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jezebelblues · 4 months ago

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𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 | 𝐇.𝐒 ݁ᛪ༙ ꫂ ၴႅၴ ࣪ ִֶָ☾.

ᝰ.ᐟ 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐡 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐛𝐮𝐭.

𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐚 𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬, 𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐧—𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐰𝐧, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞, 𝐚 𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐞 𝐞𝐧𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲.

pt. i, pt. ii

𝐂𝐖: fem!reader, blood+blood drinking (bro is literally a vampire there's going to be blood) 1700s!harry, mentions of death

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: approx 7.3k

❏ yall this excruciatingly long so i just figured it was better to split this into four parts. it starts off kinda slow i knowwww but i feel like it fits his character. anyway I hope u will like. mwah :* also YES his heart beats idk i took creative liberty in assuming the blood he drinks would give him some sort of circulation and YES i drew inspo from tvd i like their vamp lore the most ok bye

Fourth of November, 1701

The English flag thrashed wildly in the biting wind, its edges snapping above the clank of chains and the groan of wood as boats were fastened to the harbor. Hooves clattered against the cobblestone, mingling with the grumble of cart wheels as townsfolk hurried homeward, eager to escape the deepening chill of evening.

Winter crept in with an ill-fated air, a shadow over the town. The fishermen’s hauls dwindled to nearly nothing, their nets coming up bare. Squash and pumpkins, once abundant, softened and rotted on their vines before they could be harvested. Livestock, struck by a strange sickness, perished too soon, their spoiled meat no longer fit to eat. Lately the townsfolk scraped by on what little they could hunt—rabbits, mostly—a meager fare that barely stretched to sustain a family for more than a few days.

YN stood at the end of the dock, the sea’s bitter wind pulling at her hair. A basket woven by her mother dangled from her arm, half-covered by a cloth beneath which a few herbs and stunted vegetables peeked through. She waited for Niall, a fisherman she’d known since childhood, to come ashore. His face was grim, his knuckles pale as he secured his boat. “Any luck?” She asked over the wind, though she already knew the answer.

His mouth twisted into a scowl as he wiped his hands on his trousers and approached her. “Lucks got nothin’ to do with it. s’the new king, swear it. God turned his back on us ‘cause of him.”

She winced and swatted his arm lightly as they started toward the stone walls encircling the town. “Don’t say such things, not out loud.” She kept her voice low, though she too had her doubts about the new ruler. “Best not to tempt fate with those words.”

He rolled his eyes and took the basket from her arm, letting it hang from his own so she could tuck her hands into her sleeves. “You agree with such things. S’pose God does as well from the lack of bloody fish.”

They passed under the worn stone archway marking the entrance to town, their footsteps echoing against the ancient stones. Dover was nestled between the English Channel and rolling green hills, hemmed in by rocky shores and the stark rise of the cliffs, standing watch like grim sentinels over the troubled little town.

As YN and Niall made their way up the winding path from the square, the quiet crept in around them, settling like a thin mist. The evening was thick and gray, heavy clouds stretching over Dover and flattening the light into a cool, uneasy dusk.

Each face they passed, they recognized. it was impossible not to, in a town so small. There was old mrs. Harris, hunched beneath a weathered shawl, who gave them a knowing nod as they went by, as if she alone were privy to the day’s secrets. And mr. James, pulling his cart toward home, who offered a quick tip of his hat, but avoided meeting their eyes too long, as if a weight hung over all of them that no one cared to mention.

Niall, walking beside her, held his silence longer than usual, and there was a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes when he finally turned her way. “You’re still makin’ that stew, yeah?” He hummed, nodding toward the basket swinging lightly in his hand. His tone was casual, almost lazy, yet she sensed something else beneath it, like he was testing the waters of a conversation he couldn’t quite bring himself to start.

“Mum has already started it,” YN replied, keeping her voice as light as his. “Cabbage, onion, bit of thyme. barely a stew, more a broth.” She cast a sideways glance his way, catching the faintest hint of a smile pulling at his mouth.

“No doubt you’ll have your sister servin’ it, then?” He asked, as though it were an afterthought. “I hear she has a way of makin’ anything taste finer.”

YN’s lips twitched, a hint of humor flickering in her eyes. She knew well enough where this was going, but she didn’t indulge him outright. “Oh, she has her charms, but she’s picky ‘bout who gets to see ‘em.”

He laughed quietly, a low sound that seemed to carry on the breeze, soft and uncertain. “She's got the whole town near dreamin’ of her, from what I hear. never seen her eye stray toward anyone, though.”

