let's paint this town: marinara

{autoplay}

[kindredbond-blog]

botanyknowledge:

Her curious gaze falls on the journal for a few moments as her arms wrap around his neck from behind in a loose embrace but the journal doesn’t stay open for long when her lips fall closer to his ear to question the gold star situation, It’s a surprise to her, mostly since she didn’t realize what an effect she had on the leader. She shouldn’t be surprised though not when most of the time when the opposite occurred she was just as nervous as he was now. She leans forward to press her lips to his cheek only to get another bump to the glasses as he turns to look at her, both pairs of glasses are off center and the only reason she lets go to fix them is because hers have fallen at a weird angle onto her face. 

‘You know I still think if i had all the pages claimed maybe the others would sandbag me as much when i’m hooked.’ The botanist lets go to settle right beside him on the log giving a joking smile, she knew the others tried but it still hurt sometimes being taken off only for her to be hit right back to the ground before she even had a second chance to distract and help.

He would have succeeded in bringing a nervous flush to her face if it weren’t for the fact he’s so un-smooth that she wants to laugh not at him well a little bit at him for unknowingly being awkwardly cute. Quietly she leans up only to tease him further (but she’s not lying either). ‘You don’t even have to be wearing stars to get me to check you out.’ She relaxes back down with a little smile. She considers a more daring line but she’s not going to go straight for his life with her teases, not to mention her cheeks are already heating up with her own admission.

  With a fresh layer of sweat soaking through his shirt collar, he has half a mind to mention that, compared to the Trapper, she had somehow acquired a presence far more unnerving than that of the man who loomed up behind them so often, his serrated grin stretching wider until the spines he salivated over snapping, shuddered in recognition. Although the Trapper harvested more of his dread than she would ever manage, even if she walked in on him picking his nose, Dwight couldn’t help but feel like a balloon with all its air missing whenever the botanist joined him by the fire once they’d fought their way out of a trial before the Entity could make flies in a web out of them. Mostly because keeping up his leader-like facade was so much easier when the stress of surviving forced him to take the bolder initiative in keeping his team safe and efficiently supervised  so that all their strengths could shine through the clutter of chaos that came of thinking he could wag a scolding finger at a beast large enough to crush him like a soda can, which they often did once they realized the prey they were carrying off to a hook  had only wriggled free because a sweaty shrimp named Dwight had thrown a pallet across their path.

 Sometimes he wondered if that was the part of him she expected to meet by the fire each night alongside the faint glow in her cheeks he imagined his nervous small talk dowsing before the shy warmth even had a chance to travel downward and kindle her heart. Perhaps his unintentional cooling of her interest was for the best though. There was no point in trying to pretend he knew what the hell he was doing as much as the next survivor. If it weren’t for the fact that he’d arrived in the realm shortly after a weekend of unpaid training and group activities that no one else wanted to take charge of and risk getting them out of the woods sooner than malaria could strike, he wouldn’t be the one striving so hard to steer his team  at the expense of their patience for his motivational tactics. Regardless, he’s glad she at least appreciates his efforts enough to make the mules among them more likely to drink from the fountain of well-meaning altruism. Of course, there were still a few reckless heads among them who would rather piss in that fountain by ripping folks off their hooks without any concern for them afterwards. The botanist probably doesn’t mean to remind him of this problem, but now that its drifted to the front of his concerns, it’s all he can do to keep the storm in him from darkening his face and raining over an otherwise pleasant evening. “I hope you’re planning on taking names next time that happens. Because I’ve got a firm talking to in store  for whoever pulls these brainless stunts” Not that he’d expect her to rat anybody out, and in a way–he’s glad she doesn’t. Biases were the last thing a leader needed.

  Blatant shows of favoritism in the innocuous form of PDA was also something he didn’t intend on subjecting the team to, but once a furtive glance around the camp confirms that Claudette’s been the only one sneaking around behind him, Dwight figures he can risk a small hug and loops his arm around her shoulder. He just doesn’t expect her to soften the stiff gesture further by burrowing against his side until the heat pooling in his cheeks resembles a fresh sunburn under the moonlight. And of course she has to worsen this further with that teasing tone of hers that she might have curbed kindly enough so that she didn’t rip his heart out entirely, but even so, Dwight knows that if he examines the shivering organ later, there’s bound to be nibble marks around it. “…is that what this is?” He murmurs soft enough for her ears as if doing so would help stifle the nervous tint to his tone. His hand– resting limp on her shoulder, slides uncertain down the length of her  arm until he cups an elbow. With a fond squeeze, he tuts as her woolly hair tickles the underside of his jaw. “And here I thought you actually wanted that raise in stickers.”

[botanyknowledge-a-blog]

Favorite happening from last night’s memeing

[kindredbond-blog]

@botanyknowledge

   “Where are my gold star stickers Dwight?” A low tease lingers between them as a smile spreads across her warm features. She very well knows that the others need it to encourage them to do well, but what can she say? She likes being the star player.

   Benedict’s journal was lying open in his lap while he chewed away thoughtful at one of the pens his pocket protector had smuggled into the Entity’s realm--the last of its kind in a place like this, surely. He’d gotten so immersed in one of the later chapters that he hadn’t noticed her approach. Not until she’d decided his best use at the moment was: portable armrest. The sudden weight slinking across his shoulders, however, was several degrees less startling than the cocoa butter tone she puffs past one of his reddening ears. Shit. With a knee-jerk reaction, the journal slams closed between his knees as they jerk to stitch his legs together more conservatively.

