#welcome tale Eddie

[thedawnjester]

Welcome Tale AU | not really anything lore wise I just thought this would be funny lmao

[alli-the-tragic]

The Edgar Allan Poe connection on the second WH Halloween Update

As I watch the recent update, I noticed at least two references of Edgar Allan Poe's work. The First one is The Tell-Tale Heart which is blatantly mentioned as Sally's new play rendition. The second one is The Cask of Amontillado which isn't as well known but if you are familiar with it like I do. You'll get that reference and possibly what will happen in the future.

Let's try to theorize what these connections mean in Welcome Home:

The Tell-Tale Heart

The unnamed protagonist became paranoid by the old man's eye. He eventually murders the old man and dismembers the body parts and puts under the floor, the cops came and the protagonist tried to manipulate the cops, saying there is nothing wrong. However, he eventually becomes paranoid by the beating heart under the floor and then, he snaps.

The Cask of Amontillado

The protagonist, Montresor, opens the short tale by being in a carnival with his acquaintance, Fortunato, who is currently drunk and dressed up as a jester, including little bells on the tips of the hat. Montresor strategically planned to take revenge on Fortunato by persuading him to go to the catacombs together. As Montresor finds his perfect spot, a small crypt, he takes Fortunato and chained him inside and bricks him inside. 

I had a feeling that bricking Poppy's window is a subtle way of getting rid of Poppy because large puppets are difficult to work with and the creator(s) thought that she doesn't have any use anymore. Poppy eventually gets out being paranoid by an eerie sound and successfully escapes. Which sort of botched the getting rid of Poppy plan.

I still have a feeling that someone or something wants to get rid of the neighbors for one reason or another and eventually successfully do so.

Which leaves Wally Darling, Welcome Home's most popular character and possibly the creator(s) pride and joy, isolated and needing help by calling into the outside world.

[yasyyah]

Here's my conclusion of the Tell tale heart.

The narrator killed a man because couldn't stand seeing the same's blindness.

So he dismembered the men and hid the body under the house.

Two cops went to his house to investigate.

They heard the beating heart under the house.

Now let's change a bit,and slowly but surely y'all will understand.

The narrator KILLED a man because couldn't stand seeing his blindness.

(The narrator killed Eddie because didn't stand him??)

So he DISMEMBERED the man and hid the body under the house.

(Probably that's why Eddie wore a Frankenstein costume,Frankenstein could remove his body parts,couldn't he?)

Two cops went to investigate his house.

(These two came to check on him.)

They heard the beating heart under the house.

(A tiny detail that can reveal SO much.)

And,am i crazy or Eddie and Frank are acting a little bit off lately?

I mean,Eddie is quite normal,but he is TOO normal,and formal too. He's following the exact script,just like a normal puppet should do. I can't explain.

And Frank,he's kinda strange for me...the way he's speaking is kinda nervous,kinda shaky...

When he went to talk to Poppy,he seemed a little nervous and mad. Maybe he's getting more and more stressed because he knows he don't have too much time to help the others. What if he knows that after a while his time will come?

I mean,people already said that Julie is scared of the dark. And when she screamed,frank IMMEDIATLY spoke:"What was that?" with a scared and confused tone. Maybe he knows that something can happen with Julie and he's trying to be the most careful as he can.

...

I genuinely don't know if Sally can be the next. On the Macabre Menagerie Audio we can see she was talking about some monster roaming through the neighboorhod. So it's kinda hard for me to believed that she can. But NOT impossible.

I don't know if Julie can be too,after all,she's going the be the focus of the springtime update,isn't she? But i think she can.

Im not even going to talk much about Frank. If something happens to him OH BUT HE WILL SUFFER.

[one-and-a-half-threat]

Did anyone else notice any more Edgar Allan Poe references in the book-and-record set or-?

Other than the obvious Telltale Heart reference, of course. I mean that the whole bricking thing is a pretty clear reference to The Cask of Amontillado, where the story's narrator (a man named Montresor) traps a man (a man named Fortunado, Montresor's sworn enemy) deep in the catacombs by chaining him to a wall and then building a brick wall around him, then leaves him to die.

I can't find any more Edgar Allan Poe references in the video, but I thought it was interesting that an Edgar Allen Poe motif was prevalent and purposeful, and I'm wondering if there will be more of this theme to come. I definitely plan on keeping my eye out for more.

So other than The Telltale Heart and The Cask of Amontillado, did anyone else happen notice anything else?

[dollydemigod]

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Strange letter, old location.

Penny has some new drip, she's gonna be running around a fair bit in Act 3 so the shorts help.

[sp0o0kylights]

Steve Harrington was wearing a Hellfire t-shirt.

It was far too tight on him, the name of the club stretched wide over his chest. The sleeves dug into his biceps, making them pop even more than they usually did, and that was before he crossed his arms. 

Worse?

It was short.

Which meant the damn shirt was constantly riding up to give everyone a nice show of the smattering of hair that trailed down past the band of Harrington's jeans. 

The same hair that Eddie was determinedly not looking at. 

“Henderson, a moment?” He crooked a finger, a smile on his face that was more feral than welcoming. 

Rather than cower or even acknowledge that Eddie was two seconds away from murder, Dustin just gave him a gummy grin, all too pleased with himself and his scheme. 

“Sure Eddie. Steve, don't just stand there, go help set the booth up!” Dustin gestured to Hellfire’s sad little table, crammed all the way in the back of the gym. 

Jeff and Gareth both reacted to the suggestion like a rabid squirrel had been set upon them, nervously inching towards the other side of the booth as Harrington sighed and--shockingly--did as he was told.

‘What,’ Eddie thought angrily, ‘in the everloving fuck.’

“Do you guys mind if I set this down on the table?” Eddie heard Harrington ask as he stormed away, Dustin on his heel. 

They wandered just around the corner, out of sight and hopefully, out of the fallen king’s hearing range.

Eddie wasn't sure if Harrington would try and white knight the very much deserved dressing down he was about to give. 

Didn’t want to chance it, considering the downright weird relationship he had with Hellfire's freshmen.

(While he’d heard many a tale at his table regarding King Steve since the newest recruits had joined Hellfire, most of them dissolved into arguments without ever really going anywhere.

 Best anyone could figure out was that Dustin and Lucas had a bad case of hero worship, while Mike owned a begrudging amount of respect that hailed from a series of misadventures. 

The very same misadventures that, despite all protests to the contrary, was clearly some sort of babysitting gig for Harrington.) 

Either way, plenty of the King’s court would have loved to take this opportunity to fuck with Hellfire.

Given that Henderson was absolutely too old to require a babysitter at fourteen, Eddie would bet his lunch money that was what Steve was here to do.

Something the club couldn’t afford since they were forever and always two seconds away from being stripped of club status and banned from school grounds. 

“I would love to know what went through that all A’s brain of yours when I said,” Eddie whirled on Dustin when they were firmly in the clear, voice low and furious.  “no Henderson, do not invite King Steve to help, he is an invading force and would ruin our peaceful kingdom!?”

He clasped his hands behind his back before leaning into Dustin’s face. “Because clearly whatever you heard wasn’t that.” 

To Eddie’s continued frustration and confusion, Dustin did not treat this like the threat it was. 

None of the freshmen had ever truly treated Eddie like a threat--had somehow skipped that part of the usual onboarding ritual entirely.

Eddie, town freak and drug dealer, who had cultivated his looks and craziness to such a degree that most everyone steered clear, wasn’t used to it. 

Everyone had been afraid of him at some point in this shitty school. Jeff, Gareth, hell even half the staff--and that the dorky trio of fourteen year old's clearly thought this all was play-acting made his eye twitch.

Even if it was--maybe, sometimes--welcome. 

“I know what you said, but I’m telling you I’m right.” Dustin argued immediately, and oh God, he was using that tone again. 

A hand went up into the space between them and Eddie groaned aloud, knowing what was coming.

“First,” Dustin ticked a finger up, “Hellfire really needs the money. Even thirty dollars would get us new figures, but more than that, if we don’t fundraise, we can’t go to Gen Con!” 

Dustin's eyes bored into Eddie’s, full of fire and conviction

“Yes,” Eddie said through gritted teeth, “but--”

“Second!” Dustin cut him off, and God the little shit even threw him a look while he did it, like Eddie was the one being ridiculous here!

“We had to fight just to get our table! Principal Higgins was in algebra today practically begging the mathletes to show up, but then tried to tell us we couldn't be here? That’s messed up!” 

As if denying them a spot to fundraise was the worst thing that asshole had ever done.

Eddie sighed, breath blasting out of his mouth like a dragon’s. 

“Because people think we’re freaks and satanists, Henderson. You don’t typically invite freaks and satanists to the school’s annual Holiday Bazaar. Especially not when all the local moms are paying to hawk their bullshit crafts and tupperware!” 

It was more than that of course. The Hawkins High Holiday Bazaar was a tradition spanning several years now. Starting in the gym and spilling clear into the parking lot, everyone from local artists to even some local shops came to host a small table for the day, thus growing the event from a small school fundraiser to a Hawkins' “must-do.” 

Half the fucking town was here to sell, and the other half was here to shop, which meant Principle Higgins had wanted Hellfire banned from the fucking premise. 

Eddie had been forced to pull out one of his trump cards he’d been saving--blackmail on Higgins that related to the man’s not--so--legal addiction to Percocet that he relied on Reefer Rick for. 

(And bless Rick, that hadn’t been the only tidbit he’d shared with Eddie about Higgins. That information, however, Eddie needed just so the asshat wouldn’t give him the boot from school entirely.) 

The only reason Eddie had pulled it out to secure their rightful spot, was because of Gen Con. 

It was Hellfire's White Whale, their grand adventure, and this was going to be his year to take his friends on one last epic quest to make memories of a lifetime surrounded by people who understood them.

Come hell or high water, Eddie was going to Gen Con--but being able to fundraise by selling wares and baked goods at the stupid Holiday Bazaar would go a long way to help.

Even if he had to listen to the band repeatedly play ear-bleeding renditions of Christmas songs.

“All the clubs get to have a table, and we’re a club!” Dustin continued, like it was that simple. “But you know, I get it. We look scary.” 

He gestured down to his own Hellfire shirt, before gesturing towards Eddie’s entire outfit.

Like Eddie didn't know what he looked like, let alone that he'd made this outfit specifically to scare people away from him.

(And maybe add some rockstar flair to this dinky little hick town.)

“You know who doesn’t look scary?”

Dustin held out his hands and swiveled his body like he was presenting a prize instead of gesturing in the vague direction of; 

“Steve!”

Eddie’s left eye twitched.

‘You can't kill him, you need his character for the campaign.’ He told himself firmly, even if he envisioned strangling Dustin like a chicken.

Cartoon squawking and all. 

“The King isn’t going to help us fundraise, Dustin.” Eddie said, in an effort to break down why Harrington couldn't be here. “He's just going to cause us problems that we can’t afford to have.” 

So many problems, half of which Eddie couldn't think of because if he did, he'd start spiraling.

“Really? Because as you keep saying, Steve used to be the King. People love him, Eddie! Mom’s love him.”

Eddie had pulled himself back up to his proper height a while ago, and now rocked back on his heels while he ran a hand down his face.

There was no getting through to Henderson when he was like this. 

Not unless Eddie really lost it, and it was practically club lore that he only lost it when someone missed an important game. 

One cannot keep a herd of sheep if their flock is terrified of them, after all. 

(“Perhaps you’re just a giant fucking softie.” Tiff, one of Hellfire’s graduating members, told him once. “Honestly dude, I bet you throw up stuffing.”

“Shut up Tiffany, your choker is on backwards again.” He'd spat back, completely offended and not at all trying to distract from how true that was.) 

“We can’t be satanic if Steve’s the one selling cookies!” Dustin finished doggedly. 

“We’re not even selling cookies--that’s not the point!”” Eddie shook his head, hair flying. He was not going to be sidetracked, he wasn’t!

 “Harrington is going to end up siding with all the moms about how we’re all wasting time with D&D, if he even spends the whole time at the table. Is that what you want?” 

He stuck out a ringed finger, poking at Dustin’s chest.

“Every single person who comes by our table has to be convinced D&D is a writing and math based game. Good for the mind and souls of growing, impressionable children. A game that got a bad rep because of  a few silly images.” 

A pitch he and Tiff had come up with during the third or fourth time they had to convince an adult that no, just because their shirts had a dragon on it, didn’t mean they were summoning demons in the drama room. 

“Harrington can’t do that because Harrington doesn’t even know how to play!” 

This Eddie punctuated by throwing his hands in the air. 

Given the startled look of the mother-daughter duo passing him by, clearly was louder than he’d intended--but screw it!

He was right!

Hellfire was in a precarious position to both fundraise and do a little damage control among the slightly smarter members of this shithole small town, and Harrington rolling his eyes and gossiping about how stupid it was would hinder that.

“Okay, first of all, Steve’s played D&D with me and he didn’t even kill his character.” Dustin said it like he was unveiling a smoking gun and not lying through his ass--which Eddie would absolutely be calling him on the second he was done talking. 

Because King Steve? Play D&D?

'Ha!'

“And he’s not gonna say shit because we--me, and Lucas and even Mike!--asked him to help, and he helps when its serious. I know you have some weird grudge with him, but I’m telling you Eddie he’s our golden ticket to Gen Con!” 

“You’re killing me. You are standing here, acting as a friend, when you are bringing a-- a dark force into the midst our of mission--” Eddie hissed, because he was losing the fucking fight and he knew it.

Dustin Henderson was not a man easily swayed. 

Had never been, even when the odds were stacked against him (and Grant and Gareth were howling in his ear.) 

The set of his shoulders and the glint of the little shithead’s eye meant Eddie wouldn’t be able to use him to oust Harrington--if he even could get him out without the dick causing a massive scene anyway. 

As always when outgunned, Eddie flipped to dramatics.

“Betrayed! By my own chosen heir no less!” He moaned, pressing the back of his hand over his eyes as Dustin scoffed.

"Don’t be so dramatic! Steve will help, I promise! Just don’t be a dick to him.” 

 Conversation apparently over, Dustin turned around to head back to the table

Snidely, he added over his shoulder: “Plus we’ve all caught on to the heir thing Eddie. You tell everyone that so they do what you want.” 

The dick.

“You’re too fucking smart for your own good. I’m gonna start feeding you paint chips to bring that IQ down.” Eddie muttered angrily as Dustin went back to their little table.

He gave himself a moment to get his shit together and stomp a foot like a child when Dustin was around the corner and thus couldn’t witness it, before following his wayward sheep back.

Could only pray to any deity listening that Henderson’s meddling didn’t blow up in Hellfire’s face.

[alwaysurvalentine]

scary movie marathon - st fic

Written for Day 27 of @steddie-spooktober prompt: scary movies - wc: 1.6k - cw: some cussing

enjoy! 💛

Steve’s idea of a great date night? Scary movie marathon. If you pick the right movies, your date will hide their face in your shoulder and you have an excuse to hold onto them for the duration. If you’re lucky, you might even get them in your lap where you can provide some distraction.

At least, this is how things typically worked when Steve went on dates with the girls of Hawkins High. He should’ve expected that, like most things with Eddie, that wouldn’t be the case with the other boy. When he’d first suggested the movie night, Eddie had assumed it was a group thing and started talking to Robin about what movies she was going to bring. Luckily, Robin can read Steve’s mind, and also his rapid signaling behind Eddie, so she made up an excuse on why she was busy that night. Eddie had shrugged and turned to Steve with a smirk that sent butterflies straight to Steve’s stomach. 

