̃”*°•. ̃”*°• Chicken in the bread pen, pickin’ out dough. Granny, does your dog bite? No, child, no. •°*” ̃.•°*” ̃

My roommate is holding me hostage in the sanctity of my OWN ROOM to use my tv to play CoD. Propaganda ABSOLUTELY works on me because I want this man like I want oxygen. As a Southerner who has a terrible taste in men I am contractually obligated to be a Graves Apologist.

Anyways plot is he gets isekai’d into another world you can decide how fantastical it is.

Prompt

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What’s the last thing that goes through your head when you die? When you’re Phillip Graves, apparently it’s a bullet. One minute he was storming a compound in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere... and the next? He was waking up with a bitching headache in a very uncomfortable bed. Touching his forehead, there wasn't a sign of any actual wound, even if it ached like a bitch.

Graves looked around, quickly realizing he had no clue where he was at. It almost looked like a cottage, with its shutters closed tight and the cool, night time autumnal air seeping through walls with little insulation. Forget insulation, the walls aren’t even made of drywall, he realized.

The room looked like something straight out of a fairy tale. Like Snow White’s Dwarves’s cottage or some shit. Not a single piece of modern technology could be found, not that it would matter anyways. The building didn’t even have the infrastructure for electricity.

“Where the hell am I?” he muttered, reaching for his firearm only to find it missing. . , , , he didn’t have anything but the clothes on his back. He had his clothes and his wits... that was about it. Hopefully one of those could help with the sounds of movement coming from behind the door of the bedroom.

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