   The pen top snaps between his teeth as he bites down just a little harder than necessary, tainting his mouth with the faint taste of ink. It must have come from a tiny hole his canine had drilled into the dispenser all for the sake of his fingernails that were still growing out from the nubs he’d made of them. Swallowing hard (and hoping the ink was a non-toxic mix) he steals a shy glance over his shoulder. Click. His glasses bump hers, and now both their frames are off-center. He doesn’t mind though. She looks nice from any angle. “Well you see, if I were to put all of the ones you’ve earned in here, there wouldn’t be enough pages for everyone else.” Scooting over in case she wanted to take a seat on the other half of the log he’d claimed for himself without David or Feng in sight to shove him off and claim it as their own perch, he smiles and guides her hand over the thickest patch of the Entity’s burns glimmering like a million tiny star fragments sewn into his shirt. “All of these are yours. You’ll just have to settle for checking me out whenever you want to count them." Once the gravity of what he’s proposed hits him, he sputters. “Y-you know! Checking out the stock. Which isn’t me. I mean, it could be...if that’s what you’re into.”  She’s not going to believe it’s not butter because his delivery is that smooth.

[kindredbond-blog]

calmspirited:

Listening to Dwight talk about gold stars made Jake ever so slowly turn his head back to the spewer of nonsense behind him. “Dwight, what the fuck- we’re not in Kindergarten. I know you may feel like you’re in charge in of a bunch of children, but we are grown adults, so you’re gonna have to use more than gold starts to persuade me to be a good teammate, which I already am.” My God, Dwight could be such a dweeb sometimes, but, honestly, it’s why Jake kinda liked him. Well, liked him enough to try and man him up a bit, but, if he’s learned anything now about Dwight Fairfield, it’s that he’s not following any direction Dwight gives because he trusts his own plans better than the man who persuades people with gold stars as encouragement to be a better player.

He’s not quite sure how Dwight has deduced that the Wraith nor the Trapper is out on the field tonight, but he makes a mental note on it and tries to finish cleaning the totem under his hands, but he can’t when Dwight starts going on again. “Yeah, like you’ve stuck something in long enough to be a single parent. “ He’s really trying to concentrate here, but, yet again, a groan from Dwight draws his attention back just in time to see Dwight sucking his finger. And for a story about his childhood that made Jake kinda glad he didn’t have a stereotypical childhood like most people. Dwight sounded like he was a pitiful kid. Once AGAIN, he turned back to Dwight; he really need to finish this totem.

“Dwight, you’ve never had pussy, have you?

   “In charge of children?” Dwight asked incredulously, almost as if Jake had been the one to suggest the rest of the survival squad wasn’t exactly...well, mature. “You mean to tell me that between the lovely young lady who can’t keep her shoes on because she’s too busy aiming them at my head, and the charming guy who lies about his age to get a senior discount at Waffle house with an inimitable talent for hosting R-rated hand puppet shows, we have adults among us?” Sure, he could see where Jake was coming from with this, but at the same time--hell, they had a seventeen year old among them who was far more responsible than a man four times her age. “So, basically what you’re saying is--you want a raise?” No more gold star currency for Jake? That--he was perfectly capable of; at least, depending on the replacement request. Because as much as Dwight would have liked to motivate all the members on his team, he had his own limits as to what he could provide them. Right now, picking gold flecks off his shirt and smoothing them between the empty pages of Benedict’s journal was the best he could do as far as a reward system went. “Look, it’s not even about the stars determining your worth or anything. I just need some order around here...you know, something that feels normal? I supervised my share of society’s acne-ridden, and if I fall into that routine--it’s not because I think you’re a kid, Jake.” They really should be having this pow-wow at the campfire. Anywhere he’s not required to cross generator wires in such a way they don’t burp a small ball of fire back into his face.

   Going about as red as his hat when Jake decides that being helpful involves undermining his virginity, Dwight recoils as the generator hiccups sparks and uses the new angle to shoot the saboteur the most sour look he can manage. Thinking about all the Warheads he’d once stuffed in his mouth thinking they were breath mints helped. “Does it really take that long to dismantle a totem?” Maybe he shouldn’t have asked, because questions just seem to invite Jake to turn away and shoot more snark his way. And Claudette wondered why the two of them could hardly manage a half generator between them. The inquiry isn’t one he’d like to answer on any occasion, let alone on the short schedule they have until they’re horribly butchered. “J-just...finish the damned thing already!” He sputters before peeking over the top of the generator to make sure his little “blow-out” hadn’t attracted any unwanted attention. “If we get out of this alive, don’t expect me to thank you. I’ll shake your hand like a good sport, but I won’t be thinking pleasant Yelp reviews.”

[kindredbond-blog]

/VAPES

[kindredbond-blog]

botanyknowledge

kindredbond 

“This is in no way a dick measuring contest. I specifically avoided that kind of contest –I mean, not for any apparent reason or anything!”

‘Dwight Fairfield you do not need to engage in dick measuring contests of any kind even if it’s a tamer version like this.’

   “You don’t have to rub it in...” 

    Maybe he shouldn’t have let her rub it at all. At least then he wouldn’t have to see the reminder in her eyes that the only thing hot and ready about him was the pizzas he delivered.

