Pairing: Kingfield (David King x Dwight Fairfield)
Rating: Explicit / NSFW (18+ Only)
Word Count: 4,622 words
Tropes/Tags: Post-trial campfire, role reversal, top Dwight, bottom David, heavy intimacy, explicit carnal relations
Summary: A celebratory campfire and a swig of Ace’s questionable moonshine spark a tension Dwight can no longer ignore. After a year of watching David from the sidelines, he finally makes a move, leaving David completely undone by a level of raw vulnerability he’s never experienced before.
The full Explicit Story can be found here at AO3!
TEASER BELOW
The campfire was roaring tonight, throwing off enough heat to make the campsite feel cosy for once. The atmosphere around the camp was celebratory, they had all escaped the trial mostly unscathed. Ace was feeling generous and had started passing around his tarnished flask, normally Dwight would pass, but there was something special about the night, and even he couldn’t resist taking a drink. Which he immediately regretted, coughing his lungs up as the foul liquid burned a trail all the way to his stomach, hitting like a bomb. God what could it even be? Moonshine? It burned worse than anything he’d ever drank, and he’d tried everclear once in college.
David saved the flask from his hand, knee pressed against Dwight's, “You okay, mate?” He asked before taking his own swig, he grimaced, but of course didn’t look half as destroyed as Dwight. “The fuck is this Ace? Tastes like ass sweat.”
"Hey, that’s top-shelf premium stuff, King!" Ace chimed in from across the flames, flashing a lazy, very drunk grin as he leaned back against a decaying log. "Don't insult the vintage just because you two can't handle a little bite."
"Vintage my ass," David snorted.
Dwight wiped his mouth on his sleeve, shocked that he already was feeling a little fuzzy. He looked down, noticing David’s knee was still pressed up against his, a comforting pressure. He didn’t move away.
The man is definitely brewing this shit in an old oil drum behind the shacks, Dwight thought, watching David pass the flask on to Leon. Whatever it is, it works.
A few feet over, Claudette was softly chuckling as she passed around bowl of popcorn, yet another mystery that Dwight wasn’t going to question when the bowl came his way. Sable sat cross-legged, practically radiating a manic energy. She was thoroughly enjoying the fact that she’d pulled off her invocations without getting her throat slit, and for once, even Leon looked relaxed. He had shed his tactical gear and sat in his shirtsleeves, watching the embers with a rare, genuine smile.
David let out a booming bark of agreement, the sound vibrating right through Dwight where they were touching. He reached over, clapping a heavy hand on the back of Dwight’s neck, squeezing with a casual fondness. "Told you, mate. Nobody gets left behind on my watch. Especially not you. You did half the gens yourself; I wasn't letting that flashy prick have the satisfaction."
Dwight leaned into the touch just a fraction, his chest tightening with a warmth that had nothing to do with Ace's questionable moonshine. He had genuinely thought he was dead out there. The exit gate all the way across the map from his hook, the whole team healing in the entryway. And he wrote himself off, looking at the ground, waiting for them to leave and the entity to take its pound of flesh.
Then David had shattered the brickwork, tearing out of the fog like a human wrecking ball. He had taken a blade straight to the shoulder, ripped Dwight down, and shielded him with his own massive frame all the way to safety.
He actually came back for me.
The realization sent a dizzying pulse of adrenaline straight to Dwight's core.
David didn't pull his hand back from Dwight's neck. Instead, his thumb casually brushed against the sensitive skin right at the base of Dwight's hairline. A slow, heavy stroke that seemed to carry a lot of meaning. Dwight’s heart stopped for a second. Is this happening?
Dwight turned his head slowly, his glasses slipping just a fraction down his nose as his eyes locked onto David’s. The playful smirk on David's face faltered, his expression shifting as he caught the intensity in Dwight's gaze. The air between them turned suffocatingly hot.
Pairing: Evan MacMillan | The Trapper x Dwight Fairfield (TrappedFairfield)
Rating: Gen / Mild Angsty Romance
Word Count: ~900 words
Summary: Post-trial, Dwight sits by the campfire trying to hide the fact that he didn't just escape the Fog—he made a deal.
Normally after a trial, all Dwight could taste was blood, even the rare few times he escaped unharmed. Tonight Dwight couldn't get the smell of rain and taste of smoke off his tongue. He sat on the dry ground on the edge of the campfire’s circle of light, his knees pulled tightly to his chest, his thumb sliding contemplatively back and forth over his lips.
From the far side of the light came the low, steady murmurs of the camp. Claudette was quietly tending to a tear in Ace’s shirt, her fingers moving with practiced efficiency while Leon stared into the embers, exhaustion evident in the slump of his shoulders. A few feet away, Ace leaned against a decaying log, idly flipping a dull coin between his knuckles with an easy smirk.
Dwight didn't hear a word they were saying.
All he could think about was Trapper, as his own thumb repeatedly traced the contour of his bottom lip, pressing hard enough to make it throb against his teeth. He felt an echoing throb through his whole body, an unsatisfied ache.
