Archive of Our Own

Dwight knew he should've listened to his gut.

He had gone out to scavenge for supplies, for flowers to bring fortune to trials, and salt for good luck. It was something everyone did from time to time, sometimes in small groups, other times alone. While the entity would gift them items like toolboxes and flashlights, these ones required survivors to hunt them down. No one complained, it gave them something to do while waiting for a trial, and sometimes they found trinkets and interesting items, not always for use in trial, but maybe to spice things up at the campfire.

There was a risk however. The survivors weren’t the only ones roaming the forest, not the only ones scavenging for items to them give them favor. The killers were out there too. Dwight had many close calls before, some much more than close, but so did everyone. It seemed the entity had deemed scavenging as needing a risk for the reward.

Today, Dwight had decided to go for a supply run. He was running low on primroses, and had wanted to stock up on to before his next trial. Usually he preferred to scavenge with a group, but seeing as his favorite people to do so with were currently in a trial, he decided to do it alone. It was no worry, he had scavenged alone plenty of times before.

And yet, there was a sense of unease in his gut as he left the safety of the campfire, more than usual. Dwight brushed it off however, thinking it was just because he was going alone for once.

He found a patch more easily than he had expected, despite it being quite a long ways away into the forest. The primroses he had found a few days ago seemed to have grown in his absence, meaning he wouldn’t have to be out scavenging long for alot.

Dwight got to work on bundling the flowers immediately, as he had many times before. Focused on the task and caught up the motions, he unfortunately failed to notice the footsteps approaching him, quietly crushing the grass beneath their feet, until it was too late.

“Well, looks like today’s my lucky day.”

Before Dwight had a chance to react or reply, he felt something blunt and hard hit him on the back of the head. His vision swam with spots, body falling limp, as Dwight quickly blacked out.

Dwight woke up with a pounding headache, feeling colder than he remembered being. He shivered, the ground feeling different too, like wood flooring instead of a forest's grass.

“He’s waking up.”

The voice was soft, feminine, young sounding. He couldn’t immediately pinpoint who it belonged to, as he attempted to blink the sleep out of his eyes.

“Hey Frank your nerd’s awake.”

This one, feminine also, but sounding more snarky, a little older.

Wait Fra—

Dwight sat up abruptly, only to get hit with a strong wave of dizziness. The back of his head ached, throbbing with a dull pain. His glasses had gone askew on his head, and as the blurry shapes of people grew near, he scrambled to readjust them on his face.

Four masks were staring down at him, and all of them were immediately recognizable.

Dwight was in the Ormond lodge, surrounded by the Legion.

Before he could get up and scramble away, a hand pressed on his chest, pushing him back down. He tried to resist and push back, but their arm was strong, and Dwight’s head was still swimming from the hit he’d taken.

“Who said you could get up nerd?”

His head snapped towards the voice, only to be met with an unfortunately familiar smiling mask. He didn’t need to see the killer’s face to know he was smiling under the mask as well.

Frank.

Dwight knew he himself wasn't the strongest person, but Frank was stronger than he looked, and with the added head trauma, Dwight found himself being easily pinned.

“That’s right dweeb, stay on the ground where you belong.”

Ugh, even in the entity's realm, there truly was no escape from bullies. Felt like he had a permanent “kick me" sign stuck to his back sometimes.

“Dude you sure they said this dude was the best one? Sure he's a little chubby in the middle, but he’s still a twink.”

The one with the skull mask spoke this time, Dwight not quite able to recall his name. Said killer prodded his midsection as he spoke, causing Dwight to flinch slightly from the unwanted poking.

“What? Can’t you smell that irresistible aroma when you get close to him?”

“Dude what the fuck? I don’t go around smelling people. I’m just saying he’s not as meaty as some of the other survivors.”

“Well size doesn’t matter as much as flavour.” The girl with the other smiling mask cut in, sighing. “Now keep him steady, I want a taste.”

Julie placed Dwight’s hand in her mouth, licking and drooling all over it. Dwight whimpered and tried to pull away, but she held him firm, tasting him until she was satisfied. He could feel his tongue lapping at his skin, snaking between his fingers, and coating it in saliva. She let out a pleased sigh as she finally took his hand out.

“They were right, he does taste good.”