[archived-azarovsslayer]

"I'm sorry, but the survivor council has agreed that you do not deserve a buff, and we will be making our case known to the Entity with a secret weapon to success: flow-charts!"

The Wraith seemed to be actually listening with interest, head on a tilt and finger tapping the bottom of this lip, it seems a rarity that he would actually listen to the tales of if enemies. With two long strides he closes the distance between them, purposefully forcing Dwight to tilt is up high to keep looking at the killer. “Youa fo’getting one ding.” With a swift CRACK, the Wraith slaps the leader across his face with enough force to send him wobbling backward. “You think I give a fuck about you Damned think of me. Even if you escape me it does not mean you won’t be caught by anotha.”

“Besides” The Wraith stands a bit taller a slight glimmer in his reflective eyes. “Shouldn’t you be mo’e concaned wid da traitoa in youa midst.”

[kindredbond-blog]

   The Wraith should really wise up! After all, the survivors weren’t just balloons for the killers to pop at their leisure. The so called “damned” had a place in this parasitic ecosystem just as much as the executioners, and when Dwight had finally thought about it long and hard behind bloodshot eyes building a red root system around his pupils from staring at the fire too long–an inevitable fate without the fluttering help of moths the Entity had neglected to add to its realm to remind him: blink every now and then, or suffer through having your eyeball used as a drinking fountain for every proboscis in a twelve mile radius. If the Entity didn’t need the survivors, would it really need to keep bringing them back? They were practically labor serving whatever the spider’s needs were, and labor meant labor unions! Of course he’d push for his side to have as much comforts as they could squeeze out of their rather hopeless situation, at least until he figured out how they were going to get out of said situation. Wanting the best for his team had given him a much bigger bark than when he’d first arrived, quivering inside every locker. But the Wraith was a much bigger dog with sharper teeth, and that was easy to forget…well, until the creature cracked him across the cheek hard enough to send him reeling back with a yelp.

   Now plastered to the ground by the seat of his pants, he squeezes the darkening abrasion that left the top of his cheekbone more swollen than when he’d popped himself with a wiffle bat once while swinging too hard at home plate. Teeth gritting, he glowers up at the Wraith from behind the safety of his ball cap’s bill. “Maybe you ought to whack yourself next, because you’re making about as much sense as madness 3.” Biting through a soft whimper doesn’t completely stop it from wiggling through his teeth, but maybe pulling himself back onto his feet will help take his mind off the sucker-swing? Lips pursed into a pout, he hopes his glasses don’t magnify the speckle of a tear welling up in the corner of his vision. “What kind of offerings have you been smoking? Because I’m no doctor, but even I can tell you that you need to make some cut backs.”

[kindredbond-blog]

[Follow The Leader...’s Mixtape]

   @botanyknowledge

   If Jake honestly thinks he’s going to outdo Dwight Fairfield in foraging for 90′s vanilla rock, or best him in the arrangement of said vanilla rock into a sappy collection of unspoken feelings, then he’s sadly mistaken and still trying to figure out how to record his mix like the mountain man he is. Maybe Dwight will go help him out with the recording affair if he doesn’t wrap it up soon.

Enjoy the mixtape: “Notice Me, Orange Smock Senpai”

   1. Crush - David Archuleta    2.  Odds Are - Bare Naked Ladies    3. Give Me a Try - The Wombats    4. She’s so High - Tal Bachman    5. Good to You - Marianas Trench    6. Chocolate - 1975    7. When You Come Home - Trevor Dahl    8. Say You Won’t Let Go - James Arthur

[calmspirited]

"When I say stay on the generator, that usually means don't get leave the generator half finished to start an Uno game with a totem that's never going to take its turn because it's KIND OF AN INANIMATE OBJECT, JAKE."

“I’m not actually playing Uno with it, you retarded apple- crumble cunt. And I’ll stop, but don’t blame me when the Killer NOEDs your ass.” Jake had turned back to look at Dwight, but had now returned back to his work.

“And besides, I’ve already done 3 gens tonight. It’s your turn to get your hands dirty, sparkle boi.”

[kindredbond-blog]

   “That’s an awfully offensive way to talk to your teammate, and don’t think I won’t remember it and scratch out one of your good teammate stars in the journal once we get back to the campfire, mister! I mean, I don’t think you actually have any good teammate stars at the moment, but I can start giving you fallen stars instead–just to show how much of a jerk you’ve been.” He’s grumbling now and wondering why the Entity delighted in making him spawn near Jake when their synergies clearly weren’t in co-alliance. Maybe for having snark-offs, but not for fixing generators together, which was kind of what they needed to do in order to keep themselves and others from being horribly murdered one by one at the hands of the Entity’s knuckle-draggers. “It’s not the Wraith or the Trapper, so I doubt we have to worry about that.”

  Pursing his lips, he struggles to make up for the time Jake’s lost on his totem-indulgence and nearly blows a fuse in his haste. Ugh,  what he wouldn’t give to be back at the campfire already picking the callouses on his feet because work loafers were not the sort of shoes to be running away from ax-murderers with. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’ve stuck these sparkle fingers into at least six gens tonight, but you guys keep leaving them like single parents. It’s faster if we work together!” Yanking back a finger singed by one of the burning pistons, he groans and pops it in his mouth for a quick suck, eyeing Jake with something akin to exasperation. “And for your information, if I had a cunt, it would smell like banana bread, obviously. Apple crumble’s for creeps at church potlucks that don’t tell you there’s nutmeg in their recipe and then you balloon up in front of everyone who just assumes you’re being possessed by the Devil so they make a dunking game out of baptizing you so hard you get swimmer’s ear for a month and a half.”

