Horror Baby!

𝕴 𝖘𝖍𝖎𝖕 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍… Baby Firefly!

Baby would be fascinated by you almost immediately. You're the kind of person who seems difficult to read—quietly observant, sarcastic, artistic, and emotionally guarded—which would make her want to peel back every layer. While she's loud, impulsive, and thrives on chaos, you're someone who analyzes before acting, creating a dynamic where neither of you ever gets bored. Beneath your tough exterior, Baby would recognize someone who secretly wants to be protected, and despite her insanity, she'd become fiercely possessive over you. To her, you're her favorite person and everyone else simply has to deal with it.

ℌ𝔢𝔞𝔡𝔠𝔞𝔫𝔬𝔫𝔰

• Baby is constantly stealing your silver rings, only to dramatically slip them back onto your fingers later while claiming, "See? They look better because I put them there." Half your jewelry mysteriously migrates into her room before making its way back.

• Rainy days become your thing. You'll wander through empty roads, soaked to the bone while she's laughing like she's escaped reality itself, and you'll quietly take photos of her looking completely alive. Those become her favorite pictures because you took them.

• She pretends your horror movie collection is her collection now. Every movie night somehow ends with her sprawled across you, loudly criticizing the killers while insisting she'd "do it better."

• Your writing fascinates her. She'll dramatically demand to be the inspiration for every morally questionable character, then sulk if you tell her a villain was based on someone else.

• When your emotions become overwhelming and you're trying to hide them, Baby notices before anyone else. She isn't great with comforting words, but she'll physically pull you into her lap, wrap her arms around you, and refuse to let you isolate yourself until she knows you're okay.

• Baby absolutely lives for your sarcasm. Watching you deadpan a response to someone while they're too stunned to reply makes her laugh so hard she nearly falls over. She loves that your humor is subtle while hers is completely unhinged.

ℑ𝔫𝔠𝔬𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔠𝔱 𝔔𝔲𝔬𝔱𝔢𝔰

You: "Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone." Baby: "Define stupid." You: "...Baby." Baby: "Too late."

You: "Can we please have one normal date?" Baby: "This is normal." A police siren blares in the distance.

𝔚𝔥𝔞𝔱 𝔖𝔥𝔢 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔰 𝔐𝔬𝔰𝔱 𝔄𝔟𝔬𝔲𝔱 𝔜𝔬𝔲

Baby loves that you don't try to "fix" her, but you also don't blindly encourage everything she does. You challenge her, tease her, and refuse to be intimidated by her larger-than-life personality. More than anything, she's obsessed with the fact that beneath your sarcastic, guarded exterior is someone fiercely loyal and deeply protective. Once she realizes how much love you keep hidden from the world, she becomes convinced she's the only person who gets to see that side of you and she intends to keep it that way.

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

• Black Cat (You) × Golden Retriever (Her, Chaotic Edition) — She's loud enough for both of you while you deliver perfectly-timed sarcastic remarks that somehow make her laugh even harder.

• Touch-Her-and-Die — Baby takes "protective girlfriend" to an entirely unreasonable level.

• Found Family — Against all odds, the two of you become each other's safest place.

𝔓𝔩𝔬𝔱 𝔗𝔯𝔬𝔭𝔢𝔰

• Partners in Crime — Whether it's harmless mischief or bigger adventures, you're always side by side.

• She Fell First, Then She Fell Harder — Baby is completely infatuated long before you're willing to admit your own feelings.

• Ride or Die — The two of you would cross any line for each other.

ℌ𝔢𝔯 𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔏𝔞𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔤𝔢

Physical Touch & Quality Time.

Baby is constantly attached to you in some way—holding your hand, stealing your jacket, sitting in your lap, playing with your hair, or absentmindedly tracing the rings on your fingers. Her favorite dates aren't fancy; they're long drives with the windows down, dancing in abandoned places, watching horror movies until sunrise, or simply existing beside you. To Baby, being physically close is how she says, "You're my home."

ℜ𝔢𝔩𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰𝔥𝔦𝔭 𝔖𝔬𝔫𝔤𝔰

"Violet" – Hole (Screaming lyrics together while speeding down an empty highway. Raw emotion, possessiveness, and passionate love. it's purely you and Baby Firefly.)

The salt air still clung to your skin as you wandered the boardwalk the following night, the neon lights painting everything in electric pinks and blues. You hadn't planned on coming back so soon, and a part of you had expected the four strange boys to move on after last night's collective strike-out.

Most guys did.

But something about them—the way they'd watched you leave with more fascination than bruised egos—kept pulling you back.

You spotted them almost immediately. They weren't hard to miss: four leather-clad figures leaning against the railing like they owned the night. Paul's wild blond hair caught the wind first. When his eyes locked on you, his face split into a massive grin.

"There she is!" he called, already pushing off the railing and striding toward you with that golden-retriever energy. "Back for round two, babe?"

You raised an eyebrow, a small smile tugging at your lips. "Round two implies I played round one."

Paul laughed, loud and bright, falling into step beside you without asking. This time, he didn't sling an arm around your shoulders. He kept a respectful distance, hands shoved in his pockets like he was trying not to spook you.

"Fair. So… what are you into, if it's not midnight bike rides and bad decisions?" He glanced sideways at you, genuinely curious instead of just flirty. "Arcade games? Cotton candy? People-watching?"

You considered him for a moment. "All of the above. As long as no one's trying to get in my pants."

Paul's cheeks actually flushed. "Shit. Yeah. Message received. Loud and clear." He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. "I can do that. C'mon, I'm unbeatable at Skee-Ball."

He was not unbeatable. You destroyed him three games in a row, and his dramatic cries of betrayal had you laughing harder than you had in weeks. When you finally let him win one on purpose, he lit up like you'd handed him the moon.

"You're trouble," he declared, handing you the ridiculous oversized tiger he'd finally won. "The fun kind."

Not long after, Marko appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, curls bouncing as he fell into step on your other side. "Paulie bothering you?" he asked with a mischievous smirk, biting his thumb. "I can take him out if you want."

You shook your head, amused. "We're good. He's on his best behavior tonight."

Marko's eyes sparkled with surprise. Instead of doubling down on charm, he started pointing out the best graffiti spots hidden behind booths and told you wild stories about the boardwalk's history—some obviously exaggerated, some strangely believable. When his hand brushed yours 'accidentally,' he pulled back immediately, flashing an apologetic grin.

You found yourself relaxing. The guys were… different. Persistent, but listening.

Dwayne joined next, quiet as ever. He didn't say much, just walked beside you with that steady presence that somehow made the chaotic noise of the boardwalk feel calmer. At one point, he bought you a hot chocolate without asking, handing it over with a small nod when you looked surprised.

"You seemed cold," he murmured.

You weren't, but the gesture was sweet and thoughtful, so you took it gratefully.

David was last. He waited until the others had drifted a few paces ahead, cigarette smoke curling around him like a second shadow. He didn't try any lines this time. He just fell in beside you, his ice-blue eyes studying your face.

"You came back," he said eventually, voice low.

"I did."

"Why?"

You shrugged, clutching the giant tiger under one arm. "You four are interesting. And surprisingly… decent about boundaries once they're spelled out."

David's lips twitched into something almost like a real smile. "Most people don't make us work for it."

"I'm not most people," you whisper, glancing at him, hoping that, unlike most, he would get it, that they would understand this wasn't a 'keep trying' scenario.

"No," he agreed softly, almost reverently. "You're not."

The five of you eventually wandered down to the beach, away from the crowds. A small fire was already crackling in a pit the boys must have set up earlier. You sat on an old log, the giant tiger propped beside you like a ridiculous chaperone. Paul flopped dramatically at your feet, Marko perched on the log next to you, Dwayne leaned against a nearby rock, and David stood with his hands in his coat pockets, watching the flames.

"So," Paul started, grinning up at you, "you gonna tell us the secret? How the hell did you shoot down all four of us in one night?"

