Honey XD

SLENDERMAN ⦻

Despite your debilitating illness(es), you have been a valuable asset to the group. Slenderman has kept this noted, and has observed your symptoms closely, and memorized the name(s) of such.

While he can be strict and even demanding towards his proxies, among anyone else that stays with him, he is noticeably more gentle with you.

This shows in many ways: assigning you simpler tasks, simpler captures, frequent breaks, etc. He even prolongs your days off/breaks based on your pain levels and flares.

On one particular, day, though, it seems especially bad. You have a flare up more violent than the rest.

This causes you to faint in the middle of an assigned hunt, allowing the subject to successfully run free. The last thing playing in your mind being the guilt of failing this mission, and the possibility of upsetting Slenderman.

You hear your partner curse, calling out for him while they run after the escapee, determined to catch them. Your brain shuts down, your body limp—sprawled out across the damp forest trail, blood pooled below you.

It's not your blood. But that's not what the Operator thinks as static fills your unconscious brain and his frame towers over you. He wouldn't admit it, but panic began to seep into what could be mocked up as a spirit.

Carefully, he brings himself down, his long but unnaturally strong arms scooping you up off the ground as the back of his large hand rests at the back of your head. His tentacles gently brush any debris and twigs from your body.

Blood trickles from your nose—you've always been sensitive to his presence.

He gently swipes the drop with his thumb before examining your body for wounds. He comes to realize the blood that now stained your clothing was not yours, as you had no physical injuries.

He holds you close to his chest, slowly moving through the forest. A few of his tentacles wrap around you and hold you still for extra protection, knowing the effect of his teleportation in physical contact with you.

You begin to stir. You grumble, making your consciousness known. He loosens his grasp to allow you to move just vaguely, allowing you to come to your senses. You're almost scared when you recognize the tie you're eye-level with and eventually process the soft tendrils against the flesh of your limbs.

You exhale. You aren't in the arms of a stranger—however this is short lived, as you recall the failed attempt just moments prior. That's when you feel the static buzz in your head, just seeping itself into your brain. It's warm. It's calm.

"You did not fail me. You cannot control what your own body commits. You need rest."

You relax against him once more as you both enter what you can recognize as the manor based on scent alone. He travels up the stairs and gently pushes your bedroom door open with a free tendril. He slowly creeps towards your bed and sets you down gently on the plush mattress as you feel his tendrils slowly unravel from your body.

"Sleep well, Child."

He quietly left the bedroom, making sure to close the door. He would prevent any of the others from bothering you until you awoke.

TRENDERMAN ⦻

You wake up feeling utterly disgusting.

You're sore, you're breaking out in some kind of heat rash, you're bloated, and your limbs don't want to work properly.

Trender notices this, and the gasp he gasped...

Dramatic.

“Oh no no no. No. Absolutely not! You look—no offense, darling—tragic. Like a doll that's melting behind a radiator!"

"Gee, thanks.." You huffed, hardly able to move under the blanket of your bed.

He’s already at your side in an instant, hands fluttering as if he’s about to faint from the sight of you. But instead of pulling away in horror, he tugs the blanket back up to your chin with softness.

“You are not getting out of that bed! I forbid it. The lighting in the hallway would only highlight your current condition.”

You try to protest—something about needing to go to the bathroom or at least brush your teeth—but he cuts you off with a raised, gloved finger to your chapped lips.

“Shh. No. Not a word. Your aura is inflamed. And so are those pores..."

He moves swiftly, his arms and tentacles already gathering items from his emergency self-care kit: a silk cooling eye mask, the fancy hypoallergenic lotion that smells like bergamot and lavender, and a water bottle with lemon slices floating in it.

He dabs at your forehead with a cool cloth like a Victorian nurse, acting as if you were in bed with tuberculosis.

“This isn’t just physical. I can feel it. Your energy is off. The vibes in this entire room is positively criminal.”

