#they really do fall like planks of wood

[doorstovenus]

classic who people falling in silly ways supercut

[bitten-fruit]

price….. in a.. a.. cowboy hat

girl... you have no idea what you have done to me with this ask. Cowboy Price!?? I had so much fun with this, I might even do a part 2! I'm sorry this took me so long - I really hope you like it!!! ♡

18+ mdni - cw: chasing, spanking - 3.2k words

John Price owns the ranch that neighbours your father's. You've got a habit of climbing the fence between them, snooping around Mr Price's property and leaving traces of your misbehaviour behind. This time, he catches you.

Here’s part 2!

Daddy had warned you about wandering onto Mr Price’s property. The lichen-coated fence that separated his land and your father’s spanned miles; carving through tall dry grass, through woods of oak and pine trees, over a bumbling shallow creek. It was easy enough to climb over, but there was one little gap in the barrier, where the splintering planks had fallen from their fastenings. Tucked under a towering cottonwood tree, hidden by the grass, it was easy to wander through as if it were more of your own land on the other side.

Mr Price was a reticent man. An arguably shadowy figure, who you might occasionally see on horseback up on the hilltops of his ranch, tan cattleman hat bowed as he surveyed his acreage. You had met him, once or twice, as a girl. Then, he was in his early twenties, tall and aloof. Eldest of three sons, all three of whom had enlisted and served, sent to fight a war whose nature you were oblivious to in your innocence. He had been absent for years, and once his father was taken by whatever cancer he chose not to treat, John was the only one of the three to return.

His father you had known, vaguely, only as a man that your father despised with an unwavering passion. Some daft rivalry, dating back long before you were born. Whatever enmity existed between old men had not quite been passed on to the last remaining son, it seemed – where there might have been out-and-out conflict, existed only cold disinterest.

Thus explained your intrigue. You found yourself strangely captivated by him, in a nosy sort of way, once he had finally come home. Suddenly bearded and jaded, no longer the bright-faced young man you had distantly remembered, he had picked up where his father had left off. He lived alone, as far as you were aware, in his inherited six-bedroom farmhouse, atop a five-thousand-acre piece of natural splendour. Don’t bother the man, daddy would tell you, he’s not our friend.

But you had always been at the mercy of your impish curiosity. You couldn’t help it. It was an impulse, a compulsion, to stick your fingers where they didn’t belong. You would habitually explore his acres when you came home from college. You’d peek into his empty old shacks, pet his mooing cattle, pick handfuls of wildflowers from his unkempt fields.

Sometimes you’d sneak into his stables. You’d coo at his horses, stroke their velvet snouts, feed them the flowers you had plucked with a smile. They had grown to like you, his sweet horses, you wished you could know their names. They probably liked you more than him, no doubt, the mysterious little neighbour that would sneak in at dusk and feed them treats.

But your most regular habit – one that had gotten you into trouble before – was your proclivity for picking bunches of glossy red cherries from his rows of fruiting cherry trees. The orchard was under-loved and weedy, but those glimmering little baubles of ruby were just too delightful to let fall to the grass and rot.

He had caught you, once, while your arms were stretched far above you, reaching among the droopy branches and floppy leaves to pick the brightest sun-ripened cherries. You had heard him yelling;

“Hey! I see you in there, missy!”

Lips stained red, slick with sweet juice, you gave him a puckish grin before you ran off like a rabbit and hopped back over the fence.

“There’ll be trouble next time I catch you over here, little lady,” he had roared after you, watching you clamber over the oaken planks, “You hear me?”

It didn’t stop you, of course, whatever threat he threw at you. If anything, it emboldened you. Now you meandered down the rows of cherry trees like they belonged to you, picking the prettiest ones, popping them behind your teeth and meticulously nibbling the flesh from the pit, spitting them into the grass as you moved onto the next.

You left a trail wherever you ventured. Little wet pits and green tooth-pick stalks in piles around the place; in stables, along pathways, among the cows. Sometimes you’d leave juicy red fingerprints on doorframes, on the planks of the fence, on horse snouts – perfectly incriminating.

Today was no different. You wandered in scuffing sandals along an old dirt road, green sprigs of grass almost covering it entirely. Some old route that settlers may have followed state to state, spotted occasionally with two-hundred-year-old milestones, ignored just enough to have been spared from crumbling to dust.

Shaded by a cottonwood, humming to yourself, you created a little tipi with your cherry stalks on the flat top of a mile marker. Balanced them carefully as you licked the fruity flesh from your teeth. And when a gentle breeze blew it over, scattering your creation, you leaned over the stone to pick them from the dry gravel around its base.

One, two, three, four…

At the familiar rumble of a truck trundling over dirt, you straighten your spine, palms resting on the edge of the milestone as you look over your shoulder. A dusty Chevy square-body had already coasted to a stop behind you, red paint faded and matte after a decade or two of proper use and neglect.

There he was, the enigmatic man, hanging his elbow out of the open window. Mr Price squinted through the glare of the afternoon sun, crow’s-feet pinching, eyes barely shaded by the cattleman he wore even inside his truck. Your throat bobbed with a swallow as you caught his eye; the flitter of adrenaline buzzed in your chest, toeing the line between nerves and excitement.

With a disapproving suck of his teeth, he grumbled at you, “What’d I tell you about catching you back here?”

Plucking the short skirt of your cotton dress downward, to cover where it had ridden up, you spun around to face him demurely.

“You said there’d be trouble,” you answered with a simper, shyly scratching the back of one hand with the fingernails of the other.

“Mhm,” he grunted in agreement, tapping the metal door with his palm. He flicked his head in gesture for you to make your way around to the passenger side. “Get in.”

A crease pulled between your brows as you frowned at him. “What for?”

“I’m takin’ you back to your daddy,” he barked, irate and impatient, “I’ve got some words for him, too.”

You absently kicked the rocky dirt with the heel of your sandal, pouting at him. “What words would those be?”

With a snort, he rocked his head to peer out of his windshield, then back to you. “To keep a fuckin’ handle on his daughter.”

“Don’t think there’s anything you could tell him that he hasn’t already tried,” you mumbled, attempting to subtly flick the handful of cherry stalks you had collected to the ground.

He chuckled at that, breathy and hoarse, a hint of frustration in his throat. “I believe that,” he scoffed, “c’mon. In. Don’t make me ask again.”

You chewed on your lip, squinting in challenge as you stood up straight. “Or what?”

Glowering at you for a moment, his nostrils flared in frustration, as he seemed to swallow what must have been an inappropriate retort. Instead, his arm retracted through his window, and following the thud of the handle he swung open the door with his forearm.

With a hop he landed in the dirt, dust rising from under his well-worn leather boots. You hadn’t seen him up close in as long as you could remember, and Christ, how he towered over you. It may well have been the looming shadow of his sizzling anger that made him seem so daunting, so delightfully thrilling. You felt the shiver of gooseflesh tingle down the nape of your neck as you tilted your head to look up at him, sheepishly watching his steady approach.

“You’ll be in more trouble than I will if you lay a hand on me,” you spat, with a faint curl in your lips, almost daring.

He gazed down the bridge of his nose at you, wearing a snide and thin smirk, curled under his dense beard. But as his gaze raked you up and down, his sneer shifted quickly into a pout of disapproval, eyes caught on your chest.

“Care to explain this?” He queried severely, wide hand reaching for you; you leaned back further against the milestone behind you as if it might evade him. With his fingers he pinched the cream linen of your blouse, and for a moment you feared he was peering down the gap - brazenly inspecting your bare breasts underneath.

But, no, he instead curled the fabric between his fingers to show you the bright red stain dribbled down the front of your dress.

Oops. Your gut reaction was to giggle, yet unsure whether to admit guilt or feign ignorance.

As you parted your lips to speak, his judging hand suddenly moved to your face; a hold of your chin with a thumb and hooked finger. Piercing glare glued to your lips, his eyes sunk into a defeated ire, shadowed under the brim of his cattleman.

Your tongue writhed behind your teeth, heart thumping in your throat; as he tilted your head up and to the side. He used his other thumb to wipe your bottom lip, pointedly slowly, from the corner to the centre.

“You’re a little thief,” he gritted, dropping your head and peering at the red smear of juice on the pad of his thumb. “Aren’t you.”

Were you scared of him? It was hard to distinguish your fluttering heartrate between terror and thrill – perhaps a touch of both. Because you didn’t know him. You couldn’t trust him. You had no basis to assume he wouldn’t club you with a closed fist and throw you in the back of his pickup. But you felt the tingle his touch left behind on your lip. You got stuck on his pinched blue eyes, the glare of the sun reflecting off your dress illuminating them like they glowed from within.

“No I’m not,” you muttered, readjusting your dress after he left creases in the low neckline.

“And a liar?” He scoffed, as he grabbed one of your wrists – lifting your hand to reveal the sticky burgundy juice under your fingernails, red drips dried in your palm. “You’re covered in evidence, missy.”

Snatching your hand from him, you crossed your arms in petulance. “It’s not stealing if you don’t use it.”

“The fuck it isn’t,” he snapped, hooking his hands onto his hips. “Now get in the goddamn truck.”

“I can walk home,” you grumbled, “you’re not the boss of me.”

Huffing in anger, he leaned forward – looming over you with a domineering lour. “While you’re trespassing on my property – yes I am.”

Glaring up at him from under your brow, you nibble at the inside of your lip as you pouted at him. “What’re you gonna do if I don’t go with you. Kidnap me?”

He tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve got some rope in the truck,” he gruffly warned, “you gonna make me use it?”

Did you imagine the glint in his eye? Did you make up the lascivious quip in his tone? Whether or not it was dreamt, it plucked a coy smirk in your lips.

He was daring you, wasn’t he? Goading you to challenge him.

So with a glistening smile you reached for his cattleman hat – plucked it from his head, and swiftly placed it on your own. Too big to sit properly, you perched it on the back of your head so that you could still see out from under the brim.

“Hey!” He barked, lunging to snatch it back from you – but you bolted, kicking off your sandals, ducking under his arm and sprinting across the dirt road. Through the field of grass and dry wildflowers, you bounded like a deer. “Fuck’s sake.”

Holding his hat in place, you peeked over your shoulder in your escape, and he was swiftly in pursuit.

“God dammit, girl, you get back here!” He roared – already closing the distance. You hadn’t expected a man as bulky as him to sprint as fast as he was, charging after you like a grizzly.

You only giggled, leaping over fallen logs and stray planks of wood, weaving between the tall white oaks that littered his prairies.

“If you get so much as a dent in that hat I’ll fuckin’–”

“You’ll what?” You squealed through a grin, holding the skirt of your short dress in a fist against your hips, to allow your legs to sprint in full stride.

You heard him grunt, close to a growl, as he encroached on you. “You’ll be in big fuckin’ trouble!”

Breathless, panting, you failed to think of any witty response as you dashed towards one of the many stables on his expansive property – this one devoid of horses or livestock, simply a storage building for stacks of haybales and racks of tools. You’d perused it before. He might have found more discarded cherry pits in there.

He was behind you already, as you barrelled through the ajar stable door, stumbling into the centre of the dishevelled space. Illuminated only by the cracks of glowing sunlight that broke through gaps in the plywood boards, you stood amongst dust and scattered hay. You turned and faced the entrance, watching in anticipation as he steamed in after you.

Face burning red in fury and exasperation, he jabbed two angry fingers in your direction. “Give me the hat,” he ordered, throaty and severely – no longer joking.

But stubborn as you were, overly enjoying the needless chase, you were not going to capitulate that easily. You stood poised to dash, and with hunched shoulders, he prepared to hound after you.

“I like it,” you puffed, exhilarated, purposefully impudent. You pinched the brim, pulling it down with a disingenuous hat-tip. “It probably looks better on me.”

“Even if it does,” he chided through teeth, out of breath, “it’s not yours.”

You snickered girlishly, pursing your lips. “Maybe it should be.”

“Give it to me.” He thundered, hand outstretched, your heart flipped in your ribs at the sudden eruption of stern rage.

So you spun on the ball of your bare foot, before flitting hastily towards the rickety ladder that led up to the hayloft. Clambering up it like a spider, the old wood and rusted nails squealed in dispute of being used for likely the first time in decades.

But he was blindingly rapid in his chase, and before you made it even halfway up the ladder, his heaving forearm scooped around your waist, hooking you by the stomach.

“C’mere,” he growled through a clenched jaw, as he peeled you from the ladder; hoisting you like a small animal, holding your back to his chest with a constricting arm, leaving your feet dangling high off the ground.

You writhed and kicked, bucking like a goat, still holding his hat tightly to your head to prevent him from snatching it back from you. “Let go of me!” You squeaked, still giggling.

“No,” he snarled, “I’m taking my fuckin’ hat back, and then I’m taking you back to your daddy so he can knock some goddamn sense into you.”

You whinged, clutching his thick forearm in an effort to loosen his grip; nails digging into his bronzed and hairy skin, corded with veins bulged from the exertion of keeping you contained. His body burned like a furnace, pectorals stiffening underneath you as he flexed them, while he hauled you towards the exit.

“It’s just a hat,” you whined, “you’ve probably got heaps of them.”

Your obstinance was aimless – no particular interest in the hat, and no true understanding of why you fought so desperately to keep it. Maybe you just wanted to see how far you could push him. Wanted to see what would happen.

“It was my father’s,” he griped, anger approaching a boiling point as you continued to squirm around in his grip.

You groaned in dispute, still holding the leather cattleman tightly to your head. “Well he won’t be needing it, will he?”

That was a step over the line.

You knew it immediately, quick to bite your tongue after the words spat from your lips.

And his retaliation was sudden and severe; dragging you closer to the exit, he tossed you unceremoniously, almost tumbling down with you into the pile of block-shaped haybales that sat by the stable door. You landed face-down against the bale, winded, a squeak jumping from your chest with the impact; and his hat toppled from your head, rolling out of reach.

He kneeled beside you, with his forearm weighing against your lower back - you were flustered and confused by his haste. Skirt hitched up by the fall, he suddenly swung his free hand down with an open palm, smacking against the bare skin of your ass with a thunderous whack.

“Ah!” You squealed, a shriek, followed quickly by a breathless whine that slipped from your lungs outside of your control. The explosive clap rang in your ears, echoing within the bowels of the stables, loud and shrill. And the sting was sharp, hot and prickling like a brand, no doubt the raised outline of his hand was quick to form in your shivering skin.

A silence followed, pregnant and heavy, and you dared not move nor breathe too loudly – you inhaled and exhaled with trembling breaths, lips parted and wet, eyes wide as you stared into the packed hay.

He was dead quiet, too. Panting throatily, he kept you in place; grip of you not easing, though he stayed utterly still. You thought he might apologise, might express some remorse, might beg for you not to tell your father what he did. But he was silent. Like he had even surprised himself.

You tilted your head slowly, peering at him doe-eyed over your shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you whimpered, close to a whisper, dripping with pleading humiliation.

“For what?” He growled; his glower potently intimidating, a glimmer of voracity in his shadowy eyes, strained like he was suppressing greater hunger.

With a whine you turned your head back, facing ahead into the shack wall, you spoke quietly and nervously. “For taking your hat.”

Followed another swing of his arm, wide hand colliding with your rear in another deafening crack, forcing a laboured squeak from your chest. But there was something more than pain in your throat, wasn’t there? A whisper of thrill, a yelp of delight in your subsequent gasp.

And he must have heard it, took it as encouragement; as you felt the hand of his arm that pinned you down curl into a fist, balling the fabric of your dress tightly in his palm – lifting up the hem even further, you felt the cool air of the stable bite at your stinging skin as your ass was entirely exposed.

“Yeah?” He rumbled, gritting teeth, huffing like a beast. “What else?”

[strangerstilinski]

sharing a stiles thought i keep thinking bc brainrot and sharing bc you’d appreciate it

he would beg you to do the spiderman kiss and immediately fall as soon as it actually happens

i know this wasn't technically a request of any sort but oh boy did it tickle at the nearly nonexistent inspiration in my brain, so.. here we are. just a very short fluffy little thing that made me feel all warm inside. x

You tug at the sleeves of your sweatshirt in an attempt to cover your cold knuckles as you take an overly-cautious step out onto your front porch, hugging one arm around your ribs as a shiver wracks your body all while your grip tightens around your cell phone.

“Stiles, if this is one of your jokes-” A sigh escapes you, a wispy cloud of fog pushing past your lips as you look around for your boyfriend. There's a familiar blue jeep parked at the edge of your driveway, but the owner doesn’t seem to be anywhere in sight. You tut softly into the phone, “I think your pranks are cute, baby. Really, I do, but I need to study-”

Your socked feet carry you that much farther outside, shuffling slow across the smooth planks of wood underfoot while you cautiously scour the yard for his familiar figure.

“I'm right-” There's a scratchy crackle against the speaker just as you hear a scuffle from somewhere to your left. Stiles' yelp meets your ears twice, once from the dark emptiness at the edge of the porch, and then again half a second later through the phone.

It's just as you're just stepping up to the edge of the porch, hand falling to grip the railing as you squint into the darkness, when something drops down from above and makes you flinch back with a small scream.

“Here!” Stiles grins, the momentum of his body still making him sway forward and backward for a moment as he hangs upside down in front of you. He's dangling from the roof overhanging the porch, his torso curled around the edge in a way that can't possibly be comfortable, but he's grinning like he couldn't be more pleased with his current position.

“Stiles!” You scold, reining in the urge to punch his shoulder and instead redirecting the motion to simply grip at his biceps when he reaches out for you. The slow motion of his swinging slows under your steady hold, “Are you insane? You're banned from climbing on the roof! We- We have talked about this-”

“Neh, eh, eh,” He interrupts with a goofy grin, “The rule was that I can't climb on Scott's roof-”

While you don't remember the specifics, you have no doubt that your boyfriend would have been clever enough to worm some sort of loophole into his previous promise. Your nose scrunches up in annoyance while your heart continues thumping wildly in your chest, both from the scare and from the panic pooling in your gut as you watch your boyfriend shuffle and slip another inch or so over the edge of the roof.

“Sti, babe, please,” You whine anxiously, fingers digging into his arms a little meanly, “Stop moving around, alright? You're going to fall!”

“I'm not gonna fall,” Stiles rolls his eyes and he reaches a hand out to brush against your cheek, his pinky brushing the apple your cheek as his thumb presses lightly into your jaw, “Come on, don't you wanna know why I'm up here?”

You sigh softly, a small smile pulling at the corner of your lips while you release him with just one hand so that you can run your fingers through his floppy hair where it hangs loosely beneath his head. Your hand scrapes lightly though the soft strands, your cheek pushing imperceptibly into the warmth of his palm.

“Why are you on the roof, Sti?” You ask begrudgingly.

“Spiderman.”

“Spiderman?” You repeat slowly.

“Spiderman!” Stiles grins, “You know, the first one. The Raimi one-”

“Like.. Andrew Garfield?” You clarify with furrowed brows.

