeping into your stomach and turning the otherwise delicious meal into a sloshing upheaval of disagreeable mush. Patricia stands up, not even bothering to fold her napkin as she strides out of the room on near-tiptoe.

“Momma?” Jake calls after her, sending you a distressed look as he rises to follow after her.

“What do you think - ” you go to ask.

He just shakes his head, halfway out of the room, “Don’t know.”

Since you didn’t want to be the last one out of the loop, you’re quick to follow after the two of them. Rounding the hallway just as the front door opens and a happy scream from your hostess rings out.

“Oh! Look at you! My handsome boy.”

You’re just a step behind Jake. He’s sagged against the wall - holding his arm out to stop you from moving any further.

“Shit,” he mutters, stress and agitation vibrating off of him as he runs a hasty hand through his hair.

The object of his frustration comes into view the moment Patty shuts the door, guiding the man into the foyer with a proud sort of look on her face.

Your stomach drops. Quickly looking towards Jake for support in the matter but he’s already long gone as he clenches the hand blocking your path, dropping it to his side.

“Hey, Jackie,” the man grins, his dimples eerily similar to the two other blondes in the room.

Straightening his back, Jake gestures from you to the other man, “Honey. Meet my brother. Josh.”

It wouldn’t take a forensic investigator to notice the obvious tension between Jake and his older brother. As he grips his cutlery with newfound aggression, barely speaking with more than single-word answers.

The man - Joshua, but call me Josh - is very obviously a Seresin child. 

He’s got the signature dimples, of course. But he’s taller than your date, by about five or six inches. His hair is a shade darker too, speckled with bits of gray and amber - and with a well-groomed beard to match. He’s got the playful gleam in his eyes that Hangman often has, but his are of an ocean blue variety - not the familiar meadow green you were used to seeing.

And he seems far more comfortable in the environment than the two of you. Sitting next to Patricia, directly across from his younger brother. Piling a plate high with food.

“So, you got yourself a girl? Didn’t mention that the last time we talked,” he smirks, biting into a roll.

“Nope,” comes the clipped reply.

You grip your own fork tighter, nervously glancing between the two of them. It makes you wonder just how long it had been since these two had last spoken. Half a year, if not more, would be your guess.

Josh chuckles, looking over at you instead.

“And you are the poor unfortunate person who has to share a room with this guy? My condolences.”

You force out a small laugh, though every instinct makes you want to chuck your water in the guy’s face.

“I assure you, compared to some of the people I’ve had to share berthing with, this man is the best roommate anyone could ask for.”

Green eyes meet yours and you carefully squeeze his hand. You could get through this - the two of you. Just grin and bear this unexpected encounter and make an early excuse to leave. You’d certainly faced far worse situations than this before.

The older Seresin brother huffs in consideration, leaning back in his chair as he starts to work into the rest of his meal.

“So,” Patricia’s voice is an octave too high, having keenly noticed the shift in conversation, “How’s my grandson?”

He smiles, digging into his pants pocket for a moment to retrieve his phone, “Getting into trouble. Kid’s climbing just about everything now.”

Patty coos as he hands the phone over to her, clearly looking at a picture of the boy in question, “He’s got your nose, Joshy. Gosh, what a looker. How’s Angie holding up?”

With a shrug, he takes the phone and passes it over to Jake who merely stares at it with an unreadable expression.

“Eight months last week, she’s about as big as a balloon now and barely gets off the couch - says her feet are swelling up.”

Jake pushes the phone along to you and you glance down at the picture of the, admittedly, cute-looking baby. With wisps of blonde hair and rosy cheeks. Your companion snorts, indignantly.

“You left your pregnant wife at home, alone, with a baby?”

Looking up from the phone, you turn to see the seething look on Jake's face.

Josh waves dismissively, “Yeah, she can’t fly now. And like hell I’m bringing DJ along on his own - sorry, Ma. The kid’s a handful right now. Figured everyone will come over to Houston after this one’s born anyway. Give the girl a break from the usual rodeo show of a family Christmas.”

“A break?” Jake shakes his head, gritting his teeth with a hollow laugh, "I'm sure trying to wrangle your kid all day long is what she considers a break."

"Jacob -"

"Nah, it's okay, Momma," Josh had an almost wolfish grin as he holds out a hand to seemingly settle her. 

"This one wouldn't know anything about that life. I mean, this is the first time since, what - high school - that he's had someone around? No offense, Jackie."

Jake, for his extreme benefit, forces a tight grin - something far more similar to Hangman than anything you had seen yet today.

"And yet…"

The slamming of silverware on porcelain makes you startle, eyes widening as you stare at the stern-looking matriarch.

“Jacob,” she nearly hisses, “This was a perfectly lovely meal up until five minutes ago. Could you put aside your unnecessary opinions for the sake of not only Christmas but for the sake of your girlfriend? Who, in case you failed to notice, is probably receiving an absolutely terrible impression of us right now.”

“I don’t - ” you try to soften the blow.

Hangman clenches his jaw, rolling his neck - the tension falling to his shoulders and back. Snatching his half-empty glass from the table, he rises and all but stalks out of the room.

You stare after his retreating form for a moment, compelled to follow after him but also equally frozen by the situation.

And then a low whistle from just across the table rings out.

Glancing over at the older Seresin brother, you meet his clearly amused eyes.

“See? He’s still throwing fits after all this time. Maybe that’s why they haven’t promoted him yet.”

“Honestly, Joshua,” Patty sighs, carefully resuming her meal with dainty bites.

If you weren’t more concerned with your friend’s image today, perhaps you would have said something. Not held back your punches. But you were still in the middle of the chess game, even if there was an unexpected player on the board. So, with all the decorum you can manage, you grab your own glass and slide out of your chair.

“I’m gonna go check on him.”

Just out of earshot and out of sight from the dining room, you find your wingman stock still in the middle of the kitchen, staring out the back window.

You clear your throat, knowing better than to startle him. His shoulders immediately sag as you come up alongside him.

“We good? Jake?”

It takes a second, but his soft green eyes meet yours.

“I’m sorry for draggin’ you into this whole thing, Pita.”

With a smirk and a slight shake of your head, you slap his arm gently.

“You think I give a damn about your hotshot brother over there? Please, we eat guys like him for breakfast and you know it.”

You’re grateful that the stupid line manages to make him chuckle, dropping his head down before he meets your gaze again.

“Still, didn’t exactly prepare you for this.”

“Eh,” you shrug. “What’s one more family member? And hey, I can fake a migraine or something and get us out of here before she brings out the desserts, you know?”

Jake sighs, wrapping his arm around your shoulders - tucking your head in just below his chin, “You’re a fucking saint, Pits.”

You smile into the fabric of his sweater, hands finding purchase on his waist, “And don’t you forget it when we’re back on base, Seresin.”

The faintest touch of his lips on the top of your head makes you flush with warmth, but the moment quickly dissipates when you hear a teasing awww from the other side of the room.

The two of you turn - Jake’s arm still around your shoulders - only to find Josh, with his phone in hand.

“I’m sorry,” he smiles. “I know I came in a little hot back there. But this right here?” he points at the two of you, “That was too sweet. And Jess was begging me for proof anyway.”

Jake clears his throat, his hand tightening from where it rests on your bicep.

“What?”

Josh’s brow bunches together for a moment as he begins to walk towards the two of you.

“Well, I mean the fact that you actually are dating - bringing someone home, I might add. That’s kind of big news, buddy. Jess didn’t believe me at first. So, I sent her this and - ”

He holds up his phone and turns the screen to face you. You’re met with the image of Jake’s face on the top of your head, your own arms around his middle. If you didn’t know better, you would assume the two of you were a couple.

“Hell, Dad is gonna be ecstatic when he meets you - ” he smiles at you.

But Jake almost seems to push you back, his arm becoming a barrier between you and own his brother.

“Dad?”

Another furrowed brow crosses his face as he swipes up the bottle of red on the countertop, “Well, yeah? Ma said you guys were in town until Wednesday, so I figured you were coming to their thing tomorrow.”

Hangman rubs a hand down his face.

“I never fucking said that, man.”

“Jesus,” Josh chuckles, holding his hand up in mock surrender. “Need to get over that shit, Jackie. It was a long ass time ago and everyone’s gonna be there anyway. Shit, Kensie hasn’t seen you in almost five years - she starts middle school next fall.”

He groans in annoyance and you quickly step out of his line of fire as he begins to pace along the island.

“Yeah, well maybe I wasn’t ready to go visiting him yet. Maybe I didn’t want to involve her in this whole thing. God, would you just fucking think about something other than yourself for once?”

Jake seems about ready to hit his second wind, going in for the kill shot, when the phone in his pocket starts pinging: one notification after the other. He sighs, yanking the device out to stare at the incoming hailstorm of messages from the family group chat.

