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bettyfrommars · 6 months

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Season of the Witch

by @allthingsjoeq & @bettyfrommars

steddie x reader

Blair Witch Project au

Warnings: 18+ONLY, found footage horror, hurt/no comfort, fem!reader who is just a friend, no Vecna, angst, lost in the woods, mentions of witchcraft, paranormal happenings, things that go bump in the night, fear of being stalked, allusions to gore and MCD. Dead dove do not eat. wc: 13k

If you are familiar with the film The Blair Witch Project, you know some of what to expect. This is a horror fic; it will be scary and unsettling at times, so please take caution if the genre makes you uncomfortable.

Summary: Three friends find themselves in a small town in Maryland, the home of the Blair Witch, in order for Steve Harrington to film a documentary for his semester project. In tow are his boyfriend, Eddie Munson, and you, a friend he invited along to be his trusty cameraperson. Once you are too deep in the woods to find your way back, the myths surrounding the lore of the land begin to take shape, and you realize you might never make it out of there alive.

Much love to @allthingsjoeq for all of the blood, sweat, and tears that went into this, and also for calling it "a Marmite fic". We hope you enjoy this contribution to the October festivities! Much love.

Burkittsville Cemetery, Maryland

“Here we are,” Steve Harrington can’t contain the glimmer of wonder in his eyes, behind wire-rimmed spectacles, as he parks near the overgrown site of the cemetery.

You look up from fiddling with the camera in the back seat as the tires crunch to a halt, already thinking of where the best spot to get a shot of Steve would be for the documentary he’s working on. You aren’t as familiar with filming as you should be for being his main cameraperson, but you and Steve had become close friends very quickly, and he practically insisted you be a part of it.

He was especially fascinated with the town you grew up in called Burkittsville in Maryland. You knew about Steve’s obsession with the paranormal, and the legends that surrounded certain locations, so you told him about your hometown legend—the Blair Witch. You hadn’t been back since you were a kid, but you watched his face light up when you talked about the lore, and all of the possibilities for filming.

Although Steve had his camera crew of one sorted, he would and could never travel without his partner in crime and in love, Eddie Munson. The metalhead stands now looking out over the cemetery with his black and white flannel over a Bark at the Moon Ozzy Osbourne concert tee, and his hair tied back in a bandana, being the supportive boyfriend. He clamps a hand on Steve’s shoulder to give it a squeeze. “You got this, big boy. Let’s rock ‘n roll.”

Tall grass yields underfoot as you all make your way around the space, bending down to try and read the crumbling grave markers.

There is a staggering amount of tiny, decaying gravestones, each dedicated to a child who lost their life to unknown, yet presumably horrifying circumstances.

“Shit,” Steve mutters under his breath. “There’s a lot of kids here.” You film his profile as he says it, shifting the focus back to get Eddie in the frame, and he shoots his tongue out, putting his forefinger and pinky up to make devil horns.

Steve does a monologue for the camera. He’s standing on the hill near one of the taller headstones, and the wind makes his hair unruly. “Here we are in the town of Burkittsville, formerly Blair. As legend has it, around 1785, a Blair resident named Elly Kedward was accused of practicing witchcraft by several children. The children said that she had dragged them from their homes with the intention of drinking their blood. As you can see, there is an unusually large number of children buried on this hill.”

You film different headstones, making sure to capture the stone angel, and a few of the other statues, to splice into the film while Steve is talking for the final cut.

Interviews with some of the long-time residents in town are next, and in the car ride down the hill, Eddie holds the camera and turns it on you in the back seat. You cover your face at first, not wanting to be recorded, but he eases you out of it with some of his playful banter. “Since we’re interviewing people who grew up here, we should start with you, right? What is your experience with the Blair Witch?”

You’d talked about the stories you’d heard so often with Steve, but being in the spotlight made you nervous, and it took a second to find your words. “No personal experiences, really, but I’ve heard a lot of lore. Ghost stories, mostly. Stuff to scare us kids so we’d go to bed early.” You shift in your seat and look out the window, but Eddie is waiting for more. “I, um, well…”

“Leave her alone, Eddie,” Steve responds absently, flipping the blinker to turn into town. The song Season of the Witch by Donovan is on the radio and Steve’s mumbling the lyrics.

“No, it’s okay,” you flex a quick smile. “If it helps, I mean, I was 8 years old when we left, I don’t know a lot other than what I’ve researched.”

“Your audience is waiting,” Eddie zooms the focus in way too much so that your eyes take up the whole frame.

“Okay,” you start. “So I guess there were these two guys who were hunting once, up by the cabin Blair Witch is supposed to haunt, and they just disappeared off the face of the earth. Search parties combed the woods for weeks and couldn’t find a trace of them.”

“Maybe they realized they were in love and ran away together,” Eddie chuckles, pushing the heel of his hand into Steve’s shoulder.

You smile down at your lap. “Could be.”

“One more thing,” Eddie looks at you over the top of the camera and then puts his eye back down to focus. “Is there a chance we could all end up victims of the Blair Witch?”

You can’t tell if it’s a serious question, but it gives you chills. Your eyes flick from the camera to the back of Steve’s head and his messy flop of hair.

“I personally don’t believe in ghosts or witches,” you smile as you say it, and catch Steve’s quick glance at you in the rearview mirror. “But don’t tell Steve.”

Eddie snorts and puts the camera in his lap but forgets to turn it off.

“I’m really looking forward to proving you wrong,” Steve’s muffled voice says to you as Eddie rustles the camera down between his legs. “There’s some spooky shit going on in those woods, and I’m going to get it on film.”

First night, The Motel

The map of the forest is spread out across the thin, floral spread of the motel bed. Eddie and you stare down at it, identically flicking your eyes across the inked locations, each mirroring the same dazed look of cluelessness.

“I think, if we start here and then make our way north we’ll get to here,” Steve then circles the center vigorously before saying, “by midday.”

On the map it's easy to believe the forest only stretches a few miles and Steve’s plan so far seems simple enough, promising this hike to be quick. With the action plan sorted, a large pizza shared, and your survival packs spilling out with textbook necessities, it gives the three of you the rest of the evening to chill. This downtime allows you to mess about a bit and accidentally fill some of the tape space with personal footage.

You’ve decided to sprawl out on one of the two double beds, propping yourself up on your elbow to film Steve and Eddie’s tiny little tickle fight that started over Steve being adamant that he wasn’t and would never be ticklish. Eddie knows just the right areas on his ribs to challenge with his deft fingers, making Steve squirm and beg for him to stop, while Eddie chuckles and pounces on top of him, making the cheap bed springs squeak.

“Hey, put the camera away,” Steve spots you, and then attempts to lunge off the bed and grab the camera. But you lift it out of his reach with a mischievous giggle.

Eddie smiles along with you, his gaze falling with admiration on the way Steve’s cheeks turn a rosy pink at the exhilaration. He throws a wink your way and pokes his tongue at Steve’s back, grabbing his ankle to keep him from leaving the bed.

“Stevie, have you seen my lighter?” A few minutes later, you start filming again as Eddie is wandering the room in nothing but a pair of boxers and an unzipped hoodie.

“Are you going to smoke now?” Steve asks, checking the batteries in his flashlight.

“What’s wrong with now?”

“Well, you know,” Steve unsubtly tips his head in your direction, worried that you may not be comfortable.

“Oh, no I don’t mind”, you say, not wanting your inexperience to ruin the mood. It makes Eddie raise an eyebrow, your choice of words being music to his ears.

“See Steve, if anything she’s probably curious,” he extends both hands to you as if you were a prize at the fair.

Eddie bounces on the balls of his feet and begins to dig through his pack's front pocket before retrieving a baggy of rolled joints. He pats around in his vest and produces a green plastic lighter with a triumphant, “a-ha!”

It’s been a while since you’d smoked weed, and you weren’t even sure you liked it, but Eddie’s contagious energy made you want to be a part of whatever he was doing. He squints as he inhales, holds it, and then passes the joint to you between pinched fingers before releasing a generous plume of smoke.

You took what you thought was a tiny drag, but it tickles the back of your throat and sends you into a coughing spasm, making you bat your chest with the palm of your hand after handing the joint back.

“Can’t handle it sweetheart?” Eddie snickers, but then he wiggles his eyebrows at you and takes another drag for himself, passing you a bottle of water from the bedside table. The cap is off and some of it sloshes onto his hand.

“Oh, wait, I have something better,” Eddie says, jumping off the bed to snatch a fifth of whiskey out of his bag. “Shots?”

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Steve adjusts his glasses and pulls back the comforter on his side of the bed to get cozy. “Just one. We have a long day tomorrow.”

You shrug and nod, eyes bloodshot and watering, while Eddie puts the bottle to his lips and chugs a shot first before handing it to you. You swallow a big gulp, and Eddie howls at the way your face screws up like you’d just sucked on a lemon.

“Here’s to the Blair Witch,” Steve holds the bottle up before he takes his drink. “May she grace us with her presence tomorrow.”

Black Hills Forest, Day one, 9am

“Are we filming?” Eddie chimes in, practically vibrating with excitement.

“The green light is on,” you mumble to yourself, frowning down at the screen on the camera that shows nothing but black.

“Hey, Indiana Jones,” you call over to Steve who is checking the direction of the wind with a licked finger as he squints into the sun filtering through the dead leaves. “What am I doing wrong?”

Steve adjusts the strap of his hiking pack and strolls over to you with a tight clench between his eyebrows. “Give it here,” he sighs, taking it from you. “I just tested it this morning, I know it’s—”

He finally sees the problem and halts. He makes somber eye contact with you, takes the cover off the lens and holds it up.

“Oh,” you bite the inside of your cheek, stifling a self-conscious laugh.

“Steve Angelica Harrington,” Eddie grins, throwing his arm around Steve aggressively, almost knocking him over. “Our hero.”

You lift the camera up to your eye and get both of them in the frame, leaning back to smile at the pair. Steve shrugs away from Eddie’s attention as if he doesn’t like it, but then there is a moment when he turns and the two almost kiss. Eddie gives a few exaggerated, puckered smooches and leans in.

Steve realizes you’re filming and pushes his boyfriend off for real this time, running a hand through his hair to fix himself. Restless as ever, Eddie comes around to take the camera from you, asks you where certain buttons are, and then points it in your direction. You shrug him away playfully and shield your face from the nose down with the crook of your arm as if you are Dracula holding your cape.

Steve pops his knee out and tilts his head. “Would you two dorks stop messing around and take this witch hunt seriously? I want this documentary to be a success.”

“So remind me, King Steve,” Eddie turns the camera on his boyfriend, and he does not look amused. “We’re trying to find the ghost of some child murdering witch from the 1700’s? Should I be trying to spot a gingerbread house too?”

Off camera, you snort and say, “idiot,” under your breath.

“Eddie,” Steve keeps his profile to the camera, refusing to make eye contact. “Let’s get some footage first and then I’ll let you mess around with the camera.” He doesn’t want a bunch of adolescent jibber jabber on film. .

“What, I’m just trying to be helpful,” Eddie shrugs with puppy dog eyes, lowering the device.

He forgets to turn off video again, and as it angles at the ground. Audio catches a distinct sound, like a soft moan, from somewhere in the woods.

Steve holds his hand up for everyone to halt, freezing in place, and a small twig snaps under his foot.

You open your mouth to speak, something about how it would be better to get a shot of Steve in the clearing, but you are swiftly shushed.

You motion to take the camera from Eddie, and then you point it at Steve, and he turns to you, right in the camera’s eye. His tone is dire: “Can you hear that humming?”

“I can’t—” Eddie blurts, but then Steve puts the palm of his hand tight over Eddie’s mouth, wrapping his fingers over his chin, knowing that it was impossible for him to stay quiet under pressure.

Your heart is racing as you concentrate, ears straining. There is the dry shuffle of the breeze rustling the branches, but otherwise, the silence is eerie and vast.

“Cut it out, Steve, it’s not funny,” you bristle, locking one arm protectively over your chest while the other attempts to hold the camera in place. Steve is darting his attention around the woods, trying to locate the origin of the sound.

Eddie steps back, moving his mouth away from Steve’s muzzle. “It’s just the wind, baby, it’s making you paranoid,” he offers, noticing the way Steve’s face is drained of its color. Bending down to retrieve the map that fell when Steve got manhandled, one of Eddie’s legs flew out behind him dramatically. A part of you wonders if Eddie and the map are a good combination, however you keep your thoughts to yourself.

You’re almost positive you heard a voice in the woods as well, but you decide to keep that close to your chest.

The lingering tension finally subsides, and Eddie reaches back for Steve’s hand to keep him moving in the same direction; to coax him out of his racing thoughts. Not wanting to waste battery life, you turn the camera off and stumble behind them, actively fighting off the urge to glance over your shoulder at whatever might be following in your wake.

The next few hours consist of hiking through unused paths and trampling muddy footprints, waiting for Steve to find his perfect backdrop to open his documentary. With the car far behind you and your full 360 view being nothing but trees, Steve finally breaks from his determined stroll.

“Can we do this now?” You lightly prod. For the last half hour, Steve has been trying to find the right spot to stand, and you felt like his perfectionism will be the death of you.

Steve has that look, the professional one, when he means business. However, for Steve to enter his little documentary presenter zone he wants to stand alone, the trees being his only sidekick.

“You can go over there now,” Steve gives Eddie a playful nudge.

His boyfriend has been on his heels this entire time, but now the metalhead jogs over to grab the camera off of you to keep himself busy, while Steve concentrates, pushing his glasses up on his nose, finding his performance space before he begins.

“The town of Blair has been cursed since the 1700’s,” he starts.

Eddie and you share an encouraging nod, adding a dash of support for Steve to continue.

“They all warn of the Blair witch, the one known to lure children to her home and sacrifice their souls and use their blood as an offering.” Steve starts to find his rhythm, naturally taking small steps backwards, like a guide, forcing the camera to follow.

“Elly Kedward was eventually found and blamed for the towns disappearances and without trial was banished into these woods in the depth of winter to freeze and perish a worser fate than her victims.”

There’s a climatic wind gust that passes through the trees, almost like the ghost of a victim's warning, sent to bring the hairs on your arms to rise. It makes Eddie grin, Steve’s eyes widen with interest, and you try to contain a violent shiver; the theatrics of nature perfecting the shot.

Steve pauses to take in his surroundings for dramatic effect before continuing.

“Her twisted end didn’t sit right, the town of Blair began to notice odd occurrences, noises and symbols from the forest. Locals believe she left a curse. They say she is still roaming in these woods to this day, seaking her revenge and enticing lost souls into her portal to show the devil her true power.”

Steve takes a breath, pausing before opening his mouth to speak again, but Eddie’s attention span has other ideas.

“Oh wait, Steve can you do that again, I didn’t press record,” Eddie says as cool as he can muster, biting the inside of his cheek.

Steve shoves his hand roughly through his hair and holds it there, tempted to rip the hair from his scalp. “For fuck sake Munson.”

Quickly breaking into a wild grin Eddie says a quick, “joking babe,” fully accepting the harsh shove Steve jabs to his shoulder, but then Eddie decides to up the antics. He falls to the ground dramatically and starts to wiggle like a worm.

“Help, Help, it’s got me, the witch,” faking a struggle, to which Steve tuts, lodging a twig in his direction and adding a casual, “get over yourself, Munson.” You dive down to take the camera from Eddie’s extended arms as he rolls to his side, and bite back a grin before giving Steve the signal that he’s on again.

Steve advises Eddie to roam around while he delivers the next part of the story.

“This legend sits on the border of fiction and fact. It’s chilling, yes, but the stories and facts just don’t add up. A truth needs to be found and today, the legend of the witch will either remain its legendary hoax or a fatal truth may be… Wait, cut.”

“What, why?” You frown, enjoying Steve’s witch hunter mode, but clearly his self doubt has arrived.

“Was it a bit much? I felt like I was entering Eddie’s DND campaign.”

“Hey,” Eddie protests, opening his mouth and eyes wide at the camera and prompting you to snort a laugh at his theatrics.

The day wages on, the forest becoming your only view for miles as Steve drags his feet, unsatisfied at his findings so far. The consistent checking of his watch is a hint alone that it’s time to set up camp soon.

By nightfall, the strange noises from earlier were all but forgotten, and you sit with a full belly in front of the crackling fire opposite Eddie. You film him as he tells one of his wild stories, complete with active hand gestures and cartoonish sounds. Eddie gets a detail wrong in the tale he is retelling, and so Steve corrects him with a bit of a bored look on his face, as if he’s heard the story told wrong a million times. You focus the zoom in on Steve’s face as he turns to rest his chin on his shoulder and regard his partner. There was a deep fondness there in his eyes, even though it is masked for the moment with irritability.

Eddie decides to get in close, his mouth inches from Steve’s. You watch as he murmurs something that makes Steve crack a smile, and then the two share a kiss, noses rubbing, and you feel like you were intruding on a private moment. You then decided it was time to give the juice in the camera a rest for the night while you all slept. Much like the camera you follow in its footsteps and shut off, exaggerating a yawn to catch the pair’s attention.

Your little hint is not lost on Steve, and it prompts him to pass you a flashlight so you can avoid tripping over the tent's zip on your way to bed.

Nestled undercover in your downy sleeping bag, you drift in and out of sleep, only faintly hearing the footsteps of the boys before they go into their tent. In the middle of the night, you swear you hear voices, like a distant conversation, but you assume it must be the boys. There’s an ominous but faint cackling that follows it, but by then, you’re already too deep to notice.

And then suddenly, there’s nothing, just stillness and the dark of the woodland air.

Day Two, No sight of the road.

The next day brings more of the same. Hopeful banter in the morning, which then easily leads into some playful teasing throughout the afternoon. The on and off tones of professionalism to mockery becomes apparent. At one point while filming, Steve in one of his monologues, tense and suspenseful, until the scene was hijacked by Eddie flying through the air to tackle him.

The light mood progressively gets shadowed, though, as the day wears on and there seems to be little to no chance of getting back to the car before dark. Steve halts to check the map several times, flustered and angry with himself, while Eddie has a smoke break and you film around, even catching sight of a doll made of sticks hanging from a tree.

“Steve?” You hum his name over your shoulder, wanting him to see what you see.

He ignores you at first, biting the side of his thumbnail, and spinning on his heel as he stares down at the compass. When he finally lifts his head, he frowns, confused, but then the doll made of sticks comes into focus and his eyes narrow behind the smudged lenses of his glasses.

“What the hell is that?” Eddie is already on his way over. He decides to smoke the other joint in his pack instead of one of his Camels, and it is doing wonders for his anxiety.

Eddie reaches up to touch the doll, but Steve stops him. “Wait!” He notices that his voice is a bit harsh, so he starts again in a calmer tone. “Listen, we don’t know what it is or who put it there. I think we should respect the woods and leave it be.”