You laughed lightly, staring into the fire. "There's no secret. I'm ace. Asexual. I don't feel sexual attraction. But that doesn't mean I don't like people. Or… enjoy spending time with them." You glanced around at the four of them. "I do romance, just no sex stuff. I'm polyromantic, if that means anything to you."

The boys went quiet for a beat, processing.

Marko tilted his head. "So… you can still like us? Like, like us. Just without the…" He gestured vaguely.

"Yeah," you said simply. "Just without the 'taking clothes off and getting down to it ' part."

Paul let out a low whistle. "That's… kinda badass, actually."

David's gaze hadn't left your face. There was something new in it now—respect, fascination, and maybe the first spark of something deeper. "We're not exactly used to slow burns," he admitted. "Or any burns that don't end in… well... fucking."

"But we can learn," Dwayne added quietly, his dark eyes warm in the firelight as he cut over David almost as if he didn't want the blond scaring you away.

Marko bumped your shoulder gently. "So what do you want, then? Late-night boardwalk walks? Arcade wins? Someone to listen to you talk about whatever's on your mind?"

You looked at each of them—the wild blond with the golden energy, the mischievous curly-haired artist, the quiet protector, and the cocky leader who was watching you like you were a puzzle he suddenly wanted to understand rather than conquer.

"I want to see where this goes," you said honestly. "No pressure. No expectations. Just… this. But if sex is like a deal breaker for you guys then-"

Paul sat up, resting his chin on your knee like an overgrown puppy. "We can do that."

Marko grinned. "Best kind of chase there is."

Dwayne gave you a small, rare smile.

David flicked his cigarette into the fire and stepped closer, crouching so he was eye-level with you. "You really are something else," he murmured, echoing his words from last night. Only this time, it sounded like a promise instead of frustration. "And we've got all the time in the world to figure this out."

The fire crackled as the waves rolled in, and for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe you'd found people who could want you exactly as you were.

𝖒𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙

Rejecting the boys advances.

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The halls of Hawkins High felt heavier the next morning, as if the walls themselves were mourning. News of Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers' murders had spread like wildfire before first period even started. Whispers followed Kimberly everywhere. Every locker slam made her flinch.

She found Steve by his locker, staring blankly at the inside door where a faded photo of him and Nancy still hung. His eyes were red-rimmed, jaw tight. When he noticed her, he tried to force a casual smile, but it cracked instantly.

"Hey, Kimmy..."

Without a word, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. Steve stiffened for half a second, then hugged her back fiercely, burying his face in her shoulder. His breathing hitched.

"I know you guys weren't together anymore," Kimberly whispered, "but I also know you still cared about her. I'm so sorry, Steve."

Steve let out a shaky breath. "We fought the night before... stupid shit. I told her to be careful. I should've stayed with her. I should've—"

"You couldn't have known." She pulled back just enough to look at him. "None of us could."

He nodded, but the guilt in his eyes didn't fade. They stood like that for a long moment, two broken pieces trying to hold each other together while the rest of the school buzzed around them like nothing had changed.

Lunch came, but Kimberly had no appetite. More of her friends were dying, someone was targeting the teens of Hawkins, and no one knew who would be next.

She slipped out of the cafeteria early, needing air, needing to be anywhere but surrounded by gossip. The hallway was nearly empty; most kids were still eating. She turned a corner toward the side exit and froze.

Jason Carver stepped out from beside the trophy case, blocking her path. His letterman jacket looked too tight on his broad shoulders, fists clenched at his sides. His eyes were bloodshot, wild with grief and rage.

"Kimberly."

She took a step back. "Jason... I don't want to talk right now."

"Too fucking bad." He advanced, grabbing her upper arm hard enough that she winced. He shoved her back against the lockers, the metal rattling. "You're gonna tell me what the hell you said to Chrissy that night."

Kimberly's heart hammered. "Let go of me—"

"You talked her into dumping me," His voice cracked with fury. "Right before she died. You filled her head with shit about me, made her hate me. And now she's gone!" He slammed his other hand against the locker beside her head. "What did you say?!"

Tears stung her eyes. "I just told her she deserved better... Jason, you're hurting me. Please—"

"Better?" He laughed bitterly, leaning in closer. "I loved her. I would've done anything for her. And you... you tried to take her from me. She was mine."

His grip tightened painfully. Kimberly's breath came in short gasps. For a terrifying second, she was sure this was it—he was going to snap, just like he'd snapped on Chrissy.

"Get your hands off her!"

Eddie came sprinting down the hall, curls flying, eyes blazing. He shoved Jason hard, forcing him to release Kimberly. Jason stumbled back, glaring daggers at Eddie.

"Stay out of this, freak," Jason snarled.

Eddie positioned himself between them, arms spread protectively despite his fear. "Touch her again, and I swear to God, Carver, they'll be scraping you off the floor."

Jason's lip curled into a slow, dangerous smile. "Keep running your mouth, Munson. First Chrissy, now you're playing hero for her little best friend? Careful. People who get too close to this bitch tend to end up dead."

The threat hung in the air like smoke. Jason shot Kimberly one last venomous look, then stormed off down the hall, shoulders rigid.

The second he was gone, Kimberly's legs buckled. A small, broken cry escaped her as she slid down the lockers to the floor. Eddie dropped to his knees in front of her instantly.

"Hey, hey, Kimmy—don't cry," he said softly, voice cracking with worry. He cupped her face gently, thumbs brushing away the tears already spilling down her cheeks. "If you cry, then I'm gonna cry, and neither of us wants that. I look ugly when I cry. Trust me."

A watery laugh slipped out despite everything. Eddie grinned, relieved, and pulled her into a tight hug. "There she is. You're okay. I've got you."

After school, Eddie refused to let her walk home alone.

They ended up at the old quarry, sitting on the hood of his van with the doors open, music playing low from the radio. The sun was already dipping low, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges. Kimberly hugged her knees to her chest, still shaken.

"You really think it's him?" Eddie asked quietly, passing her a warm can of Coke from the front seat.

Kimberly stared at the ripples on the water below. "I don't know anymore. He was so angry, Eddie. The way he grabbed me... it felt like he wanted to hurt me. And after what he said to me before Chrissy died..." She shook her head. "The timing is too perfect. She breaks up with him because of me, and then she's gone the same night?"

Eddie was quiet for a long moment, picking at the frayed hole in his jeans.

"I hate that I'm even saying this," he muttered, "but Carver's a prick. Always has been. But killing Chrissy? And Nancy and Jonathan? That's... that's next-level. Part of me still thinks this is something else."

Kimberly looked at him. "You don't believe it's just a normal killer, do you?"

Eddie gave a weak smile. "I don't know what I believe anymore. But I do know one thing—" He turned to face her fully. "I'm not letting that asshole near you again. Not alone. Okay?"

Kimberly studied his face. For once, there was no sarcasm, no theatrical flair. Just genuine worry, so she nodded. "Okay."

Eddie bumped her shoulder lightly. "Good. Because I've got a reputation to protect. Can't have the town freak failing at the whole 'damsel in distress' rescue thing."

She laughed softly, and for a few minutes the quarry felt almost peaceful. Eddie turned the music up a little and sang dramatically off-key to make her smile. It almost worked.

But as the sun finally disappeared, a chill settled over them. Eddie drove her home in silence, both of them glancing at the rearview mirror more than necessary.

"Lock your doors tonight," he said as she climbed out. "And if anything feels off, you call me. I don't care what time it is."

"I will," she promised as she got out of his van, then turned back to look through the open window. "Thank you, Eddie. For today."

He gave her a two-finger cheeky salute and waited until she was safely inside before driving off.

That night, the Munson trailer sat quiet under a pale moon. Eddie sprawled on the old couch in a faded Hellfire Club shirt, half-watching a cheesy slasher on the TV. His fingers drummed nervously on his knee. Every shadow in the trailer felt too long tonight.

A faint tapping noise came from the back hallway.

Eddie muted the TV. "Wayne?" No answer. He stood slowly, heart picking up speed, and crept down the narrow hall.

He stopped at the doorway to Wayne's room. Nothing. Then the tapping came again louder. He spun around.... just a tree branch scraping against the open window.