There was a bead of drool running down her chin, as she licked her lips and gave a blissful sigh.

“I call dibs next time we catch him.”

“Deal. Now give me a hand with him.”

Dwight wasn't given a moment to react before his glasses were snatched from his face, and he was flipped onto his stomach. He grunted and tried to squirm, but the 4 pairs of hands holding him down were too many for him to fight. The hands pushed and shoved, forcing him on his knees. He craned his head up, gaze turning from the beat down wooden flooring to a blurry grinning human face.

Frank had taken off his mask.

“P-please don’t do this…” Dwight's voice was meeker and quieter than he’d wanted it to be, unsure if the killers had even heard it. Anxious, he shifted his gaze away.

“Aww, but that would be no fun.” Frank’s hand moved to grab his chin, forcing him to look the young slasher in the face again. “And it’s been so long since I’ve had good food around here.”

Dwight made a sound akin to a whine as he tried to turn his head away, but Frank's grip became a vice, holding him in place.

This was it. He was going to be devoured out of a trial, with no one to possibly help him. He didn’t even know if the rules for this mori worked differently outside of the trials, and if so, was it a detriment to the survivor or the killer? The Legion sure seemed confident it would work perfectly fine in their favour.

As Frank opened his mouth wide, Dwight squeezed his eyes shut, and braced for the oncoming damp and hot tightness he was about to experience.

Grimacing at the hot breath blowing across his face, it wasn't long before that heat became wetter, as saliva quickly coated his head. The sensation of teeth gently brushing against the back of his head sent an unpleasant shiver down his spine, as Frank’s tongue got to work at familiarizing itself with Dwight’s face.

With a loud swallow and a push from unseen hands, he was pulled in deeper. Frank's throat was tighter, much tighter than the Trapper's or the Cannibal's, and as his chest was starting to get pulled into the tightness, his breathing became much more strained and erratic.

Too tight, too close, unpleasant memories resurfacing from the dead, just as they always did when he was someone's meal. Yet it was so much worse, the muffled sounds of heckling and giggling of teens digging up even worse events he'd worked so hard to suppress.

Letting out a cry of distress, he immediately started squirming violently, but it was too little, too late. The upper part of his arms were already contained by the hungry killer, making it much to late to grab something as leverage. His feet kicked wildly in the air, making impact with what felt like someone’s arm, but it made no difference in his descent.

The hot and humid air had quickly gone stale, if not lacking, Dwight beginning to hyperventilate as the pressure around his chest and lungs was more than he was used to. And Frank was taking his time, savoring him, with no pressure of a trial and with friends to support him.

Gasping and quietly crying, the terror quickly set in.

It didn’t matter what he did, there was nothing he could possibly do to save himself. Half of his torso was already down the throat of the Legion leader, his arms pinned by the tight throat, and his kicks only finding air.

It was over. The Legion was going to devour him whole, and he had no idea when or if he'd be able to get out.

Overheating, covered in sweat and saliva, Dwight gave up, his body going slack as he stopped his struggles.

Frank hummed smugly, knowing he had won, and licked at his tummy, lifting Dwight's shirt up just enough to get a taste of his skin, before taking another long swallow.

Waiting for it to all be over, he felt Frank shift suddenly, a grunt, and sounds of movements from outside. Frank mumbled something, the sound vibrating through his body, and the words made incomprehensible by the meal he still had in his mouth. There was another shift of moment, faster than before, and seemingly more urgent.

Dwight felt a hand, strong and large, wrap around one of his legs.

And then he was pulled free, right out of Frank’s throat and mouth, wet and sputtering for breath as Frank kneeled on the floor and coughed.

He gasped and greedily sucked in the fresh air, dazed and confused, vision blurred by both his missing glasses and the saliva covering his face. Dragging him a little farther from his tormentor, the firm grip on his leg loosened and let go, Dwight flopping to the ground next to his savior as he tried to catch his bearings.

“What the hell man?”

Frank sounded clearly pissed off, his throat sounding a little raspy from having to forcibly give up his meal.

“I told you not to touch my prey.”

Dwight's blood went cold as the second voice spoke, whipping his head up to look behind him. He didn’t need his glasses to make out the towering figure with an all too familiar bone mask, standing directly behind him.

