#black curtain rod rings

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 51

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: 50 chapters?!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You cross your arms, trying to comfort yourself as you wait. The front door opens and the only harbinger of your visitors are their footsteps. The grim pall of the house swallows them up as they shuffle over the doormat.

You don’t look over as their figures appear as shadowy blurs in the edge of your vision. You’re too humiliated to face your guests. Not truly yours, but Loki’s. Like everything else; this house, the very couch you sit on, the clothes you wear. Isn’t that what he’d only just berated you for? Taking it all so ungratefully.

“Darling,” Frigga’s the first to speak as she approaches, almost sheepishly, “my, I’d say it’s lovely to see you both but you look dreadful.”

You wince as she nears and shrink down, bending your legs as you long to curl into a ball. You hug your knees and curl your shoulders. She hovers over you, turning to speak to the others.

“You must open the curtains, it’s awfully gloomy in here,” she demands.

Loki mutters but at a grunt from his father, he acquisces. You stare at the black pants as he tears open the drapes, the rod ringing with his efforts. Another figure looms close. Odin shifts and places his hand on the armrest behind your shoulders.

“I see all is in a state of fine order,” Odin proclaims dryly, “you have this poor thing hanging from the troughs–”

“Father,” Loki sneers as he faces the room again. He steps forward, trying to tidy his wild curls, made even more defiant by his neglect. You notice his attire; his shirt is untucked and clashes with his tan trousers. “I will not be lectured.”

“Oh, dear, look at her face,” Frigga lowers herself to sit on the edge of the sofa and touches your arm kindly, “her dressings need changing.”

You avert your eyes and bite down on your cheek. You’d almost forgotten your nose and the peeling bandages. All that wasn’t as dire as the walls.

“Mm, and that isn’t my fault, mother. It isn’t I who would injure her thus. Rather your golden child,” Loki spits. “If you’ve come to argue the point further, I haven’t the time to hear it.”

“Son,” Odin girds, “do not rile yourself with presumptions. We’ve come to make sure you are well, as any decent parents might.”

“Hm, because you’ve always been so eager to visit, father,” he scoffs.

“Eh, Loki,” Frigga squeezes your arm before she stands again, “we thought to share some news to you. In person as it were. You wouldn’t answer the phone but we do believe you deserve to have it straight from us.”

“Oh, what is it now? Are we celebrating the solstice?” Loki folds his arms and lifts his chin, “you can check us off as not attending, thank you.”

“Now, don’t be an ass,” Odin growls, “if you would hear us, you might not have the urge.”

“Why should I listen to you, eh? Did you listen to me? Did you hear me when I walked in bruised to the gills? Did you hear me over that lout’s lies?” Loki snarls, “you made no move to stop me going but here you are, pouting and begging forgiveness. 

“Well, let me make it clear, you and that cretin you call your eldest son, will not entangle yourselves in another of my marriages. It will not happen. I told you that morning and I meant it. He is no brother of mine and if you continue to pander to his misdeeds, then you will count yourself two children, not three.”

You tweak a brow and tilt your head as his rant swirls over you. Marriage? Surely, he only misspoke.

“Would you listen?” Odin’s voice booms, echoing around the room as he steps around the couch and punches his palm. “We do count only two children; you and Hela.”

“Right,” Loki says unconvinced, “certainly, you will do your best not to let me share a table with him again. We can pretend nothing happened. That he did not accost my wife. Just as before, it is under the carpet as we stomp it into submission.”

“Wife?” Frigga murmurs in confusion and glances at you. You feel her gaze but don’t meet it. You’re just as confused.

“I mean it,” Odin insists and turns to look at you, “I am ashamed that my son would hurt you, dear. Brute as he is, I cast him out. He is banned from the house and wiped from my ledgers. Should you wish it, I would gladly testify to his guilt.”

You don’t reply. Which son does he mean? The one who chased you through the night or the one locking you in the dark?

“Thor is not welcome in this family anymore. If you hadn’t run away…” Odin faces Loki again.

“Oh, forgive me for my skepticism, father,” Loki grimaces, “you’ve not exactly earned a lot of trust from me–”

“Nor you me,” Odin counters.

“You never gave me a chance,” Loki hisses, “very well then, thank you, oh, great father, for practising an ounce of good judgment.”

“Boy,” Odin wags his finger at his son as he steps closer.

“Boy?” Loki exclaims, “get out. Now.”

“Loki,” Frigga screeches, “enough. We’ve come all the way here to apologise to you and… her, and you are being insensible. Would you hear us?”

Loki rolls his eyes. He keeps one arm across his chest and bends the other to flutter his fingers dismissively, “you kept him in my life. You begged me to look past his slights for years and refused to see them until someone got hurt.”

“Yes, we were neglectful. Willfully blind,” Frigga says sadly, peeking back at you, “seeing you that morning, and now, the bruises, and her… we… we are very sorry and we can understand that it might be too late for all this but we only want to be heard.”

Loki is quiet, roiling as he breathes loudly. He swallows and sniffs, “yes, you should look at her and see what he did to her.” His lip twitches, “and if I had not been there, imagine what he would have done–”

You close your eyes as you feel a weight over you, feel the suffocating heat, hear Thor’s sinister tone, ‘little maid’.

“Stop!” You throw your hands up as your eyes snap open, “please stop, I don’t want to think about it.”

“Oh, dear,” Frigga spins and once more rests herself on the couch’s edge, “you don’t have to. Please, you’re safe. He won’t bother you again. I’ll be sure of it.”

You knot your fingers together and twist until your knuckles hurt. You can’t look at her, at any of them. You shake your head and shrug.

“As you can see, she is not ready for company,” Loki asserts.

“What I see is she’s being shrouded away in this crypt,” Frigga rebuffs, “she requires sunshine. She needs healing, not paranoia.”

“You don’t know what we’ve been through,” Loki accuses, “how can you know what she needs?”

“I have eyes,” Frigga snips, “darling,” she speaks to you, “would you like some tea in the garden? Just you, I wouldn’t want to infringe.”

You gulp and rub your neck. You nod, “yes.”

“See?” Frigga pets your knee kindly before she stands again, “I won’t tread upon your toes, son, you get her the tea and see her to the garden.” She sidles aside to stand with her husband, “and then you will explain to me this whole marriage business.”

You glance over at Loki, the same question nipping at your ears. Was he confused? Why did he say all that? Marriage, wife? No, prisoner and warden, that’s what it truly is.

✨

Slowly the doom recedes. The warmth of the sun beams down as you keep your finger hooked in the handle of the tea cup. You let the steaming brew go cold as your eyes devour the scenery. The greens, the violets, the indigos, and pinks. Colours all around.

You suck in deep breaths of the spring air, tasting the last dregs of dew and the floating pollen. You hear the council of sparrows hiding in the bushes and watch the pair of doves bobbing across the grass. Bees buzz between the blooming stems and insects flit back and forth through the air. The seasonal renewal is underway as a whole new world awakens.

Beneath the serenity, there is fear. This won’t last. This is just a brief respite from your desolation. A flicker of light in the dark.

So you bask in it as much as you can, for as long as you can. You can’t help but peek over at the french doors and wonder about what’s happening behind them. What is being said? Are Frigga and Odin still there? Is Loki still angry?

You cup your chin and take a sip. This is all you ever wanted. You only wish he would have listened to you. Why must someone else talk sense into him? Why can’t he just hear you?

Your vision hazes as you drift into the peaceful hue. The spring swallows you up and mutes your worries. You cling to that moment, knowing the end will come sooner than later.

The doors open and pierce the spring soliloquy. You look over as Loki steps out. His shirt is tucked in and he’s tried to comb his hair. Still, he looks out of sorts. His eyes are circled darkly and his cheek tics as his jaw clenches.

He watches you as he nears the table, standing across from you as he extends his long fingers to the iron surface. He takes a breath and looks around. He retracts his hand to rest on the back of the chair.

“May I?” He asks.

His request surprises you. That he would even want permission. After all, this is his home, all of this is allotted to you at his whim.

“Sure,” you sit back and let go of the teacup.

He drags the chair out and lowers himself. He bends his arms over the table and his head swivels again, as if searching for something. He clears his throat and turns straight. He stares at you as you peer down at the table.

“It’s beautiful out,” he comments, “the tulips are coming in.”

You nod, “yeah, they’re pretty.”

He exhales and shifts in the chair. He taps his fingertips then weaves his fingers through each other. He stills his fidgeting.

“How is your tea?”

You look down at the cup, mostly untouched. You raise your eyes to meet him and purse your lips.

“It’s fine,” you answer, “what’s going on?”

He circles his thumbs around each other and pushes his shoulders up before forcing the tension out, “I thought I would… come enjoy the garden with you, pet.”

“Oh,” you utter.

“Oh,” he echoes staunchly. “Unless, I am disturbing you?”

You shake your head, “I thought you wanted me to go inside…”

He frowns and lowers his chin, “I…” he begins then unclasps his hands and sits straight. He rests his elbows on the armrests and his cheek strains, “I want you to be safe.”

You nod and look at your lap as you think, “your parents said Thor is gone.”

“Yes, so he has been cast out. For how long, I can’t be certain,” he sighs, “but he is not my only worry.”

“What else—”

“If I’d not discovered your escape, you would’ve fallen and hurt yourself worse.”

“Loki, I… I’m sorry but I couldn’t–”

“And you do not eat when I bring you food. You hardly sleep.”

“What about you?” You toss back as you raise your head.

His lips thin, “yes, what about me. I am just as guilty in all this, I see that now.”

You’re quiet as you consider his admission. It’s a rare moment. Not exactly victory, but a consolation. As much as you can hope for.

“I appreciate all you have done but I… don’t want to be a burden anymore,” you say, “if that’s how you feel about me, I think we’d both be better off if I left.”

He goes rigid and his throat tightens, “pet…”

“Or maybe I could just be the maid again. We could go back to that. That would be okay.”

He huffs and hangs his head. He brings his fingertips together as he seems to argue with himself. Slowly, he lifts his head, “no, that simply won’t do.”

Your face falls, “please don’t lock me up again.”

Your eyes gloss as you pout, begging him wordlessly. He winces as his mouth slants, one way then the other. He mulls on your plea.

He tilts his head one way then the other, stretching out his neck. He slips his elbows off the armrest and grips the chair, pushing himself to his feet. He rolls his shoulders straight and rounds the table. He stops beside you and lowers himself down to a knee. You watch him, confused.

He takes your hand and draws it over the side of the chair. He holds it in his, stroking it as he peers up at you.

“You cannot be a burden or the maid, and you certainly may not leave,” he says, “you are going to be my wife.”

You blink. You’re not sure you heard him right. He squeezes your hand and you look down at his grip.

“Loki?” You babble.

“I haven’t picked a ring, I’m sorry,” he pulls your hand to him, leaning in to kiss it, petting it, “but perhaps you might help in that.” He puts his other knee down and moves even closer, “we will have a lot of planning to do, won’t we, darling?”

He angles to lean his head against your arm, keeping his hand on yours. You’re paralysed. He’s proposing to you but there isn’t any room for your rejection. Like all other things, it’s a command. You have to keep yourself from answering, ‘yes, Mr. Laufeyson.’

You look down at his dark tresses and let out the breath racked beneath your ribs, “I’ve never been to a wedding.” The statement is hollow and numb. You don’t know what else to say.

He chuckles and lifts his head to grin up at you, “well, how exciting that you’re first will be your own.”

#loki #dark loki #dark!loki #loki x reader #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #series #dirty work #mcu #marvel #avengers #maid au #au

[lorei-writes]

Upholstery

Cyran x Maid!Reader Fluff/Comfort ~1k

The three times Cyran comes back, all the same yet different.

Content Warnings: injury, blood (implied)

The settee near sighed, surprised by the weight it was so forced to accept; nevertheless, it still embraced its duty and the weary knight it came to serve, plush cushions lulling tired limbs. Cyran closed his eyes. His throat bobbed as it swallowed another thick complaint. He let it go, however, released his aching arms from the clutches of mandatory unrest – the velvet curtains were thicker than any armour, any shield, and he felt safe while enveloped in their shade.

The settee near sighed, surprised by the weight it was so forced to accept; nevertheless, it still embraced its duty and the weary knight it came to serve, plush cushions lulling tired limbs. Cyran closed his eyes. His throat bobbed as it swallowed another thick complaint. He let it go, however, released his aching arms from the clutches of mandatory unrest – the velvet curtains were thicker than any armour, any shield, and he felt safe while enveloped in their shade.

The door opened soundlessly.

Cyran did not leave his post.

A click and a clack, a servant’s shoes tapped away at the floor. The carpet briefly muffled their steps, only for the sound to return with ringing of a regiment of rings dragged along the curtain rod. Cyran’s brow creased.

“Five more minutes?”

“Not a minute more,” you replied, hands propped at your hips. “You reek, Sir Rose. Stay there any longer and the stench will penetrate the upholstery so thoroughly I will not be able to remove it, not even in a hundred of years.”

“But —”

The tapping intensified to cease in a blink of an eye. As lithe as you were, you faced him with all of your maid-ly might. It was only becoming of the headservant in service of the Third Prince of Rhodolite, Clavis Lelouch. “Should I hold it against you? Until the end of my – or your – days?”

No arguments could have been made. As fatigued as a caravan horse at the brink of its destination, Cyran ran his hand across his face to then brush back his dishevelled hair. He stretched out his arms and kicked his legs, red lights of the setting sun tainting the black leather of his boots. Cyran towered above you as he stood, yet as calloused as his palms were, as heavy as the sword at his hip was… there was no threat to him, those mellowed eyes that stared at you so incessantly betraying no signs of aggravation either.

“Well then.”

“Then —”

A clack and a click, and you couldn’t help but watch him leave, to notice the lightness to his step, some innate nimbleness that he possessed even in this state. You pursed your lips.

“Sir Rose!”

A hand at the door knob, Cyran looked over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“That purple…”

He rubbed at the stain on his cheek, neither exasperated nor amused, or much rather, locked somewhere perfectly between the two. “Prince Clavis,” he not-explained.

