#farmhouse moder

[legallyyourss]

Albuquerque Contemporary Exterior Idea for the exterior of a large, modern two-story stucco home with a metal roof and a black roof

[therusticpelican]

SALE! Modern Farmhouse Home Decor

[detachedminxsfics]

Farmhand

Masterlist

Characters: Negan (Dead City) x F!Reader

Summary: When Negan spends a late night out in the barn and doesn't return to his room you go to convince him to turn in for the night, but Negan has other ideas.

Word count: 4K

Warnings: NSFW - Dry humping, fingering, vaginal sex, riding, choking, praise, dirty talk, negan's usual foul mouth, dom negan

A/N: I am so sorry it took me so long to finish this but I hope the wait was worth it, this one got pretty dirty but it's cowboy Negan so it just HAD to be. As they say, save a horse ride a cowboy!

The leaves beneath the soles of your boots crunched with every step, the breeze whistling through the trees as you walked through the forest. Negan was right at your side, as per usual, his eyes occasionally glancing towards you and his head lifting in search of any signs of trouble without the obscurity of the brim of his cowboy hat. You'd been on the road for a few weeks now, just the two of you. You'd first bumped into Negan a few months ago when you arrived at a small farm settlement way out in the countryside, the people there having been kind enough to offer you refuge, and you chose to repay their generosity by helping out on the farm wherever you could. That's when you met Negan. He'd already been there a few months when you first arrived it seemed, the people there having gotten pretty comfortable with him and Negan himself having gotten accustomed to his routine. And from the moment you walked through the doors of that barn and saw him hunched over a hay bale, tattoos on his arms and the muscles flexing with every movement, the veins running up the backs of his hands and forearms and his forehead glistening with sweat, you were hooked. He straightened his back with a groan and grasped the fabric at the bottom of his tank top, lifting the hem to drag the material over his forehead and mop up the sweat that had gathered there, the lift of his top revealing the trail of hair starting from his belly button and stopping at the depths of his toned lower abdomen. Your eyes travelled to the dark curls of hair at his chest, and you couldn't tear your eyes away from the deep v-lines framing his hips sitting prettily above the waistband of his low waisted jeans.

"Oh, hey." The sound of his voice interrupted the way your eyes were shamelessly roaming over his body, and you subtly cleared your throat.

He let go of his top and ran a hand through his slightly damp, dishevelled hair, slicking it in the process.

"I don't think I've seen your face before, you new here sweetheart?" He asked as he bent down and reached for something off to the side.

When he leant back up he had a beige cowboy hat in his hands which he naturally placed on his head.

"Pretty much just got here last night, feeling real out of my depth." You replied honestly, your uncertainty making him shake his head with a chuckle.

"No need, you'll fit right in. And I'm guessing you're already on the right track if you walked all the way over here to see if you could help these fine folks out."

You nodded, and Negan gestured with his head in the direction of the pile of hay he was handling.

"C'mon then, give me a hand with this."

That was all he had to say, and from that point onwards you seemed attached at the hip. Always trying to be on the same job as the other, always offering to be partnered on a supply run, so you suppose it was only a matter of time before you relieved the unspoken tension between the two of you one way or another. Negan's room was only across from yours in the farmhouse so you could hear when he opened and closed the door to his room to settle in for the night, but he hadn't yet. You got up from your bed and peered out the window, the view giving you a nice overlook of the farm. You could see some of the crops that had been planted in a plot of land off to the side and the moderately sized cornfield near the barn, the moonlight from the night sky illuminating the front of the barn enough for you to make out its slightly ajar doors, and a sigh left your lips. Negan. You threw on a denim skirt and slipped on some boots, making your way out of your room and the farmhouse to walk all the way down to the barn, carefully peering into the space in the doors and stepping into it a little. Negan was leaning over the workbench in the far corner tinkering with something. You could barely make him out in the dimness of the barn, small beams of luminescence creeping in through the occasional window. It was as you got closer that you were able to discern the cowboy hat on top of his head. It always suited him.

"Late night?" You said as you stepped into the barn, hay crunching beneath your boots with every step.

Negan lifted his head the moment he heard your voice, his eyes meeting yours. He chuckled and placed the tool he'd been grasping in one hand down on the workbench, straightening his back a little and slightly tilting his hat back to wipe the sheen of sweat that had gathered on his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, something like that."

He gave a long, exhausted sigh that prompted you to make your way over to him until you stood beside him, your eyes curiously glancing over the workbench for a moment. It just looked like scrap, at least to you.

"What you working on?" You asked, making Negan shake his head with a smile.

"Nothing really, just some piece a' shit car part that I thought I might be able to fix up. I'm not really a handyman typa guy, but I thought I'd give it a shot."

You nodded and then took hold of one of Negan's tanned forearms, the feeling of his skin on yours burning you up from the slightest touch, and gently tried to urge him away from what he was messing with.

"C'mon Negan, it's getting late. You can screw around with that tomorrow." You pleaded with him, but he stood firmly in place as a small laugh escaped his lips, his head tilting a little.

"And what are you doing up this late yourself, hm? Cause something tells me that you didn't wake up just to check whether I made it to my room or not, or are you really all that worried about little ol' me?" Negan teased, the deflection of your suggestion making you laugh.

"Okay smartass, I was already awake. I was having trouble sleeping and I gave up, so I thought I'd come see what you were up to."

Negan raised his brows playfully and placed his hand over the back of the one you were using to hold his arm, slightly holding it in his palm.

"Oh, what kinda trouble?"

You knew he was just avoiding facing the possibility of giving up what he was doing and turning in for the night, but the delay was sure as hell gonna work.

"I get dreams about this...guy."

His eyebrows quirked up even more than they had before, the shit-eating grin on his face widening in an instant and his eyes lit up like a kid on christmas morning.

"Really, just some random guy?" He quipped doubtfully.

You scoffed and tried to drop your hand from his forearm, to which you did, but he kept his hand pressed over yours.

"Yeah, a guy, Negan."

You'd piqued his curiosity, and there was something hidden in your words that had his tongue dragging over his bottom lip.

"Well, what happens in these dreams of yours?" He asked seemingly innocent enough, but it was full of ambiguity.

He reached up with his free hand and swept a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes looking you over beneath that beige cowboy hat still sat proudly atop his head, and the silver of his stubble looking as good as ever. Your eyes filled with something inviting, a coy smile on your lips as you tilted your head.

"Why do you wanna know, Negan?"

He shrugged and feigned total ignorance to the exact reason he was so obviously prying, but the grin on his lips gave him away.

"Can I take a wild guess, darlin'?"

Now it was your turn to be intrigued. Your eyes bore into his, his hand still holding yours and your line of sight occasionally getting carried away and landing on his lips before returning to his gaze. You nodded. In a calculated movement Negan gently closed his hand around the top of your throat and guided your lips to his, your lips crashing and allowing you to feel his mouth against yours. You couldn't help but moan into it, eyes fluttering closed as you tasted him. His other hand found its way to your waist to pull you in closer whilst he licked your bottom lip in an attempt to coax your lips apart, and you did. His tongue slipped into your mouth, your tongues entwining for a moment until you pulled back just enough to break the kiss, lips still barely brushing and your breath shaky as you struggled to find air.

"So?" Negan cockily teased as to whether he had nailed the nature of your fantasies yet or not, and while he was well on his way to getting there, he hadn't just yet.

"Not quite there yet, cowboy."

He paused for a moment before he let out a small, throaty chuckle. He moved his hand from where it had been resting on your throat and reached down to hoist you up by your thighs, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist and your arms wrapping around his neck. His lips captured yours once more as he brought you to the workbench and rested you on it, one of his hands sliding up to hold the nape of your neck and deepen the kiss, his groans spilling into your mouth as you tightened the grip of your legs around his hips to bring his clothed bulge against your panties; your skirt having rode up when he lifted you and now bunched at your hips. He broke the kiss and gave a small grunt as you rolled your hips slightly and created some friction, his hand reaching down to rest just above your knee and then slowly glide up your thigh, an idle grip in his hand as he did that caressed your skin as he went. Negan's hand continued even when it reached the denim of where your skirt had gathered, his hand slipping under your skirt and giving the very top of your thigh a squeeze before he moved his attention to your panties. A small gasp escaped your lips as his index finger teasingly traced a line through your clothed slit, the thin cotton damp and clinging to your cunt with how much you'd soaked your panties from the mere feel of his lips on yours.

"Damn baby, you're so fuckin' wet." He whispered gravelly against your lips, his mouth so close to yours you could feel his hot breath fanning against your lips as he spoke.

"Please." You practically choked out, your small plea making his lips curve into a dirty smile and move your panties to the side.

"Yes ma'am." He husked.

He dove beneath the fabric at the side of your panties and slid one finger in at first, the sensation making you throw your head back until you were resting against the wall behind the workbench, Negan's hand still holding the nape of your neck. He pumped his finger inside you a few times before adding a second digit, the slight stretch around his fingers making you moan and lift your head to meet his eyes again. He had that damn cowboy hat still sitting on his head as he fucked you with his skilled fingers, moving his fingers in and out of you at a fast, pleasurable pace that you could barely comprehend, your moans gradually sounding more like whimpers. His eyes bore into yours, the glazed-over look of dark lust they were filled with making you spread your legs a little further and angle yourself to get his fingers deeper. He curled them slightly as you did, the immediate unrestrained whine that would follow becoming muffled against his lips as he pressed them to yours, the hand on the back of your neck allowing him to deepen the kiss and his fingertips slipping into your hair to comb through the strands. Every touch left you feeling breathless, every pump of his fingers further clouding your mind until you could no longer care for the dangers of getting attached to someone like this in this ruined world. You had wanted Negan since the moment you saw him, and now you had him if the way his fingers were buried in you was anything to go by.

"Shit, I could listen to those pretty noises all day, sweetheart." Negan whispered against your lips, purposely curling his fingers as he did to draw another sweet moan out of you, and you knew you weren't going to be able to take this any longer if he kept this up.

Unfortunately, Negan seemed to pick up on that too. He removed his fingers from you much to your verbalised dismay, lifting his hand and slipping the two fingers glistening with your wetness into his mouth, his tongue swirling over the tattoos on his knuckles and a pleased hum of approval escaping his lips as he tasted you.

"You're as delicious as you look, y'know this farm girl get up is really doing it for me." Negan commented as he withdrew his fingers from his mouth, and you were starting to think that you might have passed out in your bed and this was another one of your dreams after all.

"Oh? I bet I feel as good too." Such crude words sounded so good coming from your mouth, the sudden confidence making his brows perk up in a mix of surprise and twisted curiosity.

"Is that so? Hell, now I gotta know."

He removed his hand from your hair and reached up your skirt to hook his fingers into the waistband of your panties and begin working it down your legs, tossing them aside when he had gotten them off the ankle they'd tried to dangle from. His hands were quick to work at his belt, the metal of his belt buckle clinking slightly once it fell loosely on either side of his fly, to which he was quick to unbutton and undo the zipper on his jeans. Negan was so impatient he didn't even bother to get his pants off, he just worked them down his legs until the denim pooled at his feet, his boxers next to join the pile. Once his top was hurriedly discarded too his hands found their way to the tops of your thighs as he dragged you to the edge of the workbench and stepped into the space between your legs, his eyes locking with yours as he pushed inside you and used the grip on your hips to further guide you onto him. The stretch was incredible, your mouth falling open and a noise you weren't sure you'd ever even heard before spilling from it.

"Is that better, baby?" Negan cooed, your only response being the frantic nod of your head.

His thrusts started off slow giving you time to get used to the feel of him, his breath getting heavier and small grunts forming in his throat with every thrust, and then he reached up in an attempt to remove his cowboy hat.

"Don't you dare." You playfully warned as you snatched his wrist to stop him making Negan chuckle and lower his hand again.

"Alright alright, guess the cowboy hats stayin' on."

You closed your legs around his waist again as he started to move his hips a little faster, locking your legs around his waist and tightening your grip every time he thrust as deep as he could go, the sensation making Negan screw his eyes shut and throw his head back slightly exposing the vein running along the side of his neck and the way his adams apple protruded from his throat. You flattened your palms against the wood as you leaned up and started kissing your way down his throat starting with the underside of his jawline, lightly running your tongue over the lump in his throat once you got to it.

"Fuuuck honey, you're gonna be the damn death of me." He sighed, his head lowering to look into your eyes when you pulled back after placing a kiss above his collarbone.

Dark hair adorned his chest, an intricate skull tattoo situated to one side as his chest rose and fell at a rate almost as fast as yours. You couldn't help but run your hand down his chest, his skin burning red hot against your warm palm.

"Well shit, I'm not as young as I used to be." Negan quipped breathlessly with a small smile as his hand moved to cup one side of your face, his thumb stroking along your cheek.

Your hand affectionately raised and settled over the back of his, though the intent in your words was not as sweet as your gesture.

"Get on the table then, cowboy."