YN glanced away, her gaze drifting over the clustered rooftops, the narrow chimneys stretching into the dimming sky like spindly fingers. “You’d need more than a bowl of stew to catch her fancy, Niall. You’d best hope for a rich merchant or a duke comin’ ashore.”

His chuckle died off, and for a few quiet moments, they simply walked, the soft scuff of their shoes blending with the distant murmur of the sea. Yet something hung between them, unspoken, like the faintest shadow shifting at the edges of their conversation.

It was Niall who broke the silence, his voice lower this time, his words careful. “Have you heard the talk? About the old watchtower?”

YN’s gaze drifted to the far side of town, where the dense stretch of forest gave way to a steep rise, the silhouette of the abandoned tower just barely visible through the trees. “Folk say all sorts of things,” She muttered, almost to herself. “Been empty as long as I can remember.”

Niall’s eyes narrowed as he looked out toward the darkening line of trees, his jaw set. “Empty, maybe, but someone’s taken to hauntin’ it now. The lads swear they’ve seen a figure up there at night, just a shadow movin’ about, like he’s watchin’ the town from that high window.”

She felt a faint chill that wasn’t from the cold, and she pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “They say a lot of things,” she repeated, her tone steady but soft. “Could be nothin’ but the wind playin’ with shadows.”

He tilted his head, the edge of a smirk softening his face. “Aye, that’s what I'd think, too. But seems each person’s got a different tale to tell. Some say he’s a protector, sent to keep us safe.” He shrugged, his gaze still fixed on the distant woods. “Others say it’s somethin’ darker—maybe one of the king’s men, sent to spy on anyone who dares breathe a word against him.”

YN’s lips parted, but she hesitated, the words hanging unspoken as her gaze lingered on the watchtower. Her grandmother had told her stories of that tower once, years ago, when she was still young enough to believe in the old tales without question. But she’d since brushed them off as the ramblings of an old woman long passed. Now, though, the stories flickered back to her, sharp and vivid as they’d once been.

“I heard some folk say it’s not a man at all,” She murmured, so quietly that her voice nearly vanished into the chill air. “Gran said it’s a spirit—a demon.” she let out a breathy laugh, sending a glance his way. “You believe my ol’gran true?”

Niall made a sound, halfway between a scoff and a chuckle, though he didn’t argue with her. “You don’t seem the sort to believe in demons,YN.”

She didn’t answer him, and for a moment, they stood in the gathering dusk, looking out toward the distant, looming shape of the tower, as if something there had caught them both in its thrall. A strange, unsettling weight hung in the air, pressing down around them, and neither seemed willing to break it.

The faint toll of the chapel bell echoed across the town, marking the evening hour. The sound seemed hollow, almost mournful, as it resonated through the narrow streets, slipping into every crack and crevice, lingering like a warning in the growing dark.

The path wound through the clustered homes of their town, each one narrow and stacked close beside the other, the rooftops tilting like old friends leaning together to brace against the coming winter. Flickers of candlelight peeked through small, thick-paned windows, casting brief glows over doorsteps worn smooth by years of footsteps. Voices drifted out faintly as neighbors settled in for the night, the low buzz of comfort after a long day’s labor.

As they neared her door, YN glanced sideways at Niall, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “Well, no use lettin’ the stew go to waste with just me. You might as well come in and help make somethin’ decent out of it. And,” she added, with a playful glint, “my sister will be there, too. Might be the only chance you get to impress her.”

Niall feigned indifference, though she caught the hint of a flush in his cheeks beneath the dimming light. “Well, if it’s to spare you from that sorry excuse of a stew, I s’pose I could lend a hand,” he said with mock reluctance, yet his steps quickened as they approached the small wooden door.

Inside, the house was simple and small, with a low ceiling that sloped slightly, forcing even YN to duck beneath the beams as she led him in. A narrow hearth crackled with a weak but steady fire, casting warm shadows across the modest room, which served as both kitchen and living space. The scent of herbs, drying in bunches along the walls, mingled with the faint tang of smoke from the hearth. A single table stood in the center, its edges worn smooth, surrounded by a handful of mismatched stools and chairs, each one slightly wobbly but bearing the marks of care and countless meals.

“Is that you, YN?” Her mother’s voice came from the corner, where she was bent over a pot, stirring with steady, practiced hands. She looked up with a gentle smile, her face flushed from the warmth of the fire. “And Niall too! Just in time. I was about to send Arthur to fetch you, but he’s off fiddlin’ with somethin’ in the corner.”

Ten-year-old Arthur looked up at the mention of his name, a wide grin splitting his face when he spotted the blonde. “Niall!” He called, scrambling to his feet and darting over, a wooden sword in hand. “You’ll stay for supper, won’t you?”