You laugh, weakly—but he leans in, serious all of a sudden.

“...But truly, darling. You must rest. I’ll handle everything. You’re in no condition to stress over anything today. And besides—your wellness is the priority. I won’t let you neglect it.”

There’s a sudden presence at your side. A warm blanket, folded to perfection. The smell of steeping herbal tea. And Trender, carefully fluffing your pillows like it’s a bomb set to go off at any wrong move.

“Now, be still. Hydrate. Accept my lavender oil offering. I’ll be right back with your meds—and a color correcting concealer."

You felt at peace that morning, more than you have in months.

SPLENDORMAN ⦻

Oh, no, this poor little puppy...

Because that's essentially what he is—a big, dumb puppy.

As tall as a fucking tree.

When he sees you hunched over the kitchen counter, no one else in sight, he freaks out.

Firstly—how dare anyone not be watching over you!? You're fragile! They all know how bad you have it!

In reality, you insisted you could do something on your own despite the huge flare you've been experiencing.

That was a fucking lie.

"Friend!!" He cried, rushing towards you so quickly he'd may as well had teleported.

He was quick to rest his gloved hands on your shoulders, helping you up. You'd been slumped over the sink, attempting to clean a few dishes that others had insisted they or another would handle.

You barely looked at him, your vision blurry as you stared down into the sink. You coughed as he brought you up, acting as support as your legs trembled.

"Just what do you think you're doing!?" He cried, his soft voice high in pitch, but soft enough not to ring your ears. He sounded like a teenage boy just hitting puberty, which you and the others always found funny. But endearing.

"Cleaning...dishes," you coughed. Your body fell limp against him as he caught you, your head resting on his thigh. He'd just barely shrunken himself down to fit inside the damned kitchen.

Just for you.

"Darling, anyone else can handle that! What are you trying to do?"

"I just...wanted to make sure mine were clean—I need lunch." You tried to excuse yourself. Classic. Trying to cook on your own.

Usually, the others had meals prepped for you. But it seemed as though you've eaten them, and no one had prepped anything else for you yet.

The main proxy who did grocery delivery was out sick, and it's been a battle to get anyone else to do the damn job.

"Has no one—?" Splendor frowned, the corners of his mouth hitting the sides of his chin.

"Come, lay down. I'll cook for you. And make your favorite dessert." He picked you up, gently carrying you to the large living room.

You had the best god damn food you've ever tasted in your life.

GENTLEMAN ⦻

Oh, brother, where do we start with this one?

You lacked a relationship with this towering hunk of a creature.

It was nothing personal...not entirely.

His rip-off demon "brother" was a fucking creep—a predator.

One that tried to devour you, once. And worse.

Not even his real brother. They just look similar and have a different family specimen. Everyone fucking hates that guy.

Gentleman, they call this one...on account that he's gentle, and he has the appearance of a man.

As close of a man you could get with whatever alien or eldritch race these brothers were.

And when you laid there, limp and head nearly cracked open by a fall, with no one else around,

He was there.

He gently picked you up, your heart racing. You wanted to fear him, what he could do, but...you didn't.

Instead, you felt his awfully large arms cradle you, and his large hand hold the back of your head to his chest.

"Shh," he soothed you, a purr rattling deep in his throat.

"I've got you. You're okay."

You let your eyes flutter shut, your throbbing headache seeming to go away as you were enveloped into his scent.

Warm. Musky. Soothing. Like vanilla and oakwood.

And lots of bourbon.

"I'm sorry to have made contact like this," he spoke, apologetic. "We aren't usually in circumstances such as these. And no one else is present.."

He moved swiftly, sitting down into a large, velvet chair. You feel his body as it's seated, his large hands (and tentacles) gentle shifting you to comfort on top of him.

"I promise, I will not hurt you. And when you regain strength, I'll let you down. Unless you wish to rest in bed, now."