“What?” Stiles scoffs, “No! Toby Maguire! Baby, we watched them together-”

He looks appalled, mouth gaping just slightly in incredulity.

“Well, we watched the Andrew Garfield ones together too-” You defend with a small laugh, amusement filling your chest at just how worked up he seems to be getting by your mistake.

“The first one!” Stiles repeats in a huff, “Because that's the one where it's raining and he saves MJ and he's hanging upside-down in the alley and she pulls his mask down to kiss him as a thank you-”

“Ooh, a wet, New York City alleyway,” You tease, “How romantic.”

Stiles groans woefully, “This was supposed to be romantic. You are totally ruining this for me, right now, you know-”

His words do make you feel a little bad. He'd clearly put some thought into the idea. He'd climbed all the way up onto the roof of your porch, though you're still not quite sure how — there's no ladder in sight.

You plaster a sweet smile on your lips, slipping your feet up onto the rung at the bottom of the railing to boost you up another few inches, until your nose is level with Stiles' chin.

“I'm sorry, Stiles,” You murmur softly, chin tipping toward your chest so you can look into his eyes, “You wanted a big, superhero movie kiss?”

His adam's apple bobs when he swallows, his body reacting naturally to the familiar teasing lilt in your voice, “Uh huh.” He nods.

“Well gee,” You sigh wistfully as you drag a finger up the side of his cheek in a slow trail toward his mole-speckled neck, “You are awfully brave for climbing up there. And you did do it with the intention of wooing me..” Your teeth pull lightly at your lower lip and his eyes track the movement, “Maybe I could show you just how brave and sweet I think you are. Maybe.. I could show you how grateful I am, that you were willing to risk getting hurt for me.”

Stiles is nodding along, eyes wide with anticipation and cheeks flushed dark from a combination of your words and the blood rushing to his head in his current position, “Yeah.” He rasps weakly.

Your fingers curl around the back of his neck, your lips catching against his in just a light brush of skin, teasing. His lips part beneath your own and your warm breath mingles in the narrow space, the scent of spearmint overtaking your senses for a moment.

The hand on your cheek drags you closer in a gentle nudge as he grows impatient, and your mouths meet in a slightly awkward press of lips. Something about the new angle with such a familiar action scratches at the back of your brain, and you tilt your head just slightly when your mouths separate and rejoin only a second later.

Stiles presses his thumb softly into the hinge of your jaw in a silent request for you to open your mouth, his tongue catching on your lower lip before pressing inside and meeting your own.

Your tangle your fingers in the soft hairs at the nape of his neck. Another wet peck to his lips has him shuffling forward to chase your mouth the moment you ease back, and he seems to slip just a little further over the edge of the roof.

“Careful.” You warn softly.

“'m always careful.” Stiles whispers, his upturned nose pushing into your jaw as he kisses you again.

You lean back after allowing him another moment of indulgence. Stiles seems to follow the movement again, pitching forward as you go back like you're two magnets, but this time around he slips just a bit too far to allow for recovery. You can only watch on with wide eyes while he comes tumbling down from the roof and crashes into the bushes below with a small scream.

“Oh my god!” You gasp, leaning over the railing to watch your boyfriend roll into the grass with a groan, “Are you okay?”

“Never better.” Stiles manages weakly, voice hoarse.

“You sure about that, Spiderman?” You tease hopefully as you watch him drag himself to his feet, brushing himself off to free the small bits of branches and leaves and dirt that are now clinging to his clothes.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, “Yeah, 'm good.”

“Good,” You grin, beckoning him closer when he finishes ridding himself of yard debris and meets your eye, “You should get yourself a mask though. I hear masked superheroes tend get more than just kisses and I have to admit, I think it's kinda hot-”

“Noted,” Stiles agrees with wide eyes, tripping over his own feet and the porch stairs as he rushes toward you, “Fucking- Shit, I am so on it.”

[appocalipse]

summary: during a stupid party, your friend JJ gets into a fight with your ex-boyfriend (that so happens to be a Kook) to "defend your honor". you, of course, don't like it in the least. | 1k

Long after everyone has left, JJ finds you outside, sitting on the edge of the worn, wooden dock with your legs dangling over the calm sea. You must hear him coming and know that it's just him, because you don't turn around even when he steps onto the wood planks, dragging his feet a little just to be sure.

You haven't said a word since leaving the party an hour ago, and it's killing JJ.

Tentatively, he drops down beside you. You still don't look at him.

"You're angry," he states the obvious, his eyes scanning you.

The wind tousles your hair and you smooth it out of your face, huffing a quiet little breath through your nose. "How observant."

"I'm sorry." He means it, too. He understands that what he did may have escalated things, and if there's one thing he hates, it's being the cause of a problem. But when he sees people being little shits and putting their stupid hands where they don't belong, like that piece of garbage asshole had...

"Oh, are you? For what?"

JJ is brought back to the present, his train of thought pausing as he turns to face you. Your arms are locked tightly together, defensively, and you stare out at the ocean, blinking once, slowly. Waiting.

Lips parting slowly, JJ racks his brain for a witty response, but he can't for the life of him figure it out. "Well, I would be, if you'd tell me what I did."

Your fingers curl around the edge of the dock. "Unbelievable."

"What?!"

"You seriously can't figure it out?" When you finally face him, JJ's taken aback by the flurry of emotions he finds in your eyes: anger, confusion, sadness, frustration. It makes his heart clench and ache like an old wound. "He's a fucking Kook, JJ, he could have had the cops called on you, or worse."

"I-"

"Your record's already bad enough, okay? Why don't you ever think about what could happen? He could have pressed charges!" Your voice has gone almost shrill. "Worse, he could have really hurt you. Then what? How do you think I'd feel?"

For a moment, the air rings with the last vibrations of your voice before it's engulfed by the quiet drone of nature once more. You sound angry, a little scared, but underneath it all, there's worry.

JJ reaches out a hand, resting it tentatively on your forearm, but you tear your eyes away and stand. "Don't-"

But it's too late.

He gets to his feet, too. "Come on. Seriously, do you really think I'd just let someone do that? Touch you like that?"

"No, but-"

"I don't care if he's a Kook. I don't care if he has fifty guys with him. If someone touches you or says shit, I'm gonna put 'em on their asses. It doesn't matter who it is." JJ steps forward, and when you don't step back, his expression softens. He lifts his hands, cradling your face so gently, like it's something fragile and beautiful, and his calloused thumbs brush lightly over your cheekbones.

"Don't touch me," you mutter half-heartedly, even as you lean into his touch.

"You want me to stop?" JJ's gaze falls to your lips, and you know he's not talking about just the touching. You both know there's always been something else simmering below the surface, between you, and now it's threatening to spill over.

"Your cheek's bleeding," you whisper instead of answering, lifting a hand to brush your thumb over the shallow cut on his face.

"He missed."

"Barely."

JJ cracks a crooked smile, his nose crinkling as he leans in, stopping just short of kissing you, waiting for you.

A second ticks by. Two.

"So, we're good, right?" he murmurs. "No more mad?"

Your eyes flutter shut, and you breathe in his familiar, comforting scent, leaning closer until your foreheads are almost touching. "If you get arrested, I'm not bailing you out."

His eyes glitter in amusement as you open yours again. "That's a yes."

"I hate you."

His thumb smooths softly along your cheekbone again, then his nose gently brushes against yours. "No, you don't."

You can feel his warmth, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. He's so close.

"No, I don't," you concede, letting out a defeated sigh. "I was just...really worried."

"Hey, I wasn't about to lose to a Kook prick like him. Not with your honor at stake." His tone has fallen softer now, warm.

You crack a smile. "My honor?"

JJ presses a little closer, and your heart flips. "Mhmm, and besides. I've always got your back."

You reach up, resting your hands over his. "I know."

Your gaze flits down to his mouth, and his tongue peeks out to wet his lower lip before his mouth draws into a mischievous little smirk. "So..."

"So..." You raise your eyes to his. "Are you.."

JJ leans forward, but stops just before his lips can brush over yours. "Am I...?"

Your heart thuds against your ribcage, and you tilt your chin up slightly. "Going to kiss m-"

Your words die off in a soft, contented hum as JJ's lips meet yours in a slow, sweet kiss. He's gentle, his hands holding you like he can't believe you're real, like you'll slip right through his fingers any minute now and he has to make the most of this, because it'll never happen again.

You kiss him back, trying to tell him without words that you're right here and not going anywhere.

When JJ pulls back, it's only enough to break the kiss, and he doesn't go far. He rests his forehead against yours, his breath coming in a contented exhale, and he laughs, low and sweet, his fingers curling against the sides of your face.

"Well, damn, if that's what happens when I get in fights with Kooks..."

You can't help but smile. "Don't you dare."

[oneforthemunny]

I want to do primal play with cowboy eddie where he tracks me down on his horse and when he find me he hog ties me and spanks me over his lap on his horse

oh non.

what have you done.

you've got my wheels turning big time. holy shit.

18+ minors dni!!!!!!!!

you play 'hide and seek' always you hiding, always eddie finding you.

you have five minutes to hide. he puts it on a timer not he porch, going inside to wait for you.

"don't cheat, eddie!" you always squeal, and he always tells you he won't, and he doesn't. why would he? where's the fun in that.

you know you could head down the road, run down he dirt path and make it towards the road and really win, but you wouldn't be winning at all, truthfully. eddie wouldn't find you and then you'd win, and really, you didn't want to win.

so instead you hide- in the barn, in the fields, sometimes on the porch, once at the backdoor. you had unlocked it, waited until the timer shrilled and eddie went to the stables to get medusa, his beloved black mare, before slipping inside, cheekily waiting on the bed for hours.

this time, you snuck behind the barn, in your tall boots and little flashlight- eddie made you carry just in case. you pressed your back against the wood, hearing the shrill of the timer sound from the porch, eddie's heavy boots on the creaking planks of wood.

you hear medusa's neigh, hooves stamping on the ground and eddie's gruff whisper. "let's go find her, sweet girl. can't let her win, can we?"

you grin because you know he won't find you here, too close to the stables. he always went behind the pasture first.

or so you thought.

medusa's loud whine makes you jump, footing falling and stumbling into the barn. you pause, heart hammering in your ears, the light from the barn all that illuminates the night sky around you.

"hm," eddie hums, his voice getting closer. "maybe I don't need you after all."

your eyes squeeze shut, willing yourself to move. you can hear him getting closer and closer to the back door. the creaking of the door awakens your senses, heavy boots stomping through the tall grass towards the pastures. the boots are tall, rubber hitting the back of your knees with every pounding run.

eddie's hot on your trails, a salacious grin that shines in the moonlight, pounding towards you as you sprint towards the fence. your barely reaching for the wooden door before two rough hands grab you, yanking you and pulling you into his firm chest with a solid oomph.

"oh, you went too easy on me this time, girlie." eddie grins, hot breath tickling the back of your neck, making you squirm in his grasp. "you musta really wanted me to catch ya."

"no," you whine, though the aching between your legs tells you something different. "I fell! that shouldn't count! I had a really good hiding place." you stomp your boot on the ground, pouting up at him, bottom lip jutted in the light of the moon.

"oh, poor baby," eddie mocks, hands still gripping the fat of your hips. "I tell ya what, I'll only use my hand on you tonight, how's that?"

you pout but let him haul you back to the house, flinging you over his propped knee, peppering your ass with hard smacks like his own sort of prize- and in a way, it was. it was even more of a prize when he had you over the kitchen table, drooling and clawing at the wood while his cock split you open, soaking the floor beneath him in a puddle of your own release, hips snapping into the blazed, reddened skin of your ass.

it was your favorite game to play. even when you lost, you really won, always knowing it would end with you like this; ruined with an aching ass, while eddie fucked you relentlessly for hours.

[shaunamilfman]

Jackie Taylor with an s/o that plays video games

pre-crash headcanons

Jackie Taylor is for sure a hater of any hobby you have. Why would you want to have a hobby when you could just watch her being pretty?? 

she’d definitely approach this with the intent of getting you to stop playing and pay attention to her at first. she’s laying all over you absolutely astonished that you’re still playing video games while she’s there. You seriously have a pretty girl in your lap and still want to play minecraft?

She’s realizing the error of this plan as you assume she’s interested and start explaining what’s going on in your game. It wasn’t her intention, but she figures at least this way you’re still paying her attention. She’ll get what she can get.

Jackie would end up getting really interested in the story line and would get upset with you if you even thought about playing it without her. she asks you so many dumb questions about game mechanics and makes you go through every single dialog option that it takes you like 40 hours to finish a 20 hour game

Jackie would get really into competitive games on your behalf. like she'd sitting there cheering you on like she's watching a fucking soccer game. Jackie buys you headphones with a mic so she can start shit talking people you play against. she gets really into the spirit of the competition man. 

Jackie talking about you embarrassing her after she shit talked everyone and you died like 3 minutes in lmao. all “how could you do this to me 😔” and shit. i just know Jackie Taylor would be an absolute menace on a mic regardless of if you had the skill to back it up

it's even funnier because she'd be so so bad at it herself. Jackie blows herself up with her own grenade like every time because she hits the wrong button. pouts and gives up after one round. isn't she dreamy?? 🥰🥰

Jackie trying to get into playing games but it's just her running around frolicking in the tall grass and handing you the controller whenever she had to fight someone

speaking of which I just know she went out and bought the pink controller. your black controller was not cute enough for her 

Jackie looks up guides for you whenever you get stuck on something. you think it's sweet but she just gets bored easily

Playing Minecraft with Jackie but all she does is build the house and accidently screw you over. Jackie moves the bed while your gone and completely fucks your spawn point up. Jackie's just like “i wanted to put carpet there 😔” Jackie also dies from falling off the house at some point and is at spawn getting farmed by mobs till you come get her. 

Jackie has you off in the mines for days because she wants an iron block accent wall. she only ever wants the expensive blocks I just know it. she's building your house out of the wood block instead of the planks, and she'll be damned if she's gathering those resources herself

Jackie taking your diamond armor to wear while she builds the house because “it's prettier than iron 🥰🥰.”

You come back from a long day of mining and Jackie wants to show you the heart shaped leaves on the trees that took her an hour to do. 

Jackie's house gets blown up by a creeper and she's beside herself over it I just know it

you make the mistake of showing Jackie the Sims because you think she might like it. she's obsessed immediately. 

she plays it on her regular laptop and it sounds like an airplane taking off 

Jackie has a painstakingly perfect recreation of your place with you guys in it, and she will make this your problem

sim you cheats on sim Jackie and she won't speak to you for days. she texts you a picture of the notification like “wowwwwwww. okay.” it does not matter to her that it was a video game lmaoo

catching Jackie recreating a girl who flirted with you so she can lock her in the pool to drown

Jackie picking your outfit out one day and you're just staring at her suspiciously

"what? 😁" / "these kind of look like the outfits you put us in your game" / "pffff. whattttt?”

you'll fall asleep to Jackie playing it and wake up and she's still there. it gets so bad you and Shauna have to stage an intervention. 

Jackie gets pissed whenever your character can marry/date another character. She found out you married Haley in Stardew Valley and still glares at you whenever she sees a coconut. “why don't you go tell your WIFE 🙄.” my petty queen. 

trying to get Jackie to play a resident evil game but she cries like ten minutes in because she's so stressed/scared from the background noises. three creek floor noises and she's gone. hasn't even gotten in the house yet 

Jackie grows to really love the fact that you have a hobby she can also enjoy/participate in with you. Jackie loves to spend all her time and energy with you, even if you aren't giving her your full attention like she'd prefer. 

Jackie makes you pick all the nice dialog lines because she'll get upset if your character is mean. She has such strong opinions about dialog choices that she'll argue with you for like ten minutes over why you should pick a certain choice even though it has absolutely no impact on the story

Jackie definitely cheats at choice games and knows all the possible consequences for every single choice. you go to steal a candy bar or something and she's like “NOOO!”

slightly unrelated but Jackie would totally pick bae>bay without hesitation. Everyone in the town is dead? small price to pay for lesbians

going feral over the idea Jackie Taylor sitting across your lap scrolling on Pinterest while you have your arms around her holding the controller as you play

[deanwritings]

The Guest House - Chapter 6

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Series Summary: Dean Winchester is going through a nasty divorce. He doesn't have much left to his name, but what he does have is his house. Leave it to his soon-to-be ex wife to find a way to even ruin that for him. Enter Y/N, who is looking to get away from life for a bit, and stumbles right into the middle of it all.

The Guest House Master List

Word Count: 3,288

A/N: Almost missed this week's chapter because I've been obsessively reading Fourth Wing and Iron Flame. Took a lot of willpower to put the books down and get this finished 😅

You were absolutely shocked, flabbergasted, dismayed, aghast, and every other word in the thesaurus when Dean offered to be your hiking buddy. 

Never in a million years did you ever expect the man to offer you any favors, not alone fix your car, and definitely not take you hiking. 

After he left for work, a part of you still wanted to go. You weren’t one to wait around if you didn’t have to, but if you were being honest with yourself, you had been scared to go alone. The only times you had ever hiked alone was when you were a fearless teenager, and even then you had your 110 pound dog, Beau, by your side, so you never had to worry about someone bothering you. Plus, those were your home trails, you knew them even when you took a wrong turn. Mount Carmel was entirely new to you. Even though the hiking reviews said the trails were relatively easy, there was always a chance of missing a trail marker, especially being out of season. Hiking markers were typically re-sprayed in spring, so it had been almost a year of weathering the elements since the last time they’d likely have been updated. 

And of course, the big question ringing in your mind – could you trust Dean? The truth was, you didn’t know much about him. Every interaction up until that point had been contentious at best. Not to mention that gun he first greeted you with. Sure, you two had a nice morning together, but was that enough to trust him and let him lead you through the woods alone? 

So you decided to give Sydney a call.

“Absolutely not.” Her voice rings through the receiver. “Just cause he was nice to you once means nothing.” You sigh as you throw yourself onto the couch. 

“I know.” And you do. That’s why you were calling her for a second opinion. “But he actually seemed genuine. Surprisingly so.”

“Nope. No. No way.” She reinforces her position on it. “Please don’t make me have to do an interview on Dateline. I will not be nice. I will say ‘I told her not to go but she was dumb and didn’t listen.’ Twitter will have a field day with it.” You laugh quietly as you let your head fall against the back of the couch, staring up at the plank ceilings that match the floors. 

“Fair enough,” you conceded, knowing that what she’s saying is absolutely true. “But what if I told you he was really hot?” You raise your eyebrows even though she can’t see you. 

The other line is silent for a moment.

“How hot we talking? Like Tom Hiddleston hot or Chris Hemsworth hot?”

“Hemsworth, definitely.” You smile as you think about Dean’s defined features; a strong jaw covered in a few days worth of scruff and his oddly beautiful green eyes. You don’t think you’ve ever considered a man’s eyes beautiful until you met him. You also enjoyed the way his hair swooped over his forehead. It wasn’t long, per say, but you definitely could see yourself grabbing a handful of it if the time were right.