He involuntarily let out a whimper.

“That’s not fair man, I’m not gonna just spare him in trials because you said so.”

“You know that’s not what I meant, Morrison.”

Dwight could hear Frank’s breath hitch for just a moment, his breathing slightly quickened. Without turning his unfocused gaze away from the Trapper, Dwight knew the leader of the Legion feared the older killer just like he did. And the Trapper had just called out Frank on his bullshit.

In that moment, Dwight also realized he hadn't fully processed the first thing Trapper said either, a weird and uneasy feeling settling in his stomach as he tried to do so.

His thought process was immediately cut as the Trapper took a step forward, Dwight snapping back into the reality of the threat before him, scrambling backwards away from him. His hand hit something hard and familiar, and as he picked it up, he quickly realized the Trapper wasn't going after him.

Frank was sputtering worthless excuses and apologies, as the Trapper said nothing, only slowly but steadily approaching him.

Realizing the object he’d picked up was his own glasses, Dwight hurriedly got them back on his face, thankful the lens didn’t seem to be scratched or broken. Now able to see more than colourful blurs and shapes, Dwight turned his eyes back to the scene before him.

He could see the fear in Frank’s eyes now, as he crawled backwards and begged for mercy. The rest of the Legion stood back and watched in silent horror, clearly too afraid to try to intervene. He saw the pink-haired one shudder.

It wasn’t long before Frank had his back against a wall, the Trapper closing the distance between them. Using the wall to help him get back on his feet, Frank was still dwarfed by the older killer, clearly no where near as tall and strong, despite being the tallest of the Legion. Yet Frank still tried to slip away to the side, only for a large hand to slam into the wall beside him, cutting him off from that exit.

“Evan please, I won’t do it again!!”

“Oh I know, I just need to make sure you won't.”

With that, the Trapper’s hand gripped the bottom of his mask, and moved it upward. Dwight's body tensed up in reaction to the motion. A wicked grin stretched the killer's scarred lips, as he roughly grabbed Frank by the jaw, and not a word needed to be uttered to understand what was about to happen.

“Oh shit.”

Those were the last audible words Frank said, before his head was crammed inside the Trapper’s hungry maw. He tried to push himself out and fight back, but was easily overpowered, as Frank was pulled further in with a loud swallow.

Slowly being pulled in further and further, Dwight watched as the smaller killer dug around in his pocket and pulled out his knife. Without much hesitation, he dug the blade into Trapper's shoulder, causing the large killer to pause and grunt in discomfort, a little blood leaking from the wound. But before Frank could grab it and stab him again, his hand was wrenched away from the blade, leaving the weapon as another piece of metal wedged in the monster's skin.

With another swallow, Frank's arms were forcibly pinned to his sides. Muffled screaming and fruitless kicking and squirming was all he could do now, having wasted his only weapon.

Dwight watched, frozen in horror, as the Trapper devoured the leader of the Legion, sneakers disappearing into his mouth as his gut descended with his meal, signs of a struggle pressing against his skin. Dwight could hear him, his shouts and protests just loud enough to be audible from someone nearby.

The Trapper pulled his mask back down into place, as he let out a satisfied sigh, followed by a burp. He patted his squirming gut with pride.

Holy shit, a killer had just eaten another killer! He didn’t think they would, let alone could.

And then, Dwight realized, the Trapper had turned around, and was now focusing solely on him. With a strong kick of adrenaline, his body quickly came out of its spell of stillness, as the monster took a step towards him.

“Oh shit.”

Wasting not a second more, Dwight scrambled to his feet and bolted, racing out into the snowy Canadian outdoors. He didn’t need to look to know the Trapper was giving chase, catching the familiar sound of the killer's boots pounding into the creaky wooden floor behind him.

He hoped the other Legion members would be too scared to follow him.

The contrast of the outside cold to the inside rapidly caused his glasses to fog up, adding more white to obscure the already hard to navigate winter wonderland. Despite this, he was not deterred, knowing his vision was better with fogged lens than without any, and didn’t hesitate in his gait as his shoes dove into the shallow banks of snow.

The first thing he felt was an exhilarating adrenaline high, the kind of fear-induced rush one gets while plummeting downhill on a rollercoaster. He'd just barely managed to escape being on the menu, but with the predator still on his tail.