You instinctively clung onto him. You didn't want him to let go. Somehow, he was taking all of your pain away.

"Okay." He gently stroked your hair, leaning back into the chair.

"We'll wait for Ann to return, and get her to check you out."

You fell asleep on his chest, listening to what sounded like a heartbeat, and cat-like purring.

You found that you'd wake up with no pain after that.

Realistically, you should’ve gone home and stayed there.

Actually—scratch that. You did go home.

You had sat in your driveway for nearly fifteen minutes after leaving the parking lot, staring at nothing while your truck ticked softly around you from leftover heat, long enough for the weird feeling in your stomach to settle into something easier to ignore. Long enough to convince yourself that maybe you were just tired, or hungry. Or maybe you're just dramatic and your overactive imagination was kicking in again.

Nothing happened, the radio crackled. Big deal!

You looked at the clock wrong - also possible. You spent too much time online reading true crime forums and cheesy horror stories.

And yet...

The windshield wipers dragged softly across the glass as light rain tapped against the truck in uneven rhythms, the sky outside a bruised purple and blue with the approaching evening. A crumpled fast food bag sat abandoned beside you, leftover fries already going cold in the passenger seat while the smell of grease and salt clung to the cab. Your drink sweats in the cupholder, watered down enough to taste disappointing, because for reasons you couldn't even begin to rationalize, you were driving back.

The rain began to pick up as you made your way down the curved road. It had only been a light drizzle when you left the house, barely more than a soft mist clinging to the air when you stopped at the fast food place near the end of your neighborhood. Easier to ignore.

But now? Now it was really coming down. Not violent yet, but heavier. Persistent, thick droplets splattered against the windshield hard enough to demand one's attention, streaking across the glass faster than the wipers could fully clear them away. The blades dragged back and forth in a tired rhythm, a soft mechanical sigh trying—and failing—to soothe the assault of rain against the truck.

Outside, the road gleamed dark beneath the fading twilight, headlights stretching into warped reflections over wet pavement while trees bent slightly in the wind. Everything looked different in the rain. Less familiar. Much less safe. The world outside your windows blurred at the edges, softened by water and shadow until even places you’d driven a hundred times felt wrong.

You reached into the crumpled fast food bag beside you again.

Cold. Of course.

The fries had crossed that miserable line between warm and comforting to slightly stale and disappointing somewhere around twenty minutes ago. The kind that tasted of old grease and salt, limp around the edges and just soggy enough all along the entire fries that squelch more than they crunch.

Honestly, you probably should’ve expected it. Mia wasn’t working.

She usually worked evenings, always somehow managing to remember your order despite the fact you only showed up once or twice a week, maybe 4 if you were really struggling. Extra sauce without asking, fresh fries every single time, soda cups and milkshakes filled to The very brim. The type of sweet where you found yourself irrationally excited when her car was in the parking lot because somehow your entire meal tasted better when she was there.

But tonight? Some teenager who looked deeply inconvenienced by yours and his existence handed you your food without making eye contact. And, apparently, your fries suffered for it.

The thought almost made you laugh. The idea of flipping burgers for a job alone could make you laugh. No way you would dop something like that when you have the one thing that seems to keep you afloat. But not quite, because your stomach still felt wrong. Your fingers tightened briefly around the steering wheel as the memory surfaced again before you could stop it.

You swallowed hard. No. You probably just remembered wrong.

That had to be it.

People remembered things incorrectly all the time. Witness testimony sucked for a reason. Your brain wasn’t some flawless recording device. You were tired. Hungry, stressed about school. God knew school alone was enough to make anyone hallucinate.

Your mom definitely thought something was wrong. You could tell.

She’d looked at you funny when you came back inside earlier, still carrying that weird distant look you hadn’t realized was obvious until she asked you,

“Are you okay, sweetie?”

Simple question. Then why was it so hard to answer?

You had shrugged, kicked your shoes off, and avoided eye contact. “Yeah,” you lied easily. “Just stressed.”