You barely gave him time to react as you wrapped your arms around his neck and tugged him down, flipping as you did so now you were straddling him. He landed on the wooden surface with a small thud, a cocky laugh filling the air as you braced your hands onto his shoulders while he straightened his back, one hand pressing in on your waist and the other on your lower back to help you get comfortable on his lap. You adjusted slightly until you were sitting on your knees, legs resting on either side of him and hovering over his lap. His hands grasped your hips as Negan guided you down onto his cock, the angle allowing him to fill you up much more than before and the feeling of fullness once you fully sank onto him nothing short of pure ecstasy. You clung to him and tried to even out your breath, your eyes locking with his as he reached up and gently took hold of your jaw only to lift his hips a little, a sick smile spreading across his lips as his tongue swept over his bottom lip and a desperate whine came from your lips.

"Go on then my little cowgirl." He drawled, his thumb tracing across your bottom lip.

You started to roll your hips as you lifted yourself up and then sank all the way back down onto him, the sounds the two of you were making and the noise of skin slapping against skin filling the thick air of the barn, only worsening when you found a rhythm that Negan only made that much more euphoric as he lifted his hips in time with you. Negan's hands moved to cup your ass as you started to bounce, the workbench rocking from the force and banging against the wall behind it, his fingers dug into your skin hard enough to leave marks.

"God, you feel so fucking good bouncing on my cock." He rasped, the dirtiness of his words only fuelling you that much more as you rode him.

Negan wrapped his hand around your throat as you bounced on top of him, his grip firm as he squeezed just enough to allow the lack of oxygen to bleed into the immeasurable pleasure, the veins in his hands prominent as he lightly choked you. The hand cupping your ass kneaded your cheek before he drew his hand back and delivered a harsh slap to your ass, your skin stinging from the impact and the surprise of it drawing a small squeak out of you. Negan chuckled as you did and slapped the same cheek again a little harder than the first, though this time the noise that came from your lips was more of a depraved cry. He was surely leaving his mark on you, embellishing you with a stark red handprint on your now sore skin.

"Good girl." He crooned.

His praise alone almost sent you over the edge, your legs starting to quiver as he wrapped his arm around you and started to thrust into you relentlessly, pounding you as you hover over his lap.

"Negan, oh fuck." You choked out, your pleasure filled sob muffled when he crashed his lips against yours and continued to fuck into you mercilessly, the arm around your waist keeping you pressed firmly against him.

"That's it, baby, that's it." He whispered throatily between kisses, and that was all you needed.

Your lips parted but no sound came out, just your breath catching in your throat as your orgasm washes over you, the sensation knocking the strength right out of your legs as your knees buckled leaving you fully sitting on him. Finally, the moan tore from your throat as he gave a few more hard thrusts while you tried to ride out your high, his eyes half-lidded with lust when he slid his hands down to grip your hips and lift you off him so he could spill onto your inner thigh, a guttural groan leaving his lips whilst warm droplets splashed on your skin. Still catching his breath Negan removed the cowboy hat and ran his hand through his hair, placing it off to the side so he could lay back onto the workbench, the way you were pressed to his chest bringing you with him. You let your head rest against his chest and could hear the way his heart was racing against your ear, your breathing starting to even out as you briefly closed your eyes and focused on it, his chin resting on top of your head all the while. After a moment you felt his fingers combing through your hair while his other hand moved to rest on the small of your back and draw circles.

"Hey." Negan muttered softly prompting you to look at him.

You lifted your head to comply with his unspoken request, a kittenish smile playing on your lips as you moved slightly further up his body so that your face could hover above his, propping yourself up on your elbows. Some of your hair fell to obscure one side of your face as you did which Negan reached up and tenderly swept behind your ear.

"You are so beautiful, sweetheart." He whispered, the flattery only making your smile a little wider as you leaned down till your lips were mere inches from his.

"And you are one handsome cowboy." You playfully hummed, barely able to finish what you were saying as Negan pressed his lips against yours, the kiss much slower and fervent than the sloppy and heated ones you'd shared before.

You were just basking in the company of one another. The feel of your body laid on top of his and his skin hot against yours, the feel of his lips moving on yours making your mind even foggier with need for him. You didn't care that someone might wonder why neither of you had made it back to your rooms in the middle of the night, that someone might come to find you both draped over a workbench and tasting one another to your heart's content. All that mattered was that you had each other.

"And that was one hell of a ride, might I add." Negan pulled back to joke, your noses still brushing from the closeness and his crude comment making your laughter come out in the form of a snort.

"Shut up."

And your lips were on his again.

[lazyjellyfish300]

masterlist pt 2 ⚡︎ ☁︎ | masterlist pt 1

-MINORS DNI, I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE MEDIA YOU CONSUME.

- REBLOGS/COMMENTS/RECOMMENDING MY WORK IS MUCH APPRECIATED.

masterlist below the cut

(check masterlist pt 1 for writings prior to 7/25/24)

-Most of my reader POVS are FEM or AFAB, sorry. Since I am a cis female that is the pov I feel I can write the most accurately. I try to do gender neutral whenever possible.

-I describe curvy body parts.

-I try to exclude reader's appearance as much as possible except clothing. Tattoos or piercings are sometimes applied.

-I have religious trauma and sometimes my negative opinions of organized religion show up in my writing. If that is not your cup of tea, please do not read.

-My rating system is my humble opinion & might not be totally correct, read at your own risk. I'm self indulgent with my writing the vast majority of the time.

🌶️-suggestive 🌶️🌶️-moderate smut

🌶️🌶️🌶️-very smutty 💖-fluff 💔-angst 🔥-slow burn/smut doesn't happen right away

-last updated: 9/21/24

miguel o'hara (atsv) x reader

-love that doesn't make it into the bedroom-drabble thought 🌶️

-jacuzzi drabble-nsfw smutty thot 🌶️🌶️

-the aftermath - fluff drabble hc about the morning after your one night stand 🌶️💖

-fluff thought 💖

-smutty thot 🌶️🌶️

-putting his hands in your pockets-quick thought 💖

-dinnery party drabble 🌶️💖

-miguel's act of service for you-quick thought 💖

-the color red-🌶️💖 Miguel learns to love his eye color thanks to you short blurb

-miguel needs glasses -fluffy blurb 💖

-miguel sleep hcs 💖

-miguel likes your fall candles-autumn drabble 💖

-your fall decorations start to grow on Miguel-autumn short fluff 💖

-eloping with him -short fluff 💖

-would've been you-angstober request 💔🌶️🌶️

peter b. parker (atsv) x reader

-love that doesn't make it into the bedroom-drabble thought 🌶️

-smut thot 🌶️

-marry me honey-proposing to you during sex 🌶️🌶️🌶️💖

-peter washes the dishes-drabble 💖🌶️

-a horror movie night with him-flufftober piece💖🌶️

nanami kento (jjk) x reader

-he's just your boss- you're kento's assistant. you realize you're in love with him. 💖

-love that doesn't make it into the bedroom-drabble thought 🌶️

-rainy night in the farmhouse-drabble 🌶️💖

-ill take care of us both -your husband cheering you up after you lose your job 💖🌶️

-making love in the barn-self indulgent drabble 🌶️🌶️💖

-eating chocolate chip cookies pregnancy cravings drabble 💖

-his watch 💖🌶️

-smut thought 🌶️🌶️

-lying by the river drabble 💖

-waking up after a shower drabble 💖🌶️

-stay asleep to see you 💔🌶️🌶️ angsty dark piece about your grief after Shibuya that ends in tragedy

-threesome with Kento and Kusakabe drabble 🌶️🌶️🌶️

-kento x kusakabe x you smut drabble 🌶️🌶️

-rating the thunder -fluffy drabble 💖

-nanami kento as a boy dad 💖 HCs

-fingering you drabble 🌶️🌶️���

-kento x shiu x you smut thought 🌶️🌶️🌶️

shiu kong(jjk) x reader

-smoking during sex thought drabble 🌶️🌶️

-your wedding and honeymoon-brief smutty fluff 🌶️🌶️💖

-the aquarium-first meeting with him 💖

-he comforts you over losing your first husband- angst with comfort snippet 💔💖

-kento x shiu x you smut thought 🌶️🌶️🌶️

atsuya kusakabe (jjk) x reader

-he likes your curves -brief thought drabble 🌶️🌶️💖

-just a man- he visits you the night of Shibuya 🌶️🌶️🌶️💔

ben reilly (atsv) x reader

-late night cravings - getting ice cream+ food with him in the middle of the night 💖

𖥧 𓂃 ♥︎ ᨒ

©lazyjellyfish300 Please do not copy / plagiarize / edit / translate / feed into AI any of my work / content! Ok with reposts to other sites/fic lists but you MUST CREDIT ME. Thank you !! 𖤣𖥧

[dwarf-hat-enjoyer]

Howdy! Hope you're having a good day😁

Could you please write a comfort story where a reader who feels unattractive due to her body weight, who struggles to take care of herself due to her mental health, finally feels loved romantically & comforted by Harvey?

❤️‍🩹 One Of Those Days 🩺

synopsis: A farmer already troubled by insecurity seems to be having -you guessed it- one of those days. When even their reflection in the mirror seems to be laughing at them, it'll take some grit, spit and a shoulder to lean on to help them out of their funk. Luckily, their boyfriend Dr. Harvey has two of those. <3 Insecure+Fem!Farmer X Harvey, 2nd person POV, romance, hurt+comfort, SFW, mild angst.

w.c.: 2k words!

content warnings: Body image issues, spiraling, mental health issues, struggles to take care of oneself, hurt/comfort, mild-to-moderate angst.

A.N.: YOWZA, this hit a little close to home 😭 But I'm grateful for the request!!!! It was really comforting and even healing to write the things that some people need to hear, myself included :,) enjoy!!!

Some days, the mirror was nothing but a silver prison.

Guilt pricked at your conscience for how vain others would think you were, helplessly enraptured by your own reflection. The only reason for it could be vulgar self-adoration, after all, with the way your eyes would wander to even the faintest counterimage in a passing window. In fairness to yourself, you knew that most wouldn't think twice of the gesture. Everyone indulged in a little modest grooming from time to time, whether it be to fix a stray hair or touch up a wrinkled collar. Oftentimes, though mostly in public, you hardly thought of it, yourself.

If only it were the case in private. Instead, here you stood before the mirror of the farmhouse bathroom, kept company by only the old buzzing lights above and the reflection before you.

What a flawed human being.

Your outfit from the earlier Flower Dance lay crumpled in a neglected plastic laundry basket, and you stared at yourself in the pajamas you had just changed into. It was your second year of attending the event, and somehow, even when you were nothing but a greenhorn with grass-stained knees and nary a friend in town, it seemed easier your first time around.

They seemed distant, once upon a time. Strangers, those townsfolk were, acquaintances at best and at worst, mildly unfriendly. You didn't think about them so deeply, but time had a way of dribbling salt into weathered wounds. Wounds that had been opened long ago, but stung at the sight of these young, thin, healthy and beautiful people prancing about in their suits and dresses in a scene that belonged on the cover of a spring magazine.

If the mirror was a prison, then your mind was the warden. And if your mind was the warden, then it was a cruel one.

You could tolerate not being the most beautiful person on the field. You could appreciate how lovely the others all looked, but the worst part of it all was the slithering voice in the back of your head and the nasty things it told you. Why bother trying if you'll never be as pretty, it whispered, why bother with anything at all, when you'll never be as smart? As successful? As lovable and worthwhile?

Just that morning, you'd nearly given in to that very voice. It constricted your thoughts and mind as you woke up alone in a too-empty bed. Why bother going to the Flower Dance if you'll only look and feel like a dirt-stained joke?

In the midst of your spiral, you slowed. Reality seemed to become real again, if even just a tiny bit. Even the mirror in front of you was a mite less intimidating than before as you recalled the note Harvey left on your nightstand. The one that prompted you to crawl out from under the suffocatingly warm sheets at the break of six in the morning to read it.

Oftentimes, you were the one leaving notes instead. But you remembered what he wrote to you that morning; something about getting out early to help with the festival setup, although your sleep-addled brain drunk with self-deprecation felt stung by his absence.

Even then, in a quick, scribbled and hasty note, Harvey was loving. He called you his love. He sternly reminded you to eat the breakfast he'd left for you and to take a shower and brush your teeth, and even doodled a few hearts around the paper scrap he'd written on.

He loved you. He adored you. Why did being loved feel so numb? Did you even love him the way he deserved?

"Honey? Are you alright in there?"

A knock on the bathroom door startled a sniffle out of you. When did you begin crying? You cleared your throat with a small cough and mumbled a meek reply about feeling sick.

He didn't sound convinced.

"I'm- I'm a bit worried," he admitted. You remained silent, giving him time to elaborate, "At the Flower Dance, you seemed pretty out of it. If you need some space, it's perfectly healthy to take some time to recollect your thoughts, but..."

He paused. It was just a moment, a brief crack in the conversation.

"But I'd hate to leave you alone at a time you need somebody."

Those words, those damn words finally got you to choke out a sob. It was a miracle he'd stuck with you this long. Even getting him to move in was the kind of good fortune you'd never earned, neither with your body or personality.

"Come in," you beckoned him quietly, against your better judgement.

When the door creaked open, you had already been readied by the rapid-fire insults spat by the voice to expect the worst. He would sneer at you for being weak. A crybaby, too- maybe he would even be disgusted by your dishevelled appearance. Or Yoba forbid, disappointed in you for letting one bad day bother you so deeply.

Oddly enough, he didn't seem any of that. His jacket from the dance earlier had already been doffed along with his bowtie, leaving him in the gentle blues of his button-up and suit slacks. The worst thing he regarded you with was worry.