“… it looks good on you,” you whispered, but that he hadn’t heard. Footfall marched on down the corridor and you were left alone, the settee unharmed

***

Another day came, another night fell. The sun and the moon remained the same, however, as did the drawing room and the settee, and at least superficially, you and Sir Rose too. You lit a candle before setting it down on the table. Armed in soft cloth, you approached the window, a basin waiting at the sill your ammunition.

“It’s the first time I’m seeing a palace maid wash windows after the dark.”

You drew the breath in. Sharply. “Your eyes must not be working properly then, Sir Rose. It is most ordinary.”

“If you say so.”

When against the pitch black darkness of the night, glass can become mirror-like, provided that a bit of light lends it a hand. Water splashed as you wrung the excess out of the cloth. A shiver skipped along your spine and you begun your polishing, strange hesitation shackling your hands. It was unthinkable, most incomprehensible… so you pressed the cloth to the pane, dabbed the sweat off the reflection of Cyran’s brow. The knight reclined in his seat. He closed his eyes, as if merely squinted to let them rest, and took a deep breath. Wide shoulders lowered evenly at a long exhale and his hair seemed more brown rather than red, almost as if extinguished by the hurdles of the long day.

“Sir Rose?” you inquired, your hand frozen mid-caressing the glass.

“What is it?”

“Ashen shades do not suit you too well.”

“Am I offending your sense of aesthetic again?” Cyran laughed. “This will not ruin the upholstery.”

“You’d be wise to rest properly. Go and sleep,” you insisted.

“I refuse to be lectured by the only maid working the night shift.”

Water splashed as you let go of the cloth. “So you will go if I go? Then go! Go!”

Why did you scream? You did not know.

***

Cyran sat in the settee again, although it was also as if it had never happened before. As if you had never seen him before… Although perhaps you hadn’t. Not like this.

“You should be in the infirmary now, not here. That’s too much red for your complexion to look healthy.”

“It’s nothing I haven’t been through. I’ve got treated already.”

“But you’re still hurting!” you shouted despite your best intentions to remain calm.

“Then don’t throw me off the settee this time,” Cyran laughed. He laughed, and there was fire in his eyes, smouldering and longing, and a hint of fear in his voice, and even the blood that refused to leave the trenches of his nails seemed to ignite and —

And you yourself felt so cold as you cradled his head against your chest, perhaps taking on some of the frost that threatened to take him away. His hair hung lose over his shoulder and you brushed it away, coiled the strands around you fingers like copper wire. He was there in flesh and bones, real and physical unlike the reflection you’d nearly lost.

“I have one request to ask of you, Cyran,” you uttered after a moment of thought.

“Not ‘Sir Rose’?”

“No. Just Cyran.”

“Then ask away.”

“Never cease trying to ruin the upholstery, I beseech you,” you whispered, his good arm raising to embrace you by the waist the sole reply.

--

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#cyran rose #ikepri cyran #ikemen prince cyran #ikepri #ikemen prince #ikemen series

[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

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#jake hangman seresin x reader #jake seresin x reader #hangman x reader #top gun fan fic #series: home for the holidays #my fic

[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 :)

#oh god tags uhh #monster!könig #monster fucker #könig #könig x reader #cod mw2 #cod mwii #horror #folklore

[the-blind-assassin-12]

Unfinished - Part Two : Spirits Follow Everywhere I Go

A/N: Let's keep spooky season going a little longer, shall we? First of all, I want to shout out a huge thank you to everyone who had read the first part of this story. The response has been wonderful and I am especially thrilled to know that people are enjoying the historical element of this story - there's a lot more about Eliza, Cal and Henry coming! This part is decidedly darker than the first, so I will go ahead and warn you that if you're not into scary stories, this might not be the one for you. But if getting spooked is your jam, then grab a snack because things are about to get haunted up in this bitch.

READ PART ONE HERE

*Chapter title comes from Love Like Ghosts by Lord Huron*

Warnings: death, murder, haunting, mention of loss of parent - ** Death of Reader's mother & immediate aftermath ** grief, language because Xander's coping mechanism is to swear like a sailor (if you are at all unsure about the content of this chapter, please feel free to message me with any questions!)

Word Count: 5,239

Summary: Henry's murderous jealousy leaves him with quite a mess to deal with... and moving Cal's body ends up being the easy part.

Meanwhile, you and Marcus arrive back at Maplewood to comply with the investigation involving a murder victim and a mysterious painting.

Maplewood Manor - Midnight, October 30, 1868 

Henry Ashford’s limbs ached as he eased himself into bed that night. 

Cal was heavier than he looked lying in a heap on Eliza’s bedroom floor, and he had to be moved down three flights of stairs into the cellar. By the time he’d finished stashing the artist where he wouldn’t be found until he could be further dealt with and had trudged back upstairs to get himself cleaned up, Henry was bone tired. The adrenaline that flooded his system when he snuffed out two lives as thoughtlessly as candles had left as quickly as it came, and as soon as his head hit the pillow he felt consciousness slipping away. 

The fact that his dead wife was lying in a bed one room over didn’t seem to hinder his ability to find sleep. Peace, though, proved to be more elusive. 

It began around midnight. Silver blue light from the full October moon shone through the sheer white curtains and directly onto Henry’s sleeping form, waking him from the heavy slumber he’d fallen into. Groaning, he blinked against the intrusion and sat up. In the haze of his exhaustion he figured that he must have forgotten to pull the thick drapes closed before collapsing into bed, so he swung his legs over the side and stood to remedy that, hoping that once the room was dark he would be able to fall back to sleep. 

But as soon as the plush velvet drapes were pulled shut and he had turned away from the window, he heard the scrape of the curtain rings along the rod, and watched as a sliver of light splashed onto the bed, widening before his eyes. Henry froze, standing stiff and rigid as a statue, as the familiar shape of his wife’s silhouette joined his shadow on the wall in front of him. Wheeling around again, he saw only the window and the moon shining beyond it. Rattled, he reached shakily for the drapes to pull them closed once more. It must have been a trick of his mind and the moonlight, he assured himself. A side effect of the night he’d had, or a dream that lingered after his feet hit the floor. 

Eliza was dead. He’d seen to that himself, so she couldn’t be at his window, messing with the drapes. Taking a deep breath, Henry climbed back into bed. Again the heavy weight of fatigue sent him sinking into sleep, the room pitch black and silent around him. 

It didn’t stay that way. 

“Henry.”

A fierce gasp tore at Henry’s throat, hands wildly clawing at his neck as though trying to free it from a noose. He bolted upright, chest heaving and eyes bulging, the drapes and sheer curtains thrown open. Stark moonlight poured into the room, spilling over him and bringing an icy chill with it. Terror gripped his heart as he tried and failed to blink away the image before him. 

There in the center of the frame stood the shadowy figure of Eliza Ashford. She was faced away from him, staring out at the moonlit grounds of Maplewood Manor. Though her form did not appear solid - more wispy than a living human being - her presence felt more powerful than ever. And more angry. 

“E-Eliza?” His own voice sounded foreign to him, fear and confusion shrinking its normally robust tone. “How… You cannot be-” 

He scampered back into the pillows, knocking the base of his skull hard against the backboard in an involuntary effort to flee as Eliza slowly spun towards him. Only her eyes were visible, glowing an otherworldly whitish blue out of her otherwise blurred and featureless face. Her lack of a mouth didn’t stop her from speaking, though, her words reverberating inside Henry’s eardrums as her ghostly eyes pierced him straight through. 

“You thought it was so easy to be rid of me? Thought you could stamp me out? Stamp Cal out?” 

In a whoosh of frigid air the panes of glass shattered inward, and Eliza suddenly shifted so that her spectral eyes hovered only inches from Henry’s. He yelped and shook, wincing away from her as she tilted her head. 

“You thought that you could hide what you did?! Hide his body like animal bones?! Desecrate the only man I ever loved and walk free?!” 

“No.” Henry’s hands came to his ears and he shut his eyes as tight as he could. “No, no, no.” He repeated the word over and over, refusing to accept any of what was happening. “No! This… This is fantasy! You’re not here, Eliza. You’re dead! You’re dead!” 

Without opening his eyes, he burst from the bed and ran to the door, moving right through the shadowy shape of his wife and feeling the blood crystalize in his veins with the cold. Stumbling through the hall with his arms outstretched, he made his way to the room where her body lay. He ran to the window and pulled open the drapes to shed light on the space, and as he knew he would, found his wife to be still in her bed. Right where he had left her so that she would be found in the morning. 

Releasing a sigh, Henry slumped onto the cushioned bench under the window and stared at the corpse across from him. It was a small comfort to see that she was still there and that whatever he’d witnessed - or thought he’d witnessed - had just been a misfire of his imagination. It was a short lived relief when he considered what it might mean for his sanity. But even that worry didn’t have time to grow roots in his brain, because from the hall, an eerie silver glow moved toward where he sat. 

“You took me away from my children, Henry. How could I ever forgive you for that?!”

“No…” He whimpered. “No, please… Leave me…” He wasn’t sure who he was pleading with or how he would be able to move past this moment if it were to simply stop - because how on Earth could he explain what had happened without admitting to the illogical? Henry didn’t believe in ghosts. He didn’t believe in souls. So even if the haunting were to suddenly cease, he’d either have to change his mindset entirely, or concede that he had lost his mind. Neither sounded good to him, but both were preferable to the horror he felt watching Eliza’s shadowy specter follow him into the room where she died.  

Her eyes were still her only visible feature, and they bore into him as she hovered near the bed. “You cannot run from me, dear husband. Not from me, and not from what you’ve done to Cal! I will never leave you. I will never let you have peace. You will never be free from this night, Henry Ashford!” 

With another gust of air powerful enough to break the glass behind him, Eliza’s ghost slashed through the room in a cyclone of screaming rage. She flew directly at Henry, the man shouting out in terror before she turned and changed course for the last of Cal’s works.The unfinished portrait that still hung on an easel in the corner of the room radiated the same silver light as she was absorbed by the canvas, and then Henry was alone once more. 

The windows were back in pristine condition, as though they’d never shattered in a storm of shards. The curtains were closed, as they were before he had rushed in, and the candlestick on the bedside table sent a halo of warm orange light flickering across the floor. Henry crossed the room slowly, one trembling hand closing around the metal candle holder. Carrying it with him, he walked back to his bedroom and peeked inside, shining the light to see that his window had also been restored to its original state, the glass back in the panes and the drapes secured shut. 

But the return to normalcy did nothing to settle his fear or ease his racing pulse back to a place where he could once again find sleep. Instead he went down into the parlor and poured himself a brandy. Using the candle he took from Eliza’s room, he lit every candle he could find so that he would not be in the dark, and he sat awake with a drink in his hand until the housekeeper returned in the morning. 

She, of course, assumed that Henry had been in a state of shock due to the grief of Eliza’s untimely - but natural - death. The poor man, she thought, taking pity on him. She never could have known that his insomnia had been brought on by the curse that his murdered wife had put upon him, or by the visitation of her ghost. 

He had one trick up his sleeve, though, one thing to try in order to stop Eliza from torturing his nights. His wife had made it known how much she hated his obsession with postmortem photographs. She had stated on several occasions that her soul was not to be trapped on film, that when she died she wanted to do so as she lived - having never been photographed, only painted. So after the doctor had come and officially proclaimed her dead, but before the undertaker could remove her body for burial preparations, Henry took his camera to her room and loaded the photo plate. 

He wouldn’t know the outcome until later that night, when he developed the image in his darkroom. In the cellar. 

– – – 

Maplewood Manor - 10:30 pm, October 30, 2023 

Red and blue lights glared off the carved pumpkins that lined the porch steps as Marcus pulled into the Manor’s circular driveway. 

Everything about the way the age old house looked, surrounded by emergency vehicles and personnel, was wrong, and it sent a twisting sensation through your stomach. It reminds me of the night that- You felt the breath in your lungs grow stale at the sight of two EMTs rolling a covered stretcher through the front door and into a waiting van. It made your blood run cold. Shit.

It reminded you of the night that your mom died. 

It was December of your senior year, and you were home for winter break. Your house had looked wrong then, too, as you stared at it from your front lawn. You could remember the cold grass against the skin of your knees and the way the chilled air felt like frost on your tear stained cheeks. You couldn’t be inside until everyone had gone. It was easier to breathe outside, even if the temperature had dropped to just above freezing. And Marcus was there with you. He’d been staying with his grandparents who only lived twenty minutes from your place. When you called him in hysterics he got immediately into his car and came straight to you. You were outside already when he got there, on the ground in front of the house, and wordlessly, he joined you, putting his arms around you, holding you to his chest and speaking directly into your ear, telling you that he was right there, that he wasn’t going anywhere. 

In that moment, he was the only solid thing in your world. 

Either the scene in front of you reminded him of that night, too, or he saw it on your face that you were lost in that memory, because he cleared his throat and spoke your name. Blinking, you tore your focus from the closing van doors and turned to face him. His eyes locked with yours, and in them you found the same sense of comfort that you always had. “Hey.” He reached across the center console and gripped your hand where it rested in your lap. “You okay?” 

Your fingers linked with his and squeezed as you nodded. “Yeah.” You cleared your throat and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Yeah,” you said again. “Just… thinking about…” You trailed off with a shrug and brought your free hand up to swipe at your eye. 

Marcus sighed. “I know.” His thumb moved back and forth over your knuckle, and then he brought his other hand up to finish off the tear you’d missed. Fingertips skating over your cheek, he kept his hand on your face as he continued. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’m gonna be right here with you.” 

Swallowing, you sniffed and nodded again. “I know.” He dropped his hand, watching as you fixed your makeup in the rearview mirror. You blew out a slow breath and turned to look at him again. “I know this isn’t how you want to spend your time off, so I’m sorry that-” 

“Stop.” He shook his head. “That’s the last thing on my mind right now, okay? I mean that. I’m here for you, and right now that means helping you through whatever this is.” 