“What about?”

“Biology test.” That seemed believable enough. Upcoming exams, senior year. College pressure, senior seminars.

Your mother had accepted it, for the most part. Still deeply worried, though.

You noticed the way she lingered in the kitchen doorway for a second too long while you grabbed your hoodie. The way she parted her lips to say something before stopping herself.

“Don’t stay out too late,” she’d settled on instead. "It's supposed to get real bad out there later tonight. And keep your phone on you."

And now here you were. Driving back toward the exact woods you definitely shouldn’t be returning to. Because apparently learning from bad decisions wasn’t one of your stronger qualities.

The farther you drove, the quieter everything seemed to become.

Not literally, of course. Rain hammered steadily against the truck roof, the windshield wipers dragging back and forth with a messy interpretation of determination while your tires hissed softly over soaked pavement. Somewhere low in the speakers, music still played faintly—quiet enough to blur into background noise more than anything recognizable. But outside? The world felt muted.

The kind of muted where everything looked swallowed whole.

Fog lingered low in patches farther up the road, curling lazily between the trees where the woods crowded closer to the shoulder. Pines stood dark and impossibly tall against the bruised evening sky, stretching upward until they disappeared into shadow, branches swaying just enough to remind you the wind existed. Streetlights grew fewer the farther you drove. Houses, too. Porch lights disappeared. Storefronts vanished, civilization slowly thinning itself out until all that remained were winding roads and too many trees.

The road curved sharply ahead, slick beneath the rain, yellow lines reflecting back warped and stretched like something underwater. Headlights from passing cars came rarely now—only the occasional glow appearing somewhere far ahead before disappearing again into darkness, swallowed by fog and distance. Every time one passed, it left behind that strange kind of loneliness only empty roads seemed capable of carrying.

You found yourself reaching to turn the music up once, then stopped just before your fingers could brush against the turning knob. Too loud.

For some reason, that felt wrong tonight. Instead, you adjusted the volume lower. Just enough to buzz into your brain, quiet enough for sound to around it like a blanket.

Your hoodie still smelled faintly like home detergent and whatever perfume had spilled in your room three months ago and never fully went away. Damp air drifted through the barely cracked window, cool enough to make goosebumps rise faintly against your arms despite the heater humming softly at your feet. The truck rattled every now and then when you hit rougher patches of road—familiar enough to almost be comforting.

Because every few minutes, your brain dragged itself back there.

Back to the parking lot. Back to the soft crackle that had burst suddenly through the truck speakers like a murmur in a heart beat. Back to the clock glowing softly on the dashboard. 5:17 PM. Then somehow—without explanation, without reason—5:13.

You felt off, like a sentence missing a word, or a familiar song suddenly skipping somewhere important. You could remember looking at the clock. You knew you had. You remembered that weird little drop in your stomach when something suddenly stopped making sense, the uncomfortable pause where your brain quietly tried to correct itself before panic had the chance to settle in.

But the harder you tried replaying it, the blurrier it became.

Had the radio crackled before you looked over? Or after? Were you already reaching for your drink when it happened? Did you check your phone immediately, or sit there for a second first? The details slipped frustratingly out of reach every time you tried grabbing hold of them, dissolving somewhere between certainty and assumption until you weren’t even sure what you actually remembered anymore.

And that bothered you more than anything else.

Because usually, details stuck. You were good with details. That was kind of your thing. True crime videos, paranormal forums, urban legends, missing person rabbit holes at two in the morning while eating instant noodles and swearing you’d go to bed after one. more. video. You noticed patterns, weird inconsistencies, tiny things other people overlooked. Half the fun was piecing together details nobody else thought mattered.

So why did this feel slippery? Why did trying to remember feel less like thinking and more like trying to hold water in your hands?