"Fuck," Eddie muttered, relief flooding him. He stepped inside and reached to close it.

A shadow moved in his peripheral vision.

He barely had time to gasp before a black-robed figure surged forward. The white Ghostface mask gleamed in the dim light, and the knife flashed as Eddie was knocked onto Wayne's bed.

"Jesus H. Christ!"

Eddie twisted desperately as the blade came down, stabbing into the mattress where his head had been a second earlier. He kicked out hard, catching the killer in the stomach and sending him stumbling back. The knife clattered to the floor.

He scrambled up, trying to throw punches, but the killer was stronger, faster. A brutal fist to the face split his lip. Another blow to the ribs dropped him to his knees. The killer grabbed him by the hair and slammed him into the wall, then snatched the knife again.

Eddie felt hot lines of pain across his arms and side as the blade slashed. Blood soaked his shirt. In a desperate move, he snatched the heavy bedside lamp and swung it with everything he had. It cracked against the killer's masked head, knocking Ghostface to the side.

And he didn't wait. He bolted through the trailer, knocking over chairs, bursting out the front door with a raw scream.

"Help!"

Blood dripped from his fingers as he sprinted across the lot toward the neighbor's trailer, where a light still burned. He pounded on the door with both fists.

"Help! Please, someone—!"

Behind him, slow footsteps crunched on gravel. Eddie looked back in horror.

Ghostface walked steadily toward him, knife in hand, casually wiping Eddie's blood off the blade with the edge of his robe. The mask tilted slightly, almost curious.

"Fucking help me!" Eddie screamed, slamming his fist on the door again. "Open the goddamn door!"

The neighbor's porch light flickered once.

Then went dark.

The night air was thick with salt and the distant crash of waves against the cliffs of Santa Carla. You'd only been turned a few nights ago and reborn in the cave that the boys called home. The bond had snapped into place immediately: all four of them felt it, that primal pack pull that marked you as theirs.

Their mate. Their shared claim.

But with Dwayne, it was deeper, sharper. A soul-deep tether that made his dark eyes follow you like a shadow, his silence heavier with unspoken hunger.

Tonight was your first hunt.

The boardwalk lights glittered below as the five of you moved like predators through the crowd. David leading with that cocky smirk, Paul and Marko laughing and shoving each other, you tucked between them, and Dwayne at your back, one large hand occasionally brushing your hip.

Your throat burned as the new fangs ached in your gums. Every heartbeat around you pulsed like a drum in your veins.

"Pick one," David murmured, voice low and amused as he nodded toward a cluster of drunk tourists near the carousel. "Or let the hunger choose."

You didn't have time to be picky. The scent of warm, living blood hit you like a drug, and you lunged.

The man never saw you coming. You slammed him back into the shadows behind a shuttered booth, fangs sinking deep into his throat with a wet crunch. No grace. No control. Hot blood flooded your mouth in thick, coppery spurts—messy, overflowing, spilling down your chin and soaking the front of your shirt in dark, glistening streaks.

You moaned against his skin, gulping greedily, tearing the wound wider as he twitched and gurgled. Blood sprayed across your face, dripped from your lashes, and painted your lips and throat in violent crimson.

Behind you, the boys watched. Paul whistled low. Marko laughed. David's eyes gleamed with approval.

But Dwayne… Dwayne was utterly still.

Until he wasn't.

The moment the rich scent of fresh kill mixed with your own new-vampire pheromones hit him, his control snapped. A low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest as he stepped forward, shoving the dying man aside like trash. The body hit the ground with a dull thud, forgotten.

Dwayne's hands were on you instantly—rough, possessive, fingers digging into your blood-slick hips as he spun you around and crushed his mouth to yours.

The kiss was brutal. Blood smeared between your lips, coating both your tongues as he devoured the taste of the kill from you. His fangs nicked your bottom lip, drawing more blood—yours and the stranger's mixing in a hot, metallic flood that made you whimper into his mouth.

"Fuck," he rasped against your lips, voice wrecked. "Look at you… so goddamn messy."

He pushed you back against the wooden wall of the booth, the shadows swallowing you both. The rest of the boys melted into the night with knowing smirks, giving you space. They could feel the bond thrumming—Dwayne's claim taking precedence tonight.

Your hands fisted in his leather jacket as he dropped to his knees right there in the alley dirt. He shoved your ruined shirt up, exposing your breasts, already streaked with blood. His mouth latched onto one nipple, sucking hard, tongue swirling through the warm crimson that had pooled there.

You cried out, back arching, fingers tangling in his long, dark hair as he groaned like a starving man.

"So much blood," he muttered, voice vibrating against your skin. He bit down, fangs piercing the soft flesh of your breast just enough to draw fresh rivulets that ran down your stomach. He chased every drop with his tongue, licking broad stripes across your ribs, your belly, lower—until he yanked your jeans open and dragged them down your thighs along with your soaked panties.

You were dripping, blood and slick mixing together in obscene wetness down your inner thighs. Dwayne's eyes were pure black with lust as he looked up at you, face already painted red from chin to nose.

He buried his face between your legs without warning.

His tongue drove deep inside you, lapping at the bloody mess like it was nectar. He growled, the sound sending vibrations straight to your clit as he sucked it between his lips, fangs grazing just enough to sting. Your thighs clamped around his head, blood from the kill still dripping from your chin onto his hair as you rode his face shamelessly. He drank from you—your arousal, the remnants of the hunt, the fresh blood from the shallow bites he kept leaving on your thighs.

"Dwayne...fuck... please—"

He rose suddenly, towering over you, and spun you around to face the wall. You braced your hands against the rough wood as he freed his cock—thick, hard, already leaking. Without preamble, he kicked your legs wider and thrust into you in one brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt in your tight, blood-slick heat.

You screamed in pleasure, the sound echoing off the walls.

He fucked you like an animal—deep, punishing thrusts that slammed you against the wood. One hand fisted in your hair, yanking your head back so he could sink his fangs into your neck while the other reached around to rub your clit with blood-smeared fingers. Every thrust forced more of the stranger's blood to squelch obscenely between your joined bodies, coating his balls and dripping down your legs in warm, sticky trails.

"You're mine," he snarled against your torn throat, licking the fresh blood as it welled up. "My soul. My mate. This tight little cunt... covered in blood for me."

You came hard, clenching around his cock, your own fangs sinking into your lip as waves of ecstasy ripped through you. Dwayne didn't stop. He pulled out only long enough to flip you again, lifting you so your legs wrapped around his waist. He impaled you once more, bouncing you on his cock as blood continued to drip from your breasts and neck onto his chest.

He bit you again—shoulder, breast, throat—every fresh wound sending sparks of dark pleasure through the new vampire bond. You returned the favor, sinking your fangs into his neck and drinking deep. His blood was ancient, potent, making your body sing as he roared and came, flooding your pussy with hot spurts while your combined blood painted you both in glistening red.

You stayed locked together, panting, bodies sliding against each other in the mess. Dwayne pressed his forehead to yours, dark eyes soft only for you, even as blood dripped from his lashes.

"First hunt," he murmured, voice rough with satisfaction. "And you're already perfect. My messy, beautiful mate."

From the shadows, you heard Paul's distant laugh. "Save some for the rest of us next time!"

The boardwalk lights blurred into streaks of neon as you wandered through the evening crowd, the salt air thick with popcorn, ocean spray, and something sharper—danger. Santa Carla had that reputation, but you’d come anyway, drawn by the wild freedom of the place after a life that felt too small, too ordinary.

You didn’t notice him at first.

Dwayne stood like a shadow among the chaos, long dark hair framing a face carved from quiet menace. Tall, broad-shouldered, leather jacket hugging a body built for violence. His brothers laughed and snarled around him—David’s icy smirk, Paul’s wild energy, Marko’s feral grin—but Dwayne rarely spoke. He watched.

And that night, his eyes locked onto you.

You were laughing at something a guy in the video store had said, a harmless flirtation while you browsed tapes. Dwayne’s jaw tightened. The world narrowed to the way that stranger leaned too close, the way your smile lit up the night like it belonged to anyone but him.