In the very back of his eyes, you saw his love.

"Let me guess," he sighed sympathetically, "one of those days?"

You nodded with a weak, wry smile, wiping tears unshed from your eyes. How did he always seem to know?

When you raised your arms wordlessly, the silent signal was quickly recognized. You felt his arms close around you in a gentle, enveloping hug, muffling the thoughts that clouded your harried mind. The steady rise and fall of his breathing as you rested your head on his shoulders brought you softly to your senses, and slowly, you tried to match his rhythm.

In, two, three, four...Out, two, three, four.

In, two, three, four, out, two, three, four.

The thoughts grew duller. They weren't gone, but you didn't feel so suffocated and trapped by them.

You didn't feel alone.

Another smile played at your features; a genuine one, as you felt the slight tickle of his mustache when he pressed his lips to your forehead. The habit normally came out in times like these, when you needed a little soothing. It wasn't quite a kiss, but his affection was clear in the way that he kept you as close as he did.

"Do you want to talk?" Harvey asked earnestly. "It's alright if not. Distraction can also be a healthy way to cope with or recover from unpleasant thoughts. We can watch some TV, have a snack...?"

Talking would've been a tempting offer, if calming down hadn't been such a chore already. It would've dragged you back down to dredge all your self-doubt back up, and although you saw that Harvey was trying his best to give you the ultimate choice, the both of you knew well enough which one would be the healthier option.

Soon enough, you found yourself under a thick knitted blanket (a thank-you gift from Granny Evelyn for your regular leek deliveries throughout the spring) and curled up your couch, a movie set on low volume playing on your ancient television set. It wasn't a great movie, perhaps not even a good movie, but it was just the right amount of familiar to ease you into a more comfortable state of mind. The soft humming of the microwave buzzed behind you, dotted with the occasional pop of a popcorn kernel. The rest of Harvey's suit from the Flower Dance lay draped over the back of the couch, traded in for some more suitable nightclothes.

Harvey eventually arrived with a bowl of popcorn in hand. Sitting beside you, he draped an arm over your shoulder and gave your temple a quick yet meaningful peck. Awkwardly, you absorbed him under your blanket in an amoebaesque fashion, giving him just enough time to put the bowl on the coffee table before engulfing him to near completion. The corners of his mustache curled upwards in that endearing smile of his.

Time passed. Perhaps too much, perhaps too little. Scene by repetitive scene, the movie passed itself by, leaving you both in a comfortable silence. Your mind was calm. The thoughts had passed, for the most part. Like jellyfish in a reef, troublesome feelings floated through you still, but you knew that they were temporary. They would always come and go, but by the night's end, jellyfish were still bound to the current. They'd drift away. The reef had been there long before, and the reef would be there long after. Scars would always fade. Life would carry on.

"...You're right, Harvey," you chuckled softly. "I was having one of those days."

He shifted curiously to face you. Your mind was clear. You were ready.

You told him about the Flower Dance today. You told him about the countless times before that where you'd felt unhappy, unattractive unworthy and unloved. There were times as you spoke where your voice faltered or cracked, but you carried on, not because you felt the need to be strong, but because you felt safe enough to be vulnerable. Harvey listened quietly and intently, your every word committing deeply to his mind. All the time you spoke, he held your hand, giving you encouraging squeezes where you stumbled and holding it closer where you grew silent.

He understood.

Your eyes finally met with his as you finished your explanation. He wasn't sneering, disgusted or disappointed- Harvey was concerned. And still just as in love with you as you were with him.

"I've...Had a lot of these issues too," he admitted tenderly. "I don't want to draw attention away from your issues. I just want you to know that I understand where you're coming from, love. Feeling like your body isn't good enough, feeling like your efforts aren't good enough, just feeling like you yourself aren't good enough."

"But you are," Harvey affirmed you. "For one, I've never looked at you and thought that there was something wrong with you or the way you look. Your body is your own and that's why I love it- scars, cellulite, rolls and all. The flaws you think you have don't make you unattractive. Every little detail you look at in the mirror and feel insecure about, I could write a love poem about the exact same thing."

You snorted a little. "Alright, Elliott. Might as well grow out your hair and move onto the beach."

Harvey rolled his eyes at your comment. After a playful pinch to your side, he continued, "And secondly, the only thing we can ever do in life is our best. Judging your own accomplishments by those of other people is just going to get you down. Just because your life doesn't look like someone else's doesn't mean you're not living it as well as you can. I'm proud of you for all that you're putting forward, even if it's just to get out of bed and do your chores on the farm. When you struggle with this feeling of inadequacy on a daily basis, it's important to focus on what you can do instead of what you can't, you know?"

"Someone dabbled in psychology," you teased him.

"That and I have a good therapist," he shrugged, smiling guiltily. "Something you could benefit from, yourself. We can talk about it when you're ready?"

It was a start. You nodded in agreement.

A startling noise from the television caught your attention. The movie had ended.

However you felt, you couldn't describe it. You still carried the weight of your feelings with you, but it didn't feel as heavy as before. It wasn't quite numb, nor did those feelings go away, but you felt more ready to carry the load, knowing that you wouldn't be doing it alone. You had Harvey. You had your friends in town. Even your farm animals and their antics, they were reason enough to keep pushing forward.

"I love you, Harvey."

It wasn't a grand declaration or something that had to be said, but you wanted to say it, if only to see the pink tinge in his cheeks when you did. You stifled a laugh at his shocked expression. Just by looking at him, anyone else would think that it was the first and not the thousandth time you'd told him.

He couldn't even look you in the eye when he said it back, the sweetheart.

"I...I love you too."

~FIN~

[princesspiratecat]

So, as someone who is really rather in love with Early American furniture, I thought I would take a few moments of your time to educate people a bit on it, specifically- 18th century furniture.

In the Sims Community a lot of people refer to the 18th Century as "Rococo", and most of what follows has a lot of white, pink, and gold involved. While that was certainly happening in Europe, particularly in France, in the colonies we weren't so fancy, even though people painted the hell out of their pine.

This is for obvious reasons- most colonists weren't very fancy people themselves, and a lack of craftsmen and a need for simplicity were the most obvious ones. So, we made furniture like this: The Ladderback Chair.

It's simple, it's utilitarian, and aside from the decorative finials on the top, it's pretty plain. And yet, it's light and elegant, which is why you can still find this design today, as long as you're not shopping at Ikea.

My absolute favorite when it comes to simple elegance is the Windsor Chair. After 300 years, you can still find this style, and the many variations it has, all over the country (including modern takes on the timeless design).

We have a few of these in our house, and I have to say how much I love them because they are so comfortable! The seat is fitted exactly for the backside, as each cheek is gently supported.The armchair we have in my house has arms shaped precisely to fit the body, and even the hand!

There are so many variations of the Windsor design, and craftsman started making them in this country early on. You've got your Continuous Arm, Fanback, Sackback, Bow-back and Combbacks. I see these chairs on offering from Sims creators, but they are rarely labeled correctly, mostly as "country" chairs.

I'm sure that's what we think of them as today, but the truth is they were everywhere, found in both upper-class and more moderate homes. And let's not forget how there weren't any power tools at the time, so craftmanship of these really needs to be viewed with that in mind.

Today, these antiques and replicas can go for a very high price, but luckily for me they are all over New England, so they aren't too hard to find like some things.

Anyway, I'll talk more about this later, but can we please stop calling them "country" chairs? That's like calling every house from the 19th century a "farmhouse." Neither of which was ever an actual style until HGTV got involved.

If you really want to nerd out about it, and I hope you do, you can read more about the Windsor Chair here, in The Magazine Antiques.

[author-morgan]

15 Questions, 15 People

Tagged by: @aralezinspace and @happilyhertale

answers below the cut

Nickname: don't really have one. @mrsragnarlodbrok calls me wifey and Thanos tho😘

Sign: Virgo

Height: almost 5'2" (157.5 cm)

Last Thing I Googled: how many cm is 5'2" lmao, but my last legit search was in Google Scholar for "crystal nucleation density in mafic magmas"

Song Stuck in My Head: Ridin' Dirty by Chamillionaire because my research group is going to make ribbons for our name badges at LPSC with a Mars rover that says they see me rovin' 

Number of Followers: almost 6k now

Amount of Sleep: a good weeknight is like maybe 5 hours?

Dream Job: tenured professor of geology at a teaching focused uni

Wearing: leggings, baggy long sleeve t-shirt, blanket

Movies/Books That Summarize You: idk? dante's peak bc it's a geology movie with a moderately accurate volcanic eruption? but my favorite movies are LotR EE, Master and Commander, and King Arthur: Legend of the Sword. and my favorite book is LotR, Silmarillion, ASOIAF, The Faithful and the Fallen.

Favorite Song: at the moment? Sleep by Goodnight, Texas

Favorite Instrument: hurdy-gurdy or talharpa

Aesthetic: dark academia, i guess? farmhouse chic? i don't know enough about aesthetics to say, my aesthetic is t-shirts and plaid shirts and field pants with lots of pockets filled with rocks and muddy hiking boots.

Favorite Authors: JRRT, GRRM, Patrick Rothfuss, John Gwynne. favorite scientific authors tho? Hap McSween and Justin Filiberto, catch me reading their papers a lot

Random Fun Fact: Mars has volcanoes that were active and producing the same type of magma (compositionally) for over 100 million years in a single location which is about 10x longer than any known volcanic complex here on Earth. So like, how? How did this funky lil red planet do that with no plate tectonics and being like a quarter of the size it should be.

tag list: @mrsragnarlodbrok @erzsebetrosztoczy @overratedsun @thatharpist @serasvictoria @bitchofdarkness @ewanmitchellcrumbs and whoever else wants to partake because i'm too lazy to tag 15 people.

[ambiguouspuzuma]

Pipes

The rats he could handle. They were a common or garden pest - run of the mill, or the barn, or the farmhouse - and something that many people had to deal with. There were established ways of doing so. Emre simply sprinkled some strychnine on the floorboards, baited some traps, and waited for the scuttling and scratching to stop. They kept coming back, of course, but he just put down more poison. The rats would run out before he did.

He couldn't do that for children. At least, not legally. Emre could have put spikes on the walls or built a moat around the garden, but that would certainly have been frowned upon, especially if they went home injured - or never went home at all. Their parents were clearly lax enough to let them wander off, but they would change their tune if they went missing, and then the town's adults would also find their way out to his cottage in the woods - with pitchforks, Emre imagined. He might add all the defences in the world, but he knew that even a fortress couldn't protect him then.

The children were too damn persistent. Like rats, they were cunning, resourceful little creatures. They could climb, they could gnaw, and they could probe for weaknesses. He could just about keep them out, but not without risk of injury, which brought that more adult attention: even if he could demonstrate that it wasn't his fault, that the scamps had smashed his window and cut themselves of their own volition, it would raise questions of why they'd been at his home in the first place. Questions which he didn't really know how to answer.

Emre had just wanted to play his pipe in peace. He'd thought he might find some of that here, far away from the dozenth town he'd been forced to flee in half-a-dozen years, deep into the woods where his only neighbours were the red deer and red foxes. But that had just been a pipe dream. He could manage a few tunes in privacy, but then the rats began to scurry underneath the floorboards, and he heard the distant babble of children on the horizon. A little music, night or day, and they decided it was time to pay a visit to the piper.

He'd tried child-proofing the house in more moderate ways: not those little rubber balls on the corners of tables, safety handles on his drawers, but by cutting down the tree that overhung his garden, and adding shutters to his ground floor windows. Not a gate on the stairs, but a lock on the gate. Emre couldn't add trapdoors, but he could stop the little rascals from falling through the doors he had. Or at least he could give it his best try.

The slide was his first big breakthrough. At great personal effort, Emre had dug a tunnel underneath his home. A pipe, really. It felt counter-intuitive, but it stopped the pesky blighters - rats and children both - from scrabbling others of their own. He needed an outlet to relieve the pressure. He lined the tunnel with varnished wood, connected it to his water tank, and curved it so that it deposited intruders back round to the front of the house.

His garden became a playpark. As children began their ceaseless circuits of his contraption, he realised that it had an added benefit: he now had an answer for their presence on his land. It made some sense that they would flock there, and any adult seeking out their missing spawn would only observe them performing the usual repetitive inanity that passed for play amongst their ranks. To help to sell that explanation, he constructed swings, a see-saw, and other decoration that they never used, driven only to press closer to the music that he played.

But then he went one better. Not a playpark, but a skatepark. If he put the children on wheels, they were even more committed to one-directional travel, locked into whichever loops he built for them, unable to scrabble up the sides or try to dig a tunnel of their own. It was difficult to strap them in, granted, but he just had to get them buckled to a board, or wearing skates on their hands and feet, and they were all set for hours of fun. Plenty of time for him to play, and then release them when playtime was over.

He built them ramps, halfpipes from the piper, trenches to halt their advance. In time, they started strapping themselves into the skates, unable to crawl up the inclines without building up the proper momentum. Of course, they still couldn't make it all the way to Emre's window - the waves growing higher as they rolled deeper into the ocean - but it kept them entertained as they danced to his tune. The noise was atrocious - but only when he played, which many would have said would be the case anyway.

[freedomseeker91]

Forever Yours, Faithfully....