“Just… had to go runnin’ your mouth to Jess of all people.”

Josh, by now, has opened the bottle and pulled down three glasses. He swishes the wine in his for a moment, offering a half-hearted, “Sorry, man.”

In return, Jake just scoffs, firing off a text before finally looking over at you.

“They want me - us, to come over tomorrow.”

You stare at your friend, your companion, your wingman.

He’s the epitome of anxiety-ridden and stressed out. Clenching his hands into fists, chewing a sore spot onto his bottom lip.

You think about Patricia and Josh, how they’ve treated him while here in your presence. Then you consider the obvious hold-up he seemed to have about anything to do with his own father. If today was the test run, then tomorrow was nearly guaranteed to be the real shitshow.

In good conscience, you knew you couldn’t let him face that alone.

Not many people outside of your squadron would willingly give Hangman the time of day. He appeared cocky, a little too smart-alec for his own good. But you could see right through that act - right through the bullshit. And this man was terrified at the prospect of having to show up to a family get-together with almost no real way out.

Patty had already dropped the little fact that the two of you were already going to be in Austin an extra day. His sister was seemingly excited to meet you, his totally not fake girlfriend.

And, when you consider all the things the two of you had been through together. The missions you had flown when life and death were truly on the line, well… this didn’t seem all that bad, now did it?

With a calming breath, you smile gently up at Jake.

“Okay.”

He blinks, seemingly resetting his brain back a few seconds as he repeats, “O-okay?”

“Yeah, honey. I’m with you,” you reach for his hand, and like a personal life preserver, he latches on and squeezes tightly.

The two of you make it through the rest of the meal with tight-lipped and less-than-genuine smiles. You bite your tongue at the overly rude comments and try your best to shed Jake in good light. At one point, Patty disappears into the kitchen for a solid fifteen minutes when things become a little too heated between the brothers again.

She comes back with the slightest sway to her step and an all-together more pleasant attitude.

You make it through dessert and offer to help clean up. Jake and his brother share a very intense conversation on the couch as you pack up leftovers for Patricia. His eyes meet yours several times, but he just shakes his head and gets drawn back into the discussion again.

By the time the sky is falling dark and the porch lights across the street are turning on in near-perfect synchronicity, the two of you had clearly had your fill.

With Jake promising to call her more often, or at the very least try to write more often. And, with a stoic face, he slaps his brother on the shoulder and says that the two of you will see him tomorrow afternoon.

The drive back to the hotel is silent once again. Though you can’t particularly blame the guy. If he was anywhere near as exhausted as you felt, then the silence was a fucking reprieve from the day.

Once inside the sanctuary of your room, you both go about stripping the masks you had worn, with Jake allowing you first go at the bathroom to wipe off your makeup and properly clean your face. He’s sat on the edge of his bed when you do emerge in your pajama pants and sleep shirt. His boots are still on, his hands in an entwined fist between his spread legs, and his eyes fixed on a place far away from the hotel carpet in front of him.

With a gentle sigh, you carefully place your toiletry bag back on the dresser and make your way over to him, dropping down to your knees in front of him.

“Talk to me, Seresin.”

It takes a second, but his eyes flash up to meet your own. He settles his hands on his knees and takes a long breath.

“Thank you, for all of that today.”

You offer him the slightest quirk of your lips.

“I told you; I keep my promises.”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, “But you didn’t originally agree to a repeat show.”

Your hand pushes at his leg, trying to ease him out of his tense shell, “Come on, missions change all the time. The rules of engagement stay the same, but sometimes a single target turns into two or more. I agreed to do this for you and I’m gonna see it through.”

He tilts his head back, his throat bobbing as he gulps with the slightest hitch in his voice, “I know.”

“Then will you let the fact that we absolutely rocked it out of the fucking park today sink in for a moment?”

It was true. Patty had almost hugged you at the end - the closest form of real affection that she seemed willing to give. Had eagerly complimented Jake on how wonderful, accomplished, and pretty his girlfriend was. She had even pressed about seeing you again next year, with him wrapping his arm around your waist and smiling wide with a teasing, well, we’ll see about that, Momma.

There was no chance in hell Jake would get another leave over the Christmas holiday again. Even less likely was the chance of the two of you traveling down to Austin to perform this stunt ever again. The fact of the matter was, the two of you were going to “break up” sometime in the next few weeks. And maybe then, she would lay off the relationship talk for a little while longer.

That or Jake just had to stop replying to her emails.

“Admit it,” you grab his knee and gently rock his leg back and forth, “We make a hell of a team, Seresin.”

“Aww,” he coos, “You say that to all the boys, Pits.”

“Fuck off, Hangman,” you chuckle, rising to your feet and making your way over to your bed. Happy to find that the tone between you had remained unchanged by the day.

He finally relents, kicking off his shoes and placing them over by the closet once again, before he reclines back on his bed. You’re already snuggled under the covers when he flicks off the beside light - though the TV is still on mute in the background. The brightness of the screen casts his face in obscure shadows as he rolls onto his side to face you.

Propping your head up on your hand, you begin, “Okay, play it out for me, Bagman.”

You can make out the faintest shimmer of a smirk on his lips as he starts, “So, we’re looking at a full house tomorrow. There’s gonna be my brothers, Josh and Justin - ”

By the time he’s fully exhausted himself of the makeshift, seat-of-his-pants plan, you’re struggling to keep your own eyes open. With your eyelids growing heavier as you try to focus on his garbled words.

And then he stops.

“You still with me, honey?” he teases softly.

“Barely,” you mumble, face pressed into the pillow.

He sighs, and then the light disappears from the room as he turns off the TV. You can hear the faint groaning of the air conditioner coming back on.

“Get your sleep, Pita. You’re gonna need it.”

You smile, already feeling the pleasant tug of unconscious oblivion as you stretch your legs out, “You too, Bagman.”

His warm, throaty chuckle is the last thing you hear as you finally slip under

Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

[sandinthemachine]

Chilling Rapture

Part 2 of Deadly Nightshade, a monster!König au.

Part 1

Masterlist

I actually had so much fun finishing this one, my power went out and I had to handwrite it by candlelight until my wifi came back on, hopefully it's strong enough to post this now because the lights keep flickering.

I also have a draft sketch of the map so hopefully that can come soon as well.

For those interested, the songs at the beginning will sometimes be chosen for a little bonus foreshadowing. There's also a Shirley Jackson reference in this one for any classic horror fans out there. Hope you enjoy :)

Warnings: nothing serious yet (lemme know if I missed anything)

Word count: 3,313

There's someone walking over my grave For a sudden shiver is making its way Creeping over me, coursing down my spine And taking over this body of mine I can feel it in the depths of my being A chill of the blood, an ominous feeling -"Walking Over My Grave" by Blackbriar

It is a quiet kind of night.

No. To say it is quiet does not do it nearly the kind of justice it deserves, nor does it stir up the emotions such a night as this has urged forward, deep in the pit of your stomach where your dinner still sits heavily.

Quiet ushers forth a peaceful kind of relaxation wholly unlike the thick black tar rising up your back.

Silent perhaps is closer, only insofar as the word conjures in you the hopeless repetition of the phrase silent as the grave.

You find every warning and caution drifting through your head as you shift in the bed, but where you would expect fear you feel only an anticipation, strangely dissonant with the weariness of your body.

Where are the birds? Where are the whales? Why hasn’t there been a single gust of wind?

The sea, in clear view of the window when the curtains are open, is soundless. How is that even possible? It is as if some strange god has thrown a great smothering blanket over the entire island, trapping each tiny soul in the silence below. Like flies in honey.

You can’t even hear the blood rushing in your ears.

You find yourself staring at the window curtains, their blackness somehow darker than the shadows around them.

With no notion of why or even how, you find your legs swinging over the bed very much of their own accord, carrying you to those curtains, and behind you the soundless void presses in, a great wave bearing you forward, and you think perhaps you could open this window, let it carry you right to the ocean itself and down below, for surely then you’d hear something, even if it was your own splash before you were dragged below.

You brush the thought aside with a quiet resignation. You will open the window, you think. But only to hear the water.

The curtain fabric brushes velvety soft over your fingers as you push them aside, ears perked to hear a shuffling of fabric, a metal scrape of rings over curtain rods, but neither sound ever comes.

You pause at the drawn curtains, staring at what you know to be the window. It is completely indistinguishable from the darkness of the walls and the curtains, such that you find yourself raising a hand, pressing a palm into the cool glass to make sure it’s there. But when you remove your hand it is as if the window once again vanishes, leaving you staring blankly, eyes nearly burning in their hopeless struggle to see.