[kindredbond-blog]

(air horn sound)

(second airhorn sound)

Dwight: this isn't deodorant

[kindredbond-blog]

botanyknowledge

He had a point with that, she was probably just as red as the amaranth flowers she had been toying with earlier that evening, and despite her usual bold attitude when she was faced with trials, she doubts that she’d be able to pay much attention to fixing generators if she was thrown in as a last minute substitute. She figures by this small amount of logic that even if she had her bright colored smock strapped to her waist she wouldn’t be able to cause much of an uproar for whatever unfortunate puppet she encountered. ‘and who’s fault is that for making my face more glowy than normal?’ A quiet tease as she gives  before he’s taken by one of the others, likely growing impatient the longer that he took to get back to their gathering. As much as she’d like it if he could stay with her so she can selfishly take the rest of the night with the person she felt most comfortable with, but she knows that making last minute changes on either side wouldn’t be a smart move to make. ‘but you’re not any better off than me you know.’ She’s referring to his hat for the most part it was just as bright as her smock, these days though they spent the majority of the time begging to be seen by the killers with their bright garbs, it helped to get those bold points and find one another in the case that they didn’t spawn near one another.

It crosses her mind once or twice that she should probably send him off before one of the others impatiently come to retrieve him but that train of thought isn’t ever carried through with. Her heart gives a skip at his words, although not a full compliment considering they both knew that in trial she had a tendency to sandbag whoever she could just to get a breather for a brief moment, usually by the time she had healed herself whoever she had lead the killer to was struggling to hold their own or worse they had already been bodied due to her own ignorance and it was then she had a small flash of regret for passing off the killer, but she would always go for the save afterwards, especially if the unfortunate person who had fallen because of her was Dwight. Despite all her faults as a person he never held anything she did during those time as something that reflected on who she was out here by the fire, unless he chose to tease her about those acts that weren’t normally part of her character, like now. She knew that even if he chose to poke fun at her sandbagging he was still as sweet and kind as ever, not that their adversaries here would agree with her since he had picked up the habit of sabotaging all of their hooks. ‘You know I’ll always come back for you right?’ She leans into his hand that cups her cheek, the blush that covering her face settled into a subtler shade even if her heart was still skipping now and again as if trying to tell her to shape up and take her own initiative before he was forced to leave her for the night. To her own relief she doesn’t have to wait more than a moment before gentle lips press against her own, sealing her fate to have a red face for the rest of the evening. It takes a moment of calming her surprise before she returns the kiss, softly pressing her lips against his, only parting so soon because  no matter how much she’d like to spend the rest of the night tucked under his arm resting by the fire or maybe trying another kiss. she knows that if they spent any longer saying farewells, their business would become camp gossip or worse. That’s not even mentioning that despite the tugging in her chest to keep him back here for the night, She still has to send him off before the terrible triplets get too impatient with him and refuse to listen altogether.  ‘Sorry i’m the one to have to do this but Mr. I’m a Masochist and his kids are waiting for you.’ 

‘but when you get back  I’d like to give you another-’ She pauses for a moment trying to cover that awed smile that refuses to wipe itself off her face. ‘I-If you want that is.’

    As a general rule of gold-encrusted thumb, he tried not to take unnecessary risks if they had a chance to backfire like an ornery generator in the assortment of faces on his team. Having tasted enough grit from exploding generators himself, Dwight rarely thought twice about taking chump-worthy chances when they only dictated whether or not he’d hobble the final stretch of runway to the campfire sans a hatchet in the back of his head once everyone else was safely behind the gate’s killing border. Decisions that would endanger his team were always the hardest to make, because if a situation ever became so dire, he’d have no one to blame but himself and he hadn’t suffered through all those short-notice shifts back at his old pizza parlor job because he liked being a doormat to coworkers half his age and more concerned with attending high school dances than scraping burnt crust off pizza pans. It was risky enough running his thumb across her cheek with the gossip guard stealing glances towards their shadow shrouded meeting, but he figures she deserves her own share of teasing after she’s made it her prerogative to bloom a blush out of his cheeks to match her own rosy complexion. Sucked he had to leave her like this.

  “Well that’s a relief, because…not to sound dramatic or anything, but I’d be a wreck if you didn’t.” Dwight admits, chiding himself inwardly for enjoying how the plump portion of her cheek relaxes against his clammy skin despite the sweat soaking his palm-lines. If he’d learned anything about management of small-town pizza joints, it was that being a manager didn’t make him superman when it came to sending out three missing shifts worth of food. It was the reminder he needed whenever he’d stumble over the hatch on his way to retrieve a teammate still dangling from a hook. These survival shifts would be impossible without them. Even with everyone working together, the stress of survival took its toll, but much to his relief, it was less noticeable when Claudette was there to help clear his mind in exchange for fogging up his heart.