Chapter: One-Shot In The More Than Good Enough Universe

Title: Forever Yours, Faithfully

Summary: Did Chloe ever worry about Beca’s celebrity leading her astray? Not at all, not even a little bit. Beca was the one thing in Chloe’s life she was 100% certain about. 

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: Mentions of pregnancy loss. 

It was an obvious question in their relationship, one that stemmed from Beca’s celebrity as a top music producer and that crept up time and again whenever people would realise that Chloe’s wife was that Beca, as opposed to just any other regular run of the mill Beca. Though the producer was incredibly lowkey, celebrity was a consequence of her success.

She worked with a lot of the industries’ top selling artists and had been responsible for shaping the sound of many upcomers who were making waves, thanks in part to the power of tik tok and Beca’s incredible talent. With that came critical acclaim, accolades and of course wealth, though the women lived relatively modest lives.

Beca didn’t feel the need to flaunt her wealth and Chloe was content to live under the radar. Their house in Encino was a moderately sized farmhouse style abode that while larger than a regular house, was nothing on the scale of some of the mansions they had viewed while looking for somewhere new to live and raise their family.

It was big enough for people to know that they had done well for themselves without being overly extravagant. It still felt homely with a nice sized back garden, a pool with a built-in hot tub next to it, a little outdoor bar and barbeque area with a seating arrangement around an outdoor firepit. The house also came with a small built in movie theatre and Beca had converted the small gym the previous owners had installed into a home recording studio so she could work from home when she wasn’t required to be in the studio working with any of the labels’ artists.

The house had security gates that were just high enough to keep prying eyes from looking in and the landscaping that had been completed around the house meant that they were relatively obscured from view from any nosey neighbours.

They had two cars, Chloe’s gun metal grey Audi S7 Sportback with blacked out windows, and Beca’s blacked out Range Rover Autobiography which she had upgraded to from her own Audi when they had found out their family would be growing and they would need a more family friendly vehicle. Though often times they traded off cars depending on circumstance with the Audi being used mainly if one of them was just nipping about doing casual errands.

Yes, Beca’s lifestyle afforded them certain luxuries, but they were always careful not to fall into the trap of spending money just for the sake of it. Both women had always maintained that no matter how big Beca’s star became, they wanted to keep as normal a life as possible and their friends and family had been very good at helping them keep their feet on the ground. Relative to what Beca’s wealth could afford, they weren’t flashy but they did live comfortably.

That being said, there were certain elements of Beca’s celebrity that couldn’t be helped, mainly due to the fact that power and wealth had an interesting way of making a person seem infinitely more alluring. Beca was hot, Chloe knew this, it was what drove her to ravish her body whenever she could, but celebrity had a way of elevating a persons’ attractiveness to all new heights to the world at large.

And that attractiveness was a magnet, not just for fans, but for people who found themselves in Beca’s orbit.

And this was where that pesky question often stemmed from, the one that was occasionally tossed at Chloe being the ‘non famous one’ in their relationship.

“Do you ever worry Beca will cheat or get swept away by all the attention?”

Chloe would be lying if she said it hadn’t been a concern in the early stages of her wife’s then blossoming career, but Beca had reassured her that she wasn’t interested or felt in any way lured by temptation. What she had with Chloe was far deeper and more meaningful than anything else in Beca’s life. It wasn’t just physical attraction it was emotional connection.

Whenever Beca was swept up in work or promo or anything industry related, she would get a knot in her chest if Chloe wasn’t around and would be itching to get home to her. The redhead had become such an integral part of Beca’s existence that her absence often left the producer feeling like her world was tilted off centre. Everything just felt a little out of place.

Beca didn’t need the attention and she certainly didn’t feel tempted by it because her heart was so completely Chloe’s she was oblivious to everything else around her, whether that was people openly flirting with her or being needlessly tactile with her, which had happened on numerous occasions over the years.

To the extent that Chloe could safely say, hand on her heart, that she trusted Beca so completely and never once questioned her loyalty.

They were devoted to one another and maintained an open and honest relationship. Chloe knew all the passwords to Beca’s phone and social medias and vice versa, though neither ever felt the need to snoop on the other.

In fact, Beca’s obliviousness to other peoples’ advances had become a long running joke between her work colleagues and Chloe. So much so that Theo once sent Chloe a video he had sneakily recorded of Beca’s previous assistant blatantly trying to insert herself into Beca’s space and flirt with her by brushing against her as she passed her at the office coffee machine, only for Beca to raise her hands in the air, coffee mug in hand, and slip past her in any means that avoided being touched or accidentally brushing against her.

Theo had jokingly captioned the clip ‘when your wife makes you fear for your life so you keep your hands above sea level at all times’. Chloe had chuckled at the ridiculousness of it all but it secretly made her hear flutter how protective Beca was of anyone being in the intimate space that was strictly reserved for her. And not because of anything Chloe may have said or insinuated, but purely because Beca respected her wife and their relationship.

Her personal space wasn’t open to just anyone and that’s how Beca liked it. Even Chloe who was the more tactile of the two had her boundaries. There were certain kinds of touching and space invasion that were only applicable to one another and both were happy to keep it that way.  

One time when Chloe stopped by her wife’s label for a visit, she had stopped short outside of Beca’s glass walled office and watched as the same assistant tried pointing out something on the brunettes’ desktop screen by leaning across her so that Beca’s face was literally eye level with her chest. Chloe had been seething, not at her wife, but at the audacity of the other woman.

But she watched as Beca pulled back, swung her chair around and gently guided the woman’s arms back down by her sides as she explained in as professional a manner as possible, that she wasn’t comfortable with the level of closeness the other woman was exerting and that she needed to keep her distance. Chloe had watched as the woman’s face had fallen ever so briefly before being replaced by a smile that was just a tad too fake as she excused herself from the office.

Chloe had passed her on the way out the door, offering her a polite hello which the woman barely acknowledged as she took her seat at her desk outside. Knowing that the woman would be able to see everything from where she was positioned, Chloe walked up to where her wife was sat, stood behind her chair and wrapped her arms around her, leaning down and pressing a loving kiss to her neck.

Beca grinned, and turned her head finding Chloe’s smiling face and leaned in for a kiss before pulling her down into her lap so that she could show her the new melody she had been working on for one of her latest tracks. Chloe glanced outside briefly to see the look of jealousy that was aimed in her direction, before giving her wife her full attention.

That assistant didn’t last much longer, Beca choosing to mitigate further instances by employing someone more professional to work as her assistant. One because it was disrespectful to herself and her relationship with her wife, and two, because Beca simply wasn’t comfortable with people she didn’t have a personal relationship with being up in her space.

Even during the times before Beca settled into a life as a full-time producer, leaving the hectic life of a performing artist behind, she would always make sure to schedule time in her day to facetime or call Chloe when she was on the road when the redhead couldn’t be with her.

And whenever Chloe would see pictures of Beca at an event posing with fellow industry types, there was a friendly yet respectful distance, the producer acutely aware of how things could be misconstrued if she seemed overly friendly. Though she didn’t go to the Keanu Reeves level of hovering her hand in mid-air, it was always placed somewhere that was friendly without being seen as intimate, usually mid-back level with a couple of inches of space between her body and theirs.

While many thought it was cute, Chloe had found the whole thing rather sad, because she knew the level of thought that went into every interaction Beca had. The producer was so conscious about not getting caught in what could be construed as a compromising position there were times she almost overthought her interactions. She knew how the TMZ’s of the world worked and the narratives they liked to spin and Beca never wanted to put herself in a position that could impact her marriage.

But when Chloe was with her, the vibe was totally different. When they would pose for cameras, there wasn’t an inch of space between them and Beca would always wrap her arm around Chloe’s waist, hand resting either on her lower back lovingly caressing it, or on her hip if she was feeling a little more sensual.

They could both recall switching on the tv one night to some body language expert on the E! Network talking about their body language as a couple and Beca had been particularly miffed at the suggestion that her hand on Chloe’s hip was somehow suggestive of the fact Beca was maybe a little possessive.

Was she possessive? Maybe a tad, but only in the sense that she wanted the world to know that she was lucky enough to call the hot redhead her wife. It came from a place of pride not ownership. Chloe had been quick to reassure her that she wasn’t possessive, if anything Beca was protective. She knew Chloe never felt completely comfortable on red carpets or in front of a camera, so Beca’s arm around her was often an anchor for her to know that she was safe.

They did get one thing right though in their assessment and that was that the way Beca looked at Chloe suggested that she was completely besotted by her, because she was, and no one else could ever come close.

So no, Chloe never felt threatened or worried in any capacity when it came to her wife or her fame, because deep down she knew that no matter who may try tempt Beca away, their actions were all in vain. Afterall, Beca had cemented this very notion on the day of their wedding, when Chloe had discovered that Beca had had Chloe’s wedding ring secretly engraved with ‘Forever Yours, Faithfully’.

Having lost her mother at a young age, Beca was all too aware of the pain of losing someone that meant a lot to her, the thought of losing Chloe was something she simply couldn’t fathom, nor did she want to. She never wanted to fall victim to the celebrity curse. Marriage wasn’t a novelty to her, it was something she felt very deeply about.

Having watched her own parents marriage unravel, and having struggled with commitment out of the fear of being hurt, when Beca finally found herself coming around to the idea she knew that if she were to ever make that kind of commitment, it wouldn’t be one made lightly. She had made Chloe wait, probably longer than she should have, but Beca had needed time to make sure that she was ready to give herself completely.

So, she had asked Chloe to bear with her and to allow their relationship to navigate through the various ups and downs and milestones of life before marriage entered the equation, if only for the selfish reason that she wanted to make sure she was strong enough to be the wife Chloe deserved. And Chloe, being the ever-understanding woman that she was, waited patiently, because she knew Beca was strong enough and she knew she was worth the wait.

Because Chloe was aware of the anxiety that her wife had faced when success had coming knocking, knew that Beca was unsure of just what awaited her on the other side of being a big deal to the industry. It was unchartered territory for the both of them, and with the benefit of hindsight, Chloe was now grateful that Beca had given their relationship that grace period to thread those choppy waters and learn how to dance its treacherous seas.

Because celebrity was hard. It wasn’t all glitz and glamour and luxurious lifestyles, well it was, but all of those things came with a downside. Like having the luxury of anonymity stripped away and the prying eyes of the world delving deep into every single aspect of a persons’ life and being open to public opinion and criticism whether or not it was warranted.

Beca gave Chloe something that most people didn’t, time. Time to figure out her own place and feelings about their relationship within the context of celebrity. Time to ask questions and figure out the answers, time to grow into a new phase with understanding and support, something she offered Beca in return by agreeing to wait to marry.

By the time Beca had inevitably asked the question it was at a point where they knew they were secure in their relationship in more ways than one. They had overcome distance, intrusion, and everything else that came with being a couple in the public eye and through it all, never doubted that they could come out the other side stronger.

So, when Beca had promised herself to Chloe so faithfully, she knew she never needed to worry, not where Beca was concerned.

There would always be chancers and people who thought they could sway the elusive producer away from her monogamous life, but they would never win. And even when Chloe felt insecurities creep in, she reminded herself of how blessed she was because she was the one who got to wear Beca’s ring, got to wake up and fall asleep with her, travel the world with her and raise a family with her.

She was the one who got to be on the receiving end of Beca’s love and devotion, the keeper of her deepest secretes and often supressed vulnerabilities. The shelter Beca sought out when she needed a safe place to hide and recharge and the strength she needed when the world around them expected just a little too much from her.

Afterall, she had watched her wife endure trying IVF treatments, a difficult pregnancy and pregnancy losses, all so she could give Chloe the family she craved. It wasn’t lost on her the challenge that starting a family had been on Beca, the IVF wreaking havoc on her body as she dealt with weight fluctuation and hormones, all while tyring to keep their pregnancy journey a secret from the world at large.

She had watched as Beca endured red carpets and interviews around award season with a steely focused facade, all while dealing with the secret heartache of having just experienced another miscarriage. One night, as they had navigated through countless conversations with fellow industry professionals and artists after a massively successful night for their label, Chloe had felt Beca cling to her that night like she had never done before and Chloe had made it her mission to never be more than arms reach away from Beca at all times.

It was in those moments that Chloe realised the privilege she had that others never would experience. What Beca gave to those who circulated her orbit, was superficial surface level access, but Chloe, Chloe was nestled deep within the very core of Beca’s existence.

So, while Beca’s assistants and proteges flirted and over zealous fans tried to get closer than deemed appropriate, Chloe merely shook her head and chuckled to herself, because just as Beca was hers and hers alone, she was Beca’s, faithfully.

[barkspawn]

just read the one where seb/amelia go to zuzu and nerd out in the store [amazing] and I need this specific sebastian and that specific amelia where seb proposes to amelia through a gae of solarion chronicles. i love your first kiss moments and i'm dying to see a proposal [can you drop a hint tothe next sound of silence chap pleaseeeee]

I'm baaaaack

I know it's been a while but in my defense, it has been a while since I have had enough focus to write properly. I know it asks for a proposal but trust me on this one. I'm feeling the slow burn on this one and it kind of gives me life. Tiny Middle is still my favorite pun i've ever made

Hint for Sound of Silence: I am struggling with a decision for Ames. Once I get mild to moderately caught up, I will definitely post a definitive update.

Next is a HC then the one-shots will be rolling out regularly!