You feel strangely dizzy all at once, as if gravity is shifting, pulling at the air around your face, warping the flooring beneath your feet, tilting the walls in hopelessly contrived angles you can’t possibly see in this crushing dark. You could be upside down now, walking on the ceiling with no idea. Perhaps there is no ceiling at all and you are stepping straight up the walls and soon you will step off and fall sideways for an eternity and you will never even see the ground flying by you. Or maybe you will keep walking right up into the sky, only all the stars are gone and you’ll never know the cool mist is clouds wrapping around you as you climb for the rest of eternity.

You shake your head.

Why are you here again?

You suddenly get the overwhelmingly primal feeling that something is watching you, something carved from the darkness itself with no need for eyes or ears, stalking up to you, and you will never see or hear it, you’ll only know it’s there the second it reaches through the window and claws sink into your ribs, grabbing at the heart whose frantic beating it senses like a beacon in the night and…

You yank the curtains closed, stumbling backwards. The need to gasp briefly possesses you, but your throat tightens against your will, cutting off even that sound in a mocking kind of rage.

My quiet, a thousand thoughts chant through your head. My quiet, my darkness, my place, mine mine mine.

And you, who are you to break the silence of this night that doesn’t belong to you?

Your heart stuttering and flapping against your chest, you fall back into bed, tucking your legs up against your chest so tightly you feel it in your lungs.

You bury your face in your knees, swallow a sob.

And try desperately to sleep.

You finally shift again, dragging your head upward as a sluggish grey takes over the room, shoving the shadows further and further into the corners. You stare at your bare shins as the light hits them, a single finger tracing delicately over deep blue-black. You hover your hands over the outlines with a detached kind of contemplation, fingers stretching back into place, perfectly aligning with the rounded shapes.

You hadn’t felt it last night.

Best not to think about that, actually. You let your eyes drift back to the window curtains, fitting your lower lip between your teeth as you take in their limp form.

Right now, stained by the leaden rays of another grey dawn, they’re just curtains. Old and decrepit, with a fraying bottom corner and a coffee stain along one edge. Beyond them is a dusty window, and a view to a monotonously dark sea.

Nothing more.

Never anything more.

The walk to the kitchen is uneventful, the shadows thin and cowardly. A persistent chill worms its way up your neck, but even that gives up when you pull a blanket around yourself, tucking it over your head like a fluffy oversized hoodie.

When you were little, you and your mother always used to bundle up like this, huddled on the couch on cold winter nights as you begged your father to hurry up and restart the fire, please, I’ll freeze solid this instant if you don’t.

Be a lot less complaining around here if you did. And he’d grin at your indignant face, winking over at your uncle in the armchair as they both chuckled.

He’d always pull out extra blankets afterwards, though.

With a loud gulp, you pull the blanket tighter around you.

You should write to your uncle. Yes, that’s exactly what you’ll do, you know you packed stamps and envelopes and...

Damn.

You forgot to pack a pen.

It’s fine, that’s an easy enough thing to find.

In any other house, that is. For the more you search, the more you realize just how little this place has. One floor of cramped rooms smelling of dust, dust, and more dust. A tiny office with an empty desk. Even stranger, atop the desk, atop every surface, actually, are no clear patches, no thinner patches of the dusty coating to indicate that anything had ever been on top of them. Did your uncle have any stuff? Or was he really just content with this place as it was?

You begin to wonder if he ever really lived here at all, or if maybe this is some kind of cruel prank the world is playing on you, sending you to this decrepit old cottage on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere with no friends and nothing to-

Elisha. Probably not a friend. Yet. You’d met her once, after all. But maybe friendly enough to give you a pen. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

You try not to dwell on that question as you throw on some warmer layers and shove past the front door.

Immediately you’re greeted by a frenzy of your own coughing as the acrid tang of cigarette smoke floods your lungs.

What the hell?

You spin all around, scanning your yard, but of course the only one here is you. As you walk forward, the smell quickly fades, and you decide that’s a problem for another time. For all you know, it won’t ever happen again, anyway.

Elisha’s house shows no signs of life, so you knock on her neighbor’s door instead. Almost immediately the rickety door swings open to reveal a stout old man glowering at you past a crooked hooked nose.

You stutter out a hello, earning nothing but an eyebrow raise. “I…uh, well, I just moved in down there and, anyway I just came by to ask Elisha for a pen but it doesn’t seem like she’s…home.”

You trail off as he marches past you, right up to shake Elisha’s poor door with a trio of hard knocks. “New one’s here!” he yells out, not even listening for a reply before picking his way back to his own porch, giving you a wide berth. “She’ll be down in a minute.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He pauses in the doorway, regarding you for a moment before giving a quick nod. With that, he disappears back inside.

A little creak pulls your attention back to Elisha’s door just as her head pokes out of it. “Oh, sweetie, what are you doing standing out in the cold?” She gestures frantically. “In, in!”

With nothing better to do, you oblige.

Her cottage is as small as yours, but that’s where the resemblance ends. A warm fire blazes in the fireplace, combining with the soft light of a couple candles to cast the entire living room in a comforting orange glow. There’s no hint of dust to be found, only soft chairs and a couch covered in extra pillows and fuzzy blankets. Dark blues and emerald greens. An oil painting of a salt marsh hangs above the fire place. Peaceful. Full of sunlight. You take a deep breath, sighing. Woodsmoke and vanilla. Fresh coffee. A hint of ocean salt.

She’s watching, you now realize, heat flushing through your cheeks as you glance at the floor. Even the carpet looks soft. “I…I was actually just stopping by to ask if you have a pen.”

She smiles softly. “Of course, dear.” She moves to the counter, deftly plucking one from a hand-painted mug before pausing. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No, ma’am.” The carpet is the perfect shade of green.

“You had better stay, then. I just made fresh rolls, I have plenty of extra.” She tucks the pen into her pocket.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t.” There’s a faded spot in front of the fire. Does she have a cat?”

“Really, it would be my pleasure.”

“I have to get b-”

A hand taps on your shoulder and you jump, finally looking up again. Something warm presses against your sternum, and you glance down. Tea. Your fingers curl around it hesitantly, the weight of it somehow unfamiliar in your stiff hands.

Elisha was just talking. You glance up, trying to force a smile. “Sorry?”

She only sighs. “Couldn’t sleep, could ya?”

Your eyes drift back to the mug, taking in the little gold stars painted along the rim. Their edges begin to blur, and you blink, a little too fast, shake your head even faster. The walls feel cramped again.

“Hey, hey.” Bony fingers wrap around yours, gently pulling you forward, and a hand is on your shoulder, guiding you to sit on the couch. You let yourself sink down, barely noticing Elisha walk away until she’s back and a plate of warm food is being placed in your lap. Your eyes are wider now, burning just a little as you look up at her. She’s already turned away, though, swiping a book up from a side table and curling in an armchair to read.

Tentatively your fingers close around a roll, guiding it to your mouth as the smell floods through your brain.

You’re sure Elisha’s cooking is lovely, but you regret to admit the food is gone before you’ve even tasted it, the crumbs cleaned from the plate with careful fingers, the tea drank in great desperate sips and embarrassingly loud swallows.

You smile at the bottom of the mug now, counting the gold constellations dancing along it. There are dozens of little stars stretching across the inky blue, the gold paint twinkling gleefully as you tilt it this way and that. How did someone paint so many so neatly? Did they have a stamp, maybe? A really long brush and a steady hand? When was the last time you painted?

You push the thought away, glancing up at Elisha. She’s on a new book now, eyes wide and focused.

“Who’s the man next door?”

She jumps a little, eyes a bit wild as they focus on you again. “Hm? Oh.” She laughs. “He scare ya? Don’t worry, George is harmless. Just not a morning person. Runs in the family, I guess.” She holds her palm over her mouth to cover a big yawn.

You giggle, and she raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, guess I didn’t see the resemblance.”

She laughs. “What, the eyebrows weren’t a dead giveaway?”

“Everyone here has the same eyebrows.”

She snorts, slapping her palm over her mouth with wide eyes before you both burst out laughing. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that,” she wheezes between laughs.

“It’s true, though!”

She rubs her eyes, shaking her head with a grin still plastered across her face. “Oh, dear me. You met Martin yet?”

“No.”

“Now there’s a set of eyebrows.”

You quickly lose track of time as the pair of you sit there, her happily describing in detail all the people on the island. And, of course, their eyebrows. The ferryman is Francis (the alliteration makes you smile). He doesn’t live here, but everyone knows him anyway. You learn her brother’s name is John, but that was their father’s name, so everyone calls him Jack. He doesn’t talk much in the mornings, but he sings in the town bar some nights. The man at the general store you met yesterday is Ed. He’s ‘a grouchy old eyesore,’ apparently. But Elisha had smiled as she said it.

Eventually she trails off, her eyes shifting to the window. “It’s probably time you headed back.”

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion before you realize she’s right. The fire is long dead, and the candles flickered out hours ago. Without their light, it’s easy to see the grey outdoors steadily fading to black once again.