He moved before he thought. Silent as death, he was suddenly there, one hand clamping down on the guy’s shoulder hard enough to make bone creak.

“Walk away,” Dwayne said, voice low and even. No shouting. No threatening. Just fact.

The guy paled and bolted. You blinked up at the stranger, heart stuttering at the intensity in those dark eyes. “Uh… thanks? I think?”

Dwayne didn’t smile; he just stared, drinking you in like a man dying of thirst who’d finally found water. “You shouldn’t be out here alone.”

His voice wrapped around you, deep and rough like distant thunder. Something in it made your skin prickle—not entirely with fear.

From that night on, he was always nearby.

You’d catch glimpses: a tall figure leaning against a lamppost when you left work at the comic shop. The rumble of a motorcycle trailing just far enough behind your bike rides along the beach. Once, when a group of surf nazis catcalled you near the bonfires, they disappeared by morning. Found later in pieces, the papers said. “Animal attack.” Dwayne never mentioned it.

He just appeared at your door the next evening with that same unreadable stare. “You’re safe now,” he murmured, stepping inside when unwittingly invited. His presence filled the small beach house you rented, all quiet power and leather and something metallic underneath... like blood.

You should have been terrified, but instead, a dark thrill curled in your stomach when he looked at you like that. Like you were the only real thing in his endless night.

One night, after too many close calls with his “brothers” watching you like fresh meat, you tried to pull away. You told him you needed space, that this—whatever this was—was moving too fast. That you didn’t even know him, not really.

Dwayne went still. The air grew heavy, thick with the weight of his silence.

He crossed the room in two strides, backing you against the wall. One hand braced beside your head, the other gently—too gently—cupping your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. His thumb brushed your lower lip, possessive and tender all at once.

“You think you can leave?” he whispered. His voice stayed soft, but the edge beneath it was razor-sharp. “I’ve watched you every night. I know how you breathe when you’re scared. How your heart races when you feel me near. You’re mine, little one. I killed for you before I even tasted your name on my tongue.”

Your breath hitched. “Dwayne…”

He leaned in, forehead resting against yours, eyes half-lidded with something between worship and madness. “The others don’t touch what’s mine. That boy who smiled at you yesterday? He won’t smile again. Anyone who looks too long, talks too sweet—they disappear. Because you belong in the dark with me. Where no one else can have you.”

His lips ghosted over yours, not quite a kiss yet—a promise. “I’ll turn you when you’re ready. Make you eternal. Strong. Untouchable. But until then… you stay close. You let me keep you safe.”

He finally kissed you then—slow, deep, devouring. Like he was sealing a vow written in blood. When he pulled back, his eyes had that dangerous gleam, the one that said love and obsession were the same word to him.

“I’d burn this whole town to ash if it meant keeping you,” he said quietly, brushing a strand of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. “And I’d enjoy every second of it. Because you’re the only light I’ve got left… and I won’t share.”

The ocean crashed against the cliffs, and somewhere in the distance, the rest of the pack howled with laughter. But in your little house, there was only Dwayne—silent, watchful, and utterly, dangerously yours.

He smiled then. Small. Rare. Terrifyingly sweet.

“Say you’re mine.”

The air in Ambrose hung thick with the scent of decay and melted wax, a ghost town frozen in time under the relentless Louisiana sun. You and your boyfriend, Jake, had stumbled upon it by accident—or so it seemed.

Your car had broken down miles back, and the detour signs led you here, to this eerie place where the streets were empty, the buildings sagged like weary sentinels, and the only signs of life were the unnervingly lifelike wax figures staring out from shop windows.

At first, it was just unsettling. The House of Wax museum at the center of town drew you in with its macabre charm, but as you wandered deeper, the truth clawed its way to the surface. Those weren't statues. They were people—real people, preserved in eternal agony, their skin coated in wax like some twisted artist's masterpiece.

And the brothers... God, the brothers. Vincent, the masked giant with his silent, predatory grace, and Bo, the charming mechanic with eyes that gleamed like oil slicks, hiding a venomous soul.

You realized too late when Vincent appeared from the shadows, his wax-covered blades glinting. Panic exploded as you grabbed Jake's hand and ran, hearts pounding, feet slapping against cracked pavement as you darted through alleyways and abandoned houses. Bo's laughter echoed behind you, a low, mocking drawl that sent chills racing down your spine. "Y'all ain't goin' nowhere!" he called, his voice laced with amusement, like this was just a game to him.

Your lungs burned as you sprinted toward the edge of town, but Ambrose was a trap—a labyrinth designed to ensnare. Every turn led back inward, toward the museum, toward them. Vincent's heavy footsteps thudded in the distance, closing in like a noose. Jake's grip on your hand tightened, his face pale and slick with sweat. "We gotta split up," he gasped, but you shook your head fiercely.

"No, we stick together!"

But the choice wasn't yours. You turned a corner into a dead-end alley behind the church, trash bins and rusted fences blocking the way. Bo stepped out from the shadows ahead, his shotgun slung casually over one shoulder, a smirk twisting his handsome features. Vincent loomed at the alley's mouth, blocking retreat, his breathing ragged through that grotesque mask.

"Well, well," Bo drawled, his Southern accent thick as molasses, eyes raking over you both with predatory interest. "Looks like the party's over, darlin'. You two lovebirds done runnin'?"

Jake shoved you behind him, his voice trembling. "Stay back! We don't want trouble!"

Bo chuckled, advancing slowly, his boots scraping the gravel. "Oh, sugar, trouble's already found ya. Ain't no leavin' Ambrose once you're here. But hey, maybe we can make a deal. I got a soft spot for pretty things." His gaze lingered on you, dark and hungry, making your skin crawl.

You pressed against the fence, heart hammering. "Jake, we have to fight," you whispered urgently, scanning for anything—a loose board, a rock. But Jake's eyes darted wildly, his bravery crumbling like dry wax.

Bo raised the shotgun, not aiming yet, just toying. "Last chance. Drop to your knees, or we do this the hard way."

In a blur of motion, Jake spun, grabbing your arms. For a split second, you thought he was pulling you close, protecting you. But no, his shove was brutal, propelling you straight toward Bo.

You stumbled, crashing into the killer's chest, his arms instinctively wrapping around you to steady—or capture.

"Take her!" Jake yelled, his voice cracking with desperation. "Just take her! Let me go!"

Time froze. Bo's grip tightened, his body warm and solid against yours, smelling of motor oil and faint cologne. You twisted, staring at Jake in disbelief as he bolted past Vincent, who didn't move—perhaps stunned, or maybe just amused. Jake disappeared around the corner, his footsteps fading into the distance.

"You son of a bitch!" you screamed, rage boiling over, hot tears stinging your eyes. Betrayed and sacrificed like a lamb to buy his cowardice a few more minutes. You thrashed in Bo's hold, nails raking his arms, but he held fast, his laugh rumbling through his chest.

"Whoa there, easy, darlin'." Bo's voice was low, teasing, his breath hot against your ear. "Looks like your knight in shinin' armor just threw you to the wolves. Damn, that's cold. Even I ain't that heartless." He spun you around to face him, one hand cupping your chin roughly, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes sparkled with dark humor, and his lips curled in a smirk that revealed straight white teeth. "What kinda man leaves his girl behind? Bet he didn't even say goodbye."

"Fuck you," you spat, shoving at his chest, but he didn't budge. Vincent shifted nearby, a low grunt escaping his mask, but Bo waved him off.

"Nah, brother, I got this one." Bo's smirk widened. "She's feisty. Kinda like it." He glanced in the direction Jake had fled, then back to you. "Tell ya what, sugar. You wanna go after him? Settle the score? I got somethin' for ya." He reached behind his back, pulling a hunting knife from his belt, the blade wickedly sharp, stained with old blood. He held it out hilt-first, not expecting you to take it, just mocking your fury. "Go on. Take it. Chase that yellow-bellied bastard down. I'll even give ya a head start."