  As far as risks went, he was taking a big one by testing how her petal-soft lips felt flush against his inhibitions. And it wasn’t just the risk of being caught indulging in activities (of which he strongly advised the others to avoid for the sake of their tight-knit team performances) that soaked his temples in sweat. Having only had the pleasure of peppering the back of his palm with experimental pecks that seemed to prepare him for more passionless affairs like perfecting his impression of a woodpecker, Dwight worried the botanist would take his hesitant taste test as the highest level he could attain in the slovenly skill he so clearly lacked by proof of his soft demonstration. Still, he could only hope she saw the guarded gesture as a means to spare her from the snarky remarks of the other survivors should they have spotted the exchange before the shadows of their meeting place cooled the twinge of warmth tickling his lips even after hers had fallen to quietly tease him. At least now his face will match his hat now without a layer of blood coating it to capture the hue and it only darkens more as his glances over his shoulder just in time to catch Ace flashing him an A-OK and Nea plunging the O of it suggestively with her middle finger, a nasty grin eating away at both their faces while Laurie watched on with pursed lips. Surrendering a sigh, he takes a firm hold of his ball cap’s bill and screws it down lower like the brightest color in the rainbow might help him retain the level of incognito he’d enjoyed while traversing the overstuffed hallways of his old high school. “Oh believe me, I’ve noticed. In fact, I was just thinking I ought to kiss my escorting the elderly badge for all the good luck I’m gonna need to keep Ace in check, but after that...?” With the honey brown hues of his gaze lingering on her lips, a sheepish smile bleeds through his determined demeanor. “…well, I’d rather have you be the last thing on my lips. Lot more refreshing than all that Cheetoh dust stuck on my badges.”

  Wanting nothing more than to bask in her smile for a while longer, he turns away quickly to tame the desire. The others had already begun their trek up the path without him and he’d have to sprint to catch up before the fog swallowed their silhouettes. Her shy words hit his heels like an anchor, and he nearly face plants into the wet leaves of the forest floor as his heart rises in his throat in wake of her suggestion. Was she just saying that to put a spring in his step or…had she felt the tireless tug of the bond he’d built like a bridge between them? Breathless before he’d even gotten the chance to bolt, he peeks over his shoulder at her and nods with a smile struggling for composure, yet bursting at its seams.  “Do I get more if I bring you back a nice—“

 “HEY PIZZA-PUTZ, PLAN YOUR WEDDING ON SOMEONE ELSE’S TIME.” Goddammit, Nea.

[kindredbond-blog]

formother

kindredbond

“You’re not the Kool-Aid man!”

                     …?

Just kind of stares at the  NERD  with a questioning,  yet a pique look in his eye.  The Kool-Aid man–?  He faintly remembers that character from his childhood, but nevertheless he didn’t  CARE.  Jason was going to burst through any door, wall, or window he pleased if it meant capturing his  PREY.

   Although he wasn’t raised under the most lavish of conditions, namely growing up without a toaster and having to heat up his toaster strudels in the microwave so they were as much of soggy disappointments as his T-ball games during monsoon season, Dwight could safely say that walking through an entire wall without so much as trying the door first was the mark of a man raised in a barn. With how the Hillbilly often crashed through obstacles like a bike with no training wheels, the cornered leader would stick with that assumption until he died, which might be very soon with a man four times his size rounding on him with machete drawn. “A-actually, I think I saw him walk by this cabin not too long ago--big guy, pitcher-perfect, filled with the fruitiest of refreshments? I bet if you leave now, you might just be able to catch up with him. Maybe!” After a desperate stammer of a prelude to what he hoped weren’t his last words, he turned to jog the rest of the way down the hall, pausing only to close the door behind him right in his pursuer’s face. Something told him he shouldn’t be wasting time raising flimsy barriers in front of a raging bull of a killer, but something else, probably his conscience which, sounding suspiciously like his mother telling him to close the door behind him because he better believe she raised him better than that in a thick Sicilian accent, reminded him that he wasn’t raised in a barn, nor planned to have him emulate that he was.

[kindredbond-blog]

botanyknowledge

 The type of night he’s in for is already known to the medic and she can’t help but shake her head a little in the realization that the new kids are going to cause a ruckus for the team leader, ace is included under the title of a new kid even though he’s not exactly a kid but sometimes he sure acted like it. She almost feels guilty leaving Dwight to the hands of the cool kids group but he has at least some sort of chance that they’ll listen to him, if meg was thrown into that mix then she’d know for sure how the evening would go for him, but at least there’s a possibility that Ace or Laurie will pay some attention to their leaders’ words. Still she feels as though she should still offer even if it’s her night off. ‘I could go in place of one of the others if that makes it easier on you.’ She knows for fact once she’s put into the equation the others will at least try to listen to the both of them, and even if they didn’t there was still some teamwork there between the more experienced survivors, even if there was still the occasions where they would sandbag one another.

The red that floods his cheeks elicits a sweet smile in response as her hand searches to grasp his own. The feeling in chest is warm and welcome, other than that feeling, she can almost sense the eyes of the other survivors on the back of her head as she affectionately sends him off. The sense of privacy only applies to their quiet assurances and farewells, and not so much to the gestures of affection she was showing to him. It becomes even less applicable as he leans forward in what she can only think of as that he’s returning her offering of affection. he’s close enough to her, that she’s able to take some initiative of her own as she shuts her eyes and leans up to meet him, until that is, the unexpected clatter of glasses knocks her back to reality. The reality where they’re both standing in plain sight and she’s not sure if she’s hearing the beat of her own heart in her ears or somehow one of the killers had managed to find a way into their safe haven, coupled along with that a rush of heat that floods to her face. she just hopes that none of the others were paying attention to their little exchange because she’s sure to get teased all night by meg if that’s the case.