Every time Dwight closed his eyes, his mind relentlessly replayed the surreal transition from running for his life to the strange intimacy Trapper chose to bludgeon him with. And the killer's unmasked face filled his mind. It wasn't just handsome; it was predatory. Those heavy-lidded, shark-like eyes and the way his mouth curled into that unnervingly sharp smirk made him look less like a man and more like a hunter who had finally decided to play with his food.
He’s terrifying. And he’s... god, he’s beautiful.
A spike of odd insecurity flared in Dwight’s chest. Part of him desperately wanted to ask around the camp, to casually slide into conversation with Leon or Mikaela to see if the giant had ever cornered them with the same intense bargain.
But he stuffed the impulse down immediately. No. If I ask, I might find out I wasn't special. I might find out it’s just a game he plays with everyone. Dwight kept his mouth shut. This was his moment, his bizarre secret, and he was going to hoard it in his own mind where no one else could touch it.
"Hey, Dwight. You with us?"
The words cut through his heavy thoughts. Dwight blinked, his hand dropping guiltily from his face as his focus snapped back to the crackling fire. Ace was looking at him from across the flames, the dull coin resting still against his knuckles, his easy smirk widening just a fraction.
"Yeah," Dwight stammered, his voice coming out a little too thin before he quickly cleared his throat and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, I'm here. Just... unwinding."
Ace let out a soft chuckle and tossed the coin into the air, catching it with a crisp slap against his palm. "Unwinding? Kid, you look like you’re trying to solve the world’s problems. It usually doesn’t take that long for a trial to wrap up. Something happen?"
Leon shifted slightly on his log, flicking his head to toss his hair out of his eyes. "Trapper was on one today." He rubbed the back of his neck, looking oddly vulnerable having taken off his tactical gear for the night. "Usually, he waits for someone to make a mistake. But toward the end of the match, he abandoned a three-gen setup just to chase you down. It didn't make sense."
"Hey, a win is a win," Ace chimed in, flashing a lazy grin as he leaned back, with only a little resentment in his voice. "Good for you, Dwight. The fucker let me bleed out on the ground."
Dwight swallowed hard against a sudden spike of guilt, his cheeks heating up. Because by the time you guys were gone, he didn't care about the trial anymore, Dwight thought, his fingers curling tightly into the fabric of his jeans. He just wanted me. Maybe there was a little more pride there than there should have been. But it was so… unusual for anyone to pay him attention.
He could still feel the phantom pressure of those massive hands pinning him into the mud, the wet mud under his fingernails, and the exhilarating realization that the killer had completely abandoned the Entity's protocols the second he had Dwight at his mercy.
"I... I just got lucky," Dwight stammered, adjusting his glasses to hide how much his hands were trembling. "The hatch opened right by my foot after you guys... after I was the last one left. I barely slipped out in time."
Ace let out a low whistle, shaking his head. "The hatch spawning right at your feet? Kid, you should let me take you to Vegas if we ever get out of this place. That is statistically absurd. Lucky bastard."
Leon offered a small, reassuring nod across the crackling heat of the fire. "Hey, he did good, Ace. No hard feelings. Good job, Dwight." He rested his hands on his knees, his expression turning serious but determined. "We just need to tighten up next time. If we coordinate better, we'll all make it out."
"Yeah," Claudette added softly, finally setting her mending down. "We're just glad you made it back to us, Dwight."
Dwight offered them a weak, fleeting smile, his heart still hammering against his ribs. "Thanks, guys. I think... I think I'm just going to turn in early tonight. The match really took it out of me."
He didn't wait for a response. He pushed himself up from the dirt, his legs feeling slightly detached from his body, and walked away from the warmth of the campfire toward the shadows of the tree line. The cool night air hit his face, but it did nothing to quench the heavy, thrumming heat still pooling in his veins.
I haven't written anything in a long, long time. But the game has sucked me back in. I may not have all the small details right; I'm still learning the lore so please forgive me. Enjoy reading! I hope to have something larger out for either Dwight/Trapper or Dwight/David before too long, so keep an eye on me.
Rating/Warnings: Light fluff, romantic comedy, mild horniness in the Fog. (Author's Note: Also, I know Trapper doesn’t step on anyone’s heads in the game, but he honestly should.)
Summary: The Hatch is open, freedom is one foot away, and Dwight is stuck in a trap.
The rhythmic, wet thrum-thrum-thrum of the open hatch was the most beautiful sound Dwight Fairfield had ever heard. It was right there, literally twelve inches from his left boot.
Snap.
And so was the trap, disguised by three pathetic blades of grass, that he immediately stepped in. Dwight let out a high-pitched yelp, collapsing onto his hands and knees.
The heavy iron teeth dug into his flesh, grinding against bone. He frantically tugged at it, trying to struggle free. He was pretty sure even if he got free, he’d be too late.
Trapper was approaching, a wall of muscle and blood-stained overalls. The mask was unreadable. In his right hand, the bloody machete dragging in the dirt, leaving a lazy trail in the mud.
Dwight’s breath hitched in his throat.
Not again.
He remembered the suffocating darkness of the basement, the rusty metal hook in his chest while Evan stood in the shadows, watching him bleed. He returned to the trap with renewed vigor, trying to pry it out of his flesh.