Your blood roared in your ears. Without hesitation, you snatched the knife, the weight familiar and empowering in your palm. Bo's eyebrows shot up, genuine surprise flickering across his face before it melted into intrigue.

"Damn," he murmured, stepping back with hands raised in mock surrender. "Alright then. Go get 'im, tiger."

You didn't wait. Rage propelled you forward, past Vincent, who stepped aside without protest, and out of the alley. Jake couldn't have gotten far; his betrayal was fresh, his fear making him sloppy. You sprinted down the main street, knife gripped tight, the town's waxen inhabitants watching silently from their perches.

Jake, in a clumsy panic, had knocked over a barrel near the gas station and had stopped for a breather, seemingly under the impression that Bo had taken his offer.

"Jake!" you bellowed, voice raw with fury. He glanced back, eyes widening in terror as he saw you closing in, blade flashing in the sunlight.

"Oh shit, wait, baby, I didn't mean—"

You tackled him, the impact sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs. He fought back, grabbing your wrist, but your anger fueled you. "You sacrificed me!" you snarled, kneeing him in the gut. He gasped, winded, and you wrenched free, pressing the knife to his throat just enough to draw a thin line of blood. "You pushed me into his arms like I was nothing!"

"I'm sorry! I panicked! Please—"

Bo's voice cut through the air, slow-clapping as he approached, Vincent trailing behind like a shadow. "Well, I'll be damned. Look at that fire." He stopped a few feet away, arms crossed, that smirk back in place, but his eyes held something new: admiration, maybe even desire.

Jake whimpered beneath you, but Bo ignored him, focused solely on you. "You got more guts than he ever did, darlin'. Hell, I think I'm in love."

You glanced up, breathing hard, the knife still poised. Bo's gaze locked with yours, intense and unyielding. A shiver ran through you, not entirely from fear. There was a twisted allure in his confidence, in the way he looked at you like you were a prize worth claiming.

Bo chuckled, stepping closer. "We should finish this little reunion." He nodded at Jake. "You wanna do the honors, or should I?"

Your mind raced. Jake's betrayal stung deep, but killing him? That line blurred in the heat of the moment. Yet Ambrose's rules were clear: no one left alive. You hesitated, and Bo saw it. Gently, he pried the knife from your fingers, his touch lingering. "Easy, sugar. I got ya."

In one fluid motion, he hauled Jake up by the collar, dragging him toward the museum. Jake begged, blubbering apologies, but Bo silenced him with a backhand. "Shut up. You had your chance." Vincent moved in, restraining Jake with ease, his masked face impassive.

You stood watching as they hauled him away. Part of you wanted to run, to escape this nightmare, but where? The town was a cage, and deep down, a darker curiosity stirred.

Bo turned back, extending a hand. "C'mon, darlin'. Let's get you cleaned up. Ambrose could use a queen like you."

You stared at his hand, callused and strong. The rational part of you screamed to fight, to flee. But rage and adrenaline whispered otherwise.

Slowly, you took it, his fingers closing around yours possessively.

As you walked toward his house, Bo's arm slipped around your waist, pulling you close. "Knew you were special the moment I saw ya," he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "Ain't lettin' you go now."

The sun dipped low, casting long shadows over the wax figures, soon to be joined by a new addition. Jake's screams echoed from the basement, but you didn't flinch. In Ambrose, survival meant adapting, and with Bo's dark gaze on you, promising protection and passion twisted with peril, you wondered if this was escape or entrapment. Either way, you were his now.

The warm summer night in Santa Carla wrapped around you like a familiar embrace, the air thick with the scent of saltwater, fried dough, and distant bonfires. Neon lights flickered overhead, casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the crowds milling about—tourists laughing, kids chasing each other with cotton candy in hand, and the occasional shadowy figure lurking in the alleys.

You loved this place; it was chaotic, alive, and utterly yours. Or rather, it was theirs—the Lost Boys'. And by extension, yours too.

You'd been with them for months now, ever since that fateful night when David had first locked eyes with you under the Ferris wheel, his smirk promising danger and delight in equal measure. It hadn't taken long for the others to follow suit: Paul's wild energy pulling you into endless nights of laughter, Marko's playful teasing making you feel seen, Dwayne's quiet strength grounding you when the world spun too fast.

They were a package deal, these four vampires, and you'd fallen hard into their web. Possessive? Absolutely. But it was a possession born of fierce love, not control. They let you roam free, knowing you'd always come back to them. Still, jealousy simmered just beneath the surface, especially when outsiders got too close.

Tonight, you were wandering a bit ahead of the pack, drawn to a colorful stall selling handmade jewelry—silver chains glinting under string lights, beaded bracelets in every hue. The vendor was a young guy, maybe in his early twenties, with sun-bleached hair and an easygoing smile that screamed "surfer dude." He caught your eye as you picked up a delicate necklace with a moon-shaped pendant.

"That's one of my favorites," he said, leaning over the counter with a grin. "Hand-carved from abalone shell. Suits someone with your vibe—mysterious, you know?"

You chuckled, holding it up to the light. "Mysterious? That's a new one. Usually, people just call me 'that girl with the scary guys.' How much?"

He waved a hand dismissively. "For you? Fifteen bucks. But tell me, what's a girl like you doing out here alone? Boardwalk can get rough after dark."

"Oh, I'm not alone," you replied lightly, fishing for cash in your pocket. It was innocent enough, small talk to pass the time while you browsed. But as you glanced up, you felt it: that prickling awareness on the back of your neck. They were watching.

The boys had been lingering nearby, sprawled out on a bench like kings surveying their kingdom. Paul was mid-joke, probably something crude about the latest horror flick playing at the drive-in, when his laughter cut off abruptly. His blue eyes narrowed, zeroing in on you and the vendor. Marko, ever the firecracker, straightened up, his wild curls seeming to bristle like a cat's fur. Dwayne's broad shoulders tensed, his dark gaze turning stormy as he crossed his arms over his chest. And David—oh, David. His usual cool demeanor cracked just a fraction, that platinum hair catching the light as his smile sharpened into something predatory, like a blade unsheathed.

They didn't rush over. No, that wasn't their style. Not yet. Instead, they began to drift, casual as shadows lengthening at dusk. Paul sauntered first, hands in his pockets, but his usual grin was gone, replaced by a pout that bordered on sulky. Marko followed, tossing his hair back with exaggerated nonchalance, though you could see the way his fingers twitched, itching for action. Dwayne moved like a panther, silent and deliberate, his presence alone enough to make the air feel heavier. David brought up the rear, gloves creaking softly as he flexed his hands.

You were still chatting with the vendor, now about the best spots for night surfing, of all things, when you sensed them closing in. The stall suddenly felt smaller, the space around you shrinking as the four of them formed a loose circle, their bodies a living barrier between you and the rest of the world.

The vendor's words trailed off mid-sentence. His easy smile faltered as he looked up, realizing he was now surrounded by four very intense men. They weren't glaring outright—nothing so obvious—but the energy they radiated was unmistakable. Possessive. Territorial. Like wolves staking claim on their territory.

David stepped in closest, his hand sliding onto your hip with casual possession, fingers curling just enough to pull you a fraction toward him. The touch was light, but it sent a shiver through you, a reminder of the nights you'd spent tangled in their arms, their fangs grazing your skin in ways that blurred pain and pleasure.

"She's busy," David said simply, his voice smooth as silk but edged with steel. His eyes never left the vendor's, that sharp smile widening just enough to show a hint of fang—subtle, but there if you knew where to look.

The poor guy stammered, his face paling under the neon glow. "Uh, yeah, sure, man. No problem. Enjoy the necklace." He backed away hastily, nearly knocking over a display of earrings in his rush to busy himself with another customer who didn't exist.

You turned to face the four of them, arms crossed over your chest, trying to suppress a smile. "Really? He was just being nice."

Paul threw his hands up dramatically, his pout deepening into something almost comical. "Nice? Babe, he was totally flirting! Did you see the way he leaned in? 'Mysterious vibe', please. That's code for 'I wanna get in your pants.'"