‘Y-yeah, I know you’ll make it-’ She corrects herself as she pulls her face back from his, now, incredibly red one. you’ll all make it back.’

   The team’s medic didn’t have to mention the reason for the emphatic expression she smoothes along his face with a gaze as gentle as her fingers often were tending to the abrasions he’d bring home as proof he could hold his own well enough; after all, a leader couldn’t just bark orders and sit in his office (suspiciously shaped like a locker) and still garner the respect of his team. Then again, Nea didn’t seem to respect any type of authority, and Ace seemed to seek it out only to piss in its face if only to amuse his “kids”. Thankfully, having missed that particular adoption, Dwight avoided the chaotic birth of the punk and gambler’s aggressive antics, but now—faced with its terrible twos, he’s not so sure he dodged a bullet after all. At least Laurie seemed to have a level head among the two, willing as she was to encourage the dastardly duo with covered smiles and sidelong stares. Dwight catches her green gaze from across the camp as he glances over at their gathering, hopeful to find a few more minutes he could afford to spend stuck to Claudette’s side like a puppy persistent to spill out of the side of a cardboard box and scamper home to its mother. Flinching into a stiff spine when he notices the blonde’s smile spreading into smirk territory, Dwight raises a limp finger—a weary sign to hold on a minute and hopefully keep his business out of the campfire gossip.

  Replacing the hand on the back of his neck, he scrubs sheepishly and goes cross-eyed trying to give the bridge of his glasses a piece of his mind for making a simple sealing of lips so complicated. Her offering for company that wouldn’t spend a majority of the match parkouring onto barrels while he “entertained” one of the Entity’s many muscle heads is about as attractive as the warm color of the cloth she’d set out to dry over their heads, but he’d feel like a heel if he tried to bait her into accompanying him after she hadn’t had a break from the trials in quite some time. A good medic was hard to replace, and they’d surely have the odds stacked against them without her, but he wouldn’t let her become a necessity. They all had to be ready for anything, including the ever-irritating reality of having no medical aid immediately available to them. Ace seemed advanced in this regard, always sporting that shit-eating grin even if he was eating the blood-stained floor, though Dwight would prefer other methods of coping with pain other than becoming a masochist. He’s already torturing himself enough now as it is, lingering after cracking their fourth eyes together. “Nah, you better not. It’s your night off. Plus, I wouldn’t be surprised if our friendly neighborhood slasher spotted you first with your face uh…glowing more than usual.” The fact it’s almost the same shade of his hat is also a pressing concern, but then again, it’s not like he wears the bright topper to sneak around, or to keep his hair mildly presentable without any means to style it out of his face—namely, a comb.

  Shifting nervously, he inwardly berates himself for tenderfooting around. He’s leadman Fairfield after all, and he has no problem pitching orders in the midst of a shit show, namely basement parties with the Hillbilly as a host. So what’s his excuse for finding anxiety in her company, now? If anyone made him feel comfortable in this hell, it was her. “Don’t get me wrong though…I’d be tied with Ace for luck, having you tag along.” It wouldn’t be the only thing that’s currently tied. His heart shudders in its bindings, struggling to peek through his ribs at her smile, swelling closer with every skipped beat. Before he knows it, he’s following the draw despite the strength of his inner strategist yanking on his tie to turn him back to his team for the night. She wasn’t perfect by any means, leading the killer to him from time to time for a break. They’d play hot potato with bloodthirsty beast, and later brag about who had lasted longer—usually her. She’s as seasoned as a survivor comes, but still sweet enough to stitch together a machete wound her antics bestowed upon him. She smells like honeysuckle—sweet while the sweat on his face colors him sticky. Thoughts drowning in the heady scent of crushed plants, he smiles, cupping her cheek almost jokingly. “—is what I would say if your sandbagging didn’t always get me bodied.” With his thumb preoccupied in buffing the golden flecks out of the corner of her smile, he takes the extra precaution of tilting his head before his tight lips meet hers sideways, softening on contact while her breath leaves a layer of fog on his lenses.

[kindredbond-blog]

Sha la la la la la, my oh my! Look like the boy too shy, ain't gonna kiss the girl! Sha la la la l a la, ain't that sad? It's such a shame. Too bad! You're gonna miss the girl.

   Oh look, another reason for him to gripe about waking up in the swamp that doesn’t have to deal with mud filling his shoes, or the incessant slapping of soles on moist earth that Nea never missed a chance to snort about and ask who brought the calamine lotion. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he shoots a sour look at the abandoned dingy’s side where Captain Shit Eating Smile posed proudly by the vessel’s wheel like he could care less about the generator left lonely on the slippery bow.

   “Ace, I swear to Mordor and back. Just because we’re on a boat–that doesn’t give you the right.”

[kindredbond-blog]

[Agitation]

  @evxnmxcmillxn

The Trapper glared at Dwight, the Mask’s sadistic grin reflecting his mood at the current moment, maddened by the destruction of his Hooks and Sabotage of his Beartraps. Rolling his head, he turned, and buried his Cleaver into a rotting tree trunk with one swing. Turning back to the physically smaller man, he cracked his knuckles, readying for a fist fight. Although Evan Macmillan was no prize fighter or professional boxer, he had fought in a horrific War where the only weapons in trenches available were whatever you could improvise and your only bare hands. Six feet and five inches of solid, thick Killer stomped forward towards Dwight, ready to beat him into the ground.