You never took his friendship for granted, but an overwhelming wave of gratitude for him rose in your chest at that moment as you tried to imagine facing what awaited you inside the manor without Marcus by your side. Even without his FBI training, his presence alone would have bolstered your nerve as you answered questions and complied with the investigation. It was enough just to have him - your closest and oldest friend, someone who you trusted completely and who always made you feel safe. 

“Thank you, Marcus.” Your voice was quiet but you knew he heard you. 

His lips pulled up to one side as a small smile lightened his eyes. “Anytime.” 

With that, he withdrew his hand from yours and opened his door. You followed, walking around the front of the car to where Marcus stood waiting for you. Though you knew he wouldn’t stop you from taking his hand again, he didn’t offer it immediately, and you knew it was because he was giving you the chance to make a completely professional impression on the officers you were about to meet with. Instead, he walked side by side with you, arm dangling close enough for his sleeve to brush yours. 

Before you made it halfway up the walk, Xander rushed down the porch steps to you. “Thank fuck you’re here. This shit is weird and I am freaking the hell out!” There were deep, worried creases between his eyebrows, and he was taking big open mouthed gulps of air. 

“Hey. I’m sorry, X.” You put your hands on his arms the same way Marcus had done to you earlier at the diner, and demonstrated a slow, even breath in and out, trying to get the frazzled 20-something in front of you to do the same. He did, and you nodded. “You alright? Did you already talk to the police?” 

Xander blew out a breath and eyed Marcus before turning back to you. “Yeah. They cleared the building, made sure no one was still inside, and then they asked me a bunch of questions. I told them everything and they said I was okay to go for the night and that they’d call me if or when they had any more questions but I wanted to wait until you got here.” His eyes shifted back to Marcus. “Shit, did this bust up date night or something? I-” 

“Uh-” You cleared your throat, eyes going wide. “Um, no, we just - This is my friend Marcus. He came for the lecture tonight and he-” 

“I’m just here for moral support.” Marcus smiled warmly at the jittery kid. 

Xander nodded. “Well, good. Wish I had some of that.” Shaking his head, he closed his eyes. “No way I’m gonna be able to sleep tonight. Not after seeing…” He trailed off, blinking off into the dark distance beyond the house. 

Your heart ached sympathetically. You knew what it was like to be the one to find someone dead. It feels like the walls are collapsing. Holding your breath after your next question, you hoped the answer would be a no. “Xander, did…did you know who it was?” 

“No. I’d never seen ‘em. I mean not before…” He gestured to one of the second floor windows and released a sigh. “Far as I can tell he wasn’t a student.” That’s good, at least. This is gonna be hard enough for the kids to handle, at least it wasn’t one of them. Xander went on. “Cops found his I.D. on him. Turns out he was just some dude who came for the lecture, and-”

“Wait, what?” You tilted your head, eyes darting over to momentarily meet Marcus’. “They came for the lecture?” 

Xander nodded. “Yeah. Cops asked me for a list of everyone who bought tickets so they could cross check it I guess and he was on there. Some guy named Hank Elkins from right outside Philly.” He shrugged. “Why? You know him?” 

The name meant nothing to you personally, but you recalled it as one of the first to populate on your attendee list, meaning that Hank Elkins had been planning on coming to the event for months. A shiver ran through you at the thought that he had no idea that a night learning about incomplete artwork would ultimately be his last. “No, I don't know anyone by that name.” You wet your lips with the tip of your tongue. “Do they have any idea who did this?” 

“Nah, the security guard on duty didn’t have access to the camera playback so they had to wait for the director of campus security to get here and he just got here like two minutes before you. So they’re probably in there lookin’ at it now.” 

As he finished speaking, a uniformed officer exited the front door of the house and strode down the steps. “Mr. Paulson?” The officer addressed Xander, who answered with a ‘yeah’. “I’m here to escort you back to your apartment, make sure you get home safe.” He didn’t look much older than the college student, but you were still glad that Xander would have someone keeping him safe on the way back to the main area of campus. The young officer turned to you, greeting you by name. “The detective is inside, she’d like a few words with you.” He turned back to Xander. “We should get moving.” 

Xander nodded. “Yeah, alright, thanks.” He wrung his hands and looked at you. “Keep me posted, yeah? I… I wanna know what’s going on with this since… Since I-” 

Again you felt that twist of sympathy in your chest. Since you were the one who found him. “I will, X. Try to get some rest, okay?” 

He scoffed and shook his head. “Told you, no way in hell. But yeah.” 

You watched as Xander followed the officer assigned to him, and then turned to Marcus. “If it was someone who came for the event then… then maybe the killer was here for it, too. ”

Marcus nodded, concern written all over his face. “Maybe. Those security cameras are new, right? Didn’t you tell me the restoration committee put new ones in a few years ago?” Of course he remembered that. You confirmed that they were new within the last two years. “That’s good. Footage should be nice and clear. If the killer is on there we should be able to see their face and-” 

A woman’s voice speaking your name interrupted his sentence, and you looked up to see the detective Xander mentioned standing in the doorway. “I’m Detective Allison Sharpe. Thank you for coming back so fast.” 

You swallowed and glanced at Marcus before heading up to where the woman stood, your friend following you. “Of course. Anything I can do to help, I will.” 

“We appreciate that.” She looked at Marcus next. “And you, sir? Do you also work with the University?” 

“I don’t.” Marcus reached into his pocket and pulled out his badge to show the woman. “Agent Marcus Pike, FBI.” You watched Sharpe’s expression change slightly as she looked over Marcus’ credentials. “I’m with the art crimes division.” 

“Well now there’s a stroke of luck. Maybe you’ll be able to help us, Agent Pike.” The woman directed her focus back at you. “I’m sure your assistant, Xander, told you about the mystery painting?” 

“He did.” You narrowed your eyes. “Do you know where it came from?” 

Detective Sharpe raised one eyebrow and clicked her tongue. “We have no idea. But hopefully one of you two can shed some light on that. It appears to be quite old, but I’m no art expert.” 

You cleared your throat. “Can I… take a look?” 

“You can. But first I’ll need you to give your statement and take me through the evening from your memory. If you were here as well, Agent Pike, we’ll need you to do the same.” Sharpe gestured to the front door. “Officer Fromer is waiting in the dining room to take care of that. I need to get back inside to review the security cam footage, but as soon as you’re finished he’ll bring you into the other room where the artwork is.” She spread her hands wide. “Again, anything you can tell us about the piece, anything you can remember about the night, anything strange that happened, any weird questions your audience asked… it could all be helpful.” 

“Of course.” You nodded and followed her into the house. 

Though your brain was buzzing with adrenaline and your stomach churned with unease, both of those sensations were dimmed as you felt the warmth of Marcus’ hand on the small of your back. 

– – – 

After you answered all of the questions that the officers had for you, and gave your account of what happened that night from the time you arrived at Maplewood to the time when you and Marcus left, you were escorted into the parlor room, where your presentation had been.

Your eyes went immediately to the six easels that you had set up. All of the paintings that you brought with you were there, and all intact. None of them seemed damaged or meddled with in any way, and you let out a small sigh of relief at that. But then your eyes traveled to the seventh canvas. When they did, your mouth dropped open and you sucked in a gasp. 

I… I think I know that painting. 

It had been taken off of its frame and draped over a chair that someone had dragged up to the front of the room. From the upholstered backrest, a pair of eyes looked back at you, light and emotion already present in them despite the fact that the portrait was far from finished. The shape sketched out was that of a woman, her chin and cheekbones just barely hinted at, her hair only depicted as a brownish splotch to show where more detail was needed. But her eyes, clearly the feature that the artist deemed her most striking, were so complete and lifelike, it felt as though the featureless woman was looking straight through you. 

“Eliza Ashford.” You muttered the name that you’d read on countless documents throughout your time with the Maplewood Manor restoration society, certain beyond doubt that you were looking at her missing portrait. 

“What?” Marcus stepped up next to you, crossing his arms over his chest. “You recognize this?” 

You licked at your suddenly dry lips, gaze still fixed on the pair of painted eyes in front of you. “Yeah. Marcus, I think that’s…” Mid-sentence, you turned away and crossed the room to where a large portrait hung over the marble fireplace. The click of footsteps on the hard floor told you that Marcus was following close behind. “It is. Look.” 

Pointing up at the family of four that had called Maplewood home over a hundred years ago, you directed him to the woman shown standing beside her husband, their two children in front of them. 

“It’s Eliza Ashford. The Ashfords were the last family to own this place. Their family portrait has hung here for years. When the university took over the property they found this in the attic along with individual portraits of Henry Ashford and the two children, Josephine and Edwin.” You shook your head and turned to look at Marcus. “But there wasn’t one of Eliza. She died young, so everyone assumed that was the reason that she didn’t have her portrait done. But-” You lifted your eyes back to the family above the mantel and saw the same life and light in Eliza’s as you were struck with in the unfinished painting. It’s the same artist. It has to be. “But I think it just wasn’t finished in time.” 

Marcus frowned up at the family portrait. “Where was it then? If it wasn’t with the others in the attic?” 

You shrugged and let out a breath. “No one knows. No one even knew for sure it existed. There’s no record of the family paying to have it done, even though there are records for the other works that were commissioned around the same time.”

“You’re right. No one knows where the painting has been for the last 150 years-” Detective Sharpe’s voice startled you. You hadn’t heard the woman come into the room, and when she spoke you jumped. Marcus shifted closer to you, reassuring you with his presence. You relaxed slightly as Sharpe continued, but noticed that she looked shaken, and that left you nervous. She cleared her throat. “But we know how it got into the house tonight. Hank Elkins brought it in under his coat.” 

“Elkins?” Marcus questioned. “The victim? What was he doing with a piece of missing, unfinished artwork? Was he involved in the art world? A dealer, or collector?” 

Detective Sharpe nodded. “All valid questions, Agent Pike.” 

Something told you that whatever was about to come next was going to be shocking, but that didn’t stop you from asking anyway. “If you know that Elkins brought it with him, then you must have seen him with it on the security cameras.” Sharpe nodded again as your heart pounded. “Then… Did you see what happened to him after he displayed the painting?” 

Did you see how he ended up dead on the second floor? 

“Yes.” Detective Sharpe “But I still can’t… explain it.” Her tone sounded almost hollow, and you knew that couldn’t be good. 

“Would we be able to view the tape, Detective?” Marcus asked the question politely despite the fact that you knew that he could pull strings and make a few phone calls to grant him - and you - access to any part of this investigation that he wanted. 

“You can,” Sharpe replied after a pause. “But I’ll warn you it’s…” She wrinkled her nose. “Unsettling.” 

You swallowed and blew out a shaky breath. “Alright.” You looked at Marcus and chewed your lower lip. “Let’s take a look.” 

Sharpe nodded. “In here, please.” She gestured for you to follow her back to the dining room. 

Before you could cross the room, Marcus caught your wrist and gave you a slight tug to turn you to face him. “Hey, you sure about this? You don’t have to… If you don’t want to see that, I can watch and-” 

You brought your hand up to cover his where it wrapped around your wrist and gave him a tired smile. “It’s okay, Marcus. I need to… If I’m going to be any help with this, I need to know what happened.” 

He inhaled through his nose, chest rising and falling as he let the air back out. “Okay.” 

“Okay. Let’s do this.” 

Without hesitation, you walked across the room and into the dining room to view the footage. 

–  –  –

Twenty minutes later, you could barely breathe. Allison had told you that what you were about to see was impossible to explain, and she had been right. Even knowing that going in wasn’t enough to prepare you for what you saw happen to Hank Elkins in that bedroom upstairs. 

Cameras in the foyer had caught him come in. He’d even taken his seat and listened to your entire presentation. But after you had finished with your Q&A and you’d directed visitors into the next room for refreshments, Elkins had slipped past you to go back into the parlor to set up the canvas he’d smuggled in. After that, he was picked up by a different camera - the one in the back stairwell. That door had been locked, and you had given Xander the only key. But Elkins shockingly had a key in his pocket, and he used it to gain access to the second floor. Once he was upstairs he made his way into one of the bedrooms, and that was when things got really strange. 

He began talking to the walls. But not just rambling. He was gesturing wildly. Pleading, almost, making begging motions with his hands. And then the room went dark and a sound like a rush of wind ripped through, and when the lights flickered back on, Elkins had been flung across the room like a rag doll, head smashed against the wall so that he landed in a heap on the floor. 

“What the hell was that, Marcus?” Your voice was barely above a whisper as the two of you walked out into the night and made your way back to his car. Your hands and knees were shaking, and you felt hyper aware of every cricket and frog making sounds on the grounds of Maplewood. You turned to face him and saw the same terrified shock that you felt mirrored back at you. “What the hell happened to him in there?” 

He shook his head and opened the passenger side door for you. “I don’t know. But I know it wasn’t good.” His frown deepened. “You mind if I crash at your place tonight? I booked a hotel room, but-” 

“Jesus, Marcus, mind? After that? Please, like I’d let you leave me alone tonight. What’d you book a hotel room for anyway? You know you’re always welcome at my place.” But as soon as the words were out you wished you could take them back. He was always welcome at your place. But the last time he was in town, it wasn’t just your place, and your ex hadn’t been thrilled about the closeness of your relationship with Marcus. “Shit, I’m sorry. I know Bill wasn’t exactly great to you. But…” You shrugged. “Bill’s history. It’s my place again. And I want you there.” 

He stared at you for a few seconds, something unreadable in his eyes, even to you, even with as well as you knew him. It seemed almost melancholy, but then he blinked and his expression was back to even. “Well then that’s where I’ll be.” 

“Good.” You reached for his arm and gave him a light squeeze. “Let’s get the fuck out of here, I’m really spooked.” 

“Yeah.” He waited for you to get into the car and then closed your door. “Me too.” 

The numbers on the dashboard clock switched to midnight as Marcus turned the car around the circular drive and headed for the road. If either of you had been looking at the house, you might have seen the glow of a pair of eyes watching you from the second story bedroom window. But you didn’t. Instead, those eyes watched you go, and then they blinked into darkness. 