Elisha walks you out the door, hovering on her porch. “You come back here if you need anything, you understand?”

You nod dutifully. “Of course.”

“Oh! Almost left without this.” She fishes the pen out of her pocket, stuffing it into your hands.

“Right, yeah. And…Elisha, thank you…for today.” You gesture vaguely, not sure what else to say, but she only smiles softly, giving you one last nod.

You start down the steps and pause, eyes settling on her brother’s porch. He sits in his rickety old chair, eyes fixed on the distance. Smoking a cigarette.

“Um, Elisha?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Could you tell your brother to be careful when he smokes? I think the wind blew some of it my way this morning, and my lungs can’t really take that.”

She stares at you for a long moment, head tilting slightly. “There wasn’t any wind this morning, dear.”

“Oh.” You swallow, shaking your head. “Never…mind.”

With one last look back at her brother, you head home.

Something feels…off. Your heartbeat picked up as soon as you entered the driveway, and now the hairs on the back of your neck prickle.

Your hand hovers over the doorknob, trembling slightly.

You glance back.

Nothing. A little bird hops across the lawn. It freezes, shaking slightly as it looks at you, before flying away with a squawk.

Your hand tightens around the handle, wrist turning very carefully, opening the door.

A bellowing howl echoes across the marsh.

You leap through the door, slamming it behind you. Your hands shake as they grab at the lock, slipping and sliding off it before it finally clicks into place and you back away, stumbling and barely catching yourself.

You rush over to your bag, flinging it to the side as you throw the closet open, fingers curling tightly around the old bat. You flick it upwards, relishing in its comforting weight as you clutch it to your chest.

THUNK.

You leap backwards as something heavy crashes against your bedroom window.

Did the house shake, too? Or was that your imagination?

Did the curtains quiver just now? Or was that you?

A tiny croak sounds through the window, and you gasp, taking a step closer. Another strangled sound breaks the silence, garbled and unintelligible. Your eyes narrow as you press your ears against the wall, the little sounds continuing.

Carefully you pick your way to the door, the bat resting over one shoulder. You open it just a crack, poking your head out. Nothing. You slide out of it sideways, crouching low as you work your way around the house, eyes fixating on every shadow lengthening and waving in the rapidly dimming light.

You turn, the corner, raising up the bat.

A raven lays twitching on the ground below the window.

Your shoulders slouch, letting the weapon drag along the ground. Slowly, you approach the struggling bird, taking in its pitifully flapping wings as it lays on its back, legs kicking uselessly upwards.

“Oh, you poor thing.”

Gingerly you kneel in front of it, laying the bat aside as you gather it into your arms.

A hulking black shadow gallops across the yard, disappearing into the thick bushes with a crash.

You snatch the bat and sprint inside.

The bird doesn’t seem hurt. Its wings stretch and bend fine as they flap weakly against you, and its legs are shaky but not broken. Only its eyes betray it, flickering wildly around as frantic pants shake its entire body. You cradle its limp head, quietly shushing its cries as you hold a glass of water against its beak. It shudders, throwing its head back before swallowing. Gradually its head tilts, and it stretches its neck forward again for another long drink.

“There you go, that’s it,” you soothe, laying it on the floor with the water as you pull down a blanket, tucking it around the bird. It shudders, fluffing up its feathers before settling in, tucking its head under a wing.

You can’t help but smile at that.

With one last glance at the window, you climb into bed, bat still in hand, and try to sleep.

A raucous squawk yanks you from consciousness, followed by a crash.

“What the…oh, no.”

You leap out of bed, dashing into the kitchen to find the raven dragging a shiny pan across the floor.

“Hey, nonono, not yours.”

It squawks belligerently, hopping backwards with a glare.

You sigh, shaking your head. “Fine, then.” You pick your way around the disgruntled bird so you can pull out the can of tomatoes. “Trade?”

The bird tilts its head expectantly, letting the pan’s handle fall to the floor with a twang. You nod and fish out a tomato, dropping to a crouch to proffer it. The little devil eagerly hops forwards, snatching the food from your grasp and ripping it to pieces, spreading tomato guts all over your floor before happily taking a couple more from you.

You straighten again, regarding the bird with a discerning look. “Yeah, I think you’ll be just fine, buddy.”

You slide the jar back onto the counter and open the door with a sweeping gesture, smiling as the bird croaks joyfully, catapulting itself through the doorway and whirling in the air. You skip around the house after it, watching it whirl higher and higher before diving down into the trees and brush of the swamp.

Maybe being here won’t be so bad, after all.

But as you turn to head back inside, your entire body stiffens.

Carved into the dirt beneath your bedroom window…is a single massive footprint.

taglist: @die-prophetin, @fatedeniedhope, @kakashiislut, @lirinchi

to be added to the taglist, comment. This taglist is separate from my main taglist, so if you want to be added to the main taglist as well, please specify that. Thank you :)

[inkribbon796]

Egotober 2023 Day 6: Like Children Again

Summary: Every once in a while the Lost Ones need a night where they just hunker down in the living room and sleep there like a bunch of seven year olds.

Prompt: Pillow

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31

They didn’t tend to do this a lot, not since they were much smaller, and much newer in the Manor. Tonight the living room of the Manor was covered in pillows and blankets, making a huge pillow fort area. The outer area you could mostly walk through, but the inner edges you had to crawl. Snacks were left for the kids around the edges of the fort to keep them from making too big of a mess.

Dark opened a random portal or two to check on them but mostly the seven Lost Ones were left to their own devices.

Yan leaned over to put her elbows on her eldest adopted brother’s pillow. “How's Florida?”

“Too hot,” Patton looked up at her as he was working on a cat-themed coloring book. “But I’ll get used to it. Appa’s place down there has good air conditioning.”

“I want to go, tell him I can go,” Yan pleaded.

A pillow came from the side and hit her off of Patton’s area. Arthur had his black notebook on his lap and leaned over. “Fat chance, I only just got him to let me go, and if you go he’ll be all over us.”

“C’mon,” Yan said as she tossed the pillow back at him.

The young author easily dodged and the pillow almost dislodged some of the blanket wall. Which Illinois had to hold up before enough of the weight could start dislodging and bringing down the fort.

“Hey,” Illinois called out before his magic set the curtain rod holding the partition up. “Quit roughhousing in here, go outside.”

Yan leaned over and pulled the blanket up to lean over Illinois’s shoulder where he, Bim, and Yancy were watching Army of Darkness.

“Hey, Ills.” Yan smiled.

“No,” Illinois said without looking at her.

She frowned. “I didn’t even ask. You’re so mean.”

“There’s no convincing Appa, you’d have to wait another year at least.” Illinois finally looked back at her. “Wait your turn like the rest of us had to.”

“No fair,” Yan said as she moved into their area to watch the movie. Illinois let her slide up next to him.

Arthur and Patton were left in the other area for a couple of minutes before a portal opened up next to them.

Dark’s ringing was dulled but still present. “Boys, if you would, a moment?”

The two adopted brothers looked at each other before crawling through the portal and jumping down to stand in Dark’s office.

“Perfect,” Dark said as he pulled a small, thin wooden box out of a different portal. “I’ll make this quick. Patton, during your stay, you’re in charge.”

“Figures.” Arthur was barely audible but Dark gave him a sharp look.

Dark’s expression turned more into a frown. “I need you two to be able to blend in. Remember, your future careers in the Network depend on how well you do. I need you to be able to pretend to be fully human and have covers. If you can’t, you’ll be pulled back into Egoton and we will discuss what to do from there.”

“We got this, Old Man, don’t worry,” Arthur said.

“That remains to be seen,” Dark said as he opened the case and his aura pulled out two silver pines. Each a gleaming star with deer antlers curled around it. The pins were moved to clip onto the inside of their sleeve where a cufflink would sit on a fancy dress shirt.

Dark closed the case with a sharp SNAP and used his aura to check their placement. His aura burrowing into the very metal itself. “There are many gangs in the area. Deceit of the Twin Serpents is one of them. These should mark you as my top enforcers and give you less trouble.”

“Awesome,” Arthur smiled, turning his sleeve over to study it.

“Remember that you are my enforcers, you do things my way. You represent me and therefore you have to obey my rules to the letter. You are Pathos and Author, not anything else.”

“Got it, boss,” Patton did a mock salute, a huge smile on his face.

Dark managed a proud smirk. “You two will make your father proud, I’m sure of it.”

After that he opened up another portal right to where they had been before in the fort. “You both start on Monday, you have the weekend to pack and I can send you anything else you need. Including a trip home with just a tap of the pin.”

“Won’t need it,” Arthur said as he climbed back into the fort.

Patton gave another big smile and climbed into the fort where there was minor jealousy from Bim and Yan.