~

The night had come faster than Steve expected and he eyed the movies in his front seat warily when he pulled up to Eddie’s trailer. He knew the other boy would probably like anything they watched, a huge fan of any and all horror no matter how bad. But Eddie also had a habit about seeing Steve more than other people. What if he realized something about him that Steve didn’t mean to reveal? What if he thought the movies he chose were dumb? Or too mainstream to be considered bad enough to loop back to good? This was a terrible idea. Steve’s hand rested on his gear shift, ready to put it in reverse and call Eddie with a fake illness cover story when the boy in question stepped out of the trailer and waved. 

Steve had just gotten used to the black jeans and leather jacket Eddie normally wore, but nothing could’ve prepared him for the cropped Black Sabbath shirt displaying the underneath of Eddie’s chest all the way to his navel. The sunset painted the scars adorning his stomach into a soft pink, like a gentle swoop of a paint brush. Steve’s own matching scars never looked so soft, instead red and angry any time he caught a glance of them in the mirror. Eddie’s grin sharpened as he approached Steve’s car, brown eyes alight with something when he cracked open Steve’s door.

“Cat got your tongue there, Stevie?” 

If blinks were audible, Steve knows his would’ve been deafening. “Whatever Eddie, hope you’re ready to be scared.” He didn’t dare to look at Eddie when he grabbed the movies, scared the older boy would know what he was thinking. 

“Ha! Me, scared? I’m a connoisseur of horror, a weaver of terrible tales, it takes a lot to scare the likes of me!” A cartoonish evil laugh erupted from Eddie as he walked forward, sliding his slippers off at the front door. The trailer felt just as welcoming as it had done all the times before, but now there were orange string lights covering the wall behind the TV and it smelled distinctly of popcorn.

In seemed in the time it had taken Steve to go home and change, Eddie had set up a full array of snacks for them. Popcorn in one bowl, M&Ms in another, even a bag of red vines sat to the side. “I, uh, wasn’t sure what you’d want to drink. We have coke and beer.” Eddie cringes at his words, though Steve can’t imagine why, and he’s already heading to the kitchen.

“I’ll just have what you’re having.” The fridge door opens and Steve sets his movies on the table, eyes catching on the starting menu for The Fly. Eddie comes back with two opened beers, passing Steve’s over by the neck before taking a quick swig of his own. 

“Okay, so we’re starting with one of the best horror movies ever.” 

~

“What the fuck?! Eddie, what the fuck?” Steve can’t look at the screen anymore, the transformation from man to fly sending his stomach into a riot. He’s tucked his face behind his hands and leaned towards Eddie like that’ll save him from the screen. Which is when he notices Eddie’s got an arm around his shoulders and he can feel him laughing against him. How did he not realize Eddie using his own moves against him?

“I know. It’s fucked up isn’t it? And the special effects are so good!” Eddie almost sounds excited, which would be nice if Steve couldn’t hear the sound of Jeff Goldblum’s character losing the last of his humanity. He gags and covers his ears instead, leaning fully into Eddie and turning his head towards the cologne he can smell on Eddie’s neck instead of the screen. 

“It’s disgusting is what it is.” Steve’s breath ghosts over Eddie’s collarbone and he swears he can see the moment Eddie’s heart starts beating faster. Interesting. He’s hopeful so Steve leans closer and feels Eddie’s arm tighten incrementally around him. 

“Steve?” He nods against the metalhead’s neck, newly focused on figuring out just what the older boy smells like under the cigarette smoke that follows him around. “Can I say something crazy?” Eddie’s tense as he talks, arm slipping from Steve’s shoulders so he can reach for the remote. “I mean, maybe it’s not crazy compared to you know, the entire Upside Down and like the last four years of your life. But it’s a big deal to me. Robin said you were fine with her, and clearly you are because she’s like your whole soulmate. Platonic, I know.” 

All of the air is stuck in Steve’s lungs, making his chest tight and he’s just waiting for the pit in his stomach to swallow him whole. He’s opened his mouth to speak a couple of times but nothing is coming out – Eddie’s drowning in a sea of insecurities and he’s doing nothing to help. 

“Okay. I’m just going to spit it out. I’m gay and I have the biggest crush on you.” 

I have the biggest crush on you.

Steve can breathe again. His cheeks are hot and he knows if he looked in a mirror they’d be bright pink. 

“Can I kiss you?”

It’s quiet enough in the trailer that Steve can hear when Eddie chokes on his inhale. 

“..what?” Eddie’s shoulders aren’t tense anymore, and he tilts his head at Steve with furrowed brows. He almost looks like a puppy. 

“Sorry, yeah, totally cool with the gay thing. Even more on board with the crush thing, so can I kiss you?” 

Eddie’s still just looking at Steve with wide, brown eyes. 

Alright, that’s fine, Steve can close the distance. Steve leans forward slowly and brushes the curls away from Eddie’s face, watches his eyes go wide with wonder before leaning in. Their noses bump when their lips first meet but then Eddie tilts his head and Steve’s world with it. Eddie’s hands come up to cup Steve’s jaw, cold rings sending sparks along his face and Steve smiles into the kiss. They part for a moment, matching grins on their faces. After a beat, Eddie leans in again and Steve shifts closer on the couch. 

As soon as he starts shifting, Eddie’s hands start tugging him closer until Steve’s straddling the older boy’s black jean clad lap. Steve boxes him in easily, resting slightly on Eddie’s lap to change the angle again. Eddie nips at his lip, gaining full access to his mouth when Steve gasps at the sensation. The sounds of the movie have completely faded now, Steve more focused on the soft smacking of their lips when they disconnect and meet again. 

The need for air causes them to part, but Eddie doesn’t go far, tucking his face into Steve’s neck. If it wasn’t for how warm Steve was already feeling, he might’ve been able to feel the warmth from the blush on Eddie’s face. Instead he feels Eddie’s lips against his skin as the metalhead murmurs. “Holy shit. Holy shit. Am I dreaming right now?”

“Not a dream, baby. If it wasn’t obvious, I have a huge crush on you too.”

Eddie leans more into Steve’s neck, placing a kiss at his pulse point. A couple more kisses are placed on Steve’s neck and he feels himself melt into Eddie’s lap. He feels Eddie’s hands clench slightly at the movement and then they slip under his shirt, fingertips pressing gently at Steve’s lower back and hips. A gasp escapes him when Eddie nibbles at his neck, teeth pulling at the skin in a way that Steve knows will leave a mark. 

For a moment he imagines the older boy leaving different marks on him and lending him his signature leather jacket for everyone knows who Steve belongs to. But Steve’s getting ahead of himself, this is only their first kiss. There’s no guarantee that Eddie wants this to be a serious thing. 

“Sweetheart?” When Steve glances down, Eddie’s pupils are still blown slightly even though his eyebrows are scrunched in confusion. “Did you hear me?” He must see his answer in Steve’s eyes because the confusion leaves and Steve’s looking at the softest expression he thinks he’s ever seen. 

“I asked if you wanted to be my boyfriend?” There’s an edge to Eddie’s voice and his hands tighten for a moment before loosening again. As though he’s worried about Steve’s answer, like Steve’s not already on the precipice of falling in love with he boy in front of him.

“Only if you let me take you on an official date.” All of the tension leaves Eddie and he grins, leaning up towards Steve again.

“I think I can agree with that.” 

And what else is Steve supposed to do but lean in for another kiss?

[catghoststories]

Frank, Eddie, and the Tell-Tale Heart

So, I know the main focus of this update was Poppy, which I was happy to see (though I'm not happy to see what happened to her).  I do have a theory cooking about her, Sally, and the Commedia Dell'arte, but Frank n' Eddie are my favorite pair, and I've been stewing over this particular theory since the July '23 update.  This tiny line from the Looky-Loo storybook is what cinched it for me.

Source: Merchandise Page, Looky-Loo Storybook

This line isn't read out loud, but we can see it at around the 9 minute in the video, above Eddie, looking so polite.  It reads,

"Villains!" I shrieked, "I can deny it no longer! I admit the deed!—tear up my flower bed!—here, here!—it is the ticking of my beloved alarm clock!"

This isn't the actual line from The Tell-Tale Heart.  The original line reads "Villains!" I shrieked, "dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—it is the beating of his hideous heart!"

Source: The Tell-Tale Heart

The Tell-Tale Heart is about someone murdering their roommate, cutting him into pieces, and hiding the evidence under the floorboards of their house. 

And I think this is what Frank is going to do to Eddie, in an attempt to protect him in a perverse, misguided way.

This rewritten lines seems very specific to Frank and Eddie.  We know Frank loves his garden.  And who's the only character in the Neighborhood who owns a clock?  Eddie.

At the end of the Homewarming video, Frank sees how distressed Eddie is.  As many have theorized, Frank seems to be somewhat aware of what's happening, although we don't know to what extent.  But he sees that Eddie is now in the line of fire of The Powers That Be, and he becomes worried for him.  

I think Frank will dismantle Eddie and hide him in his garden until he deems it 'safe' for Eddie to come back, once the 'eyes' are off him.  (Kind of reminds me of the Eye of Sauron from Lord of the Rings).  An unintentional—or perhaps intentional—side effect of being dismantled and put back together, with new parts, is that Eddie doesn't remember things well. 

Including, possibly, his and Frank's relationship.

This goes along with the theme we've seen several times in WH now, including this new Halloween update.  The puppets unintentionally—yet seriously—harm their loved ones in order to protect them from something they deem far worse—whatever that may be.

As these posts by kykudos, oniongrass, and nikkiiiscute discuss, there is an image from one of the hidden bug clips of Frank's garden with 9 clothespins—one buried in the dirt.

Source: Welcome Home Hidden Audio ('til it's back on the official site :3)

And there's the references to burial in Bug-a-Bye and Goodnight, too.  This post by the-nosy-neighbor goes quite a lot into this song very well, especially how it might indicate Frank could put Eddie into a suspended state!

Source: Transcript Page, Bug-a-Bye and Goodnight

Now I have been thinking about this dismantling/reassembling thing for a long time, especially since the last Halloween update.  Eddie is one of the puppets with a new costume, and he is Frank(enstein)'s monster.  And he has a big yellow band-aid on the back—Frank's color.  If Eddie is taken apart, Frank will patch him up again.

Source: Clown's Tumblr

(Also, I'm curious about the blue hand and face in Eddie's costume design. That's Barnaby's color. Does Frank use Barnaby's spare parts to put Eddie back together?! 😳 Especially since I feel like Barnaby's time on Mister Bone's Wild Ride is fast approaching—but that's yet another post 😅)

But based on the Tell-Tale Heart line, Frank may have been the one to do the dismantling in the first place, which is quite dark.  Based on the below picture from the former staff member page—clearer image here from Clown's Tumblr—Frank may be aware they're puppets and made up of various parts.

Source: Welcome Home Wiki until it's back on the official site :3

There is also an intense piece on Clown's Ko-Fi here (please support Clown if you can!) that shows butterflies doing SOMETHING to Eddie. Are they putting him together? Or taking him apart to join them in their hibernation? 🤔

Frank also likes gelatin. As he tells Poppy in their hidden audio, 'it holds perfectly sliced fruit beautifully'.  Perfectly sliced, cut up fruit, eh?  Gelatin is a preservative that we also see in the cookbook recipe, and we all know Eddie has an unholy encounter with his single pea.  So yet another symbol of suspended animation that is related to Frank and Eddie.

Source: Merchandise Page, Cookbook

So it seems like Frank has some experience in preservation, hibernation, etc. and knows how to use it, if it comes to it.

The next big update will likely be spring-themed.  A long time ago, Clown posted that Frank has a holiday in spring. Of course this isn't canon until it's on the website, but either way, I think Frank will have an important role in the spring update, which I believe will also focus on Julie.  We may see him wake up Julie from hibernation...and Eddie from his dirt nap.  

Source: Clown's Tumblr

(I've been so curious about that shadow behind the flower.  At first I thought 'OMG, it's Eddie's hand!', but I don't think so. 😅 I dunno what it is, but it doesn't quite seem flower like to me...🤔)

This Ko-Fi post (again, please support Clown if you have the means!) was posted around Easter this year and had a bunny/Easter theme.  Clown says "What is there to say though... Well! We know what the next holiday is in our Home Sweet Home, I'd say."  A huge theme of Easter/Spring are Rebirth and Resurrection.

As this post by serene-hatterene so beautifully details, Frank may feel pressured to kiss Julie to wake her up to prove his heteronormativity.  Maybe to further protect Eddie, too, to prove they aren't a thing.  Seems like Julie's family may show up this update, too, and we know family can cause a lot of pressure for couples during holidays. 😬

My last item isn't that strong, but I have been thinking of since the July '23 update.  In Eddie's Big Lift, Frank says the following line:

Source: Transcript Page, Eddie's Big Lift

The tense of "You always did work too hard" always bothered me.  Why doesn't Frank just say, "You always work too hard!"  And Eddie doesn't seem to know what he's talking about. Frank sounds almost wistful here.  It's like he's talking about his ex—a former version of Eddie, pre-dismantling, perhaps?

(Also, 'Enjoy the ground, Mr. Dear'? Dude, if this theory is right, that line is even more screwed up than it already was. 😳)

Here is my order of how I feel these events actually happened:

Secret Bug Audios (Eddie and Frank flirting) -> 1st Halloween Audio (Eddie still seems like his chipper, knowledgeable self) -> Homewarming -> Springtime (and Eddie's Resurrection)? -> Eddie's Big Lift

Not quite sure where this last Halloween update lands, but I feel like it's later.  Eddie seems ignorant of the potential adverse effects The Brickening (TM) could have on Poppy.  I feel like he's been more sensitive to Poppy and others in the past (but maybe I'm wrong, I'm biased towards him, heh).  Perhaps after his Reconstruction, his memory has now been reset, and he has "fallen into line" with the other Neighbors and their weird, pile-onto-one-person ways.

Anyway, what do you all think? 😬😬 I do hope I'm wrong, since Frank is my favorite, and this would make me feel very differently about him. 😬😬😬 Please tell me your own WH theories, too! I find them so interesting!

[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 32

part 1 | part 31 | ao3

cw: explicit sexual content, smoking

"Holy shit," Steve gasps as he shudders through aftershocks. Holy shit. Holy shit. He's never coming alone again; wonders if he could get away with asking Eddie to record some sort of audio for future use, because- because fuck.

Eddie's incredible. Made him tease himself for what felt like hours — featherlight caresses over his stomach, his hips, his thighs — and when he finally let him come, Steve nearly fucking died. Supernovas in his vision, trumpeting angels in his ears. Alpha and Omega; the beginning and the end type of shit. His heart went all off rhythm, and his entire body shook, and that melted honey feeling crystalized inside his chest; a sugar cube embedded in the center of his heart.

"Holy shit," Eddie echoes on the tail of a breathless laugh. He looks just as fucked out as Steve feels, flushed and fucking gorgeous, and Steve hears him shuffling around behind him; tucking himself back into his shorts, taking off his ruined shirt. He wipes his sticky hands on the fabric then moves to clean Steve up, using his t-shirt as a rag; dragging it over Steve's stomach, his pubes.

Steve giggles. "That tickles!"

"You're welcome," Eddie grins. He tosses the shirt onto the floor, and Steve moves to take his off.

"Here," he offers, "take mine." The thing's rucked up under his armpits, probably a little gross from sweat, but he doesn't want Eddie to be cold, and he especially doesn't want him to get up to find a new one. Feels like he might evaporate if Eddie leaves right now.

Eddie pushes him back down gently, and when he looks at him, it feels... reverent.

Like adoration.

Sugar cubes.

"Nah, Stevie." He bends to kiss his forehead with a wet, playful smack. "You keep it."

Steve settles back between his thighs and peppers kisses over the tattoos he can reach, stopping at one he asked about earlier. The fluffy cloud, the sleeping fox. "Will you tell me about these now?" Another kiss. "If you want."