-- -- --

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tags: @something-tofightfor @littlemisspascal @mishasminion360 @nyctophiliiiiaaa @alraedesigns @practicalghost @tanzthompson @amb11@harriedandharassed @woodlandmouth @thescarletfang  @trickstersp8 @imtryingmybeskar @haylzcyon@wildmoonflower @mswarriorbabe80 @theredwritingwitch @silverstarsandsuns  @pedro-pedrito-pascalito @jedi-in-crocs @hannahkatharine @anoverwhelmingdin @chiyo13 @myloveistoolittle @spishsstuff @Noisynightmarepoetry

#marcus pike x female reader #marcus pike x you #marcus pike fic #marcus pike x reader #pedrostories #marcus pike the mentalist #marcus pike #spooky story #spirits follow everywhere i go #unfinished

[thepenultimateword]

Trick or treat! :D

🍬🎃

Thanks for the writing push! Have a treat!

CW: light blood, remembrance of an attack, vampire attack

"Good evening, your excellency!"

The curtain rings squealed along the rod and a stream of pale moonlight flooded the vampire's face. They groaned, flipping over onto their face for several seconds before finally peeking up from their pillow at the primly dressed figure at their window.

"Can you ever offer a little warning?"

"Forgive me," their servant said, dipping their head dramatically, "was 'good evening' not enough lead-up? I thought you'd be the expert of warnings by now."

They gave a little shrug, tagged by a grating little 'huh', and strode to the tea table, plucking the lid off a wide porcelain bowl with a puff of steam. They peeled one of the cream-colored hand towels from a stack, shaking it out with brusque, careful hands as they moved to the vampire's bedside.

"Are you ever going to let that go?" the vampire sighed, pressing their face into the warm humid fabric in the servant's hands before accepting it into their own.

"Hm...am I ever going to die? Breakfast or hair first?"

"Hair." The vampire swung their legs over the bedside and wobbled over to the vanity seat, more out of habit than actual need. As always the looking glass only reflected the room behind them. "Have you ever thought of leaving since you hate me so much?"

The servant picked up a brush and began dragging it through the vampire's thick black locks. "Not much of a resume. 200 years at the same job? They might think I don't know how to do anything else."

They said it with a chuckle, but the vampire picked out the mournful undertone. That little seed of guilt started sprouting in their chest again. Though they still couldn't quite bring themself to regret their actions. If they could go back in time, replay it differently, maybe they would've asked, but they still didn't see themself accepting a no. They were twisted like that.

"At least it shows consistency," they offered. "Dependability. Loyalty. Employer's like that sort of thing."

The servant sectioned the hair off into three parts, beginning a loose plait down the vampire's back. "I'm not sure I do know how to do anything else. Don't touch those."

They swatted at the vampire's hand as they played with the rows of carefully displayed hair ties and pins. Today's selection included a silk onyx ribbon, a pair of long rose quartz pins, and a set of emerald hair rings. A matching emerald collar chain sat just out of reach and ready for when it was time to dress.

"Emeralds?"

"They bring out the color in your face." The servant picked up a pin and slid it neatly into the top of the braid. "No one's seen you in a while; you don't want to shock them with your corpse skin."

"Ah. And where is it I'm going?"

"You're meeting with the governor today. To talk about a protection agreement."

"And you decided this, did you?"

The servant let the second pin scrape along the vampire's scalp. "Were you going to do it on your own?"

The vampire stifled a wince. "You know how I feel about people."

"A vampire without a purpose is a vampire on the chopping block. You make them restless. The bonds of a deal will keep them from doing anything stupid. Besides, you keep the land clear anyway, you might as well be acknowledged for it."

The vampire sighed deeply. Their servant was right. As much as they disliked mortals with their quivering shoulders and fast rabbit hearts, this was the best way to remain unbothered in their reclusive lifestyle.

"What time?"

"Just after noon." The servant hooked the last hair ring and immediately turned back to the tea table. The vampire pivoted in their seat, watching as they poured the red-tinted water and spooned their usual two teaspoons of sugar.

"You could do something else," the vampire said. "If you wanted."

The servant shrugged. "I'm good at this."

They pulled out the dining chair, and the vampire quietly rose up to accept it. They sipped the warm drink, feeling how it temporarily heated their chest cavity before gradually icing over. The sweet spiciness of the sugar, and the cloves the servant had probably steeped in the water, was offset by a sharp metallic flavor. The vampire closed their eyes and savored the delicious aftertaste. Their servant always could make the unseemly bits of being a supernatural creature more elegant.

The servant's eyes pricked into the side of their face, intent, piercing. The vampire never forgot what they were, but they did sometimes forget that they were the same. That nothing but the flimsy rules of class etiquette kept their servant in their role. They could turn at any moment, in a flash of fangs and raking nails, and perhaps this time the vampire would lose. They'd never lost to any of the creatures they kept at the edge of the forest, but they might lose to their equal.

"You know, some people choose lovers to spend their immortality with?" the servant said finally.

Some of the tension in the vampire's shoulders relaxed. "I had no use for a lover."

They still remembered that first day in their room, the utter terror of standing in front of the mirror and having no face looking back.

Who's going to take care of me?

Perhaps it had been a silly thing to strike them. Especially as their first worry since being turned, but they genuinely couldn't think of anything more terrifying. When they were rejected, and surely they would be rejected, they would be alone, and who was to help them then? Not a family member, they were as blue blooded as them; even if they were turned, they'd never fed themselves, dressed themselves, or made up their own hair. And with no way of seeing themself anymore, those certainly seemed like necessary skills for a helper to have.

The choice of eternal partner had been obvious. And with their new identity at growing risk of discovery, hastily made.

They got up early, just as the fingers of dawn scraped the sky, and lay in wait behind their door until those familiar steps sounded down the hall. The door creaked, the usual morning greeting chirped…and the vampire pounced.

They remembered very little of the exchange, it had all been too fast, too heady with their first taste of blood. It only could be recalled in pieces: a cry, a struggle, shattered tea cups, a dark tea stain on the carpet that was probably still there. Then quiet.

They had thought they’d killed their servant. They were so limp and so still, and the vampire had had only their own traumatic fate as instructions. But then suddenly the breath came again and the feverish pain of change set in, and when the servant awoke in their shared cell, exorcists and experts prodding useless cure and concoctions through the bars, they were not the same as before.

At least when they were outcast, it was together.

And at least, as their feelings grew bitter and their demeanor more sharp-edged, they stayed.

The vampire shook themself from their thoughts. “Are you coming to this meeting?”

“Who else would tell you what to say?”

“See,” the vampire pointed at them, “that’s something you’re good at. Talking people into things, using eloquent words, you could be a politician.”

The vampire didn’t know why they were pressing this. They didn’t want their servant to go. If they had no one else 200 years ago, they certainly had no one now. Maybe giving them options soothed their persistent guilt. Gave them some false belief that turning the servant hadn’t been such a prison.

The servant chuckled. “A politician with fangs? I’m sure that would go over really well.”

“Just a thought.”

The servant poured a second cup of tea—their first breach of etiquette—and slurped it loudly—their second. They were still master and servant, but somewhere along the line, harsh, defining borders had softened into companionship.

“I’m fine with my job,” the servant said, setting down their cup into its saucer. “I simply wonder sometimes.”

With a slight nod, they retreated to the door, probably to bring in today’s outfit. They paused a moment with their hand on the knob, door just cracked.

They looked over their shoulder, fangs peeking through something almost grimace, almost smile.

“I don’t hate you.”

Then they were gone.

Master Taglist: (I’m sorry, I posted prompts for so long that I forgot I had a Taglist! If you’ve already seen this snippet, I apologize!)

@moss-tombstone @crazytwentythrees @just-1-lonely-person @the-vagabond-nun @willow-trees-are-beautiful @cocoasprite @insanedreamer7905 @valiantlytransparentwhispers @whovian378 @watercolorfreckles @thebluepolarbear @yulanlavender @kitsunesakii @deflated-bouncingball @lem-hhn @office-plant-in-a-trenchcoat @last-ditch-entry @ghostfacepepper @pigeonwhumps @demonictumble @inkbirdie @vuvulia @bouncyartist @lunatic-moss-studio @breilobrealdi @freefallingup13 @i-am-a-story-goblin @ryunniez @rainy-knights-of-villany @distractedlydistracted @saspas-corner

#vampire #vampire and vampire #supernatural creatures #spooktober #trick or treat #snippet #writing snippet #creative writing #platonic companionship #I mean you could ship it #but half way through #I was like #wow nonromantic love #how nice #servant #writblr #writeblr #fiction #monster #platonic love #friendship #fantasci #fantasci tumblr

[milfgyuu]

Is That Allowed? Pairing: Joshua Hong x Fem!Reader Tags: 1.4k words, Fluff, Humor Prompt: “Does that even count as a costume? Or lingerie?" requested Anonymously Summary: Your costume is a bit risqué but it catches his attention.

Joshua doesn’t particularly care for Halloween.

It’s not a strong enough dislike that he ever makes a fuss over it but enough so that he turns down Soonyoung’s Halloween party every single year. He could still show up - drink and mingle, but he prefers to not to answer the same question over and over again.

‘What are you supposed to be?’

An adult. That’s what he was.

So anyone who knows him would wonder why in the hell he’s sitting in the party store on some shitty metal bench outside the dressing room, looking for all the world like he’d rather be literally anywhere else. He sighs, flicking through his texts, skipping past the open invitation for Soonyoung’s party that he’s ultimately going to refuse, per usual.

The curtain in front of him slides open and it takes him a moment to look up but when he does his eyes widen in alarm, immediate scoping out the nearby area and finding it empty.

The cat suit you’re wearing is skin tight, hugging every dip and curve and Joshua drags his eyes away from your lower half only to get caught on your upper half that clearly doesn’t fit the way it’s intended…or maybe that’s the intention and he’s simply fumbling for speech but you’re not really looking at him anyway.

“This material kinda sucks,” you frown, pulling at the latex.

You don’t wait for his response before disappearing behind the curtain, announcing that you’re going to try on the next one.

Joshua panics. He has no idea what the next one is.

He hadn’t been paying attention to what you were picking up as he followed you around the store. Too busy being bored and uninterested in the gory masks and shrieking animatronics - hands shoved into his pockets as he hummed in agreement anytime you showed interest in a potential costume. He didn’t even know what it was for. Hadn’t asked.

You invited him to go shopping so he said yes but you never specified what you were shopping for.

The metal rings attached to the curtain slide against the rod again and Joshua hesitates to look up, pretending to be interested in something across the store.

When you call his name he stills before dragging his eyes up to you standing in front of the mirror. It can’t be worse than the last.

It is.

His throat constricts as he takes in the red satin mini dress adorning your body. The fishnet stockings. The black garter with the red satin heart in the center sitting high up on your thigh.

You misconstrue the look on his face for confusion. “It’s Betty Boop.”

“It’s…short.”

Two words. That’s all he manages.

You pull at the hem, bending down to adjust the garter and nearly spill out of the top of the dress which elicits a long, shaky sigh, from your shopping buddy.

You frown realizing he’s right. Your torso is just too long for it to cover what it needs too.

Turning back toward Joshua you realize he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else and you bite your lip, feeling bad for taking up his time with your indecisiveness.

“I’ve only got one more and then we can go,” your voice is too soft and Joshua looks up, only focusing on your face.

“I’m not in a rush!” he quickly tries to reassure you. “You look great! I just wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable in whatever you choose. Take your time!”

You smile down at him and he curses himself for letting his eyes dip lower for one brief moment.

“I might be a minute,” you tell him, stepping back into the dressing room, “This one looks a bit harder to get into.”

He’s hoping that means a lot of long loose drapery type material because he can’t handle another bodycon costume.

“Let me know if you need help!”

He doesn’t have a damn clue why he said it but your answering grin just before you shut the curtain lets him know you at least don’t think he’s a creep. He can’t be in a dressing room with you - he doesn’t know if he can ride home in the car with you knowing how incredible you looked in those costumes. That you’ve been hiding it all beneath t-shirts and long sweaters.

Joshua doesn’t hear you the first time you call his name and the second time you whisper-shout at him he glances up, but only your head pops out from behind the curtain.

You look apologetic for some reason. “I know you were probably joking, but I do actually need your help.”

He looks up and down the length of the store near the dressing rooms but there isn’t a single person in sight to assist you and so he nods and grips the metal bench so hard his knuckles burn before getting up and taking a few steps to stand in front of the tiny room. You peek over his shoulder and then tug him inside, making sure the curtain is closed completely.

The room is more like a stall with how tight the space is and Joshua swears he can feel your body heat from how closely you’re both standing. With your back turned to him you point a finger down over your shoulder indicating the problem. “I got some of the buttons myself but only made it half way. Can you finish them up?”

He looks at nothing but those damned satin buttons.

Quickly and carefully he fastens them, avoiding touching your skin at all costs lest he burn himself and be forced to carry the scar of the memory for all eternity.

As he clasps the final button he inches toward the curtain but you spin around just before his hand can pull the material back. “This feels perfect! What do you think?”

Joshua swallows hard and says his last prayers before looking down and it’s not enough to keep from choking on his saliva as he takes it all in.

It’s a classic playboy bunny costume but there is much more bodice and lace involved than he remembers seeing Elle Wood wearing in Legally Blonde. No there is much more see-through material and you’re lucky he’s not got laser vision because you’d be seared in half with how hard he’s staring.

“Does that even count as a costume?” he says, voice too tight, “Are we sure it’s not just lingerie?"

You chuckle as his reaction. “Of course it’s a costume!” you turn halfway and wiggle your rear at him, the attached tail bobbing along, “I’m a bunny! Soonyoung said the theme was sexy celebs and characters. So…ta-da!”

Of course. Catwoman. Betty Boop. Playboy Bunny.

He was going strangle his friend next time he saw him.

Joshua is lost in his own thoughts but he comes to when you poke his chest patiently.

Your smile is so shy, so at odds with the risque outfit you’re wearing. “I was really hoping that we could maybe go to the party…uh, together.”

Oh.

That he certainly hadn’t expected.

He never went to Soonyoung’s party but you were going and wanted him to go with you…

“Are you sure?” He doesn’t mean to ask the question so incredulously but you were so…you.