None from Illinois, at least visibly, which was what the young author had wanted.

All in all it was a nice night, watching movies. Talking about boys, except for Kay who just wanted to talk about random animal facts.

They fell asleep watching a horror movie and Dark was there to wake them up at the respectable hour of ten in the morning.

Another successful night at the Doom-Warfstache household.

A/N: Huh, what's Patton doing here? Ehhh, I'm sure that's not important. :)

[eulcgizeme]

OPEN TO: @tragiclike for madelyn MUSE: pope callaway, twenty-seven, dream walker / witch. mike faist fc. PLOT: supernatural au— pope callaway was found as an infant by orla callaway who sensationalized her finding of him to bring business to her fortune telling and wiccan services. however, she soon found out the child was truly special and used it to her advantage. when she died, pope was left to his own devices and her rules to keep him from the supernatural that were meant to hide who he really was has isolated from humans and supernatural alike.

Twelve strikes from the clock on the wall, and Pope knew that he had to pull every blind closed. A rattle marked the completion of every moment, a ticking conducted by him as dark engulfed the trailer. The blinds smacked the window sill, the curtains screeched against their rusted rods, and the towel he shoved under the crack of each door was tucked away with a clank against the metal barriers.

Pope had been taught that once the midnight came, right and wrong battled. Good and bad had the chance to fight and decide who would take over the witching hour and he was to be weary. The moon beckoned the worst of creatures— and according to Orla Callaway, and quite possible Pope himself— and he’d hide in the dark from it. The shadows, however, never lasted long. Once he fell asleep, as he always did no matter how hard he tried not to, hues returned behind his eyes. Twisted tales whether he liked it or not still reached him, and Pope always woke up outside of the trailer without a clue as to when he climbed out.

There was a rustling outside, and Pope stopped in his routine. There was a tug on every hair on his body, heart the only movement as it raced in his chest. Was he late? There was no way. He started at the first click, and he was done before the cuckoo’s song was done. He could make it to the back of the trailer and under another veil into the dark in just a few steps. Never had he heard a single sound, not even after Orla moved out. It was only now that she was gone that things seemed out of place, even if he didn’t want to admit.

Instead of submitting to the stillness of the caravan, Pope reached into a drawer and pulled free a flare buried between trinkets for emergencies. The door protested against his push, and he hurled himself into the night.

“What’s out there?” His voice was steady, cutting through the air farther than he thought it would. Pope knew better than to ask who. “Come out!”

[intensitystoner]

– Until I was yours, I was not free – 

She thought at first that she was seeing a twin or a clone, perhaps hallucinating or having a wishful vision in someone vaguely similar. The man under suspicion was one of the free, walking slowly along the main path and immersed in a light-mooded chatter with his companion. His deep-set eyes a faded shade of teal, his face lean and shadowed around the cheeks. His hair dark and wavy, chin-length at most, loosely combed back to introduce a remarkable forehead. The attire he wore fit the environment: an elegantly collared jacket all free men wore, unique in some subtle traits like each other one. The shirt under it ran up the entire length of his neck, like he enjoyed suffocating in the scorching, stuffy air of the market. 

Only after several steps with the walking rod in his left hand did she notice him limping. What battle had he just recently emerged from, if he wasn't being hunted? 

By the end of her observation, she wondered if he was deaf or a coward. Or just his usual cunning self? He was namely ignorant to her angered calls over the crowd from a row away. And his well kempt appearance had induced a great deal of rage in her to tug on her groaning chains. Her ruckus awoke startled attention in her immediate surroundings. 

And he, he bent to his companion, a somewhat shorter, elderly man, sharing a delightful story that his widely gesturing hands had just remembered. 

Her vengeful snarls at his distant form earned her a punch on the jaw from a metal rod, and crude, foreign scolding from a captor. Her temper was heated, so she spat her rapidly accumulating blood into the intruder's face in the middle of his crudely scolding sentence. 

Her voice – and breath – faltered as she was kicked by a spiked metal boot on the ribs in response, her balance quickly overthrown and sending her onto her knees. The cuffs attaching all four of her limbs onto the pedestal didn't allow her to reel away from the continuing assault. The thin linen tunic didn't yield protection. The cracked pride she had trusted in proved to be frail against the unexpected occurrence, and she kept on calling for the first familiar face she had seen in an eternity, even while her eyes shut and her jaw clenched from the pain: her voice alone clung onto the possibility, which she hadn’t even noticed growing in her awareness. She barely noted her tone turning to pleading from the challenge she had thrown towards him at the beginning. 

Other captors held back her attacker before her demeanour could have been damaged significantly. When the brawl dragged out and increased the audience, the older man’s attention was drawn to her first among other passers-by, a hand on his partner’s arm modestly requesting a break in the flow of words. The green-grey eyes then turned to look as well; though her glare attempted to bore into his through the curtain of her hair, they swept over her urging gaze without a sign of recognition, more amused by the bicker that the captors were now having over the maiden’s head. He had his wit ready for a quietly shared comment on it, which made the older man chuckle along. As he responded to the older man's curious mumbling while staring at the ruckus, the familiarity in his arched eyebrows and pouting lips grew certainty inside her. Her voice was abandoning her as she called for him in vain. And then his polite touch on the shoulders guided his companion away from the appalling incident. She stared at his back through her tangled locks with a force that meant to toss him, kick him, burn him up, but the notion never reached, and she feared that he had just taken a piece away from her with himself: her sanity perhaps, or her faith. In what? People? Friendship? Alliance? Destiny? The future? She had plenty of time left here to figure it out, it seemed. 

She'd been captive for some months now, maybe. Captive, yes, and not what her fellow sufferers were called. She was stranded on this planet, wasn't sure what realm; she'd been swept here among hundreds of that planet's people, after the borderland she defended had fallen against the forces invading from outer space. While being carried in chains to the victorious foreign homeland, something unknown tore the ship apart, and she fell in here helplessly after a lengthy tumble through space, for her exhausted body to be found and restrained before she would even come to herself. For her to be exhibited on sale for the pleasure of the local folk. 

She'd never lost a battle before. Then again, Asgard had never been late with reinforcements either. Heimdall had never failed to open the Bifrost. She'd been wondering ever since whether her decision to assault boldly, counting on Asgard's help in this pathetic way had earned her shame great enough for exile. Whether the decision came from the fake Odin that had sent her away when it occurred she was no fool like the others. Whether anyone else knew. Whether she had been announced dead back home, or she'd been proclaimed unworthy to set foot into the land of gods. Whether the land was coping well under the self-righteous trickster's false reign. 

And now, even more questions. And the blackest one: whether she really came from what she remembered, or she'd been here since the birth of the Universe, to stay until its last light flickered out.

[ayns902]

Lost Elvish Memories- Chapter 1- Broken Fairy Tales

Author Note: Hey everyone! I just wanted to share some of the stories that I am currently writing. Updates to the story might take awhile cause I got school and stuff, but I try to write as much as I can.

Word Count: 2.2k (Unedited)

Summary: Little Elven princess Taya always hated how she was kept in the castle by herself, while she does sneak off from time to time in the night, will she finally learn her lesson that her parents might be right this one time?

This is a story of high adventures, but this isn’t one that started off happy. No story truly starts off happily, it just depends on which point of view the person is reading from. For this young woodland elf, it started off just like any good story starts. Life is always about hardships and trials. Especially for the young elf who forgets everything and doesn’t know what’s the truth of life anymore. 

The six year old Taya was commonly known as an above average person. You see, she was a princess of the woodland elves in the forest of Áre, which means Sunlight in Elvish, with her mother, Queen Evangeline, and her father, King Ankir, in the continent of Mintaral. Taya was always a well-guarded type of princess who was never really allowed to leave the castle of her forest without at least two guards with her at all times and she never liked that. She just wanted to explore her town and get to know the other children there and play with them.

A few years have passed like what her parents called save. Safe from the dangers, the killers, the kidnappers and so on (her parents always assumed the worst of the worst in the world outside the forest). She was a twelve year old girl now and she looked out of her bedroom window in the stillness of the night. The stillness was so peaceful after a long day of studying and learning of her culture and the area that surrounded the town in the woods. Blond hair was finally down from her always braided hairstyle as she wore her emerald green nightgown and began to grow short against her tan skin. She was currently in her bedroom with nothing to do, but look out the window.

Taya’s room is what she would have deemed to be a simple room, especially compared to the other rooms in the castle that she lived in. Her room was a pale pink and purple mixed together all throughout the walls and the floor was a white square tiled floor that had a light gray border on the edges of each individual tile. Her room was more of a square room. To one of the walls was the door that leads into the hallway inside the castle. It was a brown wooden door just like any other door that was made all over the continent. On the wall next to the door was her bed and her upholster. Her upholster and the bedspread on her bed was a dark gray and she had several pillows made neatly on her bed of different colors, but that still matched with the rest of the room.