Eddie sighs and sits up straighter; lights himself a cigarette. He pokes at each tattoo in turn, the skin dimpling under his touch, and says, "Fox, and Skye. My half-siblings."

"You have siblings?"

"Sure do. Four and seven last time I saw ’em. And yes,” he adds with a smirk in his voice, “my mom was a dirty hippie, in case their names didn’t make that abundantly clear.”

Steve laughs under his breath. "I see why you didn't want to talk about that before."

He traces the outline of the art; thinks about all the other stuff he doesn't know about Eddie, about his life outside of school, outside of Hawkins. Startles himself a little with how badly he wants to learn.

“Son of a bitch…” Eddie whispers. He sounds like he’s talking to himself, and when Steve glances up at him, his gaze has drifted to the middle distance, staring somewhere past the mirror and the guitar hung on the wall.

“What is it?” Steve asks. A dark smudge of anxiety cuts through the afterglow. It's probably nothing, but three years of fighting monsters has set him permanently on edge.

“Nothing," Eddie assures, blinking fast to snap himself out of it. "Sorry. I'm just— just realizing they’re both way older now." He licks his upper lip; clucks his tongue. "Jesus. I haven’t seen them since ’79.”

Oh. “How come?” He probably shouldn’t ask. Feels intrusive and rude.

Eddie doesn’t seem to mind. “Oh, you know,” he answers, and his tone is flippant, swooping melody, but Steve can hear the vulnerable quiver lurking just below. The slightest tremor; a flicked bass string. “Pretty classic tale. Mom remarried, I was the moody teenage step-son getting in the way of the guy’s fresh start. Also,” he sucks in another puff of smoke, croaking on the exhale, “turns out hippies can be homophobes, too, so...”

“Wait, seriously?” Steve twists to sit upright, to spring into action, as if he’s about to— what, exactly? Fight the past on Eddie’s behalf? (He’d do it, for the record, but he’s pretty sure it’s not an option. Not unless one of El’s siblings knows how.) "Eddie, that sucks; I'm so sorry."

“Down, boy,” Eddie snorts, voice gone husky from the smoke. "It's fine; it's old news."

He clearly doesn't care to wallow when he just got his rocks off, so Steve eases himself back down; borrows the cigarette. When he hands it back he jokes, "Should I be worried that it’s, like, kinda hot when you talk to me like I'm a dog?”

Eddie hollers out a laugh, his head knocking against the wall, all those wild curls bouncing around his shaking shoulders. "Jesus Christ. You're fucking dangerous," he beams.

Steve smiles back; pokes the comic bubble on Eddie's knee. "You like danger."

"Little shit.” He rolls his eyes and smiles, softer now, biting it back. The cassette reaches its end. A peaceful hush falls over the room. "Yeah. I guess I do."

—

Later, when the moon is high and the weed's all gone and sleep tugs at their eyelids like a needy kid; when they're curled on their sides face-to-face on the bed, Eddie reaches across the gap between them and says, "Stay?"

Steve takes his hand; brushes his lips over bare knuckles. "Kiss me?"

"In the morning," Eddie promises. "If you still mean it, ask me then."

—

part 33

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added tomorrow please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[lexirosewrites]

Kinda sorta sleeping beauty AU

A!Eddie as a bard whose songs & plays are known throughout the land & for this feat of artistic affluence he is knighted, given a Kings Favor which is a kind of brooch/badge of honor tht means the King will grant him a single wish (which Eddie decides he will cash in at a later date) & tht he's able to travel the kingdom & their allies without fear of being accosted & he is to b welcomed in noble or common homes as an honored guest & to ensure no thieves r able to take it from him the court mages bind the Favor to him so tht if it is ever taken it will appear back upon his person by sunset. So Eddie uses his new allowance from the crown to build his uncle a better home, and once tht is done Eddie feels restless as spring thaws winter. So he hugs his uncle goodbye to set off wandering.

Some months pass, spring has turned to summer & he arrives in the fishing town of Loch Nora. It’s strangely the only town situated along a lake tht is as large as a sea with an island barely visible in the distance due to fog. He is welcomed into the home of the richest family in the town, the Wheelers r merchants who distribute much of the fish caught to many other towns including noble families.

As Eddie explores the town he comes upon an abandoned noble keep with a dagger stabbed into the front doors shining as if new, & when visiting one of the 3 pubs of the town he's told a tale of a noble family tht once oversaw the prosperity & protection of the lake, but the story goes tht some 100 years ago the lord & the only heir left in the night & tht they locked the doors of their great home w a parchment tacked upon the door w the silver dagger tht informed the townspeople they had failed in their duties to the lake & now had to give it their dearest treasures & tht one day a cowardly knight would have to overcome trials & win back their treasures from the waters to claim as his own, tht when this is done the town will know prosperity again. The patrons then speculate abt the gold & jewels likely thrown to the water by the missing lord & heir.

This is how Eddie learns no one has been able to pull the dagger from the door even after the parchment had disintegrated w time, tht the fishermen have been catching fewer & fewer fish in recent decades, tht the water of the lake hasn't nourished crops properly in nearly 5 years, animals they used to hunt in the surrounding woods have seemingly disappeared, while the animals raised within town for food often die from illness suddenly without warning for the last 3 months, & tht since there is no noble family the town receives no allowance from the crown. This troubles Eddie & he's sad to hear this tale of woe especially after confirming the towns troubles w the Wheeler patriarch, he falls asleep tht night wishing to figure out a way to help the townspeople.

Then he is dreaming, he's standing barefoot at the edge of the water under the light of the full moon. He's looking out through fog at the dark outline of the island in the lake, the water is calm but he can see dark shapes too large to b ordinary fish moving under its surface, he looks to his right & finds a small row boat but as he takes a step towards it he realizes the water had surged up around his ankles. Then something is grabbing him & dragging him into the waters, as he thrashes to get away to try to claw his way back to shore he quickly realizes he cannot escape & resolves to fight as this is his dream, there is a sudden weight in his hand & he finds he's brandishing the shining silver dagger of the abandoned keep, then he wakes up in his bed.

The day after his dream he spends probably too much time standing at the front doors of the keep, staring at the dagger, bc without his notice a beta woman is beside him. She asks if he knows the story of the keep & when Eddie says he heard it from the townspeople she laughs. She introduces herself as Robin then says they only know a portion of the tale, tht the whole story is much more interesting, & tht the lord did leave behind his dearest treasure w the lake but memory can get foggy thru the years especially if a story is never written down so they've forgotten exactly what it was the lord considered a treasure. It isn't until Eddie has glanced to the door & back to find Robin gone tht he realizes she said treasure & not treasures.

[Part 1 of 3]

color me intrigued 👀

(link to part two)

[chirpsythismorning]

Welcome to a series I'm calling:

Yes, that scene did foreshadow Mike's monologue was disingenuous

Because you'd be surprised how many times the show (even prior to s4) has poked fun at Mike's monologue in the most random ways.

The Bingham's Beautiful Performance

First we have Suzie's sister on the floor, bedazzled and sporting a veil all while her brother is filming. This is basically the kids attempting to present a tale of a romance ending in gruesome tragedy.

Our bride here is El. The edition of the veil could be a nod to the loud majority's series long assumption that Mike and El are going to end the show together, preferably getting married.

Unfortunately, this is the closest thing they'll ever get to it, with the acknowledgement of that possibility in and of itself being mocked.

This next shot makes the likelihood that these scenes are connected pretty much indisputable, that being the edition of the record player behind the bride's head.

The only reason they made a point of having Will push the radio out of El's way, was to subtly connect this moment in Surfer boy to the beautiful performance we saw at the Bingham's only a few episodes prior (scenes that are widely known to be filled with foreshadowing for the season's ending).

A few bylers have already talked about these parallels, so this isn't new knowledge per say. But I do know some have dropped it altogether as possible foreshadowing for whatever reason, while most fans outside of the byler fandom insist it only foreshadowed Eddie's death. However, I think there are too many details that equally, if not more connect it to Mike's monologue than to Eddie's death.

Some fans have also noticed how Will was missing in quite a few shots at the Bingham's, which is interesting, but not all that surprising. Especially in this case...

Will. Will is the director

Director Will: GET THAT RADIO OUT OF MY SHOT!

Will directed the monologue when he used his feelings to inspire Mike, with the reminder of it (literally in the moment) directing Mike to confess to El, just like Suzie's brother directed that beautiful performance. Both performances convincingly left its audience thinking that the performers feelings in that moment were believable and...

genuine...

[thedawnjester]

Welcome Tale AU | Mettaton needs to know the drama lol

[siduael]

About the pea.

SPOILERS FOR THE NEW WELCOME HOME UPDATE UNDER THE CUT!

After seeing the commercial and the whole Eddie thing, I have been thinking if the single pea has any significance or any similarities to anything.

And. Maybe I am reading too much into this but you know the Princess and the Pea tale? And how, in the tale the single pea is what keeps the princess awake at night? How its a small ignorable thing that the Princess isn't aware of it being there yet it disturbs the Princess?

And here we have, a single pea on a plate. So small yet causing Eddie to experience THAT.

On top of it, its served on a plate. Almost like forcing him to become aware of something that is supposed to be ignorable. Making him face the way things feel off. Pointing out whats wrong.

Not sure if it means anything, could be unintentional. Just an idea however.

[ladykailitha]

Around the World Part 6

Hello! And welcome to another chapter of this very underrated fic. Thank you to everyone who has given it love in the way of comments, reblogs/tags, and likes.

It's London calling! And we meet a Murray Bauman in the wild. Eddie and Steve get a little introspective and Steve does something rash.

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

~

Their trip through the haunting and beautiful Ireland was amazing. So many tales and history. This is why Steve wanted to do more than just America like Eddie had originally wanted, because America just didn’t have the history Europe and other places did. Not unless you wanted to disturb actual First Nation people and that was something he wanted to avoid at all cost, thank you.

They were on the ferry from Northern Ireland to Scotland and Steve was looking out over his shoulder at the water as he leaned against the guardrail. He tilted his head back and closed his eyes, allowing the wind to blow through his hair.

Eddie slid his arm around him and Steve laid his head on his shoulder.

Today Eddie had his beard and faux-dreadlocks in a light blue button up shirt and cream colored wide-legged pants. His chunky sunglasses covered the his face.

“You know,” Eddie murmured, “until we reached this leg of our journey and you started to disguise me, I didn’t realize how much I missed just being Eddie Munson, regular guy. I can really see the appeal of you and friends’ way of doing it.”

“Yeah,” Steve said softly. “Of course it means that we can’t go all out and buy everything we want, stay in fancy hotels, show up at restaurants without a reservation and get in. But I can go into my local grocery store and buy two tubs of mint ice cream because I felt like it.” He lifted his head to look Eddie in the eye. “Like some Karen would judge me, but it’s not going to go up on TMZ that I’m letting myself go.”

God, Eddie had had that happen more times than he cared to count. Like once Chrissy was on her period and he went to go get her chocolate, Ben and Jerry’s, and pads. Before he even got to his car it was all over the internet that he was letting himself go, just because it was 2am and his best friend needed something to help her feel better.

“You think you’ll ever come out?” he asked, pulling Steve in closer.

It was a familiar and well-worn topic of theirs; whether or not Steve would ever come out as bisexual at least.

He ducked his head and looked away. He didn’t know. He didn’t like hiding parts of himself for those he loved. He would like to tell people this is the love of my life.

“Would you leave me if I said no?” he mumbled, not daring to look up.

Eddie placed his finger under Steve’s chin and lifted his head gently. “Of course not, Stevie. There are literal actors who have been married for years and no one knows. It’s just between them. We could do that too. Just a quiet ceremony, Robin and Chrissy as the witnesses, and a justice of the peace.”

Steve let out a weak sort of watery laugh and shook his head. “I want all our friends there, famous and otherwise. I want a full tilt party with music playing into the early hours of the morning. I want fancy tuxes and flowers galore. I know I might not get that, the absolute coward that I am. But if I marry you, it be to scream from the rooftops that I love you.”

Eddie bumped their shoulders together. “Softy.” Steve blushed. “Besides there is nothing in the world that says we can’t have it both ways. Have a quiet little ‘just us’ and then go full tilt when you come out. You don’t even have to tell anyone. Just a little comfort that I’m not going anywhere.”

Steve pressed a gentle kiss to Eddie’s cheek. “I’ll think about it.”

Eddie kissed him deeply and then tucked his head under his chin and they stayed like that until the ferry docked in Scotland.

~

God, Scotland and England were beautiful countries Eddie decided as he watched the rolling green hills from his train window. That was another thing he really liked about Europe in general, just all the different ways to travel that weren’t a car.

He looked over at Steve who had his glasses on and reading a book. He smiled at the title. His boyfriend wasn’t a fantasy fan or science fiction either, really, but put a clever mystery in his hands and you would have to pry to the book from his cold, dead fingers.

He glanced over at Chrissy and Robin who were playing Go Fish! They had asked him if he wanted to join them, but he passed. He rarely got time to just relax and watch the scenery go by when he was on tour. He was always doing something related to the band. Writing music, practicing, talking about the next venue, interview, or TV spot.

Him and his friends had fun, because of course they did. But it was nice to just let his mind wander. Currently he was sad that they were going to have to miss Wales this time. He really wanted to buy some Welsh gold jewelry. It’s super rare and absolutely gorgeous.

Maybe he would have to come back later and get something special for Steve. Just something simple like matching bands even if it wasn’t on the left hand. Or necklaces. Just something simple to prove they were it for each other.

“I made an appointment with a well-known tattoo artist in London,” Steve said nonchalant, but like he was reading Eddie’s thoughts.

Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned to Steve. Robin nearly giving herself whiplash in her speed.

“As your friend, manager, and platonic soulmate,” she said darkly, “I advise against that. You can cover it up but someone, somewhere will see it.”

Steve looked up from his book and leveled her with his best bitchy glare. “Not if it’s on my ass.”

Chrissy and Eddie’s eyebrows shot up and they shared a shocked glance. Eddie always loved tattoos, he had a couple of stick and poke style ones from when he was young and stupid and couldn’t afford to pay for an artist to do the job, but there was one place, well technically two if you included his dick, which he absolutely did, that he refused to get a tattoo on and that was his ass. Not being able to sit down properly for what would probably be weeks was not his idea of a good time.

“Not really, though, right?” Chrissy asked with a grimace.

Steve took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Of course not really. Sheesh, you guys. But I hid fucking hickies from the both of you for a year and you never noticed, so I’m pretty sure I can hide one fucking tattoo.”

Robin and Chrissy shared their little ‘manager’ glance and Chrissy folded first.

“You’re right, Steve,” she said calmly. “Not once did you forget or slip up and you should be applauded for that. But is there a reason you’re deciding to get a tattoo now instead of waiting until we’re back in the States and you can use Eddie’s personal artist?”

He looked over at Robin and their little telepathy thing went off again and this time Robin folded first.

“It’s for Eddie,” she murmured. “They can’t be out as a couple and with Steve being the romantic that he is, wouldn’t want to get married without all his friends there, so this is his way of telling Eddie he isn’t going anywhere either.”

Eddie blinked for a moment. “Do you think they take walk-ins?”

“I booked it for both of us.” Steve smiled at him and took his hand. Eddie beamed back at him.

“They are so disgustingly cute,” Robin huffed, crossing her arms. “I bet Steve has this really sweet idea for a tattoo that even if people do notice it they won’t be able to tell the meaning but he and Eddie will know and be so sickeningly precious about it.”

Eddie gave him a huge kiss on the cheek. “I love my super clever boyfriend and can’t wait to see what this brilliant plan is.”

~

Steve’s brilliant plan was half of a white mask on Eddie’s inner wrist and half of guitar on Steve’s and when they held hands it formed almost heart.