“Respect the woods?” Eddie barks a laugh, continuing to touch the legs of the doll and turn it around to see how it was made and you watched through the camera lens.

“I bet some kid made it when their family was out here camping,” Eddie mused, exhaling smoke. “It’s creepy, I like it.”

Steve decides to interfere with his high boyfriends fascination, batting his hand away and in the process accidentally knocking the wooden doll to the floor.

“Hey, Steve you’ve killed him!” Eddie taunts; mouth agape, eyes accusatory.

Steve really didn’t want to do that and you sense the growing paranoia that he’s experiencing from the way he’s frozen, staring at the little figure now laying twisted on the floor. Eddie pouts and goes to retrieve it once again.

“Eddie, leave it.” Steve can’t hide his increasing stress, his words strained in between his clenched teeth. He grabs onto Eddie’s pack using it to encourage Eddie to walk in the other direction.

Steve prays this is the right way. He sends you a weak smile, and you know him well enough to deduce that he is feeling embarrassed that he doesn’t have you out of the woods yet.

As the sunlight dwindles, a bitter sense of reality begins to creep up on you. The branches above lose their subtle shadows and the once benign tree clusters begin to morph into something otherworldly.

When it is finally time to make camp again, it is all any of you could do not to think about the stories you’d recorded from the townspeople the other day. In particular the one about the killer who would take kids down into his basement two at a time, and make one wait in the corner while he killed one, and then would kill the one in the corner. He didn’t like their eyes on him, apparently, that’s why he made them stare at the wall.

The darkness is crowding in, giving tiny nudges to everyone's paranoia that you are not alone in that forest. There was a presence that tickled in barely audible whispers as the night claimed its position and every howl of the wind was a possible threat.

Not a lot of filming took place during the down time by the fire. It was as if the courage to speak the stories had vanished and the myths began to seep into their reality. Less words exchanged and a few uncertain glances shared with Steve, but Eddie remained stoic and chilled, maintaining his energy.

The plan of action is the last conversation you share, Steve taking control and promising that you’ll all be back in town by tomorrow afternoon.

The sound of the boys getting situated in their tent was comforting, and you giggled when Eddie farted and tried to blame it on a passing wildebeest. But, things got quiet quickly—too quiet—and soon you could hear the faint hiss of Steve’s snore and you realized that having your own tent was not all it was cracked up to be.

An owl hooted, but along with its natural call there was something else out there making sounds. Was that the humming Steve had mentioned the day before? Straining to listen, the noise was followed by an unmistakable cackle that made you grab the flashlight and a pillow and scurry out of your tent like it was on fire.

“Um-guys,” you were pulling open the flap to their tent before either of them could answer. “Is there any possibility i could squeeze in your tent tonight, i was a-a bit cold on my own.”

Eddie sits up, groggily, from where he had his head on Steve’s chest, as if he’d fallen asleep the second he closed his eyes, and scoots away to make room for you in the middle.

Feeling safer nestled between your two friends, you are finally able to let yourself drift off into a dreamless sleep that offers no reprieve from the shadows in your mind.

Later that night, scattered and confused, another bizarre noise caught your attention, jarring you awake.

A blanket of dark coats the inside of the tent, but after a few fuzzy blinks you easily make out that Steve is sitting up with the flap of the tent open. He’s crouched over, the faint shake of his hands holding the camera a dead giveaway to his unease.

Sensing that you are awake, he tilts his head to the side to acknowledge you, and then signals for you to listen.

“Did you hear that?” You whisper, not wanting to wake Eddie who is offering soft snores next to you.

Steve puts a finger to his lips, and then turns back around with the camera pointed out into the night.

Somehow he manages to convince himself that the noise is from a deer or squirrel. Due to your delirious state, this information settles your tired worry and allows you to snuggle down, eager for the morning light.

Day Three, Walking in Circles

With no idea how long Steve remained awake last night, there’s a part of you that feels he’s hiding something to protect you. The next morning his raw, uplifting nature dwindled, his inner doubts coming to the surface to pinch the skin between his eyebrows.

“I’m sorry I dragged you all out here,” Steve announces with a heavy sigh, staring down at the remnants from the fire. Eddie angles the camera up at him while you zip a few things into your knapsack. “We’ll be having lunch back in town in a few hours, but let’s keep adding to the footage as we go.”

Steve shows you on the map where you were all headed, tapping his finger in the spot where you’d parked the car. “Two hours, tops,” he promises.

Eddie gets to his feet and adjusts the focus so that Steve goes from blurry to clear to blurry again. “Battery life on this thing is low and I can’t find the portable charger.”

Steve turned on him, jaw muscles tensing, ready to let an angry word slip.

“The charger is right here,” you corrected, lifting it out of the bag it was in to show Steve and calm his nerves. Once Steve steps away to check the compass again, Eddie makes a face at you, tongue darting out from the side of his mouth, letting you know that he knew it was there, he just wanted to give Steve a hard time.

“I have a question for you, sir,” Eddie rushes up behind Steve and taps his shoulder, making him turn away from the lens, bringing a hand up to block his face. “How do you feel about this Blair Witch hunt so far?”

Steve smooths the sides of his hair back and squares his shoulders, determined to look unbothered. “I feel good,” he lied. “I feel like I know exactly where we are and we just need to head east for another couple miles. Everything's going as planned, we’re just a little behind schedule, that’s all.”

You open the canteen around your neck and gulp down a few swigs of water, musing that there wasn’t much left, and you needed to find a fresh stream somewhere soon, just in case.

But, it was only a passing worry, because Steve’s confidence that you’d be back at the car in a few hours gave you an unhealthy helping of blind hope.

When you finally find the water line, there is a fallen tree across the creek, and it happens to be the only way across. You have the worst balance, and being suspended over moving water makes you nervous in a way that has your hands trembling. Eddie carries the camera for you, strapping around his neck as he makes his way across like an acrobat, and then Steve follows behind you, whispering words of encouragement.

Hours later, it’s high noon when Steve makes you all stop for a rest to take your packs off so that he can check the map again. You happen to be filming him as a flex of panic flashes across his face.

“Why does this spot feel so familiar?” He asks it under his breath, but the audio catches it.

It was the same spot you’d started from earlier in the day; same stump, same bundle of dead branches next to a large boulder. Steve turns on his heel and you can see in his face the way his heart stops when he sees the impressions from the previous night’s tent pegs.

“How is this possible?” He whispers. “We’ve been going straight all day, following the compass.”

“Give me that,” Eddie storms by, yanking the map from Steve to sit down on the big stump to look at it while he has a smoke. “This shit is Greek to me,” he admits, hollowing out his cheeks to take in all of the nicotine his lungs would allow. “Are you telling me we’ve been going in circles?”

You squat next to Eddie, filming him while he glowers at the lines on the paper, hair tied back in a messy ponytail. This was the crankiest you’d ever seen him, and you’d known him for at least a year at that point. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that there were only 3 cigarettes left, and his pack a day habit was at risk of being tested without nicotine patches or comfort.

He realizes you are recording and flinches away, blowing smoke out his nostrils. “Put that thing away please. I’m not in the mood.”

Steve split the last half of a squished peanut butter sandwich into 3 parts and passed one to each of you, but Eddie refuses his. You stare up at Steve, waiting for his word that you should stop, but he shakes his head. “She’s doing exactly what I told her to do, Eddie. We’re filming a documentary.”

“Oh, we’re filming a documentary about being lost now? Is that what this is? Because we are, we’re fucking lost.”

Eddie grumbles, exhaling an agitated breath.

“We’re not.” Steve’s voice is gruff as he pushes the food into his cheek with his tongue. “I know exactly where we are. The car is right over that way, through the trees, I’m positive.”

“Yeah, well, you said that yesterday morning and last night and four fucking hours ago,” Eddie shot to his feet with a huff, keeping the butt of his smoke clenched between his lips to button up the front of his black and red flannel.

“Shouldn’t you know where we are?” Eddie’s penetrating gaze falls on you, and for some reason, it makes you nervous. “I know you said you were just a kid, but you grew up here right? So, you must have some idea?”

You glance nervously over at Steve, as if to ask for support, and then focus the camera back on Eddie as you stammer. “I–I don’t ever remember coming out here. Once maybe, but—”

“Really Eddie?” Steve turns to his boyfriend. “You expect her to have a Magellan sense of direction in these woods because she lived nearby when she was a child? You get lost in Hawkins and you’ve lived there your whole life.”

Eddie mumbles something as he straps the last part of his pack on and starts walking, without a word, heading in the direction Steve suggested, kicking at the dirt as he goes.

“I’m sorry about this,” Steve mutters to you as he offers his hand and helps you stand. “I should’ve had you home safe by now.”

“It’s okay, I trust you. I promise I really don’t know these woods that well,” your voice is small. Your eyes are softly pleading when they find his, as if to beg for absolute reassurances.

But, Steve has nothing verbal to give. His throat is dry, he hates fighting with Eddie, and his pride was taking quite a catastrophic blow—on film, no less. He squeezes your arm, and continues at a fast trot to catch up with his salty partner, pulling you along with him.

A few hours later, the sky opened up and it started to rain, and as you ducked to follow the boys into the clearing to reluctantly set up camp, you trip over a pile of rocks and almost drop the camera.

“What the hell is this?” You mused aloud, adjusting the focus, establishing that it was, indeed, just a pile of rocks, but there was something…odd about them. They’d been stacked up by hand in the shape of a mound.

Steve and Eddie were up ahead, standing in close proximity, having a conversation in tense whispers while Eddie found the driest patch of ground under the canopy of trees to shake the tent out. It was only drizzling now, and he was eager to set up some type of shelter in case the downpour started again.

Steve moves the hood of his yellow rain slicker back to check where you were, and then comes over to see what you’d found.

“There’s a couple of them,” you point out, stepping back so he could view the others, “What was it that one woman in town said about stacks of rocks? Something to do with a signal, or warning maybe.”

Turning, you see Steve frantically dig through his bag, only letting out a satisfied hum when he retrieves his notebook. Its spiral-bound pages hold all of the key points from interviews of people back in town. You can tell he’s proud of you for having the intuition to know that these stacks might be important.

“Remember that woman we spoke to at the trailer park?” Steve asks, biting his lip in thought.

“The weird one? Mary?” You wonder aloud.

Steve snaps his fingers in excitement, flicking to the right page in his notes.

“Yes! Crazy Mary. I wasn’t paying much attention to her because I thought she was insane, but I’m sure she mentioned something to do with rock piles?”

“What’s your notes say?” You lean in to see what the camera can catch on the paper.

“Not a lot. I’ve just written ‘Bible Story about rocks’”.

You try your hardest to remember, whispering to yourself and attempting to remember what the eccentric woman had said.

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” you begin. “But, didn't she say something like, they symbolize a promise, like if you promise not to cross the rocks nothing can harm you and vice versa from the one who put them there. Ancient truce type agreement?”

“I mean it sounds right, but why are there three?”

“I'm not sure?”

Steve waves Eddie over, but he isn’t interested. He’d gone into full-on “if I don’t keep busy I’m going to lose my shit” mode, dropping to his knees in the mud to hammer in the tent pegs.

Steve sighs, feeling like Eddie probably needs a bit of attention and comfort before his mood swing completely erupts. In his process of turning away from the rocks his booted foot catches a pebble, sending the pile toppling over, but he doesn’t think to give it any attention.

Panicking in his wake, you shield the camera from the rain and re-pile the pebbles back in a formation that you hope they resembled.

You eat the last of the canned vienna sausages by the fire and no one is in the mood for jokes, but Steve does reassure everyone, especially with an arm around his boyfriend’s stiff shoulders, that you all would be out of the forest by the next afternoon. You film it, catching the way Eddie pulls away at first but then leans in to rest his head on top of Steve’s and they both stare into the fire with glossy eyes.

You didn’t even bother setting your tent up that evening, and you snuggle on the outside of the boys this time, curling up next to Steve while he spoons Eddie.

For the first hour or two, everything is peaceful, and the three of you sink into shallow sleep, only to be jared awake by Steve stumbling out of his sleeping bag, stepping on both of his companions in the process.

“Holy fuck, did you hear that?” He hisses, moving to unzip the tent. “I need to get out there, hand me the camera.”

“Steve!” You bark a harsh whisper.

“Goddamn it,” Eddie starts putting his boots on, half asleep, not wanting Steve to go out alone. “It’s just a bunch of fucking deer or something, baby, will you just—”

But then, you all hear it.

As loud and as clear as if there were people standing right outside your tent: a cackle of laughter, heavy steps crunching in the leaves, snapping twigs, echoing from the forest floor. And then there is the distinct cry of a little kid—maybe two, three different little kids. It all echoed back into the woods as if it’s in your ears and far away all at once.

With the tent flap half open and one foot out, Steve shoots a look back at the two of you, nostrils flaring as he stills for more noise. “Did you hear those kids?” He huffs, snatching the camera and ducking down to bolt out of the tent.

“Baby, there are no kids in these woods!” Eddie lunges after him, catching Steve’s calf to pull him back in. He stumbles back under cover into a crouch, only to “shush” everyone again, certain that he heard something else.

It’s then that the tent begins to shake and jostle, and the cackling continues, but it’s right on top of you now, circling the enclosure.

“Holy shit, holy fuck,” Eddie wails, pushing Steve out of the tent this time, and reaching back for your hand as he exits.

“Go go go!” You demand, encouraging them both to run as far and fast as they could from the campsite.

Everyone is stumbling and cursing, running in the dark, with the light of the camera Steve’s holding being the only illumination. He trips over something with a curse, and Eddie helps him up while you take the camera, not caring where the lens points as you run along with the boys, as fast as your feet can carry you.

Not a sound follows you, not a single footstep or snicker. Eventually, you all collapse breathless in a huddle, hunkering down near a tree.

Eddie looks into the camera you hold. “Turn that light off,” he’s panting, pupils pinned. “Shut it all off, stay the fuck down.”

“Keep the audio on,” Steve whispers, to which he gets a shove in the shoulder from Eddie.

“I can’t believe you’re still trying to film your movie, dude,” Eddie hushes curtly.

“Shutup!” You scold them both, turning the camera off.

You all sit frozen in place, holding onto each other in a football huddle for—god knows how long? Two hours maybe. Daylight finally begins to break, prompting Steve to motion you to get the camera rolling again.

Day Four, No Way Home

The three of you stay close, too frightened to be even a meter apart as you make your way back in the direction of camp. You’re cold, wet and done; so over this witch hunt and ready to put it behind you.

After a while of weary steps and nervous glances around, Eddie’s tongue clicks, breaking the silence. “There are some hillbillies in these woods trying to fuck with us, and I don’t want to fuck with that.”

Steve looks up at him. “But what if it’s something…not human?”

“Well, I don’t want to fuck with that either,” Eddie runs both hands through his hair, intertwining his fingers on top of his head as he walks.

You decide to chime in. “Something definitely does not want us here.”

“No kidding, Sherlock.” Eddie blows a raspberry and turns his back on the two of you.

“Something?” Steve cocks his head at you. “But I thought you didn’t believe in ghosts or witches?”

“I don’t,” you swallow hard, averting your eyes. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t exist.”

“Okay, we’re going,” Steve answers, meeting Eddie’s hard stare over your shoulder with defiance. “We got what we came for, let’s get our shit and keep heading north.”

“Are you sure north is the direction we need to go in?” You ask, cringing through the beginning stages of a headache. “Because we were headed north all day yesterday and it didn’t get us anywhere.”

When the campsite finally comes into view again, everyone stops short, each jaw going slack in disbelief.

“uhhh, what the fuck is this?” Eddie mumbles, stomping over to look at the way the tent has been squashed, and how everyone’s things have been thrown around. Whoever or whatever had been taunting you all a few hours ago had made a mess of all of your things; there was clothing and gear tossed in every direction.

You ran across the campsite, eyes searching. “Where is my pack?” The question caught in your throat, as if you might cry.

“Your pack is right there,” Eddie points. “More importantly, Where is my pack?”

Everyone starts collecting what they can find of their personal items while Eddie lifts up his open canteen from the ground. “They dumped all the fucking water out.”

He realizes that the canteen is also coated in something and he drops it with a curse. “Is that fucking slime? It is, there is some kind of slime all over it,” he raises his hand up to look at the viscous liquid and then rubs it off on his pant leg as best as he could.

“Im not fucking about anymore Steve, okay I believe it all, you happy? This shit, whatever it is, whoever it is, doesn’t want us here.”

Eddie’s right, this is a clear warning, an intentional attack, and for once Steve’s not looking excited at the product of evidence before you all. Steve turns towards you, your kneeling figure scooping up your pack—it had been thrown to the other side of the campsite, but nothing seemed to be missing.

Before he could question it, the whining sound of Eddie pricks his ears. Swiftly turning to face whatever tantrum the curly haired boy is throwing now, Steve is faced with Eddie frantically picking up scattered pieces of clothing.

“Woah, babe, is that all your clothes?” Steve asks in a rush, moving closer.

“Yep”. Eddie doesn’t even want to converse.

“Just yours though Eddie? No one else's?”

“This is bullshit!” Eddie throws the canteen down and it bounces further away.

Steve moves to reach out and touch Eddie’s arm, but his hand gets slapped away. “Leave me alone, dude. I need a second.”

You turn the camera off while everyone collects their things and tries to catch their breath. You were all officially out of food now, with the exception of some peanuts, and a detour needed to be made to get water from the creek. Eddie refused to use his after it was slimed, but thankfully Steve had an extra one.

When the camera comes back on, it is a couple hours later, and Steve is holding it this time to film Eddie enjoying his last smoke, while you sit with your head against a tree and your eyes closed. No one is in the mood for talking, and it is wise to conserve energy with very few resources at your disposal.

“A hamburger and fries sounds nice,” you said to break the silence with your eyes still closed.

“Mmmhmm,” Eddie concurred. “A big can of Spaghetti-O’s would hit the spot right now.”

Steve points the camera at his hiking boots as he steps closer, indulging in the fantasy. “I’ve been craving one of those clam chowder bread bowls like we had on the wharf in San Francisco.”

“That was some good shit,” Eddie mumbles, sucking his smoke all the way down to the filter.

The camera turns off again, and when it comes back on, you have it. Eddie is charging ahead, waving his arms, shouting something about how you all need to follow the creek and you’ll end up somewhere eventually.

“Hey,” Steve is walking in front of you, but he turns around. “Can you pass me the map? I want to check something.”

“Yeah, hold on,” you say, but then you reach back and realize you can’t feel the well-worn edges, and sudden, prickling dread takes over. Panicked, you reach around to check the other pocket, coming to realize the map is gone.

“Are you sure you gave it to me Steve?” you lighty question, knowing that right now is no time for jokes.