On the opposite side of her bed was a small couch that is not too far from an equally small fireplace. The couch was a pale pink just like the walls with a light brown wood that accented the couch. The fireplace was a golden metal in the wall, but there wasn’t any firewood or fire. It was the springtime after all, no time for being close to a fire. One the wall between her bed and the fireplace was her window. Her window has a white pillowed seated bench and had golden curtains that were currently drawn back on a silver rod above the window. Her window was looking out into the kingdom.

As Taya looks out of the big arched window, she wishes that she could just have a life like the other people that make up her town, but she knows that they also well need her in due time. She sighed, looking back into her room and said to the emptiness of her room, “It really is a wonderful night isn’t it, Jonna?” Suddenly, a dark shadow fills up at the footstool by the end of Taya’s bed. The shadow then turns into a tall slender figure in a dark blue tuxedo with a black cane and a pumpkin head. “It is, little princess. Everything seems to be at a complete stop once the moon comes out.” the pumpkin figure said while walking up to her. 

Jonna was a ghost familiar, which is something that every royal family member has had and got whenever they turned ten years old. This was meant to have a confidant that they know would never betray them, even after death. Jonna was different from all the other familiars that helped people from Taya’s family. Every other familiar was something along the lines of just another rance known like a human, an orc, or sometimes the familiar would be an animal like her father’s familiar, which was a tiger. Jonna was a tall figure that was almost see through if it wasn’t for the darkness of him. Jonna was just a ghost that had a skeleton body that he wore a suit over and a pumpkin head. He also always had a cane with him because “it makes him feel more suitable for the human realm.” However, he could do some amazing things and some of those amazing things are still a secret to the young elf.

The room began to fall silent once again until Taya decided to speak up again. “I’m going to go on an adventure. Around the town, you know, get to know the layout of the town that I will one day rule. For learning purposes. Would you like to accompany me or will you tell my parents about this again?” she stated while still looking outside the window.

This isn’t the first time Taya has gone out somehow and walked around the grounds. Sometimes she would dance around the fountain in the middle of the down and act like a festival was happening, even Jonna would join her sometimes. However, that was very rare of Jonna to do. Jonna normally reported to her parents about the events that night in order to keep the young princess protected.

“Taya, you know that isn’t a good choice to make. You know how your parents will react to this when they find out.” the ghostly figure said, trying to convince her not to do this. “They won’t know because no one will tell them then, right?” the girl responded while beginning to move the curtains farther back towards the walls. Jonna sighed a defeated sign and replied, “As long as you don’t get caught, they won’t.”

“It’s the dead of night and everyone’s asleep. No one’s even going to know I’ve been gone, well besides you, of course, but you, however, always have to be by my side in a certain range when out in the human world.” Taya said while smiling and moving to get herself changed into her day time clothing.

“What if you get hurt or if someone tries to harm you somehow, Taya?” Jonna asked warily. “That’s why I will call you whenever I need to, silly!”Taya explained without stepping out of her closet. Jonna still felt uneasy about tonight’s adventure. This wasn’t an abnormal thing for them to do and normally Jonna would like to accompany Taya on her nightly walks, even if he would tell her parents after, but tonight felt different, tonight felt heavy to him.

He desperately looked for another excuse for them not to go out tonight and soon one came to his pumpkin head, “You know I don’t know any healing magic if you were to get hurt before calling me and therefore, your parents will find out about our strolls.” The pumpkin stated while walking to the closet and leaning against the wall near the doorframe.

Soon, Taya popped back out with a new dress of navy blue with golden lining on the sleeves and skirt. She looked at her friend while saying “That is a change I am willing to take, just like every other night we have done this. This is normal for us to do, so what has got into that pumpkin head of yours?”

“A change of heart?” That came out more as a question than Jonna wanted to. However, no matter how Jonna tried to stop the young elf, she kept walking to the window on the other side of the room and sighed when she didn’t hear the swooshing of her familiar behind her.

“Jonna, you are my one and only friend. My best friend and, without you, I would go absolutely mad. You above all other beings know just how terrible being alone is like. When  you aren’t in the human world, you go back to nothingness. A black empty void where no one awaits you, nothing for you to do, but sit and wait for me to call upon you.” Taya didn’t look at him while she said this. She knew this was an unfair point to bring up, but she knew this was the only way he would listen. Jonna thought the reason was that if she did turn around, Taya would break and decided not to go out. The pumpkin replied before the girl could continue on.

“I would gladly wait for you here for however long you wish.” That statement made the elf stand up straighter. “I know you would Jonna, but you have to say that. You were created to help me, serve me. That is your true purpose. As much as I love you and our time together, I want more friends than my ghost pumpkin familiar. I want other elf friends, dwarf friends, friends who shapeshift. Don’t you think that would be fun?”

“It would be, but they could just be using you as well. So many people in this world are evil, use others to get money, leverage, and so much more.” Jonna said and walked over to the bench at the window and sat down. “You sound like the royal parents now.” Taya huffed and sat down along with her friend.

“Well, someone has to be the responsible one when the moon comes out.” Jonna chuckled to himself, thinking his little comment was funny. “Well, my friend, tonight is a night where I want to forget about my royalness. So, if you were to please make like a candlestick and quickly vanish, do so now.”

When that statement was said, Taya saying the word “Candlestick” made Jonna vanish. This word was decided upon by the two in case anything were to happen if something were to ever go wrong and they did not want to draw attention to themselves.

After Jonna vanished, Taya got onto the plant vines that grew on the sides of the windows and started climbing down them. She was thankful that these fines grew up this high and no one had cut them down yet. Very soon, she was able to make it completely down the castle and was able to put her feet back on the ground. She then began to sneak across the grounds and hid behind different bushes. She wanted more than anything to look around the town, she was never able to do that, she was barely even allowed to leave the actual building of the castle, let alone the grounds of it. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity for an elf, she made it to the edge of the grounds and was able to get past the gates. 

She then begins to wander around the town that she has for so long looked at from afar. She looks around in wonder, like discovering a new toy because for Taya, this was a whole new part that she never truly saw for herself, she adventures around the land looking at the different  buildings and plants that scatter all throughout. Eventually, she came across a fountain, it wasn’t a small one, but it also wasn’t a large one either. Taya decided to sit down on the edge of the fountain’s base and stared into the clam dark blue liquid that was inside of it.

She couldn’t tell you why she found this calming to her. She simply just continued to state into the liquid and felt content. While the child continued to state into the fountain, there was a shadow that crept up behind her. However, the girl didn’t know that it was there. She was too distracted by the fountain’s contaminants.

As the minutes passed, the shadow continued to come closer and closer to the young girl, being as silent as possible so she wouldn’t hear. The child  still never notices itt coming ever so much closer to her. Now the figure was close enough, and took their shot. The figure quickly hit Taya over the head with the end of what seemed to be a dagger, knocking her unconscious, then grabbing her, and running off out of the land where she grew up.

Anyone would have noticed this action happening, even in a crowded area like this during the day. However, it wasn’t during the day and everyone was fast asleep enjoying sweet and pleasant dreams. This, however, was the start of a long, long nightmare for Taya, for she had been kidnapped and her fate would soon be changing for what would happen next.

[screamingatanemptyroom]

“Where am I?”

My head hurt, a throbbing dull ache that made it hard to think. I looked above me, expecting to see a wide-open sky filled with smoke, to hear the cries of the battlefield around me, to feel the warmth of blood soaking my back.

But there was only white.

More specifically, a stained, white, cracked ceiling hung above me. A small yellow note was secured to the ceiling, written in an unfamiliar style.

"If you can read this, you're human enough to use the key on the nightstand"

Below the message on the note was a childishly drawn heart, the image strangely out of place for the ominous words.

My head hurt more. Human? Am I not even human anymore?

I should have been surrounded by death, betrayed, broken and fallen in battle. Instead, I was in a comfortable bed, my arms and legs loosely chained, staring at a sticky note on the ceiling. I turned my head, groaning at the pain from the movement, and found a wooden nightstand nearby with a metal key. Straining against the chains, I was able to grasp it and free myself. I attempted to sit up, falling to the ground instead. My clothes were dirty and torn, the limbs barely covered were thin and weak.

Where are my muscles?!

I had trained for years to master weaponry, honing my body and mind to be the sword for my kingdom. I had spent my life in battles and the training field. I had never been so weak even in childhood.

I struggled to my feet, walking over to the broken mirror that loosely hung on the wall. As I neared it, a face, thin and shocked, met my gaze.

It was my face…. Sort of.

A thinner, younger, softer version of my face. It lacked the scars from battle, the closely cropped hair to fit under my helmet, skin tanned from long days of training. The only thing that was easily recognized as my own were my bright green eyes… the sign of a magic swordsman in my world. As my eyes met the ones in the mirror, memories flooded my brain, forcing my legs to collapse to my knees.

