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.