“Are we forgetting the vindictive ex-wife?” Sydney chimes in, breaking you from your daydreaming before it takes a shameful turn. “I mean, he had to do something to her to make her hate him that much.”

“I’m not trying to marry him, Syd.” You roll your eyes. “Yeah, he’s kinda an asshole, but he’s a hot asshole. And it’s not like I’m going to be around here much longer.” You only had about two weeks left on your rental, and now that Dean was starting to come around to you, the thought crossed your mind that maybe he could be that vacation fling you had been hoping to find. 

“Okay, well I gotta get back to work.” You can hear her heels click before background voices filter in. You glance over to the kitchen clock; 1:31. Her lunch break was ending. “Just make smart choices, please.” Her voice pleads just a bit. You know she trusts you, but you would be looking out for her if the roles were reversed. 

“Always do, Sydy. I’ll text you later.” 

As you hang up, you realize that you haven’t actually gotten lunch yet for yourself. You had some cold cuts in the fridge, but considering you were supposed to be out hiking right now, you were antsy to get out of the house. 

You decide it’s a good day to head back into town and grab some lunch, and who knows, maybe you’ll run into a certain mechanic. The idea has you smiling as you grab your coat and throw on your boots, not before freshening up with some quick makeup before you go. Just in case. 

Thankfully, your car starts with just one easy press of the ignition, and your lips turn upward as you think about Dean saving you this morning. 

A few minutes later, you’re parked downtown, this time getting a spot right in front of BILLIES. Your eyes scan the street, not seeing the tell-tale forest green truck of your neighbor. 

It had been wishful thinking, but you still need lunch so you head inside.

“Afternoon, hun.” Billie herself greets you, and you give her a wave as you take a seat at the counter. This was your fourth visit now, and each time Billie had always greeted you with a warm smile and treated you like a regular, even though she knew you were leaving soon. 

She drops a menu and a water in front of you.

“You know the deal.” She gives you a smirk before turning towards the kitchen. And you do. Once you are ready to order, just flag her down.

You’ve been making a point to order something new each time you visit, so today you were going with a chipotle turkey cheeseburger, curly fries, and your usual Diet Coke. 

Once your food is ready, Billie drops it in front of you, but you stop her before she can hurry away. Even with a near-empty diner, she always manages to find something to keep her busy.

“Hey, can I get your opinion on something?” She nods, her hair bouncing around her as she drops a hand to her hip.

“What’s up, hun?” 

“You know Dean pretty well, right?” Her chestnut eyes narrow at you. 

“Sure do,” Her tone is lighter than her gaze. “Known that boy since he was a tyke. Babysat him and his brother a few times.” 

Well that was interesting, you didn’t know Dean had a brother. Not that you would, but considering all your run-ins, you assumed he would have been around. Maybe he didn’t live here anymore. 

“He offered to take me hiking on Mount Carmel on Thursday. Obviously I barely know him, he’s safe to go with right? Like, I don’t have to worry about him killing me or anything?” Her head falls back with a deep laugh, and her hands clap together. It takes her a moment to collect herself as her chest heaves, and she wipes a tear away from her eye. You just watch her with wide eyes as she draws the attention of the few patrons enjoying a late lunch. 

“Oh, LORD, I have not laughed like that in a while.” She throws a hand onto her chest. 

“I’ll take that as a ‘no’ then?” You assume from her reaction. 

“Sweetie, that boy is harmless.” She assures you, a hint of laughter still in her tone. “A pain in the ass, maybe, but you don’t have anything to worry about with Dean.” 

“Well that I knew.” You pick up a fry and take a bite.

“How’d you manage to talk him into taking you for a hike anyhow?” Billie asks as she rests one hand on the counter and the other finding its way back to her hip.

“He offered,” you shrug, biting into another fry as her eyebrows shoot up. 

“He offered to take you hiking?” She parrots in disbelief and you nod. Her eyes look you up and down and you suddenly sit up straighter under her scrutiny. 

“What?” You now feel self-conscious. You don’t know what she’s looking at or for, but heat rises to your ears and cheeks as she looks you over. 

She just tsks and shakes her head, pushing off the counter. 

“Just surprised is all.” She gives a small shrug as someone behind you flags her down. “Enjoy your meal, hun.” 

And with that, she hurries into the dining room, leaving you confused and hungry as you pick up your burger and dig in.

Dean’s toweling off his hair, the bathroom steamed and warm from his shower, when his phone buzzes on the counter. 

He clicks his phone alive, 7:02 in big white numerals above the text notification bearing your name. 

He stands up a little straighter as he clicks open the text, his eyes quickly scanning your words.

If the offer still stands, I wouldn’t mind a hiking buddy on Thursday. 

He smiles down at the text. He obviously didn’t know you very well, but he fully anticipated you ignoring his warning and going hiking alone today anyways. 

But his shoulders drop as he realizes he’s now committed to a hike and he drops his head back. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles as he tossed his damp towel in the hamper and heads into the bedroom, thinking about his response as he grabs some sweats, a henley, and a thick pair of socks, because god damn, it was cold out. 

 Once he’s changed, he picks his phone back up.

Consider it done. He texts back as he heads downstairs to whip up some dinner. 

Dean didn’t have a lot of skills outside the auto shop, but one thing he was good at was cooking. He spent a lot of his childhood watching cooking shows with his mom as she tried to up her own ability, his early years being a lot of tv dinners and mac and cheese. By the time he was a teenager, she could pull together the most delicious pot roast and mashed potatoes you ever had. And Dean was her number one helper. 

“My little sous chef.” She would call him until he begged her to stop one day when he was twelve. 

The thought makes him smile, and he realizes he hasn’t called her in a while.

Once he gets out the ingredients he needs, he grabs his headphones and pops them into his ears.

“Hey Siri,” He unwraps the strip steak and slaps it down onto a cutting board. “Call mom.”

The phone rings as he heavily salts the beef.

“Dean!” His mother's excitement makes him wince as it nearly blows out his eardrums.

“Hi, mom,” he smiles, happy to be talking to her for the first time in well over a week. He tried to call her every few days, but as his divorce has been draining him mentally and financially, he’s been calling less. And at this moment, he feels really bad about it. 

“It’s been a while.” She says much softer. “How are things?” The genuineness in her voice immediately eases the stress that has burrowed in his shoulders ever since Lisa left. 

As he heats up and butters his cast iron skillet, he fills his mom in on happenings at the shop, Mary needing full updates on Benny, Adam, and the rest of the gang. How the divorce is going, and Dean fills her in about his guest. 

“Dean,” she sighs. He knows this divorce hurts her. She had loved Lisa like the daughter she never had, and was so excited to watch her son start his life with what she thought was a lovely woman. He still remembers her heartbreak when he told her that he caught Lisa cheating and that she had left him.

“Sweetheart, is this really worth dragging on?” He rolls his eyes as he bastes the steak. 

Here comes the mom lecture. 

“I really wish you could just move on from all this. I know she hurt you, but Dean, how long are you going to continue giving her power over your life?” His shoulders drop as he sighs. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to move on, but to be honest, he just didn’t know how. Everything went so wrong so fast, his head was spinning like a top, and that was before he found Lisa in bed with Gavin. 

“I really want you to be happy, Dean.” The break in her voice has him shaking his head. This was another reason he hasn’t been calling as often. He didn’t want his own mother to pity him. 

Here he was, 32 years old, in the middle of a divorce, with nothing but a house and bitterness, while his brother was thriving. 

At 28, Sam was proving to be a shining star at the law firm he started with when he graduated law school. And last month, he proposed to his college sweetheart, Jessica. His life was just beginning, while Dean’s was stuck in the mud. 

“I am happy, mom.” He lies. “And I’ll be a lot happier once this divorce is over and Lisa is out of my life for good.” He carefully flips his steak, continuing to baste so it doesn’t burn. He can hear his mother’s sigh in his ears. She always knew when he was lying.

“Are you coming up to visit anytime soon?” She changes the subject.

“Actually, I’m coming up this weekend. There’s a car auction Sunday and Rick wants me to come tune up a few of his cars before he puts them on the block.” 

“Oh good!” His mother’s excitement returns, and they carry on with their conversation. 

Fifteen minutes later, Dean carries his finished plate to the table; seared stripe steak and roasted green beans with some leftover potatoes he had from a few nights ago. 

He rubs his hands together before he cuts into the steak, humming at the perfectly medium rare center. 

After a few bites, he picks up his phone, and sees he has a missed text from you stamped 24 minutes ago, while he was on the phone with his mom. 

Not sure if you wake up early on your days off, but if you do, I was thinking a sunrise hike? But if not I’m happy to go anytime. 

Dean purses his lips as he takes another bite, this time mixing in some mashed potato. 

He Googles Thursday’s sunrise: 6:59am. The hiking trails were about 25 minutes away, and it takes about an hour to hike to the lookout. Doing the math backwards, they would have to leave here by 5:30am. Definitely a little early for his taste on his one day off this week, but he invited himself on your hike, so he was going to swallow down his own distaste for that early of a start and agree. 

Sounds good to me. Meet me in the driveway 5:30am. We can take my car. 

Dean’s about to put his phone down but the three text bubbles jump up on the screen, and only a few seconds later, your next text.

On second thought, how about a post-sunrise hike? 

Dean smiles and lets you know that works, and you agree to meet in the driveway at 7:30am instead. 

See you then. You reply, and Dean closes out the screen and returns to his dinner. 

He’s not sure why, but he feels almost excited for tomorrow. Which is odd considering how much he fucking hates hiking. And though you two have been civil, he still wouldn't say he likes you. He just doesn’t dislike you anymore, finally able to separate you from the scheme Lisa dropped you into.

But Dean doesn’t dwell on it, more than likely just looking forward to a change of scenery as he takes a big bite of steak and settles into his seat.

“I can’t believe you consider this fun,” Dean huffs behind you, watching every step he takes as you transverse the mountainside. The incline is not overly steep, and thankfully the path isn’t too rocky, but the real danger is the one Dean warned you about; the ice. Thankfully you haven’t fallen flat on your ass, but you’ve definitely slipped a few times, once which had you rolling out your ankle to make sure you hadn’t sprained it only fifteen minutes in. 

“No one forced you to come.” You remind him with an easy breath as you focus back on your own steps, your gloved hands resting easy on the lapels of your backpack. Not that you’re trying to taunt him while he seems to be struggling as he staggers behind you.

“You know, you could walk on a flat road.” Dean continues to complain a few minutes later, as the trees start to fall away, replaced by boulders and lingering snow patches. “I mean, really, what the hells the difference? There’s plenty of trees on the road by my place if that’s what you’re looking for.” He gripes as you turn over your shoulder, watching as he steps around an iced-over puddle.  

“Tell me Dean, are you always this grumpy, or do I just seem to bring out the worst in you?” You pause and fully look towards him, dropping your hands across your chest as he takes a few more cautious steps, closing the distance between you as he steps up on a rock, the added height making him tower over you.

You’ve been at this for almost an hour, and Dean has complained almost every chance he’s had. It was very clear that he did not enjoy hiking, and it was starting to sour your morning. This was supposed to be your get-into-nature, positive energy, meditative morning hike. You had no problem taking this hike alone, he was the one who invited himself. So it was time he started acting like the guest he was. 

“Must be you, sweetheart.” He grins widely down at you, his white teeth flashing, and you suck in a breath as your heart halts.

Holy shit, this man is beautiful. His hair is tucked into a gray knit hat, and his broad frame is hidden under a thick, camel hunting coat. But his eyes. Those green eyes are shining bright in the early morning sun, and they may be the most amazing eyes you’ve ever seen, on a man or woman. It’s almost unfair. 

Truly, what the hell is a man as good-looking as Dean doing hiding away in this small town? Especially with the city only two hours away. He could easily be a model or an actor if he wanted to. The world opens doors for beautiful people. 

“Lucky me,” you regain your composure and return a tight smile as you turn on your heel, but as you shift, your left foot slips out from under your boot and you start to fall forward, your hands shooting out to brace your fall just as two hands grip your hips, catching you. 

“Warned you about that ice.” You can hear the cheeky grin in his voice as he helps you straighten up, his fingers digging deliciously into your skin through your workout tights before he lets go.

You want to shoot back a sassy remark, but you bite your tongue.

“Thank you.” You offer instead, turning towards him carefully as to not lose your footing again. 

“Don’t mention it,” he smiles down at you as he pushes past, taking the lead for the first time since you started your hike, and you have no choice but to follow.

Keep Reading

NEXT TIME:

“This is weird, right?” You say to yourself once you’re back to your little cabin. Who the fuck goes on a trip with a man they barely know, to stay with his mother of all people. 

Aunt Rose would. Your inner voice rings out. Hell, she would jump at the opportunity for the chance at a fun weekend at a fancy car show. 

I mean, it did sound cool. You’ve never been to a car show before, not that you know much about them, but you do “ohhh” and “ahhh” whenever a nice car drives by. You can at least appreciate them. And what were you going to do this weekend? The loneliness was starting to grate at you. Turns out four weeks alone wasn’t as relaxing as you expected it to be. It was nice at first, but now it was getting boring. You’ve hiked, you’ve read, you’ve meditated, you’ve shopped. Though it sounds like the town is bustling with city tourists during the warmer months, there was not much going on while there’s snow on the ground. Really, the only thing you could think of was to head to Max’s. Maybe you could meet someone this time, and not get interrupted since Dean won’t be around. 

But you know that’s not what you want to do. 

Oh god, Sydney is going to murder me. 

You pick up your phone and open a text.

I’m in. 

Forever Tag List

@iprobablyshipit91  @likesiriusly @kittyque @findingfitnessforme @wonderange @captainemwinchester @xtina2191 @smoothdogsgirl @mogaruke @chin-up-love @tsunadesenjuuchiha @lyarr24 @globetrotter28 @krazykelly @roseblue373 @k-slla @stephv213 @kaydallas21 @nerdymuffinbonkcloud

[lady-ashfade]

Can you too a six of crows x male reader who is always clumsy and shy but yet they love to tease him about it (it can be a female reader if you want )

But he’s just so cute.

Poly!Six of crows x Male!Clumsy!Reader

Of course I’m doing it, it so freakin cute to think about. Because as a very clumsy person myself, I think we’re fun. Also you didn’t tell me if you wanted romantic or not, so I just did what I felt was right.

Warnings: Reader being a bit of a air-head, small cuts and wounds, short, slight teasing.

You had a funny way of always walking into a room, either it was hitting your hand on the door frame, or tripping somehow. The crows were all over you, maybe just watching and cooing at how clumsy you are.

The first time they really noticed this was when you walked into your own room door, the handle didn’t work right. You couldn’t open it in the first try, and you didn’t even think about it as you tried to walk in but got face full of wood. But when they finally noticed you weren’t going to stop doing it, they fixed the damn thing. Because even if it was adorable, they didn’t like the bruising beginning to form on your forehead or nose.

“Sweetheart,” Nina batted her eyelids at you and stopped you by placing a hand in front of your chest, “There’s a hole in the floor.” She pointed down. A big hole in between the wood planks would sure injure someones leg. She watched your shy smile and look of shame, “Thank you.” Your pout and shyness had her freaking out. Nina just grabbed ahold of your arm and pulled you back and out of the old shop, nothing caught her eyes.

Lets just say you had bruised and small cuts all over yourself. The crows always had a eye on you. You could trip down the stairs again, almost giving them a heart attack when you first did it.

“Ten bucks says he walks into the table.” Jesper jokes and the group glares at him. “Don’t joke like that.” Wylan hit his chest and glared softly at him. “He already did that twice today, he can’t possibly do-” Matthias began to speak until he saw you bump into the table again. Jesper laughed as he called it.

“I swear I’m going to wrap him up with pillows.” Kaz groans and he stands up to make his way over to you. Inej just shakes her head, maybe she was was slightly amused but this was always happening.

Inej eyed you as you talked to kaz with a shy smile and tell him the story, him slightly already teasing you about it. “How he can always be a dangerous to himself at every moment is truly a wonder,” she looked at them and a smirk grew, “But he’s just so cute.”

They always cover the table or corners of everything if you bend down, knowing you’ll most likely hit your previous head. They also carry around bandages and band-aids for you. Anything they can have to prepare they have it. But kisses to each wound you have is a must. Cuddles even for the tiniest scratches.

Wylan doesn’t allow you near his things. Because you accidentally knocked over important vials, or you made a tiny explosion once and he had to pull you into the ground to protect you. “I love you, but this” he smiled while onto of you, not angry at all “This can’t happen again.” And he kissed you on the nose.

But they all tease you any chance they get, like it’s frustrating honestly. “My clumsy boy.” Jesper would say as he helps you down the stairs. Or when Inej would take away anything sharp away from you, “Let me handle these.” And she never let you touch her knives. Kaz wouldn’t let you on mission, but he would let you plan them with him. Because you were pretty smart at those things. Kaz will hold onto your waist when you’re about to fall, he would smirk at you just as acted.

Overall I think they would tease you a lot, even about things that happen months before. But you’re their clumsy man, and they will always love that about you.

[genericpuff]

I was reading your essay on "fat" rep in LO and as woman who is overweight, maybe not but definitely chubby/pudgy and often getting shit for it by my family... Do we ever see Persephone with a not-flat stomach? Even just a little protruding, not necessarily round. Or a double chin? I know fat looks different on different people, but... To me that seems like a pretty obvious way for an artist to show their character is meant as fat rep. If Rachel actually wanted that, I mean.

There are definitely times Rachel tries to draw her "fat" but it feels so tone deaf because it's still just like... as I've mentioned in my essay about it, it's "Hollywood fat", i.e. the kind of belly pouch fat that many women have that's often painted as ugly even though it's very commonplace to have (because no person is entirely flat! we're humans, not planks of wood!) The problem is if you try to quantify as little amount of fat as possible as "fat representation", you can't really call it fat representation because it only represents people on the lower end of the spectrum of fat. Here's an example of what I mean when I tried to find that one specific image example I was thinking of that I had seen ages ago lmao (this isn't the one I was thinking of but it gets the same point across):

Yes, cartoon stylization is a thing, but watch out for the folks who say they can't draw fat people because "it wouldn't suit my style", it falls into the same type of excuse camp as Tim Burton saying black people wouldn't suit the "aesthetic" of his films. They actually could draw fat characters in their style, it's more likely they just don't want to (but don't want to admit to that).

And honestly, if someone just wants to stick to drawing characters of a specific race, body type, etc. that they're familiar with, that's not a crime in and of itself IMO, but don't claim that your work is representation for a group when it's really only carrying the bare minimum or if you're just forcing it for the sake of seeming progressive. That's pretty much where LO falls, its "fat representation" only represents the bare minimum of fat that doesn't apply to the people who are looking for legitimate fat rep in media. Sure, there will be people who will still connect with that body type, especially for people who have stretch marks or belly pouches, but can it really be called 'fat rep' on the whole when it's not going to connect with the people who are genuinely fat? I'm someone who's gone through weight gain and struggled with body image, while I can totally relate to the type of body Persephone has where she (sometimes) has a muffin top and cellulite on her legs, that doesn't make her "fat representation" as a whole because she doesn't represent the women who are genuinely fat beyond chubbiness or being "not flat".