Evan had no intentions of holding back…

  See, the thing about trying to outrun death on a daily (or rather, dayless) basis is--he’s amped up on enough adrenaline to think challenging a mound of muscle, one that easily towered eight feet over him without even standing up straight, is about as typical of a reaction as throwing a pallet down behind him to slow down his pursuer. Only now, he’s fresh out of pallets--quite a feat on the Blood Lodge. Stranded in the middle of a junked yard, he notes the nearest hook and how it seems at home amid the trash, defanged and dirty. It’s no surprise to him that Jake had slunk through while he was busy racing Trapper around the wooden playground, wheezing and winded as he threw his rolly polly body over the pallets that had yet to find themselves smashed to smithereens. He imagines the saboteur calmly dismantling the hook as the Trapper plays fake out with him at a juncture between a pallet and a stack of crates as if follow the leader was his favorite game after the age-old tradition of hooking the leader, of course. He imagines the hook clanging to the ground, unnoticed while Jake collects his tools and takes off for his next target, practically humming I’ll be working on the Railroad.

    Dwight imagines himself just as cool and collected as his steely-eyed teammate, and yet he feels anything but collected when he finally turns to face the Trapper, red-faced and exhausted, and shouting out of sheer exasperation for the endless chase. “Why don’t you just come GET some?” Of course he expects to get a cleaver buried in his shoulder for his audacity, but he’s had enough of ring around the rosies to risk riding around on the monster’s shoulder while he looked for any surviving hooks. At least then he could catch his breath--resting on the Trapper’s shoulder, he thinks just short of squeaking as the Trapper...buries his cleaver into a tree’s flesh instead and stalks towards him menacingly. “Um--w...wait!” Backtracking, he stumbles over a pile of trash behind him and nearly falls backwards. Flapping for balance, he raises his fist in front of his face as the grinning beast barrels toward him. “You wouldn’t hit a guy with glasses, would you?” Something tells Dwight he would. Why wouldn’t he when he’s perfectly content to double-trap a guy with glasses in the basement at his earliest convenience? 

[kindredbond-blog]

[Orange Smock]

   @botanyknowledge

    It’s uncommon for her not to be the one geared up and ready to head out for the evening but according to the others she needed a break from the many straight nights she had spent running around in the fog with a flashlight in her hand, yet, here she is her smock undone and hanging up on a tree while she’s sending off the chosen four off on their trial for the evening. ‘Don’t make me come fight the entity for you.’ A smile bright enough to match the specks of light on him illuminates her face as she speaks to him, she’s hopeful that they’ll all come back in one piece or with their soul still in tact whether she had to sew someones’ finger on again was a debatable subject especially since lately there seems to be mostly the nurse invading every trial the survivors find themselves in.

   Her smile doesn’t falter at all with the worried thoughts of what potentially could be to come for her small makeshift family because if she dwell too hard on those thoughts and let her smile fall, she knows that there won’t be any relaxation for her tonight, no, quite the opposite she’d end up letting Laurie stay and instead join the group tonight. As a parting gift instead of the primrose she usually would pass off to him she instead on this occasion, raises herself on her heels to press a gentle peck to his cheek, a way to say stay safe but also a way to be reassuring. Of course, she knows that he can hold his own but it won’t stop her from being concerned for his safety, it’s her overly altruistic side that has her feeling this way as well as the fact she couldn’t stand if something terrible happened to him on the one night she hadn’t joined him.

‘Be careful, Okay?’ That’s all she really wants from this night, for them all to come back safe.

   With his crew for the trial consisting of faces fresh to the business of surviving with their limbs mostly intact, Dwight’s well aware he has his work cut out for him tonight. Even from a fair distance, tucked just out of the reach of the fire’s glow, he can make out Ace gesturing wildly, and weaving stories with his hands. With how Laurie’s covering a guilty smile with the back of her hand, and how Nea’s currently grinning like a cat who’d yet to cough up the canary, he can only assume their team’s most recent addition is swearing like a sailor. Hit with a sinking suspicion that he’d be playing the role of the rookie tonight despite being the most qualified among them in terms of how much longer he’d spent sprinting for his life, Dwight finds his mood dipping between relief that the new kids (and Ace) were getting along, and a grim lack of enthusiasm, knowing those three tended to bond through boycotting his plans for the sake of thrills. With a gambler, a parkour-enthusiast, and a renounced bookworm ready to party, he’s not exactly surprised how hectic a routine trial could get, even under his guidance. Especially under his guidance when Ace undermined his plans by calling him kiddo.

  Still not convinced he’s the best fit for the group of mutineers, Dwight hangs back as he sorts through the collection of sundries Claudette had laid out on a log for their convenience for last minute mind-changers oblivious to offerings snatched out of alphabetical order. A murky bottle seemed like a necessary addition to their evening until he realized Ace would just wander around blindly because he refused to take off his sunglasses. Right. It’s going to be a long night, he sighs shortly before turning away empty-handed. No use in depleting the stock for the sort of night he was in for. Spotting her white shirt from the corner of his eye, he barely has time to greet the medic before she plants an offering of her own onto his cheek. Whether the gesture is a luck or survival offering, he’s not sure. He’s just sure that she’s doomed him to a night of ridicule of the red invading his cheeks doesn’t die down soon. “You know me. Always up to herd some cats.” The leader assures her, lowering his voice to keep what little time they had left of each other’s company—private. Heart scampering in his chest, he can feel his good senses tightening their leash around his neck to haul him back from a biting urge to linger. Tipping his gaze to meet hers, he catches the glimpse of hope for his success reflected in her eyes until he shuts his and leans in until the soft huffs spilling over her lips stains his. He imagined the contact would have been soft, but when his glasses clatter with her frames, he notes it’s particularly cold and plastic. Startled by click of contact, he jerks back, face flaring an even deeper shade of salmon berry as the flecks of gold embedded in his skin seem to flicker brighter.