Steve gives you an exasperated look, as if you are goofing with him like Eddie might. “Yes, you have the map, you always have the map. I gave it to you after a map-check before we made camp yesterday.”

You kneel on the ground and put the camera down to do a proper search, your heart racing. “Eddie,” you shout, making him stop abruptly in his tracks. “Do you have the map?”

“Me?” Eddie turns around but stays yelling from a distance. “Why the hell would I have it? It was fucking useless anyway.”

“Okay, okay,” Steve pats the air with his hands, trying to calm the meltdown he can feel building. His attention returns to you as you stand without a map in your hand and a worried look on your face. “I know I gave it to you,” Steve reiterates. “It has to be somewhere in your stuff.”

You don't want to say what you are thinking, as you stand, pointing the camera at Steve again, but it comes out anyway. “What if whoever attacked the tent took it?”

Steve grimaces. “What would they want with…our map?”

“To make sure we have no chance of finding our way out of here,” you say it under your breath, and through the lens, you watch Steve’s jaw go slack as he takes on that possibility.

When realization dawns that you were about to lose light and need to make camp again, a thick blanket of anxiety and agitation falls over all of you. You are dragging your feet, camera angle pointed at the ground while the boys get the tent out.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this again,” Eddie mumbles curtly, brow furrowing, and back teeth grinding as the nicotine withdrawal nips at him.

You mention that you’ll go and gather some branches to make a fire, but Steve puts his hand out to stop you. “Let’s not make a fire tonight. We don’t need to draw any unnecessary attention to ourselves.”

“Good idea,” Eddie grunts. “I’d rather freeze to death in a few hours than spend one more day fumbling around this hellscape.” He is digging through his things in Steve’s pack to see if there happens to be a stray cigarette or joint anywhere. The frustrated anger rising in him is palpable.

“It’ll be a while before I ever go camping again, that’s for sure,” you muse to the group, and both the boys respond with enthusiastic nods of agreement.

“I’m gonna burn this tent when we get home,” Eddie bites out.

When you turn to Steve, he is rubbing his forehead and staring down at the ground, pensively, and you ask if you should stop filming for a bit.

Steve glosses over your question and asks another: “You promise you don’t have the map? Because if you have it, and you were just saying you lost it to be funny, I won’t be mad.”

You lower the camera so that it’s focused on his chest and the army green utility jacket he’s wearing. “I’ve checked my pack three times,” you offer, earnestly. “I promise, I don’t have it. I wish I did, Steve.”

In the background, Eddie curses at the top of his lungs and one of the tent pegs he’d been fumbling with goes flying through the air. “I’m so fucking done with this! Holy shit, what the hell are we still doing out here? This is fucking insane.”

Steve motions for you to keep filming. He’d tease Eddie about all of this later, he knew he would. He’d also use it as fodder for the argument of why he should quit smoking altogether.

Steve turns toward his boyfriend with his hands on his hips. “I know you blame me for all of this, and I’m sorry. What do you want me to say? We’re all tired and hungry and miserable.”

Eddie snaps around, eyes dark and his body rigid. “You bet your fucking ass I blame you! You’re the reason we’re about to get flayed by a bunch of inbred mountain people or die of starvation out here in this shitty-ass excuse for a forest.”

“You begged me to let you come on this trip, Eddie,” Steve is doing his best to keep his voice low, because matching Eddie’s tone when he gets upset never helps the situation. “Like you said, if we follow the creek, we’re bound to end up somewhere. It’s impossible to get lost for too long in America these days.”

Eddie’s nostrils flare. “I begged you? I practically agreed under false pretenses one night when you had my dick in your mouth, I didn’t beg for shit. I wanted to spend time with my boyfriend and watch him work, but that was back when I thought you were talented. Now I realize you’re just a hack who can’t even read a fucking map.”

He regrets it the second it leaves his lips, and you can see it in the way the corners of his mouth turn down. “I didn’t mean that,” Eddie whispers.

You step back from the two, not sure what type of conflict is about to ensue.

You can tell it hurts Steve by the way his eyes water, and he pushes his glasses up to rub his face. “No, you’re right,” Steve sighs, “It is my fault. But maybe if you weren’t such a big, needy baby all the fucking time, I might have been able to think clearly on this trip.”

“I’m the needy baby? Seriously? So what, little miss perfect over there gets let off the hook because she’s your perfect little puppet?”

“Hey, no need to bring her into this.”

“Guys!” You shout, waiting until they both look at you. “This isn’t helping, okay? I for one am scared shitless about what else might be out here in these woods, and if we don’t stick together, we don’t have a chance.”

There is a minute long silence while everyone tries to shake the anxiety out of their shoulders. Steve comes over to let you know you can turn the camera off, but then the sound of Eddie’s laughter makes you both turn.

He’s bent over, hands on his knees, laughing so hard he is sucking in dry air.

You and Steve share an amused look,

“What’s so funny, baby?” Steve asks, cracking a bit of a smile.

Eddie stands, face red from exertion. “You and that fucking map. I got rid of it yesterday! What do you think about that?” Eddie then convulses into giggles again, walking off into the other direction.

“You did what?” Both you and Steve say in unison.

Surely, you’d both misheard him.

“Yeah,” Eddie continues. “I kicked that fucker into the creek, it was useless!”

“You son of a bitch,” Steve spat, lunging at him. “How could you do that to me? To us?”

You catch Steve’s arm, trying to hold the camera and him all at once. The last thing you need is for these two to get into a physical fight.

Eddie starts to walk further away, but then he stops to turn on his heel and face the two of you, deciding to fight his case a little more. “We just kept going in circles, it wasn’t helping us!”

“You knew I was going crazy looking for it! Why didn’t you say anything?” Steve yells after him.

In the distance, you see Eddie shrug, before matter of factly stating, “I need to go for a walk.”

“But it will be dark in a half hour,” panic bubbling in your chest. “Eddie…wait!”

Eddie waves his arm in the air and keeps going.

“Let him go,” Steve touches your shoulder, “he gets like this sometimes. Let him walk it off, we’ll finish setting up.”

Steve has an overwhelming desire to run after his partner, to say, “hey, stop, I love you,” but none of that ever happened. He knew when it was best to let Eddie cool off.

He knows Eddie won’t go far, he’ll be back in a few minutes.

When you turn the camera back on, an hour later, Eddie is still not back.

There is a soft, orange glow from the sunset through the trees, but other than that, it’s pitch black out. Locking arms with Steve, he dances the beam of his flashlight around the forest while you film with the camera light on, trying to remain within visual distance from camp.

Steve had already screamed Eddie’s name so many times, his voice was becoming hoarse.

“If you’re fucking with us, Eddie, I swear to Christ I will never ever forgive you!” He starts to imagine Eddie is crouched down by a tree somewhere, covering his mouth to hold back the hilarity of watching his boyfriend almost shit his pants looking for him.

Steve tries to break free from your linked arms, attempting to charge deeper into the woods.

“Steve, no!” You squeak, desperation present in your tone. You shift the camera to the crook of your arm, so it angles up at his horrified face. You really don't want anything bad to happen to Eddie, but you also can’t let anything bad happen to Steve.

Steve suddenly turns to face you, eyes wild. “But what if he’s hurt somewhere, what if he’s…damn it Eddie!...what if…”

He doesn’t have to finish the sentence, you already know what he is thinking. What if the myths of the forest were true? What if there was an entity in the woods that fed on fear and needed a sacrifice every so often? What if there were hillbillies in pig masks carrying chainsaws and they often resorted to cannibalism? You’d watched too many horror movies in your life and so had Steve, and it wasn’t helping either one of you at that moment.

But, to be fair, it wasn’t all just in your head. There is definitely something or someone else out there with all of you, and maybe it was just biding its time until all of you are broken.

Eddie’s missing. An hour later, it’s official.

He wasn’t hiding or playing a game; he had somehow vanished into thin air. The guilt begins to creep and crawl, festering inside Steve’s chest, the buzzing of night insects heightening his sense of dread.

You’d manage to coax Steve back to the tent. “We’ll go back and build a fire, so that he can see the light of it if he’s lost.”

“I’m not going to stop looking for him,” Steve mutters, screaming Eddie’s name again as he walks, his voice echoing off the emptiness as the cold air burns his lungs. He was too pumped full of fear and adrenaline to cry, but the tears were building behind his eyes. “It’s freezing out here and he’s only got that flannel on.”

“Listen to me,” you yank Steve around to look at you, being rougher than you ever have with him, but your eyes are kept soft. “It would be very easy for us to get lost in these woods ourselves. What if Eddie makes it back to camp and we’re gone?”

You let that sink in, hoping you can reason with him. You notice that his shoulders relax.

“I bet he went a little too far and he can’t find his way back in the dark,” you continue.

“He probably found some shelter to wait it out for the night. He’ll be cold, but it’s not going to freeze, he’ll survive. We can go out and look for him at first light.”

Steve starts nodding to himself as he pans the flashlight beam over the forest again. “A fire is a good idea, so he knows where we are.”

The active denial grips the both of becoming a makeshift coping mechanism, a way to hold onto hope when there seems to be none left. You have a bad feeling that you may never see Eddie alive again, but you plan on keeping up pretenses for Steve for as long as you could.

“We’ll find him, Steve,” you don’t want to lie to him, but you felt like it was something he needed to hear.

Steve struggles to meet your eyes, but you can make out a stray tear that’s making tracks across his stubbled cheek and it breaks your heart for him.

“I didn’t go after him, didn’t even try to convince him to stay. How fucking stupid could I be?”

“No, Steve, you can’t blame yourself, okay, it was an in the moment thing, it’s going to be okay.”

“What part of this whole thing has EVER been okay?”

He turns his back on you and it sends a stinging pang through your chest. A part of you can’t help but wonder if he’s wishing it were you that went missing. Maybe he’s wishing he never brought you along at all.

With a heavy heart and a signature rake through his hair, Steve shuts his eyes, takes a shaken breath and turns around, inviting you to step into his arms and you hook an arm around his waist. This embrace is welcomed, as you soak up the heavy warmth wrapped around you, making it hard to let go. Seemingly feeling the same, Steve leans in further, soaking up what he presumes is the last moments of peace, a crumb of tranquility. Feeding on the sliver of hope you’ve provided him.

A stuttered sigh slips from Steve’s dry lips. His next words are nothing but a whisper, but it’s meaningful, and becomes tattooed amongst the trees.

“I can’t lose him,” his voice cracks.

Then, as if on cue, there’s a cry—a whimper of agony erupts from deep in the nothingness.

Steve snaps a look at you and a fist tightens over your heart. You hold very still, making sure you heard what you thought you did, both wondering if you’d imagined it.

But then another scream follows, this one more drawn out than the first, and it sounds just like Eddie.

Steve braces himself, senses sharp, trying to find the direction the scream is coming from. “Holy shit, that was him!”

There’s a scuffle as Steve bumps into you in his haste to move. You almost drop the camera as he bounces off of you, losing his mind over the sound of Eddie's voice, you then scramble to catch the device before it falls to the ground. There’s only muffled noises for a bit as your arm is blocking the microphone and the lens catches the back of Steve’s legs, bolting into the pitch black forest.

“Whatever you do, don’t stop filming!” He shouts over his shoulder.

And then your heart is pounding, jackhammering in your chest as you take after him. Steve’s running, pumping his arms, and then there’s another scream and he catches himself for a full stop, freezing in place.

The video takes in the side of his face, tears wetting his cheek under his glasses, his head turning in the direction of the scream. “It’s this way…Eddie!...it’s coming from over there!” He points in that direction, and then his feet follow to a place where the trees get denser.

You glance over your shoulder in the direction of the campsite, wondering if the two of you will be able to find your way back, but then keeping up with Steve becomes a priority. Breathlessly, you struggle to keep up the pace, you trip and try to avoid falling over tree stumps that are dotted along the path.

“Steve”, you manage to stutter in between sharp breaths, “How do we know, what if- what if it’s a trick. What if it’s not Eddie?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course it's…”

Another scream.

Steve’s words die on his tongue, as all he can manage is a wide eyed frantic glare into the trees, before attempting once again to scream his boyfriend’s name in vain, begging to catch a glimpse of his frizzed up hair between the branches.

You both speed up, using all the remaining energy left inside your weak bodies, ignoring the burning in your lungs and metallic taste coating your tongues.

The woodland flooring begins to create almost a disheveled looking path, a trail appearing out of nowhere. Horrifying possibilities begin to bleed into Steve’s imagination, the memories of the past few days twisting in his mind as he tries to predict what state his boyfriend could be in.

Steve stops to get his bearings, gulping in breaths. His stomach clenches like he might puke, but he swallows down bile, hoping for another scream to pierce the night and guide his way.

You catch a glint of something silver nestled in the leaves of the forest floor, and you shine the light down there to get a look. You swear it’s Eddie’s wallet chain, the one he had on the last time you saw him, but then Steve starts moving again, on the trail of a sound only he could hear.

Running full boar, dodging through the trees, something smacks Steve in the face, and he swats it away, thinking it’s a branch. But then he takes a step back and looks up. You almost smash straight into the back of him, not realizing he’d stopped so abruptly. Your camera light brings attention to what Steve is seeing.

Unsettling deja vu is shared between you both as you realize that a cluster of handcrafted stick dolls, like the one you found the other day, are dangling before you.

Steve’s hand trembles, reaching out to touch the frayed twine from which they hang.

"Steve, stop," you hiss, your voice is a harsh whisper, eyes darting over the dolls as they sway in the breeze. You can't shake the feeling that you are being watched; that something sinister is lurking just beyond your peripheral vision.

Ignoring you, Steve begins to count the dolls, pointing with his finger, his movements manic, his words a rapid, breathless murmur.

"One, two, three... they're leading somewhere!”

"Steve!" you call out to him desperately, your voice echoing through the forest, falling on blind ears. He starts to follow the primitive stick dolls, and you know you have no choice but to go with him into the unknown, the dread of what lies ahead producing blooms of sweat on your scalp.

Finally, you emerge into a small clearing. There stands an old, weathered cabin.

It appears abandoned and worn, its wooden walls covered in moss and ivy, and its windows cracked and shattered. The cabin looms like a forgotten relic of the past, isolated in the dense forest.

“Steve, I-I don’t think this is a good idea”. The air is heavy, and your teeth are chattering.

“Whatever happens,” Steve clicks his tongue and swallows hard, wetting his dry mouth. “Promise me you won’t stop filming.”

“Steve, are you insane?”

He turns to you with wide, earnest eyes, his voice dead calm under the circumstances, “Promise me?”

You feel like you’ve officially lost him, whatever you attempt to say to change his mind would be useless. “I-I promise.”

Another blood-curdling yelp of agony pierces through the air.

“Eddie, I’m coming!” Steve huffs, motioning for you with a swing of his arm.

You both scramble cautiously onto the cabin’s creaking porch. You decide to zoom the lens in on Steve’s hand, reaching for the rusted doorknob, trying your hardest to focus.

Dread seizes you, and you attempt to get through to him. “Steve, please, I think I do remember a way out of these woods, actually. What if we go back to the tent, wait till morning and try again?”

You manage to worm your way in between Steve and the door, blocking him now. Steve remains unyielding, shrugging you out of his way, twisting the door knob, and then pushing in the unlocked door.

“Steve—” Your voice cracks. You want to find Eddie too but there’s something…wrong with this cabin, and you can’t find the words to tell Steve in a way that would make him give up the search.

But then he’s already through the open door, and you stay on his heels. The light from your camera dances over his flashlight beam into the broken floorboards and chipped paint of the interior of the cabin.

The screaming has stopped, but now the dead silence invades your senses. There’s no furniture, and the walls are bare. There is a smell lingering that hints to wood rot and black mold and rodent feces. You scan the camera around to show there’s a wide, empty room, and a hallway to the right.

“I-I can’t lose him,” Steve whispers, and your eyes are wet, heart hurting for what this trip has become. You can't let him go in there alone, no matter how much your instincts are telling you to grab him and run in the other direction.

With each step you take, the cabin seems to expand into a labyrinth of winding corridors, narrow staircases, and hidden rooms. The walls are lined with faded, peeling wallpaper, and the air grows colder and more oppressive with each passing moment.

But then Steve darts down the dark hallway and up a stairway and you try to follow, tripping on the first step in your hurry.

“He’s in here, I know it,” Steve gasps, and you can only catch his boots before he is already on the next floor.

Eddie’s cry sounds again, and this time there is no mistake— it’s coming from inside the house.

Two floors up, there are empty rooms, but still no sign of Eddie. Steve makes a point to direct your attention to the same type of child handprints you’d seen earlier. “Did you catch these?” He asks pointing to make sure you got the shot.

It looks like a dozen tiny children had dipped their hands in black paint and made palm impressions all over the wall over the ripped and stained wallpaper.

And then another scream, muffled this time, breaks the silence of your twin haggard breaths, but it is coming from somewhere deep in the cabin now—somewhere below. You can almost feel the screams vibrate inside the soles of your feet.

The shout is followed by a heavy bang that shakes the walls. It makes you both jump, locking eyes with mirrored expressions of fear.

Without a word, Steve disappears back down the stairs and into the shadows of the second floor. There are no sounds picked up by audio other than Steve calling for Eddie, and you follow, taking two reluctant steps at a time. The weight of uncertainty makes your feet feel like lead, while the lightheadedness of your hunger makes your skull feel like a balloon, and you have to catch yourself on the wall to find your balance, stars crossing in your vision.

The only sounds now are the heavy thuds of footfalls on the old stairs, and the drumbeat of your heart in your ears. There appear to be looming shapes all around you as you run after Steve, and the camera catches glimpses of things that are unidentifiable sliding along the walls.

You hear Steve shout, “down here!” and then he is throwing another door open and it sounds like he’s bolting further down in the house, down into what must be a basement.

You think you catch a glimpse of a figure standing in the corner, but when you stumble back and point the camera light there, you realize it’s nothing.

“Steve?” You can’t get a visual on where he is now, but then you finally catch the open door and the glow from his flashlight beam.

“I don’t feel good about this, Steve! Don’t go down there!”

But it’s too late.

You reach the top of the stairs. “Steve, wait!”

“He’s down here somewhere, I know it!” Steve persists.

You take another look at him through the lens; he’s dropping down to the dirt floor and darting to the left, disappearing into the inky blackness. The sound of Eddie’s voice has not been heard for a while, but Steve continues to call out for him, the tremor in his voice now catching with a sob.

Abruptly, you see Steve halt.

He shouts up over his shoulder to you, “Did you hear that?”

The air is suddenly ice cold; freezing even. You shrink against the doorframe and pan the camera to capture the front door behind you, noting that it is closed, and then quickly back to Steve.