Bright, beautiful, bubbly, outgoing and he was…well he was good looking but that was about the only shining personality trait he held compared to your own.

“Of course,” you answer easily, “Why do you think I wanted you to come with me? I wanted you to like what I chose…to think I um…” you hesitate on your next words but muster a smile anyhow, “...that I looked pretty in it.”

Your shrugged shoulders are enough to bring Joshua out of his headspace and he smiles back at you. Genuinely.

“You look…amazing,” he says honestly and the tension in your neck and shoulders melts. “Yeah, um…I’d love to go with you.”

You press your hands together and hold them against your lips to stifle the goofiest grin. You’ll have to thank Jeonghan later for the idea because his plan worked just like he said it would but there is one more question to ask.

“I know you don’t like to dress up but I was hoping we might match…just a little.”

Joshua laughs, brows furrowing. “I don’t think they have that in my size.”

He waits as you turn and fumble with something on the tiny stool in the corner and when you spin back around he just has to laugh.

Jeonghan still teases him over his lockscreen two years later. The one he uses for the entire month of October. Your first Halloween together with you perched in Joshua’s lap and kissing his cheek at the party - and on your heads…matching bunny ears.

Thanks for reading!

Halloween 2022 | SVT M.List | Main M.List

→ Please do NOT copy, repost, or translate, any of my works here on tumblr or on any other platforms! All stories are copyrighted, Milfgyuu, 2019. ©️

#Halloween drabbles 2022 #svt fanfic #joshua hong fanfic #svthub #caratwritersclub #kdiarynet #kwritersworldnet #seventeen fanfic #lana writes #k-pop fanfic #svt joshua fanfic

[letmewanderinyourgarden2022]

NEW CHAPTER! A LITTLE EARLY. HAPPY NEW YEAR!

I dozed peacefully on a mossy riverbank lulled by the murmur of the lapping water.  Lying perpendicular to my companion, my head was lovingly cradled in the midriff of the other, a long finger gently circling across my forehead.  My eyes lazily followed the pillowy clouds floating above, in between fleeting winks of sleep. 

Contented. . .only to be startled awake by a loud, shrill, staccato tone. Blindsided by the sound, my eyes sprang open.  I was confused and disturbed by a crimson world pulsating around me.  The companion – gone.  As if pulled by an unseen tether, I arose.  My fingers plugged my ears to lessen the painful blare.  I stumbled forward into the stand of trees lining the bank, drawn to a red light flashing in sympathy with the intense sound. When I reached a clearing, all turned to black.

I violently shook my head trying to banish the insistent beep ringing in my ears. 

Shit!  The alarm.

Yawning, my hand searched the bed covers for the phone to end the obnoxious sound.  I groaned finding I was still dressed from the prior evening.  My fists twisted against closed eyelids to dispel the muzziness in my head. 

Ugh. . .jet lag. . .Fuck, fuck, FUCK!  What time is it?

I sprang from the bed and beelined to the kitchen focusing on the cell screen.

Okay. . .Seven. . .I can do this. . .

I hastily slapped a filter into the basket, dumped in the coffee and turned on the machine. Leaning low to the counter stretching my back, forehead on folded arms, I waited for the machine to stop gurgling, trying to wake up.  A competing sound – insistent and close by - drew my attention.  Turning my face to peer at the living room’s glass doors, a deluge curtaining the patio made itself known, raindrops bouncing high off the bricked deck. A grimace in resignation at the unexpected glitch spread across my face.

Of course. . .  

Standing by the patio doors sipping the much-needed coffee, I rethought my attire for the meeting in light of the uncooperative weather.  The reflection of my unruly tresses ghosted in the rain-greyed glass.  I mulled over options for taming them into something more professional looking than the spawn of Medusa.

My hair and rain just do not mix. . .

I sighed and wandered back to the bedroom closet, coffee in hand, sliding each hanger along the polished wooden rod selecting pieces to fit my mood.

Almost everything I brought is black. . . how appropriate. . .Black it is, then.  Professional. . .yes. . .but perhaps just a bit off center.

Selecting straight-legged pants and a soft, silky tunic from the hangers, I threw them on the bed. Still not satisfied, I spied one of my more durable vintage pieces – a velvet cape-like jacket with a burgundy and gold paisley running through it – and gently placed it with my other choices. The 40’s spectator pumps completed the outfit.  I rummaged through my accessories to locate the final pieces – two large, carved rosewood hair combs and dangling garnet earrings.

This will do nicely.  All black with a splash of red and a bit of gold.

After finishing my ablutions, I quickly slipped on the outfit, before tackling the hair situation.  I gathered the long spirals into a thick ponytail and fashioned a twist, secured with the two combs; two strands liberated at each temple.

Too poufy. . .but it will have to do. Ha, ha! Gibson Girl to go with the jacket. . .If I had more time. . .fuck!

I thought that glamming up a bit might distract from failed hairstyle.   Make-up was not something that I ever cared about, even though I did own some basics.  I chose to follow my usual path of foregoing any addition, other than a swipe of lip gloss.  A bit of scent was called for, though, and I dabbed drops of musky patchouli oil on my wrists and behind my ears.

I think that’s the best I can do, considering. . .

Slipping on the jacket, I checked my phone.  It was 8:15. I topped off the coffee and sat nervously on the edge of the couch – waiting.  Promptly at 8:30, three metallic taps clacked on the front door.  Through the peephole, I observed a pleasant looking middle-aged man slightly rocking back and forth under a large golf umbrella.

I unfastened the chain and opened the door.

“Good morning, Ms. Mott,” he nodded through the streams of water dripping from the tips of the canopy.  “I’m Mr. Page’s driver, James.  Do you need a few minutes?”

“Hi. . .Yes, just a minute or two.”

He stepped back slightly from the door.

“No – please come in, come in.” I waved him inside.  “This weather - ugh.  I’ll be quick.”

He moved to just inside the door, leaving the open umbrella resting on its handle on the doorstep. “Typical for this time of year, I’m afraid.  Don’t rush, we have time.”

I started to collect my laptop, papers and keys but stopped to turn back to him, puzzled.

“Wait – how does that work?  You’re James, right? And he’s James.  Ever become a tad confusing?”

“Not anymore,” he said with a toothy smile.  “I’m James; he’s Jim or Jimmy, mostly.  I’ve been with him for a very long time so it's worked out just fine, but we do have a few laughs about it now and then.”

“Huh. Okay.  Ready.” I followed James out the door, under the shield of the huge umbrella, hastening up the stairs to the waiting car.  Sheltering me from the downpour, he opened the door and I slid across the back seat.  He quickly threw in the umbrella and dove into the driver’s seat to avoid being drenched.

“Not the best welcome for your first full day in London,” he commiserated, glancing at me in the rear-view mirror. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts.  Just tap on the glass if you need anything.” The partition closed between us.

James took a route that passed some of the iconic sights of the city. I leaned my head against the window, taking in the London scenery through the raindrops.  Hyde Park’s greenery loomed to my left and as we skirted between the boroughs of Mayfair and Soho, Marylebone and Fitzrovia, I wondered what the day would bring.  The grandeur of Regency Park and its wrought-iron gates appeared through the rainy mist. 

I dug out my Blackberry to confirm that it all was, indeed, real.  There it was – the photo – Jimmy hovering at Perry’s shoulder with a sweet, goofy grin and mischievous eyes, silver-white hair loose and flowing. The date and time stamp revealed it was snapped just hours after I ended my January call with “Mr. Hudson.”  Its greeting flashed from my phone when I awoke the next morning.

Mmmm. . .that was. . .indescribable. . . And here we are. . .

James cracked open the partition.  “We should be arriving shortly, Ms. Mott.”

“Great, thanks, James.”  I took a deep breath and nervously bit my lip catching his eye in the rearview. Resting my head against the chilly leather seat, I was lost in the possibilities to come as the car halted at 12 Oval Road, Jimmy’s manager’s office.  Thankfully, it seemed the rain had passed.

I started to open the door, but James was quicker. “Ms. Mott, allow me, please.  I’ll be waiting here when you’re done, okay?”

“Oh, thank you, James.”  I scanned the façade, sighing deeply, “Okaaay. . .here we go!”

“You’ll be fine.  See you shortly.”

Perry was waiting just inside the doors.  “Jane.  How are you this morning?”

“Nervous, Perry, for some reason,” I creaked.

“No need, no need.  We’re just on the next floor.”

I followed him up the carved, mahogany stairs admiring the 19th-century features blended into a very contemporary design.  “Interesting mix of periods here. . . wow!”

“Yeah, it’s a converted warehouse.  They tried very hard to keep what they could.” He swung open a door to reveal a large conference room.  A dark-haired woman sat at a long table, flipping through a few papers.

She rose and walked the length of the table to greet me.  “Jane. So happy to meet you.  I’m Angela. . .Angie, Bill’s staff attorney,” holding out her hand.

“Angie, hi, likewise,” using my most professional handshake.  “You’re American.”

“Is it that obvious?” she laughed.

“Well, yeeaah, it is.  New York?” I teased.  She nodded. Following the normal greeting when attorneys meet for the first time, I continued, “So, where did you go to school, Angie?”

“Uh. . .Columbia, then here for a bit.”

Hmmm. . . I know that tone. Ha!

“Please have a seat, Jane. How about you?”

“Georgetown. . .” I slid into my seat at the center of the table opposite her. 

God, I hate that ass-sniffing ritual. . .very tiresome.  She seems to hold it in the same regard, though.  Ha.  Good.

“If you have time, I’d love to talk to you about your school experience in Britain while I’m here.  Very interested.”

“I’d love to fill you in. I’ll give you my card. . .Umm, Perry. . .you have everything?”

“Yeah, yeah, I do.”  He scrambled to take his seat at the table.

“Okay, why don’t we start with the non-disclosure?” She queried me over her reading glasses.

“Sure.”

“Alright.  No changes from the final draft?”

I shook my head.

“Great.  Here are two copies.” She placed each side by side in front of me.  “Please sign each one.  I’ll do the same as Mr. Page’s representative. Perry will witness.  We each will have an original execution.”

“Perfect. . .but, uh, can you give me a few minutes?” I unzipped the case and grabbed my laptop.  “I just wanna. . .you know. . .not that I don’t trust you or anything, but – “

“Right, understood, of course. . .Perry?” She nodded to the far corner of the room and stood up from the table.

“Oh. . .okay.” He joined her.

“So, what is the plan for. . .”  Their conversation quieted as they moved to the end of the table.  My focus centered on the screen, comparing it to the documents before me.

What the hell are you doing? This is not at all necessary. . .I know. . .I know. . .it's just a formality. . .but I don’t want any surprises. . .

Once satisfied there were none, I called out to the corner.  “Okay, all good.”

The couple retook their seats.  “The pens are right there.” Angie indicated a small, ornate box in the center of the table. 

I opened it to find crimson fountain pens nestled inside.  Unscrewing the cap, I circled the gold nib across a spare bit of paper. 

“This is a lovely touch.” 

A deep, rich, aquamarine-colored liquid flowed smoothly as I scribbled.

“Very, very nice pen!  Definitely no problem recognizing the originals,” I chuckled, “. . .interesting shade of ink.” 

I signed and dated each of the agreements and slid them to Perry for his witness.   After Angie scrawled her signature, she waived around one of the documents to dry the ink.  She folded the papers and slipped them into an envelope, pushing it across the table. I reached to return the pen to the box.

“No, no!  Please keep it – a memento.  Perry will discuss the remaining details with you.  I’m staying on just in case there are any questions.”  She turned her focus to Perry.

“Right. . .Jim. . .uh - Mr. Page. . .is currently at Sonning-on-Thames. It’s about an hour’s drive west.  He thought it would be an agreeable place to meet. . .it's a little village.”

“It sounds great!” I bubbled like a thirteen-year-old, much to my embarrassment.  “Sorry. . .go on, please.”

“We arranged lodging for you at The Bull Inn – lots of history there and Mr. Page would very much like to absorb- “

“Uh. . .Nope, Perry.  I believe we discussed this, did we not?  This is on my dime. . .or. . .pound or whatever, right?  Now, we don’t need to sign something, do we?”  I fluttered my eyelids, smiling sweetly.

“Yes, we did and no, we don’t,” he laughed. “I had to try.  Soooo, in that event, the innkeepers have offered a very nominal rate for your stay.  James will ferry you to Sonning and then back to London in a few days. That will give you a chance to enjoy the village."

I glared at him with somewhat feigned displeasure.  “Perry. . . now how is that any different??  Offered and nominal? Isn’t that still – what did you call it – absorbing?”

He remained silent, expectantly, brows raised.

I resisted a bit longer, really not wanting my adventure to be subsidized by Jimmy in any way. But. . .I gave in. “Okay, okay. . .deal.”

“Alright, good.  You haven’t made any firm plans as of yet, right?” I nodded. “Mr. Page was hoping that you would arrive later this afternoon, get settled in, and meet with him tomorrow.  We’re unsure of the exact time as he has some business calls scheduled.  I’ll figure that out and ring you with the time.  Is that to your liking?"

“Yes, that is absolutely to my liking.  What happens now?"

“James will pick you up around mid-afternoon and get you checked in at The Bull.” He stood, followed by Angie.

Apparently, we’re done.  Very painless.

“God, Perry, I am beyond excited!” I hastily stuffed the envelope, the laptop and the pen back into the case, zipping it closed.  “Thank you both for everything. Angie, I look forward to our chat and thanks for the. . .uh. . .memento.”

As Angie walked me to the door, her hand grazed my arm as she slipped her business card into my hand. “Jane, that is a great wrap! Is it original?"

"Oh, thanks. Uhh. . .I have a thing for antiques."

"Mmm. . .Beautiful. There are some great shops to check out then while you're here. I'll give a list to Perry for you. I have no doubt you going to have an interesting experience.  Have fun.  Please do call me when you get back.”

“I will.  See ya, Perry.”

James was waiting, as promised, as I flew out of the building’s entrance and down the marble stairs. 

“All good?” He asked with a knowing look. 

“Way more than good.”