A shadow fell over him.
Dwight looked up through crooked glasses.
Evan was standing over him, but he didn't immediately reach for the back of Dwight’s shirt. Instead, he leaned his hands on his knees, bending down eye to eye with Dwight.
"Look," Dwight wheezed, adjusting his glasses with a trembling finger. "Can we just speed this up? I know I looped you around the main building for three minutes. I know I dropped the pallet in your face. Just get it over with."
Slowly, the killer reached up with one hand and slid the terrifying iron mask up onto his forehead.
Dwight’s breath caught in his throat. He braced himself for a monster, for some scarred horror or a face twisted into a permanent sneer. Instead, he just found himself staring at a disarmingly normal face.
He had a rugged jawline dusted with dark stubble, deep-set brown eyes, and the kind of handsome features that belonged on a billboard, not here. Aside from a few faint scars, he looked like a regular guy. A very large, if intimidating, human being. It was almost more terrifying than a monster; this was just a man who chose to be a psychopath.
A smug smirk spread across Evan's unmasked lips. "What's the matter, Fairfield?" Evan rumbled, his voice deeper than Dwight expected and entirely too intimate in the quiet space between them. "Never seen a killer without his paint before?"
Dwight swallowed hard, his face flushing red behind his crooked glasses. He's handsome. Oh great. The man who has murdered me twelve different ways is actually attractive.
Evan leaned down a fraction closer, the heavy scent of rain and warm skin filling his nose. He pointed a thick finger toward the hatch, and then tapped his own lips. "You want the hatch, Fairfield?" Evan murmured, his dark eyes gleaming.
The unspoken message hung in the air, completely stalling Dwight’s brain. Trapper wants a kiss.
The surreal absurdity of the legendary butcher who usually expressed himself via meat hooks and iron teeth bargaining like a teenager at a carnival booth had Dwight off balance. He couldn’t help wondering...why him?
If the giant wanted to abuse his power for a bit of company in the Fog, there was a whole campfire full of actual attractive people. Why wasn't he cornering Sable, or someone like Steve with the perfect hair? Instead, he was pinning down Dwight Fairfield. It made absolutely zero sense.
Dwight looked past him to the hatch; freedom was right there. He really, really wanted that hatch. His eyes darting back to those surprisingly well-shaped lips, before meeting Trapper’s eyes.
"You've got to be kidding me," Dwight squeaked. He was entirely convinced this was a trap within a trap. The second he leaned in, this psycho would probably burst out laughing, call him a pathetic loser, and mori him anyway.
But as the hatch pulsed, Dwight realized he was dead either way. If he refused, he got the mori. If he tried it and got laughed at, he got the mori.
Fuck it, he thought, a sudden, wild surge of adrenaline replacing his panic. If I'm going out, I'm doing it.
Evan was leaning back slightly on his heels, an arrogant smirk curving his lips as he clearly prepared to watch Dwight stammer and drag his feet like a nervous schoolboy.
Dwight didn't give him the satisfaction.
With an explosive burst of movement, Dwight grabbed the rough fabric of the giant's overalls for leverage, his knuckles turning white as he slammed his mouth squarely against the killer's lips. Dwight had absolutely no idea what he was doing. His romantic history was a wasteland of awkward high school fumbling. So, he compensated for his total lack of technique with unadulterated aggression.
He mashed their mouths together hard enough that he felt the sharp click of his teeth hitting Trapper’s. It wasn't smooth. It wasn't graceful. It was a panicked assault of a kiss, Dwight’s fingers locked like a vice into the blood-stained denim, straining the heavy fabric as he poured every ounce of his adrenaline into it.
Trapper seemed completely frozen.
Driven by unhinged instinct and a spike of defiance, Dwight slid his tongue forward, licking right into the giant’s mouth. Huh, Dwight's brain registered, he doesn't taste bad, kind of smoky.
With a low growl, Trapper sank his fingers into Dwight’s hair, yanking his head to one side, adjusting his angle before he took control. Dwight had never been kissed like this in his entire life. It was a possessive masterclass that turned his knees to water.
Evan was a demanding kisser, his mouth crushing Dwight’s, filling him with a rhythmic hunger that stole the air from his lungs. The world spun behind Dwight’s eyelids, the hum of the hatch faded into the background as Trapper consumed him. When Trapper’s tongue swept deep across his lower lip, a soft moan escaped Dwight’s throat, melting straight into Evan's mouth as the giant drank down the sound.
Evan slowly parted their lips, letting out a satisfied breath against Dwight's slick mouth.
Clack-clank.
Dwight opened his eyes, fixating on Trapper’s mouth. It took him a moment to realize the crushing pressure on his ankle was completely gone. Evan sat back on his heels, a wicked, amused glint in his eyes as he watched Dwight work it out.
"Go on, Fairfield," Evan teased, his voice a gravelly rumble. "Before I change my mind."
Dwight didn't need to be told twice. He scrambled forward, dragging his bloody foot behind him, and tumbled straight into the golden light of the hatch.