Marko snorted, leaning against the stall's edge with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "You're too cute for your own good, you know that? Not our fault, we have to chase off the strays. What if he tried something?"

Dwayne didn't say much; he rarely did in these moments, but he stepped closer, his hand brushing your arm in a gentle contrast to the tension in his jaw. "We... didn't like it," he murmured, his voice low and rumbling, like thunder on the horizon. His dark eyes met yours, and you saw the flicker of vulnerability there, hidden beneath the possessiveness. They were immortal, powerful, but when it came to you, they were achingly human-like in their fears.

David's grip on your hip tightened just a touch before relaxing, his other hand coming up to tilt your chin toward him. "If he'd touched you, I'd—" He paused as you shot him a warning look, those piercing blue eyes of his sparkling with mischief. "—I would have politely asked him to reconsider his life choices."

You couldn't help it; laughter bubbled out of you, breaking the tension like a wave crashing on the shore. The sound seemed to melt them instantly. Paul's pout vanished, replaced by his infectious grin as he slung an arm around your shoulders. Marko chuckled, ruffling your hair affectionately. Dwayne's shoulders relaxed, a small smile tugging at his lips. Even David softened, his sharp edges dulling as he pressed a cool kiss to your forehead.

"You're impossible, all of you," you said, shaking your head. But there was no real annoyance in your voice, only fondness. Being with them meant navigating this dance of jealousy and love, and truthfully, it thrilled you. They weren't trying to cage you; they just loved you loudly, fiercely, in a way that made the world feel a little less lonely.

The boardwalk buzzed around you, oblivious to the little drama that had unfolded. Paul tugged you toward the Ferris wheel, his energy bouncing back like a rubber band. "C'mon, let's ride this thing before Marko starts whining about being hungry."

"I'm always hungry," Marko shot back, falling into step beside you. "But for once, it's not blood I'm craving—funnel cake?"

Dwayne walked on your other side, his hand finding yours in a quiet claim. David lingered behind, watching over the group like the leader he was, but you felt his gaze on you, warm despite his calm demeanor.

As the night wore on, you found yourself sandwiched between them on the Ferris wheel, the city lights sprawling out below like a sea of stars. Paul's head rested on your shoulder, Marko chattering about some prank he wanted to pull on the local surfers. Dwayne's arm was around your waist, steady and sure. David sat across, his knee brushing yours, that possessive spark still in his eyes but tempered now with contentment.

"You know we don't mean to smother you," David said quietly, when the others were distracted by the view. "It's just... you're ours. And we're yours. Seeing someone else look at you like that, it stirs things up."

You reached out, lacing your fingers with his. "I get it. And honestly? It's kind of hot when you all get like that. As long as you don't actually hurt anyone."

He smirked, bringing your hand to his lips for a kiss that lingered a beat too long. "Deal. Polite reconsiderations only."

The wheel creaked to a stop at the top, the wind whipping through your hair. Down below, the vendor's stall was a tiny speck, forgotten already. Up here, with them, you felt untouchable—loved in a way that was wild, eternal, and just a little dangerous.

Later, as the boys led you toward the cave, promises of a quieter night whispering in your ear, you reflected on how far you'd come from a lone wanderer on the boardwalk to the center of their world. Jealousy might look good on them, but belonging? That felt even better.

The cave welcomed you like an old friend, the dim torchlight flickering over the makeshift beds and scattered treasures they'd collected over the years. Paul immediately cranked up the boombox, blasting some hair metal anthem that had Marko headbanging in seconds. Dwayne busied himself with lighting more candles, casting a golden glow that softened the space's rough edges.

You collapsed onto the pile of blankets that served as your shared nest, the necklace still clutched in your hand. "You guys didn't have to scare him off so fast. I was about to haggle the price down."

David chuckled, shedding his coat and joining you, his body cool against yours as he pulled you into his lap. "Next time, we'll let you handle it. Maybe."

Paul flopped down beside you, nuzzling into your neck with exaggerated affection. "Or we could just intimidate him into giving you everything for free. Problem solved!"

Marko joined the pile, sprawling out with his head on your thigh. "Tempting. But where's the fun in that? I like watching her work her magic."

Dwayne settled in last, his presence a calming anchor as he draped an arm over Paul. The five of you tangled together like puzzle pieces, the earlier jealousy forgotten in the warmth of your bond.

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The Wheeler house stood quiet under the blanket of night, its familiar suburban facade hiding the storm of paranoia brewing inside. Nancy and Jonathan had claimed the living room as their makeshift detective headquarters, the coffee table cluttered with notebooks, newspaper clippings, and a large corkboard propped against the wall.

Red twine crisscrossed the board like veins, connecting photos and scribbled notes in a web of suspicion. Nancy, ever the aspiring journalist, paced back and forth, her sharp eyes scanning the board as if it held the key to unlocking the nightmare that had descended on Hawkins.

Jonathan sat on the edge of the couch, rubbing his temples. The two had been at it for hours, piecing together theories about Chrissy's brutal murder and the attempt on Kimberly's life.

Nancy was still rattled by Kimberly's breakdown at school earlier that day—the way her friend had screamed awake from some invisible horror. She wanted answers, needed them, like Nancy Drew chasing a phantom clue.

"Okay, so what do Chrissy Cunningham and Kimberly have in common?" Nancy asked, stopping mid-stride to face Jonathan. She tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her ear, her brow furrowed in concentration.

They both pondered, the silence broken only by the faint tick of the wall clock. Chrissy and Kimberly had been inseparable best friends, but beyond that? No shared clubs, no overlapping social circles. They didn't even have common enemies—at least, none that jumped out. Nothing tied them together except...

"I think the obvious would be Carver," Jonathan said, leaning forward. His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it, a quiet anger.

Nancy nodded, her mind racing. "I thought that too, but there was just something about his attitude at lunch. He thinks Eddie Munson killed Chrissy, and he seemed so—"

"Douchey. Asshole-ish," Jonathan finished, smirking faintly despite the gravity. "Come on, Nance, he threatened Kimberly in front of us."

"No... honest," Nancy insisted, shaking her head. "He truly believes Eddie had something to do with Chrissy's death. But maybe he's just good at acting."

She sighed, turning back to the poster board. Jason Carver's yearbook photo stared back at her from the center, his smug grin mocking their efforts.

Red twine radiated from him like spokes on a wheel, linking to Chrissy's picture, Kimberly's, and scattered notes: "Jealous ex?" "Threats?" "Alibi?" Nancy's fingers traced one of the strings, her mind replaying the day's events.

"I spoke to Eddie Munson today, after Kimberly left school," she said. "He said he was with her studying, and that Kimmy had been on the phone with Chrissy. They were talking about Jason. Eddie was under the impression that Kimberly had managed to talk Chrissy into leaving him."

Jonathan's eyes widened. "Wow. So that has to be it, right? We all know what Jason is like with Chrissy; he'd be angry if he thought she was dumping him. Then to find out it was Kimberly who helped?"

He reached for a spool of red twine on the table, cut a length, and pinned it between Jason's photo and Kimberly's. The board looked even more damning now, a visual indictment of the basketball star everyone whispered about. But Nancy wasn't convinced—not entirely. There were holes, inconsistencies that nagged at her.

Nancy leaned against the couch, rubbing her temples. "The police are dragging their feet. They say it's too early to accuse anyone, but come on. The way Chrissy was... mutilated. It screams personal. Jason's the only one who fits."

She glances at the board again, and other than Jason's picture, there was one of Billy Hargrove, but he didn't have any red twine coming from his picture.

"I mean, the police did arrest Billy, but there's nothing that connects him to this," she continued, crossing her arms. "He saved Kimberly. Why would a killer try to save their victim?"

Before Jonathan could respond, the lights flickered and died, plunging the room into darkness. The hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen cut off abruptly, leaving only the distant chirp of crickets outside.

Jonathan groaned. "Fuse box again?"

Nancy shrugged, fumbling in a drawer for a flashlight. She clicked it on, the beam cutting through the shadows like a knife.

"I got it. I'll be right back." Jonathan said, taking the light from her. He gave her a reassuring smile before heading downstairs, his footsteps echoing on the wooden stairs.