He placed the basket next to the older woman before he tousled the boy’s hair, giving a wink to YN. “That depends—will your sister cook, or will your ma have mercy on me?”

YN rolled her eyes as her mother chuckled, stirring the stew with a knowing look. “I'll make sure to keep it fit for eatin’. Now, why don’t you both make yourselves useful and set the table?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Niall replied with a quick bow, flashing his best charming smile, though his eyes lingered on the slender figure by the fire.

YN’s older sister, Ella, sat with her needlework in hand, her fingers nimble as she embroidered a delicate pattern into the edge of a linen cloth. She looked up as Niall approached, offering him a nod and a faint, polite smile, though a flicker of amusement danced in her eyes.

“Ella,” Niall greeted, taking the opportunity to lean a bit too casually against the edge of the table. “Now there’s a sight finer than any supper, if I may say.”

“Oh, you may say.” Ella sighed, her tone as mild as her smile. “But sayin’ doesn’t make it so, does it?” Her eyes sparkled with a touch of mischief, and she kept her gaze on her stitching as if he hadn’t said a word.

YN snorted, reaching past Niall to set the bowls on the table. “She’ll need more than empty flattery to be wooed, Niall. You’ll be talkin’ all night before she so much as bats an eye.”

“Empty flattery?” he echoed, feigning shock as he helped with the cups, placing them with exaggerated care. “This is pure honesty, YN. Your sister’s a vision, though I'm not sure she sees it herself.”

Ella finally looked up, one eyebrow arched. “Perhaps that’s ‘cause it’s hard to see with all the bluster in here. Is it flattery or just another of your tales, Ni?”

Arthur laughed as he climbed onto his chair, his wooden sword clattering to the floor. “Tell a tale, Niall!” He urged, his eyes bright.

He obliged with a grand sweep of his arm. “Ah, tales are easy to tell when the company’s fine.” His gaze drifted meaningfully to Ella, who only smirked, clearly unbothered.

“Enough of your foolishness, Horan.” YN’s mother cut in, though her tone was warm as she dished the stew into the bowls. “There'll be time for tales when your stomach’s full. Now, all of you—sit, before this stew turns cold.”

They settled around the table, the simple meal set before them steaming in the flickering firelight. YN ladled out servings, keeping her own expression solemn as she dished out the rather grayish stew. Niall took a tentative sip, raising his brows in mock surprise.

“Well, I'll be,” he declared, setting his bowl down as if astonished. “Tastes just like stew!”

YN kicked him under the table, rolling her eyes. “Don’t sound so shocked, else we’ll make you eat the scraps.”

Ella, watching them from across the table, hid a smile behind her hand. “It's better than you deserve,” she teased, offering Niall a faintly teasing look that sent Arthur into a fit of giggles.

As they settled into their meal, the conversation turned to the familiar rhythms of the day—the fish hauls, the scarcities at the market, the latest mischief Arthur had managed, and the townsfolk they’d seen along the way. Laughter bubbled up around the table, filling the small room with warmth as the stew slowly disappeared, their bowls clinking softly with each spoonful.

It wasn't until they’d nearly finished eating that YN’s mother’s voice turned low, a faint shadow crossing her face as she glanced at arthur. “Arthur,” she said gently, “I don't want to hear any more of you playin’ outside the town walls.”

The boy frowned, his spoon paused halfway to his mouth. “But ma, I’m careful,” he protested, glancing between her and YN as if hoping for support.

“She's right,” Ella added, her voice calm but firm. “The woods aren’t safe, especially with winter comin’ on.”

He looked to Niall, his face a mask of confusion and a bit of defiance. “Niall plays near the woods, don’t you?”

He shifted in his seat, his smile fading just slightly as he glanced at YN. “Aye, lad, but it’s different. I'm older, and I keep my wits about me. Besides,” he added lightly, though his voice held a trace of something darker, “there’s been talk of someone wanderin’ near the old watchtower.”

YN’s mother sighed, folding her hands on the table. “Too much talk.” She said quietly, her gaze drifting toward the narrow window. “I don’t care if s’only lore, you’ll be safe rather than sorry.”

A hush fell over the table, and Arthur's wide eyes darted from face to face. “Who is it, then?” He whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “A man?”

Ella reached over to ruffle his hair, her voice soft. “No one knows. could be a man, could be no more than shadows. But some say it’s best not to linger too close to it, just in case.”

Niall, watching Arthur's reaction, leaned in with a grin. “There now, it’s probably nothin’ more than a lonely ol’ fox. But best stick close to home, eh? Can’t have you disappearin’ on us.”