Something in the basement startles him, and Steve drops his flashlight to the ground, smashing the light's glass in the process, making him curse before rushing back up to you, banking on the illumination from the camera light to help him find his way.

Sprinting up the rickety steps, Steve is relieved to find that you are still intact, dutifully holding his camera and waiting for him.

Your presence serves as his motivation to attempt to sprint up the stairs a little faster. However, something stops him in his tracks a few steps up.

Your heart is in your throat as you wait, but Steve pauses to look over his shoulder. “I feel like there is something else down here.”

Your teeth are chattering, your words come out stuttered. “Hurry, Steve. Let’s go!”

“Not without Eddie,” he says with a vigorous shake of his head, taking one more searching look into the seemingly empty basement.

The chill you feel is much more than skin deep as you pan the camera around the main room again to find it empty, all but for the shadows that appear to be crowding in.

You can hear Steve make his way up two more steps, but before you can shine the light back down on him, there’s a loud THUD from somewhere below. The noise manages to sliver into the walls, sending an unnatural quake throughout the entire house.

“Holy shit, what the fuck was that?” Steve jumps.

His feet are moving before his brain can fully register what is happening.

Steve never looks back again.

He takes the next few steps and trips over himself in his haste, his glasses falling in the process. He doesn’t even bother to bend over to retrieve them, he hears the glass crunch under his boot but can’t bring himself to care as the high volume of fear unravels him.

Adrenaline ignites his flight mode, and he’s practically crawling up the stairs with his hands now, scampering to get away from whatever or whoever did not want him down in the basement.

You stayed where you were, watching—filming.

The sound of footsteps pricked your ears from the empty room behind you, prompting you to turn around to pan the camera again, shakily, but you were met with nothing but the decaying cabin walls.

Your mind chooses not to register that the front door to the cabin is wide open now, the forest having its own personal view into the cabin, the branches silently watching.

Steve has climbed closer now, stilling halfway up, with his face drained of color, bracing his hand on the wall for balance. He meets your eyes for some much-needed reassurance. The documentarian in him wants to look back, to see what might be glaring up at him from the bottom of the stairs, but his fear won’t let him.

Four steps, one hand holds the camera, your other one on the doorknob.

Three steps, you begin to shift to the side, ready. He’s so close, he’s ready to leave, make it out, you can see the relief in his eyes to be free of that hole.

You’re both quaking like brittle autumn leaves now, it feels like the blood in your veins might turn solid and crack, and the air from your lungs is coming out like smoke.

You feel the need to pan the camera once more just in case, but Steve is so, so close, you decide to wait.

Two steps and he is about to reach out for your hand.

One step.

You slam and seal the door shut, holding your weight against it, twisting it a certain way so that it locks.

Steve’s breathless, you can hear it, he’s panting.

However, he’s not standing beside you.

The camera catches the ornate, brass doorknob as it twists and turns, capturing the sound of his heavy fist banging against the wood, and it’s vibrating into your palm as you press it there, feeding on your guilt.

“Hey, open the door,” he tries the knob again, with more force this time. “What the fuck are you doing? I’m fucking locked in here!” He pounds his fist, desperation mounting.

“I’m begging you, open the door.” He tries to ram his shoulder through the frame, and it's a pointless move, but it does make the regret bloom fresh within your chest.

"Let me out! Get me the fuck out of here! Don’t leave without me, please!” He sobs, his voice turning shrill.

You press your forehead against the door, angling the camera down so that it's filming the floor. The camera angle exposes a flicker of something, just a tiny glimpse of some type of black markings.

Steve stops his banging, he goes silent.

Summoning the last of your courage, you say once more, "Sorry, I'm—I..."

Another forceful kick lands on the wood, he’s had enough, the forceful boot punctuating Steve’s plea. "Open the goddamn door!"

You start to back up then, camera almost forgotten as it records the floor. Through labored breaths, you are issuing your apologies so softly, but loud enough for the audio to capture.

There’s another loud thud, and the camera vibrates from the impact.

It’s followed shortly by the sound of a sickening crack from beyond the basement door. Steve’s cry is cut short by another blunt thud, and you wince away, squeezing your eyes shut.

You flipped the light from the camera off, thinking you’d shut down the entire device. Out of the darkness, the audio picks up what sounds like a hundred hissing whispers, speaking of unintelligible things, muddled amongst feet shuffling all around you.

In the background, the next set of ears to listen to the tape will be able to make out the hollow thuds of a body being dragged down the stairs.

To you, in the present, the sound prompts you to turn away from the closed door, your cheeks wet with tears. Your heart is heavy, lips dry and cracked, but you know that there must be sacrifices.

It’s all in order to maintain the balance.

You really did the best you could for Steve: you got it all on film, you kept your promise.

“I’m sorry,” you say, one last time, and you mean it.

There’s a rustling, another thud, and then the camera spins around as if it were thrown.

And then, nothing but static.

Epilogue

The bodies of Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington, and their companion were never recovered from the forest near Burkittsville. Most of the things from their campsite were recovered, along with a video camera and film that was handed over to authorities. Contrary to what was found on the tape, there was no physical evidence of foul play anywhere on the property.

Some experts speculate that you had something to do with their disappearances, others believe you met the same fate as your two companions. When authorities went to question your friends and family, they found out that your life was a blank slate before you met Steve on the college campus, and your only living relative was a grandmother who lived in a nursing home not far from Burkittsville.

The police went to question her, but unfortunately, she was in the grips of late-stage Alzheimer's. There were two photos of you in your grandmother’s room: one was from when you were a toddler. In the other, you were maybe 7 or 8 years old, surrounded by trees in a forest, holding up some sort of stick doll made of twigs. If one were to have a closer look, they would spot an odd, isolated cabin amongst the woodland background.

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thank you for reading!

reblogs are deeply cherished, and so are your thoughtful words, but please, please try not to share any spoilers in the comments or the Blair Witch will get cha🧡

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#horror fic #steddie horror #Blair Witch Project au #Season of the Witch #Steddie angst #spooky season #Steve Harringon fic #Eddie Munson fic #steddie x reader #hurt/no comfort #MARMITE FIC #MCD #dead dove do not eat

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imtotallynormalmhmyes · 4 months

Text

Simon in a Speedo??

Ghost x Transmale!reader

Chapter 1:

The beach. Awesome. Sand everywhere, lobster-red skin, and stares. It's always the stares, but who couldn't stare when you have two jagged scars framing the bottom of your pecs. Every time your shirt comes off, you seem to become a spectacle to grandmothers and toddlers alike.

Your older brother, Johnny, had lured you in with promises of margaritas and shirtless men, but as he rolls into the driveway of his captain's beach house, you begin to feel nerves fluttering in your stomach. You're meeting Johnny's team. Big, tough, military men and totally not intimidating at all. Especially when you feel like you're hiding a secret under your shirt.

Deep breaths. You're determined not to let what others think dictate your life.... or at least your beach trip.

Johnny interrupts your train of thought when he thumps your chest with his hand, "Just gonna sit here?"

"I might," you deadpan.

"Get your arse out of the car."

You huff and open the passenger door, and your nose is met with the mingling of the salty Yorkshire air and a distant barbecue down the road. Each step towards the house made that nervous fluttering grow, and it reached its peak when Johnny swung the door open and presented you to his team. Your eyes take in the imposing group, first seeing the older, warm-faced man who introduces himself as "Price." You then shake hands with a dreamy, brown-skinned man nicknamed "Gaz" and almost melt into a puddle at the touch. Maybe this trip won't be so bad after all.

"And, this is ol' Ghost," Johnny redirects your attention, having to hold back laughter at how you so easily swoon. As you turn, you're met with the tall, stoic figure of Simon "Ghost" Riley. Johnny had talked about him before, how skilled he was, how cold he could be, and how much liquor he could handle, but none of that could prepare you for this. His impressive physique was intimidating enough, but the way he seemed to pick you apart with just a glance made your stomach lurch. The man observed you in a way that made you feel like an exhibit rather than a new acquaintance. His appraisal is abruptly ended with a curt nod. A nod of approval? Hopefully.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

After a few hours of lounging around the beach house, Johnny knocks on your door, pulling you out of the light nap you were taking, "We're goin' arsehole, get up." He leaves before you can give him a snarky reply, leaving you to ponder what you would wear. Summer clothing was never your thing because of the dysphoria that made any slightly revealing tee shirt feel like a torture device.

Staring down at your open suitcase, you cringe at your clothing choices. Floral button-up shirts? Pink board shorts? Polka-dotted pajamas? Truthfully, you loved those clothes, but the prospect of dressing like a toddler on his first vacation in front of fucking soldiers? Not the best idea. However, you have to make a choice, so you don a blue Hawaiian shirt and khaki shorts: the least obtrusive pairing you could come up with.

Everyone meets outside before piling into the rental car. The fit was tight, and you find yourself squeezed between Ghost and the absolute dream boat, Gaz. And here comes the butterflies. Everything from the way his shirt contours his massive biceps, his amber skin that glows in the sunlight, his-

"Oi, Y/N, stop ogling," once again, Johnny snaps you out of your daze, "You're cool with the local pub, right?"

"I- um, yeah, sure. Yeah," you sigh before cursing at the burning heat in your cheeks as the fire is fueled by the chuckles of the other men. The little shit just had to say "ogling" didn't he? You soon realize that the embarrassment wasn't the only thing prickling your skin. You felt it again. That gaze slices you open like a scalpel, and you can't help but feel that he knows precisely what's running through your mind.

#fanfiction #ghost x reader #cod fanfic #ghost fanfiction #trans!male reader #trans reader #ftm reader #there won't be an actual speedo im sorry

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eruden-writes · 10 months

Text

Room & Board - Part 16 (vampire x reader)

paranormal fantasy vampire x human eventual triad (x werewolf)

Anonymous asked:

For the prompt submissions a vampire that feels guilty after feeding/attacking someone so they leave obscenely valuable ancient artifacts as payment/an apology?

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After the eventful night, you awake the next morning to heat against your back and an arm curled around your middle. Sunlight streams through your curtains as memories sluggishly creep through your brain, realizing the heat at your back is too warm to be your vampire roomie. As if the encroaching sunlight wasn’t evidence enough.

Rolling over, you confirm your suspicions as Ewan squints at you groggily. He is no longer in wolf form, but sporting a light beard. Faintly, you wonder how often he has to shave to maintain his appearances.

“Morning,” he grunts, a roughness to his voice that is either sleep or after-transformation gnarl. Whatever the rasp is from, he still grins at you as he always does. Perhaps with a touch more fondness than usual.

You hum an acknowledgement, reaching up to smooth the wild tufts of curls atop Ewan’s head. The man gave an entirely new definition to bedhead, you muse as he tilts into your touch with a happy sigh. But you can’t forget the missing part of last night’s triad. “Where’s Tabaeus?”

As your fingers crook, raking gently over Ewan’s scalp, his eyes flutter shut and he sighs, “They’re bunking with the sugar gliders.”

Your hand pauses, eyebrows furrowing with confusion. “What?”

“They’re in bat form,” Ewan explains as his eyes open slowly, grudgingly resigned to no more petting.

More incredulous than confused, you repeat, “What?”

Ewan’s grin grows, amusement glinting in his eyes as he pieces together the reason for your surprise. “Haven’t they shown you their bat form?”

“No!” You try to ignore how Ewan’s grin broadens at your almost-pained exclamation. Tabaeus has a bat form and he was currently sleeping in the sugargliders’ cage? Your mind fumbles with the idea, half-upset for having missed the spectacle of Tabaeus morphing last night.

After you fumble out of bed for an oversized tee-shirt, and Ewan pulls on his jeans from last night, the two of you venture out of your bedroom. Down the hall, in a separate room relegated to Bjarka and Liuva, you lead the werewolf.

The door is ajar, no sunlight filtering into this area of the hall. As you step into the room, you find the curtains are drawn tight and the lights out. To your left, a huge cage sits, filled with enrichment and food and a potty area for the gliders. The cost of the set-up had been exorbitant, but you couldn’t say no to Tabaeus’s puppy dog eyes when they asked. Your money was mostly thanks to them, anyway.

Using the flashlight on your cellphone and setting it on a table by the door to give you some mild light, you venture closer to the enclosure. “Tabaeus?”

Something rustles from the sleeping pouch and soon something relatively small and furry pokes out. You squint, the creature is similar to a sugar glider but definitely not one. A bat stares at you with little beady eyes and, somehow, transmitting a groggy expression. Even the fur has a rumpled, askew look. Like a little bat version of bedhead.

Once the little furry creature seems to recognize you, their big ears perk up and they crawl - none too gracefully - toward the edge of the cage closest to you.

What is wrong?

You're startled to hear Tabaeus’s concerned voice in your head. They stare up at you, dark little eyes alert. Raising a hand to the side of your own head, you touch your fingers to your temple. "Can you transmit your thoughts into my head?"

Something in you believes you see shock cross the bat’s face, but there’s no way. Their features are too inhuman to emote. Tabaeus tilts their little head, their comically large ears twitching. What? Am I not using my mouth?

"You mean you little furry bat mouth?” You point to their face as you crouch down, becoming more eye-level with Tabaeus.

Yes? Tabaeus’s voice in your head sounds confused, before their ears twitch again. Oh, I see your point, but Ewan did not seem surprised when I talked to him in this form.

"Someone needed to close the cage." Ewan shrugs as you toss him a curious look over your shoulder. He stands near the door, leaning in the door jamb. You’re not sure if he’s giving you and Tabaeus space out of respect or if he’s keeping a careful distance for another reason.

"Well, on the topic of things I didn't know, we should probably hit the library today. Do some research." Your attention returns to Tabaeus, your heart twisting as the little bat shirks a bit under your words.

From the door, Ewan’s curious question rings, "Research?"

"The journal ordeal we mentioned last night,” you explain as you open the cage, not bothering to turn around. “You don’t have to come with us if you’re busy or have other things to do, Ewan.”

As you hold out your hands for Tabaeus to crawl to you, Ewan clears his throat. The floorboards squeak under the werewolf as he shifts. "Speaking of last night, how should I take what we did? The fun."

You blink at the sudden shift of topic. Right. Last night and the fun that had continued at home. At Ewan’s acknowledgement of last night, your body twangs with the ache of well-used muscles. Faintly, you feel Tabaeus’s tiny claws grappling onto your fingers, heft themself into your palms. They weigh much heavier than you’d expect of a tiny bat.

"I'm just trying to temper my expectations. I've liked you for awhile and things can get complicated when fun sex gets involved," Ewan babbles on and you can hear him fidgeting, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Looking up at him, you notice his tense body language. Almost as if he’s prepared to run away as his mouth continues on, "And I know I made that joke about becoming a roommate, but- "

Ewan trails off, shoulders hunching and unable to meet your steady gaze. On the other hand, you can feel Tabaeus’s eyes on you as they sit in your palms. Your eyes flicker to the bat, trying to decipher their expression.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t have the space in the house. There was certainly enough room for Ewan. Whether Tabaeus would agree with it or not was another question, but they kept their expression - or feelings? - distant.

And, of course, there might be a chance for more bonding, a salacious part of you thinks.

Besides having another person to help with chores and bills, another part of you notes that having a werewolf around might be good protection. While you were fairly sure you could trust Tabaeus, if something happened - like a curse or a return of human-hating memories or who knew what - Ewan might be a good guardian for you.

"I'd be fine with you moving in,” you say as you briefly glance up at the werewolf again and back down to Tabaeus. The intent look in your eye is self-explanatory.

Under your gaze, the bat squirms and you get the impression they turn their attention elsewhere. When Ewan joins in on staring, Tabaeus’s little body expands and deflates with a sigh. Well if I say no, I will look like a right ass.

"Glad we agree.” With a grin, you raise the bat up, booping your nose against theirs. Despite themselves, Tabaeus seems to be pleased with the action. From the corner of your sight, you see Ewan sag with relief. Getting to your feet, your thoughts turn back toward the day’s itinerary. "Now let's get you downstairs so you can rest or get a change of attire."

You can feel Tabaeus pout with uncertainty. How? There's so many windows.

“Like this.” The little bat squeaks as you pluck them up and stuff them down the collar of your shirt. Through the shirt, one of your hands supports the little furball as your other clasps around them. You hold Tabaeus against your chest, feeling their little clawed tips dig nervously a little into your skin. “Think this will work?”

I-It is… acceptable. Even through whatever telepathic link Tabaeus has established, you can sense their awkwardness and masked delight.

You give an amused snort, glancing up at Ewan who is leaning against a wall again and watching. His playfully narrowed eyes give you the impression he’s jealous of the little bat’s good fortune. Ignoring the pulse of amusement and heat, you exit the room. As much as you’d like to linger with them, have some more fun, you really need answers.

x x x

Hours later, you find yourself in the local library, sifting through old papers and files on a computer in a dusty basement alcove. Ewan sits at another computer, the sound of his click and scrolling sounding far more productive than it likely was. Tabaeus - after being smuggled via bat-form - has disappeared among the stacks of books and ledgers, oddly quiet. You try not to worry too much about them.

While you’re not even sure you’ll find anything, you at least have some starting points: Dr. Kieran Bennett, a Dr. Forsythe, and all of those dates in the diary entry.

After scouring student directories, you find three Kieran Bennetts who apprenticed or went through a university. Tracing through their schooling, their travels, their families… Occasionally, you have to stop tracing their paths and reference towns they had been through. At one point, you think you can eliminate one of the Kierans, before a realization hits.

With a groan, you lean back in your chair and press your hands to your eyes. “Why did so many fathers have to name their sons after themselves?”

To your left, you hear Ewan’s chair creak. You think he’s turned to look at you and you can imagine the concern in his eyes. “You doing alright?”

“Yes, it’s just so much information. I can’t keep it all straight,” you sigh, pinching at the bridge of your nose. Beside you on the table, the journal is open to cross-reference the hefty tome sitting open before you. Even as your eyes crack open, you blink as the numbers and words blur in front of your eyes.

“Maybe we should break for a little bit?” Ewan stands, stretching his arms over his head until his tee-shirt rides up to show a sliver of his lower stomach. The glimpse is quickly over as his arms drop and he nods to the stairs. “Get a snack at the library’s cafe upstairs, maybe?”

“That’s probably a good idea.” A part of you balks at the idea of leaving, of not learning anything yet. You convince yourself some food in your belly and a rest couldn’t hurt as you straighten your area and note which book you were currently perusing. As you step away from your workstation and place the Kieran’s journal in your bag, you turn to the rows of shelves.

A nagging concern nibbles at your thoughts. Odd, that they haven’t chimed in yet. Taking a step toward the shelving, you raise your voice to be heard through the room. “Tabaeus, what do you think? Coming with?”