The tattoo artist was really impressed with the idea and was more than happy to implement it. Steve walked out of there, completely smug as Chrissy pointed out. Deservedly so.

They were to stay in London for three days because of all the haunted places in London alone, there were so many worth visiting. They were going to start at Jack the Ripper tour and move onto the tour of London.

The tour they learned with deep dismay had accidentally been scheduled at 2pm and not 2am like Eddie had thought it said. It was so boring and their tour guide so dull, Eddie accidentally tripped of one of those concrete pillars they had in the middle of the sidewalk to prevent cars from driving up on it.

“Oof!” Eddie wheezed as he straightened up. “Why do they even put those things here?”

“Chrissy Cunningham,” a nasally voice said from behind them. “What are you doing in my neck of the woods?”

They all turned slowly to see a weaselly little bald man with thick horn-rimmed glass.

“Holy shit,” Chrissy said slowly. “Murray Bauman, as I live and breath. What the hell are you doing in London?”

He shrugged. “Eking out a living doing tours for bored tourists. When the biggest metal band in the world drops you, so does everyone else.”

Chrissy and Eddie shared a grimace. Corroded Coffin had deliberately did that to Nancy after the shit she pulled with Steve and trying to be The Fallen’s agent. But this one was a complete accident.

“Oh fuck off,” Robin said with a grin. “You love it. I can tell. You have actual notes written down, you have a map marked with all the spots the murders take place. I bet you have all the great stories.”

Murray flushed and cocked his head to the side. “I mean I didn’t want to brag. But yeah, certainly better than Molly over there.” He jutted his thumb at their tour guide. “Most of the good ones are from tour companies and then you get people like Molly who make it look legit online and trick people into taking day tours.”

“God, I was so bored,” Eddie huffed, shoving his hands into his pockets, “I felt jet lagged.”

Murray’s eyes instantly narrowed and cocked his head to the side and instantly everyone else tensed up. He took in their reactions and mimed zipping his mouth shut.

“I’ll tell you what,” he said, “if you’re still in town tomorrow, meet me here at 9pm and I’ll give you a proper tour.”

Chrissy licked her lips slowly. “Or what?”

“Huh?” He was confused for a moment before he smacked his forehead. “Oh! No, no. I’m not going to blackmail you. Holy shit. If people want to enjoy a vacation without all the publicity, good on them.” He looked Eddie up and down. “Looks good on you kid.”

Eddie was suddenly glad for the large sunglasses and beard because it hid the blush on his cheeks.

“No, I’m just saying,” Murray continued, “that if you wanted to experience a proper Jack the Ripper tour, I’m willing to do it. I don’t have a tour currently booked and beside I like her.” He pointed at Robin, who grinned back him.

The four them all shared glances at each other.

“I’m down,” Steve said with a shrug. “If you’re as good as you say you are and aren’t trying to actively ‘get back’ at Chrissy for taking your job, I know I’d be interested in seeing what Whitechapel has to offer after dark.”

“I like him too,” Murray said brightly, rubbing his hands together. “So what do the rest of you say?”

“Aye, aye, Captain!” Steve’s three menaces said together.

He just smiled fondly and shook his head.

~

Part 7 Part 8 Part 9

Tag List: CLOSED

1- @mira-jadeamethyst @rozzieroos @itsall-taken @redfreckledwolf @zerokrox-blog

2- @gregre369 ​@a-little-unsteddie @chaosgremlinmunson @messrs-weasley @val-from-lawrence

3- @goodolefashionedloverboi @carlyv @wonderland-girl143-blog @irregular-child @blondie1006

4- @yikes-a-bee @bookworm0690 @anne-bennett-cosplayer @awkwardgravity1 @littlewildflowerkitten

5- @genderless-spoon @y4r3luv @dragonmama76 @ellietheasexylibrarian @thedragonsaunt

6- @disrespectedgoatman @dawners @thespaceantwhowrites @tinyplanet95 @garden-of-gay

7- @iamthehybrid @croatoan-like-its-hot @papergrenade @cryptid-system @counting-dollars-counting-stars

8- @ravenfrog @w1ll0wtr33 @child-of-cthulhu @kultiras @dreamercec

9- @machete-inventory-manager @useless-nb-bisexual @stripey82 @dotdot-wierdlife @kal-ology

10- @sadisticaltarts @urkadop @chameleonhair @clockworkballerina

[mandalhoerian]

⸺ carlos oliveira x reader, 14K

⸺ urban legend horror, alcohol consumption/implied alcoholism, violence, tragic romance, slight body horror

⸺ summary: Drawn to a remote town by tales of a deadly spirit, you expect just another case to investigate. But as you find yourself circling back to the bar every day without fail where the charming bartender Carlos Oliveira keeps watch, unsettling details emerge, and the legend you came to document seems closer than you ever imagined.

⸺ back to bloody endings.

⸺ read on ao3

taglist: @uhlunaro @wxwieeee @ann1-the-s1mp @withonly-sweetheart @esterphobic

@justb3333 @ada-wong-lover @nyctophiliagnes @kiyokoume @lightning-hawke

@cherriesnfangs @byexbyez @misonesaturou @saturnzei

Dust clings to the rims of your worn boots, layering itself over the faded leather with every step closer to the gas station—the town’s only sad excuse for a welcome. Gravel crunches beneath your feet, each sound sharp in the quiet that sprawls around you, thick and unmoving under the weight of the fading sun. A line of crooked oaks stretches over the road, branches twisted and drooping as if they’ve grown heavy from watching the years roll by.

You reach the station, where a cracked neon sign stutters to life in flashes of hazy red. “KNOX’S,” it spells out in stubborn, flickering bursts, casting everything nearby in an off-kilter, rust-colored glow. You push open the door, and the hinges let out a long, rattling groan, far too loud for your hangover to handle.

Inside, a cashier who looks older than the dust itself leans against the counter, eyes narrowing as they size you up. You barely hold his gaze before glancing away, sweeping over the cramped rows of shelves with their uneven stacks of canned goods, ancient packets of chips, and oil-stained rags that hang limp and useless along the far wall.

He shifts, crossing his arms over his chest, the motion slow and deliberate. You feel his stare sticking to you as you move down one of the aisles, the cold, stale scent of the place settling somewhere deep in your throat. Reaching for a drink from the cooler, you let the hum of the machinery buzz against your fingertips, grounding you in a way that feels almost necessary here.

“Passing through?” he asks, his voice a low drawl that doesn’t quite invite an answer.

You don’t look back. Instead, you close your fingers around the glass bottle, feeling the chill seep through your skin as you pull it free and study the label. It’s something generic, cheap, and yet the price tag hanging beneath it makes you blink. You set it on the counter, noting the cracked linoleum underneath, and finally meet his gaze head-on, matching the judgment in his eyes with a look of indifference.

“Work,” you say, leaving it at that.

He huffs, reaching for the bottle, his calloused fingers brushing the glass with a gentleness at odds with the way his eyes narrow. “Ain’t much work around here,” he mutters, sliding the bottle across the counter to you, his gaze lingering like he’s waiting for you to offer more. When you don’t, he shifts back, handing you your change in silence. You let the coins clink against your palm, feeling their edges cold and rough.

As you turn to leave, his words catch at your heels. “Don't depend too much on the bottle, stranger. It ain't safe in this town.”

The warning hangs in the stagnant, stale-scented atmosphere, but you shrug, forcing the door open with a grunt. The hinges squeal again, and a dry breeze greets you, stirring up the dirt in tiny, twisting eddies. You take a swig from the bottle, the alcohol burning your tongue, but the discomfort is familiar, a constant companion since the first time you found solace in its embrace, drowning the whispers of doubt in the back of your mind. You’ve been doing that a lot lately, chasing stories that grow less and less plausible the deeper you dig. Still, you can’t shake the need to prove yourself, to reclaim the spark of curiosity and determination that drew you to this path in the first place—to recapture the sense that there was more to the world than what the textbooks said, that there were answers to be found beyond the confines of academia or conventional journalism. Now, though, the only answers you seem to find lie at the bottom of bottles like this one.

Your steps lead you toward the motel, its neon sign flickering in the fading light. There’s a stillness that lingers on the outskirts of this town, an eerie quiet that settles into the hollow spaces and makes them echo. Your own breaths sound too loud, even as they mingle with the soft crunch of gravel and the distant, muffled sounds of a radio playing some country song. The night is a blanket laid over the landscape, suffocated by the heat of the sun that has baked the ground to a hard, unyielding crust. As you step inside the motel, the fluorescent lights hum overhead, a faint buzz that matches the thrumming in your veins. The clerk behind the front desk barely acknowledges your presence, a nod and a muttered comment about rates, all of which you ignore, already lost in the thoughts that haunt you.

You slide your card across the counter, not making eye contact, not offering anything more than the bare necessities. With a key in hand and a room number etched into your memory, you retreat to the solitude of the musty, dimly lit hallway that leads to your room. The carpet is worn thin in places, the pattern faded, and the walls are a sickly beige that doesn’t do justice to the images of nature printed on them. In the distance, a dog barks, a solitary, lonely sound, reverberating off the peeling paint and the stained wallpaper. Everything seems to be on the verge of collapse, held together by the sheer force of the past that refuses to let go.

The door to your room opens with a creak, the hinges protesting, and you’re greeted by the same staleness that clung to the gas station, the same sense that the world has moved on without this place. The sheets are crisp, though, and the mattress sinks beneath your backpack and then your body as you fall onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, where cracks spread like rivers on a map. Outside, the crickets begin to sing, a chorus of repetitive, mechanical chirps that grate against your nerves, reminding you of the endless loop of your own thoughts.

You can't sleep, so you decide, why wait until morning to go out and explore?

Instead, you venture outside, the warm, humid wind pushing against you, caressing the tips of the trees and rustling the grass that grows wild on the edge of the road. You've always had a restless soul, never content to stay in one place for long, and right now, the idea of staying cooped up in that motel room is unbearable. You walk, following the main street, the asphalt reflecting the moonlight, turning it into a ghostly silver trail. A scattering of houses, all crouched low and sunken, line the main road, their shutters closed up tight. A cat slinks out from one of the alleys, its coat a mottled mix of shadows that melds into the dirt.

Further down the road, a single light glows faintly through the evening haze, casting a soft amber glow across the dirt and weeds. The light flickers and pulses, a heartbeat in the darkness that hints at something still awake.

The bar is tucked at the end of the main road, its faded sign swinging crookedly above the door, caught in a breeze that barely stirs. A soft, golden light spills out onto the ground, casting the steps in a gentle glow that draws you in, promising a retreat from the unsettling quiet that clings to this town. The wooden boards of the porch are warped and splintered, groaning under your boots, and the screen door, patched in places with duct tape, squeaks loudly, announcing your entry. Inside, the air is warm, filled with the familiar scent of aged wood, spilled liquor, and the faint tang of cigarette smoke lingering on the walls. A fan ticks lazily in a corner, stirring the hot, sticky, Southern heat, and the dull murmur of conversation fills the space, a backdrop of muted laughter and hushed gossip.

The barstools are lined up in a neat row, each one more worn than the last, their leather cracked and faded from years of use. A few patrons sit scattered at tables in the back, huddled over their drinks, heads bent low in murmured conversation. A few of them glance up, their eyes quick and assessing, sizing you up before dismissing you as a passing curiosity. They're the kind of people who've seen enough of the world to know when someone doesn't belong, and they don't care to make any exceptions. Their faces, lined and weathered from lives lived in the harsh glare of the sun, fade back into the shadows as you ignore them and focus on the figure behind the bar.

The man stands with his back turned, cleaning glasses with a practiced rhythm, shoulders broad and solid under the dim light that hovers just above him. His hair curls slightly at the ends, dark against the pale collar of his shirt, and when he turns, there’s a confidence in his stance that belongs to someone who knows his place in the world, or at least in this small corner of it. He's all ragged curls, warm dark eyes and short facial hair, a stubble that covers his cheeks in a shadow of ruggedness, and his lips curl in a smile that's equal parts mischief and ease the moment he spots you sliding onto a stool at the bar, setting your bag on the seat beside you, the cracked leather creaking slightly under your weight.

"Well, hello there, new face," the bartender greets, his hands busy wiping the rim of a glass that has seen better days. "What can I get for you?"

"Something strong," you reply, leaning forward on the scuffed surface, your fingers tapping restlessly. You're not in the mood for pleasantries, not after the day you've had, the drive, and the feeling of being watched that's clung to you like a second skin since you entered the town's borders. You want a drink, and maybe a distraction, and that's all.

"Sure thing," he says, and his smile doesn't waver. "Name's Carlos." He extends a hand, his grip firm and warm, his calloused palm brushing against yours in a handshake that's surprisingly gentle.

"Nice to meet you," you say, giving your name and pulling away. No matter how tired you are, however, maintaining connections on a new place is always helpful when it comes to the flow of information, so you can't exactly snub a person like him who can probably hear and see everything happening in the community.

"Just passing through?" Carlos asks, his tone casual, but there's a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes, a subtle hint that suggests there's more to him than just a friendly bartender, a detail that sticks in your brain, a stray thought, that he seems to have an interest in the comings and goings of the town, a keen eye that catches every shift in the landscape, like a hawk scanning the fields. Maybe it's the isolation that breeds that kind of observation. "If so, you’re a little far off the main road for that."

It draws an amused, involuntary huff from you, an acknowledgment that the question is a fair one. It's a tiny town, the kind of place that most people speed through on their way to somewhere else. The swamps and woods that surround the area seem to keep the locals in and outsiders out, the gnarled branches of ancient trees and the tangled vines of the bayou acting as a barrier that's nearly impenetrable. Spanish moss dangles from the trees and hangs in the open, its spidery tendrils swaying in the slightest breeze, making the whole region feel like a living, breathing organism, ready to swallow anyone that gets too close. And the people, they're as rooted to the land as the old oaks that stretch toward the sky, their lives woven into the fabric of the place, a part of it in a way that outsiders can never truly comprehend. To pass through without purpose here is an oddity, a deviation from the norm.

"Nah, I'm here for work," you offer, the word clipped, not wanting to delve too deeply into the reason that's brought you to this forgotten corner of the South.

You're a journalist, or at least you used to be, a profession that once felt like a calling, a chance to uncover truths and shine a light on the hidden corners of the world. But that was before you found yourself in a downward spiral of chasing ghosts and rumors in the hopes of a paycheck, a situation that's led you to the brink of despair, and now to this run-down bar. You've come to investigate the legend of El Silbón—the Whistler—and the eerie tales that swirl around the figure, a specter that's said to haunt the backwoods and bayous, his presence signaled by the chilling whistle that cuts through the night. All this research for a job that doesn't pay much and that might not even lead to a stable position, and you've grown to hate it. Still, in the dim light of the bar, the flickering neon illuminating the cracks and crevices of the place, you can almost pretend that the stories and the legends are worth your time. Almost.

"Work, huh? Not many opportunities in these parts." Carlos's eyebrow arches in a way that makes him look simultaneously curious and suspicious. His gaze sweeps over the other patrons, lingering on the regulars who have already turned their attention back to their drinks, the ice clinking softly against the sides of the glasses. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the well-worn countertop, his dark eyes searching yours, a glint of something—amusement, perhaps, or understanding—in his smile. "I suppose a cold beer will do to drink that disappointment down."

With that, he grabs a bottle from the cooler, the glass sweating condensation, and sets it in front of you, the thunk of the bottle hitting the wood a punctuation to his words.

"I mean, I already do have a job," you chuckle tiredly, the words coming out half-heartedly, a feeble attempt at humor in the face of your own doubts about the choices that led you here. Your fingers tap a rhythm against the side of the bottle, the dampness of the condensation cool and slick against your skin. The truth is, the idea of a steady paycheck is an illusion at best, a desperate hope that keeps you going from one dead-end assignment to another. "Or, at least, a research gig. It's...complicated."