Amelia could barely sleep the night of their trip to Zuzu. She thought about texting him and being a pest, but she didn't want to annoy him into changing his mind. 

Pelican Town might be worth staying in. 

Why would he say that? He was so adamant even just that morning about moving away and how excited he was to not have to take a bus to places like Tiny Middle. She wondered a few times if it could be her… But there's no way. Sure, they had fun, but if anything she was dorky and awkward. Meanwhile Sebastian was really cool, collected, and way too attractive for her. 

The entire night went by like this. 

Thankfully, it was Friday and she'd see all of them tonight. 

Her phone chimed and she grabbed it a little too excitedly. Abigail had text the group chat:

“Abigail 11:36 am: Heyy~ still seeing the three of you tonight at stardrop tonight, right?” 

“Sam 11:37 am: u kno ill be there abs. Got to ask meels and seb. They were the ones out late”

“Sebastian 11:37 am: You say out late like I'm not up late every night, you goon. I'm still in. Someone has to kick Sam’s ass at pool. It certainly won't be Abby.”

After a moment, she responded:

“Amelia 11:38 am: I'll still be there. Yoba knows I need a nap after chasing Loaf all morning.”

“Abigail 11:38 am: Cool! Did you guys have a good city trip? Find any potential apartments, Sebby?”

There wasn't a reply for a long moment. Amelia convinced herself to let it go for now, going in to take a quick shower. The second her phone dinged, she was reading. 

“Sebastian 11:43 am: It was pretty great. Gave me a lot to think about, so no apartment hunting. Turns out Ames might be cooler than both of you losers.”

“Sam 11:43 am: rude”

“Abigail 11:43 am: Ames? Does everyone have a nickname for you but me?”

“Amelia 11:44 am: at this point, you might be the only one calling me Amelia. That's gotta count for something?”

The conversation, as it often does, spins to different topics. Amelia broke off and finally jumped in the shower, humming to herself. The band had written a new song and she can't seem to get it out of her head. 

She climbed out of the shower to dry off, freezing as she realized that she had a text from Sebastian specifically. She quickly wrapped the towel around herself and opened the text, the pictures attached bringing an immediate smile to her face. The first was of his dice tower and tray on his table and the second was his shelf, where the dice and nice box sit, glowing and beautiful on display. 

“Sebastian 12:03 pm: I set everything up. Thoughts? Concerns? Praise?”

Amelia laughed, glancing down at Loaf, who had cocked his head at her. 

“Shut up,” she mumbled to him before typing out her response. 

“Amelia 12:09 pm: Damn, Seb. Look at you being fancy with your displaying skills. I might have to have you come decorate the farmhouse. Truly remarkable… It brings a tear to my eye…”

“Sebastian 12:09 pm: Ames, don't you dare.”

“Amelia 12:10 pm: … a frozen tear. 😈”

“Sebastian 12:11 pm: I don't think I've ever hated anything more than I hate that text.”

Amelia laughed again and put her phone away after responding with a simple smiley face.  Loaf still stared up at her curiously, which she ignored to the best of her ability. 

For the next few hours, she combed through her wardrobe, stopping every once in a while to ask herself why before continuing.

Eventually, she settled on her favorite high-waisted jeans and a white crop top with a black jacket over it. The outfit always made her feel like she was just a little bit badass while still being cute. She kept her makeup light, eyeliner really being the only obvious touch. She slipped on her sneakers and made for the saloon. 

It was still warm out with it being the end of summer, making the jacket feel like a bit much. She didn't come out too often during the summer, focusing on the farm or hanging with the few people she got along with so well. To go in full midriff out and collection of tattoos on display might give the town something to talk about.

She approached at the same time as Abby, who was grinning like she was handing her a winning lottery ticket. 

“Hey, Abs, what's going–”

“You're dressed all cute.”

There was a pause before Amelia spoke again. 

“Thank you?”

“Yeah, you're welcome, but did something happen in Zuzu? Sebby is being weird and you're dressing all cute for our weekly hang.”

Amelia was shocked, “Okay, Abigail, I just wanted to look cute. For me. And I don't know why Seb would be acting weird.”

Abigail rolled her eyes before crossing her arms, “ten gold says he stares when you go in.”

“Whatever. Everyone stares at people sometimes.”

“Oh, sure, sure. Especially when they like you.”

Amelia sighed and held the door open, waving over at the boys before ordering a round of drinks. When she approached, she heard a heavy, bouncing thunk, nearly dropping the drinks. Abigail masked a laugh, taking her drink from Amelia with a sidelong glance. 

“Dude, you cool?” Sam looked over at Sebastian, who was shaking his head. 

“Yeah.. Yeah, my hand slipped. It's stupid. You break.”

Amelia handed Sam his drink and offered Sebastian his. He took it, sighing as she frowned. 

“Did I upset you..?”

Her voice was soft, immediately making Sebastian feel a little guilty. After a moment, he stood back up straighter and offered her an apologetic smile that nearly made her breath catch.

Damn that smile. 

“No, Ames. Sorry. I'm just.. In my own head,” he took a breath, seeming to relax again, “you uh.. You look nice, by the way. Don't often see you out of your overalls.”

A small smirk formed on his lips, a clear sign he is picking on her. She shoved him playfully, the fact that even a smirk sent her heart racing being completely unfair.

Damn THAT smile. 

She went to respond, but caught Abby’s eye. She seemed to be celebrating a win that really wasn't one at all. Unless he told her then she has–

“Ames?”

“Hm? Sorry. I guess it was my turn to get into my own head.”

“Are you alright?” He asked in a low, quiet voice. She met his eyes briefly and felt her cheeks grow warm. Sebastian definitely seemed to notice, shaking his head briefly, “hey, don't feel like you have to tell me, okay? I'm just here if you want to talk or whatever.”

“Thanks Seb… I'm okay though. I just think too much. I'm sorry for spacing out. What were you saying?”

“You're fine. I was asking if you planned to go to the festival tonight?”

Her smile fell as she looked at him, confused. He laughed quietly, from which she ignored the feeling in the pit of her stomach. 

“Someone didn't check her mail this morning. The moonlight jellies come tonight. It's actually kind of cool.”

Amelia dramatically put a hand over her heart, “oh my Yoba… Seb likes a town festival.”

He rolled his eyes, “I liked it last year too,” he paused, his brows knitting together, “oh.. right. You couldn't come.”

“That'll make it more interesting this year.”

“Heh, yeah. I'll be your moonlight jelly guide if you want,” he spoke quietly through this, almost like it was a secret. 

She offered her hand to shake, “you've got a deal,” he laughed as he took her hand, shaking it. Their D20 tattoos beside one another, a natural one and a natural twenty. They both seemed to notice that they were still shaking at the same time, both pulling their hands back. 

“So when should I show up? Do the jellies come on a schedule…?”

Sebastian seemed to consider for a second, “actually, kind of. We all gather around 10pm at the docks.”

Amelia rarely ever saw Sebastian down anywhere even close to the beach. Well, unless… She paused for a moment, her voice soft when she spoke again, “hey, uh, I've seen you out on the pier sometimes in the rain. Can I ask why?”

There was a long pause before he laughed to himself, “it sounds silly, but I go out there to think and contemplate the storms. It's hard to describe.”

“No, I get it. Sometimes when you yourself feel shitty, you find an outlet or some way to think. It's like… A stormcloud over your head so you compare it to the real thing in hopes of understanding your own. Am I even making sense?” She chuckles, shaking her head.

“Oh, you're speaking gibberish for sure. I'm not even sure that those were words. As a matter of fact, I think Harvey might be here if you're stroking out on me,” Sebastian teased, earning another playful shove. 

“You're an ass,” she joked, shaking her head as she laughed. 

He chuckled quietly before answering seriously, “yes, Ames. You made sense. And I appreciate it.”

She glanced up at him, offering a kind smile. 

“Dude, we only have like… 45 minutes before we have to leave. Hey Meels!” Sam called across the pool table. Amelia gave a wave and worked on her drink as she watched the guys playing pool. She couldn't help but notice Seb’s shots were a little off tonight. Almost like he was nervous. 

45 minutes flew by, Seb pocketing the last of the solids and that was game. Sam spoke up, pulling on a thin sweatshirt. 

Shit. Is it going to be cold? I don't have time to run home…

“Let's head out so we get the good spots.”

“Sam, everyone stands in the same spot every year,” Seb retorted, arching an eyebrow. Sam gave a quiet ‘whatever’ before heading toward the door, Abigail in tow. Amelia and Sebastian weren't far behind, walking in a comfortable silence. 

Abigail was mentioning something to Sam before turning. 

“Hey, I was talking to Sam and since my dad is being an ass this year, I'm gonna watch with her so she's not alone,” Abigail started. 

“Hey, that's not a bad idea. My dad didn't want to come tonight and my mom's all torn up because dad didn't wanna come. And Vince is watching with Marnie and Jas. I'll keep her company.”

The two made their way to the end of the pier, looking out over the water. 

“You gonna go hang out with your family too?”

“And leave you alone out here to experience your first jellies alone? Fuck that.”

Amelia smiled, standing beside him as they looked out over the sea. They have maybe about five minutes before the jellies come through. 

“You look cold,” Sebastian commented, his voice softer.

“I suppose I am a little. But I'm okay, I just didn't know that I'd be outside since I didn't check my mail this morning,” she teased, staring at the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips for just a second too long. 

There was a long pause before he spoke again, “do you… Uh… Want my hoodie?”

Amelia blinked, “Seb, I'm really okay. I spent half of last winter without a coat… I'll be okay, I promise.”

Sebastian frowned, looking over at her, “you do have a coat now, right? That must have been horrible.”

Amelia smiled up at him, her expression a mix of amusement and humor, “I do, yes. I bought one at a little shop in Grampleton.”

Before Sebastian could answer, they heard Lewis encourage Vincent and Jas to push out the small boat, signaling the jellies where to come and that it was time. 

“I think it's always my favorite when they come in,” Sebastian commented, his voice very quiet, almost like he didn't want to disturb the silence. 

Amelia smiled over at him, noticing the corner of his lips to turn up into a small smile, sending her heart into a frenzy. She saw the light blue glow, turning to see the swarm of jellies coming in. She hadn't realized she was holding her breath until she heard a quiet ‘holy shit’ beside her. She looked over at Seb, her eyes following his gaze to a jelly much larger than the rest. The large jelly was also a bright green color in comparison to the rest of the standard blues and purples. 

“Seb… Is that the leader or something? It's beautiful…”

Sebastian just stared at the jelly, his mouth agape, “Uh, no, Ames,” he started after a second, 

“the green jelly is super rare and by the looks of it… no one else… Sees…”

They stood in silence and just watched as the green jelly floated idly around their part of the dock. Amelia inhaled, surprised when she felt the warmth of Sebastian’s hand brushing against her own. 

It's an accident. You're standing at the edge of a pier… It's definitely only a–

Her thought was cut short by his little finger tentatively looping around hers, sending her heart into a drum solo that could rival even Abigail’s. She couldn't help but look up at him, only to meet his eyes. As she offers a sweet smile, she's met with one of his she’d never seen before. It seemed to be a fond smile, his eyes, for the first time since she met him, holding no hesitation or fear. 

This smile changed everything. 

[discipulusmaleficus]

[ HAIR ] — sender pulls receiver's head back by their hair from behind / [ CHOKE ] — sender puts a light to moderate amount of pressure on receiver's throat from behind

kai

@desertfragments - gestures.

The touch is hot, just barely below scalding. His breath comes harsh and rasping through his throat -- it isn't quite enough to actually choke him, only to restrict his breathing, only to set off his jangling nerves.

(He doesn't like this shit, you know? Only sends him right back to lying in a bed in a farmhouse in a marshland, half-breathing, own blood pooling in his lungs, and he hates how similar now is to then.)

Kalmar half-laughs, tries to look unaffected. He doesn't trust he-knows-it's-Kai-behind-him, he doesn't know anymore why he gave the go-ahead to fuck with him, and yet his apprehension is mixed with edge-of-his-seat anticipation, the satisfaction of knowing he deserves whatever terrible thing is coming. The notion that maybe this suffering can erase everything else nagging at him.

He's about to make some blasé greeting, just to annoy Kai more, good evening, Triliante, but his body doesn't agree. It thrashes for a moment, like a beached dolphin, without a hope of getting free. Self-pity and humiliation burns through him.

"You can pull harder than that," he grinds out, in a whisper. Don't you fucking dare go easy on me.

[ophelia-jones]

Chapter 3 - pigtails

Rick noticed Etta seemed quiet that day; not the playful, chipper woman he had met the day before. He certainly had no problem traveling silently, neither Daryl nor Michonne were particularly chatty types and he spent most of his time with the two of them.  

It was that he sensed that this was a sign of something troubling Etta, rather than simply being the comfortable sort of silence. 

"So, your accent," he said, scanning the area around them as they traveled at a moderate speed down disrepaired country roads toward home.  "It doesn't sound southern, that's for sure. And not midwestern, either. Buffalo, maybe?" he guessed. He saw the first spark of the playfulness she'd exhibited the day before spark in her eyes.

