You were in the woods, just exploring. Next, you were running for your life.

Sprinting as fast as you could, your legs pistoning you forward, your heart hammered in your chest. A bullet fires in the distance. Someone is fucking shooting at you, what the Hell?

Your legs are starting to give out, and in a blink you're careening towards the forest floor and slamming into the leaves hard. Muck and detritus smear across your hands and face, slimy and cold and wet as it soaks through your clothes. It's cloying—the heat from your exertion and sweat mixing with the sludge underfoot from this weeks heavy rainfall—and you try to scramble to your feet. You lose footing repeatedly, but manage to stumble forward on all fours before dashing into another sprint.

You're booking it again, until another shot lands in a tree near your head and you immediately drop into a cower. You're going to die out here. You shield your face, body shaking frantically. A hand roughly grabs the back of your shirt and hoists you up, and you feel cold metal pressed to your throat.

"I've got you now," a woman's voice pants into your ear.

She releases the hand on you shirt, gliding it across your stomach and clumsily fingering for the zipper and fly of your jeans. She's incessant—low sounds in your ear with each desperate paw against your belly—and keeps your back pressed firmly to her chest. "Don't. Resist."

"You're lucky I found you—" The woman in front of you says, giving a brief, airy laugh. "The woods are dangerous, you'd have gotten hurt..."

She stares down at you, still panting from the exertion of literally hunting you in the woods and defacing your body upon capture, and lets her eyes roam over your bare, bruised form. The collar at your throat is tight but weathered, the leather soft and worn. You don't bother letting your thoughts linger on if you're the first one here.

"My name is Eden." She blurts out abruptly, expression softening. You can still feel her arousal sticking. to your skin. "It gets lonely out here... I'm self sufficient, but..."

Eden shuffles awkwardly, expression stiff and guarded, but crouches down to lift your head up to look at her. Her hands are large as they cup your chin, but the mud of her gloves detracts from whatever warmth you might have felt.

"If I protect and provide for you, will you give me comfort and company?"

...You feel like you don't really have a choice.

Thwack!

Thwack!

Thwack!

The rhythmic clunk and splintering as logs split and fall to the dirt. The sun is hanging lazily overhead anddd bearing down in a blanket of heat that drips like honey through the trees. Eden has been working diligently for most of the waning afternoon; she's sweating—God, she's sweating—and is bathed in a sheen of sweat and tan.

She rests the axe between her knees, the handle posed almost perversely, as she lifts the hem of her tank-top to wipe at the sweat on her forehead. The happy-trail of hair that disappears below her belt is just as enticing as her abs on display, breathing heavy but overall lax. She never was one to wear bras, either—your eyes can't help but peek a glance from afar at the underside of her breasts.

She was stunning, even if rough around the edges.

Eden releases the shirt after a moment and sighs, before her eyes glance to you. Sitting so cutely under the old oak across from the spring, she couldn't help but be drawn to you like you were a hare and she the fox. As she approaches, the axe weighs heavy in her hand. It'd be frightening for anyone else—some real-life slasher in the making, all she was missing was the Vorhees motif—but it drops to the grass when she's close enough to slide her hands under your arms and pull you upright.

"I," Eden begins, chest heaving as she hefts you upwards only to slam a knee beneath your thighs to pin you against the tree. "Need a break."

She grins in a tired, wolfish sense, bracing her arms against the trunk and caging you in against her. Her voice is soft, but hungry. "I've been working hard out there."

Eden's steps are clumsy as the radio plays... 'something'. You aren't sure if it's even considered music at this point—the service out here is so shit that whatever song is meant to be playing cuts out half the time and is filled with enough fuzz you could probably knit with it.

Regardless, she takes careful paces with you and holds you steady and firm. She's clearly not the best dancer, but she's trying. That's enough for you.

"...Bet we look stupid." She mumbles suddenly, cracking a small smile while looking down at you. "Pair of fools waltzin' here and there in a rinky-dink cabin."

She chuckles at that, watching carefully at the footwork between you two to make sure she doesn't step on your feet. She nearly does (less than you'd expect given her gait), and curses herself.

In an effort to push down her sudden bashfulness and embarrassment at her lack of dance prowess, she shifts her grip on you and leans you into a dip. It doesn't match the tempo at all, but she can't help it. You're just too tempting. Peppering a few kisses to your jaw, she continues on like nothing has happened.

"Think I need dance classes?"