You take a long, deep pull from the bottle, the bitter taste of the beer washing away the dust and the exhaustion of the day's journey, the alcohol a welcome companion in the solitude of the evening. The liquid slides down your throat, cold and sharp, a momentary reprieve from the heat that lingers in the stagnant, humid, sticky atmosphere of the bar.

"In here?" Carlos's laugh is a low rumble, his head shaking in amusement, the sound resonating in the space between the two of you, a bridge across the gap of the counter. His dark curls fall in disarray around his face, and there's a gleam in his eyes that hints at a depth of experience, a familiarity with the strange and the unexpected. "I mean, we have a cheating mayor, a town council that can't agree on anything, and a couple of hunters that claim to have seen Bigfoot in the swamp." He grins, his hands spreading wide in a gesture that encompasses the entirety of the small town and its quirks. "Not exactly a hotbed of intrigue."

Your thumb peels at the label of the bottle, bits of paper fluttering to the countertop. "What about El Silbón?" The question slips out, a test, a probe to see if the locals are aware of the stories that linger like a fog in the twilight. "The Whistler."

Carlos's smile falters, his eyebrows drawing together in a fleeting shadow of concern, his body language shifting subtly, a tightening of his jaw, a stillness that settles over his frame. He hesitates, his gaze sweeping the room, a caution that speaks volumes. His hand reaches out to grab a glass, his actions slow, measured, a stalling tactic. When he finally speaks, his words are carefully chosen, each syllable weighed and considered. "You're on the wrong continent for that one."

He's right. El Silbón is a legend that haunts the plains of Venezuela, a vengeful spirit that hunts the drunkards and the foolish, his eerie whistle a harbinger of death, and also exists in other countries such as Colombia and Mexico. But the version that's drawn you to this remote corner of the American South is a twisted variant, a tale told in whispers and muttered conversations, a rumor of a ghost that has somehow made its way from the jungles of South America to the swamps and bayous of Louisiana. The internet is a mess of conflicting reports and hearsay from those who have passed through this town and had an encounter of their own to share. Where they got the name El Silbón, you're unsure, but you're eager to find out, hoping to spin the story to a decent article that could help you move a step up from the pitiful conditions of a freelance investigator. You just need to stay sober for a few weeks.

"That's not what my boss believes." You lift a shoulder in a shrug, the motion dismissive, but your eyes are sharp, watching him, the way his fingers tighten around the glass he's cleaning. "He saw a couple of TikToks and clickbait Youtube shorts and was pretty convinced. Guess that's why I'm here." You lean closer, lowering your tone, a conspiratorial edge to your words. "Between us, I think he's an idiot, but a paying job's a paying job, even if it's entertaining some boomer's delusions and tall tales."

Carlos's laughter fills the space between you, a warm, rich sound that momentarily lifts the veil of gloom that hangs over the bar, a light in the darkness that surrounds the both of you. His eyes crinkle at the corners, and the shadows that had danced in his irises dissipate, replaced by a genuine amusement that softens his features. "And here I thought I had a monopoly on entertainment in this town."

"Maybe I should charge admission."

"Speaking of charges," Carlos's grin turns mischievous, and he nods at the beer in your hand, the bottle already half-empty, a silent request for payment that's delivered with a playful wink. "This one's on the house. But if you're looking to stick around, I have a spare bedroom upstairs, cheap. Assuming," and here his gaze sweeps over the other patrons, their hunched forms and mumbled conversations, the haze of cigarette smoke that clings to their clothing, a cloud of suspicion that follows them like a second skin, "you can resist the temptation to join the local crowd and their, ah, recreational pursuits."

"Thanks." You offer a quick, tight-lipped smile, acknowledging the generosity, the first sign of friendliness you've encountered since arriving in the town. Fishing a couple of bills from your wallet, you set them on the counter, a mute refusal of his offer of a free drink, a stubborn insistence on maintaining your independence, on not owing anyone anything. "I'm good. Had a motel room booked. Wouldn't want to impose."

His eyebrow arches, but he accepts the money without argument, his fingertips grazing yours in the exchange, the brief touch sending a jolt through you that you quickly suppress.

A chime rings throughout the diner, a discordant, ringing note that cuts through the midday murmur of conversation and the clatter of cutlery. You glance up from the notes scattered in front of you on the worn, Formica tabletop, a sea of scribbled observations and theories that have been keeping you company at the back booth. In the daylight, the place is a study in faded comfort, the yellow walls tinged with age, the vinyl seats patched and cracked, the aroma of coffee and grease a constant, familiar backdrop. A fly buzzes lazily near the window, its wings a blur of motion, a rhythmic drone that blends into the ambient noise. It's the kind of establishment that's seen generations of townsfolk pass through its doors, a cornerstone of a community where everyone knows everyone else's business—or thinks they do.

Your attention is immediately drawn to the man entering, the sun casting him in a silhouette of mystery, his figure outlined in a halo of golden light. As he steps inside, his identity is revealed—none other than the bartender from the night before, a sight that surprises you. He enters like it's his mother's house, shoulders relaxed, an ease in his stride that suggests he's a regular, a part of the fabric of the diner. His dark curls are tousled, his facial hair trimmed, a hint of a dimple flashing in his cheek as his lips quirk into a friendly smile. He's in a faded green, plaid shirt, the sleeves rolled up to expose forearms corded with muscle, and jeans that fit him in a way that's impossible to ignore. There's a rugged, earthy appeal to him, a contrast to the polished city types you've left behind. There's immediate reaction to his presence from the staff, a welcoming warmth that radiates from the older woman working the counter, her lined face breaking into a broad grin at the sight of him.

"Carlitos," the waitress greets, the name spoken with an affection that speaks of a shared history, a connection that runs deeper than a mere customer-employee relationship. Her gray hair is pulled back in a bun, wisps of it escaping to frame her face, her eyes a soft, faded blue. She wipes her hands on the apron tied around her waist, her fingers calloused and wrinkled, a map of a life lived in hard work. "Coffee, hon?"

"Just a bite to eat, today, Abuela," he responds, leaning casually against the counter, his stance inviting, comfortable in his surroundings, the wrinkles on his shirt a mirror to the creases in the waitress's brow, a reflection of a life lived outdoors, under the relentless Southern sun. "Been up all night prepping the new menu. Need a plate of food to get me through the rest of the day, something to soak up the whiskey from last night's shift."

She tuts, a sound of fond exasperation, her eyes rolling skyward in a mock scold. "Working too hard, child," she admonishes gently, her accent a warm, drawling melody that wraps around her words like a well-worn blanket, frayed and familiar. "Need to rest. Can't pour drinks all night and cook all day. Take care of yourself."

"You worry too much," he replies, his tone lighthearted, a deflection that doesn't quite ring true. "I'll take the usual, please."

And then, his gaze sweeps the diner, a casual perusal of the space, and suddenly, inexplicably, locks onto you, a meeting of eyes that feels like an inevitable collision, a magnetic pull that draws him inexorably toward your booth in the corner. His footsteps are unhurried, a steady approach that allows him to take in the scene before him: the scatter of papers, the empty sugar packets, and the forgotten cup of coffee, now cold and neglected.

"The journalist, right?" His statement is a confirmation more than a question, his accent a lazy, languid drawl, the words rolling off his tongue in a cadence that is both foreign and oddly comforting in this small-town diner. He gestures at the seat across from you, the vinyl creaking slightly from his touch. "Mind if I sit?"

"Suit yourself," you respond, a shrug lifting one shoulder, a nonchalant gesture that's an attempt to hide the twinge of sadness and joy intertwined at being called a journalist for the very first time for so long.

Your pen taps a rhythm on the edge of a notebook, a nervous tic, a release of the pent-up energy that always seems to be coursing beneath your skin. The pages of the notebook are filled with hurriedly scribbled notes, a shorthand of thoughts and ideas that only you can decipher, a personal code of observations and theories, of leads and dead ends.

"Damn," he murmurs, his eyes tracing the labyrinth of ink on the page. "You really are taking this whole research thing seriously, aren't you? All this for a local urban legend?"

His head tilts to the side, an inquisitive gesture, his brows knitting together, as if the idea of someone devoting their time and effort to a seemingly insignificant piece of folklore is a puzzle to him.

You lift the cup of coffee to your lips, the liquid having gone lukewarm, a bitter, tepid swallow that slides down your throat in a wake-up call of sorts. Your eyes flicker to the window, the view of the main street outside offering a glimpse of the town in its daily routines, people going about their business, the sun-dappled sidewalks and the dusty storefronts a muted backdrop to the buzz of the diner.

"It's my job," you say finally, setting the cup back on its chipped saucer, the clink of ceramic on ceramic echoing the finality of your statement.

In fact, you're a bit embarrassed at being caught taking this seriously, a sting of self-consciousness that makes you close the notebook, shutting off the flow of thoughts and ideas from his scrutiny. You haven't gotten rid of your habit to give your all to everything and anything, even if it's something as ridiculous as chasing ghosts in the backwoods of the deep south. And that's exactly why you've ended up in the middle of nowhere, trying to make sense of the nonsensical, a threadbare hope of finding some redemption and recognition in the pursuit of a story that might not even exist. This El Silbón assignment is a chance, albeit a slim one, to reclaim the spark of curiosity that drew you to the field in the first place. So, you're here, in a diner that's seen better days, with a stranger who's watching you intently, his questions poking at the fragile façade of professionalism you're desperately trying to maintain.

"Hey, no offense," he says, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, an easy charm in his demeanor. "It's diligent. Gotta admire the dedication to the craft. Especially when the subject matter is, well, let's just say 'unusual'."

The waitress returns, carrying a plate laden with a sandwich that looks more like a culinary masterpiece than a simple meal. The bread is perfectly toasted, a golden brown that glistens with melted butter, the scent of which permeates the space around your booth, a tantalizing aroma that makes your mouth water. Layers of cheese, thick and gooey, peek out from between the slices, and the meat, presumably a homemade concoction, is generously stacked, its juices dripping down the sides. A pickle spear rests on the side of the dish, a crisp, tart contrast to the rich, hearty entrée, a perfect accompaniment to the indulgent feast before him. Carlos's eyes light up, his focus temporarily shifting from the conversation to the allure of the food.

"Thanks Abuela, you're an angel," he beams, his grin wide and genuine, the wrinkles in his eyes reflecting the depth of his appreciation.

The waitress, her own smile a mirror of his, gives his shoulder a quick pat in response, a wordless acknowledgement of a bond forged over years of shared experiences and meals, and turns to you, her eyes twinkling, her accent is a soothing lilt, the words flowing like molasses, slow and sweet, a reflection of the unhurried pace of the small town, the picture of a caring grandmother, her face weathered yet still radiant,. "Anything else for you, hun? Another cup of joe, perhaps?"

"Yeah, please. This one's gone cold," you reply, a sheepish admission, a nod toward the forgotten mug that's been pushed aside in your flurry of note-taking. She takes the mug, her wrinkled, aged hands surprisingly gentle in their grip, the porcelain rattling faintly against the saucer, a sound that's almost lost in the ambient hum of the diner's background noise. As she walks away, her footsteps a comforting shuffle on the worn linoleum, a sign of a life lived in the service of others, her apron strings swaying behind her, a rhythmic sway that matches the beat of her work.

"That's Abuela Rosa," he says, pointing after her, a fondness in his tone that borders on reverence, his eyes tracking her until she disappears into the kitchen. "Best cook in the county, and a sweetheart to boot. Raised me on her cooking." He takes a big bite of his meal, and his eyes practically roll back in his head as he savors the flavors. After a few moments, he manages to regain his composure, though it's a struggle, the pure ecstasy on his face a battle to suppress. "If you're sticking around, you gotta try the pecan pie. Life changing."

"I'll, uh, keep that in mind," you reply, a non-committal answer, a placeholder for the unease that settles in the pit of your stomach. The idea of getting cozy with the locals, of immersing yourself in their rhythms and rituals, is a far cry from the detached, objective reporting you'd envisioned.

"Any luck in finding any clues, by the way?" He gestures at the closed notebook and the mess of papers strewn across the table, the remnants of a half-finished article that's more holes than substance at the moment. He picks at the crust of his sandwich, popping a morsel into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully, his eyes never leaving yours. "Or is that top-secret information?"

"Ha-ha," you respond, a dry, humorless laugh, a deflection of the discomfort that curls in your chest. Your hand reaches out, gathering the loose sheets into a semblance of order, a subconscious need to control the chaos that threatens to spill over. "No luck. Everyone's tight-lipped. Guess they're not used to outsiders poking around."

"Yeah, that sounds about right."

Rosa swings by the booth, setting down a fresh cup of coffee in front of you, the steam curling upward in a lazy, twisting dance. She fills Carlos's glass with iced tea, the cubes clinking against the sides in a musical chime. "Here you go, kids," she says, a warm, motherly smile on her lips. Before either of you can muster a thank-you, she's off again, weaving her way through the maze of tables and customers, a graceful, practiced routine.

"Can't blame them, really," Carlos continues, picking up the thread of conversation as if there hadn't been an interruption. "You have a better chance interviewing folks on the internet. Didn't need to come all the way over here at all."

He lifts the glass to his lips, taking a long sip of the tea, the ice swirling and clinking in the amber liquid. He sets the glass back on the table, the condensation forming droplets that slide slowly down the sides, pooling on the Formica surface in a tiny, glistening puddle, a microcosm of the humidity.

"I guess. I just like to travel, though. It's nice to see the sights, the landscapes, learn a little more about the culture and the history of the place. Gives a bit more of a...complete perspective. You know, the whole nine yards."

"Have a deadline?"

"Not really," you shrug. "I'll leave when the well runs dry. That or when I find something concrete."

"What are you expecting to find, really?"

"A good story, at the very least." The corners of your mouth twitch upwards in a wry, resigned smirk, a gesture that's become a familiar companion in your conversations. "A paycheck, for sure. Something that'll keep the lights on for another month."

"Well, I'd love to become your tour guide. A friendly face is always helpful in a new place. Plus, who knows? Might be useful to get the scoop from a local. Someone who's in the thick of it, so to speak. The Carlos Oliveira special: discounted price, free of charge!"

"Are you always this forward?" you quirk an eyebrow at him, an attempt to mask the spark of interest that ignites in your chest at the prospect of a potential lead, and maybe a distraction, in the form of a handsome man. "Don't have much to offer in return, besides an ear to listen to stories and a knack for buying rounds."

"Sounds like a fair trade to me. Besides," he says, leaning in, a conspiratorial glint in his eyes, a dimple flashing in his cheek that's entirely too distracting, "there's a certain charm to being the guy that helped crack open the case. And, not to brag, but I'm pretty handy in a pinch. Been known to get out of a sticky situation or two in my time. Who knows, maybe the next time you're on the hunt, you'll have a trusty sidekick to back you up."

"Sidekicks usually end up dead or traumatized in the movies, you know."

"How dare you? I'm final girl material."

You find yourself returning to the bar more often than you’d planned, the quiet of your rented room and the exhaustion of judgmental, tight-lipped locals no match for the draw of Carlos’s company.

It's not just the allure of a cold beer on a hot night or the promise of a sympathetic ear—it's the way Carlos seems to know the pulse of the town, his easy conversation and the warmth of his smile a balm against the stifling, closed-off atmosphere that permeates the place.

Every evening, after a long day of fruitless searches and interviews that lead nowhere, the neon glow of the bar's sign beckons you, and the worn wooden steps creak in a familiar, welcoming cadence as you enter the dimly lit interior once more. Each visit, the tap of your boots on the hardwood floor becomes a little louder, a bit more confident, until they echo in the empty spaces, announcing your presence, claiming a spot at the bar that feels almost like it belongs to you.