The second thing he felt was cold.

It was freezing, snow and wind batting against his body. He didn’t notice it at first, body hot like a laptop loading a game that it can barely run. But as he continued to run, the wind sunk its cold fangs deeper into his skin, undeterred by his thin dress shirt. It didn’t help that the saliva that soaked his upper half cooled him even faster as it dried, leaving half of his body feeling a lot colder than the rest.

At least the constant movement from running was keeping him somewhat warm, enough to not let any shivers settle in. Still, his body quickly became covered in gooseflesh, hairs standing on their ends, his breaths visible as he puffed them out.

If there was one thing he was thankful for when it came to being tossed inside the entity's realm, it was forcing him to get fit. He would’ve been gasping for breath already if he was still living his normal life, easy and weak prey. But now, he wasn't even close to breaking a sweat yet, knowing he could keep up the pace for several minutes before the exhaustion started to creep up on him.

And he knew the killer could go on for even longer.

Tearing through the white landscape, most of the snow was thankfully shallow enough to not slow him much, but it was still uneven and potentially slippery. Thankfully, his glasses seemed to slowly defog, just in time for him to narrowly miss tripping on a rock.

Distracted by the relief of a successful dodge and the confidence from his returning visibility, he unfortunately missed the second rock, tripping violently as his foot caught it.

With a yelp, he jerked and stumbled, just barely managing to stay on his feet. With the trip, the fog in his vision vanished, as with a sinking dread, everything immediately became a blur. The light weight of metal frames on his face was gone.

Shit his glasses!

A glance behind him told him he didn’t have time to grab them, a blurry silhouette rapidly approaching, not that he could see where they'd fallen anyways. He'd have to run blindly, hoping and praying to the entity that he’d be able to avoid or make out any obstacles among what had become a featureless white void.

His footsteps became more unstable, no longer able to judge the depth and slope of the snow he hurriedly trudged through. While most of it was no more than ankle deep, he still found himself slipping and stumbling and barely keeping himself from falling.

A dreading realization in the back of his mind told him it was only a matter of time before he slipped and fell.

And just like a self-fulfilled prophecy, his foot caught on an unseen rock, and he tumbled face first into the snow.

With a loud yelp, he crashed, his landing cushioned by the chilling snow, but the shock from the fall and the cold still hitting him. He gasped and sputtered and he whipped his face up and out of the icy flakes, struggling to catch his bearings.

“Fuck fuck fuck…”

Dwight knew he was screwed, the dread threatening to choke him up. But he still had that little sliver of hope, that maybe, just maybe, he could get back on his feet just before he got caught.

Propping himself up on his hands and knees, he tried to reorient himself enough to get up on his feet and make a bolt for it. Unfortunately, before he could get up any further, a large hand grabbed the back of his neck.

“No-!”

He found himself promptly shoved back into the snow, getting an unpleasant mouthful of cold flakes inadvertently shoved into his open mouth. He turned his head and coughed and spat, the tasteless cold an unwelcome snack.

“And where did you think you were going?”

Unpleasant flashbacks of being force-fed snow by the school bully back in elementary jolted into his mind. With it, the crushing feelings of loneliness and despair sucker punched him, and the tears began once more.

“Please, just let me go…”

His voice cracked and wavered, making him feel even smaller and weaker than he already did. He shivered.

Shit, he really wasn’t dressed for this type of weather.

It was cold, so cold, the heat he'd generated from running had left him, quickly gobbled up by the frigid winds. Being forced to lie prone against the cold wet snow seeped out any remaining heat left in him, causing him to start shivering from more than just the fear.

Worst of all, the only warmth he was getting was from the hand holding him in place.

Dwight could hear the Trapper breathe just above him, silently watching his prey writhe and cry beneath his grip. Did he just want to make him suffer?

“It’s so cold…”

Sniffling and shivering, he found himself being turned over, lying on his back, face-to-face with the terrible mask. The massive hand quickly placed itself on his chest, re-pinning him to the snow before he could squirm away.

Dwight couldn’t discern their expression, his awful eyesight failing him, but he could see the monster's body rise and fall, and could feel its warm breath brush across his face. It made him feel so weak and small, like a rabbit trapped under a bear's claws.