All that aside, the only indications of Persephone being 'fat' are the odd panel where Rachel gives her a belly or "stretch marks" (tbh they look less like stretch marks and more like scars from a bear attack lol):

But then she'll also draw Persephone with a straight up bodybuilder torso and have her say outloud that she's "small-medium":

It all feels very tone deaf because it's Rachel trying to have her cake and eat it too - she wants to draw Persephone as her usual small cinnamon roll self who can be infantilized and fetishized by the men around her (which Rachel loves to write and draw btw) BUT she also wants to try and take credit for Persephone being "fat rep" so whenever she remembers to do so, she'll throw in her laziest attempts at making Persephone seem "fat" but really she's just the Hollywood version of "fat" by having a belly pouch and stretch marks that many women of varying sizes have regardless of weight changes. We can't even assume that she may have been fat at one point and lost the weight (leading to the stretch marks) because we've seen Persephone in basically all stages of her life from childhood to adulthood. She's always been itty bitty and her entire personality and relationship with Hades is written around that.

[beanzfandoms]

Please Don't be Mad

Paring: Dean x sister! reader

Description: The youngest Winchester decides to sneak out without her brothers knowing. However, something happens that she ends up having to call Dean.

Warnings: Slight angst, unwanted sexual attention

☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆☄. *. ⋆

    Dean woke up abruptly to his phone ringing. At first he thought it was his imagination and he closes his eyes to re-picture the girl he was having fun with in his dream. However, the wretched sound repeats itself, pounding into his head like a migraine. He felt around on the covers irately looking for his phone. A grumble leaves his lips as he throws his legs over the side of the bed. A soft glow lights up beside his feet and he could feel the vibrations through the floor as the device blares on with that infuriating ring. He picks it off the ground and answers without looking at the Caller ID.

        "What do you want?" He asks gruffly.

        "Dean," a girl cries from the other end, "please don't be mad."

        "(Y/n), what the hell? It's like 1:30 in the morning-"

         "Can you please pick me up?"

        "What are you talking about?"

        "I left the bunker without you or Sammy's permission."

        "Then I'm sure you can manage the problem on your own," he said after a short thought. He was about to hang up out of spite until his sister began to sob on the other end. "Alright," he sighs, "I'm on my way. Where are you?"

---

        A smile reaches (y/n) Winchester's face as she looks around at all of the people. Music booms into her skull and neon lights paint the bodies of everyone in the room. The abandoned barn was quite claustrophobic and she had to be careful not to bump into any of the dancing duos.

        She will admit, she was nervous to come when the Gothic girl at the gas station told her about it. Mostly, it was because she's never really done anything without her protective brothers right in tow. Of course, She's been to places like this when her brothers wanted to relax, but she has never experienced it by herself.

        Although, her stomach continually tightens from the separation, excitement bubbles over that anxiety. She wanders around like a lost puppy, in awe with everything that her eyes cross, and finds herself at the snack bar. She grabs one of the plastic cups and fills it halfway with the red drink presented in the punch bowl.

        "Hey there," a boy says, coming up behind her. "Let's dance." His breath reeked of alcohol.      

        "No thank you," (Y/n) politely says, unwrapping his arms from her waist. She begins to leave until a force knocks her against the table. Her beverage falls to the ground, staining the rotten wood with a deep brown. 

        "That wasn't a question," the boy sneers into her ear. He begins to grind against her legs, laughing as he sees tears stinging at the edge of her eyes. "It'll be quick," he mumbles, his hot breath leaving goosebumps to run along her neck.

        "Leave me alone," (Y/n) yells and swings her fist into his nose. Blood specks around her knuckles and she notices the boy holding his face, red spilling between his fingers.

        Anger flares withing his eyes as he looks at her. (Y/n)'s body trembles under his gaze. She bolts towards the entrance, hearing the boy trail behind her as she races through the crowd. "You're dead-" His voice is muffled by the speakers.

        (Y/n) struggles to get her phone out as she makes it to the open double doors. She scrolls through her contacts as she races to the side of the barn. She traces along the wooden grey wall, dirt collecting on her finger tip. She decides to hide under a couple of planks propped against the barn and holds the phone to her ear. "Dean, please don't be mad."

---

Headlights glare into (Y/n)'s hiding hole as the Impala pulls up beside the building. The young Winchester scurries out and walks over to the driver's side door. Dean didn't bother looking at her through the rolled down window; he kept his eyes ahead of him with a bored expression.

        "Dean, I-"

        "Just get in the car."

        The Impala soon rolls off the dirt path that leads out of the farmland. Dean turns onto the main road and passes a glance at (Y/n).

        "Mind telling me why you thought it was a good idea to sneak out?" Dean asks in a serious tone. His sister shrugs in return. "You don't know? Then why the hell did you do it? Do you know how dangerous that is- what if something happens and me or Sammy don't have any idea where you are! Have you thought about that?" Dean raises his voice.

        "Why can't you just leave me be," (Y/n) mutters, leaning against her palm and staring out the window.

        "What was that?"

        "Why can't you just leave me be." The girl repeats loudly, turning to face her brother.

        "Huh, I wonder why? We fight the Supernatural for a living, (Y/n). You know better than to ask that. It's for your safety."

        "It's not my fault I was born into this stupid family," She suddenly yells out. The car ride becomes thick with silence and Dean's anger could be felt, pulsating off his body in rapid waves. (Y/n) looks down at her lap in guilt. "I didn't mean that."

        "Sure you didn't."

        "It's just that, I never get to experience anything without you or Sammy being protective about it. I wanted to try something without being coaxed out of it."

        "Why bother calling then, if you wanted the 'experience'," Dean snaps sarcastically. 

        "I was scared..."

        "Scared of what?" Dean says with a dry laugh.

        "This guy, he tried... he tried to-" a sob wrecks up her throat as she tries to explain the situation that unfolded a few minutes prior. "I-I'm sorry! I didn't know what to do and y-you were the first person who I knew would come rescue me." A large hand falls unto her trembling one and traces along her palm in comfort. 

        "It's OK. you don't have to say anymore," Dean shushes. (Y/n) interlocks her fingers between his calloused ones and holds on tightly.

        "I won't do anything without you permission again," she whispers.

        "I know," he smiles softly, "and (Y/n)? Your grounded."

[saturninelove]

The Executioner

(NSFW?) 18+ Minors DNI:

I love my little pyramid head baby and there’s not nearly enough of him on this site. Warnings: Suggestive language, hints at NSFW. Slow burn. (Words: 1363)

~~~~~~~~~~

The blackened veil was slowly lifted, starting at your feet and quickly revealing the rest of your body to the world as well as the world to your eyes. A few disoriented blinks later, you find yourself shifting your footing around the murky and muddied grounds of the Backwater Swamp, none other than the Pale Rose’s delightfully dull scenery staring back at you. With a hushed sigh, you broke into a half-hearted sprint towards the main building, seeing Meg already ahead of you and beckoning you closer and onto the generator. With a tight lipped smile, you gave a polite nod of your head. Your heart was beating steadily but not in the way that you’d assume the killer was already near, you were excited to see whoever was trying to execute you from this trial. It was a terrible thing really but you insisted it was some form of adrenaline high that you got from being chased. You were one of the best at keeping the killer's attention without getting a scratch on you and very few killers could break that string of skill and power you possessed. As you thought so highly of yourself, a terrifying sound seemed to tear through the sky, paired nicely with Dwight’s cry of pain. There were only so many noises the killers could make that were that loud. That was either The Deathslinger’s gunshot being fired off or The Executioner’s blade cutting through terrain. It was clarified in only moments when Dwight inevitably let out another painful scream, this time emerging only seconds later behind the two girls entrapped in a cage full of spikes, threatening to impale him with every move he made in his haste. Meg tossed her head to the side as if telling you to set him free while she finished. You gave Dwight a sad smile. 

“You did great, that lasted a while!” You tried to be optimistic but he wasn’t buying it, he only gave a slight shrug as you bandaged him up as best you could with the first aid kit Dwight had brought. Meg had long since finished the generator and had headed to the next, hearing an additional generator sing out in the distance. Unsure as to who your other ally was, you set out to find them as well as another generator. In mere seconds, your heart began to race and you turned the corner only to come face to face with the behemoth himself. His ragged breathing seemed to only grow louder as he slowed to a halt in front of you, his chest heaving as he rested his blade against the wooden paneling below. You swallowed abruptly, your entire mouth seeming to dry as you took an unsteady step backwards. Of course, you tripped over the rotting animal carcass the entity liked to keep around and slipped into the gaping hole in the floor. Unsure as to what exactly was happening, you shook your head and assumed autopilot as you sprint out of there as quickly as your feet could carry you, your heightened adrenaline taking you too far out to see what he’d do when you fell. You could still hear his heavy footsteps behind you and the ominous way that metal screeched against the rocks and gravel. With your own chest heaving, you stopped sprinting for long enough to hide underneath the docks, knowing he should’ve lost your trail. You held your breath as you heard him walk above you on the docks, dirt and debris falling through the planks of wood as you crouched into a corner, willing your breathing to be quieter as he kept looking around, taking much longer than you’d think he would. Two different generators rang out in the distance and with all three teammates still alive, you knew the last was soon to follow, but he still hadn’t left. You knew the entity was up to no good when one of the crows nearest to you flew a little closer and made a loud croaking noise. You tried to quietly hush it, shaking your head as you crept closer into the corner. You couldn’t hear his footsteps anymore but you really didn’t trust it. As soon as you went to peek around the corner, you let out a harsh gasp as you were grabbed abruptly, feet being pulled off of the ground as you were lifted by the throat, coughing and gasping. Your eyes settled onto the metallic, rusted cage that seemed to leer at you as your vision blurred, your nails digging into his fleshy wrist harshly in an effort to get him to let go. 

“P-please!” You cried out, which seemed to shatter the immersion surrounding the two of you. You were dropped immediately and you crumbled onto your hands and knees as you heaved, coughing violently as tears filled your eyes. This wasn’t normal, you’d seen him chase other survivors and you’d seen the way he killed. Strangulation was not his strong suit, nor was it something he had ever done. The sound of his blade being sheathed into the dirt scared you, causing you to jump at just the sound alone. Just as you were ready to recover and as you stood, that same hand stretched down to you, this time much softer as it caressed the tresses that surrounded your face. You swallowed roughly and tried not to jump or pull away from the creature in front of you. The hand was gone in an instant and you heard the last generator roar to life in the distance, looking up as that familiar burst of speed filled your veins, your eyes glancing around for a way to escape. As if reading your mind, he pressed closer, his breathing loud and it filled your ears as he caged you against the rickety boards with his body, firmly pressing your legs apart with his own body. With your eyes wide, you looked up at him, your brows furrowed in question. You’d heard the legends of ‘The Executioner’ and ‘The Pyramid Head’, this creature was ruthless and cold, his methods of torment were unmatched. And yet here he stood, pressed between your legs and you couldn’t deny the throbbing of your clit. With another strangled gulp, you tried feebly to pull out of his grasp which enticed a low growl to come from underneath his head piece, your eyes widening further as you stilled your movements. The sound of one of the exit gates being powered filled the entirety of the trial, signifying the end of the trial being near. With your widened doe eyes, you wondered if he would keep you here for some sort of sick sense of satisfaction. You were answered immediately as he reacted to the sound of the exit gates being opened. He hoisted you over his shoulder giving another low and quiet groan as if to tell you to hold still. You weren’t even going to bother trying to move, too dumbstruck to catch up with what was happening. He set you gently onto your feet at the opened exit gate, seeing as all of your teammates had already left you behind. He stood directly in front of you, his chest heaving and his arms seemed to be itching to move. When you didn’t make any move to run or exit the trial, he stretched his arms down and onto either one of your hips, the firmness of his grip was exhilarating as he pulled you just a little closer, ensuring you felt the stiffness at his groin as he held you, his palms searching your rear excitedly, groping handfuls as he began to grind your body against his. With a soft moan, you ran your hands up his muscled chest, marveling at how warm he was. The whispers of the fog surrounded the two of you and he gave you a gentle shove towards the safety line in the exit gate, his chest seeming to be heaving harder than before. With a blush on your cheeks, you stepped away from him and into safety, excitement running through your veins at the promise of your next trial.

[desognthinking]

the pier. 9.3k. (or, more from the haunted house designers au.)

ava & (her new) co. have one and a half years to construct three groundbreaking, mindblowing, prestige haunted houses around the country, all in time for halloween. this is scouting/teambuilding trip numero uno. it's not going well so far.

---

Ava sees her at the end of the pier, a dark figure in the already-dark; a smudge of barely-moving ink on the line between wind and water. Barely, indeed – wavering less than the yearning swallow and swoop of the waves interrupted by pillars of wood, and, further back, stone. 

At night, after everything’s shut, this place is quiet until the fishermen get out in the early morning. In the off-season, even more so. Rain slings down frequently, and it’s not warm enough for balmy walks by the rocks. Not many come out, if any. Ava’s one.

She calls out as she walks down the planks, only thinking belatedly that perhaps she might not want to be disturbed. Out here behind the motel, unmoving under the preliminary drizzle of rain, embraced and cocooned by temperamentally warping air. It is, after all, that tremulous transitory phase between spring and summer that borrows its faces from both, and switches its masks sharply in the slit-time of blinks.

Bian lian, Beatrice had murmured, not even looking up from her laptop. Face-changing, literally, in Sichuan opera. A flick of a wrist, a deft flourish, and an elaborate face falls and reforms in the fraction of a second. 

This was in the motel’s breakfast room, the one with the dubiously cleaned burgundy felt chairs where they served a  modest continental breakfast. Mostly cleared out after said breakfast, the air was stained with lingering cigarette smoke from the lounge next door, and the smell of cheap canned ham. The plastic display vases on each table had been stowed away, and in their meager place someone – probably Beatrice – had stuck a crinkly, disposable plastic bottle containing a bunch of freshly picked yellow flowers.

It was not an especially private space, what with the pale pink bellies sunning themselves right outside the glass panels, but it wasn’t as if the conversation had progressed to anything especially private. Legally speaking. Or productive, for that matter.

For the fast forty-five minutes Ava and Lilith had been busy prodding, pacing, and sending small metaphorical pockets of firework powder across the room to burst and splatter all over each others’ skin. Skating them like over wet ice so they would knock against each others’ ankles and bruise upon detonation. Camila, who’d been trying, at least, to keep the situation under control, had gone to pick out some maps and free guides, leaving them simmering in the quickly-warming confines of the space.

A lot of trivial inconsequential things, and a lot of hard, serrated words. First it was an argument of how transformative a depiction of folklore ought to be, theoretically, to balance originality and faithfulness. Then they’d snapped at each other over their personal choices of A24 horror, and Ava’s awfully ignorant lack of exposure to some obscure ‘60s Romanian indie production that Lilith really liked.

And in the corner Beatrice was curled up into a chair, laptop sitting on the flat plane formed by the side of her folded knees. 

She was strangely quiet, considering the poorly-veiled spats being undertaken just a couple feet away. By Beatrice Standards, however, this was possibly normal, as Ava was learning. When, riled up, she’d gone around to get a glass of water from the lightly stained dispenser, she’d found her watching an unlisted YouTube video from a couple years ago featuring an in-house presentation Ava had given at Disney. It was about scary rides and storytelling; translating horror into immersive park experiences. A singular earbud was stuffed into her left ear. 

She didn’t make any attempt to minimize or pause the video as Ava went by. 

“What are you doing?” she blurted, interrupting Lilith going on and on about something or another.

Beatrice hummed. “Camila sent it to me.”

Ava waited, but that seemed to be the end of Beatrice’s explanation. Pixelated tiny Ava on the laptop screen sputtered and spread her arms out as the powerpoint slide behind her belly-rolled to its successor in a kitschy transition.

“Wait,” Beatrice said, before Ava could awkwardly walk the rest of the way to the dispenser. She bent down to scoop something up. “Here.” She held up a can of Pepsi to Ava, still cold enough that the scant condensation on it had not yet beaded up into little pearls. Ava saw that underneath her chair she had stowed a rectangular cooler box of canned drinks, with two or three more cans left in it. 

Ava took the can with a soft thanks. 

Beatrice quirked her head and murmured something that sounded like you’re welcome.

Beatrice said the damnedest things sometimes, amidst her quiet. Appropriate, sure, but unexpected unless you were looking out closely for the tell-tale flicker at the corner of her eyes, a horizontal dart-to and sometimes a shutter-quick sly twitch of her mouth that indicated she was preparing for an interjection.

Amused, if hardly full-blown entertained. Sharp, but never cruel. Indirect, and three layers deep. Oftentimes three planets away. Ava found it less than scrutable, and more than fascinating.

Bian lian, when they were talking about transitions between spaces and narrative divisions within Houses, which was a convoluted way to say that Lilith was getting evasive over the psychology and philosophy of putting fucking walls and doors in a haunted house. Just when the pressure was about to burst, Beatrice had piped up, and Lilith had turned around, her fists gradually unclenching. 

Later, Ava repeatedly scrubbed back and forth through the timeline of a video, mesmerized and marveling by the Chinese art. A minor flourish, or a glance of a cheek and – thwp – an entranced audience guided to look wherever the artist led.

The changing of faces. The fuzzy in-between of seasons. Here on the coast it is even more stark, this time of year. 

She calls out to Beatrice as she walks down the planks, and Beatrice turns around. Her hair is bunned up loosely, low and unresistant to ocean-blown stragglers

Ava walks closer when Beatrice turns around, calmly, and hovers a distance away so that Beatrice can keep a cushion of space between them, if she likes.

“It’s drizzling.”

“I know.” Beatrice doesn’t take Ava up on the offer to –leave? To chase Ava back in and away? To reassure Ava that she’d prefer to stay out here, alone? She pauses, though. Looks up, as if there was anything to see up in the sky, too dark for the clouds to distinguish themselves in plumes or pillows. Ava looks up too, just in case, but it’s a mess of splotched black-gray. 

Over their heads the apertures in the sky are widening into gulfs, and the dribble of water turns into sheets. 

Like the crepe streamers they used to hang up on the doorways in St Michael’s, fluttering maddeningly out of reach. The nuns had thought it was some kind of sick kindness to drape them from low enough beams that their papery ends would lap at and blow into Ava’s face as they wheeled her back and forth down the corridor like the monotone automation of a fucking metronome. Each blue and yellow and pink streamer touched her cheeks like a slap. Ava’d wanted to grip them with her teeth and pull them down. 

The rain, Ava reminds herself, is cold and uncaring and holds no such malice. 

Beatrice keeps staring into the ocean. “It’s beautiful out here.”

There’s words on the tip of Ava’s tongue but she holds them there and thinks; considers for once, before replying. Something about Beatrice, without saying anything aloud, asks this of her. If she recites a pun it must be good.

“It is.”

Beatrice hums. She turns her head back and inclines her head slightly as she regards Ava. Ava holds her breath. 

It occurs to her faintly that she’s never spoken one-on-one with Beatrice, ever. Of her three new coworkers, Beatrice feels the most faraway. She refolds Ava’s strewn, barbeque sauce-stained maps while Ava’s in the restroom, and plugs her wired earphones into a Spotify daylist full of musicians Ava’s never heard of. She has a phone widget on her homescreen tracking migratory birds,  and she goes out to the pier alone under ten-thirty p.m. rain. 

Ava studied Beatrice’s folders – all their folders – back at the office, once this whole thing was confirmed. Before even they’d found out. It felt almost prying, in a way, even if Suzanne herself had invited her to sit at the desk and passed her the papers. Sure, the Houses they detailed were long public; analyzed and reviewed to death, but this was different. This seemed private. Creativity and creation, to Ava at least, were wild creatures; bounding and bold on the outside, raw and sensitive and prone to clawing themselves apart on the inside.

She switched on the reading light and thumbed through the dossiers. Lilith’s had pen gashes through each iteration, angry and decisive, her documentation otherwise sparse and terse. Camila’s included scrapbooks of fabric and postcard-sized paintings, image references taped on each page.

The shells that Beatrice left behind were schematics and scripts in perfect order and format. Comments typed out formally along margins left deliberately blank, and mechanics illustrated in labeled figures, which were different from tables and clarified as such in the appendix. Without effusion or exaggeration, and with only harshly limited information to be gleaned from a couple of drily humorous notes thrown unexpectedly into the handwritten rightmost column of her change logs.

Amendment for review: section 7d entryway from section 7c now to be approached from visitors’ 9 o’clock, she’d written. Do remind reviewer S. Masters to be awake for it.

Said jester herself stands with her back still facing Ava, just out of reach, on the pier. Her hands dig into the pockets of her oversized windbreaker as her feet dig into the wood under them. Rogue strands and locks of dark hair follow the course of the wind. It’s beautiful out here, she says, just loud enough over the waves for Ava to catch.

Beatrice takes one and a half steps, precisely, so that she’s partially, intentionally, facing Ava. She says something, blown to the wind – about the facts of this place, maybe. Ava hears the name of the town crunched around the round Rs of Beatrice’s accent, and feels her feet willed, as if by that same wind, to step closer. 

Closer, closer, until she’s but an arm’s length from Beatrice, close enough she could reach out and adjust on her shoulder the crooked hood of her windbreaker, long blown off the top of her head. 

Then Beatrice turns back to face the pier, and she cranes her neck to look at Ava wordlessly, and Ava finally, finally, steps up beside her.

They got to town by car yesterday afternoon, a coastal place long salted by tourism when the tides were right, and only recently rejuvenated very slightly in biology circles when a couple of the further-flung waters got identified as hotspots for particularly unique marine ecosystems. 

Beatrice tells her there’s a small new outpost set up from newly-won grant money, although it’s far away from where they’re staying. She glances at Ava. There was a book at the information center, she quickly explains.

Ava knows what she’s talking about – said information center is a ten-minute walk inland, in the town center, and it’s more of a weatherbeaten cubicle with yellowed pamphlets and dusty books than a living, breathing tourist pitstop. It’s battered on all sides by the elements and seems to be standing only because it’s too difficult to dislodge from where it’s wedged between an ice cream shop and a postbox. Beatrice, all the same, peered through every peeling poster on the wall. 

They’d gone there yesterday after picking up some groceries while exploring the little town. Ava reached for an easy word to describe the town and found ‘fatigued’, and then she thought some more and concluded that it was drowned in a weird heavy-light emptiness. 

The time of the year did it no favors. Nobody goes island hopping in the rain, and it’s not dive season at the reefs. The fishing spots are browbeaten for everyone but the seasoned local fishermen, so the commercial tourist pontoons are netted up and fenced off. 

As a matter of fact, it had been so hard to get a ride to the caves, Ava had had to pay extra out of her own pocket. Lilith, of course, had nonetheless taken offense at her ‘poor planning’. Whatever. They have a ride. It leaves before dawn.

Now, side by side, Ava can’t tell if Beatrice is swaying lightly or rocking to the rhythm of the waves, or if it's just an illusion of movement on the pier.

“Sadly a lot of places are shut,” Ava states the obvious, “but at least the rooms were cheap.”

Beatrice tips her weight onto her heels, and this time Ava’s sure of it. It’s easy and balanced. 

“No,” she says, after some thought. “I didn’t know much about this town before, but it was a good choice to come here. Especially now during the offseason, when it’s quieter.” 

She skews her head oceanward as if trying to listen for something, and Ava follows suit, engrossed to the point of almost being bowled over by the jar of a wave hitting the wooden poles of the pier with a crunching thud. 

“It’s strange,” Beatrice says very seriously, “to be congested in so much stillness and silence.” 

There is nothing still or silent about the roar of the waves and the rain.

Beatrice’s work, Ava knows, has been increasingly skewing towards exploring a sort of apprehension and anxiety generated by the opposite of a traditionally suffocating enclosed-space experience. It’s strongest in her recent projects; Ava can spot it immediately – bleakly open space, elements of naturalism and realism manipulated with great technical care to subvert expectations and stir up something deeply uncomfortable and primal. 

Three years ago, Supermarket Massacre had had her fingerprints all over it. The year after that, the award-winning Aquarium, with Lilith and Camila and that one guy Vincent who’d apparently slacked off then ran off. Last year she took point on her own set for the first time. And in all three, like a bloody fingerprint, the opening scenes – the first sets located immediately past the entrances –  were all so characteristically, deceptively normal. Regular, in an unsettling, skin-crawling way. This was only the prelude, of course. Slowly the knife would be driven in and twisted unforgivingly.

It’s funny, because Beatrice insists, time and time again, that she doesn’t see herself as an artist or a creator. She wrote a guest article on a blog describing herself as merely an engineer organizing a space and Ava wryly thought the prose itself, elegant and clear, had given away the lie. What does a haunted house mean? How do we execute a nightmare into something feasible and tangible? Questions that had a myriad of answers and I do not believe we have yet exhausted them. There are many themes and concepts I’d like to reinvigorate beyond their traditional face value.

Subtlety, Ava sees, in last year’s factory-set After Hours. Movement, in increasingly sophisticated ways, beyond simple towering puppetry or rattling machinery or killer clowns scaring people into scurrying down claustrophobic pre-marked corridors. Soundscapes and landscapes that teeter on the brink of too-real, sped up or slowed down or taken one inch rightwards. Of course, unsettlingly unassuming opening scenes. Fear, Beatrice wrote, must be given time and space to breathe and self-propagate.

In a way, if this weekend getaway is a scouting trip less concerned with laying down concrete narrative groundwork and cultural research, and more concerned with opening a door into how each of Beatrice, Lilith and Camila see the world creatively, this bare coastal town is right up Beatrice’s alley. 

The least supernatural place in the world. And yet in Beatrice’s eyes it is a town that has dotted perforation lines across its torso tempting her endlessly to tear it open to unearth something deeper and darker that adheres to the inner surfaces of its pleura.

She speaks too-softly but almost excitedly against the thunder. Underneath the reserved, controlled demeanor there’s a glint of a thirst and challenge hidden underneath her tongue. 

“The park in the middle of town,” she says, “desire paths all through the long grass and not a footfall on the real ones. There’s a tape that stretches across the pavement with a warning sign dated two months ago.”  Her hands have crept up their sides to prod out at waist level, tangling and twirling in the air like dancing with the rain. Or making the rain dance and twist around them. 

They freeze in awareness, and the rain slaps down on them. 

“Go on”, says Ava. It comes out like a request, coiled up at the end and disappearing into the air.

She thinks Beatrice smiles a tiny bit at that, her eyes unreadable, but she doesn’t go on, and Ava is disappointed. 

“Well,” Beatrice’s tone is steady and tells Ava that the door is shut for now, “perhaps we’ll speak more about it after the caves.”

She says this matter-of-factly as if they’re all going to come back on that boat after sunset, sit down cross-legged in a circle with notepads and laptops, and excitedly paint a mural across the ceiling with lime-sharp ideas and skin-crawling narratives. This isn’t going to happen. Lilith nearly put a fist through the glass panels of a cabinet mere hours earlier. 

Beatrice is usually the most brutally pragmatic and unsentimental of the four, and here she is talking about the future like the present is a bubble that will undoubtedly pop and reveal a rose-tinted world. Ava doesn’t know what to think of it.

The coldness of the rain is starting to gnaw at and numb her fingertips. She breathes, strange and short. The words come out too easily: “You were watching my presentation from two years ago.”

Beatrice nods. “I was, yes. I finished it over afternoon break.”

“Can I ask why?” 

When Beatrice turns, Ava can’t see her face all that clearly. “Well, I wanted to know your principles and approach to designing fear experiences.” In the first flutter-crack of her composure Beatrice coughs twice. “It seemed, at least, something productive to do. And it’s important if we are to work closely together.”

The wind, walloped and fickle so that the rain beating down on Ava’s face seems to change its direction of attack every ten seconds or so, does not seem to pull them closer together, like in fanciful, romantic stories. It just tugs Ava about at her shoulders and knees like a ragdoll and makes her dizzy.

Beatrice pulls her jacket close. She gestures for Ava, shivering harder, to pull her sleeves down her elbows. Ava hadn’t even noticed, and does so now, but she’s still cold – damp-cold then air-frozen from salty windspray. She puts her hands as far as they can go in her pockets. Shifts her weight.

Beatrice’s face twists with – perplexion? Concern? 

In the meager light Ava sees her glance back behind them and cock her head towards the light from which they came, questioning. 