Nancy stayed upstairs, lighting a few candles scattered around the room. Their flames danced, casting eerie glows on the corkboard. Jason's face flickered in the firelight, his eyes seeming to follow her. She stared at it, lost in thought, piecing together the puzzle. A beat passed—too long. No lights came back on, and Jonathan didn't return.

Then, just as she frowned, the lights buzzed back to life, flooding the house with harsh fluorescence.

"They're on!" Nancy called out, her voice echoing down the hall. "Jonathan?" No answer. She peered down the hallway, straining to hear any sign of him—footsteps, a door closing. Nothing.

"Stop, that's not funny," she said, a hint of irritation masking the unease creeping in.

The phone rang—a shrill, insistent trill that shattered the silence. Nancy flinched, her heart leaping in fear. She picked up the receiver on the third ring, her voice cautious. "Hello?"

A pause, then a voice—deep, distorted, like gravel through a filter. "Hello, Nancy."

She froze, grip tightening. "Who is this?"

"Who's this?" the voice mocked, a low chuckle following. "You tell me."

Nancy's eyes darted to the windows, curtains open, but she couldn't make anything outside through the darkness. "I don't know who you are. What do you want?"

"To talk. You like solving mysteries, don't you? That pinboard of yours, very Nancy Drew."

Her blood ran cold. How did they know about the pinboard? She edged toward the window, peeking out. The yard was empty, shadows pooling under the trees. "This isn't funny. Hang up, or I'm calling the police."

The voice just laughs tauntingly, "They'd never make it to you in time."

She slammed the phone down, heart hammering. But it rang again almost immediately, insistent and mocking. She stared at it, willing it to stop, but curiosity—or fear—won out. She picked up. "Leave me alone!"

"Wrong answer," the voice purred. "You hang up on me again, and your boyfriend pays the price."

Nancy's blood ran cold. "Jonathan? What have you done to him?"

"Nothing... yet. He's just checking the fuses, right? But let's make this interesting. A little game. Answer my questions correctly, and maybe he walks away. Get them wrong... well, you know how these stories end."

She glanced toward the basement door—still shut, no sound from below. "You're bluffing."

"Am I? Turn on the back light, Nancy. See for yourself."

Her hand trembled as she flipped the switch by the door. The porch flooded with light, revealing the backyard—and there, slumped in a patio chair, was Jonathan. Bound with duct tape, a gag in his mouth, his eyes wide with terror. Blood trickled from a gash on his forehead.

Nancy gasped, dropping the phone for a split second before snatching it back. "You bastard! Let him go!"

"Not until we play," the voice said, calm as ever. "Question one: Who killed Chrissy Cunningham?"

Tears stung her eyes as she stared at Jonathan through the glass door. He struggled against his bonds, muffled pleas escaping. "Jason... Jason Carver."

"Question two: What's the one rule you never break in a horror movie?"

"Don't... don't split up?" Nancy guessed, her mind scrambling.

"Close, but no. Never say 'I'll be right back.' Because you won't."

The line went dead. Nancy dropped the phone, fumbling with the door lock. She burst outside, racing to Jonathan. "I'm coming! Hold on!"

She tore at the ropes, her fingers slick with sweat. Jonathan's muffled warnings grew frantic, his head shaking wildly. "What? What is it?"

A rustle behind her. She spun—just in time to see the Ghostface mask emerge from the shadows, knife raised high. Nancy screamed, dodging the slash that whistled past her ear. She grabbed a lawn chair and swung it wildly, but the killer was faster and stronger.

Jonathan thrashed, trying to break free, but the killer lunged, plunging the knife into his chest. Blood sprayed as Jonathan's eyes bulged in shock. A gurgling cry escaped his gag as he slumped forward.

"No! Jonathan!" Nancy wailed, backing away. She turned to run, but the killer was on her, grabbing her hair and yanking her back. She fought, nails raking at the mask, until the knife sliced across her arm, hot pain exploding.

She broke free, stumbling toward the house, but the killer tackled her to the grass. The mask loomed over her, emotionless and white. "Please... why us? " she gasped.

"You got too close," the voice rasped, distorted even up close.

They stopped almost in unison.

The air was wrong.

Marko’s head snapped up, nostrils flaring. “Someone’s been here.”

Paul’s lazy grin faded. He inhaled deeply. “Girl. Smells… fuck, she smells good.”

Dwayne moved silently through the space, dark eyes scanning. He crouched by the couch, brushed fingers over the cushions still warm from a body. “Not long ago.”

David’s gaze swept the room—drawers left slightly ajar, blankets disturbed. His expression stayed cool, but something predatory flickered behind the pale blue.

Then Dwayne straightened, holding up the broken crystal bottle. Shards glinted in his palm, the last drops of blood-wine staining his skin crimson.

David took it. Turned it slowly. A slow, sharp smile curved his mouth.

🦇 read more lost boys while you wait

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The classroom buzzed with the low hum of teenage boredom, the kind that settled over Hawkins High like a fog on a rainy afternoon. Hours had passed since the morning's chaos, but the weight of Chrissy's death lingered in the air, unspoken yet suffocating.

Kimberly sat slumped at her desk, surrounded by classmates droning through another English lesson. She tried to focus, her pencil idly tapping against her notebook, but exhaustion pulled at her like invisible strings. She leaned her head against Steve Harrington's shoulder, his familiar warmth a small anchor in the storm raging inside her.

The teacher, Mrs. Ellis, paced at the front of the room, her voice steady and academic as she delved into the Bard's darker themes. "According to Shakespeare, there was something operating in Nature, perhaps inside human nature itself, that was rotten. A canker, as he put it."

Her eyes swept across the sea of faces, lingering for a moment on the disinterested crowd. Kimberly stifled a yawn, her eyelids heavy, but she forced herself to listen. Mrs. Ellis continued, her tone thoughtful."Of course, Hamlet's response to this, and to his mother's lies, was to continually probe and dig, just like the gravediggers, always trying to get beneath the surface. The same was true, in a different way, in Julius Caesar. Michael, go ahead..."

She nodded to a teen standing awkwardly in front of the class, his book clutched to his chest like a shield. Michael squinted at the page, his voice halting as he stumbled through the lines, the poetry clashing against his slow drawl. The words blurred together in Kimberly's mind, the classroom's warmth wrapping around her like a blanket. Her head dipped lower, eyelids fluttering shut despite her best efforts. The boy's voice faded into a distant echo, replaced by something far more intimate—and chilling.

A soft, plaintive whisper cut through the haze. "Kimberly..."

Her eyes snapped open her heart pounding. There, at the front of the classroom, stood Chrissy—her best friend, pale and ethereal, watching her with wide, haunted eyes. Before Kimberly could speak, Chrissy turned and slipped out the door, her cheerleader skirt swishing silently.

Kimberly bolted from her seat, glancing warily at the teacher and the class. No one noticed; their heads remained bent over books, oblivious. She darted after Chrissy, pushing through the doorway into... not the hallway, but Chrissy's bedroom. Lightning cracked outside the window, illuminating the familiar posters and scattered pom-poms. Confusion twisted in Kimberly's gut. "Chrissy?"

A sickening squelch echoed from the corner. Kimberly whirled around, horror seizing her as she saw Chrissy, shaking, sobbing uncontrollably. Her friend's limbs jerked violently, twisting at unnatural angles with bone-crunching snaps. Chrissy's jaw dislocated with a wet pop, hanging grotesquely, and then her eyes... they burst like overripe fruit, blood and fluid spilling down her cheeks.

Kimberly gasped, frozen in terror, unable to move or scream. Another flash of lightning lit the room, revealing a shadowy figure in a black robe and ghostly white mask, Ghostface, lunging from the darkness. The knife gleamed as it slashed toward her. Kimberly threw her hands up, a scream ripping from her throat.

She jolted awake in the real classroom, lurching upright with a blood-curdling scream. Her arms flailed protectively, knocking books to the floor in a clatter. Nearby girls shrieked in surprise, scrambling away as Kimberly stumbled over desks, her eyes wild and disoriented.