Now able to use his arms in his new position, his hands flew to the one holding him down, grabbing and tugging at it. It was like trying to move a steel beam, unbreaking and unmoving.

“Come on, please…”

His hands were trembling, fingers growing numb. Despite the warm hand pressed against him, the cold seeped in from all sides, and the killer was seemingly satisfied just to watch him shiver and squirm.

His chest heaved with a sob, as more tears rolled down his face.

“Did you really think you could run away from me?”

Dwight audibly gasped, surprised by the Trapper’s voice suddenly breaking the silence. He didn’t immediately process the question, the shock momentarily blocking it out, but it wasn’t long for a queasy feeling to settle in his gut once he did.

He'd, he'd hoped he could get away. A part of him had thought that maybe, just maybe, he could make it back to the safety of the fire. Killers apparently couldn’t see scratch marks outside of the trial, so he'd hoped that Trapper would've lost sight long enough for him to get away.

But another part, one he'd tried to stuff down, down, out of mind, out of sight, was a feeling of awful inevitability. A sense of dread that dragged him down, a hopelessness that no matter what he did, he couldn't escape the Trapper.

After all, he hadn’t broken that streak yet, and especially not today.

So with a choked sob, Dwight shook his head, eyes downcast as his weeping began anew.

He felt the killer shift slightly after his response, before the hand on his chest was abruptly removed. Instead, it gripped his chin, forcing him to sit up and face the grinning mask.

“Then don't run away from me.”

He could feel the gaze bore into him, pressuring him to be obedient, the grip holding his head firm. But he couldn't, he didn’t want to promise such a thing, so he found himself unable to speak.

Dwight wrapped his arms around himself, sniffling and trying his best to look away. He was cold and scared and just wanted to lie down and cry and be left alone.

It wasn’t long before the gaze began to soften, along with the grip on his face. The Trapper sighed, the hot puff of air brushing across his face.

“Fine, come here.”

And without anymore warning, the hand left his face, and joined the other in pulling Dwight up and against the Trapper's chest. To his shock and surprise, the poor survivor had suddenly found himself tucked into the killer's embrace.

And it was warm.

Despite the urge to struggle and push away, Dwight found himself being allured by the Trapper's body heat, the large arms and body shielding him from the winter winds.

So despite the terror and discomfort of being so close to the killer, especially this killer, Dwight succumbed to his exhaustion and went limp. It was strangely nice, when he forgot who was holding him. A lot more comfortable than he'd assumed, the Trapper seemingly careful to not jab him with the metal fragments protruding from his body, and the hug gentle enough not to crush him, but still firm.

Dwight almost felt safe.

Why was he being so nice to him?

The moment was abruptly interrupted, as Dwight felt something suddenly poke and jab him, followed by muffled yelling.

The false sense of calm and safety was quickly shattered as Dwight vividly remembered what had happened only a few minutes ago. Frank. The Trapper had devoured him with surprising ease. And now he was struggling within, his squirms felt by the survivor as he was now pressed against the killer's body.

That could be him. That could've been him. That could still be him. He-

“Behave Morrison, or else.”

He could feel the Trapper shift and tense, a loud protest coming from within, before quickly going quiet, the struggles and squirming soon stopping as well. The killer seemed pleased, letting out a loud rumbling belch, before he turned his full attention back to the prey in his arms.

“Shhhhh, calm down, he can’t hurt you now.”

Dwight hadn't noticed he was hyperventilating, before the shushing and gentle tone caused him to pause in confusion. What? Why did-

“Morrison was an idiot, thinking he could steal you away from me. I got so worried when I smelled your fear and you weren't there.”

S-smelled his fear?! Like an animal? He could-!

“But you are mine. How dare he try to snatch up my prey. My little cinnamon roll, all mine…”

The Trapper’s chest rumbled with what almost seemed like a purr, as he held the survivor tighter and closer to himself. This time, Dwight squirmed, trying to pull himself away, now hyperaware of the plump gut pressed against him.

A sense of nausea bubbled up in his stomach, hearing those words roll off the killer’s tongue with such conviction. He didn’t want this, he didn’t want to be someone’s possession, he didn’t want more stress and anxiety than he was already struggling with.