Ava shakes her head, and Beatrice doesn’t push. She doesn’t sigh out loud but her shoulders follow the trajectory of its motion as she peels off her outer layer, quickly and without fanfare. Underneath she is wearing a thick hoodie that only now begins to darken everywhere except for its already-exposed hood. Clearly, she’d planned to come out to walk, unlike Ava. 

Who’d stumbled out late after dinner, full of thoughts that had nowhere to stew and nowhere to run.

They’d had a big fight over the dinner table, boiled over from where it had been bubbling the last two days. There was a slamming of fists on the table, and Ava had torn her napkin from the tablecloth and went to sit alone at the bartop. 

What exactly do you want? What’s your structure? Churning in her head like an infinitely turning contraption, mixed fiercely over the anger of being asked to prove it and being goaded harder and harder towards standards that Camila and Beatrice never seemed to be asked to meet.

Full of feelings and other weird, warped rumblings that were difficult to thoroughly unpick as usual. And the messy sensation of all the air in her chest compressed from pushing frustratedly and hopelessly against a wall. Hoping the nebulous concept of Outside might put it into place or at least shove it all into boxes for her to sort out later. Ava, head hot and too-bright, lightheaded and needing to have it tamped down by the physical weight of darkness, had stumbled out into the night. She’d thought only of draining off the alcohol slightly and having it evaporate, along with everything else, from her scalp into the cool air.

It has, now, in any case. 

Burned out rapidly from the initial buzz, and then she’d seen Beatrice at the edge of the ocean. 

Beatrice holds her windbreaker out,  pinched between her fingers. Her hands curl neatly on both sides over the shoulders, and she brushes it once, twice, to chase away the little droplets accumulating on the water resistant surface. They smooth away into a flat of smaller droplets, and she offers it up to Ava.

“Here,” she says softly, “I have a few layers on already.” 

Ava hesitates, but Beatrice simply dusts off some water again and turns it with the change in the direction of the wind so that the rain doesn’t get inside. “Before the lining becomes soaked,” she urges in a whisper. 

The windbreaker is soft and lined with fleece, and it slips from Beatrice’s hands as Ava takes it and turns away to shrug it on. Beatrice watches her as she pulls her hands out of the sleeves; it is large already on Beatrice’s frame, and on Ava it is almost swallowing, like a ghost encumbered by its drapes. She fumbles with the zipper,  pulling it up to her neck eventually before straightening the collar and turning it up. 

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Beatrice says. She puts her own hands into her hoodie and looks very warm. Wet strands of hair drip down now and cling to her face, but she looks settled. 

“So, why did you come to the OCS?” she asks. It doesn’t sound cutting. 

Ava pouts and takes the bait. She deliberately shifts backwards onto a foot and crosses her arms so that her sleeves meet and zip with a rubbery drag.

“And what did you learn from my presentation?” Please don’t let this come off as rude please don’t let her take this the wrong way please don’t let her take offense–

“--Guilty,” Beatrice shrugs, a motion that looks almost foreign on her. “But I asked first.” She takes her hands out of her hoodie pocket and wrings them together absently, then lets them fall back down and tucks them back, relaxed, snugly into the pouch. 

She looks younger, like this, with her hair mussed by the weather and comfy in her hoodie. Like the windbreaker it is oversized and of indiscernible color. Ava can almost convince herself that it’s bruised lilac or dark blue. More likely it is some shade of plain gray.

Ava exhales, and feels more than hears the wood creak beneath her feet. The water is opening up and closing shut endlessly and Beatrice is looking at her, waiting, watching, and suddenly Ava needs to move; needs to curl her toes and stretch her fingers and get somewhere else. Move somewhere. 

And somehow, somewhere inside, needs also –hopes also, for Beatrice to move with her. 

Ava nods quickly. The wind changes yet again and her throat is dry. Instinctively she licks her lip and finds it salty. 

“How about the path behind the airstrip?”

Beatrice smiles tentatively. “Okay.”

They retreat from the water to concrete. The motel is built on part of an old private airstrip. There’s no longer sand here, just rocks and gravel petering out into the water. Behind the airstrip, though, there is a path that inclines upwards, lit by lamps until it reaches a boarded-up platform that drops harshly down into foam. 

Hands in windbreaker pockets, Ava leads them farther from shore. She doesn’t know if it’s the temperament of the sky or an illusion of distraction but the drizzle is slowing down now until it is in comparison barely noticeable as they head up the slope by the lamplight.

“So, why I joined this place,” Ava huffs. Beatrice hums in acknowledgement.

“A few things, I guess. You’ve watched the video,” Ava goes on, and Beatrice nods. “It was about storytelling, and scares, and honestly there’s some truth to how much you can do behind squeaky clean Disney barricades. I said it the first day – I love horror and what the OCS has done with it.”

She tells Beatrice about the first time she went to an OCS House, years ago; they must both have been in college at the time. University, she rolls her eyes, as the corners of Beatrice’s mouth dance upwards, whatever. She’d taken two days off class with a bunch of friends just to travel, because it was the only major independent place that had good wheelchair access back then.

Ava’s not using a cane now but she’d had it with her yesterday after getting out stiff and sore after the long car ride. Beatrice doesn’t ask. 

“That halloween, with all the houses – it blew me away. God. No kitschy carnival music, no colorful performers prancing around giving candy out to children at the doors. The food stands?” she gestures, “All outside the gates. No fucking carousels in the scare zones.”

Back then there were fewer Houses, and the compound was significantly smaller. Already it was a carefully calibrated maze, ready to scare in every weather contingency, with traps that would move and performers that would sit very still on steel chairs and, back then, the services of expensive external contractors to beef up the outdoor scenic design. 

“But d’you know what’s scary?” Ava turns to Beatrice and stops. Beatrice doesn’t startle, like Ava had feared in the split second after she’d spun around. “Traditionally, you don’t talk about a House, right? It’s rude to put spoilers in reviews or whatever. I loved that. I thought it made it fun, like a secret you’re all in on.”

“Then the OCS comes along and says: No, actually it’s important that people have access to our Houses, and the full extent of that means discreetly available trigger warnings and official spoilers, anytime.  We’ll make it a keystone of our design that every House has easy Outs in every section, and advertise it front and center.”

Ava knows Beatrice knows this, of course. 

“Which people thought was stupid, right? A terrible business move at best, if not a betrayal of the values of the art.”

Everyone knows what happened next. The move turned out wildly successful: a careless, confident vaunt that the OCS could afford to go to such daring lengths and still terrify people.  Daring would-be visitors, almost, to try and stay unaffected. We’re different, it said. Fucking try us then. They were free then, too, to do the worst possible things, in the safest possible environment. And nobody who didn’t need to have a look at the trigger warnings did so, while the number of first-time haunted house visitors shot up.

“Psychology,” Ava nods fiercely, “which is, as everyone knows, at the heart of manipulating fear.”

She leans forward, finally, looks Beatrice in the eye. It’s honest, and it’s terrifying. “I want that – to break the rules. All of them.”

Is that a controversial thing to say? To someone whose modus operandi famously is carefully twisted and controlled restraint, compared to the overflow and excess of most Houses. Who calculates, psychologically, the impact and ideal-slash-worst-case reactions to each moment in the House cascade, as if the mind is a kind of a machine and the House is a code passed through its system. Ava’s read what her critics say of her – that she’s cerebral to a fault. Technically masterful and horrifying; nauseating, in that cold, disturbing way, but that sometimes she fails to recognize that bombast is not a bad thing. That some excess does not the route suboptimize, or that instinct can give rise to flair and not undercooked loose ends.

Frigid, aloof. Beatrice tugs her from where she was headed towards a dead end off the slope, and nudges her up towards where the gradient beneath their feet tapers off. The back of her hand, where it brushes accidentally along Ava’s wrist, is warm.

They’re standing on an outcropping now. The rain has stopped fully and the path is more clearly illuminated by the higher density of lamps on the ground. They’re paid for by the motel, presumably, and somehow dug into the earth. There’s a bench here, too, and in sync Ava and Beatrice wordlessly sit down. The stone surface is wet, the kind that will soak into their dark jeans and leave the seats damp. 

They sit, anyway, the bushes crudely truncated so that the view looks out to dark water. 

Ava is one of them, now, no matter how much it doesn’t feel like it. Yet, a telltale voice quietly hopes. 

The business of haunted houses is a cyclical thing, isn’t it? Unlike working in the park year-round. Sure, there are two permanent fixtures that run through the year and get refreshed every year or so to keep the base revenue going and the OCS name in people’s mouths, but ultimately that’s the side show. It’s a seasonal business and so now the main seasonal campus is dark, strewn with work lights and scaffolding and blueprints.

But even if the OCS as the upcoming season’s visitors will know it is primordial now, with nothing even to show for it yet, she’s one of them. Even if she feels out of place, knee deep in viscous fluid. 

In Disney they’d hardly ever travel, because the rides she worked on were drawn from existing fictional worlds and their stories. Perhaps if she was lucky they would visit the place from which the fictional world was mined. Many other haunted house production companies, too, mostly drew inspiration from local or regional folklore or culture. Currently, the trend was, in fact, to camouflage the House itself into the very environment and location on which it stood.

Not many production companies would have her here, in a scraggly nowhere town of her own choosing, filmy with rain-gunk and algae, roofs discolored by harsh caustic cleaning sprays. Dipping her toes into somewhere unknown and parsing out something to bring back to the city and its bad 24-hour coffee vending machines and paint spills on uneven concrete and rough graffitied walls. There is, ironically, something fresh, new and strange about it all. 

And it’s why Ava’s here, really. To eat food from different places. Run her toes through grass in every country. Put her tongue out to the breeze and bring it back in the form of twisting walls that cave down around the people within. To behold nothing the same way twice, and to insist on nothing as sacred. Break all the rules. 

The waves are distant but the sound carries up and towards them.

“That’s what I gathered,” Beatrice says, wistfully, or thoughtfully, “from the presentation.” She sits a little way away on the bench, her hands crossed at her wrists and fingers peeking out from the thick sleeves. Under Ava’s hands, pressed down on either side, the seat is rough. And Beatrice, back straight and so calm, is soft. Like her eyes.

Beatrice looks down and runs her fingers over the grain of the bench too, coarse and stuck together, although smoothened with time. She seems to sigh, soak the air around her into her pores, and relax. Rise, like foam in a glass. 

“In the beginning of the video,” she starts, “You compare a good ride to a good haunted house.” She puts up three fingers and duly counts them off. “Both tell an immersive story. Both twist away from what the audience knows to be reality. Both break convention to surprise.” 

Her voice, Ava finds, is endlessly different from the only times she’s heard it at length, over a stuttering video call. Far away from the stricturing of bad connection and Zoom audio, it sounds different – just as modulated and thoughtful, but full of something, contained, yet to overflow. Ava thinks of a pot with a lid with hot, rich soup in it, sizzling lightly with a fragrance that perfuses the whole kitchen.

She talks through the presentation – Beatrice, that is, in her own words, and Ava’s maybe-kind of-perhaps bewitched. It’s the way she fits Ava’s points gently into a structure and perspective that even Ava hadn’t thought of; the way she spins Ava’s hamfisted tangent on dueling flight-or-hug-tight instincts into a dizzying fifteen-second suckerpunch insight into isolation versus community in group horror experiences. Or the way she recites her favorite of Ava’s bad jokes, word-for-word, from memory, and looks genuinely pleased by it too.

Ava doesn’t know for sure. She’s still reeling when Beatrice simply pauses and settles. She bobs her head, a tiny, barely-there smile on her face. “So yes,” she says, “that’s what I’ve learned about your design outlook.” 

Her expression changes in hints and tiptoes to something more considering. “But about you, and how we – I,  will work with you – that’s not so easily gleaned from one video.”

Ava laughs at that, almost speechless. Still breathless and oddly naked, in a way she’s not used to feeling. “No, no it isn’t.” 

She looks up and away, registering suddenly and overwhelmingly the indistinct shapes of trees. Grass. Path markers. 

It’s true. They don’t know her, and she doesn’t know the three of them. Not like they know each other, twisting like moss and creepers around each others’ spines. There is something there that’s old and impenetrable and bound in the covers of a book in a different language she doesn’t speak. And she speaks a whole bunch of languages, yes, but none like this one.

“We need to learn how to work together,” she admits. This is an understatement, Ava knows, and grossly so. She thinks about Lilith, but also about Camila and her expansive imagination, its rhythm slightly out of sync from the drumbeat of Ava’s mind, and her easy physical affection that masks an unspoken space between them. She thinks about Beatrice and her uncanny wordlessness and then her uncanny wordfulness that Ava hasn’t had the chance to learn how to anticipate. To everyone that’s not her closest circle Ava thinks she must seem like a pendulum that’s always being chased, and never getting caught, her thoughts running and pivoting a hundred miles ahead. 

And together they are musical lines in a contrapuntal piece, and hell, Ava knows only four chords on a guitar.

“We will,” Beatrice decides, suddenly. Ava’s mind has slipped from the conversation, but the bite of it snaps her to alert.

“What will we– what?” 

In her alarm their eyes meet. She watches Beatrice’s fingers stretch out towards her on the bench instinctively, and then quickly retract into a half-fist, drumming once, twice on the seat before slotting into her pocket to slide her phone out to sit loosely in her palm. 

She wrinkles her nose apologetically. A hairball of worry in Ava’s chest untangles itself.

“I.. just know that you’ve googled us like we’ve googled you.”

As Beatrice talks she turns over her phone slowly, hypnotically. Long fingers press and flip it in a well-worn sequence: the screen forwards and over twice, then clockwise along its side, before repeating in the opposite direction.  

“Earlier on you said that Lilith locks herself in a room to brainstorm.” 

Huh? Oh yeah, she did. When they were arguing over timeline flexibility for their project and the frequency of check-ins. Lilith said she was flighty and ill-disciplined. Ava told her she was out of her mind and a cold-blooded reptile who’d lost touch with all shreds of human needs and interactions. She’d made a snarky joke about Lilith’s grotesquely fancy ensuite bathroom and finding someone else to try and shit on.

“Well, that piece of trivia is only found in an interview from two years back that’s out of print. You can only find its scans on some niche member-only forums.” 

Ava shrugs – this is what you do with new co-workers, is it not? You do your part. And Ava is doing the best she can.

“Yeah, sure,” she concedes, “but that’s not – it’s not–” plainly, it’s not the same. What can Ava do except shrug again?

Beatrice makes a small noise. 

“I know,” she reiterates, and the deep furrows of her forehead release and smoothen, like she seems to have come to a realization. 

She offers cautiously, hesitantly, “the article does say that. But it’s not true.” She inhales sharply.

“Lilith appreciates her independence, yes, but she knows better than to entirely isolate herself anymore.” Clearly, there’s a story in that. “But the deadline was at midnight, and the editor wanted to add something else in the copy they sent. Lilith was grouchy, we were drunk, and Camila made it up in the return email without telling her.”

Beatrice pauses and tilts her head. Up the curve of her chin to her cheeks, dimples reveal themselves shyly and momentarily.

“Lilith was furious. She only found out when the article was released. The only reason she grudgingly refrained from further action was because, I believe, the falsified information fit into the image of how she wanted to present herself to the world.” 

She gazes straight at Ava then, curious and the most open that Ava’s ever seen her. “Nobody’s ever brought it up again,” she remarks, searching Ava. “Well. Not until you.”

Beatrice’s hands still; she wipes her phone against her shirt, and looks carefully at Ava. Ava’s intelligent; far more than people give her credit for. She knows what Beatrice is doing – trying to do, in her own way. 

After a long pause, during which the drone of the waves becomes deafening and then recedes, “I won’t pretend that Lilith is merely aloof, or that the things she has said are not unkind or unfair. She’s treated you poorly.”

Ava resists a scoff, and scrambles instead to clear her throat noisily. She doesn’t bring up again the simple fact that, foremost amongst a host of reasons, Lilith is why they’re here. The last straw. The final trigger.

Beatrice regards her like she isn’t fooled.

“She is less coarse to those she’s close to, but has been known on occasion to be rather prickly, even then.” Beatrice, as if remembering something then, chuckles lowly. Gorgeously. “She’s very particular about safety standards and protocols, for example.”

“Once, she yelled at me in front of the whole crew for taking a nap on the floor of  an unfinished room in a maze in the dark during lunch. She was angry, and worried, but still. I needed to get away from everyone for a break, and as you might expect, it backfired.”

“I’ll try not to do that,” Ava offers. “I’ll break into her trailer and sleep on her desk instead.”

“Oh dear,” There’s palpable mirth in it. Ava’s poker face shatters into a beam.

Beatrice probably can’t see it. It’s dark. 

“Ava?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to be alright with any of it.”

Ava breathes. 

“Okay,” she replies, finally. “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

She lifts the palms from where they’ve been pressed tightly to old, uneven rock. The soft flesh of the heel is kissed with the pattern of the grain.

So Ava turns, on the bench, and her feet squelch most uncomfortably in the wet shoes as she adjusts herself to face Beatrice – not directly,  but at the slight angle from which the light of the moon and the light at their feet call out to each other and meet on the tip of her nose.

Beatrice tucks her phone carefully in her lap and turns to Ava too.

And slowly, in dribs and drabs that spill out like the corners of dough sheets cut out from metal molds, Ava introduces herself to Beatrice. 

No, not the dramatic, tragic moments – the accident, the orphanage, all that. The night is transient and thinning fast into its wee hours, and it’s the little things first, you know? 

The one-coffee-one-energy-drink-one-juice combo routine that gets Ava through long days and overtime hours. The overnight movie marathon treat she grants herself at the culmination of each project. The lucky Super Mario Bros. spoon and bowl set that she’s got to eat out from the day before a big pitch. 

Her hiring, Ava thinks, is still a dry and excoriated topic, and so she tries to skim over it. She tries to avoid going into detail on how she got poached, and then how she’s painstakingly combed through all their archival documents and notes, so as to understand. She doesn’t mention the fan content and critic reviews she’s pored over, the world beyond OCS doors she’s tried to immerse herself in to grasp the scale of the project and the context of her addition.

Beatrice narrows in on it, anyway. It looms, Ava supposes, far too large to avoid.

It’s sometime after one A.M. when she puts her head down slightly, and Ava feels the shift. 

“You know, I’ve seen some of the forums,” Beatrice strokes down the damp strands of hair that have come loose over her ears.  “They’re – not entirely true. I don’t dislike working with others.”

Ava had seen the forums too, and the flint-tipped speculation that slithered about the different pages. Usernames pockmarked with numbers, an argot of acronyms and the slang of self-proclaimed megafans. Posts that didn’t have Beatrice’s name in them but that were transparently about her, describing with vulgar flippance a cool, isolated oddness that locked crew members out from the indecipherable machinations of her mind. 

Beatrice’s hands tighten over her phone. “It just takes me some time –” she forces out, and then bites her lip.

Ava thinks about Camila in the corridor this afternoon, after Beatrice had wordlessly entered her own room and shut the door – now, she knows, to watch the video. Ava had stopped for a second too long, looking puzzled after her, when Camila had brushed breezily past.

“Oh, don’t worry,” she’d laughed, “she’s like this. Once she opens up, she’s a completely different little beast.”

Ava hadn’t doubted that – there was evidently a Beatrice that bantered with Lilith and Camila in branching links of long chains that she couldn’t understand; a Beatrice that must have climbed up the towering tree at the back early in the morning to pluck yellow flowers from its crown. 

This Beatrice had been ready to go ahead to the counter before Camila and Lilith had even sat down at yesterday’s lunch to place their orders on their behalf.

She hadn’t even needed to check in with them, but came over to Ava’s seat and looked over her shoulder. “What would you like?” she’d asked, and Ava rushed, panickedly, to look over the menu. She traced each line with her index finger, and looked up to find Beatrice, eyes wide and patient.

“This one, please, the burger,” she’d jabbed the flimsy laminated paper, “and a Pepsi.” Beatrice had strode off before a waiter could come over. She’d refused to let any of them pay her back, and when Ava had tried to send her money on her phone she raised her eyebrows very questioningly and Ava melted back into the plastic-backed seat.

In the end, Ava can only personally vouch for the epipelagic – the shallowest fraction of ocean pierced by sunlight. The parts of the person allowed tentatively to surface in every halting, hesitant attempt forward as a quartet. As of now, too, in the drizzly shadows of tonight. 

Perhaps the light can reach only fingertip-deep, but Ava wagers there has to be water all the way down. The rest is gut feeling and instinct; slowly glowing embers like a fist in her chest.

“Beatrice,” Ava says, once it’s clear she’s still working her way out of a labyrinth of word finding, “Listen. I believe you.”

Tense shoulders quieten and flatten into a horizontal plane. Ava feels Beatrice’s eyes scan her face, go past her ears and her messy hair and the tip of her nose and then settle, finally, with a helpless little smile. 

Ava calls out on the boardwalk. She listens to Beatrice whisper on this stone, and Beatrice listens back. There’s sunlight, hours away, on the horizon but at this moment there’s only secret shades of moonbeam, and those shades are all for them. It’s not enough, still. It’s not enough. Ava wants more.

She wants, she finds with some desperation, to be inside of the invisible circle. There is nothing worse than dragging her feet outside, half a step offbeat, unable to reach in and with nobody reaching out. A ghost, intangible and aware of it, when all she wants is to feel the hot flames of real life – to have Lilith’s sharp tongue lash out and scald her in the way it does Camila or Beatrice – with blunt honesty and easy comfort instead of probing malice. To have Camila’s name light up on strings of text notifications as it buzzes constantly on Beatrice and Lilith’s phones almost the moment they are apart. Beloved, joyful, alight. To have Beatrice… to have Beatrice —

The phone in Beatrice’s hands lights up, too bright, and it makes her squint. A flash of numbers – time – sears itself into Ava’s eyes before Beatrice frowns and puts it away into her hoodie. It’s late, Ava thinks, considering the boat is coming by early to bring them out for sunrise. But Beatrice doesn’t move to go back, and neither does Ava. 

Of all the things Beatrice finds terrifying – enough, she’s always been quoted, to transplant them into the nightmare fuel of haunted houses – the dark now doesn’t seem to be one of them. Ava agrees, she thinks: there is no place safer now than where they are, on a rock one measly wooden fence away from a dizzying drop into rock and rushing depths. It feels, for once, and for maybe the first time –

(since the start, after that final infuriating video call when she screamed into her duvet and yelled into her shower and limped to the computer where she bit her lips raw and booked the tickets here and told a trio of uneasy still-strangers that she might struggle to pull them out their homes with her own hands and nails but they would be getting out and traveling to a coastal nowhere-town and fucking sitting down to get this partnership going –)