At first, you're content to sit in the corner, nursing a drink, watching the patrons come and go, a silent observer in their midst. But as the nights pass and the conversations with Carlos flow, you begin to migrate closer to the center of the action by Carlos's side, where the laughter is a little brighter and the stories a little wilder. Soon, you're perched on a stool at the counter, chatting easily with the bartender, his presence a comforting constant in the ever-shifting sea of faces that drift in and out of the bar's hazy, smoke-filled atmosphere. The regulars are a motley crew, their lives a patchwork of hard work and harder luck, each one a character in the drama of the town, their stories whispered and grumbled into their beers, their secrets held close to their chests, even in their most inebriated confessions.

There's old Coco, the retired mechanic with grease-stained hands and a twinkle in his eye, and Sally, the waitress with a heart of gold and a wit sharp enough to cut, and Bob, the trucker whose laugh reverberates through the walls and whose tales of the open road are the stuff of legend. You can't forget about Salty, a veteran of the Korean War, who nurses his whiskey and shares stories of his time in the trenches. Then there's Pepper, a former musician turned farmer, who still carries a guitar pick in his pocket and can be coaxed into a tune or two if the mood strikes him. All of them, and countless others, have carved out a space in this little corner of the world, and their quirks and foibles have become a kind of currency, exchanged in the flickering glow of the neon signs and the hum of the jukebox.

And in the center of it all, there's Carlos, the steady anchor, the listener, pulling them all together in a strange, dysfunctional harmony, played out in the minor keys of heartache and humor. He's quick with a joke and a refill, a sympathetic ear and a stern glare to keep the peace, and you find yourself way more invested in ages-old gossip and stories these people have to offer than what you came here for.

And man, does Carlos flirt with you at every chance he gets.

Subtly at first, a wink here, a lingering touch there, a compliment that's a little too personal to be casual. You're not sure how to react; on one hand, the attention is flattering, a warm, tingling sensation that spreads through your chest and settles in the pit of your stomach, a pleasant distraction from the frustrations of your search. On the other hand, you're here to work, to chase a ghost and a paycheck, not to fall into a cliché romance with the charming local. You try to brush off his advances, deflecting his compliments with a roll of your eyes, keeping a safe distance between the two of you, but he's persistent, and his smiles and jokes are infectious.

Tonight, he’s resting his forearms on the bar, leaning in close, his dark curls falling in disarray across his forehead, and his brown eyes are alight with their usual spark. "I’m starting to think you’ve got a thing for this place."

"You wish," you retort, but the words lack bite, and a smile tugs at the corners of your lips despite your best efforts to maintain a cool facade. "It's the only bar in town, and the motel is depressing as hell. What else am I supposed to do to wind down?"

"Hey, I'm not complaining," he says, lifting his shoulders in a casual shrug, the motion causing the muscles in his arms to flex subtly under the rolled-up sleeves of his plaid shirt. His grin is wide and genuine, his teeth a flash of white in the dim light of the bar, a stark contrast to the rugged, earthy features of his face. "Keeps the tips flowing, and the company's not bad either."

"Not bad! What kind of scale am I working with here? Because I have some choice words for 'not bad'."

"I have a feeling I'll regret asking, but shoot."

"'Not bad', is, like, a 6 out of 10. Barely passing. Mediocre. The kind of score a teacher puts to gently encourage the student to do better."

"Oh, is that right?" A sly smile stretches his mouth, his lips curving upward in a way that's undeniably playful. He props his chin on his hand, his elbow firmly planted on the countertop. "I've been encouraging the whole time, so I think the problem is with you if you managed to get stuck at not bad for this long."

"What's a six got to do to become a ten in your eyes, huh?"

"Well, you barely make any conversation! Give me something to work with here, sweetheart. How am I supposed to know anything about you without a little cooperation on your part, hm?"

"Ugh," you scoff, rolling your eyes and taking a sip of your drink, the alcohol burning its way down your throat, a temporary relief from the heat of his gaze and the fluttering in your chest. "Fine, fine. I'll give, just to prove my point that there's nothing to talk about. What do you wanna know?"

He leans back, a smugness settling on his features, his eyes narrowing slightly, a predator that's caught sight of prey, and the look sends a shiver down your spine, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. Carlos crosses his arms, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut over the muscles of his biceps, and his smirk widens. "How come a big-city journalist is here chasing ghosts in a small, Southern town?"

"How do you know I'm a big-city journalist? Small towns have their own papers, y'know."

"C'mon, it's obvious. You have something to drink so much about and there's no way someone as earnest as you can possibly write those tabloid clickbait things. You used to be big. And now you're in the dumps looking for El Silbón of all things."

You swallow hard, averting your gaze to the bottles lined up on the shelves behind him, the labels blurring together, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that offer no solace from his interrogation. Your fingers tap nervously against the glass, a rhythmic, staccato beat that echoes the pounding of your heart in your ears, and the ice clinks in the liquid, a hollow, mocking refrain.

"Alright, you're right," you admit, the confession dragged from your lips reluctantly. "I'm from the city. Used to work at a paper. Got downsized, and now I'm trying to pay the bills. Not exactly a novel tale, but it's mine, and that's the story, or the sad excuse of a story, rather, of how I ended up in the middle of nowhere, chasing a ghost on a fool's errand." You lift the glass to your lips, the cold rim kissing the heated skin of your mouth, the amber liquid within sloshing, threatening to spill over the edge, a mirror to the precarious hold you have on your emotions.

Carlos's eyebrows knit together in a fleeting frown, "Sorry I pried."

"'s fine," you say, the words coming out a bit mumbled from how quiet they are. "It's not exactly a secret. Embarrassing, is all."

"There's nothing embarrassing about doing your best with what's given to you," he replies, his tone gentle, a soothing balm to the raw edges of your nerves. "Trust me, we've all been there, in our own ways. This job," he gestures around the bar, the dimly lit interior, the worn and weathered wood, the faded posters on the walls, a silent acknowledgement of the impermanence of it all, the transience of a life lived on the fringes, in the spaces between the bright lights and big dreams, a far cry from the fast-paced, glittering metropolis that's etched into your memory. "It's not where I thought I'd end up, but hey, life's a ride, isn't it? Just gotta hang on and see where it takes you. Sometimes, the detours are the most interesting parts of the journey."

Your lips twitch in a wry half-smile.

"I say you're exactly where you need to be," he adds. "You met me, after all."

You laugh at that, the sound ringing out in the bar. He's just joking enough for the teasing to not be cringey, and the wink that follows only drives the nail home, making the snicker bubble out from inside your chest. That's what he's good at. It doesn't take a genius to realize that. Carlos has a knack of diffusing a situation, whether to lessen or raise the stakes, you found out. He knows when and where to strike, and that's a talent that's rare in its own rights, the subtleness of his charm and charisma a rarity that's hard to come by these days. Whether or not his intentions are truly pure, or simply a means to an ends, you're unsure, and perhaps, it's best that you remain ignorant.

Carlos’s fingers graze the edge of an abandoned cigarette lighter, a worn thing with its silver plating chipping off and a faint dent along one side. He picks it up carefully, turning it over in his hand, his thumb tracing the imperfections. For a moment, he studies it, almost lost in the weight of its story, before slipping it quietly into his pocket.

It’s not the first time you’ve noticed him doing this. Just last night, he found a brass button half-buried in the corner of the bar, an ugly thing with scratches marring its dull surface. He’d knelt down, retrieving it with an oddly reverent touch, his face calm as he tucked it into his jacket, not saying a word, to put it away in a trinket box you've seen the counter that you've only discovered when you thought it was a tip box and tried to place a bill in. It's a hidden trove by now, full of objects nobody remembers leaving behind—rusted bottle caps, stray coins, a faded playing card folded into a neat square, an old key chain, a broken rosary, and single earring...

After the lighter, it’s the end of a chicken’s wishbone, left on a table in a small puddle of beer. He reaches for it without hesitation, gripping it carefully between his thumb and forefinger, his head tilted as he studies it, almost like he’s making a judgment call on its worth. The bone is brittle, darkened at the edges, something most people would throw away without a second thought. But Carlos cradles it in his hand as if it’s earned a place with the rest of his findings, as if it carries something of its own worth. You watch him, intrigued by the care he shows, wondering what draws him to such ordinary items, what makes him collect them. Perhaps he is a hoarder. Perhaps, a sentimental fool.

After a while, curiosity gets the best of you. “Why keep all that?” you ask, nodding at the trinket box. "What's the appeal in...well, junk?"

He looks down, his mouth curving into a slow, almost bashful smile. “Guess I like to remember things,” he says, his gaze shifting as if caught between wanting to share and holding something back. “Every one of these was left here by someone. Feels wrong to just throw ’em out. They came here for a reason, didn’t they?”

“Sounds like superstition.”

He lets out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Maybe. Or maybe, hear me out, it’s just… a habit.” He pulls out a small, tarnished ring, one of the items you’ve seen him collect before. Holding it up to the light, he squints, his brow furrowing slightly as he studies it. “This one? Belonged to some guy who came in every Friday, same drink, same seat, till he stopped showing up. Left this on the counter one night, and that was it.” His fingers trace the ring’s edge, the metal a faint glint in the dim bar light. “People leave pieces of themselves, even if they don’t mean to.”

He slips the ring back, his gaze drifting to the collection behind the bar as if considering each bottle a memento of its own. You sense he’s somewhere else for a moment, his hand settling over the box in a gentle, absentminded gesture, like he’s grounding himself in the presence of these small, forgotten pieces.

"But even with all these, I think you might be the lucky charm," Carlos grins at you.

"O-kay," you drawl.

"No, seriously. I've got this tinnitus that's been bugging me forever, and the longer you're here, the less and less insistent the ringing in my ear is becoming. Maybe it's the company, or maybe, it's that you have to be the luckiest person I've ever met, and that's rubbing off on me."

"You're really reaching here, aren't ya," you quirk a brow at him. "Or, perhaps, your ears are clearing from all the smoking and loud music and shit because I ask you to turn it down all the time."

"My personal monkey paw."

"Man, c'mon."

"It's his family," someone calls out behind you one day, as the sun dips low in the sky, casting long shadows across the dirt road that leads from the bar to your motel.

You stop in your tracks, the dust swirling around your feet, and look over your shoulder. An older man is leaning against the wall of the hardware store, a pack of cigarettes in his weathered hands, his eyes sharp and knowing under the brim of his hat, drawing out a cigarette and lighting it, the flame from his Zippo flickering in the fading light.

"I'm sorry, who are you?" You ask, cautious, yet curious. The town has kept you at arm's length since your arrival, and this stranger's willingness to speak is unusual, a break in the pattern of silence and guarded stares that have defined your interactions thus far.

He's the cashier from the gas station when you first arrived here, you realize.

"Doesn't matter," the old-timer's reply is curt, his words punctuated by a puff of smoke from his cigarette. "That vile demon boy hangin' 'round the likes of you ain't safe. I told you not to depend too much on the bottle, yer starin' death right in the eye."

"What... What is this about? Are you talking about Carlos?" Your mind reels, trying to connect the dots, to understand the cryptic warning that's being thrown at you like a grenade, its meaning obscured in a fog of Southern enigma. The nickname "vile demon" echoes in your head, an ominous refrain, a stark contrast to the friendly bartender's easygoing nature and the genuine warmth that radiates from him. You can't reconcile the image of the man who pours drinks and tells stories in the neon glow of the bar's sign with the name that the old timer is giving him. "Are you telling me to quit drinking or to avoid him? Because there's no way in hell any liquor's gonna kill me before a gunshot does."

"No, you city slickers never do listen," he shakes his head, the lines on his face deepening, his brow furrowed in a blend of weariness and frustration, a map of a life lived in the grip of the bayou's mysteries, of its secrets and its dangers. "What yer looking for is in his family. The blood. The demon. That's why no one's talkin', they love that bastard. He's their golden child, fooled 'em all. But I know. I know, and I'm warnin' you. Stay away, girl. Don't dig no deeper. Yer on a path to Hell's gates, and that devil's the ferryman. Leave. While you can."

With those parting words, the old timer turns and walks back into the convenience store, the door swinging shut behind him, the bell chiming a soft, final note in the quiet of the evening, the echo of his warning lingering in the stillness.

The next day in Rosa's diner, you find yourself sitting in a booth, sipping coffee that's so strong it could strip paint, and the waitress is chatting in her usual, amiable way, a constant stream of small-town gossip and local lore that fills the space between bites of food and gulps of the scalding, bitter brew.

She's in the middle of recounting the latest escapades of the mayor's son when you call the old woman over, impatient. She calls Carlos, 'Carlitos'; and he calls her 'Abuela', she's got to know something, right?

"What can I get you, honey?" Rosa asks, a pencil poised to take your order, her apron stained with the marks of a busy morning, the fabric a canvas of spilled syrup and grease, a history of the meals she's served and the stories she's heard.

"Hey, Rosa, um..." you trail off, not quite sure how to broach the subject, the question hovering on the tip of your tongue, a mystery that's been nagging at you since the strange encounter the day before. "You're on the clock, I know, but can I talk to you after hours? It's important, and it's not exactly, uh, a diner kind of chat," you say, glancing around the bustling restaurant, the clatter of silverware and the hum of conversation almost drowning out your quietly hesitant request.

"Oh, dear, of course, no worries," she replies, her tone shifting from the brisk efficiency of a server to the warm concern of an elder, her eyes crinkling at the corners in a reassuring smile. "Stick around for lunch break, okay?"

"Sounds great. Thanks, Rosa, you're a gem," you say, insides swelling up with gratitude at her relenting so graciously that she's decided to dedicate her precious time to help a complete stranger, and give the biggest of smiles, at that.

The time can't fly fast enough, the hands of the clock on the wall of the diner seeming to drag through the afternoon, the minutes stretching into eternities as you nurse cup after cup of coffee, watching the regulars come and go, the familiar faces of the town passing through the doors, their lives intersecting briefly with yours in the cozy, Formica-topped world of the diner. When at last the lunch rush subsides and Rosa slips into the seat opposite you, her gray hair escaping from its bun, lined face a map of a life lived in hard work and kindness and eyes bright and inquisitive, you find the words pouring out of you in a flood of questions and concerns.

"Do you know the old guy that works at the gas station store by any chance?"

"The old crank," her wrinkled mouth curls in distaste, the edges of her lips turned downward in a frown of recognition. "Why, is he bothering you?"

"Not necessarily," you admit, a shrug lifting your shoulders, a casual dismissal of the previous night's confrontation, an attempt to downplay the unease that's been growing in the pit of your stomach, a gnarled root. "He just said weird stuff about Carlos."

"Hah!" Her laugh is a burst of sound, a sharp exclamation that cuts through the background hum of the diner, startling a nearby patron who looks up from his newspaper with a raised eyebrow. Her hand comes up to brush a strand of iron-gray hair away from her face, the motion quick and dismissive, as if waving away the very idea of the man's warnings. "Don't pay him no mind, child," she says, her accent a thick drawl, the words rolling off her tongue in a cadence that's both comforting and firm, a grandmother's wisdom dispensed in a roadside diner. "That old fart's got a chip on his shoulder, always has. Ain't nothing true in the ramblings of a man like that. Just the bitterness talking, that's all."

"But he thinks Carlos is like a demon? What is that about, if you don't mind me asking? Not digging into Carlos's personal business, I just want to know why that man thinks so."

"Ah, well," Rosa sighs, a long, weary sound that seems to carry the history of the town. "Back in the day, that man, he was the chief of police, a big shot. And he had a bone to pick with the men of Carlitos's family. It's just a hereditary mental illness passed down from father to son, a misfortune. But that asshole's convinced that there's somethin' evil lurkin' in them boys because they ain't from here. Every generation, the same accusation. His own sons are no saints, believe you me. They're the ones stirrin' up trouble, not our Carlitos. That boy is an angel, a gift from Heaven. Takes care of his mama, has a good heart. Nothin' like the monsters that old bastard claims. You hear me? Don't let him poison yer mind against the sweetest young'un this town has ever seen."