Nothing answers back. Your heart trips in your chest, dueling senses of worry and betrayal coasting through your thoughts. Those feuding thoughts propel you forward with Ewan tagging behind you. Grasping tight to the strap of your bag, you continue to call, “Tabaeus? Tabaeus, where are you?”

Finally, near the edge of the aisle, in a far corner, you spot them. You call to Tabaeus again, but they still don’t answer. They don’t move or blink an eye. In their hands they hold a book, slowly flicking the pages. Something seems wrong, you think, as you raise your hand. You can’t bring yourself to touch them, though. Can’t bring yourself to disturb their trance.

It’s Ewan that steps around you, slinging their arm around Tabaeus as they wave a hand between the vampire’s face and the book. “Hey, Earth to the crusty old vampire.”

With a full-body jerk, Tabaeus is shook from wherever their thoughts were. Wide red eyes blink from behind their round red-tinted sunglasses as they turn to you and Ewan. They don’t even shirk away from Ewan’s arm still slung over their shoulders. Soft and a little muzzy, they ask, “What?”

Ewan squints at Tabaeus, his nose twitching. Was he picking up on something you couldn’t? Or was he just concerned that Tabaeus hadn’t risen to his earlier taunt? “Are you okay?”

“Yes, yes, fine.” The vampire nods their head as they snap the book in their hands shut. With a little more force than called for, they push the book back along its peers. With its spine so faded, you mentally note its location for later investigation. A strained smile parts their lips as they turn to you. “Are we leaving now?”

“Well, we’re not leaving the library.” Tabaeus’s smile remains firmly in place, in spite of the curiosity and suspicion painted over your face. You do your best to not glance back to the book they had held. Faint memories of what Kieran’s journal entailed waffles through your head, but you push the knowledge away. “Me and Ewan were thinking about going up for a bite to eat. Want to come with?”

After you ask, your eyes flick over Tabaeus, double-checking that their outfit will protect them from awry shafts of light. Though you’re uncertain their black bucket hat will protect them, the rest of their outfit - a long-sleeved checkered shirt beneath an oversized wine-red button-up and dark jeans - seems fine. You suppose the hoodie they have wrapped around their waist can be used for additional protection, if it becomes a problem.

Even as you look over them, something in your head wonders if you should worry so much about them. Instantly, you hush that paranoia. Tabaeus had plenty of chances to hurt you and hadn’t. They were just as lost as you, when it came to their past.

“Oh, I see. Yes, I think I would like to come. Perhaps see other areas of the library?” Their own question sounds painfully hopeful. As if they couldn’t take being in the dusty archives for much longer.

Something about their eagerness makes a pang shoot through your chest. Whatever they had been looking at, wherever their mind had taken them, it had hurt. You manage to smile up at them, giving a light nod. “Yeah, we look around.”

With Ewan flanking Tabaeus on one side and you on the other, the three of you climb the stairs to the first floor of the library.

x x x

After a quick nosh of smoothies and pastries from the library’s cafe, your little troupe ventures out into the library. At first, the three of you aimlessly wander through sections that interest you. Comic books, cooking, fashion. You notice how Tabaeus ignores when Ewan suggests the history section, the vampire instead moving toward Art. The obvious stonewall is even picked up by the werewolf as he exchanges a curious look with you.

The two of you follow Tabaeus, though. Without even talking about it, Ewan seems to have understood something tenuous is balancing in the air. All the same, he lingers close to your side, as if afraid something will happen to you. And you can’t say you’re not relieved at his presence.

Before Tabaeus can even step into the proper aisles, a display catches their eye. Their course diverts and you follow.

Displayed on a table are choice books for the month. You’re not sure what the theme is and, sometimes, librarians just prop open art books to catch interested eyes. That seems to be the case now as Tabaeus stares down at two paintings displayed on two opposing pages. As you step closer, Ewan remains at your elbow, but he cranes his neck to see what has Tabaeus’s attention.

While you are no scholar on the subject, the paintings appear to be a set, perhaps meant to give a panorama of a situation. Both depict crowds - of adults and children - in dress that remind you of Rome or Greece, every figure’s expression ranging from morosely resigned to contorted sobs. A dark smoky glaze reminiscent of ash coats everything as buildings crumble and statues are in the midst of toppling. Balls of fire streak through the dark sky, smoke ballooning through the atmosphere.

“I remember these paintings. I told the artist about this day.” Tabaeus whispers, fingers still on the print in the book. Startled, you glance up at them, finding that distant look in their eyes again. Their voice has gone soft again, pained and hesitant. “It was terrible, the shaking and the fire. The screaming and the ash and blood. People running with nowhere to go, the wretched screams and the children sobbing.”

You can almost hear the screaming, the woe, as fire hisses down and the world rattles angrily. Heat and smoke, the burn of tears.

Ewan thankfully asks the question you can’t force from your throat, “How did you survive?”

“I…” Raising a hand to their throat, Tabaeus’s eyebrows furrow as their lips tremble. “I agreed to become something.”

“A vampire,” Ewan says, voice uncharacteristically soft. There’s a curious lilt to his voice that makes him sound uncertain of his answer.

“Not simply that. I agreed to become something else.” Quickly, Tabaeus shakes their head at Ewan’s words. Their brows furrow as their hand transitions from their throat to their head. Angrily, they tap their fingertips against their forehead as they mutter, “Why don’t I remember?”

“Tabaeus?” Finally, you reach out, hoping to comfort them with a light touch on their shoulder. They flinch from your touch, turning their gaze onto you.

“It’s right there, but I can’t reach it. There’s just so much in my head. Images and sensations and emotions,” they croak, words painted with misery as their eyes glisten. All you can do is stare up at them, your hand still outstretched, with worry pinching your own brows. Tabaeus reaches for your hand, presses both their palms around it as they burble sadly, “Please, believe me, amata.”

Before you can respond, before you can even think to respond, Tabaeus pulls away. They turn back to the book of paintings, flipping through the pages at an erratic speed. “There’s so much I almost remember. Names and photos in the books in the basement, and these paintings and these artists, and–”

Their head abruptly snaps up, eyes wide and faintly glowing behind their sunglasses as they hiss. Startled, you stumble back into Ewan, only to find he is turned away. His arms are slightly extended, as if to shield you and Tabaeus from something. It takes you half a second to realize he’s glaring in the direction Tabaeus’s eyes snapped.

An unhappy electricity cracks through the air as you carefully peer around Ewan to see what has them riled.

A figure stands at the end of the aisle, seemingly flipping through a book and minding their own business. For the life of you, you can’t help but shake a dreadful sense of familiarity. You stare, trying to figure out if you truly know this person. Dark hair and sunglasses with transition lenses. Boring, yet expensive clothes. They look up, as if realizing they’re being watched, and tilt their head toward you.

As their eyes meet yours, instant realization washes through you. They smile and sharp canines flash in your direction as Ewan and Tabaeus tense. Your brain rattles as the person’s words, from the diner, ring through your ears. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you. I simply wish to tell you that your friend is very entrancing.”

“Dreadfully sorry. Allow me to introduce myself,” the figure chuckles, sliding the book back onto its shelf before turning and walking towards you. Behind you, you can feel Tabaeus tense like cat torn between fleeing or fighting. In front of you, Ewan growls a low warning.

The figure before all of you ignores both expressions of displeasure. Though they do pause a few feet away, tipping an imaginary hat as a broad smile crosses their lips. “You may call me Lachlan Barrett, he/him.”

*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

If you like my content, please consider supporting me on:

*:･ﾟ✧ Patreon or Ko-Fi *:･ﾟ✧

#exophilia #monster lover #monster fucker #exo writing #monster x human #monster boyfriend #monster romance #tabaeus #room & board #room and board #ewan #reader #vampire x reader #vampire x reader x werewolf

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smolsix · 8 months

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-blows dust off this blog-

Little Nightmares III, huh???

I was trying to avoid being excited about it because no solid release date and 2024 could be a few months from now or a year from now and Idk how long I can handle being so fuckin hyped for this game YEEHAW

BUT I CAN'T, I KEEP THINKING ABT THE GAME AAHAHHGAGA

so here are my thoughts, if you wanted to know

FIRST OF ALL, i am so glad that after we saw LTNM II we thought it'd be co-op but it was just an AI, that we finally get co-op! AND ONLINE TOO, i spent the first day worried it'd be shared screen same room situation since i wasn't trying to get my hopes up but then I realised I can just.. google it.. AND IT IS!!! ONLINE!! IDK WHO I AM GONNA PLAY IT W FIRST AAAAAAAA

anyways, you can definitely tell it's a new studio working on this game, the world feels mostly the same but the character designs themselves are definitely stylistically similar, but not the same. With Six especially, the MC designs were very simplistic and realistic but used colour (or for Mono, a single design quirk being the bag) to stand out against their backgrounds and against the enemies which are largely neutral colours. But these new ones feel... "over designed"? On their own they definitely aren't, but in comparison to Mono, Six, Seven, and even NPCs like the flashlight girl, they have a lot more going on (especially the little wrench kid, Idk which one is Alone and which one is Low yet btw OOP)

Despite it being a new studio and you can tell, new puzzles and environments, they're still doing their best to have the OGs vibes and whatnot to feel familiar, namely in the trailer they bring back the fuses, and the additional gameplay video there's a short scene with an environment with all the shelves you can find in LTNM 1s gnome section (the one with the cart that is affected by the Maws swaying).

But regardless, it still feels different enough my brain is still nervous about it. I also feel In A Way about Tarsier having LTNM II explode and their franchise getting the attention it deserves, only to have it stuck with Bandai and now it's going to likely explode again and they aren't involved. Idk how anyone on that team feels about it, but if it were me omg.

Also the only boss we've seen so far (i hope they add more and i def want some to be a surprise so im not gonna assume this is the only one for now) feels... out of place? it has the design qualities of a LTNM boss, but the size of it makes it more of a spectacle than a warped/corruption of an adult. All the previous bosses fit in their environment, we are the small ones and they are scaled to the world around them. This is the first time, outside monster Six who imo is a bit of an outlier anyways due to her circumstances, we're getting a boss who is this huge and doesn't even fit their own environment. I hope we get a lore reason for this in some way, because currently the boss doesn't have the same vibe as the others and it's throwing me off a bit. Don't get me wrong, it'll be terrifying, but looking at the picture as a whole they are sort of out of place for me rn. I don't hate the bitch either, I'm not gonna be like omg get rid of it or change it, but it does strike me as odd seeing it for now.

And yes the tall man is too tall for a lot of things, but he's not THAT big. He's more like yer tall guy who hits his head off doorways, which happens irl anyways LMAO

Little Nightmares primarily tries to capture the feeling of being a small child and how everything is big and scary, but a doll that huge is out of the realm of reality set up for us already. It's gone from scary corrupted animal to godzilla, if that makes sense.

OH AND THE MIRRORS ARE VERY LTNM COMICS OF THEM TEE HEE < 3

#while i find the MCs designs to be a bit much for now they're fast growing on me as characters #they give me indie movie vibes more than little nightmares MCs vibes #but hey if we get a 4th installment then it goes from an outlier to part of a trend #my brain will get over it eventually anyways these are just my initial thoughts #oh and as long as they either dont bring back the flashlight or change its controls im mostly fine w the puzzles and whatnot #like suuuuuper minor gripe but i loved in the first games that when you had a weapon it was too big and too heavy #they had serious weight when you swung them and the mcs clearly struggled #and it really helped you feel powerless even when armed #i know the masked kid has a slingshot btw but i just hope it isnt used as an easy weapon and more as a distraction #having any kind of upper hand in this world sort of diminishes the initial scare factor they were going for #being that youre a small child helpless in this world #outside sixs ending but aside from the hallway you literally dont play w her power at the end #text #long post #little nightmares 3 #ltnm 3 #ooc

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khtrinityftw · 3 months

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By the light, is KH2's Final Boss sequence ingeniously executed.

Like the previous two games, opening a door is involved.

Like the previous two games, at some point you face the Big Bad just as themselves. In CoM and KH2, this confrontation is with a leading figure of Organization XIII who wears a black coat and whose castle you just finished scaling, and both times it's just an illusion of them controlled by the real thing from a distance. And in KH and KH2, it's Xehanort, the former as a Heartless and the latter as a Nobody.

Like the previous two games, the Big Bad controls a giant vehicle.

Like the previous two games, oversized blades will be swung at you.

And like the previous two games, the Big Bad finally appears to die.

....And there's the key word: appears to die.

The previous two games' precedents have been followed to a tee, which means you are completely unprepared to suddenly deal with this masterclass in chaos, spectacle and heart-pumping thrill:

It's just....peak game design. PEAK.

#Kingdom Hearts #Chain of Memories #Kingdom Hearts II #Ansem #Marluxia #Xemnas #End of the World #Castle Oblivion #The World That Never Was

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iheartweiwuxian · 5 months

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LWJ Character Analysis

(Forewarning that this is basically just an entire rant on why I love him)

Lan Wangji– birth name: Lan Zhan. Courtesy name: Huanguang-jun. The younger of the Twin Jades. The most elegant man of the Lan Clan of Gusu- perhaps the whole cultivation world entirely.

Born of parents who didn’t marry out of love- he didn’t know what love was. Didn’t know how it should look. His father had fallen in love at first sight, but the women in whom he loved did not return the sediment. Instead, in refusing the man’s advances, she murdered his mentor, sending him into deep grief.

Alas, the Lan Clan is known for their deep seated perspectives when it comes to matters of the heart. He locked her away within the Cloud Recess (the residence of the Lan Clan) and forbade himself from seeing her. He withdrew himself entirely, choosing to cultivate year round, for how could he move on from the one in which he loved? But how could he not grieve as well? It was because of this that Lan Wangji and his elder brother- Lan Xichen, were raised by the respectable Lan Qiren.

Strict, harsh, formidable rules were forced upon little Wangji as Lan Xichen rose to the challenge as sect leader, for their father was in no shape to do so. Years went by like this. Their mother died when they were mere children.

But this isn’t about the Twin Jades of Gusu. Rather, it is the story of a Jade of Gusu. Of how Lan Wangji lost, loved, griefed, and rose above all else. How he overcame the fate that was destined upon him.

The Lan Clan of Gusu is known for their rules.

“Go reflect at the Wall of Discipline,” They’d say. “Only return after nightfall.”

Being that Lan Wangji’s parents no longer sought after him and his brother, Lan Qiren raised them as his own. Lan Wangji became his prime pupil- a spectacle that everyone should admire and aspire to be.

For he, ever since he was young, always followed the rules. He never stepped out of line. He was never restless. He never spoke unless spoken too. The perfect child.

The rules were mandatory. They must be followed if you were to cultivate under the clan title. Such disciplinary actions were only further induced by the wearing of a white headband, one instilled with flowing blue clouds- symbolizing self restraint, and purity of both the body and mind (it is also to be stated that the headband mustn't be removed by anyone other than someone of close familial connections or a significant other).

Such rules were hard to follow, but Lan Wangji found it to be no problem, even becoming Lan Qiren’s personal “deputy” of sorts; finding rule breakers and administering them to other elders to receive their punishment.

No running.

No shouting.

Meals must be taken in silence.

Alcohol is prohibited.

No private fighting.

No rushed walking.

Every couple of years, the Lan Clan of Gusu would host a seminar of sorts, welcoming sect disciples from other clans. It would be used to teach the disciples not only the history behind cultivation and its dealings, but also to provide the disciples with the opportunity to train under an immortal clan.

The scene was set.

Lan Wangji fulfilled his role to the tee, punishing rule breakers and being the prime example during class. It had been dark out that night, as he patrolled the area as usual.

Noticing nothing out of the ordinary, he squinted, lifting his sleeve to turn back to the Room of Tranquility.

In the midst of the moonscape was a silhouette. The silhouette was of a young man- not much older than himself, draped across the tiles of a roof, leg swinging haphazardly as he strung up the jar to his lips, finishing it in one go. The boy then turned to look at Lan Wangji, flashing him a grin. Lan Wangji’s brow furrowed.

That was the first time he saw Wei Wuxian.

My Analysis

More often than not, I find myself completely enraptured by MDZS. More specifically, all of its worldbuilding. Truly, in my opinion, one of MXTX’s best novels, due to the simple fact that everything is interconnected. As much as I adore Wei Wuxian, since the story is told from his perspective, I’d like to think I understand him fairly well. However, that is to say, I have wished on numerous occasions it was told from Lan Wangji’s perspective. Because, well, he doesn’t speak. Okay, he does, but I’m dying to know what his internal monologue would be like, witnessing such events transpire. I’ve even considered rewriting some parts of the novel from his perspective.

There seems to be the misconception that Lan Wangji is a boring person, and I beg to differ. I mean no offense, but how could one find him boring? He’s calm, quick witted, and quite frankly, sassy. How could one misunderstand his character so much? I’m aware that he doesn’t speak much, but that is hardly any excuse due to the fact that we (as readers) are given numerous context clues onto how Lan Wangji truly feels and why he does what he does.

Thus, I find it to be my duty to explain it to the best of my ability, as well as some other protruding factors about his character that I not only like, but also find incomparably important to the story. Without further adieu…

When did Lan Wangji fall in love with Wei Wuxian?

I find it fascinating that in the novel- the canon source material, we are given zero explanation or implication as to when Lan Wangji actually fell in love with Wei Wuxian. It is because of this, that

I think it is possible that he fell enraptured (I use this term lightly because it was definitely more than interest, but I don’t think he was in love with him quite yet), a little after the summer Wei Wuxian had spent at the Cloud Recess.

Due to the fact that Lan Wangji’s father had fallen in love at first sight, I find it highly likely that the same thing had occurred with Lan Wangji, but I doubt that was all that was at play.

They were teenagers at the time (roughly fifteen or sixteen years of age), so it was only natural that one might feel an inclined attraction to the other- hardly making that love at first sight.

There was definitely a shock factor attributed though. Up until that point, Lan Wangji (who I will be referring to as LWJ from now on, as well as WWX for Wei Wuxian for easier accessibility), had lived a very structured life. From the moment he woke, to the minute his eyes closed, his life was in accordance with the Lan Clan’s precepts.

To see someone laying there without a care in the world on top of a roof, chugging a jar of Emperor’s Smile (a very strong wine), must’ve stirred something in LWJ. Such a blatant disregard in not only the rules, but proper etiquette, and yet when LWJ broached the subject, WWX didn’t find any fault with himself and even offered the other jar to LWJ.

LWJ had never fallen into this type of situation before, so he had nothing to look back on on how he should proceed. He must’ve been flustered beyond belief, for he pulled out his sword and began to fight WWX, himself breaking the rules!

Definition of: Oh no, he’s hot. Quick, do something!

And as their time together only grew, I think LWJ found himself more and more captured by WWX and everything he is. His teasing, his jokes, his prodding, the way he viewed the world, I think they all matched something deep within LWJ that even he was afraid to discover.