The entire class stared, whispers rippling like waves. Mrs. Ellis rushed over, her face pale with concern. "Okay, okay, Kimberly! Everything's all right now. Kimberly!"

Kimberly spun around, breath ragged, scanning every corner for the killer. But there was only the sea of shocked faces. Steve jumped up, his expression a mix of worry and protectiveness as soon as he heard her screaming.

While Nancy Wheeler followed suit, her brow furrowed in empathy as they both tried to grab the screaming brunette.

"I'll call your father," Mrs. Ellis said, reaching for the phone on her desk.

"No! No, really, I'm fine," Kimberly insisted, her voice trembling. "I'll go straight home. I'm okay."

Nancy stepped closer, gently touching Kimberly's arm. "Why don't you come home with me? It's just Jonathan and me tonight."

Steve shot Nancy a half-glare, his jaw tightening as he helped gather Kimberly's scattered books into her bag. The tension between them was palpable, but Kimberly barely noticed.

"No, I... I... I'm sorry," she mumbled, shaking her head. She grabbed her bag and bolted for the door, ignoring Mrs. Ellis's call of, "You'll need a hall pass!"

Rushing out of the classroom, she passes the yelling hall monitor and other students who stare through the room window. No doubt this would be churned into the rumor mill by lunch.

Outside, the crisp afternoon air hit her like a slap, but it did little to clear the fog in her mind. The school loomed behind her, a brick behemoth under the gray Indiana sky.

Kimberly paused at one of the towering pine trees lining the front lawn, pressing her forehead against its rough bark. Her teeth clenched as the nightmare replayed in flashes—Chrissy's twisted body, the mask, the knife. A sob escaped her, then another, her body shaking with the force of pent-up grief and fear. She was supposed to be strong, but here she was, breaking like a frightened child.

She wiped her tears with a savage swipe of her sleeve, rubbing her arm absentmindedly as she tried to steady her breathing. Jason. It had to be Jason. Everyone whispered about his jealousy, his explosive temper, but also his possessiveness when it came to Chrissy and his perfect image.

Glancing up, her eyes scanned the horizon and froze. In the distance, partially obscured by the trees, stood a figure in a black robe, the white Ghostface mask staring back at her.

The boardwalk lights flickered like dying stars as you hurried away from the crowd, your heart still pounding from the close call. You’d been cutting through a dimly lit alley near the carousel, which was stupid, in hindsight, when those three surf Nazis cornered you.

Their leers and crude comments had turned threatening fast, hands grabbing at your jacket, until a low growl cut through the night.

Then the boys showed up.

David had appeared first, silent and predatory, his platinum hair catching the neon glow. The others flanked him like shadows come to life: Paul with his wild mane and wicked grin, Marko bouncing on his heels like he was itching for a fight, and Dwayne, tall and brooding, cracking his knuckles without a word.

It was over in seconds. A blur of leather, the boys glared just enough to terrify, and the punks scattered like roaches. You hadn’t even had time to scream.

Now, as they escorted you toward the cliffs, the adrenaline crash left you shaky. The ocean roared below, matching the chaos in your chest.

“You sure you’re okay, babe?” Paul asked, slinging an arm around your shoulders. His touch was casual, but his eyes scanned the darkness behind you.

“Yeah,” you muttered, though your voice wavered. “Just... thanks. Again.”

Marko smirked, walking backward to face you. “Told you the boardwalk gets rough after midnight. Should’ve stuck with us.”

Dwayne rode silently on his bike beside the group, but his dark eyes flicked to you often, protective.

David led the way, his coat billowing like wings. He hadn’t said much during the rescue, just a cold “Back off” that sent chills down your spine, but now he glanced over his shoulder. “You’re not going home alone tonight.”

It wasn’t a question.

You protested weakly. Your apartment was across town, and it was late, but the idea of walking alone now made your skin crawl. Still, crashing with four vampire bikers you’d only been hanging out with for a couple of weeks? The ones who’d been flirting shamelessly, teasing you about joining their ‘pack’?

“Come on,” Paul coaxed, nudging you with his hip. “Our place is closer. Safer.”

“Just one night,” Dwayne added quietly, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder.

“Or twelve,” Paul grinned.

“Or forever,” Marko chimed in with a wink.

David said nothing. He just stopped at the cave entrance hidden in the cliffs, turned, and draped his long leather coat over your shoulders. It swallowed you whole, heavy with the scent of smoke, ocean salt, and something darkly metallic. It felt like a claim, possessive and warm despite the chill of his skin.

You shivered, pulling it tighter. “Fine. One night.”

The cave was just as you remembered from that first daring visit, lit by flickering torches and stolen candles, cluttered with stolen treasures, old bottles, and a massive fountain in the center that trickled like a mocking hotel lobby. But tonight, it felt different. Safer. Like a den.

The boys kicked off their boots, shedding jackets and gloves. Paul cranked up a battered radio, some old rock station crackling to life. Marko raided a cooler for... well, you didn’t ask what was in those bottles. Dwayne disappeared into a side chamber and returned with a pile of mismatched blankets.

You hovered awkwardly near the entrance, unsure. “I can just crash on the couch or—”

David’s low chuckle cut you off. “You don’t want the couch, sweetheart.”

He nodded toward the main chamber, where a massive, sunken mattress dominated the space—piled high with pillows, blankets, and god knows what else. It looked like a nest, chaotic and inviting.

Paul flopped onto it dramatically, face-first, groaning like he’d been waiting for this all night. “Come on, join the pile!”

You hesitated, but Marko was already tugging your hand, his curls bouncing. “It’s comfier than it looks. Promise.”

Dwayne settled near the edge, leaning against the headboard or what passed for one, which in reality was a carved rock wall, watching with that quiet fondness he reserved for his brothers... and now, apparently, you.

David waited, arms crossed, until you finally toed off your shoes and climbed onto the mattress. It was huge—big enough for all five of you without touching, but that clearly wasn’t the plan.

Paul rolled over, patting the spot next to him. You lie down stiffly in the center, staring at the cave ceiling draped with old tapestries.

Then they followed.

Paul flopped face-first beside you with a contented sigh, his blond hair tickling your arm. Marko curled against your back like a mischievous cat, one arm draping over your waist, his breath cool on your neck. Dwayne stretched out near your feet, one large hand resting lightly on your ankle, as if anchoring you. And David... David claimed the spot behind Marko, but his presence loomed—until he shifted, his cool hand settling possessively at your waist as he half lay over Marko.

The mattress dipped under their weight, enveloping you in a tangle of limbs and leather-scented warmth. They were cold at first, like marble statues come to life, but your body heat seeped into them, and soon it was a cocoon of soft chaos.

“You’re safe,” David murmured against your ear, his voice a low vibration that sent shivers down your spine.

“From what?” you whispered, half-teasing, half-genuine. Your heart hammered—part fear, part something else entirely.

“Everything,” he answered simply. His thumb traced lazy circles on your hip through your shirt. “Including us. Unless you ask otherwise.”

Paul lifted his head, grinning lazily. “We don’t bite… unless you want us to.”

Marko snickered into your shoulder, nipping playfully at the fabric of David’s coat still draped over you. “Speak for yourself, dude.”

Dwayne’s hand squeezed your ankle gently, a silent reassurance.

You laughed nervously, the sound echoing softly in the cave. But as the minutes ticked by, the tension melted. Paul’s fingers idly played with a strand of your hair. Marko hummed an off-key tune, his body relaxing fully against yours. Dwayne’s quiet breathing (unnecessary, but habitual) steadied you. And David’s hand never moved from your waist, a steady claim.

Surrounded by four vampires who could tear the world apart but chose instead to guard your sleep, you felt... cherished. Wanted.

Your eyelids grew heavy, the sound of waves crashing outside lulling you. Each one of them pretended not to listen to the rapid thrum of your heartbeat, savoring it like a secret symphony.

As sleep claimed you, tangled in their nest, you couldn’t help but wonder if “one night” would ever be enough.