The farther you drove, the fewer signs of people there were to exist. Streetlights disappeared first, thinning out until long stretches of road sat illuminated only by your headlights cutting through rain and deepening blue darkness. Houses have long since disappeared. Porch lights vanished. Even places you recognized looked different now, softened strangely by rain and twilight until familiar roads felt vaguely unfamiliar in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

The storm had settled into itself fully by now. Not violent—not yet—but steady. Persistent. Rainwater shimmered across the road in slick ribbons while your headlights stretched long over soaked pavement, reflections warping and bending every time the truck rolled through shallow puddles. Trees crowded closer to the shoulder the farther you went, towering pines standing impossibly dark against the bruised evening sky, their tops swallowed by low fog drifting lazily between them. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled softly, too far away to feel threatening but close enough to remind you the weather had finally made good on its promise.

Maybe you should have stayed home.

Your music still played faintly through the speakers, blending into the sound of the rain more than anything else. The windshield wipers continued to drag rhythmically across the glass in a mindless repetition, back and forth, back and forth, while the heater hummed weakly near your feet. Absentmindedly, you reached for another fry before realizing halfway through chewing that you hadn’t actually tasted the last few at all. Stress eating. Great.

Cold, mildly stale fries and poor life choices apparently counted as dinner tonight.

The familiar turn came sooner than expected. Your stomach dipped before your brain fully caught up.

The road curved gently, disappearing briefly behind thick trees before the entrance revealed itself again through rain and gathering darkness, half-hidden beneath shadow and low mist curling close to the ground. The parking area looked emptier now than it had earlier, somehow lonelier beneath the rain. No police tape. No headlights cutting through the dark. Only wet pavement, thick woods, and the uncomfortable realization that absolutely nobody else seemed stupid enough to be here right now.

You hesitated. Only for a second.

Your fingers tightened briefly around the steering wheel before, against every reasonable instinct in your body, you flicked on the turn signal anyway.

The truck rolled slowly onto the pebble lot, tires crunching sharply over wet gravel and loose stones. The sound felt strangely loud in the quiet, rocks snapping beneath the weight of the truck while rain drummed steadily against the roof overhead. Water had already begun pooling near the edges of the lot, muddy patches forming where tires had carved uneven grooves into the earth earlier that week. The headlights swept briefly across the crooked gate as you pulled forward, illuminating rusted metal, soaked wood, and the faded warning sign hanging slightly sideways like it had long since given up trying to keep people out.

You parked in nearly the exact same spot as before. Right in front of the gate.

The truck idled softly beneath you, warm air humming faintly through the vents while rain streaked down the windshield in uneven rivers, distorting the woods beyond into something blurry and strangely unreadable.

And somehow, impossibly, everything looked worse now.

The truck sat idling for a long moment after you parked, warm air humming faintly through the vents while rainwater crawled slowly down the windshield in uneven streams. Beyond the glass, the woods looked distorted now, softened by darkness and rain until everything blurred together into shadow and movement your eyes couldn’t quite settle on. Every few seconds, the wipers dragged lazily across the windshield with a tired groan, as if loathing to be here, briefly sharpening the image before it melted apart again—crooked gate, wet gravel, soaked trees standing impossibly still beyond the entrance. You didn’t move. Didn’t even reach for the door handle. You just sat there, hands resting loosely against the steering wheel while your stomach twisted itself into something inconsolable.

Because realistically? You could still leave.

The thought came quieter this time. Less dramatic than before. More reasonable. You could literally put the truck back into drive, turn around, and go home. Dry off. Put on pajamas. Heat something up in the microwave that tasted significantly less depressing than stale fries and pretend tonight never happened. Watch some dumb ghost hunting video online and laugh at yourself for almost becoming the kind of person who voluntarily wandered into murder woods during a storm because “your brain said so.”

Honestly, that sounded kind of amazing right now.

Warm blankets, dry socks. Your charger actually reaching your bed for once. Maybe your mom had left dessert in the fridge.