WWX was loud. He was unafraid to voice his opinions. He was shameless. It was everything LWJ was the opposite of, everything the Lan Clan was against. And yet, LWJ couldn’t get enough. He kept seeking WWX out, whether consciously or not, and WWX kept going along with it.

This is why I believe that LWJ did not fully fall in love at first sight, rather he fell in love with WWX’s principles first, for he had never seen anything like it in his life. It was a complete 180 of everything he ever knew.

However, I doubt it was classified as “love” at first, given the…tension, but, I digress! I find it possible that sometime after WWX’s stay at the cloud recesses, LWJ fell in love with him.

When did Lan Wangji write “Wangxian”?

This is a hard one. Based on events in the novel, I’ll compose a (somewhat) linear timeline of what occurred. Please only view until the underlined text if you do not wish for any spoilers.

It is as follows:

Lan Clan welcomes disciples for their “summer school”.

LWJ supervises WWX in the Library Pavilion/WWX’s endless teasing.

WWX leaves and returns to the Jiang Clan of Yumeng.

Wen Symposium (where they shot corpses)/WWX pulling off LWJ’s forehead ribbon.

Xuanwu Cave Arc.

Wen’s slaughter Jiang Clan of Yumeng in the name of retribution.

WWX thrown into the burial mounds.

WWX returns, LWJ asks him to return to Gusu with him.

Sunshot Campaign.

Marriage between Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan.

Interception on the trail/Jin Zixuan dies.

Slaughter of Nightless City/LWJ brings WWX back to burial grounds and holds him on the brink of death.

LWJ receives punishment (thirty three whips).

LWJ enters reflection/Seizure of the Burial Grounds.

WWX dead/LWJ mourns.

Please keep in mind that this rough timeline only depicts the events that transpired during the “flashback” scenes, meaning that it is those happening in WWX’s past life as the Yiling Patriarch, not the current arcs.

However, now that we have the events, I will answer the question: I think LWJ wrote Wangxian after WWX had pulled off his forehead ribbon at the symposium, but before Xuanwu Cave.

This is the most logical explanation because it gives time for LWJ to sort his feelings out, enough to write a song about it. Although he is still very much conflicted up until this point, he had enough of a push to write and compose such a song.

Those who do not know, “Wangxian” is a canon song that LWJ wrote and composed for WWX, the title being a combination of their names. The songs’ lyrics show his longing for WWX and how he can see the tides turning.

Here is an excerpt:

“Gusu welcomes the spring tide once more.

Fleeting mountains beyond the clouds,

White wisps paving a path for my longing.

Even though you’ve gone, my frozen heart has yet to melt.”

Although it could be argued that LWJ added these lyrics after WWX died, they can still be applied here. During the symposium, WWX had tugged on LWJ’s forehead ribbon, causing it to fall off.

Those of the Lan Clan know this well, but other sect disciples don’t. You never remove someone’s forehead ribbon- as the act is strictly allowed only by members of their close family, or significant others- usually after marriage. It is done that way because they believe as they are married, they can be released of their self restraint.

So for WWX to accidentally tug LWJ’s forehead ribbon off, it was definitely a moment for him. Even though it in no way forced him to harbor feelings toward WWX, let alone begin an intimate relationship with him, paired with the fact that it was an accident on WWX’s part, LWJ took it personally, in a way that it wasn’t intended.

So personally that he couldn’t even find himself upset at the idea of him and WWX being together. I think that shortly after this incident, he wrote “Wangxian”, understanding his feelings a bit more, but not dwelling too deeply on them.

That is, until Xuanwu Cave.

Why did Lan Wangji kiss a blind-folded Wei Wuxian on Phoenix Mountain?

For this, I have two possible explanations.

One- lust. It is by no short measure that there was not any sexual tension present between the two, and in that moment, when LWJ saw a blind-folded Wei Wuxian sitting on a tree’s roots, his self restraint snapped.

Two- he knew this opportunity wouldn’t come by again, and paired with lust, he acted before thinking.

In the later novels, when WWX finds out LWJ was the one that kissed him that day, he teased him.

“‘You’ve harbored improper thoughts about me for that long?!’ Wei Wuxian asked.

‘...I…At the time, I was aware it was wrong of me. Very wrong of me.’ Lan Wangji mumbled.”

(Page 149, english novel 5)

This shows that it was a combination of both lust, and the fact that he wouldn’t get the chance in the future. For at the time, LWJ was too scared to share his feelings after being so forcefully denied at the famous: “Return to Gusu with me,” line. Furthermore, he might have been repressed.

It is possible that, since cut-sleeves (what the novels called homosexuals) were so frowned upon, LWJ himself was deeply repressed. Only accepting his feelings for WWX little by little, refusing to categorize it as “love”.

However, I find that hard to be the case as MXTX herself has stated that LWJ and WWX are the only two canon queer characters in MDZS, so maybe he wasn’t repressed at all- just too scared to tell WWX.

Additionally, after the kiss, LWJ stormed off in a flustered mess, punching trees everywhere. Even WWX was shocked when he found him, commenting on how he had never seen him before in such a state, to which LWJ turned around bleary-eyed and shouted at WWX to stay away from him.

This also proves that although LWJ did kiss WWX, he had shocked himself by his own actions, immediately feeling terrible, like he’d taken advantage of the situation.

So, my final answer is this: It was a combination of both lust and the fact that LWJ did not have the confidence to outright say his feelings.

Why did Lan Wangji bring Wei Wuxian back to the Burial Grounds after the Nightless City Slaughter?

Simple. LWJ- who was on the brink of death himself, had dragged his body over to a nearly collapsed WWX and brought him back to the Burial Grounds, where he sat with him for two days, holding his hand and muttering under his breath while transferring his spiritual power to WWX to keep him alive.

That’s the easy answer.

The hard answer is the one that brings the politics into question. Why did LWJ do it, if he knew he’d be punished once he returned to Gusu? Why was he protecting the Yiling Patriarch? Why did he care so much?

These questions are hard to answer, as we ourselves (the reader) do not know either. In the novels, WWX is known for his bad memory. So in the days where LWJ and WWX were on the brink of death, WWX had no recollection of what happened after the slaughter. He simply remembers waking up alone in the Burial Mounds, only to be killed soon after.

But what about LWJ?

LWJ had risked not only his life, but his reputation to bring WWX back. He was more concerned about WWX’s safety than his own, willing to give up everything to protect him from the world that was out to get him. In Lan Xichen’s (LWJ’s older brother) words to WWX, he claimed that to anyone who had seen LWJ and WWX in that cave, it would’ve been clear as day what WWX meant to LWJ. Meaning, LWJ no longer hid his feelings when he cared for WWX in that time, but it was already too late.

Even LWJ was shocked that upon WWX’s rebirth, he had no recollection at what happened. So that leaves one to wonder…what really occurred then?

What happened that was so dire that LWJ was taken aback? What did LWJ say/do that made it so abundantly clear of his affections- as he knew he was running out of time?

I think during this time frame, LWJ confessed. He knew WWX wasn’t all there, but he confessed regardless. Holding his hands and muttering under his breath for two days, he confessed. He confessed everything he felt toward the man in his arms, the one almost gone, the one ridiculed by the world, and couldn’t take it anymore.

How could he stand by and watch as every person wished for WWX’s downfall, and wanted him dead? How could he stand still knowing his love was being tortured like this?

LWJ was a man of principle, he grew up with it. WWX was everything he wasn’t. WWX was the sun, and LWJ the moon. If WWX died, where would that leave him? It would leave him once again shrouded in darkness.

LWJ didn’t care if he himself perished in the process, for if WWX was protected, that was all that mattered.

In the present-day arcs, why does LWJ continuously drink with WWX if his clan rules forbid it?

A much easier question to answer. LWJ does this because he feels comfortable with WWX, entrusting him completely. In the time WWX was dead, LWJ had mourned of course, but came to terms slowly with all the emotions he felt toward WWX. So, upon his rebirth, LWJ felt no need to try and hide anything. He readily accepted WWX fully, not questioning anything he did, as he wanted to do so all those years ago.

Did Lan Wangji love anyone else in those years when Wei Wuxian was away?

This, I wholeheartedly believe, is a no. As I stated previously, LWJ is a man of principle and righteousness. He would not go against matters of the heart, and he couldn’t even begin to love someone else other than WWX.

Furthermore, LWJ was busy.

He raised the bunnies WWX had given him, trained a whole new generation of sect disciples under his wing- teaching them to be unbiased and to house their own thoughts and judgment. Unlike he had. He even raised Lan Sizhui as his own (previously known as A-Yuan), teaching him how to play the Guqin and learn Inquiry.

During this time, LWJ mourned. He mourned WWX every day for thirteen years. He never believed WWX would come back though. He didn’t get his hopes up- he knew WWX was gone, but he kept going through life with the same pace he always had.

Thus, the famous saying in the cultivation world sprung from this.

“Appearing where there is chaos.”

LWJ started showing up everywhere, even to minor problems with minor ghosts/monsters. I think that even though LWJ knew WWX was gone, he still showed up in search of him. Never getting his hopes up, though I still believe he was subconsciously searching for him.

The night when LWJ found out WWX had been killed, he rushed into town, buying the same alcohol WWX had so many years ago.

He got drunk.

When he came to, he had burned a sun mark on his chest- the same one that had been burned in WWX’s, that night in the cave of Xuanwu. However, LWJ’s wounds were far deeper emotionally than physically.

He had turned the Library Pavilion inside out, frantically searching for something, anything, of WWX’s. When Lan Xichen approached him, worry written evidently on his face, LWJ blank stared and asked for a flute. Lan Xichen retrieved a flute for him.

It wasn’t the right flute.

Thirteen years had passed like that.

Thirteen years of endless regret and among them, new beginnings. He watched the juniors grow up just as he wanted them too. He watched them grow up and be different from him.

He had watched his only love suffer and was powerless to save him.

Thirteen years of grief. Of sad glances; heartfelt sincerity.

Thirteen years of silence. Of being completely and utterly alone.

And then, thirteen years of acceptance.

Of cherished memories.

Thirteen years of somberness.

Of quiet.

Thirteen years of peace.

Until one day, something stirred.

“He had drunk the liquor he had drunk; he had suffered the injury he had suffered.”

(Page 185, english novel 5)

#mdzs #grandmaster of demonic cultivation #mxtx #lan wangji #lwj #wei wuxian #wangxian #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #mxtx mdzs

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yourssinfullyquiche · 5 months

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Night

Hello, all you beautiful people🥰 Another installment in the 4 part Gavin (s.e.x) series. Yes, I was supposed to do Afternoon and Evening first but I'm still writing Afternoon and Evening has yet to be written. So...let's just skip to Night, shall we?

This is an NSFW work, and it's also a little angsty. I had to. I was desperate for angst TW: Unprotected sex, and...nothing else. I'm so bad at this

I come out of the bathroom, fresh as a dewdrop and see Gavin against the headboard of the bed, clothed in his tee and shorts, reading papers with his glasses on. It’s never used often, those glasses. Kept in a black zipped case, it remains on the bedside table ready for use when he wants to. Rather, when he has a splitting headache after reading too much too closely. Though, there are times when he adorns those golden spectacles for the surprised glint in my eyes that leads to heat spreading to my cheeks which results in me tugging my bottom lip with my teeth.

I have an inkling of why it’s there today because the second I emerge from my shower, his eyes meet mine immediately in a gaze that tells me he’s not OK. It’s the kind where his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. Behind that gaze is the lethargy of his recent mission that ended after a month, a sadness of which he has experienced that he’s yet to tell me. He looks like he’s about to cry driven by fear of loss. Ringed with dark circles, the reports he ought to be reading are abandoned with an unfocused mind.

I stride towards Gavin, with a resolve of eliminating the feelings which feed into that look. He puts the papers aside and the spectacles on it, arms at his side to welcome my presence on his body. I don’t even bother changing into my pyjamas, only removing my bathrobe and tossing it onto the chair, knowing that his clothes would be strewn all over the floor. Clad only in my delicates, my legs straddle his hips. He cups my behind and pushes me up, securing me comfortably above him, levelled to his face. My hair falls encasing us in a curtain of floral vanilla scent—a secret reprieve, only the two of us share.

Our hands fiddle with our clothes—mine are gone in no time, my fingers move on to his shorts, pull it down in one go and throw it haphazardly. He’s bare and chuckling when he looks at me. “Don’t worry, the other half of my body won’t dare run away.”

The delivery of that line should have me laughing but his voice is as empty as a hollow tree, something he tries to mask with cheekiness but fails. Though it twinges within, I don’t point it out. Instead I reciprocate with the intended cadence and smack his chest lightly, “I’ll be sure to use that line when you tear my clothes in shreds.”

He purposely averts his eyes all innocently with a satisfied smile on his face. The back of my fingers absentmindedly runs over his cheek as he tucks the spilling locks of my hair to one side. “What’s on your mind?” I ask.

There, it’s that look again. That look in his eyes tells me he’s so afraid. He breathes heavily and pulls me closer into his warm embrace, protectively cradling the back of my head. I wait for his shaky breaths to dwindle and answer though I know it won’t come as easily. I look back at him to see his eyes glisten wistfully and then he says, “I’m so happy that you’re here with me.”

My face twists first into confusion and then understanding. I don’t pry further because that one line tells me everything I need to know. A smile forms on my face as I cup his cheeks. “There’s no place I will be than in your arms, my love.”

The smile he gives me is loving and grateful as he brings me into his embrace once more. There’s a small lump forming in my throat, but I swallow it. There will be no tears for now, not when he needs my strength—and it comes full force as my fingers ghost over the deep lines on his body

All sizes with pains that ache my heart. I dance over the fresh gash across his sternum like they’re hot coals burning my fingers. Yes, it burns. It burns my entire being, makes my blood boil that he has to put himself through countless horrors—yes it is not deep, but the marking remains sufficiently angry to leave a scar crossing both his pecs.

My thoughts halt when he looks at me with a pensive gaze. I remind myself that anger is not what I need now as well. I’ll not let him have the chance to comfort me, not when he’s clearly in need of some love. So, before he utters anything, I kiss lips, one he gladly sinks into. Desperate and breathless it becomes and it makes me float, taking away my mind that would eventually travel down the path of bitter horrifying stories it conjures.

I caress his cheek with the back of my knuckles. Kiss all over his face. He chuckles as I flutter my eyelashes across his skin. I look into his eyes, tired but always exuding gentle love that sends a rush of warmth through my body.

No words leave my lips, it only moves to join his again. Our kisses are unhurried and languid, a sweet dance. We save exploring each other’s bodies for another day, for today we yearn only for the warmth such nakedness provides. I raise and sink slowly down his cock. The chorus of sounds leave our lips at the pleasure of fullness we both feel, feeling so close to one another, the warmth that one can only feel when they’re skin to skin.

One of his hands stays resting on my bottom and the other sneaks up to hold my nape, mine finds its way to the soft strands of his hair, and they stay put for anchor. I feel him engorged and pulsing in me. The burn of my core, the stickiness my legs feel and the incredible need to rise and slam hard into his body. I ignore all the impulse, instead we rock our bodies to a slow rhythm. Moving together and savouring the deliberate thrusts.

Gavin’s lips caress my neck until they land at the corner of mine. “You feel so good,” he whispers against my lips, choking my sighs once more in a reverent kiss. Tonight, I let my lips take away his grief, my body take away his pain. Perhaps after, words will be shared once more, dead in the twilight wrapped around in sheets heated by the warmth of our bodies.

The waves of pleasure crests within us yet we never hasten. I feel the usual jolt in my tummy, one look at him tells me we’re both about to fall over the cliff. “Together,” I tell him and he’s about to pull away when I stop him, clamping down. “I want it inside.” He stills, eyes wide as he stares at me for a few seconds. The question is clear. Are you sure?

Softly he asks to confirm his thoughts, “Is that what you want or are you doing this because you think I want it?”

I yearn, and perhaps I am doing this for him. But I don’t care. I know he’s the man I want to spend all my nights with wrapped in our sheets, the only one whose golden eyes I ache to meet when I wake. Somehow I know he needs that as well. To be so close to one another until the air we breathe diminishes.

“I want it…,” breathlessly it dispels from my lips.

I look at him and his eyes are glassy and dark to a deep shade of bourbon as he kisses my forehead.

“Then come with me,” says Gavin.

We’re in one tight embrace as our bodies rock once more—a little faster, and within a few seconds we come undone in a gentle rush. I have no plans to move, to feel the emptiness that will instantly wash over—he doesn’t either when his hands stay tight around me. I feel the warmth of the duvet around my skin as we kiss goodnight and say I love yous before we drift to a slumber.

A/N: Thank you for reading❤️ Updates will be quite slow since I'm working now. I had this piece in the drafts as I wrote it immediately after Morning. I waited so long only because I wanted to post it by order but the Afternoon piece is taking longer than expected. It's really out of my comfort zone, so writing it has been a slow process. To those of you reading, I appreciate your patience~

Credits to @cafekitsune for the lovely dividers😚

Taglist: @playheej@purple-cat-demon@rinharu-purple (if you want to join my taglist, please visit my blog and click the link available on my pinned post)

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txemrn · 1 year

Text

Déjà Vu

Chapter 4

New? Check out the first THREE chapters HERE! (Go ahead; we'll be here. 😉)

Series Summary: After an unforgettable night with a stranger, Princess Eleanor finds herself caught in a secret love triangle between a noble and a commoner.

Chapter Summary: Drake heads to Club Core with Leo; he unexpectedly meets a young woman that reminds him of a past life.

Pairing(s): mention of Liam x Riley; Drake x Riley (former)

Word Count: ~4970

Warning: 🔞 Mature Audiences Only 🔞 language (tons; it's Drake); sexual references (crude); mention of excessive drinking; drug-use reference; brief violence

A/N: Welcome to my Crack Fic! If you are new, hi! Thank you for joining us! This story takes place approximately 2 decades after TRR/TRH. I have made some canonical changes (they will be mentioned). Although this is from my crazy mind, it takes a village! Huge thanks to my sweet writing buddies for helping me figure out various parts! Love y'all! Characters and some plots belong to our friends at Pixelberry! This was not Beta'd; please excuse my errors.

~🖤~

Drake

What the fuck was I thinking? I hate large crowds and eardrum-piercing music. I hate being around people who can't hold their liquor, not to mention I hate dancing. But even worse, I hate Leonardo Anselm Phineas Rys. Old thorn in my side. What in the actual fuck made me agree to hang out with blondie in the first place? At a club? On opening night?

Because you're lonely, and he offered free booze…

My twisted expression relaxes as I shrug my shoulders. Meh. I guess it could be worse.