"Buffalo? Is that an Indian joke, because I expect that shit from him," she nodded toward Daryl on his bike ahead of them, "not you." she teased him. It was the first genuine smile he had seen from her all day. Rick laughed, and Etta studied his face - the way it lit up when he was happy. He was a good man, Rick Grimes, she was already sure of it. Most men made her uneasy, at least when she didn't know them well; but Rick felt like an old friend already. 

Daryl? She didn't know what she thought of him yet. Obviously, she was drawn to him by some mysterious chemical or hormonal force she couldn't completely understand; she could accept that. Sexual attraction had always been a complicated thing for her. She'd had three lovers in her entire life, and only thought she was in love with one. 

She had been quickly stripped of that illusion when she had found out he had a wife and a family he had not told her about while he spent at least one night in her bed every week for damned near a year.  That had been six months before the outbreak, and she had been searching to figure out who she was, once again. 

She sometimes felt like she was a blank piece of paper, written on and erased, over and over again, by the few people she had come to care about. It was getting harder and harder to know what her story was. Lana had encouraged her to stop letting other people do the writing and to write her story herself. 

Trouble was, Etta wasn't sure how to do that. 

"I promise, that was not an Indian joke," Rick shook his head at her.

"No, not New York. Michigan." she informed Rick, "Northcentral, neither Detroit Rock City nor the unblemished natural retreat of the upper peninsula, but right in the heart of the state. No great lakes coastline, no big attractions to draw people in. Just low-income or working-class folks living in mobile homes and old farmhouses.  Crisscrossing highways going North to the tourist attractions, South to the Cities, or East and west to the lakes. It was a smaller version of the flyover states. The drive-through counties, I guess you might say." 

"Doesn't sound so bad. Sounds like a simple life," He replied. Etta shrugged.

"It was what it was, and now it isn't. You know? But as far as accents go, 'y'all' got me beat. Hard to beat a southern drawl." she turned her attention back to Rick. She never knew how to deal with it when people paid her any real attention.

Daryl saw a small set of cabins, a motel of sorts marketed to fishermen, and pulled over. There was a small check-in office that doubled as a bait shop, and out back there was an old 1970's era gas pump for fueling outboard motors. 

"Probably been cleaned out but worth taking a look," he told Rick, strolling slowly up to the passenger side of the UTV, gravel crunching beneath his boots. He produced another cigarette, somehow, and lit it with a zippo lighter. Etta wondered how much tobacco he'd squirreled away to keep him so well supplied. 

"It's a good time to stop, anyway," Etta stood and stretched, sweat making her neck and chest shimmer in the afternoon sunshine. She took her bottle out and finished the water. Rick watched Daryl carefully to see if his suspicions that he'd developed a crush on Etta were right. 

Daryl breathed out a cloud of smoke and took another long drag before pinching the end of the hand-rolled smoke to save it for later. He dropped it in the chest pocket of his denim shirt with the sleeves cut off. 

Etta still wore the tank top and cargo pants from the day before, her hair braided now and the bandana in her back pocket. She grabbed the iodine tablets and a 2-liter bottle out of the back and started toward the river that the camp was built along. 

Rick watched Daryl, and Daryl watched as Etta rounded the corner to the docks.  When he saw Rick studying him he scowled at his friend.

"Whatever you're thinkin', don't." 

Rick grinned as Daryl stomped off, into the closest cabin to search for supplies.

By the time Daryl had cleared the cabins, he found Etta and Rick in the bait shop. They were rigging two fishing poles up happily.  

"The hell's going on? You could've helped!" he grumbled at them as he approached, surveying the shop carefully. There were fishing hats and t-shirts, empty boxes that had once held single-serve snacks like peanuts and raisins, chips, and Twinkies. There was a rack of magazines behind the counter, fishing guides on the bottom row, and the top row half hidden behind the brown paper to cover the nudity on the covers of Playboy and Hustler. He shook his head, it reminded him of when he was younger and would drift through these types of places with Merle. 

"We cleared the office," Etta told him, gazing up at him from under a foldable hat with a wide brim to keep the sun off her face.

"Naw, you went shoppin'" he retorted in an unreadable voice. Was he complaining or teasing? She wasn't sure.

"Now we're working on lunch," she told him, apparently unphased by his surly attitude. She pointed to the five-gallon bucket, "Grab that and we'll get some fresh fish before we move on. After we eat we can get back on the road and make it to Pennsylvania by tonight." she continued as they walked out on the creaky dock. It swayed with each step.

"If the gas holds out that far," Daryl growled, squinting at the horizon. 

"Already filled both tanks and three gas cans. I managed to use a hand crank, hose, and suction to draw it up from the inlet," she told the pessimist.

"What'd you find?" Rick asked Daryl.

"Walkers, mostly," he grumbled. He sat on the dock beside Rick, his feet dangling off the edge and nearly touching the water. It was high still from last month's snow melt. "Give me that thing." he took the fishing pole from Rick's hand.  "You ain't catching anything with those fake worms. We need fresh bait."

"I can handle that," Etta said, handing Rick the second pole and hurrying off the dock. She stopped at the top of the riverbank and took off her shoes and socks, then rolled her pants up to her knees.

"You're gonna get ticks down there like that, Sacagewa," Daryl called. Etta flipped him off and walked gingerly through the weeds to the damp soil closer to the riverbed.  

"Fuck off, Daniel Boone!" She retorted. Daryl smiled crookedly and cast his line with the man-made bait despite his doubts about its efficacy.

"Let's see if this works," she said, settling down between the men. 

Rick pulled his line in and Etta grabbed the hook, making quick work of switching the rubber bait for a fresh worm.  

"Next!" Etta said, reaching for Daryl's fishing line.

"I got it, I got it, you're gonna break the line. Keep your damn hands to yourself," he told her, swatting her hands away before reeling the line.

"Gimme a worm," he said once he had the hook in his left hand, holding his right hand out for the bait. 

Etta plucked up the fattest earthworm in the bunch then reached over and grabbed Daryl's shirt collar, and dropped the worm inside. 

"Oh, really? It's gonna be like that?" Daryl objected, shaking his shirt until the no longer wriggling creature landed on his lap.  He was grinning the whole time, though - and it reminded Rick of a side of Daryl he hadn't seen since … well, it had been a very long time. 

Etta was laughing as Daryl picked it up and dangled it in her face, threatening to put it in her hair. She was slapping his hand away, and Rick did his best to stay out of it, lest he destroy their moment. Finally, after Etta grabbed Daryls' wrist with both hands and they wrestled a few seconds longer, the worm slipped from his fingers again and this time, landed in the river.

"Nice job, dances with worms!" Etta laughed so much that her nose was wrinkled and her eyes danced.

"Ok, ok…" Daryl held his hands up in a sign of surrender, the fishing pole clutched between his knees. "Calm down, you're gonna scare away all the fish!" It took her a moment to rid herself of the giggles, but finally she sighed happily.

"I'm going to go start the fire - assuming the two of you can catch anything," Etta said, standing and wiping her dirty hands on her pant leg as she went to gather firewood to cook the fish.

"You were the boy who pulled girls' pigtails in school, weren't you?" Rick teased Daryl with a grin. Daryl tried his best to scowl at his friend, making a dismissive 'phhhtt' noise with his lips as he turned back to the river.

When Rick chuckled at him, Daryl said, simply, 

"Shut up."

************************ 

After they finished eating, they made sure everything useful was loaded into the UTV and started to move again, everyone rested and sated for the stretch of the trip in the hottest part of the afternoon.  They traveled quietly, all eyes watching for danger despite the pleasant mood the day had carried thus far; more so perhaps since each of them felt as if they were waiting for the day to shift. Good days didn't tend to last long these days, there seemed to always be something unpleasant hiding right around the bend. 

To avoid having to cross the Ohio River - who knew if they would find a bridge that was safe and not under some hostile group's control? - they would be passing too close to Pittsburgh for anyone's comfort.  They had all learned the hard way that metropolitan areas were overrun with walkers and desperate people. Daryl and Rick had gone south and circled up to arrive at Haven in the search and so this path home was as yet unexplored by them.  Etta struggled to shake the feeling of doom that was trying to settle in her heart. She would not let fear take away from the moments which made it all worth it. What was the point, after all, is struggling so hard to survive simply to continue to exist? She needed more than that, she needed to live.

******************* 

That night and the following day of travel passed uneventfully - even when making their way through more populated areas. It wasn't without risk, but the three of them weren't handed more than they could handle. Etta was impressed by Daryl's skill with the crossbow, and he was surprised to see that she was not shy of taking down the walkers. She wasn't big in stature, but you would think she was ten feet tall and bulletproof judging by the way she threw herself into the fray. 

That evening they arrived dirty and exhausted but safe at the gates of Alexandria. 

The crowd of people waiting inside to greet them was more than a little overwhelming to Etta - it had been nearly two years since she'd been in a gathering of so many people. 

A strikingly beautiful woman rushed up to them, wrapping her arms around Rick and smiling the brightest smile Etta thought she had ever seen.  

"Etta, this is Michonne," Rick introduced them once they had kissed their hello's. Etta averted her eyes at the public display of affection and searched the group to see where Daryl had gone. She found him squatting near a preschooler, a girl no more than four years old. He had pulled some toy animals from his bag for her and was smiling as she took them happily. 

"It's good to meet you," Etta said, barely glancing at Michonne, her attention drawn to Daryl and the child.

She was wondering if the girl was Daryl's daughter, and what else he might not have mentioned when Rick saw the girl and ran to her, his arms out. When she sprang into his embrace, Etta realized this was Judith.  Rick had told her a great deal about the miracle child, born in the tragic first year of the outbreak. 

Michonne and Etta smiled at the father-daughter reunion. 

Rick and Michonne invited Etta to stay with them that night since they were all far too tired and it was too late to start the journey to Hilltop. Etta accepted gratefully, and Rick offered her first dibs on the shower. 

Michonne promised to get the young woman some fresh clothing that would fit her, and Etta was grateful. Blood and dust and sweat had made the clothes she had on uncomfortable and smelly. 

"Pretty girl," Michonne said to Rick once Etta was out of the room. 

"Mmm." Rick agreed, looking at his lover happily. "Daryl thinks so, too," he smirked at the way she widened her eyes a bit, then made a skeptical face.

"Wait, what?" she gasped a bit, urging him to expand on the subject.

"I need you to do me a favor, just … Call it testing a theory. Put that girl in a sundress for tonight, tell her it's all you have, but you can get more practical clothes tomorrow." Rick said, his arms around Michonnes waist as he gazed into her eyes.

"Are you asking me to try and play matchmaker for that poor girl and Daryl?" Michonne let her head fall back against her shoulders and laughed at the idea. 

"Yes, yes I am.  As a matter of fact, I'll make you a bet that if you help me out here she won't even stay the night here at all." Rick told her.

"It better be something good, because that is a bet I will take every day of the week. That man, good as he is, has never once shown an interest in… Romance." Michonne laughed at the very thought.

************************ 

Daryl was sitting in his garage, putting a proper drive chain on his motorcycle in the fading light of day, listening to the crickets and the sounds of families gathering in for the night. It was a beautiful sound to his ears.

"Don't forget the lubrication," Etta said as she wandered up the sidewalk, her feet bare, her hair loose and clean, and dressed in a sleeveless white linen sundress that fell just above her knees. 

"What the hell are you wearing?" he asked bluntly. She looked down at herself.

"It's all they had for me for tonight. Michonne said she'd have something more functional in the morning and I'd get a chance to wash my clothes. I guess it's lights out, soon. To preserve electricity?" she told him, walking into the garage and looking at his collection of motorcycle parts.

"Well, you look ridiculous," he grumbled, trying to keep his eyes on the task at hand before the power grid went down for the night. "Better not get oil on that get-up."

Etta looked down at herself and the greasy bike, and Daryl's blackened, oily hands. 

"You're right, " she sighed. "This thing is ridiculous. And useless." she forced a chuckle instead of a sigh. She felt a pang of disappointment, but she told herself it was because she couldn't help with the bike and not because Daryl had called her ridiculous instead of pretty. Daryl grunted in agreement and finished repairing his bike. 

"Well, I just wanted to see how the bike was coming along," she told him, feeling awkward now. 

"Well, now you know," he said, turning his back to her to place the tools on the shelf. Etta wrestled with some half-formed words she wanted to say, but couldn't manage to speak. 

"Oh, hey, I have something here for you," he told her, turning around and handing her a cassette tape he'd picked up on one of his trips for supplies. Bob Seger's greatest hits. 

Etta swelled inside with emotion, moved that he remembered her mentioning the song on this tape. She hadn't been sure he was even listening at the time, let alone would remember it and go to the trouble of finding it for her. 

"Thank you, Daryl," she told him sincerely. Daryl shrugged and looked down at his dirty boots.

"It's not a big deal," he told her dismissively. The lights in the town shut off except for a few security lights, and they found themselves standing together in the dark, muggy evening. There was a thunderstorm brewing, it could be a matter of minutes before it started to pour. 

"I better go before that storm starts," she said finally.

"Yup," he agreed, lighting up a smoke, the lighter revealing his face for a moment, then all she could see was the glow of the lit end of the cigarette. She turned on her heel and started back the way she came silently. 

*What the hell? Where are you going?* she could hear Lana saying in her mind.  *I thought you wanted to go have dirty, greasy sex?* 

Etta sighed and turned left instead of heading straight for the Grimes house. She wanted to keep walking, it might help her think. 