–it feels like she’s making headway. 

Not on the Houses, not on the inspiration for them or the mechanisms and processes with which to put them together, no, although all those, too, in their own ways.

Here, far off from home, next to choppy waters, shorn into grass and trees readying themselves to be busted up by summer storms, amongst flowers somehow poking up through the salt and sand, a breath away from the touch of waves and the tiny crawling organisms that besiege it, (beside an odd girl in the giddy, open air,) – here.

Solid ground.

And maybe Beatrice is right, you know? Maybe life is more similar to the business of soul-sucking fear-buildings than people believe. 

Ava’s always had, she thinks, an incredibly lucid understanding on what makes good haunted houses tick. It’s trust, essentially, and safety. How do you enter a situation that frightens more viscerally and wholly than a movie or even a 3D dark ride – and then keep walking? 

Headway. The only thing that gets you out of a haunted house is burrowing deeper within.

Arms outstretched, palms open, into its guts and chest. There’s extensive academia on thrill rides: on how much of the atmospheric and storytelling work goes into the sections of the experience that precede the ride, because once the carriage croaks to life, it’s easy to close one’s eyes and lose all clarity.

Haunted houses aren’t like this.

Since she got out of St Michael’s, Ava’s gotten by on a brand of fearlessness, a reputation built on a willingness to try almost anything. But fearless perhaps isn’t the word. She’s scared, still, with every step forward. Worried out of her mind of having to work from scratch all over again. Terrified of going back to before. But this, unfortunately, or blessedly so, is life: the only way out, Ava’s found, is further in.

She doesn’t want to be here. She wants to be there, already there.

Ava wants so badly to be elbow deep in the mud and wires of bringing stories to life far more fully and physically than in almost any other medium. She wants it so bad and so bare that she doesn’t even really know how to spell it out on a cloudy spring-summer night in a way that won’t chase Beatrice away with the breathless depth of her desperation to make people feel in a way they will never forget. Or frighten her with the too-much, too-fast of it all. 

She wants to flood people’s imaginations and send adrenaline through their arteries; have them wrap themselves around each other until the impression of lovers’ arms are engraved around the frame of each other’s bodies, shared warmth and solidity the only things keeping them upright through the maze. 

And Ava doesn’t need someone to hold her through a haunted house – god, she’s the one with her fingers tugging the strings that shift and twist its spine in circles around its terrified visitors – but it would be nice for once to stand in the control tower, eyes alight, heart racing, with hands as bloodstained as her own. 

To run through second-by-second early test run footage and data with another pair of eyes over early morning coffee and buns, discussing furiously the corners where the tourniquet can be tightened or loosened. To have conversations over the mixing console worth muting the scream track for. Even if – no, especially if they have nothing to do with work; conversations past awful awkward shop talk and instead all-in on the minutiae of home furnishings and dream pets and eschatology.

There was an impermanence to the constant shuffling of working groups, the fast paced turnarounds at Disney, but truthfully, she hadn’t been unhappy there. But then the email came through to her inbox on the rare once-fortnightly day that she would sit in her office, cartoonish vampire mug in hand, daydreaming with her laptop open, and that was it.

She flew down to headquarters to meet Suzanne in December. It was quiet in the office, with everyone off on final scouting trips and finalizing plans and sourcing materials and manpower. Suzanne had therefore been able to give her a private tour, and Ava did everything to pretend her mind hadn’t been made up long before.

First there was her personal office, which was the downright coolest room Ava’d been in for a while, forest green and quietly centered around the unassuming framed family picture on the desk. Cabinets of fossils with extra labels in a child’s scrawled handwriting: Terry the trilobite :D and spoonface and illustrated stickmen with swords. Delicate, beautiful, floral watercolor diagrams mounted on the wall and a soft, thick rug with complicated, beautiful depictions of scenes from the Tempest. 

Suzanne showed her the generous pantry, which would have sealed the deal if it hadn’t already been set in stone, and then they passed the meeting rooms into the archive gallery. 

This was, essentially, a museum of past mazes. A large, dark place of glass and thin, sharp panes of burnished golden light. Suzanne brought her, wide-eyed, through its displays of early Houses. 

“You’ve been visiting our Houses, on and off, over the last few years, correct?”

Ava nodded. Since that college trip, really, and whenever she could spare the time and the money.

“Good,” Suzanne said. “If you accept this offer, you will be joining a team of some of our best young designers, so you may be familiar with some of their work.”

Indeed, within the glass cases sat Camila’s famed dioramas, fixed in place now but ready to stir to life once hooked up to a battery. Detailed, hand-painted and assembled, its parts sliding apart into modular sections that could be split open and shifted around.

Lilith’s meticulous blueprints too, and ruthless postmortems and analyses she’d done of her own work, although those were sealed away. “I had to demand that she hand them over and not keep them pinned up at her desk hanging over her head,” Suzanne remarked beside Ava, looking up into the glass at the nondescript manila folder. 

“If not you, it would have been her.”

Unsurprising. Disney had used Lilith Villaumbrosia-masterminded sections of mazes in case studies for scene-setting and scare actor interactions. And Ava had entered her House two years ago. She knew.

“I will be honest with you, Miss Silva.”

“Ava.”

“Ava. Lilith is not what you may be expecting, and it may be difficult to get across to her at first. She is as acerbic as she is brilliant.”

That was the twist that was coming, of course: that they were all good friends. That the three designers that Suzanne had long had in mind to join Ava already knew each others’ minds and neural pathways so keenly that they could probably unzip the gyri of each others’ brains like a ribbon and then put them back together. 

“They don’t know it yet,” Suzanne warned, “and they will not like it at first, but I see it.” She opened up one of the cases with a key to remove a polaroid of three grinning faces, arms looped together. She held it to the light. “You’re the missing piece to the puzzle.” 

But what about everything she’s still missing?

The gravelly ground is solid beneath their feet, and Ava doesn’t feel the vibrations of the waves. The world appears still and frozen even as everything is changing and morphing and blooming, and gaping thirstily for something more she can’t put a finger to. 

The water could flood and Ava’s eyes might smart with exhaustion in the morning, or she might try to get two or three hours of sleep and wake up after one anyway, screaming as usual, and all the same Ava thinks she would still be chasing. Running. 

There is nothing in her mind resembling gory sets and the creak of animatronics, then, as she looks to her right at a girl she can scarcely even see in the dark, yet that she finds she cannot look away from. Ava can see why the magazines call her a mystery: Beatrice says she’s always on heightened alert, and yet – and yet –

She’s gazing back at Ava in a blanket of complete calm.

The wind from the ocean is blowing, the darkness feels safe. Ava and Beatrice, on a stone bench, talking, close. Easy steps, Ava thinks. Small steps, small questions. Maybe this is how it starts.

She takes a chance. Asks.

Beatrice closes her eyes, exhales, and begins to answer.

(Here are some requirements for a successful haunted house, or a horror film, or a heart-pounding roller coaster: it must evoke emotion that travels in icy ringlets down your spine, and it must stay indelibly in your mind.)

[sunnyie-eve]

13 | Rainy

Series: Significant

Paring: Colby Brock x Original female character

Warnings: Mention of eating disorder

Word Count: 1.2k

| MASTERLIST |

~

The next day they go to their new home for the next two weeks in New Zealand. And since it was a rainy day / drizzly day they couldn't really do anything. Colby, Sam, and Corey decided to go indoor snowboarding while Penelope and Elton stayed in the RV.

Elton was on his laptop while Penelope lays on the bed on her phone, "Why didn't you join the others?" He looks up at her.

"Didn't feel like going. Why didn't you go?" She looks over at him.

"Trying to find things to do since shit keeps getting canceled because of the weather." He shakes his head looking back at his laptop.

Penelope just put her earbuds in to listen to some music since Elton wasn't his a chatty mood. While scrolling through Twitter she sees people talking about her trying to know more about her and her friendship with the guys. You had some fans who had her back while others said she was a pick-me. Penelope didn't see how she could be a pick-me. She tried her best to stay out of videos when they didn't ask her to be a part of it.

"Penny!' Elton throws an empty water bottle at her to get her attention, "I'm calling you." He laughs at her as she takes a bud out.

"Sorry."

"Do you want me to make Corey share the bed with me so you get this to yourself?" He asks her.

"I'm fine up here with the two. I'm used to sharing with them anyways." She lets him know.

"Because Colby and you get to cuddle." He smiles so she flips him off.

"No, I mean, it's nice and comfy, but I'm used it it." She tells him.

"I'm just pulling your leg, Penny." He lets her know.

By the time the three come back, Penelope fell asleep listening to music already under the covers and everything.

"Dude, you should have seen Sam, man. He was amazing." Corey says loudly making Elton point over at Penelope sleeping.

"Just to be safe but I think she fell asleep listening to music anyway." He lets the three know.

Sam and Colby looked over at her and sure enough, she was out like a light, "I guess we should get to bed too." Sam says so they get ready and climb into bed.

Colby carefully takes Penelope's earbuds out and stops her music without waking her up, but as soon as he accidentally bumps into her trying to lie down he wakes her up.

"Do you not have enough room?" She asks sleepy looking back at him.

"No, I'm fine. Sorry, I woke you up." He whispers.

"It's okay." She gets comfortable again so Colby does the same facing her way.

Throughout the night Colby tosses and turns bugging Penelope so she rolls over moving closer to him to be the big spoon.

She could feel him look back at her probably confused, "You can't get comfortable and this always works." She says with her eyes closed.

Colby thinks about it and she wasn't wrong. Every time they ever cuddled he's able to fall asleep very quickly. Hell, there were times back at the house when he couldn't fall asleep he wanted to go to her room to tell her to lay with him till he fell asleep.

He can't help but grab her hand bringing it closer to him to fall asleep. To him, she was like a baby blanket or a stuffed animal someone had to sleep with.

~

"When's the last time you rode a bike?" Sam laughs not remembering his last time.

"I have no earthly idea." She laughs grabbing her a bike.

"I really don't want to do this." Corey tells Elton to practice on the narrow wood plank and gets stuck on a branch.

"Corey if you can't get over that there's no way you can ride on the narrow plank." Penelope watches him trying not to laugh.

"Penny, do me a small favor and hush please." He gives her a smile so she laughs.

Sam has trouble getting on it so when Colby tries Corey yells Elton's name falling off his bike so he goes over to him.

"You stay off it." Colby points his finger at her, "You're fragile and have a good job." She chuckles as she just rides around in a circle.

"Trust me, I'm not getting on that. It's wet." She lets him know.

After biking for a bit, they stopped to take a break while Elton went back to get the drone. "I can't breathe right now." Corey puts his hands in his waist.

"You?" Penelope looks at him taking her jacket off and tying it around her waist.

"How are we feeling boys and Penny?" Sam asks.

"We're a little tired. Umm, and we only did like what? Five percent of the entire thing?" Colby answers him.

"Maybe seven." Corey adds.

"Look at the view though." Colby adds so Sam shows the view.

"Yeah, we stopped to enjoy the view. And the fact we can't breathe." Sam adds making them all laugh.

When Elton gets back he takes a few drone shots of the four standing around before they ride around a bit. Colby ends up hurting himself twice causing his shins to bleed.

"One might actually need stitches but I can see what I can do." Penelope bends down to look at his legs once they are done riding.

"Really?" He whines.

"Yep." She pops the P sound.

"You just gotta go hurt yourself on our first thing once we get the RV." Sam laughs at him.

"Sorry, I was having a good time riding." Colby says so they head back to the RV so Penelope can take care of his wounds.

"It's a good thing Penelope is with us. She's our mom for this trip." Corey watches her clean up Colby's wounds.

"Am I your mom or sister?" She laughs looking at him for a second.

"Both. Depends on the situation we're in." He lets her know so she nods her head.

They have to stop by the nearest store to run in to get some things for Colby's leg so three run in while Penelope and Colby stay in the RV.

"You okay? You've been slightly masking today." Colby watches her look at him.

"I was going through Twitter before we left and someone used a pic of me when I was 15 and compared it to now. Talking about how different I look and not super skinny anymore."

"You had an eating disorder, Penelope. You starved yourself to be that skinny and you said you still felt like you were fat. Even at your skinniest." He tells her, "You are perfectly fine and healthy and that's all that matters. You've even gotten better at accepting yourself since modeling. I know you still have your moments but I'm proud of you." He lets her know.

"Thank you." She gives him a smile, "When I was 15 I starving myself and you were feeling alone. We've both had our problems but we're better."

"Yes, we are." He smiles back, "We helped each other the best we could and still make sure to do so."

"Especially you with me about eating." She laughs.

"Again, you were in the hospital at one point and I don't want that again." He narrows his eyes on her.

"I know, dad." She laughs at his face so he narrows his eyes even more so she gets up to hug him, "Seriously, I know."

"I fucking love you." He wraps his arms around her hugging her tighter.

"I fucking love you too." She giggles letting go of him.

"Can you believe tomorrow is your birthday? We're spending your birthday in New Zealand and going to a cove." Colby tells her.

"I forgot my birthday is tomorrow. I've just been enjoying being here." She tells him as the guys come in so they give her the bag of stuff for Colby.

"We got treats since we couldn't find a cake for tomorrow." Sam lets her know shaking a bag.

"That's fine."

[myfandomprompts]

𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐑𝐞𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐭 | 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐁𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭𝐭 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 (𝟖)

Summary: You cross the Demarcation Line, and nothing is supposed to frighten you. Previous Part - Masterlist

Tags: I really don't want to spoil, but no trigger warning

French spoken -> italics

The moon is only a crescent in the sky, sending little light over your path as you are led through the poplar trees, their falling branches grazing the crown of your head. You barely see where you put your feet in the dark, but you can easily discern the shadowy forms of your group all around you, feeling the heat of Tom’s hand right beside yours as you all walk in silence.

The bearded man leads you to a deciduous border of the river, the croaking of frogs dying down as you approach the water, its rippling movements making the moonlight reverberate on the surface and you can see a little better. The bottom of the riverbed looks deep, black as the reflection of branches falling over the edge looms over it, so close to the surface its leaves dip in the water. 

The man crouches in silence at the edge and starts rummaging through the dirt. Next to you, Tom looks at him confused. “Does he expect us to swim for it?”

He only earns a dark glare from the man and the next moment a heavy chain is dug from the ground with a rattling sound. When he pulls, something in the water moves and you start to notice the shape of wooden planks coming out from under the branches.

“It’s… sunk,” Henriette says under her breath as the bark slowly comes closer to where you stand with a soft burbling sound. Only the edges of the embarkation stand out of the water when the rest of it is filled with it.

“Nothing escapes your eyes, hein?” the man answers in a murmured voice as he keeps pulling on the chain. “They forbade all means of navigation on the river. That’s why we sink them, and that’s why I’ll need all of you to help me bail the water out, so get at it.”

You all look at each other before doing as told, pulling the boat half way out of the water with great difficulty before the man instructs you to tip it over to the side. “Let it drip slowly, otherwise the noise will attract the patrols.”

“The patrols?” murmurs Giulia in alarm, slightly out of breath by the effort of lifting the heavy bark. “How often? When is the next one?”

“Calmez-vous, they won’t come if we’re quiet. I have a good lad standing guard on the path, so if a patrol comes, we’ll know, and then we’ll see if how well you can swim.”

You grimace at the dark humour, glancing at the heavy bag at your feet and heart hammering at the thought that you could be discovered at any moment, your eyes scanning the trees aimlessly. You feel the others do the same, but you bring back your focus on the slippery wood between your hands.

“And you trust him?” Giulia presses.

“I don’t trust anyone, ma grande. And yet, here we all are.”

You all fell into a poised silence, listening to the water being spilled over the dirt and back in the river. Once the water has been emptied from the boat, the iron chain is unclasped from a tree trunk and the boat pushed back on the surface quietly. You’re the first to go onboard, the humid wood dampening your skirt as you sit at the nose, Henriette following you closely. The man mounts last before pushing the dirt with the help of a long pole, making the boat drift away silently.

Far away over the flat surface you notice a faint light, as if floating above the river. You wonder if it comes from the guard house on the bridge that made you turn away and meet this peculiar man, the bridge that would have cost you your brother, your friend, and… Tom.

He sits at the other side of the boat, his face barely visible but you can still see his fingers gripping the wood anxiously, his face turning to glance everywhere; under the water, over and away from it, scrutinising the river banks like expecting German shouts at any moment. Each sound you make reverberates over the surface, travelling across it like an echo and even the sounds of nature around don’t cover the deafening sound you think your breathing makes.

You don’t simply cross, the boat taking you upriver and gliding along its right side to remain hidden as you move through the high herbs and under the trees. Then, a turn, and you depart from the north bank to slide to the other side, the light somewhere far away now completely out of view.

You keep on until you can see the other side more clearly, its yellow sand visible only some metres within reach. You hear the pole graze the stone as the man slows down and soon, the hard pebbles hit the hull in a rolling sound. 

“Merde!” he curses as the bark comes to a full stop.

“What?” asks Albert nervously.

The man takes a deep breath. “The water lowered more than I thought. The boat can’t go further, but there is more depth past this point.”

You look overboard, right there below you where aquatic plants swirl under the shiny surface, so close you can touch it. But beyond, black again, a secluded cove that won't allow you to reach your goal.

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wade the rest of the way,” he says in a sorry tone.

Your gaze is still fixed on the water, observing it closely, trying to decipher where the water dips again. “I’ll go first.”

Both Tom and Albert make an immediate movement when you start taking off your shoes and stockings, but it dies quickly as they sit back down without a word, glancing at each other uncomfortably. You tuck the bottoms into your bag and clasp your shoes on the straps before passing your feet overboard with purpose.

Henriette helps you find your grounding, the cold water surrounding your ankles and you start dabbling forwards, bracing yourself for the moment the water will rise again. When it does, it reaches right above your navel, sending a shiver down your spine. You hold your bag high over your head as you advance, your skirts hindering your movement slightly until you feel something around you and you gasp, stopping at once.

“Y/N! What is it?” Henriette calls, her voice strained as she tries to not raise her voice.

“It’s just… River mud, I think,” you answer with a disgusted tone as you look down, feeling the sediment stick to your clothes and skin, slimy and wet. You keep advancing, gradually feeling the steepness of the edges of the riverbed lower and the next moment you’re out of the water.

You drop your bag safely into dry ground before putting a hand over your hips, trying to wipe away the mud before gesturing to your friends on the water, telling them it’s safe to cross.

One by one they dive, Henriette first, then Tom, who doesn't say a word when he reaches the mud but you’re sure you can see him wince, followed closely by Albert. Giulia comes last, and you hear the murmured exchange over the water as you’re still trying to get rid of the mud over your clothes.

“You have the letters?” the man asks her as she stands up. When she answers yes, patting her bag where she sewed the precious envelopes inside the lining, he keeps on. “You remember the pathway?”

“Keep going south until we see a church, then find a house with bright red doors.”

“Good.”

The rest of the conversation is lost when Albert’s body comes to block your view and you busy yourself searching for a flashlight in your bag. Tom towers over you, letting out a disgusted sound when he looks at his hand, green and black with river slime. You chuckle at the sound. 

When Giulia reaches the sand, the bark behind her is sliding away on the river like a quiet shadow, almost like it had never been here under the crescent moon that makes your surroundings so beautifully frightening.

You never got to thank him.

“Alors?” Albert whispers as soon as Giulia has stepped on the ground. So?

“He refused again. I told him that our operation would need men like him, truly good men and that I will certainly be back if this trip succeeds. He just… I guess he is just scared.”

You’re sure you see your brother pat Giulia’s back in comfort as you stand up again, trying to dry your skirt and putting back your shoes. You’ve made it to the other side, and now everything looks brighter.

You’re drenched to the waist, cold and dirty. The other wears the same appearance, clothes clinging to their skin with focused expression as you move through the night. Only when you find a path do you finally light the lamps, slowly coming to the realisation that you are now in non-occupied territory, that you’re close, very close to the moment where you would see your parents again. Your family is at the end of the path, and the hardest is behind you.

You internally laugh at that, your stomach feeling instantly heavy at that false statement, matching the coldness of your feet, legs, and hips as you glance at Tom’s back. If anything, what comes next will be hard, heart-wrenching. Heartbreaking.

“So… You like him?”

Henriette is way ahead of you, arguing over where to go with Giulia as Tom listens in, a half smirk on his lips over the female bickering, as if all danger for him had been left behind in that river.

You shrug in false musing, escaping your brother’s gaze, remembering his gobsmacked expression in the barn some hours ago. “Well, yes, what is there not to like?”

“Don’t pretend not to understand my meaning, soeurette.”

You give him a fleeting glance, fumbling with the damp fabric of your clothes, a fishy smell reaching your nostrils. “Yes, I like him… You like Giulia?” you ask at once, not letting Albert time to react to your admission.

He isn’t fazed, rather looking in deep thought with furrowed brows before he answers. “I… guess so. She is lively. She asked me to join her organisation, once they establish a route. Could help the likes of your beau to cross, become a smuggler.”

“Mum and dad would be unhappy about it, find it too dangerous.”

“Well, too bad, that wouldn’t stop me from wanting to help,” he states with a scoff before turning his head to you. “Would it stop you?”

You glance back at Tom, your now dry fingers tickling with the remnants of the heat from his skin, of the soft glow of his eyes and the words he had whispered against your lips. There was nothing that would stop you from taking him out of hell, if needed be, even with your life on the line.

Your eyes widen at the unexpected strength of the thought, surprising yourself but knowing at your core that you meant every word. You force yourself to wipe the stupefied expression on your face by taking a deep breath, your next words uttered with purpose. “No. No, it wouldn’t.”

An hour passes without any church in sight, the clouds in the sky hiding the moonlight and you stop to examine the map that was given to you. You try to help, sure that you’re still on the right path and you just have to keep going but you’re ignored, their doubts making them double-check every line on paper and you step back, convinced that they will eventually arrive at the same conclusion as you.