I couldn’t suppress the thoughts of the "interesting experience," as Angie put it, looming over the next few days.  Gazing out the window, I saw no landmarks only the possible scenarios I was conjuring.  When we arrived at the flat, James and I set the time for the trip to Sonning. 

“Thanks, James.  See you soon.  I can get this - really – don’t get out.”

I sprang out of the car, rushed down the stairs and through the door, hooking up the laptop in record time.   Draping the jacket over the back of the chair, I started a quick internet search, googling The Bull Inn, Sonning-on-Thames.

Historic is right, 16th century!  Regardless of how it goes with Jimmy, this is gonna be extremely cool.  Ha! Like everything so far.

I excitedly investigated the village and environs, finding that Deanery Garden, Jimmy’s home, was right up the road from the Inn. I grinned. 

Okaaay then.

After the laptop was back in its case, I twirled to the couch and flopped enjoying a delicious prickly excitement. 

I have a few hours to kill. . .may just a tiny shot. . .What the fuck, Jane? . . .It’s only 11 o’clock- in the morning!. . .Yeah, well, it's afternoon US time. . .I definitely need to mellow out or I’m going to go insane. . .I'd kill for a joint. . .Ha!

Reasoning that food would take away the guilt of alcohol mid-morning, I searched the fridge for something appealing.  Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a blue and white something on the counter. A basket had appeared in my absence, covered with a checkered cloth with a note on top:

Jane – sorry to barge in while you’re out.  I dropped off linens and a little treat. Please enjoy! I forgot to mention that Rob and I will be away for a bit.  We have friends visiting while we’re gone, so don’t be alarmed if you hear knocking about upstairs.  Just in case it’s needed, there is a spare key to your flat in the urn by our front door – a little key box mixed in with the greens. We’ll see you in a couple of weeks.  Dinner when we return?    Emily

I folded back the corners of the cloth to find fresh scones, clotted cream, and homemade strawberry jam.

Wow. . .so nice of her!  And just what I needed. . .ooooh. . .they’re still warm.

I put on the teapot after deciding it was too decadent to pair the scones with whiskey at mid-morning.  The late breakfast was divine.  As time was becoming short, I hastily poured a shot topping it with a splash of water and sauntered to the closet. I carefully placed my most treasured pieces into the waiting suitcase and bag, along with the deep red velvet tarot bag slipped in among the folds.

Precisely at three, the familiar rapping sounded and I threw open the door. 

“James, come in.  I’m ready.”

“Ms. Mott.”

“James. . .It’s Jane, please.”

“Right.  Let’s get you to the car, Jane,” he said as we grabbed my bags.

Once on our way, he called back through the open partition.  “There's lovely countryside along the way.  Let me know if you have any questions or want to stop, we’re not on a set arrival time.”

“Thanks. I think I need to do some reading to. . .uhm. . .stay calm, you know.”

“Jane, you’re not going to an execution!  Just tap the glass if you need me, okay?” he said as the partition slowly slid shut. I saw the amusement in the eyes looking back at me in the mirror.

I forced myself to focus on the new client prospectuses crammed, last minute, into my laptop bag.  Plugging in the flash drive plucked from the first folder, rhythms and melodies raced from the computer through my ear pods.  I gazed out the window as we sped by patchwork fields and hedgerows, listening to a sample from the short sets of three new bands seeking representation. They were all good – raucous and driving, but I kept returning to the tight grooves of the yet unnamed southern rock band.  “. . .heavy. . .somewhat complex. . .definite blues undertone. . .singer - a plus,” I wrote in the band’s workup.  I rewound their set to hear it in its entirety.  The opening number’s distorted low-down licks chimed with the cowbell intro of Honky Tonk Women, rough and gritty, followed by the unmistakable opening riffs of Custard Pie.

"You-are-fucking-kidding me," I snorted with laughter, apparently loudly.  I looked up to see a chuckling James glancing back at me in the mirror.  Grinning, I shook my head, shrugged my shoulders, and resumed noting my impressions of the bands.  In no time, the car slowed to a crawl.  The Bull Inn, a sprawling dark timber-framed country inn with white-washed walls and gabled, latticed windows came into view. We entered to find a warm and inviting atmosphere - a small reception desk to the right with a cozy bar visible thru an arched entrance in front of me.  Peeking into the room's entryway, I found a lovely brick and marble bar lit with stained glass lanterns near a massive brick fireplace with yellow-white flames dancing in its center. The sweet scent of birch wood tinged the air. The only other illumination in the room was the sunlight beaming through the row of tall, paned windows set into the exterior stone wall.  Sparkling motes of dust danced in the space between the windows and the tables in the shadows.  I was transfixed. 

“Jane?” James called from reception.

“Oh, yeah, sorry,”  I said as I slowly backed out of the bar, not quite ready to leave, and returned to the desk.

“This is Moira. She and her husband Kirk are the innkeepers. She’ll handle the registration, then I’ll get your bags upstairs.”

“So glad you’re joining us, Jane.  Just sign here, after you read thru, and then I’ll take you to your room.”

As we navigated the very steep and very narrow staircase to the next floor, Moira chatted about the things to do and see in Sonning.  I turned back to see James attempting to maneuver my large suitcase and bag up the stairs.  “God, I’m so sorry, James. . .I didn’t take into account 16th-century stairways when I packed!  Can I take that bag??”

“Ha!  Not a problem, Jane.”

With bags deposited and the low-down on Sonning received, I closed the door and explored my second temporary residence in as many days.  A couch and coffee table were tucked away in an alcove.  The bathroom contained a walk-in shower and a very roomy clawfoot tub.  As I lifted my suitcase onto the bed, I noticed an ecru-colored square propped against the dark blue pillows.  “Jane” was very neatly printed on the front in a now familiar color of ink.  I plopped on the bed, grabbed what I realized was an envelope, and turned it over.  There I found a dark red imprint.  My fingers traced the small dragon raised in the wax. Utterly amazed, I lifted the seal, as sparks of anticipation swirled down my spine.  Tucked inside was an ecru note card matching the envelope. As I pulled it out and flipped it over, I found a Gorey pen-and-ink overlaid on the front.

Wow! How could he possibly know that?

Gorey was a favorite of mine. Many of his books were tucked into my bookshelves at home. On the face of the card was drawn a woman, adorned with a wild hat of large snaking black lilies, dancing through a maze of tall drapes with a man garbed in white. When I opened the card, flowing penmanship in the same rich aquamarine was revealed.

Hello, Jane~Let’s meet tomorrow at half noon, shall we?  The Inn’s Hidden Garden is quite a lovely place to chat.  Moira or Kirk will show you the way.  We will have the garden to ourselves for your “brain-picking” session. I look forward to meeting you.

Till then ~ J.

Collapsing into the pillows, I giggled until I was breathless unable to contain my joy! I was certain it could be felt by everyone in the vicinity.

Oh my god. . .he is too much!!  He took the time to write me himself.  . .and the ink! Ha! I must ask about that! And Gorey - what the fuck? But how very sweet and so very. . .personal.  Not typewritten on JP letterhead!  And the seal. . .my, I think it's. . .definitely going to be an adventure.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, in the bar directly below, the writer was secreted in a far dark corner.  He had decided to observe my arrival from afar and now pondered the possible effect of his note in the room above.  Sipping his tea, he glanced up at the beams.  As a slight shiver twitched across his shoulders, he half-smiled into his cup; my mirth apparently had sought him out, found him, and made its presence emphatically known.

[BTW - I don't profess to be an artist - so my apologies to those of you who are 😊 And yes, Jane does have hands and facial features 😁]

CHAPTER LIST https://www.tumblr.com/letmewanderinyourgarden2022/701210499738714112/chapter-list-let-me-wander-in-your-garden?source=share

@firethatgrewsolow @foreverandadaydarling @laluxea @lzep @sassybouquetrunaway-universe @jimmysdragonsuit13 @jenyj89

#jimmy page fan fiction 2022 #jimmy page #zoso #jimmy page fanfiction #silver fox jimmy #old man jimmy #led zeppelin fanfic #let me wander in your garden-chapter five #lmwing 22 #let me wander in your garden 2022

[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. :)

#Egotober 2023 #Superhero AU #Masks and Maladies #the author #illinois ahwm #Darkiplier #Patton Sanders #domestic fluff

[howlingday]

What is Jaune reaction when first meets Roman or Neo and what does he do and what does his Pokémon do?

"Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen..." Jaune counted the packs of Pokémon feed he carried in his bag as he walked slowly along the wall, away from the city street. It was his turn to do the shopping this week, so he bought the essentials. Food, medicine, grooming tools, and other every day needs for both his friends and their Pokémon.

"Twenty." He nodded. "Okay, time to head home." He stopped along the wall and opened his backpack, placing the bag inside the sack. It was large, but he made it fit.

As he zipped it shut, he heard a bell ringing, slowly but loudly. He looked up to see a man across the street rattling a small, metal rod inside of a small, golden bell. The sign explained the purpose of this man and his actions.

"Oh! Ice cream!" Jaune stood up, slinging the backpack over his shoulder. With no line ahead, he began reaching for his wallet.

"No need." The man behind the cart said. He was wearing odd attire for an ice cream salesman. He didn't wear an apron, but a long, white trenchcoat, and a black bowler with a red band. Underneath that was a curtain of red hair, which clashed with his brown mustache. "This one's on the house."

"Really?" It was bad for business, but Jaune wasn't going to tell him that. He's probably been doing this for years, so he shrugged, sure the man knew what he was doing. "One scoop of vanilla, please."

"Coming right up!" One scoop out of the cart, perfectly placed on the cone. "Here you go. Have a lovely day."

"Thanks!" Jaune walked away, but didn't make it past the alley when he heard crying. Looking in, he saw a little girl bawling at the end of the alley. He looked back to see the ice cream cart, and the man who ran it, was nowhere to be found.

Adjusting his pack, he stepped further inside. As he approached, the girl stopped crying. She looked up, revealing a pink and brown eye. He knelt down to her.

"Are you okay?" Jaune noticed reached out to her. She snapped, and he fell back as his fingers narrowly missed the sharp fangs of the girl in front of him. The air around her shifted, and her body wavered and morphed into that of a tall, bipedal Pokémon, with long white fur with red markings. It looked like a Zoroark, but not one he's ever seen.

It stepped closer, forcing Jaune to scramble to his feet. It growled, claws twitching as it approached. Jaune knew this one was hostile, unlike how shy Zoroarks usually are. With no Crocea Mors, he weighed his options.

He could fight, and likely lose, or run, and likely get caught. Neither option seemed viable.

It was at this point he noticed how sticky his hand became. Shifting the ice cream to the other hand, he examined his freed fingers.

The Zoroark sniffed, then drew closer. They licked his finger, delighting in the taste.

"Oh, you like that?" Jaune asked. He held out his cone. "Here."

They took the cone into it's claws and carefully lapped up the white, frozen but melting dairy from the cone. Jaune, cautious but curious, reached out and pet the Zoroark. It flinched, growling, forcing Jaune to retreat his hand. But foolish as he was, he tried again, and the Zoroark ignored him this time.

He stroked their fur, cooing as he did. "That's it. I'm not gonna hurt you."

"Gah!" A voice shouted behind him. He turned to see the salesman from before, now without a mustache, gesturing at Jaune and the Zoroark to a shorter woman at his side. "Neo! I thought that thing didn't like strangers!"

The woman, Neo, shrugged, looking as confused as the man himself. With a crunch, Jaune looked behind him to see the Zoroark had devoured the frozen treat, lick it's fur clean around it's lips.

"Is this your Zoroark?" The woman nodded. "They're beautiful. Are they not from this region?" She shook her head. "Wow... Are they from Kanto, or Hoenn? I've only been to Sinnoh, and I know they're native to Unova. Maybe Kalos or Galar?" At each suggestion, Neo shook her head. "That's too much fur for Alola, even for the mountains." The woman spread her arms wider. "Even further? Wow..."

"Alright, kid!" The man spoke. "Geography lesson is over, and this mugging is a bust, so scram."

"You were going to rob me?" Jaune asked, suddenly mortified. "How?"

"Hush was supposed to knock you out, but then you had to go and befriend it."

"Them." Jaune glared. "Pokémon aren't tools to call it."

"You're right. They're not tools." The man kicked his cane up and spread his arms wide. "They're the same as you and every other poor sap who walks in here. Either a stooge or a henchman. Honestly, it depends how much I respect you." Jaune's glare deepened. "Oh, don't give me that look. I treat my henchman well enough. Definitely better than stooges like you."

"I can't say I fully agree, but thank you for letting me go." Jaune walked past them.

"Who's saying I'm letting you go?" Roman held a cane up. Suddenly, a shadow cast over Jaune. Hush growled at Jaune. No, wait. Their eyes looked past Jaune. "What's your problem?"

Neo waved Hush over, and the Zoroark obeyed. She then waved good-bye as Jaune continued. Roman sighed, shaking his head. Once he rounded the corner, Melodic Cudgel floated down, holding Roman's scroll.

"Well, well, looks like the plan worked after all." He took his scroll and patted the Lampent on the head. "Cinder's gonna want this."

Neo tugged his coat, then pointed to her open mouth. Roman rolled his eyes.

"Yes, you can have your ice cream now."

#rwby #rwby au #rwby pokémon au #jaune arc #roman torchwick #neopolitan

[firespunalchemy]

San and Ashitaka Build

This pile (well, there's other stuff mixed in there) is in fact the San and Ashitaka costumes I built earlier this year. I tried to do a vaguely historical approach to shapes and materials since the film is also vaguely historical, but I used modern sewing because I barely know how to sew in general. This is also why I started with the bow.

To make a fake bow, for some reason I didn't like the usual PVC option, so I decided to make a long noodle out of EVA foam, carve it into shape with a craft knife, then add exaggerated wood texture with a wood burning tool. That then got covered in Worbla and painted with several layers of acrylic + a leather strap glued for a hand grip. The bow's 'string' is just thick elastic cord.

Arrows are dowel rods cut to length with EVA foam points at one end and foam fletching at the other. I accidentally made all his arrows the samurai's arrows (oops) and have no idea why I felt the need to not use real feathers. The quiver is just a muslin bag, pretty boring lol.