"It's not like that," she imagined herself saying to Lana. But how could she explain what it was like? She didn't understand it herself.

*Boy, what in the hell is wrong with you?* Merle's voice haunted Daryl's thoughts. *She is throwing herself in your god-damned lap and you just…* he could hear Merle's groan of dismay. 

"She's better off without me. Besides, I don't need the drama." Daryl thought as he smoked some more and leaned against the door jamb to look out at the lightning which was flashing now. A peal of thunder rumbled the house and giant raindrops began to fall forcefully. Daryl put out his cigarette and was about to go inside when he saw Etta appear around the corner again.

"Don't you know enough to come in out of the rain?" he called out to her, gesturing for her to come inside. She was spattered with rain, but not quite drenched as she hurried inside to accept his invitation. 

As soon as they stepped inside, Daryl felt the change in energy, turning to look down at her as lightning provided them glimpses of one another. 

It was as if the whole world was holding its breath. Etta finally raised herself on her toes and took Daryl's face in her hands, closing the distance between them to meet his lips with her own.

[therusticpelican]

SALE! Modern Home Decor

[canadian-riddler]

Providence

By Indiana

Characters: Jonathan Crane’s 1984 Ford F-150, Jonathan Crane (cameo)

Synopsis: He thought it was abandoned.  But perhaps it wasn’t.

AO3 || fanfiction.net

-

It had been owned since before it had existed. 

A special order from one of the Ford factories up in Canada, it was transported to a dealership in New Jersey where a flurry of fresh cotton bills were exchanged for a handful of paper.  The proud new owner climbed inside the cab, the thick smell of fresh vinyl and plastic settling around him as if to welcome him.  The engine turned over smoothly and without complaint and he proceeded on his way, his mind already occupied with his future plans with and without the truck.

This man had recently come into an inheritance.  He had received notice that a distant relative whom he had never heard of had died, and as it turned out there was no one else to take ownership of the property.  This man, who had been moderately successful in some big city career which required the ability to talk more than it did the ability to work, had thought it over and decided he could use a change.  Money was all you really needed to run a farm, after all.  It required neither degree nor diploma.  A child could do it.  

The trip from New Jersey to Georgia was approximately fourteen hours, but this man took the better part of three days.  He had never left his big city before now and was not prepared for the monotony that was farm country driving.  Mile after mile after mile of empty road bracketed by tall brown or short brown or tall green or short green fields stretched out for what seemed like forever, and many a time he questioned if it actually would.  Perhaps this was the entirety of the United States, perhaps the wheat and the corn and the barley covered every square acre of land right up to the place where the swamps of Florida crept up to meet them from the coast, and for the first time the idea that he did not know what he was doing flitted across his mind.  But that was all it was: a flicker, a draught, and it disappeared as quickly as would have a puff of air had it been able to blow in one ear and out the other.

The last leg of his journey passed through small towns with more intersections than there were motorists to use them.  The barns and the farmhouses and the silos were set so far back from the road they looked like toys.  He squinted for any notation as to where he was: a sign, a number painted on a mailbox, a yokel selling corn by the side of the road.  Nothing of the sort materialised until he came upon a building which seemed to be entertaining just about everybody from miles around.  He pulled over at the side of the road, removed the key from the ignition, and climbed out.  He was immediately drained by a thick heat which seemed to bypass his clothes entirely and settle in comfortably against his skin as though it intended to live there.  He slowly closed the door of the truck, already imagining the cool breath of the air conditioner against his face, and looked up towards the house as sweat gathered against his hairline. 

The house looked as though it had been expanded upon at least twice.  One section loomed high, as if a reminder of which part had been there first, while the front room and the addition seemingly tacked on to the left slumped, cowed, in its shadow.  The dried brown grass in front had long ago been trampled almost entirely into dust, which covered the myriad seemingly random items deposited every which place in the yard and on the porch and piled against the side of the house.  The only person he was certain had taken notice of him was leaned back on the porch steps, teeth casually but firmly working away at something held inside of his left cheek.  They stared at each other until the man got impatient.  Sweat was running down the backs of his legs beneath the pants of his suit.  “I need directions,” he stated.  The other man blinked, seeming unsure of whether or not he wanted to open his eyes again, and then he spit into the yard and said, as though he had done so many times before, “Atlanta?”

“No,” the man said.  “I have a property around here.  Maybe you’ve heard that –“

“Not me,” the stranger interrupted.  “This here’s a boarding house and I only been here since the day before.”  He tipped his head back and called through the front door, which was propped open with a crumbled grey brick.  “Miss Crane!”

After a few moments a short and portly woman appeared on the porch, wearing a tired but serviceable outfit of t-shirt and long brown skirt.  Her feet were bare and there was a tattered dishrag dripping in her hand.  She looked down at the man on the steps and up at the one across from him and brushed at the wisps that had escaped from the faded handkerchief tying back her grey hair.  “Another one?” she said to the man with the chewing tobacco, who shrugged and crossed one ankle over his knee.  She sighed and draped the rag on the splintered railing of the porch.

“Atlanta?” she asked.

“No!” the man spat.  “I own some property around here!  I know how to get to Atlanta!  I just came through Atlanta!”

“Might be best if you went back on up there,” the other man said around his tobacco.  Miss Crane sighed and shook her head and came down the stairs, paying no mind as the hem of her skirt brushed the worn wood.

“Whereabouts are you headed?” she asked as she approached.  After he explained to her what he knew of the property, she directed him to a farm about ten minutes the way he had come.  He had, it seemed, missed the mailbox marked with the name of his relative, and as he returned to the truck he fervently hoped he would be able to find it this time.  He had spent too much time in search of this place to begin with.  He opened the door and used the steering wheel to pull himself inside.  He turned the key in the ignition before pulling the door closed, wincing at the blast of hot air drawn into the cab through the vents.  He decided to wait until the air cooled before driving off, the sun-baked bench beneath him seeming to sear his legs even through his pants.  He loosened the collar of his shirt and pushed back his hair, which was now a sweaty tangle.  His glance in the rearview mirror revealed that his face was clamshell pink and glistening, and he wiped at it with his shirtsleeve.  He realised in doing this that his underarms had soaked through, and must have some time ago.  He looked up out of the driver’s side window to see Miss Crane and the man on the porch in casual conversation, eyes moving to him and back to each other without a hint of shame or subtlety.  Miss Crane was shaking her head in disapproval and the man was rubbing his nose as though he found some deep pleasure in doing so.  

The air conditioner appeared to be broken.

He pinned a curse between his teeth and flicked the control to the off position.  Fine.  He’d just open the window, then.  He fitted his fingers around the crank and pulled.  Then pushed.  Then pulled again.

Nothing.  

He slammed his palms against the steering wheel and sucked in a breath.  The truck was revealing itself to be a lemon.  He should have specified it be American-made.  Those damned Canadians had probably just slapped a truck body around an old snowmobile and called it a day.  It had been a miracle the air conditioning even worked in the first place.  

The exhausted new owner slumped inside the cab, the thick smell of fresh vinyl and plastic pressing around him as if to smother him.  He pushed up his sleeves and pressed his leather shoes into the pedals to put the truck into gear.  A gathering had begun on the porch across the way from him, and even out of the corner of his eye he could clearly see them staring, murmuring about the stranger who had been parked in front of the house much longer than he should have.  He wrenched the wheel around to return the way he had come and the truck stalled out before he had even completed the turn, jerking into the ditch as his body slammed into the steering wheel.  Hot embarrassment burned up his neck.  He didn’t need to look to see the disapproving stares of the locals.  He knew what he was doing.  This damned truck simply refused to operate as it should!

The dust kicked up by his passage coated the windshield in a thick brown mist.  The windshield wipers proved useless and he opted for hunching over the steering wheel, attempting to squint through the smears.  He was so focused on this task that he nearly missed the mailbox, and when he sighted it he slammed his foot on the brake pedal so hard the engine stalled a second time.  His entire shirt was by now soaked through, but he attempted to dry his face with it anyway before restarting the engine.  He turned onto the unmaintained dirt road that led to his new property, but it was so uneven and strewn with debris that he was forced to proceed at a crawl.  The sun beat down through the windshield and his tongue grew thicker and thicker in his mouth.  He peeled off his shirt with one hand and controlled the truck with the other, switching arms when necessary.  A few minutes later he came upon a ramshackle, one-storey house and his spirits sank lower than it ever had before.

It was even worse for wear than the other house had been.

The shingles on the roof seemed to be sliding off one by one and the house’s planks were faded and rotten.  The stairs leading in had already collapsed and the land beyond was choked with overgrown stalks he did not recognise.  He would have leaned his head back against the bench if he had not been so desperate to escape the suffocating heat trapped inside of the truck, and so he shoved open the door and spilled outside as though he had become liquid.  His shoe landed on a sharply angled rock and he slipped, falling to the dust in a heap.  He pushed himself up and attempted to wipe away the dirt which had immediately sunk into the sweat sheening his body.  He would go inside and take stock of the place, get out of the heat for a while, and when the sun had gone down he would go out and take a look at the rest of the property.  

The interior was musty and dark, and he realised belatedly there was no electricity.  Probably no running water, either, which meant a septic system.  The dilapidated furniture on the single floor looked as though it would break if he so much as looked at it too hard, and his suspicions were proven when he entered the kitchen to find a basin with no faucet.  He pushed back his hair in frustration, his fingers becoming trapped in the dried-together strands, and he yanked them back out again and looked around for a cup of some sort.  There would be a well on the property.  Hopefully.  He returned to the yard in search of it, the heat assaulting him as though he had walked through an invisible wall into hell.  He squinted through the sun and spotted a single tired tree set back from the house, below which was the well.  The red brick forming it was crumbling, the circular wood cover was rotten, and the crank was frozen with rust, but the rope and its attached bucket looked as though they worked.  He removed the lid and dropped the bucket inside, where it landed somewhere down below with a blessedly distinct splash.  It was hard work without being able to use the crank, but he got the bucket back up and dipped the cracked mug taken from the kitchen inside of it.  The water, though not as clear as he would have liked, was cool and loosened his nearly closed throat.  He gulped down three cups in quick succession and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.  He looked up at the truck.  He had left the driver’s side door open, but he felt no inclination to close it before returning to the house.  It wasn’t as though anyone were likely to come all the way out here to steal it.  Those yokels probably thought he had returned to the city.  Well, he would show them.  This was all going to be a little more difficult than he had anticipated, but it was going to be fine.  

He went back into the house and lay down in the bedroom.  He could not escape the heat there, either, but the bed appeared to be the sturdiest thing remaining and he could get some sleep now and spend the cooler night looking over the land behind the house.  It was a good plan.  A smart plan.

The scent of the bedclothes – mildew or mold – sat heavy in his nose.  Sweat beaded upon his skin even as it simultaneously seemed cold as ice.  He slept a little, but every time he got close to that sought-after depth he would be awoken by a sharp pain in his stomach.  He had his arm strewn across his eyes in a futile attempt to block out the light, and after some hours of this he simply waited for the sun to fade.  When it had he swung his legs over the side of the bed and watched dully as some small rodent skittered out from beneath it to dart behind the dresser.  It was missing a drawer.  The idea of someone coming into this house to steal it caused a high-pitched laugh to spill from his mouth.  He was not quite sure where it had come from.

His light-headedness made him consider searching the kitchen for food, but oddly he wasn’t hungry.  It could wait until he came back, he decided, and returned to the well to drink his fill.  He then clambered back into the truck and pulled the door closed.

The heat had barely faded.

He started the engine.  The air conditioning remained unusable.  He entertained the idea of driving with the door open for a few moments, then set off with it closed.

The fields behind the house were thick with whatever had been planted last, the stalks towering over him like a forest.  Without being able to see the moon, it seemed as though they were glowing from the inside out.  His arms twitched and yanked the steering wheel to the left, and when his panicked legs slammed the brake pedal to the floor the engine stalled a third time.  His heart was pounding in his chest.  It should have been, but not that hard.  

A sudden coldness came over him.  It wasn’t a chill or a momentary shiver; no, it was as though ice had developed somewhere beneath his flesh.  He pulled his discarded shirt back on and buttoned it all the way up to the neck.  His throat was as dry as if he’d never drunk anything at all, and the pain in his stomach had become more insistent.  The scent of the truck seemed to have crawled physically inside of his mouth, so that it seemed his vinyl tongue was surrounded by a plastic mouth, and his hand scrabbled along the rough texture of the door until he was able to locate and yank upon the door release.  He pushed his way out of the truck, unsure if he had actually tried to get his legs underneath him.  He pulled himself through the dust and used his knees to leverage himself to stand.  His hands were shaking and he was still cold though he knew heat hung still in the night air.  The looming stalks drew his pulse into his throat, so he instead looked up into the sky.  It was not as empty as he had known it back home.  The sky was not even black as he had always thought, it was a blue the depth of which hurt his eyes to attempt to understand, but the eerie gold-white tracing the lengths of the grain around him was no better and he pressed his palms over his face in an attempt to shut all of it out.  When he removed them he was on the ground again within the stalks, shivering, and when he tried to get up the pain in his gut pressed him to his knees and he found himself vomiting into dirt he could not even see.  