So that's where the El Silbón rumors are coming from... Because they're immigrants.

You don't want to ask what kind of hereditary mental illness she's talking about, because old people tend not to have details like that, but the fact that she knows him better than anyone and defends him makes you feel at ease a little bit, and you can't help but nod in agreement. The thought of someone as warm and welcoming as Carlos being the target of such hostility and suspicion sits uncomfortably in your stomach, a sour knot that refuses to be untangled. It's a relief to have his character defended by someone like Rosa, a pillar of the community, her affection for the bartender a balm to the suspicions that have been slowly building in your mind.

As she returns to her duties, the conversation fading into the routine bustle of the diner, you finally have an article to write, and even if it's not a story of supernatural horrors and haunting whistles in the night, it's a human tale, a portrait of a town gripped in the claws of its past, of prejudice and fear that have become as much a part of the landscape as the ancient cypress trees and the winding, dark waters of the bayou, and it is a story worth telling.

Carlos Oliveira is in love.

It's the little things, at first. A song that reminds him of your laughter on the jukebox, the sight of your favorite drink on the shelf, a stray eyelash on the rim of the glass, the way the neon lights cast a glow on your face, the faint scent of perfume lingering in the bar after closing time. You come early, before the rush, with your notebook and pen tucked neatly away in your bag and an easy smile on your lips, and Carlos feels as if he has stepped into a dream when you slip onto your usual stool with a "Howdy handsome."

Sometimes, there's an undeniable flicker of attraction between you two when he leans across the counter to refill your drink or hands you another paper napkin. Little sparks of electricity that shoot up his arm and set fire to his veins whenever your fingers graze his. Each touch lingers, setting his pulse racing, a warmth spreading through his chest as if you've reached beneath his skin and laid bare the tender truth within his beating heart. He finds himself seeking out those moments, brushing against you ever so slightly, a fleeting contact that leaves him aching for more.

In the space between drinks and dishes and cleaning glasses, Carlos talks.

He tells you about his childhood here, growing up in the shadow of the bayou, exploring its twists and turns on lazy summer days, catching crawfish with friends. In return, you regale him with tales of life in the city, the hustle and bustle of the streets, the skyscrapers looming above and the thrumming energy of the metropolis pulsing around every corner. At first, he hangs on your every word, enraptured by the life that seems worlds away from the sleepy little town where time moves at a slower pace, but as the conversations continue, he begins to see glimpses of himself reflected in you, kindred spirits finding common ground amid the unfamiliar terrain of each other's experiences.

The shift isn't immediately obvious, but it happens gradually, as you weave your way deeper and deeper into Carlos's heart, leaving traces of yourself wherever you go. Every inch of the bar is imbued with memories of you—the stool where you always sit, the glass you use, the cocktail napkins printed with a logo that belongs to you. Even the jukebox becomes yours in a way, an extension of you, playing songs that seem tailor-made just for this moment, lyrics that encapsulate his feelings perfectly in a few brief lines. It's almost as if the universe itself is conspiring to bring you together, drawing you closer with every breath, until he's certain that fate has brought him to you, an invisible thread connecting the two of you inseparably.

Soon, it's impossible to imagine the bar without you. As customers drift in and out throughout the week, you remain steady as a compass needle pointing north, a constant presence, a shining light in the midst of the crowd. On slow nights when the only sounds are distant music and distant traffic and far-off murmurs from neighboring establishments, Carlos finds himself wandering over to you more often than usual, drawn like a moth to your flame. Your conversation flows effortlessly, natural as breathing, and it's as if you've always been together, as if you've known each other for years instead of weeks.

So yes, Carlos is very much in love.

The dark urge, however, is a presence that has him making sure that love stays unreciprocated. You being alone with him after the closing isn't helping his case.

You’re smiling, that easy, soft look that says you trust him more than you probably should, and he can barely meet your eyes. His gaze lands on the whiskey in front of you instead, the golden-brown liquid sloshing gently against the glass as you raise it to your lips, letting the edges of laughter linger on your mouth. He doesn’t know if you realize what that does to him—how every time you drink, he feels that thing growing inside, a bitter heat that coils and presses, almost possessive. His hand tightens around the rag, knuckles paling, his chest heavy as he watches, transfixed by the careless abandon with which you tip the glass back.

You’re close enough now that he can smell the faint hint of whiskey and old wood that clings to your skin, and he stiffens, gripping the bar with one hand as if to anchor himself. Your fingers tap rhythmically against the glass, and each soft patter rings loud, a drumbeat in his chest, taunting him. He tries to swallow down the impulse that has been creeping in like fog, the thing that twists in him, luring him to lean closer, to—

But he can’t. Instead, he clears his throat, and the sound comes out rough, raw. He reaches for the glass in front of you, offering a quick, forced smile as he pulls it away, watching your brow furrow in question. For a moment, he steadies, but then the scent of whiskey catches him again, stronger now that he’s lifted the glass, and something shifts beneath his skin, stirring in the silence between you.

You chuckle, the sound rich, warm, with a hint of mischief, and tease him about hogging your drink. There’s a glint in your eyes that dares him closer, dares him to push past whatever line he’s clinging to. He can’t shake the pull, the ache that seems to dig deeper, refusing to be ignored. His hand stills mid-motion, fingers tight against the glass, and the silence stretches, the weight of unsaid things pressing down until it feels as if the entire room is holding its breath.

“Maybe you’ve had enough for tonight,” he says, just a touch strained. He avoids looking at you directly, eyes drifting instead to the way your hand reaches for the glass again, fingers brushing his. A pulse races under his skin where you touch him, but it’s no longer the warmth he’s grown used to—it’s something sharper, almost painful, a need that bites as it grows.

You shrug, playfully defiant, and there’s something in that nonchalance that sends a jolt through him, like an alarm blaring deep in his mind. He pulls his hand back sharply, and the rag falls from his grip, the cloth landing on the bar with a muted thud. His breathing falters for a moment, barely a hitch, as he forces himself to meet your gaze.

The urge has gnawed at him for days now, hidden under every gentle touch, every easy laugh, until he can hardly stand the way it rises each time you come near. It’s a pull he can’t explain, an aching push and pull that twists in his stomach, darker than anything he’s ever known. The way you look at him, eyes sparkling with challenge and trust, only makes it harder, and he’s sure you don’t realize what you’re inviting, what you’re unknowingly feeding.

Carlos feels the pull again, that dark, curling need, and he’s not sure if it’s desire or something far uglier. All he knows is that it has a voice of its own now, tugging him toward you, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin. His hand drifts up, almost without his permission, fingertips hovering just a whisper away from your jaw. His breath catches in his throat, his fingers trembling as he stops himself just before touching you.

You’re waiting, eyes wide and patient, your mouth curving with that teasing edge. It’s too much—your laughter, your warmth, your very nearness, all winding tighter around the thing he’s tried to keep buried. He finds himself leaning even closer, the sharp scent of whiskey mingling with something that’s just you, and it’s intoxicating, maddening, tearing at his resolve.

“Carlos?” you murmur, a hint of curiosity in your gaze, your head tilting ever so slightly, baring just a touch more of your neck.

He shouldn’t—he knows he shouldn’t. He can feel it, the lurking darkness that’s been crawling inside him, the thing that’s been growing louder and harder to ignore. The weight of it compresses in his chest, that need clawing to the surface. He takes in a slow, steadying breath, but it doesn’t help. His hand is still hovering by your face, fingertips so close he can feel the warmth radiating from your skin.

You reach up and cover his hand with yours, your touch gentle but insistent, grounding him for just a moment. His eyes flicker down to where your fingers press against his, that small point of contact sparking something that’s both deeply familiar and painfully foreign. He feels your touch like a lifeline, pulling him back from that murky edge, and yet…something in him wants to pull you down with him.

You’re too close now, too willing, and he can’t tear his eyes from you. The silence between you grows thicker, almost electric, the tension twisting tighter and tighter. His hand finally touches your face, the pads of his fingers brushing against your jaw, and he hears a soft, involuntary gasp escape your lips. His thumb traces along your cheekbone, and he’s entranced by the way your lashes flutter, your breath catching just slightly as he leans in.

“Maybe we shouldn’t…” he says, the words almost to himself, a feeble attempt to hold onto something sane, something real. But his gaze falls to your lips, and his hand slips further, cradling the back of your neck, fingers tangled in your hair, pulling you in.

You don’t pull away, don’t push him back, and that quiet, unspoken permission unravels the last thread of his restraint. He closes the space between you, his lips grazing yours, gentle at first—a brush, a question. But the heat between you intensifies, and his control fractures, his kiss deepening with an urgency that he can’t hold back. It’s fierce, almost desperate, his hands tightening around you, pulling you flush against him as if he could lose himself in you, drown this dark, gnawing need.

But then something shifts inside him, sharp and cold, a reminder of that darker hunger. He feels it stirring, pricking at his mind, and a sudden sense of dread rises, seizing him. He pulls back, breath coming in shallow gasps, hands still tangled in your hair, his grip almost too tight as he tries to steady himself.

Carlos’s gaze drops, settling on the hollow between your collarbones, unable to face the worry in your eyes. His hands are still tangled in your hair, and he feels the slight tremor in his grip as he holds onto you—not in a gesture of intimacy but of barely controlled restraint. Something unrecognizable is clawing at the edges of his mind, and it’s harder now, almost impossible, to silence it.

“Is everything okay?” you say again, your voice softer, questioning. You reach up, fingertips grazing his jaw, urging him to look at you. That touch alone, so gentle, so unguarded, nearly undoes him. He closes his eyes, his forehead pressing against yours, a faint shiver in his breath as he fights against the relentless pull.

Your hand slips down to his chest, resting over his heartbeat, and he jolts, almost pulling back, but you hold steady, fingers splayed over his heart as if you’re trying to calm it. His heartbeat pounds beneath your hand, a rapid, frantic rhythm that betrays the chaos inside him.

“I…” He struggles, the words sticking in his throat. The confession—the truth he’s been burying under too many years of guilt and denial—feels trapped, too raw to voice. He could almost feel the words twisting inside him, like a poison, something that wants to be expelled but can’t.

But you’re patient, waiting, your thumb tracing soft circles over his chest, grounding him. There’s something in your gaze that makes him want to break down every wall, to spill every guarded, haunted piece of himself and lay it at your feet. Yet he knows, deep down, that some things—some hungers—can’t be given so freely, that they come with a cost.

He reaches up, wrapping his hand over yours on his chest, and the press of your warmth against him feels like an anchor, something to hold him steady. But it only makes the urge stronger, sharper, pressing harder against his control. His fingers squeeze yours, a little too tightly, and he opens his eyes, forcing himself to meet your gaze.

"This is a mistake," he says, the words laced with an edge that makes your brow crease, your mouth parting as if you’re about to ask him to explain. But he doesn’t give you the chance.

His hand drops from yours, and he steps back, every fiber of his being screaming at him to close the space between you again, to hold you, but he can’t. He sees the flash of hurt in your eyes, a look that cuts deeper than he expected, and he hates himself for it, hates the curse that’s twisted itself around him like barbed wire, cutting deeper each time he lets you in.

You reach for him, closing the distance, and he catches your wrist mid-reach, holding it tight as he shakes his head. “I shouldn’t…I can’t,” he breathes, and his grip on you is gentle but unyielding, his thumb brushing against the delicate skin of your wrist as if trying to memorize it.

But your other hand lifts, fingertips pressing softly against his cheek, guiding his gaze back to you. He feels the tenderness in your touch, and it’s like a soothing balm over raw wounds, a moment of calm in a storm he can’t control. Your eyes search his, full of an understanding that feels almost painful, and he can’t resist the way his gaze softens, a flicker of his humanity clinging, desperate, against the darkness.

“This can be whatever we want it to be,” you whisper, and the words hit him harder than anything he’s felt in years. His hand loosens on your wrist, and for a heartbeat, he lets himself believe it, lets himself fall into the warmth of your acceptance, as if it might be enough to stave off the thing clawing within him.

But just as he thinks he might be able to pull himself back, that whistling—the dark, insistent voice inside him—surges up, drowning out everything. His vision sharpens, and his grip tightens once more, the gentleness fading as something colder, hungrier, takes over.

The rain hammers against the cracked glass panes, a drumbeat that fills the room, drowning out every other sound. The light is dim, flickering, casting long shadows that stretch across the walls and disappear into the corners, filling them with darkness thick enough to touch. Carlos stands there, just a few feet away from you, his chest heaving in time with the relentless rhythm of the rain.

But then, the whistle. Faint, distant, barely there—but unmistakable.

It’s that same sound, the one that’s haunted him his entire life, lingering on the edge of his senses, a presence he could never quite shake. And yet, as he stands here, with you so close, it begins to slip further and further away, fading into the deep, unyielding silence that fills the room. His heart lurches, and a sickening clarity dawns on him.

The whistle wasn’t a warning. It was a countdown.

Each time it faded, each time it slipped further from his awareness, it wasn’t retreating; it was sinking deeper, threading itself through his veins, embedding itself in his very bones. He feels it now, that dark presence, not as something outside himself but as something within, something that has been waiting, patient and quiet, for this very moment.

His hands move of their own accord, lifting to grip your shoulders, his fingers digging in just a little too hard, and he can feel your body tense under his touch. He tries to pull back, to release you, but his grip only tightens, his hands betraying him, clinging to you with a hunger that terrifies him. The darkness, that ever-present shadow, uncoils within him, stretching out like a beast waking from a long slumber, and he can feel it sinking its claws into his mind, taking hold of every rational thought and twisting it into something primal, something dangerous.

You’re staring up at him, your eyes wide, a flicker of fear breaking through the warmth he’s come to know, and that fear—it cuts through him like a knife, sharp and relentless, but it only makes him hold on tighter. He wants to tell you to run, to shove him away, to leave before it’s too late, but the words die in his throat, swallowed up by the darkness that now pulses in time with his heartbeat, a rhythm that drowns out everything else.

“Talk to me…” you call to him through the haze, filled with confusion and worry, and he can see the way your gaze searches his face, looking for the man you know, the man you trust.

But he’s not there. Not anymore.

He feels it then, the final crack, the last piece of his humanity slipping away as that darkness consumes him whole. His hands slide up from your shoulders to your throat, his fingers curling around the delicate skin, and he feels the frantic pulse beneath his fingertips, quickening as he tightens his grip. You struggle, hands pushing against his chest, your breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps, but he can’t stop, can’t pull away. The urge, the need, the insatiable hunger—it’s all he knows now, all he’s ever been. He gives himself over to it completely, surrendering to the darkest depths of his own mind, the reality warping around him, dissolving into fragments of images and sounds and emotions that mean nothing to him. Everything blurs together, swirling around him in a haze of confusion, as he squeezes harder.

Your hand finally finds his wrist, fingers wrapping tightly, digging into his flesh, trying to pry his grip away from your throat, but it's useless. He's too strong, too determined, and there's nothing you can do to stop him as he chokes the life from you with ruthless efficiency, pinning you against the countertop behind you, your heels scraping futilely against the floorboards. Tears sting at the corners of your eyes as you look up at him, searching for some trace of the man you knew, some spark of compassion, but all you see is emptiness. The kindness, the warmth, the connection that drew you to him—they're gone, replaced by cold indifference as he stares down at you, his eyes empty and blank as if watching from another place or time.