Marla. Our name was the same.

She was a me… a different me, living in an alternate world. And our lives could not have been more different. She had grown up spoiled, coddled by her parents and older brother. Wealthy, educated, the world was at her fingertips and she had never known want. An easy life, a handsome boyfriend, a dear close friend who helped her in everything….

And then the world fell apart.

I slowly stood up, bracing my hand against the bed. Moving towards the window, I moved the curtain to look outside.

Strange shambling creatures crowded outside the house, moving in seemingly random patterns. In my world we had a similar creature, one created by dark magic. They were weak, and easily destroyed by fire or magic blades. But in this world, they carried a different name:

Zombies.

Zombies, similar to the those featured in the entertainment of this world. Undead beings that needed no rest, but only existed to feed upon the flesh of humans. What was not considered a threat by my world was a different matter in this one.  The larger cities were destroyed in days, with only 10% of the population surviving the first 3 months. Most despaired at that point, as It seemed as if humanity was doomed.

I looked around the room again, frowning at the lack of weapons or armor. A small closet contained clean clothes that would fit, and after a brief search I seized a long metal rod that my new memories informed me was a “golf club.” Normally used for leisure, but it would serve my purpose.

My gaze fell on a bloody syringe on the floor near the bed, and frowned.

What a foolish girl. Her own weakness and naivety led to her demise.

 It would be one thing if she had died fighting monsters in this newly broken world, but she had agreed to have monster blood injected in her. Hoping to develop powers, to become like some of the humans around her, and knowing she would likely die trying.

I looked up at the note on the ceiling once more. The cheerful words seemed ghoulish. She had written it, filled with hope that she would survive the process, scared that she might wake up a zombie instead. She had never had a chance.

“Little girl, we both died too soon. Perhaps it is our destiny no matter what world we live in. But since I have this second chance… I won’t waste it. I will live well… For both of us.”

___________________________

I needed to leave. More and more zombies were gathering around the house, and if I stayed longer, I would be trapped. I packed what supplies I could find into a back pack, and prepared to leave the house. I hefted my new weapon in my hand, and, taking a deep breath, opened the world to the outside.

It smelled of rot and death. The scent of decaying flesh was overwhelming, but I forced myself to ignore it.

It reminds me of the time I led an assault on the necromancer’s tower. It was the same then: dark, dying, rotten.

Several of the zombies heard the door open, and their rotting eyes turned in my direction. Soon, more and more of the undead turned towards me. I planted my feet, gripping the handle of the club in my hand. Eyeing the zombies shuffling ever closer, I took a deep breath, steadying myself, and silently reached for the power within myself.

I didn’t know what I would find, but I looked for it desperately anyways.

Magic.

The power I wielded in my old world, the energy of life that could be honed by the talented and used for battle.

At first I was met with nothing, and my mind shuddered with despair at the thought of facing this dangerous world in this weak body with nothing to aid me. Just as I resolved myself to clear myself a path and run with what strength I could summon, however, I felt something.

A flicker.

The smallest hint of power, coursing deep within my soul.

I smiled. Magic. It followed me here.  It was weak. It was small, smaller than when I first started using magic as a child in my old world. But that was fine. It could be cultivated, grown. I could become strong again… stronger even than in my past.

With the ease of years of experience, I brought out that tiny bit of magic, coating the golf club in it. With a confident chuckle I walked towards the zombies, rather than away from them.

As the first zombie came within reach, I swung the subtly glowing club.

Thud.  

Its head fell to the ground as the magic cut cleanly through its neck. The body stood still for an awkward second, but then slowly crumpled down.

I laughed. It worked. I turned to face the remaining undead.

I knew that zombies couldn’t feel, but there seemed to be some hesitation from the creatures as they sensed a new, unfamiliar power. So similar to the energy they craved from eating flesh, but ultimately very dangerous to them.

I didn’t let the hesitation go to waste. I sprung forward, nearly falling as my weak limbs failed to support the movement properly, but swung the club at an adjusted angle as I caught myself. I pushed myself through the crowd of zombies, leaving piles of decapitated corpses in my wake. It was not a dance, not the smooth coordination I was used to, but it got me through.

Finally there were no zombies left to destroy.

Exhausted, I released my magic and  sat down on the ground, ignoring the filth and stench around me.

This is going to take some getting used to.  Fortunately the magic had kept my weapon clean. I attached it to my backpack and looked around.

It was a suburb, with similar houses lined in tidy rows. Trees and bushes stood in place, branches and leaves moving in the wind. What could have been a peaceful scene was destroyed by the carnage that had swept through: broken glass, holes in walls, corpses scattered on once neat lawns. The sky overhead was grey, the sun was hidden behind a veil of smoke and ash.

If I was to be reborn in an alternate world, why couldn’t it have been a peaceful one? The bitter thought could not be ignored, but deep inside I knew: I was the best suited for surviving in this environment. I was never meant to live a quiet life.

Although I wished I could have at least had the chance to take revenge on my betrayers.

 As I thought about my former friend and fiancé, I hear a familiar voice speak out.

“Do we really have to go check on her?”

I forced myself to my feet, and dragged my tired body to a nearby doorway to hide. As I peeked out from my cover, I nearly fell over in shock.

It’s them.

How could it be them?!!

The desire to kill overwhelmed me as I saw the familiar faces from my world.

Lucy, my best friend, a sworn sister on the battlefield who promised to face death by my side.

Barten, my fiancé, the royal knight who my family trusted my future to.

They conspired together, to betray me on the battlefield. The personal grievance was bad enough, but because they chose that time to turn on me, the consequences were so much more.

The men and women who followed me into battle.

My family, eagerly waiting my return.

The kingdom, that depended on my protection.

All destroyed by their selfishness.

But how were they here?!!

“She still has some of the supplies in her bag.” Barten grumbled, picking his way over the corpses. “I couldn’t take it from her without her getting too suspicious.”

Lucy sighed “Do you think she really injected herself? She’s such a coward, I bet she chickened out.”

“She will.” Barten chuckled. “I told her that I could only stay with her if she gained powers. She was desperate when she left.”

“Didn’t she realize that no one ever gets power from injecting zombie blood? If she was going to get powers, she would have mutated during the initial infection that spread.”

“That idiot would believe me if I told her the sky wasn’t blue.”

“But it’s not blue anymore…”

Barten frowned. “Still… you get the picture. She didn’t suspect a thing.”

“Grrr.”

A zombie walked towards them with a growl, and with barely a look Barten conjured a fire ball and cast it at the undead, burning it quickly to ashes.

Powers.

They laughed and kept walking, while I watched them passed with cold eyes.

They are not from my world. In my shock in seeing them, I had forgotten the memories from the “me” of this world. Her best friend and her fiancé had the same faces and names as mine from my world. They are different, these two have powers, but are still weaker than the two that I knew.

As I thought about their words, however, my eyes narrowed. But where it counts, they are incredibly similar. Both pairs got together behind my back… both betrayed their friend and loved one, leading to my demise.

I thought my chances at revenge were gone when I woke up in a different world. I never thought I would be given such as a chance. They may not be MY betrayers… but it would feel very good to destroy them anyways. I owe the former me of this world that much for taking her place here.

I was too weak now. The brief display of fire casting I had seen, as well as what I sensed they had further abilities, were likely the “powers” that the original me had been so desperate to attain. Until I understood their strength better, and regained more of my magic, I could not confront them.

I hid until they passed me by. I needed to keep moving. It would not take long for them to find me gone from that house. Hopefully they would assume I was dead and eaten by zombies. Either way I needed to go.

As I started to gather strength to get moving once more, I heard the sound of something moving deep within the house. I grabbed my golf club, preparing to attack.

The sound grew louder.

I crouched, my hand tightening on the handle, taking a thread of my depleted magic and desperately trying to wrap it around the end of the club. As the movement came closer, a random thought rose up and couldn’t be dismissed.

If there is one of me in each world, and one of Barten and Lucy in each world… is there any one else from my world that I can meet here?

What if I meet… HIM… here?

I shook my head silently even as I sprang forward, pinning the source of the noise on the ground and swinging my weapon towards its head.

I couldn’t be that unlucky… right?

My hand froze in midair as I caught a clear sight of the person I had caught. A thin, pale face with dark eyes looked up blankly back at me.

“Drak?”

Never mind… I clearly am EXTREMELY unlucky.

I blinked, willing the face before me to change, but no matter how many times I tried, it stayed the same.

The young man looked even more confused. “Do I know you?”

I strongly considered killing him.

As I thought it over, weapon poised, his eyes remained blank and innocent. He was thinner than the man in my memories, malnourished and weak looking.

He’s far from the Drak in my memories.