"Okay, baby… I'll be home later… yes… I'll tell Liam you said, 'hello'..." Leo gives an obnoxious kissing sound before disconnecting his call with the touch of a button. He lets out a sigh, taking a hit of his vape pen. "Dahlia," he answers to the question I never asked. He glances at me, sucking in his bottom lip before giving me a slow flutter of a wink. "She's a bit clingy."

I nod, drumming my fingers against the leather interior, playing it cool like I care. "Is… she your–?"

"Friend."

Ah. Okay. 'Friend.' The term just glides off of his tongue. Nonchalant. Sweet and syrupy, almost as if he believes the bullshit he's feeding this poor girl that's waiting at home for him.

And she thinks what now? That he's coming over after an evening with his brother's family which, no doubt, she has never met. And judging by that brief interaction with goldie locks here, she doesn’t seem to have the intellectual capacity to wonder why she wasn't invited to the dinner in the first place.

Side-piece. Booty-call. Friend. It's all just semantics to douchebags like Leo Rys.

I fidget with the navy collar to the button-down shirt Leo loaned me. I could barely fit my broad shoulders into the lean cut of his tailored threads. The guy has a rock hard physique, but tough, manual labor creates a different kind of body. A strong one. Like mine.

The buttons pull slightly across my chest as I flash a glance in the car visor mirror. I look like a fucking tool. I'm not used to my stubble brushing up against starched cotton; I'm usually wearing a tee, my work denim and my steel-toes. I mean, unless I'm meeting with a client or going out to dinner where you have a waiter and utensils. But, other than that, I am a fish out of water: this shirt is uncomfortable. And I have a feeling this is just a prelude of what's to come.

At least Leo approved of my jeans and Tecovas. He tried throwing my trusty chambray shirt in the trash. "No one has worn this for at least twenty years… and they weren't even wearing it then."

Fuck off.

We pull up to this club, and I swear everyone in Cordonia has turned out for this spectacle. The moment Rys steps out of his 'I didn't want anything too flashy' red Ferrari, the paps were on him like white on rice. Flashes of light rain from every direction as reporters flood him with curious questions about his Gucci loafers and gray Brioni blazer.

Lucky for me, I'm a nobody, and the press quickly discovers that the moment I step out onto the red carpet. Dropping their cameras and microphones in disappointment, they instantly turn their attention elsewhere. I don't know if I should be grateful… or offended, to be honest. At least confuse me for Leo's new lover… bunch of dickwads.

I push past the commotion, combing my hair out of my eyes as I look around the red carpet. This place is pretty snazzy, but holy fuck, they didn't spare with any expenses. It’s like a fucking fortress: a tall, wrought iron fence encased with stone surrounds the perimeter. Armed security in black tie a la James Bond swarm the space.

Now, the entrance? This wasn't just any ol’ red carpet; oh, fuck no, that wouldn't do for such a prestigious guest list. Contortionists and acrobats on pedestals perform sultry poses and maneuvers, leaving the crowd bewildered and amazed.

Scantily clad women tend to the average Joe commoners waiting in line. They serve hors d'oeuvres and complimentary spirits, fooling them into thinking they're still important even though they're on the outskirts of the main event, and truth be told: they'll never get in.

Taking it all in, I suddenly feel a massive clap against my back before an arm hugs tightly around my neck.

"Ready, Walker?" Leo pops his gum in between his smarmy grin. "Let's get our dicks wet."

—

Fucking. A. I'm pretty sure I just entered the third level of hell.

"Hey-yo, Walker!"

Make that the fourth level…

I glance back at Rys who is now flocked with an entourage of, and I quote, ‘aspiring models,’ all with their fake tits falling out of their tops, their overly-injected blow-job lips, and lashes so thick, you can't tell if they're sleeping or having a stroke. He flashes those pearly whites as he dangles a small, gram-size plastic bag of white powder.

Now, I'm not against tokin' up or getting obliterated with alcohol, but cocaine isn't my style… not to mention, if we got caught–no doubt, Leo knows people that could bail us out, but if Liam and Riley were to hear about this? They'd kick me to the curb in an instant, especially with their kid around. They’d label me as a bad influence, and Liam would give me that fatherly disappointment glare.

"What do you think, Walker?" Leo nods with eager anticipation. "Wanna join… all of us?" He lets out a knowing laugh, winking at the women around him. They take his cue and begin to giggle, as if he was the funniest, most charming man they've ever met.

And my IQ just dropped two points.

"I think… I'm going to… " I notice a large bar area, quickly throwing a hitched thumb back at it. "...I'll check out the bar,"

"Suit yourself." The women practically swallow him whole with their arms. "Don't forget: give 'em my name. Drinks on me!"

The drove of venereal diseases buzzes off with their king, and a sense of relief washes over me. Would I rather be at home? Absolutely, but since I'm already here…

I make my way toward the crowded bar area, ducking between drunken cat fights and groping couples. Finding a stool, I plant my ass down, and despite how busy it is, the bartender tends to me quickly–probably because I'm a 45- year-old man alone in a club. Translation: I have money, I know what I want, and chances are, what I order doesn't require my rim being bedazzled with seasonings, flowers, or fruit.

"What can I get ya?"

Oh, shit, I haven't heard that distinct nasally Portavira accent in so long. My God…

"Um… Larceny. Neat."

"Double?"

My man… I nod as I watch him pull out the bottle and a clean tumbler.

"Do you have a tab started, sir?"

I reach for my wallet, but I abruptly stop, remembering Leo's words. 'Give 'em my name. Drinks on me!'

"I do. It's under Rys," I smirk, "and actually, do you have Macallan?"

The bartender stops, giving me a glance over when finally a Cheshire grin creeps across his face as if he just struck oil. "We sure do, Mr. Rys." He extends his hand to fist bump me before reaching to the top shelf for a new bottle of the liquid gold. Before I knew it, he's twirling the tumbler across the bar. "Enjoy, Mr. Rys."

Taking a sip, I give him a wink as a thank you as I bask in the much needed woodsy burn of clove on my tongue. Damn, that's tasty.

Feeling more relaxed, I glance out onto the dance floor as other club-goers get lost in the hypnotic buzz of the ethanol electrifying their veins. The tantric beat of the music and the flashing swirl of multicolored lights feeds the adrenaline and raging hormones as people grab and grope one another.

I am way too old for this scene.

I grab my glass to take another pull when out of the corner of my eye, I see a familiar face at the bar. Turning my head to get a better look, I suddenly swallow my whiskey down the wrong pipe, causing me to fall into a fit of coughs. Smooth, Walker, real smooth.

Blinking back the tears, I sniff into a napkin before looking back at the beautiful face. Shit. She's absolutely…wow. Gorgeous dark, silky waves, porcelain skin, that pouty mouth with those big, doe eyes… She's the spitting image of… Riley.

"Fuck," I growl at myself before rubbing the shit out of my eyes. No way, it can't be. I look up again, and instantly I can feel my jeans begin to tighten.

You're just wanting to see her. You're just wanting it to be her, especially with what happened back at the palace.

I down the rest of my drink before allowing my attention to be completely saturated by this girl.

It's not Riley. It's not…

See? Her nose appears more prominent from the side, and-and her neck. Her neck seems longer, slender. And her eyes. They're gorgeous and big… they aren't Riley's navy blues, but damn, that sparkle–

"Would you like another–?"

"Please," I grumble as I stare at this Riley look-alike. I just… can't tear my eyes away. Her presence feels so real, so intimate. Now, judging from this woman's creamy, velvet skin, she's young. Maybe early 20s. Way out of my league… but still that face. It's like looking into a past life, a life I once loved.

—

(Two decades ago…)

"Brooks," Drake whispers loudly, "come on!"

"Shhhh!" Riley presses a finger to her lips, stifling her giggles as she looks down from her palace window. "Are you trying to wake everyone up? You're going to get me into trouble."

"You are trouble, lady."

Riley looks back at the commoner, the glint of mischief in his eyes making her adrenaline pump faster through her veins. "Now are you sure about this?" She bites her lip, "you'll catch me if–"

"For the hundredth time, yes," Drake rolls his eyes, holding his arms out wide.

Since Drake's confession to Riley at Applewood, the two of them have been enjoying each other's company, especially after hours. They flirt with danger, sharing in kisses that they swear will never happen again for obvious reasons: she is there to pursue Liam and his hand in marriage; Drake is his best friend.

After watching Liam share a kiss with Riley, a dam of excruciating jealousy broke in Drake's heart. He already shared with Riley before that he was developing feelings for her, but now, it was… something else. Something more.

During dinner, the commoner passed her a note, asking her to meet him outside her window after midnight because they needed to talk.

Riley is staying in the guest quarters off the West Wing with the other suitors. She's only on the second floor, but still, a jump from that high could be dangerous. So, Drake helped the brunette construct a climbing rope with her top sheet.

"I've got ya. Just… ease yourself over."

Riley takes one step at a time, following Drake's directions; but when she gets close to the ground, she looks back at Drake, raising an eyebrow, then jumps.

"Whoa!" Drake stumbles as Riley crashes into his chest, his arms quickly cradling her close. "What the fuck are you doing?"

Riley giggles, combing her fingers through Drake's thick hair. "Sometimes a girl just wants to be caught."

Their eyes lock on one another, Drake's hand finding her cheek. He gently rubs his thumb across her soft skin, her eyes fluttering closed as she leans into his touch.

"Come with me," he whispers softly while grabbing her hand.

"Wait… I thought we were going to talk–"

"I want to show you something." Riley gives him a curious glare. "It's a surprise," he smirks, pulling her to follow him.

They walk silently, hand-in-hand across the grounds, playfully gazing back-and-forth at one another–that is, until all a sudden a bright flashlight skims over where they are walking.

"Who goes there?" A palace guard bellows.

"Brooks, take off your flip-flops," Drake commands under his breath, watching the guard in the distance.

"What? Why?"

"Just trust me," he squeezes her fingers.

Riley quickly kicks them off, holding them in her hands. "Okay… now what?"

Drake grabs her hand again, his grip tight. "Run!" Giving her a warning tug, they both take off across the wet lawn, Riley following Drake's lead.

"Where… are we… going?" She pants, laughter bubbling from her chest.

"You'll see," Drake chuckles, "but we have to lose Barney Fife first!"

Dodging the glow of the searching lights, Drake and Riley finally make it to a large wall of greenery. Finding an entry, they pass through the walkway and hide behind the vines and leaves.

Drake looks to see if they finally lost the guards, but Riley takes a moment to look around the thicket they just entered.

"Whoa," her eyes widen as she looks at the well-manicured covert. "Where… where are we?"

"It's… a maze. A hedge maze that we used to play in as kids."

"Are you serious?" She meanders down a corridor, looking around a corner. "It's so dark. Did you ever get lost?"

Drake chuckles, reaching into his pocket. "Plenty of times." He saunters closer to Riley, pulling out a flashlight and handing it to her. The air crackles around them as the charm of the blue moon ignites the twinkle in their eyes. Drake lowers his voice into a deep gravel. "Come get lost with me, Riley Brooks."

With that, he smiles and takes off jogging, Riley staying close behind. "Hey, not so fast Drake." She turns a corner and notices his denim shirt discarded on the grass. "You lost your shirt."

"Did I now?" He snickers. "Can you bring it to me?"

Riley scoffs into a giggle as she continues through the maze at the sound of his voice. "Maybe if you'd stop running away–"

"Maybe if you weren't so slow–"

"Hey!" Riley chides, "I just jumped out of a window–" she falls silent as finds Drake's belt tossed on the ground. She collects it in her hand, biting her bottom lip. "Drake?"

"You're getting warm," he teases. Riley stumbles through another corner, turning left, then right. The sounds of her toes in the grass compliment her heavy breathing as she stops again to the cooing of his voice. "Warmer, Brooks."

She continues until suddenly, she notices a warm glow just up ahead. Her steps quicken until finally she reaches a small clearing in the maze that opens to a stunning backdrop of the star-filled sky. Gas-lit sconces illuminate the garden, revealing tapestries of vines and flowers fixed to wooden lattice work amongst the bushes.

"Wow," Riley gasps, her eyes glowing with the wonder all around her. "This is beautiful." She feels Drake's warm touch on her hand, their fingers lacing together.

"Cmon," he tugs on her, "I want to show you something."

"There's more?" She giggles, following his lead. They walk a short, pebbled path until they are standing in front of a large gray-stoned well. Riley presses her fingertips to the cold marbled edges before looking down into the dark abyss. Her eyes shift to Drake, "Is this where you murder me?" He chuckles, shaking his head as she turns back to the well opening. "Hello!" She shouts, the echoes welcoming each other back and forth.

"I'll be honest, Brooks." Riley looks back at Drake. "I'm kinda shocked Liam hasn't already brought you here. It's one of his favorite places to show off in the entire estate."

"Oh," Riley's eyebrows knit together with a pained expression.

"Hey," Drake nudges her playfully. "What's with the long face?"

Riley snickers into a scoff before finally succumbing to tears. "I'm just exhausted," she pulls her hands to her face.

"Brooks," he pulls her into his comforting arms.

"This social season bullshit is just … it's really screwing with my head," she sniffles. "I've never been more insecure in all my life, and what for?" She wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, clearing her throat. "I wish I knew where I stood. I wish the competition was over. I wish–"

Drake reaches into his pocket, pulling out a couple of worn copper coins. He offers them to a confused Riley.

"Pennies?" She sniffles.

"Yeah," he chuckles, "I forgot to get rid of them when we were in New York. They're worthless here. No conversion."

Riley's lips begin to curl. "Then why keep them?"

Drake starts inspecting the coins in his hand, allowing them to softly clang together in his palm. "I read a book once–"

"--picture books don't count as reading."

"Ha. Ha." He smirks, feigning annoyance as he starts to jingle the coins in his hand. "I read that in ancient civilizations, finding random metals was a sign or a blessing from the gods."

"You see them everywhere back home. The streets, sidewalks," she snickers, "a whole cent. How generous of the gods."

"What? A penny isn't enough for you?" Drake playfully growls, slowly leaning closer to Riley. She coyly bats her lashes, a soft titter in her throat. "Here." He puts a coin in her hand.

"What's this for?" Riley studies the trinket.

"For something bigger, citizens would offer the metal back to the gods, like a payment. So they would say a silent prayer, then toss it–"

"--into a well," Riley softly finishes.

Drake nods over his shoulder to the stoned well. "Let's make your wishes count."

One by one, Drake and Riley silently take pennies, casting them into the well with unspoken hopes and dreams until every last coin was gone. Feeling his close proximity, Riley stares up into his dark eyes, getting lost into a charming stillness.

"What did you wish for?" She whispers.

Drake slowly shakes his head. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

He offers a crooked grin. Combing his fingers into Riley's dark, espresso waves, his hand gently grips the back of her neck, pulling her closer. "All my wishes have already come true, Brooks." He closes the space between them, their lips grazing one another. The feather-light touch instantly ignites a hunger, one they both feel and crave. Drake pulls back, chuckling under his breath as he fidgets with the hem of Riley's shirt. "So... why didn't you take off any clothes?"

Riley bites her bottom lip. "Maybe... because... I wanted my wish to come true." She pauses, her fingers tucking into the front pocket of Drake's jeans, pulling his hips flush against hers.

He swallows thickly. "Which is?"

"Take them off for me, Walker."

—

(Present)

Damnit. I adjust myself in my jeans, but my cock always hardens at the memory of Riley and me that night. We fucked. A lot. But that night, our first night together, it was more than just sex. We made love.

I take a swig of my new drink that the bartender must've dropped off while I was taking a stroll down the boulevard of broken dreams when my eyes dart to my Riley look-alike.

And I feel my dick shrink.

She's with someone, some blond tool, probably named Chad, with a tool haircut that shops at Tools-R-Us with a matching trust fund.

I sigh to myself, polishing the rest of my drink before staring at my empty glass.

He is pretty hot; I don't blame her.

I glance at them one more time, kissing my own dirty fantasy away when I notice something odd. His hand is sternly gripped around her wrist, staring at her like she's his next meal.

But her face tells a different story. She seems to be struggling, trying to tear her arm away from him. Those big, doe eyes are panicked, large as table saucers as she frantically looks for help.

I sigh. Goddamnit...

I wipe a napkin across my mouth as I stand, my glare fixed on this commotion transpiring before me. I shrug my shoulders, loosening the tight fabric off my back as I stretch my muscles. Just in case.

I hurry my way through the dense crowd of patrons gathered around the bar. I flex my fingers, bending my wrist as I get closer.

Ah, shit. This is the part I'm bad at. What do I say first? 'Stop that!' No, that's lame. I need something clever, like maybe, 'Is there a problem here?' How about–

My clenched fist meets his jaw, knocking the asshole in one swing into a bartop table before he crashes down onto the floor. He's so disoriented; he's trying to get up, but he keeps slipping on shards of glass, falling back into the pathetic rumple he calls his life.

Fuck. My hand. I know it will hurt like a bitch in a few minutes when my body depletes of adrenaline, but for right now, I'm basking in the moment.

A smirk grows on my mouth, but it doesn't last for long. The young woman. I turn to the Riley look-alike, her terrified stare already fixed on me. Instinctively, I carefully put my hand on her shoulder. She's shaking.

"Excuse me, miss. Are you alright?"

Ho.ly. Fuuuuuuck.

Brooks? Seeing her up close is almost painful; I can feel my balls beginning to ache. This woman is hauntingly stunning: the subtle freckles on her nose, the curve of the bow to her top lip, even the flounce of her long, flirty eyelashes. She's beautiful; she's… like somebody I used to know…

The young woman shyly nods, but she's trembling. She's clearly not alright.

And I suddenly possess this overwhelming need to take her in my arms, hold her tight and let her know she's safe.

Calm down, Walker.

"Let's get you away from this." I look up, noticing an open lounge-type area near the dance floor with large, plush couches. Offering my arm, she holds on tightly as we escape through the debris of the nightmare that just happened. Placing a reassuring hand on her back, I encourage her to sit.

I, on the other hand, keep an eye on douche canoe who is being helped up by security and his friends. But, I don't think he'll be a problem for us anymore tonight. He never got a good look at me, and even if he had, something tells me his ego would keep him away from telling the truth of who made him taste his own blood.

Turning towards the young woman, I notice she is anxiously looking around, her body on edge. I tilt myself to her ear, shouting over the blaring music, "Are you here with anyone?"

She nods, "B-but it's okay," she yells back, waving her hands. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

She fakes a smile, and my God, it knocks me back. Stunning.

Focus on her words, Walker...

"I don't exactly want to…"

I don't quite understand the rest of her statement, her words lost in the heavy beat of the music. I give her an inquisitive look, causing her to careen towards my ear, her hand brushing across my shoulder.