His sword is balsa wood and a napkin ring all glued together then covered in Worbla (featured here by another costume's progress). The blade and ring got spray painted metallic, the handle got a leather wrap like the bow. The sheath is just a foam box wrapped in fake suede, not really worth an action shot.

Ashitaka's (happi? haori? not really sure) took two attempts and still doesn't quite fit, oops. I dyed the fabric to a shade I liked, then used a YT tutorial on making the coat. His pants were bought online, and I made a lil pouch for his mysterious dried rations.

I fully just kind of made the sleeve happen; sketched a shape, cut it out, then continued adding scraps until I got something that fit okay.

Delicious bowl cut...his wig was a struggle, since I needed it to be rough and basic but not Lord Faarquad. It came out okay, but it truly is giving home haircut from the 80s.

Let's switch to San! Most of her clothes were bought, and I made the accessories. So this giant pile of fur will turn into a separated cape and hood. You may notice two tones of color there: I chose a longer Mongolian fur for the outside and a shorter Sherpa for the inside, because no one likes to see the raw inside of fake fur. There are curtain weights sewn into the paw shapes and front drapes of cape and hood to help them not fall back.

For most of San, I used Kinpatsu Cosplay's patterns as the base, and adjusted them to be slightly more masculine (and a lot longer) to fit my San. The apron was made of linen and hemmed so the outer edges can fray over time. We'll get to weathering in a minute (I did not take many WIP pics during making all of this).

I made the mask really round and the eyes slightly farther apart to up the uncanniness of it. The mask and ears got base coated in black matte acrylic, then color slowly added using sea sponge.

The dagger was made of a mix of foam and balsa wood that got glued together, then covered in Worbla. I spent way too long staring at the movie to decide the arrow shapes on the blade were raised rather than recessed. The blade got spray painted metallic, the arrows hand painted red, the pommel spray painted black. The handle got a leather strap wrap.

Her necklace was a mix of wood and stone beads, and three toofs made of some very crusty foam clay I had sitting around. They got formed and dried around paintbrushes to make the stringing hole, sanded, then painted with acrylic to get that old tooth look. San's wig was basically used out of the bag, and her accessories were just foam wrapped in fabric with shell beads glued on.

Weathering, the second most fun part of this build! I used a mix of dry brushing on acrylic paint in various brown and tan tones, spraying/splattering with a strong black tea, and using an airbrush to add dirt and wear to everything. A lot of edges and corners also got sanded to soften them and look less crisp and new.

And then we got fancy professional photos! If you're in Texas, check if Wild Momo Photography is heading to your con. She's fantastic, truly. Hope you enjoyed reading through this journey, and it's potentially helpful if you're building your own cursed prince and wolf girl.

#san and ashitaka #princess mononoke #mononoke hime #princess mononoke cosplay #studio ghibli #if your gender is weird why not make weird gender versions of characters? #is my ashitaka masc or femme? who knows??

[abominationcreator]

The Quiet Forest

TW: Homophobia, transphobia, abuse of curtains.

You and your fiancé, Mark, wake up miraculously within mere moments of each other. The hotel bed you share, barely large enough to house you both, forces you close, his bosom pressed to the thick layer of hair adorning your chest like a bath mat while his soft, perfect hair, rests against your neck. You slowly untangle from each other and don your clothing. You are going camping with your parents, and you will reveal your engagement. His dad has not been very approving of your relationship, but you hope that confronting him like this will open his eyes, or make him at least shut up.

After having prepared for the day and re-packed all of your belongings, you both exit the hotel. You begin to peruse online and find some of the folk lore of the forest you'll be camping in whilst your fiancé drives you both to the campsite. There was a missing persons case in the 40s, some cabin owner who went missing in the woods. It was dramatized for a few years, turning the town into a tourist destination, because of the fact the agent was working for the federal government. This tale nearly died off after a few years, but the sudden disappearance of his cabin jump-started the media, bringing enough tourists to turn the quiet town into a proper city. You find the story ludicrous, but your fiancé disagrees, obviously scared by the eerie nature of the tale woven before him. You make an effort to assure them, it's been 80 years after all. This works a little, to assure his anxious mind, but they still appear somewhat worried. He is often worried about such things, but the way his face scrunches up in that cute way always makes you smile. Such a reminder of your love is adorable...

Sorry, back to the tale. Ahem, now, at this point in the drive, you are entering the woods. A satisfyingly, subtle drop in elevation as you enter puts you at ease. You open your window to take in the sounds of the woods, but there is none but the sound of your automobile. You watch the fallen leaves turn to powder behind you in the side view mirror, but you don't hear a noise. Even the wind you're accustomed to at 20+ MPH, the wind you feel assaulting your every pore, is silent as it batters your eardrums. You decide to shrug it off as a side effect of the testosterone supplements, though this does little to calm your nerves. No- don't do-, tell- ugh. Instead of actually talking with Mark about your anxieties, you just keep them to yourself and shut the window. Like a fool. You don't even ask your partner about the side effects of testosterone supplements and birth control, let alone telling them about your sudden onset apparent hearing loss. Dumbass.

You continue your dumbassery until you arrive at your campsite: a clearing, lush with grass and moss, surrounded on nearly all sides by tress, dense shrubbery. The dirt road you came here on is the only interruption to the seemingly impenetrable wall of green. Your beloveds parents are already here, setting up their tent for the night despite the fact it's only 6 PM. You greet Marks parents with your usual hearty "Hello", receiving no more than a nod from his dad, Gabriel, but his mother, Elizabeth, waves to you and gives you a smile through her uneven, British teeth. You begin to unpack your belongings from the vehicle while Mark greets his parents, popping an antihistamine for his fungal allergy. While unloading, you find the box containing your rings. You handle them with great care, placing them within your pocket so as to protect them. You unpack all of your belongings, placing the food items in a sealed container and beginning to carefully set up your tent, opposite the campfire from Gabe and Livs tent. As the sun began to set you and Mark awayed to your tent, so you could change into evening-wear.

Your stylish, striped pajamas and evening sandals, Marks plain black t-shirt and ponytail; You're a pretty hot couple. You head out, and grab one of the rods so you can begin roasting marshmallows for the particularly gooey confection you call "Some Mores". These "Some Mores", a confection of chocolate, marshmallow, and Grahamed crackers, are a favorite of Gabe. Hopefully this will place him into a good mood. You tell him you have something to tell him. Mark adds a "We" and places his hand in yours. You take out the rings, handing Marks his and putting on your own. Gabe looks shocked, but Liv looks... disturbed. Gabe is surprised, sure, but he looks like he's... smiling? Elizabeth looks like she was just informed you both have every terminal disease known to man and Me. She stands, eyes moist with anguish, and runs off into the woods. Gabe tells Mark you'll talk about this when he returns and runs off after her, calling her name. He fades into silence much faster than it seems he should. You hope you aren't going deaf; could this be a reaction between the Birth Control and the Testosterone, you wonder? No, your rational mind tells your lying ass brain. There is something wrong. You hear Mark just fine, your phone just fine, and his parents just fine. These woods are wrong.

You are broken from these thoughts by your lover, crying. You go to him, wrapping him in your embrace, but he breaks out and walks a few steps away. Through tears he tells you he needs to go after his parents. "2 50+ year olds, running in the woods at night? I-I couldn't live with myself if they got hurt because of me. I-I'll be back soon." He ran off, before you could stop him. You sat down, processing that Marks dad wasn't homophobic. While he is certainly still transphobic, the realization his homophobia was a facade for his wife, the woman who baked you cake and made you feel at home all those times, is enough of a shock to lull you to sleep. You don't know what time it is when you wake up, but you feel like you're being watched. Your phone is dead. Your watch is dead. Your car has... disappeared. Along with the road. This is new. You look around, your campsite has been overgrown with moss and a few collapsed branches. The tents have been collapsed, the curtainous entrances have been torn asunder. You look in the direction Mark and his parents went off in. You pass the bushes, the clouds and the canopy obscuring your view and causing you to nearly lose their trail. You trip over something. You look down, it's Gabes shoe. A tree has grown through it. There is something wrong with this forest, you finally realize. You stupidly shake off this feeling, and continue on the path. You find Marks antihistamines, and take them with you. He might need them. You keep running, eventually reaching another clearing. A humanoid figure is in the center. You run to it. It's... a natural art piece. A bush, wired to grow in the shape of a person. But... there are no wires. Just... crooked, British, wooden teeth... It's Liv. She's a bush. You run back to where you found Marks antihistamines, and look for him, but he isn't there. You run back to Gabes shoe, but instead of your beloved fiancé, you find his dad. Gabe is on the ground, a wooden statue of himself instead of a wooden representation with the occasional, sharp wooden feature. His nose is broken inward, but you tripped over his legs. You see the imprint of Marks ring on the wood. Your fiancé punched his father over something. Could he have been defending you, you wonder? You hold back your loving tears and run, eager to find your beloved in the hopes you haven't lost them. The silence around you is deafening as you run. Despite having recently gotten up from a rest, and exercising regularly, you feel yourself growing weary quickly. You spot, ahead, a clearing with a grand shape in the center. Could it be Mark, could my love have lived on as a tree? But no... you rush ahead to find a huge mushroom, with a humanoid figure on the ground next to it, made of solid mycelia. The chest has been exploded outwards... the lungs are in pieces... there are chunks of mycelial ribs all over the clearing. The fungal allergy killed him before this forest could take him from you. How was this fair, forest? The homophobe, taken painlessly? The transphobe hardly tapped before his death? The cute, sweet gay man, consumed from the inside out, and possibly left conscious to feel his exploded chest cavity for the rest of his days. But... what will become of you? You return to the campsite, tired. As you sit in the chair, you notice your hands are wooden... and ablaze. You can't hear the fire burn. The world is silent around you as the fire overtakes you. And your ashes are taken by my Quiet Forest.

Thanks for listening to my stream.

#my writing #fiction #spooky

[cyberneticlagomorph]

A child sits hunched in the dark, limbs bent at unnatural angles, spine straining against graying skin. 

You fall off a shelf above their empty bed and hit the mattress with a very noticeable thump. 

All the joy of Being is sucked from you like blood from a wound. 

The child's head turns a full 180 degrees, bones cracking like gunshots in the silence, their eyes are completely dead and black. 

Something like ink or mucus runs from every orifice in their face.

They hiss at you like an animal and scuttle under the bed in the most unnatural way imaginable.

Fear runs its cold fingers down your spine and the second you register movement to your right you almost scream. 

A teddy bear lays curled in on himself, paws over his face as he weeps.

His fur is matted with the same black ick the strange kid had.

The game moves you forward against your will and you can see yourself reaching for the bear, gently trying to take his paw out of some misplaced sense of sympathy. 

The bear grabs you first, the feeling of his sticky paws against your clean fur makes you more nauseous than you initially expected. 

The bear has no eyes, just two oozing pits where eyes should be. 

His other hand clamps around the arm holding you, pulling as if something else was controlling the treacherous limb.

The struggle tears his entire arm off at the shoulder, but he doesn't seem to care. More black goo seethes from the new opening, first becoming a stump, and then an uncomfortably human arm.

"Run… away…" a multitude of voices echo and overlap, a tortured chorus of agony that crescendos into horrific screams. 

Teeth, blunt and human, sprout from the bear's mouth followed by a tide of black ichor and froth.

The seam in the middle of his face splits open wide and where there should be stuffing, is a huge bloodshot eye.

You take a step back and the bear lunges for you, the remaining paw now sprouting talons that would make Lady Dimitrescu proud.

The pair of you tumble off of the bed and hit the ground hard, breaking apart from each other on impact.

Your ears are ringing, head pounding as you roll onto your belly and struggle to your feet. 

The bear growls behind you. 

A kitchen knife hovers in the gloom, outlined in gold with sparkly particle effects around it to make sure that no matter how stupid or new or video games you might be, there's absolutely no way you could ignore this opportunity. 

Claws whistle past the back of your head.

The controls are intuitive. 

Movements, fluid.. 

You dive forward and dodge roll towards the knife, grabbing it in both paws; the heavy blade feels more like a sword at this size. 

This body lacks the training and muscle memory of your real one, so fighting will be a challenge. 

The bear wheels back around for another strike, claws outstretched, mouth smothered in black foam.

You parry the blow, purple sparks fly and you can feel the vibrations of the metal ring up your arms, it takes all of your strength not to drop it. 

The creature snarls, swinging its goop arm like a club. You don't dodge in time and take the full force of the blow, it sends you flying across the room and into the wall by the window, losing your knife in the process. 

The curtains are drawn tight, even duct taped in some places, but you can see light leaking in around the edges. 

Ghostly paw prints, outlined in that same golden light, urge you to climb.

The bear is close behind you.

He's gotten MUCH bigger, and MUCH heavier if the sounds he's making are any indication. 

Right.

OK.

You can see where this is going. 

You scamper up the curtains as quickly as you can, teeth snap at your ankles but you don't dare stop.

The curtain rod groans, threatening to give way as you reach the top.

You squeeze yourself into the gap between it and the wall and push with all your might, the groaning gets louder.

And louder.

The bear gets closer.

You grit your teeth. 

The curtain rod gives way beneath the weight of the bear and plummets to the bedroom floor with a CRASH!

The bedroom is bathed in pale dawn light, and you finally see it for the first time. 

Toys lay in shredded piles across the floor, knitted organs and fluff scattered like fallen leaves. 

Pools and puddles of that black gunk steam and squeal as the light hits them until they dry up and vanish, leaving nothing but dark stains on the carpet. 

The door is taped shut and several blankets have been stuffed beneath it.

Faded outlines and black finger smudges on the ceiling show where someone scratched off dozens of glow-in-the-dark stars in a fit of desperation. 

A night light lays smashed in one corner along with a cellphone, a computer monitor. 

A manic effort to extinguish all traces of light from this room.

Something awful happened here, that much is obvious. 

The bear roars to life again (...you'd forgotten about him for a second) and comes leaping out from underneath the pile of duct tape and curtains. 