Why couldn’t he just be left alone?

“No, I don’t-”

His own words were cut off by a sob, as fresh tears retraced recent trails down his cheeks. Stressed way beyond his limit, he couldn’t stifle them down anymore, as he began to audibly cry.

Fuck, he was such a crybaby.

Dwight hadn’t noticed the grip on him grow softer, but he did feel the hand gently and slowly rub his back. It was soothing, despite the circumstances, and it helped him calm down just enough that he could find his words again.

“Please, I just… I wanna go home.”

It was an empty, unreachable request, home something lost to him since he'd been dragged into this living hell. But he hoped, he hoped that the killer understood what he meant.

He wanted to leave, he wanted to be left alone, he wanted to be safe.

There was a long pause of silence, only the sound of the howling wind and Dwight's quiet sobbing. The Trapper’s chest moved with a long breath in, followed by an audible sigh.

“Alright.”

Abruptly, the Trapper moved, loosening his grip on Dwight so he was no longer tucked against his chest. Disoriented, he wriggled around, trying to get his footing or at least rebalance himself, as he was let go into the snow. Managing to sit upright, he soon found something being thrusted into his face, before suddenly, he could see.

His glasses!? What, when did-?!

There was no moment given to think or even sputter out why's. In an all-too-familiar motion, Dwight felt the killer’s hands grab his waist, before hoisting him over their shoulder with ease.

Oh. This position. He knew this position too well. With it came the normal sense of panic and distress, along with the instinct to struggle. So without a thought, Dwight began kicking and squirming.

He didn’t get to squirm for long, before the large hand holding him in place squeezed his midsection, enough to be almost painful. He squeaked, pausing his struggles as the sudden tight grip had caught him off guard.

“Don’t.”

A chill darted down Dwight's spine as the Trapper almost growled the word, making it clear that there were consequences if he kept trying to (or successfully) wriggled off. Swallowing in fear, he reluctantly obeyed, and allowed himself to go limp. The killer’s grip loosened in return, before he turned to the left, and began trekking through the snow.

Well, at least he could actually see now.

Swinging with each step the Trapper took, Dwight eventually tucked his arms in after narrowly getting nicked by the metal wedged in the monster's back. Now more exposed to the weather once again, he shivered a few times, the winds causing any exposed flesh to become riddled with goosebumps once more. Thankfully, the body heat radiating from the killer beneath him kept him from getting too cold, Dwight subconsciously tucking and pressing himself more against the monster in an attempt to get warmer.

At least these small movements didn’t seem to anger him.

It wasn’t long before snowy mountainside gave way to the familiar endless forest, the chilling winds disappearing with it. Dwight waited in dreaded anticipation for the familiar structures of the Macmillan Estate to start showing up, but so far, it had only been the same trees and nothingness between the realms. There had yet to be any signs of them entering another realm.

Then it struck him, as he lay helpless over the killer's shoulder. Frank’s knife. It was still wedged in the Trapper’s shoulder. Maybe if he could grab it, he could use it like Laurie’s decisive strike, and high tail it back to the campfire.

Invigorated by the chance at a possible escape, Dwight slowly began to reach for the knife, hoping the killer wouldn’t notice what he was trying to do. But before his fingers could touch the handle, the killer suddenly stopped, and dropped him somewhat gently on the ground.

What?? Where—

“This is where he grabbed you, right?”

Grounded by the presence of the towering monster man, who was currently on his knees in front of him, Dwight got up into a seated position and looked around. He had been placed by a tree with a patch of partially picked primroses, along with his discarded pouch next to it.

“Yes, it… it is.”

“Good. You should finish gathering your little flower offerings before you head right back to your campfire. Wouldn’t want someone else to snatch you up.”

Head back to campfire? Wait, did that mean he wasn’t gonna—

“You're, you're not gonna eat me?”

His voice was small and cracked with disbelief, as he stared up at the mask, wide eyed and afraid. The sudden gut punch of regret hit him at the possibility that mentioning it would possibly seal his fate.

The Trapper laughed, as if his petrified reaction was amusing.

“Not this time, my little morsel, I’ve still got to take care of a little bastard, and I’d hate to give him another chance to taste you.”