   “I uh--...I mean! We. We’ll make it.” If he’ll make it out of camp with a cooled face is another matter.

[kindredbond-blog]

[Play With Your Food]

   @theboogeyman

"This was the day you almost caught: Dwight Fairfield!" Well, it was almost the day Tall, Pale-Faced, and In-Need-of-an-Inhaler almost caught Dwight Fairfield. Because while blinded by the confidence of an open gate behind him, the lead man of the hour threw his last pallet as a parting shot only to find himself trapped on the same side with the towering tree of a man. "Uhh--"

   Of all the times for the bespectacled one to open his mouth and hurl taunts like pallets behind him into the expressionless face of the stalker behind him, this time couldn’t have ended any more favorably for the Shape. Five generators powered, gates opened, and one little survivor hooked and reduced to dust after being ripped to shreds by spidery appendages. A particularly long and frustrating chase has the Shape agitated as the boy just manages to put on bursts of speed right when he is within reasonable striking range.

   However, even if he is incapable of delivering a punishing slice to the boy’s flesh, direct and prolonged exposure to him rises the Evil within him and like a tidal wave, the Shape surges forward with only the foulest intention to DESTROY as the gate ahead of them shrieks with a metallic timbre as it opens, sending the remaining two survivors barreling into safe reach of the exit that will carry them far, far away from his wrath, but pausing to assure themselves that their precious leader will escape at their tails. With a pallet waiting ahead, it seems like checkmate for the leader. One drop and the Shape will be left on the other side of it, watching as the shepherd and his herd flee from the premises like sheep from the wolf.

   The taunt only serves as fuel to the flame, but to the shock of the pair of them, the pallet meant to separate them upon its fall only traps the boy behind it. A pause follows in which the Shape merely tilts his head. Though the stony, latex mask gives nothing away as to the expression of the wearer beneath, smugness oozes from the figure like an ugly aura. Raising that bloodied knife high in the air, he knows that the game between himself and the leader is ending in HIS favor.

 Usually it was Ace armed with a witty rejoinder. Even when everyone else took the first opportunity to split, the old man made it a habit of loitering behind for the chance to feed their many adversaries a taste of the stand-up routine he so often by the fire’s side to an audience far less likely to send a butcher’s knife careening into his neck. Dwight didn’t particularly look forward to heading out into the fog with the gambler, if only because choosing to work with the pontoon-enthusiast really was a gamble as far as counting on him to choose plucking a struggling soul off a hook before he looted the chest next to the poor sucker. If it weren’t for the sneering senior’s reliance on luck, he might have been at his usual place--slouched against the brick wall just a skip and a hop from freedom, rolling a sliver of a cattail reed between his teeth. The last place Dwight had seen him was under a broken lamp post, hook lying used and bloody in the dirt. Ace claimed to be a lucky man, constantly coining “you’re welcome” to people he deemed as leeches to his love affair with Lady Luck. Dwight, of course, thought any claims to fortune were merely happenstance, but after fumbling the pallet across his only escape route, he’s suddenly not as sure of a skeptic spouting the law of probability.

  Fifty-percent didn’t always have to end in his favor, but it sure as hell should have with how long he’d been chucking barges of wood across the paths of eight-foot-tall terrors. Even in death, Ace had hustled him out of an escape. He’s their leader, after all--even if he had some beef of a non-pepperoni variety with Ace and his mildly irritating insistence on wearing sunglasses at night, he couldn’t leave without at least honoring a fallen teammate, even if that meant acting like a complete cuck just to keep the asshole’s memory alive. With only one job left to do--two, if he was counting how many times he’d try to finger-gun a man wielding a butcher knife--it’s no wonder he fails both. Ace Visconti might have had a few flings Lady Luck, but Dwight Fairfield was married to an irate named Irony.

  Past a resounding “um”, he doesn’t stick around to see the Shape’s pale face calculate the turn of events with a tilts of his mask, at least--he doesn’t try to stick anywhere close to that knife raised over his head without even a shower curtain between him to soften a psychotic blow. With no room for a running start, he scrambles slowly over the pallet and...watches his hat tumble onto the other side. The knife slides in smoother than the hooks do, almost so quickly the pain of the blade sinking into his shoulder until it hits wood doesn’t register with him until he realizes he’s stuck mid-scramble, pinned to the board like a butterfly in a wooden display case. Vomiting a yelp, he swats blindly behind him, smacking the latex face a few times before finding the handle of the knife peeking out from above a fist that could easily envelop his whole head. Fuck. His eyes flit frantically to the gate, the soft brown in them steeling once he spots Laurie taking a hesitant step forward. “Don’t!” With blood welling up in his mouth, he adds wetly. “--don’t let him get you too.” Shuddering only twists his flesh around the blade more. Desperate to keep it as stationary as a hook’s bite, he squeezes the handle and thrashes his feet, hoping to strike the smug right out of his assailant.

               “Hrghn--!”