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

You don't have your knife, you're screwed.

The sunlight hits the bear's back and he keens like a wounded animal, black ooze hissing as it steams.

You watch him dive under the bed where the child had gone, and he completely disappears into the darkness.

You stand there for a second, blinking dumbly until the game puppets you towards the bed.

Apparently that's where your knife ended up too, which makes no sense based on the trajectory of impact and yada yada yada you don't get time to be pedantic as you watch your hands pick up the knife again.

You leap into the darkness without hesitation, leaving the bedroom behind. 

#ic #action post #body horror #gore #ask to tag #dismemberment #eye horror

[beautytreats]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: 28pcs Adhesive Wall Hooks Storage Organization Lot.

[battleforoclarious]

We Call For War

There are white flares bursting through the Sun in the number of hundreds. Then the cavalries on pegasuses fly into the fold. We see angels holding onto the altar of Corpus Christi fly forth. Banners and flags of The Three Kingdoms and their twelve tribes fly to the sides of Corpus Christi. The Three Morning Stars riding on unicorns come forth.

Michael, Gabriel, and Raphael lead the LORD’S Army as they descend out of heaven to the space around. “Here, here, here! The Knight of the LORD will hear the growl of the night as darkness takes hold of the light”, says Lucifer as he sees Michael. “We have casted you out and now you have returned. You will find no mercy here”, says Michael to Lucifer. “I have not come for the bread of life. I have come to the prickling thorns. As the veil falls and the curtains tear at the seams, all the tears have shed for this day when all you’d protected will come to torn. I will thresh the light ‘til the very rays from your eyes separate from the irises. This I swear to the GOD that befell me” replies Lucifer. “Has all light befell from your eyes. Then here will be your end. So be it”, concludes Michael. Michael looks to Yeshmir. As he catches her gaze, “Sound the horns of war once again!” Yeshmir shouts to his army. The horns are blown and the cries of The LORD’S Army shouts in chants. “THIS IS WAR! THIS IS WAR! THIS IS WAR!” They continue to cry. “This is light and day, for the glory of The LORD, our GOD!”, cries Yesheleam. “They have ravaged heaven, our very home, for a thousand years. Now they seek to destroy all that we have managed to protect”, shouts Rescel from the side. “When Lucifer cannot become god, after him and his angels fell from heaven, they have come to destroy the city on the hill, so that its light will be akin to their darkness”, shouts Yesheucara. “They will take all that light shines upon so they will be as black as their spirits!” cries Rescel. “I call for war! As we stand between the line that separates night from day, this war will tear at the seam of light and darkness!”, cries Yeshmir. “We are the very Knight of Faith that stands between the absolute evil that is within them and all that is good of GOD! We call for war!”, shouts Yeshnola. “WE CALL FOR WAR! WE CALL FOR WAR! WE CALL FOR WAR!...”, the LORD’S Army chants.

Lucifer starts to laugh hysterically. “I would not have it any other way”, as grim takes hold of the sternness of his face. Yeshrah turns to face the fallen angels, “They casted us out, banishing us into the stricken desolation. They are the destituted that stand in front of our lord, Lucifer’s rightful claim to the throne. Will you let an unwise GOD rule the light while we are devastated in the asunder of the night! We also call for war! This is their destruction!”, cries Yeshrah. “WE CALL FOR WAR! WE CALL FOR WAR! WE CALL FOR WAR!”, the fallen angels chant. Amel turns her gaze to Yeshrah and Lucifer. In her eyes is calculation. She raises her chin up, and hovers to the front, “Their LORD has given us all the cold rod and hammer until the tree of Jesse rots in its roots. While on Sephicus my litanies never reached higher than the sight I see. Then They have casted me out with the lots of you until the darkness is my embrace. And I have embraced the cold firmament of this void. This is our chance to upheaval heaven, their haven. This is night and fray! We also call for war!”.

Broad war horns are blown from rows of the LORD’S Army. Then the fallen angels blow theirs. Battle cries from both sides ring out as the two sides fly forth against each other.

[vancouverkitchenrenovation]

How to Style Curtains in the Kitchen

Curtains in the kitchen are a great way to add style to a space. Many kitchens do not have enough space for other accessories, so window sills are an ideal place to hang a curtain. Curtain patterns can also be used to frame items around the home and make a bold statement. There are many different ways to style curtains in the kitchen.

Cafe curtains

Cafe curtains in the kitchen add a focal point to a room while allowing plenty of light in. You can use the entire curtain, or close the top half for privacy. You can also use roman shades to add a sleek look to the kitchen. There are funky patterns, too. For extra color, you can also add a valance.

Cafe curtains are also inexpensive, as they use less fabric than traditional curtains. They can be hung on a simple iron rod or rings inserted inside the window frame. These curtains are easy to hang and go with other design elements in the room. They are also a great way to liven up a laundry room.

Box pleats

If you want to put box pleated curtains in your kitchen, you will need to follow a few steps. First, make sure that the amount of fabric for the pleats is the same as the number of spaces in the window. You will also need to determine the width of the pleats. Remember that the pleats should be between three to five inches in width.

The bottom edge of box pleat valances should be straight and evenly spaced. Box pleat valances will help add visual interest to your kitchen.

Swag valances

Swag valances are a great finishing touch for windows in your kitchen. These types of valances usually taper at the ends and add a wavy fishtail effect to your windows. You can also use swag valances to add a little pizzazz to plain panels.

Swags are also a good choice for windows with bay windows. They allow plenty of natural light to come in while allowing privacy. They can be used alone or paired with cafe curtains for a chic, secluded look. Swags can also complement other accessories in your home, such as copper-colored starburst sculptures and tealight holders.

Valances

Using valances in the kitchen adds a decorative element that complements the overall look of the room. They can also provide a functional function by covering up uncovered windows. Choose a design that is both unique and classic. For example, a paisley valance can add a rustic flair to your room. This design will complement a country or farmhouse style kitchen and is easy to install.

The black and gold fabric in this valance is designed to fool people into thinking it’s a heavy fabric, but it is actually medium-weight home decor fabric. The valance’s double-folded pleats add a richness to the valance. This design is best for a mid-sized window.

Low-pile curtains

Curtains are a great way to make your kitchen look elegant, but you can also use them to add function. Choose a low-pile option to keep the room cool and filtered while still allowing sunlight to filter through. These curtains can be washed regularly and have plenty of fabric options.

To add height to your kitchen windows, choose long, vertical-striped curtains. These lengths will keep your curtains off the floor and away from radiators. The longer curtains also help you accommodate taller fixtures and hardware. Make sure to match your curtains with the hardware you choose.

Valances with a simple pattern

For a simple way to dress up your windows in the kitchen, consider adding a valance. These are not difficult to install, and they don’t require any extra fabric or fuss. If you have some time to spare, valances can add an impressive touch to your kitchen.

A swag valance is another way to accent your kitchen windows. These are usually hung from medallions and are easy to adjust. The valance pictured in this kitchen was hung a little higher on the wall than normal, allowing the window frame to be seen. The red fabric adds a pop of color to this otherwise all-white kitchen. The valance features tassel trim made of a dark red and ivory toile.

Full-length curtain panels

Full-length kitchen curtain panels can be purchased in a variety of styles, colors, and designs. They come in lengths ranging from 63 to 144 inches, and are ideal for kitchens with large floor spaces. When measuring for the correct length, measure the curtain panel from floor to top of the curtain rod. If there is extra fabric, add a few inches to allow for “puddling.”

These curtains can be crafted from a variety of materials and can be made as long as you need. Besides being very versatile, they can also be tailored to fit your window.

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The kitchen is often the heart of the home, so it makes sense that it would play such an integral role in your house’s overall look and feel. It’s also a space that people spend a significant amount of time in, so it must look its absolute best. That’s why VK Renovation is proud to offer Kitchen Design and Renovations in Vancouver, BC. We believe that a well-designed kitchen can transform the way you live, and we’re committed to helping you create the perfect space for yourself and your family. Whether you’re interested in updating your existing kitchen or building a brand new one, we can help you achieve your dream kitchen. We’ll listen carefully to your ideas and preferences, and together we’ll figure out which options will work best for you. Once we’ve determined what you’d like to see in your new kitchen, we’ll put together a detailed proposal outlining everything we propose, including a breakdown of the estimated budget and timeline. If you decide to move forward with our proposal, we’ll begin working immediately to bring your vision to life.

We understand that to be successful is to stay ahead of the curve. That means staying current with the latest technology and design trends. We’re always looking to find ways to improve our products or services without breaking the bank. That’s why we stay connected to the latest technologies of NKBA, National Kitchen and Bath Association. In addition, at VK renovation, our primary focus is providing sustainable kitchen design and renovation packages, and we believe in sustainable living. Sustainable living is a way of life in harmony with nature. It is a lifestyle which focuses on the preservation of our environment. Sustainable living is a philosophy emphasizing respect for the environment and concern for its well-being. This means we should take care of the planet and treat it as if it were our own home. We should try to preserve what we have and protect it from destruction. If we do this, we will enjoy the benefits of the earth’s resources for many generations. Whether you’re planning a major remodel or adding finishing touches to your current kitchen, we’d love to discuss your project. Book your showroom consultation online.

Main Areas of Service in British Columbia:

Vancouver

North Vancouver

West Vancouver

Burnaby

Coquitlam

Squamish

Whistler

Frequently Asked Questions

What’s the best way to renovate a kitchen?

Plumbing and electrical rough-ins

Drywalling

Painting

Kitchen cabinet installation

Flooring installation

Countertop installation

Backsplash installation

Appliances

What’s the 5-zone kitchen?

The 5-zone Kitchen is an innovative design that makes it possible to cook more efficiently with less space. It includes five cooking areas: A sink area; a stove area; a refrigerator area; a food preparation and preparation area; and a dining room. This gives each cook their own area to work in, and reduces the need to have a large kitchen that has multiple appliances.

Maximil, the German kitchen designer, created the 5-zone-kitchen. It’s often used in European style kitchens. Families who wish to save time and money by cooking together can benefit from this 5-zone kitchen.

These are some important things to remember if you are thinking about a 5-zone cooking area for your home. First, the kitchen must have enough space for all five zones. To avoid lingering smells or fumes in the kitchen, every zone must have adequate ventilation. Third, each zone should have enough space to allow for movement.

A 5-zone kitchen can provide a stylish, efficient, and beautiful option for those who are looking to make their kitchen more modern. The 5-zone kitchen is a great addition for any home when planned well.

What are the advantages of the 5-zone kitchen?

There are many benefits to the 5-zone cooking, such as:

Improved efficiency – each cook has their own space to work in, which eliminates the need to move between multiple appliances;

You can make your home more stylish with the 5-zone kitchen.

Better ventilation – Each area is adequately ventilated. This prevents lingering smells and fumes in your kitchen.

Better layout: The layout of the kitchen should be so that there is easy movement from one zone to another.

The 5-zone kitchen can offer a stylish, efficient option for those looking to create a beautiful kitchen. With proper planning, it can be a great addition to any home.

Do you have the skills to DIY a kitchen renovation?

Do you want to renovate your kitchen? The answer is yes, but there are some things to remember.

A kitchen renovation is a large project. Make sure you have enough time and energy to complete it. It’s also essential to have some basic carpentry and plumbing skills before starting. You will also need to determine what parts of the kitchen you wish to modify, including adding storage space, replacing outdated appliances, and improving lighting.

After you have planned your kitchen remodel, it is time to shop for materials. You will need to make a decision about cabinets, countertops, flooring and appliances.

Also, it is a good idea not to rush into shopping for your kitchen. This will help determine how much space and what layout is best for your kitchen.

You have many options for cabinets. There are two types of cabinets available: Ready-to-assemble (RTA), or custom. RTA cabinets can be made in many styles and colors and are generally less expensive than custom ones.

It is important to take all the necessary precautions to ensure safety and security before you embark on a large-scale project. For renovations, it might be a good idea to check the local building codes.

Although it may seem tempting to handle a large-scale project on your feet, it is best that you seek professional advice. It is possible to save both time as well as money by hiring qualified contractors. You will also be able to work with professionals to ensure that your project runs smoothly.

Statistics

Your most significant cost investment for a kitchen remodel will usually be cabinets, typically comprising 25 percent of your budget. (hgtv.com)

In the Pacific region (Alaska, California, Washington, and Oregon), according to Remodeling Magazine, that same midrange central kitchen remodel jumps to $72,513, and a major upscale kitchen remodels jumps up $11,823 from the national average to $143,333. (hgtv.com)

Followed by cabinet cost, labour, and appliance costs consume 20 percent each of your budget. (hgtv.com)

“We decided to strip and refinish our kitchen cabinets during a heat wave with 90-plus-degree temperatures and 90 percent humidity in a house with no air conditioning. (familyhandyman.com)

According to Burgin, some hinges have this feature built-in, but it’s an add-on cost for other models of about $5 retail, adding up to $350 to $500 for an entire kitchen, depending on size. (hgtv.com)

External Links

houzz.com

The Habitatilist – Project Photos & Reviews – South Orange, NJ US

Kitchen Workbook: 8 Essential Elements to a Craftsman Cookbook

remodeling.hw.net

2021: Cost vs. Value

Cost vs. Value Project: Minor Kitchen Remodel

forbes.com

Amazing Kitchen Remodel Ideas To Refresh Your Home

hgtv.com

Choosing Kitchen Appliances | HGTV

HGTV: How to Create a Kitchen that’s Great for Entertaining

How To

Kitchen Remodeling: How Much Does it Cost in 2022? [12 Tips to Help You Save Money]

What is the average cost of a kitchen remodel? A kitchen renovation project can cost anywhere from $40,000 to $100,000 depending on the size of your space and the features you choose. To get the best price for your home, make sure you have some upgrades in place.

These are the top 12 ways we can cut costs without sacrificing quality.

Purchase appliances secondhand

DIY projects

Repurpose old furniture

Save scrap materials

To do the work, hire a professional

Donate your stuff

Sell online

Paint colors can be as creative and imaginative as you like

Go green

Keep it simple

Make it unique

Flexibility is key

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