For an instant I could still see him, shining in black armor, surrounded by an army, reaching a hand towards me.

After another long moment, I sighed and lowered my weapon, I didn’t know how different this world was from mine, but until I knew more, I couldn’t kill this possibly innocent person.

I stood up, offering a hand to Drak, who took it gladly. I almost didn’t have enough strength to pull him up, and ended up using the thread of magic I had pulled earlier to strengthen my arm. As he stood in front of me, quietly brushing the dirt off his clothes, I felt guilty for how hard I had slammed this obviously weak individual.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were a threat.”

He smiled, the expression odd appearing on his gaunt face. “It’s okay, you never know these days. I’m Drak… but I guess you already knew that?”

“Not really.” I shook my head. “I just knew someone with the same name.”

“Who looked like me?”

Exactly like you. “A bit.”

“I guess they say everyone has a doppelganger.” He laughed, reaching out to shake my hand. “So what’s your name?

“Marla.”

He paused at the name, his brow furrowing briefly. “I feel like I should know that name.”

Marla.

 I shuddered for a moment at the voice in my memory.

I will always find you.

“Oh well, guess it’s just déjà vu for both of us!” Drak grinned, seeming to shrug off the strangeness.

“I guess so.” I turned away, “Good luck out there.”

“Wait!” He reached out but didn’t touch me. “Can I come with you?”

“… Why?” My tone was not enthused.

He pointed at himself. “I’m pretty weak and I don’t want to die alone.”

“What makes you think I’m strong?” I gestured at my thin arms.

He laughed. “You had me pinned and ready to die in less than a second.  I don’t know how strong you are… but pretty sure you are stronger than me!”

“…” As I stared at him, my thoughts were in overdrive.

What if he’s like the other Drak?

What if he’s not? My mind argued back. I could be abandoning a weak person to die.

That might be his fate anyways in this dangerous world.

At the end, I sighed. “Fine.”

 I was a warrior. Someone sworn to protect the weak and innocent. I wasn’t sure he was either, but I’d rather err on the side of protection than harm.

“Great!” His smile still seemed odd, but genuine at the same time. He packed a small bag and waited by the door, ready to follow me. I had the brief impression of a happy dog, ready to go on a walk.

“…Let’s go.”

________________________

We traveled the rest of the day, meeting no zombies. I was shocked, given how many had been there when I first ventured out, but counted us lucky. I was due for some good luck anyways.

We made camp in an old computer store, and after I encouraged Drak to let me take first watch, I sat in a meditative pose and concentrated on my magic. As I focused on my usual exercises, to my joy I felt the small thread within me start to grow. I grinned triumphantly.

It is possible to get stronger here!

I would keep practicing whenever I could, growing stronger each day. And eventually I would be strong enough.

Strong enough to thrive in this broken world.

Strong enough to take my revenge against the pair of betrayers.

Strong enough even to defeat…

My brain paused as I looked at the man sleeping in the corner. He was curled up in a ball, cold, almost trembling. He seemed like a strong breeze could kill him.

Drak.

In my world, he had been strong… possibly the strongest. I was the only one who came close, and he refused to fight me. Always insisting on pulling me to his side of things.

But I refused.

After all, he had been the Dark Lord, the evil being that reigned over an army of darkness.

Marla, I will always find you. If the light betrays you, don’t worry, the darkness will always be waiting.  His last words haunted me, if not because his words had come strangely true. I was harmed much more by the so-called good side than I ever had in a fair fight with his people.

But this Drak seemed so different than that strange, powerful being. I rubbed my head with my hand. My mind was confused by the similarities and differences of the two worlds.

Finally I shrugged. Nothing mattered for now except getting stronger.

Once I had strength, I could figure everything else out.

I would thrive in this new world, in this new life.

And I would have my revenge as well.

__________________________

Later that night.

Drak was on guard duty, sitting with his back to the store, gazing out into the darkness. Without street lamps and lights from store signs, the area was pitch black, but he gave no sign that it bothered him. He stared out with a stony expression, the ice in his stare far from the warmth and innocence he had shown earlier in front of Marla.

Shuffle.

A tall thin zombie wandered out of the darkness, stopping a few feet from Drak.

“…” He stared at the newcomer silently, his face unchanged.

Finally, the zombie bent forward in a shaky bow.

“Orders.” It whispered, forcing the request out between rotting lips.

Drak smiled. This was one of the higher level zombies, and he couldn’t be happier with the flexibility and intelligence this group was showing.

“Keep the low levels away from me and the woman traveling with me. If anyone on the way seems to show ill will to us, feel free to eat them.”

The zombie nodded slowly, its dead eyes showing no emotion.

“Girl… danger.”

“Marla?” He smiled. “Of course she’s dangerous.” He had sensed a strange power, that had killed several zombies in a short period. Something much different from the usual abilities humans had shown. Something strangely… familiar. He had come to investigate, and ended up trapped in a house with her. “You are not to harm her… not that you could if you tried.”

“Plan?”

“A plot? Against her?” He thought about it, and then shook his head vigorously. “No. I’m just following out of… curiosity.” The thought of hurting her, betraying her… it made him feel unwell, which surprised him as so few things made him feel anything, these days.

“I just want to know how she knows me… and how I know her.” He could feel it, an invisible connection. Something that made him desperate to follow, to help her.

“Kill… you.”

“Once she knows what I am?” Whatever that is. “Probably.” He shrugged. “Could be worse.”

“…” The zombie seemed to run out of words, it just hung its head, confused.

“Go away now. And don’t approach me unless it’s a true emergency.” As the zombie shuffled away, he leaned back, his eyes open wide as he scanned the darkness.

No zombie would attack while he was here, but that was no reason to relax. There were plenty of humans much more dangerous than a few undead. He glanced back into the store, where Marla was resting. He knew she slept lightly, and holding a weapon. The slightest move in her direction would wake her up and likely have violent consequences.

Why do I feel like I know her? He sighed, and settled in for a long watch. I guess I’ll figure it out eventually. That’s the nice thing about the zombie apocalypse.

It’s not like we’ve got anything better to do.

You wake up with what feels like a terrible hangover, the dilapidated room around you is unfamiliar and you are chained to the bed, written on the ceiling is the message “If you can read this you’re human enough to use the key on the nightstand”

[unseentravler]

4 - No Characters

The fireplace still crackled with energy even after the room had been abandoned. The beautiful hand-picked and hand-laded rive stones that made up the fireplace arch were untouched by the chaos that had marred the rest of the room. Not a drop of blood marred the handiwork of the Craftsman who had laid them there many years ago. The rest of the sitting room was not so lucky.

The once beautiful oak door, which had been forcefully opened and torn off its hinges, Now lay torn asunder on the beautiful tiled floor. The intricate blue and green tilework was now stained with red and dust and wood. it was no longer a fit setting for a family to gather in or for children to be taught.

The sole window in the room had been shattered. Three of the four pains of glass now are jagged and sharp and only the one in the top left corner remained untouched. Where once had been beautiful Vine patterned curtains now hung ripped shreds of cloth. Two of the shreds hung from either end of the rods and the third from where an arrow had caught it when it was fired into the wall.

The mahogany table had been overturned two of its legs broken. The papers and pens and inkwells that had been resting upon it have been scattered behind it. In this part of the room, the red of the blood was especially dark for it had mixed with the black The Inkwells. The metal chairs that I once set behind the table had been flung against the wall and now lay on their side behind the table while the one that had been in front was one of the few pieces of furniture in the room still standing through the cushion had been torn and the fluff that resided inside scattered.

On the wall opposite the fireplace hung a once magnificent family portrait. The two Regal parents and five beautiful children. The artist who painted it had done it with great skill and much care, capturing the features of the Royal Family very well and making it seem as own the painting was living. Now The Smiling Faces of the children had been torn by sword and knife. the king and queen along with the Crown Prince had their heads completely torn from the portrait. while the second son and first daughter had been both filled with arrows in some perverted form of target practice. The youngest, the Twins were by far the least damaged. Only where the golden frame had been ripped off the portrait. How the things still hung to the wall despite all that had been done to it is a question only the gods can answer.

The dark blue sofa that sat in front of the fireplace had been filled with arrows. The cushions scattered about the floor stuffing mixing with the blood into a group test and ghastly site. On the right arm of the couch lay a helmet from one of the guards who had been standing outside the room when the attack had occurred. It was a mostly decorative thing that had offered little protection to the man wearing it. It was made of metal so dark it was almost black with golden studs and a high gilded arch at the crown of the head. The sword that had belonged to the man lay in front of the sofa, blood on its blade.

What had once been a safe place for the royal family to retreat from the everyday pressures of running a kingdom had been turned into a bloodbath and a place of Macabre memory. And yet the walls did not seem to care they still stood if now dirtier and the fire still burned on.