No relief came.  He was still shaking, still cold, stomach still in knots, and as he moved back onto the dirt road he realised he did not remember which direction he had come from.  He had pulled the wheel to the left, but how hard?  Had he turned the truck around, or had he merely turned left and stopped there?  Looking for it now, the road seemed to have become indistinct.  As though it were only there if you knew where it was.  He remained there on his knees and stared with increasing panic into the blue-black distance.  The only light came from the moon slung, low and fat, overhead, and the dark stalks seemed to stretch off into eternity in every direction.  He struggled to his feet and pulled himself into the truck, the steering wheel his life preserver.  He twisted the key in the ignition.

Silence.

He turned it again.  Again.  He yanked it out and thrust it back in.  Tried to.  The key scraped against the steering column as his frantic hand failed to connect it with its target.  He forced it in and turned it and held it and held it.  His face was pressed to the steering wheel and his other hand was gripping the top of it with an unnatural strength.  The truck didn’t start.  The truck wouldn’t start.  The truck refused to start.

He couldn’t stay here.  He was going to have to find his way back to the house.  To the main road.  Before the sun came up.  Someone would come by.  Someone would come by and help him.  He managed to get the glove box open and put the key alongside the spare.  He closed it and got back out and leaned against the side of the truck, his hand gripping the door handle.  He pressed the door closed, kept pressing longer than he needed to without knowing why, and then he stepped away from it and turned towards his best guess of where he had come from.  His steps were leaden.  His entire body threatened to turn liquid at any moment.  And he was tired.  Maybe it was better to stay in the truck.  He’d been seen at that house.  Maybe someone would come to check up on him.  See how he was settling in.  See if he needed anything.  He looked over his shoulder at the truck and his body, frozen, seemed to draw dread from the very dirt up through his rooted feet.  

It sat at an angle to him, both shimmering headlights visible from where he was standing.  The parts of it that remained hidden from the moonlight seemed so dark he imagined that, if he put his hand there, it would disappear entirely.  The truck gleamed as though the moonlight were coming from within the metal body, not without, and the shine of the polished steel was, somehow, almost blinding.  It seemed content.  Like it belonged there.  Like it wanted to be there.

He took a step back.  He half-expected it to move.  For the front wheels to turn towards him a fraction of an inch, or for the windshield wipers to cross their glass expanse just once, or for the orange hazard lights to set the stalks ablaze.  A sudden rustling cut through the night air and he fell.  From his position in the dirt the truck seemed to increase in size, the dark curve of the tires poised to shift towards him, and he scrabbled backwards on his elbows to get away from it.  It sat, dispassionate and patient.  It wanted something and he didn’t want to know what it was.  He ignored the roiling of his stomach and the shaking of his legs and the sandpaper of his throat and he stood up and he ran into the field.  He would come out somewhere.  He would come back later.  Have one of the locals look at it, see what was wrong with it.  After they helped him.  After they found him.

The truck waited.

A half-hearted bale of hay was deposited in the back by someone who never returned for it.  Birds and other small creatures who attempted to nest in it were almost immediately set upon by passing predators.  A group of teenagers stumbled upon it during a night of illicit drinking, moonshine stolen from the boarding house up the road sloshing out of loosely-held bottles, and one of them abruptly became so violently ill they had to be carried back home.  None of them remembered where they had been or how they had gotten there.  The truck remained undisturbed.

Summer was breathing its defiant last when he arrived.

He was nineteen and had grown as far into his limbs as he ever would, which gave his movement an unnatural and forced grace.  His clothes covered nearly every pale inch of him, including a wide straw hat which did not quite hide a thatch of hair the colour of rust.  The too-large eyes behind his smudged glasses were a nearly translucent blue and they shone like glass.  When they alit upon the truck he stopped.  He looked.  He circled it and looked again.  His entrance into the truck was unhurried, and when he found the keys in the glovebox he sat and he thought.  He slid the key into the ignition and started the engine and turned on the air conditioner.  He was there only a few minutes, but it was long enough.

He paused to look at it before disappearing again into the corn.  It would still be there tomorrow, as it had been yesterday and the day before.  

They had a long way to go.  They had a lot left to do.  

-

Author’s note

Did a pickup truck need a backstory?  No.  Did I give it one anyway?  I sure did.

[awritingcaitlin]

Nestled at the base of a Hill

“What’s a thaw hut?”

“A shelter that people offer up for other people to use to get out of the worst of the storm,” Nathaniel explained.

“We’ll leave something in exchange for the hospitality,” Killian added.

Through the white of the blizzard, a moderately-sized farmhouse came into clearer view. It was nestled at the base of a mountain. Or maybe it was a large hill. Rinnie couldn’t see much with the weather. To the southeast of the house was where the farmland probably was. Probably. The visibility was the main reason why they weren’t going to make it into Trotsberg that evening. Paul brought the sleigh up to as close to the house as he could. There weren’t any other cars.

“Hey, it’s a proper house,” Nathaniel observed. “Better than a hut.”

-for @nosebleedclub's February writing prompt 7. on the hill

[ewitsdylan]

Anastasia Marie Macher — A Character Study

NOTE: I do not own the Scream franchise, nor do I claim to own it. I own the storylines that diverge from canon and my original characters. I will take criticism as any of you see fit to give as long as it’s in a constructive manner.

ANASTASIA “STACEY” MACHER was one of the two accomplices who helped Billy Loomis with The 1996 Woodsboro Massacre. Due to her brother’s love of horror movies, the genre began to grow on her until it was a full-blown obsession, rivalling that of Randy Meeks (who she dubbed “Randy Geeks”).

Her only reason for going along with Billy’s plan was that if her brother were to get caught, then she’d go down with the ship (in this case, “the ship” being her brother’s friend’s plan). Her undying loyalty to her brother is unfortunately what got her killed when she was taken to the ground by Amelia Riley, she told the girl that “I’ve always had a thing for redheads”, to which Amelia responds with, “Sorry, I’m not really into psycho blondes” and ended her life by stabbing her.

Anastasia was close to her brother when they were alive and felt alienated by peers her age. She attached herself to him and befriended his friend group, made up of Tatum Riley, Sidney Prescott, Amelia Riley, Randy Meeks and Billy Loomis. She didn’t date anyone, though she did have a secret “fling” with Billy, which was done before it ever really began.

Since Anastasia isn’t a real character in Scream (1996), I tried to think of who would match her the best and I think Alicia Silverstone (when she was on Clue) would fit Anastasia.

Biography

Early Life

Anastasia Macher was born February 12, 1979. She grew up in 261 Turner Lane, Woodsboro, California, a moderate-sized farmhouse with her older siblings, Leslie and Stu, and parents. Her childhood was happy, being born within less than a year of her brother, they were considered Irish twins (Stuart being born February 23, 1978).

Her older sister, Leslie, didn’t live in Woodsboro in 1996 when Stu and Stacey assisted Billy in the massacre. Instead, she was away at university. She wasn’t aware of her siblings’ crimes until she got a call from her hysterical mother telling her of how Stu and Stacey had killed several people and were in the hospital in critical condition.

As a Woodsboro High junior, Stacey shared her brother’s fun-loving nature. She was known by Stu to dislike his girlfriend, Tatum Riley, and wished that her brother had dated their best friend, Amelia, who was Tatum’s twin. Her relationship with Randy Meeks is that they had horror movie nights together, which Stu didn’t know about or he and Billy would’ve put a stop to it immediately. She had a great disdain for Sidney Prescott, which she hid with a lot of effort, due to her jealousy of Sidney’s relationship with Billy. She thought very highly of Amelia, to the point where she wanted her to be her future sister in-law or even better, her girlfriend.

The First Murder (1995)

On a Thursday in late-October 1995, the trio secretly entered the Prescott residence, 34 Elm Street. After Maureen Prescott, Sidney’s mother, had the affair with Cotton Weary, who left without his coat as he was under the influence of alcohol. With that, they set the plan into action. They stabbed the 45-year-old housewife and mother to death and Billy left wearing Cotton’s coat and a similar hairstyle, Sidney witnessed his silhouette leaving and mistakes him for Cotton.

Stacey then helped Billy plant the coat to frame Cotton to avoid having her brother feet get caught.

The following year, the three grew closer after they got away with Maureen’s murder. In that timeframe, they put together a plan to commit a series of murders, like in their favourite horror movies, specifically slashers. Soon after the murder, Casey Becker, Stu’s girlfriend at the time dumped him for Steven Orth. As a part of their plan, Stacey set Stu up with Tatum Riley. She and Stu lie to Tatum that he dumped Casey, not the other way around.

Woodsboro Massacre (1996)

On Wednesday, October 29th, they began their killings two days before the anniversary of Maureen’s murder. Their first targets were Casey Becker and Steven Orth, sometime around 10pm. Before Steven arrived, the trio abducted him and tied him to a chair on the patio of the Becker residence after Casey’s parents left.

After they killed Casey and Steven, Billy went to Sidney’s house. While he was with Sidney, Stacey and Stu abducted Neil Prescott, Sidney’s father. Stacey was in charge of taking care of the car after they got Neil back to the Macher residence. She made it look like he abandoned the car and planted evidence to make it look like he was responsible for all of the murders.

On Thursday at school, Sheriff Burke began interrogated everyone in connection to Stacey’s and Stu’s crimes.

The friend group sit together around the fountain and discuss the murders. Sidney reminded Stu that he dated Casey, though he fired back that it was only “for like two seconds”. Randy spilled to Tatum that Casey dumped Stu, which Stacey butted in and told him he “is full of shit because Stu dumped Casey for you, Tate”.

Stu mocked the murders, including a pun-joke, “liver alone”. Stacey warned him to shut up without saying anything. On a serious note, he informed his friends that he didn’t kill anyone after Randy asked him about it. Stacey tapped him on his forehead as she prompted him with, “Nobody’s accusing you”. Stu returned her softness with, “Thanks, Stace”.

That night, Billy used the voice modifier to call Sidney’s house. Stu and Stacey attacked Sidney and they thought that she was alone. Unfortunately for them, they were wrong; Sidney was with Amelia. They didn’t think that through, which gave Amelia and Sidney enough time to fight them off. Later on, Billy implicated himself for the crime with the mobile phone. Stu and Stacey escaped before the police arrive.

While at Tatum’s locker on Friday, Tatum, Stu and Stacey talked. Stu checked his face in the mirror for any scratches Sidney gave him the night before in his attack. Stacey’s arm was wrapped in gauze, due to the knife Amelia had grabbed out of her hand and turned around on her. Tatum tried to shut Stu up over things he said that made him out to be an ass. Sidney asked Stacey where Billy is and if he’s okay, though Stacey scoffed at her and responded, “Yeah, right. Of course he is, you branded him the fucking Candyman.” Stu added, “No, dumbass, he’s heartbroken… obviously.” Tatum elbowed Stacey in the ribs and pushed Stu’s chest lightly, both as in warning.

When two Ghostface costumed students pulled a prank to scare people, Tatum shook her head in disapproval as Amelia looked noticeably aggressive. Stacey looked annoyed at some idiots taking credit for her and her brother’s work. Stu, being entertained by the prank, stated, “Look at this place, it’s like Christmas”. The Riley twins were both visibly pissed at his insensitivity, both said, “Stupidity leak!” where Tatum tapped Stu on his forehead while Amelia rolled her eyes at the couple.

Both Macher siblings met Amelia, Sidney, and Tatum outside of the school after Principal Himbry suspended it. Stu acted oblivious and childish, being completely insensitive to both Sidney’s and Amelia’s trauma from the attack. Amelia was on edge, due to her earlier encounter with Billy. Stacey suggested that she and Stu throw a party in celebration of school being out on an impromptu Fall break. Tatum pleaded with Amelia and Sidney to go with her to Stu and Stacey’s party that night. Stu told them to bring snacks and Stacey apologised briefly for her brother’s behaviour, though she didn’t mean it.

Later on that night, the party is in full swing at Stu and Stacey’s house after the citywide curfew is placed. After people leave when they hear of Principal Himbry’s murder, Stu, Stacey, and Billy plan their confrontation with Sidney, not counting on the fact that Amelia witnessed Tatum’s murder, connected the dots and didn’t leave for the principal’s murder distraction.

Sidney, Amelia, and the news cameraman Kenny Brown later watched Randy Meeks, who was drunk in Stu and Stacey’s house while Stacey in the Ghostface costume crept up behind him. Gale Weathers placed a camera in the entertainment centre under the television however, Kenny forgot about the 30-second delay, with Stacey already getting outside and slitting his throat.

Billy, Stu, and Stacey revealed the plan to Sidney and Amelia, including how they were going to frame Neil Prescott for everything. The three of them stab each other to make it look like Neil attacked them. Stacey and Stu both claimed that since they’d spent hours watching different horror movies, they knew how to frame him and get away with the murders.

Stacey stabbed Billy deeper than intended, which caused him to retaliate and stab Stu as revenge of sorts. Stu began to bleed profusely, complaining that he was “feeling a little woozy” and looked to be dying. In turn, Stacey let him stab her so that they’d die together if they had to because in her mind, dying was better than being put in solitary confinement for the rest of her life after an interrogation by the police for their motives if they were caught. With the trio distracted by Gale, Sidney and Amelia both ran off in opposite directions.

Stu got electrocuted after Sidney knocked the television on his head. Stacey was stabbed by Amelia, with both of the Macher siblings’ apparent deaths being ruled out as self defence on the girls’ parts.