The Trapper patted his gut, Dwight just barely able to make out the muffled sounds of the Legion leader through the layers of muscle and the sound of a hungry belly. He wasn’t as loud as before, before Trapper had told him to shut up, and while Dwight still couldn’t tell what he was saying, he could tell by the tone and volume that Frank had worn himself out.

Despite the display, relief washed over him. He really wasn’t going to be devoured again, not today, and he wasn’t going to be dragged to the Trapper’s realm, to be eaten later.

“But don’t you worry, I'll put you right back where you belong real soon, my little cinnamon roll.”

The Trapper bent down a little further and petted Dwight on the head as he said this, ruffling up his hair. The bespectacled survivor flinched at the action, and tried to shift his head away, but the killer was undeterred. It didn’t take long for him to give up on his attempt to not be touched, and let the large calloused hand run through his dark hair.

He hated how nice it actually felt, the Trapper handling him with care, just like he had in the cold. Despite no longer needing to accept the killer's affections for the sake of warmth, he noticed himself starting to lean into the touch once more, his body craving the platonic affection, and a nauseous shame growing in his gut.

Dwight felt ashamed for not fighting back more, for allowing the man who hunted him down to rescue him and cuddle him and pet him. His gaze turned to the crumpled grass before him, refusing to look at the grinning mask.

Well, he hoped that at least his complacency would earn him some more future kindness from the killer. He shivered at the memory of their last encounter.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

Removing his hand from his head, Dwight’s eyes snapped up and followed as the Trapper grasped the knife still lodged in his shoulder. With a firm tug, it was plucked from his flesh with only a small grunt of discomfort, a fresh trickle of blood running down his arm.

“Give me your hand.”

Gulping, Dwight held out his right hand, anxious about what the Trapper might possibly want. What he didn’t expect, was for the killer to place the bloody knife's hilt in his hand, and make his fingers curl around it.

“Take this. If anyone else tries to gobble you up, you know what to do.”

His hand trembled as he stared at the blade in his grasp, still wet with the Trapper’s blood.

He didn’t know what to do. A killer had given him, a survivor, a weapon to defend himself with. He could feel his stomach tying itself in knots as he tried to process the gift he’d been given.

Seemingly satisfied, the Trapper removed his hand from him and stood up, casting a shadow over Dwight that swallowed him whole, the eternal moonlight not touching his skin. His fearful eyes snapped up to the mask, as he sat there with baited breath, waiting.

Just barely visible beneath the blotted moonlight, Dwight could see a grin on the monster man's face. They'd noticed the change in his gaze, and settled a single hand on his midsection, smugness bleeding into his smile.

“I’ll see you soon, Fairfield.”

With the foreboding promise, the Trapper turned away from him, and walked into the forest. Dwight watched him leave, his eyes not tearing away from the killer until his silhouette melded into the rows of endless trees.

An empty silence fell on him, not even the flutter or caw of a crow daring to disturb it. The Trapper was gone.

Finally alone, Dwight dropped the knife, put his face in his hands and quietly sobbed. He wasn’t sure if it was from the relief of not getting eaten, the inevitability of the Trapper’s threat, or the last of the adrenaline finally wearing off, but he felt the unavoidable need to cry once more.

Why did it have to be him? He didn’t ask for any of this. He wasn’t some rabbit to be made into stew. He wasn’t food. So why?

Sniffling and stifling his cries, he recollected himself enough to remember he still wasn’t safe yet. There could still be another killer roaming nearby, and he couldn’t handle dealing with another one. Not now.

With a few deep breaths, he managed to calm himself down enough that his chest stopped seizing with sobs. Grabbing a cleaner section of his shirt, he tried his best to wipe away the several streams of tears and snot from his face. He didn’t want to explain to the others survivors why he'd been crying.

Carefully plucking the knife up from the ground, he took hold of the flowers with his other hand, and used the blade to swiftly cut through their stems. At least that had made it a whole lot easier.

Tucking the knife away into his pants pocket, along with his salt-filled pouch, he clutched the primroses to his chest, and shakily got onto his feet. With a long deep breath, Dwight hobbled towards the campfire, trying his best to put on a neutral face.

Hopefully, he wouldn’t see the Trapper again, for a long, long time.