And my cock twitches. Breathe, buddy…

"I said… I don't want to interrupt their fun." She motions aimlessly to the dance floor. Got it.

"Can I call someone for you? Family perhaps?"

Her eyes widen. "What? No, no."

She grins, but it's clearly hiding her true feelings. Which is fine. I'm a complete stranger. Shit, she probably thinks I'm some creepy old man, hitting on her at the bar. And sure, maybe on a night where she wasn't assaulted, maybe I would've bought her a drink, asked for her number.

But the fact of the matter is this: I really don't feel comfortable leaving this girl alone. She just got into a physical altercation with… whoever that guy was. Her boyfriend? Oh shit, husband? I look at her hand; I don't see a ring, but that doesn't mean anything. You never know these days. Still, she doesn't need to be by herself right now. She really doesn't need to be here, but again, who am I but another creep at the bar.

I run my fingers through my hair. Oh, what the hell. "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

A hint of fear crosses her expression as she looks me over.

I hold up my hands in defense before leaning over her shoulder. "I don't feel comfortable leaving you alone in a place like this," I shout, "especially with what happened with your boyfriend."

She takes a deep breath. She flashes those big, brown eyes at me before finally nodding in agreement.

And my heart melts.

I offer my hand. "Drake."

The corners of her lips curl as she takes my hand, leaning towards my ear. "Jake?" She yells.

I shake my head, facing her ear more directly. "Drake!" I holler over the deep thrumming of the bass.

She raises an eyebrow. "Jake?"

Eh, close enough. I smile in agreement.

"I'm Nora," she smiles, already more relaxed.

"Nora?" I repeat, ensuring I heard her correctly. At least one of us should be called by our real names this evening.

She nods innocently, a beautiful rosy pink painting her cheeks. "Oh, and, um… he's not my boyfriend." A piece of her hair falls like liquid silk into her eyes as she looks down at her lap. She quickly shoos the wisp away, chasing it behind her ear before looking back at me, trying to figure out my angle. Am I here to hurt her? Flirt with her? Invite her home for a messy, drunken fuck?

Don't worry, sweetie, you're safe with me.

"American?"

She catches me off guard with that one. "Uh, yeah. How did you–?"

She points to her mouth, her lips perfectly rounded and plump, painted a deep crimson. Oh, duh. My watered-down accent. Toto, we're not in Texas anymore. It's hard to believe that at one point in my life, I actually sounded like these people. Every once in a while, the Cordonian beast pounces, but these days, I sound like the typical American mutt.

"Are you on vacation?" Nora asks.

I smirk, shaking my head. "I… moved here for work."

"To Cordonia?" She snickers. "Of all places?"

"Fair," I chuckle under my breath as I feel the heat rise up my neck. "I… grew up here, so I have… connections, friends and family. It makes for an easy transition. How about you?"

Her eyes brighten, like a pageant contestant being asked about world peace. "Cordonian. Born and raised."

"That's unfortunate," I joke. Sorta.

"Hey," she giggles, scrunching up her nose playfully. She swats the back of her hand against my shoulder. The touch sends a shockwave of familiarity, robbing me of my breath. "I love Cordonia–"

"Spoken like a true Cordonian."

"And… what's wrong with that?"

Drake guffaws. "What isn't wrong with that?"

"Your tone is suggesting that there's something wrong with having pride in your country–"

"It's egotistical–"

"The only thing egotistical is thinking that your opinion about Cordonia is the only opinion to be had." She furrows her brows. "If you hate it so much, why did you come back?"

Shit. She's feisty. And this conversation has gone completely off the rails. I can't tell if she's really pissed… or if I'm just really turned on and wanting a sparring match.

Fuck. You just had to be a jackass…

"Okay, truth?" I offer, even though I'm sure she wants to toss a drink in my face at this point.

She turns to face me, tucking her leg underneath her. "Please."

"I had a rough time fitting in here. Except for my best friend. He's–" I grin thinking about Liam and I, growing up together, how perfect and inseparable we were. "--as Cordonian as you can get. Well, except… I mean, his mom… nevermind," I shake my head. "He's the nicest person I've ever met in my life. I needed some help after a bad business deal, and… he was there and… now I'm here."

"Huh." She sits back, crossing her arms as she takes me in. She raises an eyebrow, the corner of her lips curling. She's clearly unsure of me, and I don't blame her.

"Drinks?" A cocktail waitress dressed in a skimpy, leather skirt interrupts us.

Rubbing the back of my neck nervously, I turn to Nora. I have a feeling that this might be the end of the night for us, especially if I don't offer her a cocktail.

I stare at the sparkling flecks of bronze in her eyes. There's something about this girl, more than just the memories she stirs up in me. I can't explain it… shit, then again, maybe I'm fooling myself, wanting something to be there that never was. Still… I clear my throat… you never know unless you try.

"Would… you like one? A drink?"

She narrows her eyes in thought… and fucking hell, she's so goddamn beautiful. Like Riley incarnate. The mannerisms, some of her expressions. Watching her literally robs me of speech and air, and I am dying to spend more time with her. Hell, who knows where the night will take us.

I really hope she agrees to this drink. I can tell I haven't exactly won her over in the past twenty minutes, but if she would just agree to one more drink, just a few more minutes with me, maybe history could repeat itself. Maybe I could experience the woman of my dreams in a different way. Now, I could never tell Nora this; she could never find out. I mean, I am attracted to her, it's just…

"Sure," Nora interrupts my thoughts, her lips curling. "I'll take a drink."

~🖤~

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glitterp0prhaps0dy · 18 days

Text

Staring contest

In the depth of the night, Floyd awakened, enveloped in darkness. The rhythmic snoring of Barb, however, pierced the stillness, a comforting reminder of companionship. Since Thrash had welcomed Floyd into their abode, he had been sharing Rebel and Barb's room, furnished with a bunk bed distinctly marking the territory of the teenage rock trolls. The room, a vibrant testament to their personalities, was adorned with posters of rock legends and scattered with instruments, reflecting the chaos and creativity of its occupants. In one corner, a beanbag, fashioned from segments of old concert tees, offered a soft counterpoint to the room's hard edges.

Tonight, as usual, Barb claimed the upper bunk, her breathing steady and deep, with Rebel beside her, an arrangement altered to accommodate Floyd on the lower bunk. The unfamiliar environment hadn't dampened the parched feeling in Floyd's throat, his need for water momentarily disrupting the sense of belonging that had begun to take root.

Floyd carefully maneuvered to avoid a collision with the bunk above as he sat up, the dim light casting long shadows across the room. He reached out, pulling the electric wheelchair closer with practiced ease. Balancing on his good leg, he settled into the chair, silently grateful for the mobility it offered. As he wheeled out of the bedroom, the cool air of the night brushed against his face, a stark contrast to the warmth of shared living spaces.

The kitchen he entered was a spectacle of rock troll aesthetics, blending the raw, rugged beauty of their culture with the practicality needed for daily life. The walls were a tapestry of volcanic rock, interspersed with metals that glinted under the dim lighting, giving the impression of being inside a cave lit by the soft glow of lava. A large, sturdy table made of petrified wood stood at the center, surrounded by chairs that resembled polished boulders, complete with cushions for comfort.

The countertops were sleek, black stone, and the cabinets were crafted from dark, aged wood, adorned with intricate carvings of rock troll history and legends. Various kitchen gadgets, each with a rock motif, from a blender that looked like a stack of mini drums to a toaster resembling a small amplifier, added a functional yet whimsical touch to the space. Overhead, a chandelier made from recycled guitar picks cast an ambient light, illuminating the room with a soft, warm glow.

Floyd reached for a glass cup, its surface etched with intricate bat patterns.He filled it with water from a sink whose faucet mimicked a guitar neck, the water flowing smoothly from its silver strings. Just as he was about to turn around, glass in hand, he choked on the water in surprise.

In the kitchen's deepest shadow stood Rebel, silent as a statue, her presence unnoticed until now. Her eyes, reflecting the faint light, fixed on Floyd with an intensity that sent a shiver down his spine. The question of how long she had been standing there, silently observing, hung heavily in the air, adding a layer of mystery to her already enigmatic demeanor.

Floyd's voice stumbled over the words, a futile attempt to slice through the thick silence between them. "I, uh... I was thirsty, so, um... I got... some water," he managed to say, his gaze darting between Rebel's piercing red eyes and the glass in his hand. The air between them felt charged, heavy with unspoken questions and curiosity.

For what felt like an eternity but was merely two minutes, they remained locked in this silent standoff. Floyd shifted uncomfortably in his wheelchair, the weight of Rebel's gaze feeling almost tangible against his skin. Meanwhile, Rebel stood unmoved, the only sign of life being the occasional flick of her tail.

Finally, Rebel turned away, her departure marked by the distinct click-clack of her hooves against the volcanic rock floor. Floyd exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.

'She must have been in here before me, considering if she came in after, I would have heard her,' Floyd reasoned internally. The encounter, brief and wordless, left a lingering sense of intrigue and unease.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Floyd, having settled more comfortably into the dynamics of the Rock trolls' household over the week, found himself increasingly curious about their lives and interests. Today, his curiosity was piqued by Barb's artistic endeavor.

"Hey, Barb, that design looks wicked cool," Floyd said, leaning closer to get a better look at the sketch Barb was working on. The design sprawled across the page was intricate and edgy, fitting for a rock guitar. "What inspired this pattern? It looks like... are those lightning bolts mixed with skulls?"

Barb glanced up from her drawing, a spark of enthusiasm lighting up her face. "Yeah, exactly! I wanted it to have that raw, electrifying vibe, y'know? Like it's not just an instrument, but a declaration of who I am," she explained, her fingers tracing over the lines she'd drawn, emphasizing the fusion of elements.

Floyd nodded, impressed. "That's so cool. And these colors here," he pointed to a section of the design, "they're gonna look awesome under stage lights. Have you thought about what materials you want to use for it?"

Barb leaned back, tapping her pen against her chin thoughtfully. "I'm thinking something that'll really stand out, maybe a metallic finish? And I want the strap to have spikes. It needs to scream 'rock' from every angle."

Floyd chuckled. "Definitely screams 'rock.' It's gonna be amazing, Barb. Can't wait to see it come to life."

From the corner of his eye, Floyd caught Rebel glaring at him, her stare sharp and unsettling, before she abruptly shifted her focus back to the TV. Rebel had never uttered a single word in his presence, maintaining an air of silence that Floyd found increasingly intimidating.

Each time their gazes collided, he couldn't help but feel a chill run down his spine, leading him to wonder if perhaps she harbored a deep-seated dislike for him. Despite the warmth and welcome he'd received from Barb and Thrash, Rebel's silent judgment left Floyd questioning his place among the Rock trolls, and whether he'd ever bridge the gap with the enigmatic Rebel.

Ten minutes had passed,and Rebel left for her room. Floyd hesitated, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt before finally mustering the courage to ask Barb. "Hey, uhm, Barb, I have... a question," he began, his voice tentative. Barb glanced up from her drawing, her brows furrowing slightly as she attempted to grab the red crayon without looking at it. "Yeah, what's up, dude?"

Floyd swallowed hard, his nerves getting the best of him. "Does Rebel... hate me? She always seems so... cold, and she glares at me anytime we're in the same room. It's kinda scary," he admitted, his voice tinged with uncertainty and a hint of fear.

Barb snickered, her laughter filling the room as she finally looked at Floyd. "Dude, seriously, no sweat," she began, shaking her head with a chuckle.

"That's just Rebel's vibe with new faces. She's all 'mysterious lone wolf' with everyone at first. And hey, no snitching, but she even gave Dad the cold shoulder for like, half a year. Only one who's never gotten the 'Rebel glare' is yours truly, but that’s because she’s only known me since I was three."

Floyd's confusion was apparent. "Since you were three? But I thought Rebel was your older sister. I'm... kinda lost here."

Barb looked at him with a playful smirk. "Oh, adoption, genius," she said with a chuckle, her tone dripping with her typical sarcasm. "Rebel's adopted, that's the twist," she explained, her laughter softening as she shook her head, amused by Floyd's moment of confusion.

Floyd blushed in embarrassment. "Oh, uh... I didn't think about that," he admitted sheepishly, scratching the back of his head.

Barb rolled her eyes playfully. "No sweat, rookie," she teased, a smirk playing on her lips as she leaned back in her chair. "Hey, speaking of not thinking things through, remember that time you tried to cook pancakes and ended up setting the kitchen on fire?" she added with a snicker, clearly enjoying the opportunity to tease Floyd.

Floyd's cheeks flushed a deeper shade of red at the memory. "Oh, come on, that was one time! And I did put out the fire eventually," he protested, trying to defend himself with a grin. "Besides, you were the one who said adding extra syrup would make them taste better!"

Barb laughed, shaking her head at Floyd's protest. "Hey, don't blame me for your culinary mishaps, pal. You're lucky my dad didn't ban you from the kitchen after that disaster," she retorted, her laughter filling the room as they shared another moment of playful banter.

Floyd chuckled, attempting to defend his culinary skills. "Hey, in my defense, I'm sixteen and had three older brothers and a grandma doing the cooking," he pointed out, a playful glint in his eye. "I never had the chance to master the art of pancake flipping before that fateful day."

Barb chuckled, flipping her mohawk back with a flick of her head. "Fair point, but maybe stick to playing music instead of playing chef, huh? At least until you figure out the whole not-setting-things-on-fire part," she quipped, grinning broadly at Floyd.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the days went by, Floyd noticed a subtle shift in Rebel's behavior. She seemed to stare at him less and less, while he found himself stealing glances at her more and more. He couldn't help but feel a growing curiosity about her, with countless questions swirling in his mind. Yet, he knew he might never get the chance to ask them.

On this particular day, Floyd was engrossed in scrapbooking. The materials in Volcano Rock City were different from those at the Troll Tree, resulting in a unique twist to his usual hobby. Across the room, Rebel sat on the beanbag, scribbling away in a journal of her own.

While working on his scrapbook, Floyd found himself quietly singing to himself, the lyrics of a familiar tune escaping his lips. "♪ The energy just shifted, When we dropped in, Ooh, let it drop in, hmm ♪"

Suddenly, a quiet, raspy voice broke the silence. "What song is that?" Floyd froze, stunned by the unexpected sound. It was a voice he had never heard before, and considering he and Rebel were the only ones in the room, he realized it must have been her. She had spoken.

"What?" Floyd replied, his voice barely above a whisper, still processing the momentous occasion.

"What song were you singing?" Rebel repeated, her tone soft but curious.

"I, uh... it's a song my brother wrote for the band we were in," Floyd explained tentatively, his surprise slowly giving way to excitement at the prospect of conversation. "He called the song 'Baby, Baby, Girl,' but on the official record, it's called 'Perfect.'"

"Band... you were in a band?" Rebel's inquiry came out slightly cracked, hinting at a possible reason for her reticence. Was her voice not used to speaking, or was it just naturally raspy?

"Yeah, it was called Brozone. It was a boy band... but just me and my brothers," Floyd shared, a mix of nostalgia and amusement in his tone. He used air quotes as he continued, "My oldest brother was 'the leader.'" He couldn't help but laugh at the memory. "Spruce was 'the heartthrob,' and he had these abs that, honestly, looked pretty odd on him. And then there was Clay, 'the fun one.' My brother John Dory insisted he wear this ridiculous underwear dubbed 'funerdrawers.'"

Floyd's recounting turned into a fond rant about his family's band, his words painting a vivid picture of their quirky dynamics and the roles they each played.

Floyd's voice softened as he mentioned his youngest brother. "And then there's my youngest brother... Branch," he murmured, a gentle sadness coloring his expression. "He was the baby... because, well, he's a baby."

As Floyd glanced up at Rebel, expecting her usual stoic expression, he was taken aback. Instead of her usual blank demeanor, her face was a mix of shock and disbelief, as if she couldn't quite comprehend what she had just heard. It was a rare glimpse into her thoughts, leaving Floyd wondering what emotions lay beneath her silent exterior.

"Who the hell puts a baby in a band?" Rebel blurted out, her voice tinged with incredulity and a hint of amusement. It was a rare break from her usual silence, revealing a glimpse of her personality to Floyd.

"John Dory," Floyd replied rather quickly, his expression shifting to one of slight annoyance at the memory.

Later in the day, as Floyd was getting a glass of water, Barb walked in, prompting him to maneuver his wheelchair over to her.

"Hey, what's up, F—" Barb began, but Floyd interrupted her before she could finish.

"Rebel spoke to me," he blurted out, unable to contain his excitement.

Barb's grin widened, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Whoa, seriously? That's epic! Means she's actually considering you part of the scene now. The real puzzle is figuring out exactly what she's thinking," she said, injecting her voice with that unmistakable, rebellious spirit she always carried

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As Floyd settled into his room for the night, his mind replayed the day's events like a catchy tune on a loop. Rebel speaking to him was a significant highlight; it was like unlocking a new level in a complex game, one he hadn't been sure he'd reach.

Her voice, raspy and seldom heard, echoed in his thoughts, a reminder of the progress he'd made in this new, rocky world he was temporarily calling home. It was both exhilarating and daunting, knowing he'd sparked some kind of reaction from the most enigmatic person in the house.

But as the excitement of the day's interaction began to fade, Floyd's thoughts drifted to a more familiar and comforting place—his family. The warm, vivid memories of his brothers filled his mind, each one a colorful thread in the fabric of his past.

He could almost hear their laughter, see their smiles, and feel the reassuring presence they had always provided. Among these memories, his thoughts lingered most tenderly on Branch, his baby brother. Branch, with his curious eyes and easy giggles, had a special place in Floyd's heart.

He wondered how much Branch had grown since he'd last seen him, what new words he'd learned, and whether he still clung to the same stuffed animal as he slept.

The longing to see them all again, to share stories of his adventures among the Rock trolls and to hear about their lives in his absence, grew stronger with each passing day.

Floyd hoped, with a deep and earnest hope, that the day of their reunion would come soon. He imagined the joy of embracing each other, the laughter and tears that would undoubtedly follow, and the comfort of being surrounded by his family once more.

As he lay there, surrounded by the unfamiliar yet strangely comforting walls of his temporary home, Floyd made a silent promise to himself. He would make the most of his time here, learn all that he could, and perhaps even bridge the gap between his world and this one. But most of all, he vowed to return to his brothers, to Branch, with stories to fill their nights and laughter to brighten their days.

The thought of that future reunion, filled with love and shared joy, was a beacon of light guiding him through the uncertainty of the present. And with that comforting thought, Floyd allowed himself to drift off to sleep, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

#trolls #dreamworks trolls #trolls movie #trolls au #trolls world tour #trolls fanfiction #trolls floyd #trolls fanfic #trolls barb #trolls band together #floyd trolls #fanfiction #fanfic #trolls oc

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