Instead, you were here. Again. Outside the exact woods that had made it feel like it did not want you here. But you've always been the curious type. It got you in trouble, your obsessions, but there was an itch in the deepest parts of your brain you just couldn't get rid of. You're a lot more twisted than you'd like to admit. The violence, the tragedy, the horror—it all comforts you. More than it ever should.

Damn it.

Your eyes drifted toward the gate through the rain. Nothing moved, just thick woods standing shoulder to shoulder in the gathering dark, dense enough that your truck’s headlights couldn’t push very far inside. Earlier, the place had felt creepy in an almost embarrassing way—easy to joke about, easy to rationalize. The kind of scary you could laugh off once you got back into your truck.

But right now, right at this moment, it felt heavy. Nauseating.

Like standing outside a room after hearing something strange on the other side of the door, suddenly unsure whether opening it was curiosity or stupidity. The storm had shifted something about the place. The rain made everything feel closed off somehow, quieter beneath the sound of water hitting pavement and leaves overhead. Even the gate looked different now, rusted metal darkened by rain, warning sign hanging crooked like it had stopped bothering to care whether people listened.

You swallowed hard. Maybe your mother was right.

The weather looked worse than she thought it would this early, low thunder rumbling somewhere far enough away to still feel harmless while wind stirred softly through the trees. Nothing impossible had happened yet. Nothing dangerous, technically. You had every opportunity to make one singular intelligent decision tonight.

Then your eyes landed on the camera sitting beside you.

And predictably,

That horrible little itch returned. Curiosity. That aching, tugging sensation that pulsed within your heart, beating intensely between your thighs and your aching need for relief. Your whole body went into this.

Because what if nothing happened? What if you left now and spent the next month wondering whether you imagined the whole thing? Wondering if there really had been something strange about earlier or if nerves and too much internet had convinced you that a radio crackle and weird clock glitch somehow meant something bigger. You hated unanswered questions, always had. They stuck beneath your skin, impossible to leave alone once they settled in.

With a slow exhale, you leaned over toward the passenger seat, gathering things one at a time. Backpack first. Flashlight, portable charger, pepper spray you still weren’t entirely convinced worked. The camera strap caught briefly against the edge of the seat before you untangled it with mild annoyance, letting it settle against your shoulder. That alone could have been a sign to stop and go home.

Your hand paused briefly. The notebook.

You frowned. Weird.

For a second, you could’ve sworn—

No. Never mind.

It was probably buried somewhere in the backpack. You’d thrown everything together too fast when you left the house. That had to be it.

Rain tapped harder against the roof.

You adjusted the backpack strap higher against your shoulder and stared at the door handle for another second longer than necessary, your eyes bouncing between it and the windshield blurred with rain, hesitation creeping unpleasantly back into your chest.

This was stupid. Actually stupid. Not quirky. Not funny.

Fucking stupid.

Nobody in their right mind parked outside wooded land that bodies were found, or last seen, after dark during a storm.

And yet, your fingers wrapped around the handle anyway.

Cold air rushed into the cab the second you pushed the door open, damp enough to immediately crawl beneath your hoodie. The smell hit first—wet earth and soaked pine. Mud and rainwater collecting somewhere unseen. Beneath it all sat that strange metallic scent storms always carried, faint and electric, like the sky had been split open somewhere far away and just hadn’t reached you yet.

Gravel shifted noisily beneath your shoes as you stepped out, pebbles crunching sharp against the quiet while cold drizzle kissed immediately against your face and hair. The warmth of the truck vanished embarrassingly fast behind you, replaced instead by damp air and the uncomfortable awareness of just how alone you suddenly felt.

For a second, you stood there beside the truck, keys still in hand, rain gathering slowly against the sleeves of your hoodie while the headlights spilled weakly over puddles and slick stones.

You looked back once. One last chance.

Then your thumb pressed against the lock button.

Beep.

The sound echoed strangely in the empty lot.