There's no remorse in those eyes, no trace of human emotion, only an endless, hollow void that seems to stare straight through you as if you aren't really there. With each passing second, the pressure on your throat becomes more intense, your vision swimming, black spots dancing across your field of view as you struggle to draw a breath. You cling to his wrists, hoping he might somehow come to his senses, but there's nothing left in him to reason with. Every ragged gasp is agony, burning through your lungs like fire, sending shivers of pain shooting through your nerves.

His fingers dig deeper into your flesh, constricting tighter, crushing the life from you like a vice. Your grip slackens, falling limply to your sides as the last of your strength drains away. A dull ringing fills your ears, the world fading into a blurred haze of color and sound, the edges of your vision closing in with each labored beat of your heart.

A shudder rolls through you, violent and involuntary, and a low moan escapes your lips as your consciousness frays, collapsing inward, your mind drifting, tethered to reality by mere threads. You fight to hold on, grasping at fragments of memory, flashes of faces, sounds of laughter, the smell of home...but they slip through your fingers like sand, each moment fleeting, disintegrating into nothingness as you sink into the dark abyss of oblivion.

And when it's over, when Carlos has his control back and wrenches himself away from you like you've burned him, he collapses onto his knees on the hard wooden floor, gripping fistfuls of his hair and yanking until his scalp burns. Your lifeless body slides down the counter with a sickening thud, landing next to him with a disturbing finality. His eyes fixate on your bruised neck, on his finger marks embedded in the tender skin, and bile rises in his throat, bitter and acrid, burning as it spills across his tongue and stains the floorboards beneath him.

A strangled noise escapes him, half a sob, half a gasp, as he forces himself to look at you. The shape of you, the familiar curve of your face, the way your hair falls over your cheek—it’s all so familiar, and yet now, so unbearably wrong. There’s no movement, no gentle rise and fall of your chest, no spark in your eyes, nothing to tell him that you’re still there, that there’s still something left to save.

He reaches out, his fingers grazing the curve of your cheek, the soft warmth gone, replaced by a chilling stillness that seeps into his bones. A low, keening sound builds in his throat, raw and broken, the kind of sound that has no place in the world, born only from the shattering of something once whole. He rocks back, his hands pressing against his chest as if he could tear the ache from his heart, the crushing weight of guilt, of horror, pressing down on him, stealing the very breath from his lungs.

“No… no, no, no…” The words fall from his lips, barely more than a whisper, a futile denial of the truth lying in front of him. He can feel it clawing at him, the realization sinking its teeth into his mind, tearing away the last remnants of sanity, of hope. You’re gone, and he… he’s the reason why.

He presses his hands to his face, digging his fingers into his temples, as if he could claw the memories from his mind, erase the image of you, the feel of you, the sound of your voice, the way you looked at him—trusting, open, full of a love he didn’t deserve. He can’t bear it, the weight of it, the knowledge that he had destroyed something precious, something irreplaceable.

Carlos buries his face in his hands, rocking gently back and forth, muttering incoherently under his breath. The tears come then, hot and salty, streaming down his face in a steady flood of grief. They gather in pools at his palms, dampening the skin there, mixing with the blood caked in the cracks and grooves of his hands. His body is soon wracked by sobs, violent and unrestrained, ripping through him, consuming every shred of self-control he had, a full-blown panic attack coming as quickly as a bullet wound.

His hands drop from his face, reaching out blindly, as if searching for some reassurance, some anchor in the chaos that swirls inside him, but finding none. Instead, they curl around your fallen form, pulling you toward him, cradling you against his chest. Your head rests limply against his shoulder, your eyes closed, your lips parted slightly, and in that moment, he would give anything, anything at all to see you look at him again, to hear you laugh again, to touch you without fear.

There's the whistle again.

Faint, distant, barely there—but unmistakably real. And it sends a shiver through Carlos unlike any he had ever felt.

An agonized howl rips free from his throat, echoing off the walls of the empty bar, reverberating through his core, vibrating through every muscle, bone, sinew, blood vessel. His limbs seize up, stiffening, his jaw clenched tightly shut. There's no relief from the terror coursing through him. Nothing but that deafening silence, broken only by his ragged, labored breathing and the frantic beating of his own heart.He can feel something slipping away, something vital, something that was once his. It’s as if a part of him is unraveling, fraying at the edges, and he's being pulled under.

Down.

Down.

Down.

And under.

Buried and suffocated and erased and undone, fragmented.

Down.

Down.

Down.

And under.

And when he resurfaces, he’s left looking around and suddenly not recognizing where he is.

He doesn't recognize the dead body. He doesn't know the name of this person. He doesn't even know his name, now that he thinks about it.

His body stills as that whistle fills the hollow spaces, the void where his soul once resided. His mind goes blank, gaze dulling as he stares at you, unblinking, unfeeling, the warmth in his eyes fading to a chilling emptiness, a cold, unyielding stare that holds no trace of the man he once was.

He wants the bones.

Slowly, almost mechanically, he reaches out, his fingers brushing against the bones that lie beneath your skin, the delicate structure of your wrist, your collarbone, the framework that once held you together, that gave shape to the person he had loved. His touch is cold, unfeeling, a ghost of what it once was, as his fingers bypasses the skin and slides in the wet cavity of your chest, your skin is entirely like the surface of water, rippling as his hand moves around to feel at the bones.

He moves with a purpose, a ritualistic precision, his hands working methodically as he collects each bone, each piece of you, as if driven by a compulsion he cannot ignore, a need that transcends reason, that consumes him whole. There’s no hesitation, no faltering in his movements, as if he’s done this a thousand times before, as if it’s as natural as breathing, as essential as the very blood that flows through his veins.

As he gathers the last of your bones and stashes them in a bag that probably belongs to this dead person, leaving only an undisturbed skin suit behind, a single tear slips down his cheek. "Huh. Why am I crying?"

But he doesn’t linger to find out. He stands up, turns around, gaze fixed on the night beyond outside of the bar, his steps steady, unfeeling, as he walks away, disappearing into the night, a shadow among shadows, a spirit bound to the bones he carries, to the life he’s taken, to the love he’s destroyed.

And as he fades away into the night like smoke dissipating, the faintest echo of a whistle fills the air.

Alright, here’s one you probably haven’t heard before. Most folks know the story of El Silbón as the ghost of a young man who killed his own father, doomed to carry his bones forever as punishment. But in some places—quiet little towns that don’t like talking about these things too loud—the story goes a little differently.

This version? El Silbón wasn’t some furious son. He was a man in love. Head-over-heels, heart-on-his-sleeve, can’t-breathe-without-her kind of love. They call her La Amada now—The Beloved—though whatever her real name was, it’s been long forgotten. She was beautiful, they say, with a voice like rain after a dry spell and a laugh that could warm a cold night. And fond of her liquor too, that part is important, remember it. 

But there’s a thin line between love and jealousy, and El Silbón crossed it. One night, in a jealous rage, he thought she’d betrayed him. No proof, just that dark little whisper in the back of his mind, eating away at him. He confronted her, couldn’t listen to reason, and before either of them knew it, his hands were around her throat. 

Since that night, he’s been cursed. Instead of moving on, he’s stuck here, lugging her bones around in a sack, doomed to carry the memory of what he did. He’s restless, they say, wandering the fields and the empty roads at night, his whistle carrying on the wind, low and hollow. They say he’s searching, though for what, no one’s sure. Maybe forgiveness. Maybe revenge. Maybe he doesn’t know himself. Mainly targeting drunkards and sucking the alcohol in their blood stems from him seeking La Amada out in any way possible in this interpretation, I'm guessing. 

Now here’s where it gets tricky: if you’re out at night and you hear that whistle, pay attention. If it sounds close by, you’re safe. But if it’s far off, echoing out there in the distance? That means he’s close. Too close.

There are folks who swear they’ve seen him, a shadow with a sack over his shoulder, wandering in search of something he’ll never find, collecting bones along the way obsessively and stopping to count them whenever he can. So if you ever catch that low whistle on the wind, don’t stop. Don’t look back. Just keep moving, and hope that sack of bones he’s carrying doesn’t end up yours.

Written by Isabel Martín

Isabel is a researcher and folklore enthusiast based in Caracas, Venezuela. She spends her free time exploring myths, local ghost stories, and forgotten legends of Latin America. When she’s not knee-deep in folklore, she’s probably hiking, photographing old towns, or reading by candlelight. If you’ve got your own eerie encounter or local ghost story, drop a comment below or reach out on social media—she’d love to hear it!

[yearningagain]

it's enough (to make a girl blush): chapter two

HELLO!!! welcome to chapter two! i'm amazed at the traction that this has gained with just the first chapter, and it's giving me so much motivation to continue this!

i've also decided to open up my ask box for suggestions for rambles and ficlets, so please shoot me a message if you feel so inclined!

and of course a huge thank you to @kayleeofcamelot for betaing and helping me so much!! without further ado!

also on ao3!

total wc: 2.6k | wc: 1.4k | rating: e (18+) | pairing: steddie | cw: none | tags: a/b/o, alpha eddie munson, omega steve harrington, modern au, baker steve, famous eddie, getting together, gay eddie, bi steve, soulmates/true mates/scent mates, side buckingham

part one | part three

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Steve loved Robin more than he thought he could love anyone. She was the peanut butter to his jelly, the rock to his roll, the yin to his yang. He doesn't know how he managed as long as he did before meeting her, and he frankly doesn't know what he would do without her now. 

That being said, sometimes she does make Steve want to give himself another concussion. 

Lunch at the deli had been uneventful. They had eaten their sandwiches while nestled in the window booth in the back corner, turned to look out onto the streets of Chicago. Most of their conversation was driven by judgmental comments about passerby’s, ranging from jabs about interesting color choices on someone's tracksuit to monologues about wearing a faux fur coat with cheetah print leggings (“It’s the principle, Rob! You wouldn’t get it”).

After finishing their meals, the pair made their way across the street to the record store. Upon entry, Steve was surrounded by deep earthy scents, old vinyl and incense mingled with the fresh flowers growing in pots littered about. And that brought them to their current situation.

Robin was making a complete and utter fool out of herself. She was bright red in the face, and Steve couldn’t tell if it was from pure mortification or her complete lack of breathing for the past five minutes. As soon as a little blonde omega, introduced as Chrissy, emerged from the shelves to greet them and show them around, the alpha had not been able to stop her mouth from running and running. Now, normally in these situations, Steve would insert himself into Robin's one sided conversation and slow her down, purely to rescue the other person from being roped into a woven tale of at least six subjects at once. But after one look at Chrissy, and the adoration and attentiveness in her expression, he decided to leave it be. 

At the back corner of the shop was a small gathering of armchairs, a loveseat, and a small wooden coffee table. Plopping down into the comfiest looking chair, leaving the girls to their own devices, Steve pulled out his phone to start tackling the sea of messages he had received during the night. 

Dusty

12:58 AM: STEVE

STEVEN

12:59 AM: STEVEN HARRINGTON

STEVEN LOUISE HARRINGTON

1:01 AM: do you even love me anymore

1:08 AM: if i were dying i'd be dead by now

1:14 AM: ☠️☠️🩸🩸

1:27 AM: okay whatever goodnight steven text me when you’re  alive again ig 🙄

11:39 AM: Jesus Christ kid

That’s not even my name

11:40 AM: Did you die?

11:41 AM: no

11:41 AM: So what was so important?

11:43 AM: before i say anything i want to remind you that  i know all of your secrets and also you love me sooo much  and you’re the best babysitter ever and you owe me for  letting my mom hire you at the shop

11:44 AM: Dustin. What did you do.

11:44 AM: nothing!

i didn’t do anything i swear on my mother

11:45 AM: Okay…

So…?

11:46 AM: my favorite band is playing here next month but its an 18+ show

mom would never come with me, she’d have a heart attack i think

so i need you to take me

11:48 AM: i can pay for your ticket if you want!

11:50 AM: steve?

A loud crash echoed from within the shop, followed by an extremely disheveled Robin popping her head into the nook. "I need your help."

—

Leaving the girls was both the best and worst decision Steve could have made. 

In the ten minutes of inattentiveness, the alpha had managed to talk for seven of them consecutively. After realizing she had been talking herself in circles, she tried to reign it in, which ultimately ended in her accidental confession of attraction towards Chrissy. That then led to a kiss-turned-make-out, in which Robin had tried to push the shorter girl against a wall for more leverage. However, blinded by her circumstances, she pushed the omega into one of the shelves, effectively knocking it and its contents to the ground. They were old antique shelves that had been modified with basket-drawers to store records and other miscellaneous objects, they were heavy . 

Steve would be upset, but the dark blush and lovesick smile never quite left Robin's face. 

With that mess dealt with, he was finally able to respond to Dustin. He shot a quick 'Sure. Just LMK the deets ' text and slid his phone back into his pocket. Chrissy led them both back to the nook, bustling about and making sure they were comfortable.

"Steve, I am so incredibly sorry about that! Please sit here, let me go grab something and I'll be right back!" She dashed off down a small hallway towards the back of the building.

Steve shook his head at Robin, sighing loudly. "Couldn't keep it in your pants?"

The alpha huffed and looked away. She huffed again, this time more of a sniff. And then again. 

"Steve, are you fucking with me or something?"

Furrowing his eyebrows, he followed suit in her actions by taking his own sniff of the air. "What? What's going on?"

She continues sniffing, seemingly following the scent. Standing from her spot on the loveseat, laser focused on tracking, she walks right over to Steve.

"Your scent, it's changing. I knew it was different this morning! I know what you smell like, dingus. And you don't smell like you anymore. Well, okay, you still smell like you! But it's like you're roasting apples in the woods on a camping trip. And you've always smelled like apples, so I'm glad that's the same, but now it's different. Has anything weird happened lately? Have you felt different at all? Do you have a fever?" Her curiosity morphs into concern and she starts placing her hands over the omegas face, seeing if she can tell the temperature. "I've never been good at this. Should we go to the doctor? Do we need an ambulance? Shit, did you get poisoned?"

Steve grabbed her hands firmly, guiding them to his chest and taking a deep breath. "Breathe. I'm not dying, Robs. I think I'd know if I was." He takes a few more measured breaths, pulling her down into his lap for a hug. 

After he was sure she was calm, he relaxed his grip, but didn't let go. "I was actually meaning to ask you about something. Nothing bad, I promise! I just... I had this really weird dream last night and I woke up convinced it had actually happened. I was so convinced there would be physical proof, but there wasn't any. But I could smell the alpha in my dream. Have you ever had a dream where you could smell the other people?"

Robin looked at him calculatingly, a crease forming in her brow at the thought. "No, never. I didn't think it was a thing that happened."

"Exactly. I could smell him, birdie. I could feel him. It was real . Until it wasn't. I woke up heartbroken. For no real reason." He sighed once more, lowering his gaze to his fingers rested in his lap.

"Okay, I am so sorry once again, and I had no intention to eavesdrop whatsoever, but I want to help." Chrissy emerged from the hallway with a plate of mini cupcakes, a sheepish expression. 

Steve waved her off. "It's all good. If you don't think I'm crazy, I don't mind suggestions."

She set the plate of cupcakes onto the coffee table and sat down on the loveseat. Robin quickly scrambled off of Steve to sit next to the other omega, shooting him an apologetic glance. 

"So, basically, I read this book once, out of pure curiosity, that was about fate and the universe and all that. It had a whole section about how, years and years ago, alphas and omegas were randomly going through what seemed to be second presentations. It started with scent changes, and apparently a lot of people experienced some sort of initial mental connection. These changes were way less severe, and oftentimes not noticeable until a random heat or rut was triggered. When that would happen, it was always a pair at a time, one alpha and one omega. The moment they would smell the other for the first time is the moment their respective presentations would complete. They'd come out the other side bonded and, most often, pupped. Their bodies were preparing."

Steve stared at Chrissy, mouth agape. "Preparing for what, exactly?"

"Their soulmate!"