“You know, I’ve been thinking…” Tom says as he comes to stand beside you with a hidden smile, leaving the French-speaking group behind. “I’ve been in this country for weeks, and I can’t even say a proper sentence in French. What do you say you teach me a little, eh?”

You can’t help but frown in amusement, taken aback by the proposition. “I didn’t know you were interested in actually learning.”

“Well, there's a start for everything, innit? And I heard you’re one hell of a teacher.”

You brush off the compliment with a grin, knowing full well that Tom has no idea of what he is saying, but you still feel blood reach your cheeks. 

A few feet from you the map is folded and you are on the move again, heading exactly in the direction you had previously suggested. 

“I’ll consider it,” you nod as you follow suit towards the south, Tom’s arm brushing yours. “We could start with the basics.”

“The basics, uh? And what would that be?”

“Well, it wouldn’t hurt if you learned how to say ‘thank you’ for example.”

“Outch, that hurts.”

You laugh along with him, enjoying how it warms your skin and by the time you try to make him pronounce “église”, the church appears over the horizon, its bell tower looming over a small hamlet, making you all exhale in relief. When you reach it, you all fall quiet, anticipation coming back in force when you find the house with the red doors, its length taking half of the street and two stories high. When you take a step back, you can see a faint light filtering through an upstairs window.

“Why is no one knocking?” Tom’s voice breaks the silence, looking between the door and your group in genuine confusion.

Giulia turns to look at him. “Because it’s one hour in the morning and we don’t know if… Well, there is no certainty they will take our visit kindly. We can’t just-”

But before she can finish her sentence, Tom raises his eyebrows at her and approaches the door, giving it three strong bangs before coming back to your side, rolling his shoulders jubilantly. “Should have taught me ‘knock and it’ll open’ in French, this way we wouldn’t be out here freezing like gits.”

And it did open. Slightly at first, a single eye watching you through the crack before opening in full, a man appearing with a rifle lazily hanging at his arm. “Yes?”

You all take a small step back in fright, Albert’s expression turning dark in wariness at the length of the barrel but Henriette stands her ground. “Bonsoir, we just came from uhm… Gièvres, we crossed the river. The man at the farm indicated this house, he told us you could help us? Please, we just want to rest.”

The door opens completely, the light coming out from inside blinding you and you can’t decipher the man’s expression as he speaks. “Well, look at you, lot! He made you ford the river, didn’t he? The rascal. Come in, come in.”

Relief passes through all of you, shoulders relaxing as you take the invitation, stepping into a welcoming living room. 

“Who is it?” you hear a small female voice in the distance.

“Gifts from Raymond!” the man at the door yells once it is tightly shut behind you and putting the rifle away. "Please, come in, I’ll make you something warm.”

You have no time to mutter a thank you as a woman with an unravelled bun in a dressing gown enters the room, looking tired but enthusiastic. “Well, quite the number! What happened to you?”

“Crossed the river, the smell and mud doesn’t leave a doubt, darling.”

“Oh, poor things… I’ll get you clothes for the night and you’ll give me yours to wash. They’ll be ready tomorrow. Yes, I’ll do that.”

She mutters more things about finding the right size as she quickly glances at each of you before leaving the room in a trot, her robes flying behind her.

“That’s my wife, Germaine, and I’m Charles,” he introduces, coming to shake Henriette's hands who give him a warm smile before doing the same to the rest of you. “No difficulties, then? No boches bothering you?”

For the first time since you’ve entered, you're finally able to speak, and Henriette quickly narrates your adventures along with the reason for your delay while he serves you an herbal tea that smells strongly of citrus. Minutes later, his wife, Germaine, comes back with a pile of clothes in her arms. She hands it to you with a tender smile, her eyes glowing with compassion as she tells you that she made three rooms available for the night.

“And here is for you…” she stops before Tom to look at him warmly. “You look like my brother, he fought in the first war… Handsome as you, he was. Same size too, you’ll do fine in those.”

Tom takes the clothes with a tentative hand, seemingly at a loss by the way Germaine stares at him with nostalgic eyes. He glances at you for help, so you mouth a silent and encouraging ‘thank you’, watching him turn again to mutter a respectful “Merci, Madame” and your chest swells with pride.

The woman is quick to hide her face, tears at the brim of her eyes before pretending to busy herself with the cups you left behind. 

“British? Are you a pilot, son?”

Charles’ English surprises all of you before Tom finds the good sense to answer. “No, I’m not, sir. I was in the Navy,” he repeats with a tired smile. “Just trying to make it home.”

“Brave lad,” the man answers compassionately before turning to Henriette. “I take it you have letters?”

Giulia is the one to move to open her bag and scissors it, revealing five envelopes she hands to him. He examines each one of them under the light of an oil lamp before taking one out of the pile. “Germaine, there is one for you.”

His wife comes to take it with a trembling hand while Charles tucks the rest of the letters in a large vase, brushing his hands together as the woman starts ripping the paper of her new acquisition. 

“Right, let me show you your rooms, we have plenty of space… I’ll let you figure out who goes with who- Jeanine, what are you doing up? Go back to bed!”

As he leads you up the stairs, you spot a blond-headed girl, no more than 17 years old observing you from the threshold of her room. “I heard voices..." she says with a sweet voice, looking at you with inquisitive eyes.

“These people will stay with us until tomorrow, they need a discreet place to sleep. You can say hi to them in the morning.”

Jeanine doesn’t move, eyes raking over each of your faces before stopping on Tom, and she straightens her posture at once, pink staining her cheeks. “Hi.”

Tom blinks, momentarily surprised before greeting her back softly. Your eyes don’t leave the girl’s face as she smiles kindly at him in turn, her green eyes gleaming brightly. But then you are led to three small bedrooms on the second floor and you forget about the weird feeling in your chest, coming to share a bed with Henriette while Giulia takes a single room, leaving Tom and Albert to take two remaining single beds further away down the corridor.

You are awakened by the nearby sound of the bell, ringing eight times before you stretch over the comfy bed, light filtering through the windows. Henriette is still asleep next to you, face peaceful and free of the dread she wore since Paris, since the persecution started. It's a warming sight, one you would wish upon everyone, a tranquillity found again. 

The house looks truly different in the daylight, and you remark how huge it is. The corridor is long, there is a first floor you haven’t been able to visit yet and behind the house lies a small vegetable garden and peach trees that make your mouth water. 

The clothes you wear are comfortable, their warmth accompanying you through the night but you still carry the faint odour of the river and some of the mud is still clinging to your skin. When you arrive at the breakfast table, you learn that your own clothes will be dry in a short while and are left to enjoy the delicious meal you are offered, toasts and eggs along with warm beverages. 

The atmosphere is delightful, your hosts bombarding you with questions about your travels and what you have seen. Albert seems to interest them the most and you try not to be too bothered by Jeanine’s obvious fascination for Tom. Worst for you, the latter had only looked uncomfortable for a short while before starting to smile back at her and she had brightened like the sun.

Well, you couldn’t exactly blame her. 

You stay seated for a good amount of time, enjoying fresh food and milk, learning that your host's generosity has no bounds when they speak about driving you back all the way to your aunt's. Albert politely refuses at once, and you suspect that he shares the same reluctance to shorten the trip as you do, the prospect of finally leaving Tom and Giulia be on their way weighing heavy in your chests.

With the morning sun, your clothes were ready rather quickly, and you are all invited to take turns to use the lavatory at the other side of the house. You quickly wash up, getting rid of the remaining dirt and doning your familiar blouse and skirt before heading to the living room where Henriette is calmly listening to the wireless with Germaine and Charles. You listen as well, learning of the settling of the French Government in Vichy and its collaboration with Germany. You feel overwhelmed; France is divided, Hitler having gotten what he wanted, Great-Britain is next.

You fumble with your earrings anxiously as you listen to the distorted voice, exchanging frightened glances with your friends at the reports before you notice that one of them is missing from your ear. You stand up at once, excusing yourself and proceed to search the house for it, starting by your room and retracing your steps of the morning.

You’re about to enter the lavatory but the shuffling sounds inside stops you. Instead you knock gently on the door, listening to the sounds come to a stop. “... c’est… non libre.”

You smile at Tom’s clumsy French, lowering your hand over the door. “It’s me, I’m looking for something but I’ll come back lat-”

The door swung open, Tom appearing before you wearing only pants that hang low on his waist and suspenders loose on the side, his damp skin slightly glistening with the fresh wash he just had. “What are you looking for?”

“Hum… My earring…” you mumble, trying to focus. “It’s opal, have you seen it?”

“Hold on.”

He leaves you on the threshold and you can’t help but step inside, watching him disappear where you know the sink to be and coming back with something in his hand. “Is that it?”

“Yes!” you exclaim, relief flowing over you at the sight. “It was my grandmother’s… I can’t lose that one.”

There is a silence in which you try to put the jewellery back on your ear. “It suits you.”

You feel stupid for blushing again, but it’s Tom, and you can’t seem to help it. He smells good, a soapy scent coming from his morning glowing skin, his eyes searching your face with a soft smile. You lower your gaze bashfully under his scrutiny, and it lands right where his wound is on his shoulder, blue and yellow. It’s the first time you see it, and you part your lips in surprise, feeling your fingers drawn to it, coming to trace the bruises that spread around it, right above his pectoral. 

He inhales slightly at the touch, muscles tensing under your digits. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not that much,” he answers with several octaves lower, tilting his head to the side. “But what’s most important is right… here.”

His hand comes to grab yours softly to put it on his chest, right between his ribs where you can feel his heart beating steadily, much more so than yours. The gesture makes you take a shaky breath, unsettled by the electricity that passes through the palm over your hand and you refuse to look at anything else for a while, unable to let go of the sensation of life.

A soft smile dresses your lips in contemplation, and you feel him lean in closer.

“I’ve been thinking about it… About that kiss,” he murmurs.

His voice fans over your skin, his lips moving out of the corner of your eyes but you still can't bring yourself to meet his eyes, the events of the barn swirling in your mind like a dream. “Me too, Tom… But we shouldn’t have…”

You sense the confusion coming from him in waves and he shifts a little, his hand over yours staying firmly in place. “Why?”

You can’t find the words, your brain already a bubbling mess. “Because… you know why… We aren’t even a thing, for starters, and-”

“Well, it’s not for lack of trying. I told you once that you wouldn’t get rid of me that easily, Y/N.”

You shake your head, biting your lips with a weak smile as you come to finally raise your gaze at him, finding his hard expression and so soft eyes staring back at you. “We both know what’s at the end of the road… Each of us will go our way…"

When he talks, his voice is fierce, poised, a velvet sound that makes you forget how to breathe momentarily. “Yeah, that’s why I say that we make every moment count.”

You watch him before letting out a sigh, one hand coming to cup the back of his neck, needing him closer, to make the words real if can be. “You make it sound so easy…”

You think he is going to respond but he only leans into your touch and unconsciously wet his lips, drawing your eyes there, making your nails graze his nape and you just stare. When your lips touch his it’s soft, warm, tasting like mint and you find that nothing else tastes as good. He plays with it tenderly, as if he is afraid you’ll flee.

There are no other sounds but the one you make together along with his voice when he speaks against your mouth, his thumb caressing the side of your jaw. “... Where are the others?”

You smile against his mouth at the same words echoing from last night, the feeling that came after still so fresh in your mind. “Henriette is in the living room with Charles and Germaine, Jeanine I don’t know… My brother and Giulia are-”

“Somewhere together.”

He wears that satisfied expression, hindered slightly by the way his eyes are fixed on your lips when you answer. “Yes.”

“So… not around.”

You dig your fingers a bit more at the back of his neck as you shake your head slightly. “No, not around…”

It’s a silent permission, all that Tom needs to pull you back to him, the hand over yours leaving it to cup the other side of your face as he runs his tongue over your lips, meeting yours heatedly and stealing the air from your lungs, as if it’s been the only thing on his mind since the barn.

You don’t think anymore, you just feel when one of his hands lowers to your waist, your own travelling along his abs, his chest and up his shoulder before joining your other hand in his hair. When you trap his bottom lip between your teeth, tugging it slightly, he groans, his hands coming to grab your hips in reaction and you feel yourself be backed up to the counter against the wall. Your legs parts as he bends your knee to put it around his waist, hoisting you up easily. “You’re sure it’s okay on there?”

You chuckle gently, coming to work your mouth over his freshly shaved jaw with wet kisses as you answer, out of breath, smiling. "Anywhere is freaking okay, Tom.”

A strangled sound resonates within his throat, one you can feel as you leave a trail of kisses along his neck before you feel his hands come over your blouse to undo each button with surprisingly steady fingers. You barely leave him space to do his task, not relenting the attack over his neck and feeling his heartbeat there, connected with yours that feels so loud. When your last layer comes off he stills, his eyes raking over you form with pupils blown wide as he takes a step back and you mourn for the loss of the tender flesh of his neck as his hands unconsciously squeeze your thighs. You let him have this moment of bliss before you decide that you can’t wait anymore and bring him back to you, tugging at the waistband of his pants in a swift motion.

The dampness of his skin meets your stomach, heat spreading inside of it gradually while one of his hands travels to your ribs, to your breasts. You enjoy the sensation of need it gives you while you swallow his short breaths, his hunger that grows within him. Your hands dive between your two bodies, unfastening his belt and pants before you allow yourself to run a hand up and down his length, feeling it hardening under your palm, just for you.

It’s exhilarating, how unsettled he looks, how badly you need him and the sounds he makes while he bites your lips, almost making you lose focus on the way your fingers brush his tip and he twitches within your palm. One of his hands lowers to your stomach, in between your thighs but you only let his warm fingers graze the inside of it before you stop him. You make him stare at you when you guide him near your entrance, shifting over the counter while his eyes become hooded, lips parting in expectation, the muscles of his lower stomach tightening. You make him slide against your folds once, twice before he enters you, his cock stretching you slightly and you can’t help but chuckle in bliss. It’s overwhelming, jolts of electricity passing through you, a soft numbness taking over your body, the feeling of him that makes you bite your lip and you feel pleasure building as he kisses you deeply, ragged breaths mingling as he sets a steady pace inside of you, taking control.

The angle forces you to arch your back, to brace yourself over the counter but he doesn’t let you, bringing you in his arms and wrapping your legs around his waist to make you cling into him, bodies closer as ripples of ecstasy build into your core, his forehead against yours.

All that your mind can think about is him. “Tom…”

“You told me you would teach me the basics,” he says through panting breaths, a wicked smile over his lips as his nose digs into your cheek. “Seems to me as good a moment as any other.”

“What?” you say when you’re able to comprehend what he is saying. feeling the pleasure in your abdomen spiralling out of control as he thrust into you. “I’m not teaching you while- Oh mon Dieu!”

“That’s it, Y/N,” he praises immediately in a grunt, the snap of his hips becoming deeper, faster. “Tell me what I want to hear.”

His hand comes to flatten over your folds and you see white when his thumb begins to stroke your bud mercilessly, making you grip his shoulders with force, uncontrolled heavy moans escaping your mouth as he hits a particularly sweet spot inside of you.

“God, Tom, you’re so… cocky…” you manage to say through a tight laugh, your back hitting the counter as you feel him move faster.

“But that’s what you like about me, right?” he grins, taunting right against your face as he watches the way you knit your brow and try to quiet your moans.

“Yes… yes I do.”

“Want to repeat that, love?”

He hits a sensible spot inside of you when you understand what he wants, making you scream as fire surges into your core. “Oui, j’aime ça, Tom!”

The sound he makes is inhuman as you come undone, tension snapping inside of you and you feel him bracing himself not to be pushed over the edge. The knot inside your stomach loosen and he is barely able to accompany you through it, withdrawing to spill his seed on your stomach with huffy breaths. You take a moment to recover and when you open your eyes, seeing him out of breath and completely unhinged with his softening cock in his hand. You can’t help but bring his face back to yours again in a kiss, swallowing the last sound of his own ecstasy.

“Do you think they heard us?” you ask shyly, running your fingers through his hair after swiping it away from his sweaty forehead.

“They definitely heard you.”

His smile makes you giggle and hit him affectionately, the hotness of your blood having difficulty to cool down and he swallows it with a kiss in turn. “I feel like I’ve improved in French, though.”

“Oh yeah?” you tease, raising an interested eyebrow over your forehead. “I don’t think you can use any of what I said in public.”

“Maybe, but I still got three words coming into mind.”

“Which ones?” you say in satisfaction, your body still experiencing the bliss of your high.

But his eyes harden, losing their humour and you are left to stare at him curiously, his chest still pressing over yours, heaving. “Three very known words… That everybody knows. They do say French is the language of love, don’t they?”

Your smile drops, his gaze feeling so much heavier on you now, even with the enticing way the corner of his lips curve. You panic.

You’re not ready. He is not ready. You can’t hear those words, not now. “Tom…”

His expression falls, mouth tensing as he speaks. “Yeah… Okay, I know.”

He looks sad and it breaks your heart, guilt flooding over you, your hammering heart screaming to give him what he wants, what you want. But then he gives you a quick kiss on your forehead before caressing the side of your jaw and you just stare at him fondly, trying to not beg him to say the words, to not say them yourself. You’re not ready.

Are you?

“We’ll have to get a wash again…” you say low as you glance at your stomach and the state of your two bodies.

He takes a cloth next to him and starts wiping his seed off your skin pensively. “Or… we could go for a second round and see what we can do about it after that.”

You’re tempted, very tempted. “They’ll come looking for us.”

“We hide, then,” he states as he takes hold of your knees to pull you to him again.

The rest is lost in soft laughter, replaced by moans of pleasure and lewd sounds of flesh when he makes you see stars with his fingers, first, then when you make him groan by riding him on the fragile looking chair at the opposite side of the room, not caring when it breaks under both your weight and sends you on the floor

When you finally step out of the room, all washed up and fresh, skin still hot and blood filled with bliss, it’s like nobody had expected anything else but to see you enter the living room together. Even Giulia had abandoned her usual anxious expression to take on a happy one as she stands next to Albert, looking at you through knowing eyes.

But you all drop the happy act when it’s time to say goodbye to your hosts, with buses timetables and new maps in hand. Wherever you go, it’ll be quicker now.

Part 9

A/N: Thank you @babyblue711 & @enchantingcupcakecollectionfan as always, don't know how to thank you, really.

Trad: soeurette = sis'

@chainsawsangel@mischiefmanaged71@depressedperson88@enchantingcupcakecollectionfan@yentroucnagol@tssf-imagines @nightdiamond8663 @lauraneedstochill @unleashthelion @helaenaluvr @omgkatherine01 @launotfound @r0segard3n

[pasta-in-the-pudding]

Hello! Could I request a toby Brian and Tim in a zombie apocalypse where they find the reader just wondering the woods

Hello! I apologize for taking so long on this request, I was taking a much needed break but I'm back now and I hope you like this!

Thank you so much for requesting!!~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Surviving an apocalypse

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.

.

.

You were currently panicking more than you ever had in your entire life. While going out for some more supplies, food, first aid, etc, you had a nasty encounter with one of the undead. You had managed to escape with a moderately sized scrape on your arm- which you are pretty sure is now infected with at least a little bit of the creature's saliva. You're basically fucked.

You wander the woods, quickly becoming delirious. Your breathing becomes heavy and uneven, and you trip over every stray stick or branch. Eventually, your vision becomes too blurry to see anything and you fall to the forest floor, the cold soil feeling like heaven against your hot skin. The last thing you see as your eyes give out is a pair of boots in front of you, and another set nudging your head.

When you awake, you are tied down to a makeshift plank on a floor with three people looking at you curiously. "Is it.....dead?" One of them asks, he is the shortest one of the group and the youngest by the looks of it. "God, I hope not. Even death these days isn't really the end." The tallest one says, his voice gruff. There is a stinging sensation in your wound and you make a noise of discomfort, only to realize that you have a rag in your mouth, likely to stop you from biting if you had been infected.

You look to your arm to see that another man wearing a dirty yellow hoodie is cleaning your arm. He glances up at you before going back to cleaning and bandaging your wound. "Sorry, the restraints are only a precaution." He mumbles. After you are all cleaned up, they then test your health to make sure you haven't become one of the undead. Once you are cleared, you are untied and given food, water and fresh clothes. You scarf down your dinner as the three men watch you, seeming as if they are on edge and not fully convinced you won't attack. "So what were you doing in the woods?" The short one asks, who you've learned is Toby. "Looking for help" you reply.

The tallest, who is named Tim speaks next. "....In the woods? An area of the world that probably has the least amount of people?" You stop eating for a moment and look at him. "You found me." He grunts in response.

"You're lucky that we did, too. If we hadn't found you when we did you would've been toast." Brian points out. "It would do you good not to go out until it's fully healed" he adds, motioning to your bandage. You look at it and nod.

Once your wound has healed, it's simply become convenient staying with them. And so you do. You've become a nice addition to their means of survival, as they have to you.

We'll just have to hope that zombies stay your biggest concern....

[squidsystem]

this is my biggest fe hot take but I think the games that try the hardest to tell morally complex stories are easily the ones that fall the flattest in the series. FE has always told its stories the best when it focuses on strong themes rather than complex plots. Fire Emblem Awakening's story is literally a story that can be boiled down to "we gotta kill darkman the kill dragon" but it doesn't really feel like that. it's a story about how the connections we have with other people are what allow us to achieve things that would otherwise be impossible. That we do not have to accept the hand we are dealt and can instead fight against cruelty and evil to make the world better. Is this groundbreaking or even remotely new? Certainly not. But it's still fondly remembered because it handles those themes really well in both the story and in the gameplay. It's not super ambitious didn't try to be a war epic. It knew what it was capable of and didn't push itself to be more complex than it needed to be. If you can build a birdhouse, build a birdhouse instead of trying to build a mansion with 1 plank of wood.