YN tried to keep her voice light as she chimed in, though she felt the faintest prickling unease beneath the laughter. “You heard him, Arthur. best keep to the town, else you might end up a story yourself.”

The boy’s eyes grew even wider, and he gulped, glancing nervously toward the window as if expecting to see the mysterious figure standing just beyond. He fidgeted, his hand reaching instinctively for his wooden sword on the floor beside him.

With a faint, tired sigh, YN’s mother rose and began clearing the table, signaling the end of the meal. The warm glow of the evening seemed to have dimmed, and even Niall’s usual cheer was muted as he helped gather the bowls, his gaze drifting back to the light flickering along the walls.

Outside, the wind picked up, brushing against the windows and rattling the latch ever so slightly, a whisper against the warmth of the firelight. The small house was silent for a long moment, each of them lost in thought, each glancing occasionally toward the dark window where the night gathered, close and watchful.

Morning seeped slowly into Dover, pale and cool, bringing with it the damp scent of the sea and the faint call of gulls overhead. YN was awake early, as was her habit, slipping quietly out of bed while the house still lingered in the soft dimness of dawn. The fire in the hearth had died to embers, and a chill clung to the air, but she moved quickly, tucking a shawl around her shoulders as she crossed the small room.

Arthur, already up and dressed, was tugging at the latch on the back door, eager to start his morning chores. He looked back when he heard her steps, his face lighting up with a grin. “Thought you’d sleep through it, lazybones.” He teased, though his eyes sparkled with mischief.

She snorted softly, pinching his cheek as she passed him. “Cheeky lad,” she muttered. “Come on, then. Let's get to it.”

They stepped out into the brisk morning, their breath puffing in the cold, and began making their way down the narrow stone path that wound through the small patch of yard behind their home. Frost clung to the grass, glinting in the pale light, and the chickens shuffled restlessly in their pen as Arthur went to check on them.

“Careful now.”

He bent down next to them to scatter their feed. The hens fluffed their feathers, clucking contentedly as they pecked at the ground, and Arthur kept one eye on the rooster, who strutted about with his chest puffed, keeping watch over his domain.

“Look at him,” he whispered, stifling a laugh as he threw a handful of seed. “Thinks he’s king of all creation, that one.”

She grinned, crouching beside him. “Well, he’s a rooster. not much else to do but look important, is there?”

The boy giggled, tossing a bit of feed toward the rooster, who eyed him warily before puffing up even further. YN kept watch as he finished the feeding, carefully securing the pen’s latch when he was done.

They moved on to check the small patch of herbs and vegetables that clung to life in the early cold, though the frost had already done its damage. The leaves hung limp and dark, and YN frowned, brushing a thin layer of frost from a withered cabbage leaf.

“S’not lookin’ good, is it?” Arthur said, his voice dropping to a murmur as he followed her gaze.

“No,” she replied softly, her fingers brushing over the leaves. “But we’ll manage. Always do.”

He gave her a solemn nod, but she could see the worry in his eyes, the way he seemed to glance toward the woods, as if he might glimpse the shadowed figure their mother had warned him about the night before. She reached over and squeezed his shoulder, offering a smile.

“No need for lookin’ so glum, Arthur,” she said, keeping her tone light. “We've plenty to keep us busy, and I'll wager you’ll see that rooster crowned king before anything happens to us.”

He managed a faint smile, his spirits lifting just enough to reassure her. They finished up quickly, making their way back inside, where the warmth of the house greeted them. YN set about preparing a quick meal for Arthur and her mother, who was just beginning to stir, her tired eyes softening at the sight of her children.

Once breakfast was sorted, YN returned to her small room to ready herself for the day. She tugged off her worn nightdress, slipping into the fresh linen undergarments she’d set aside, and carefully pulled on a plain woolen dress that hung neatly from a peg beside her bed. It was a simple dress, but a neat one, its modest collar and long sleeves making it suitable for the chilly weather. she straightened the fabric, adjusting the waist so that it lay just right, and wrapped her shawl back over her shoulders, pinning it at the front with an old, weathered brooch that had once belonged to her grandmother.

She caught her reflection in the small, scratched mirror by the window—a young woman with steady eyes and a hint of determination in her gaze, her hair braided behind her, a few strands slipping free to frame her face. After a moment, she tucked a few stray wisps behind her ear and gave herself a brisk nod, turning to head out.

The streets were beginning to stir as she made her way down to the docks, the early morning light casting a soft, muted glow over the cobblestone. A few shopkeepers were already sweeping their doorsteps, preparing for the day’s trade, and a handful of townsfolk passed by, nodding their greetings as she walked.

When she reached the docks, she found Niall already there, standing by his boat, his hands working quickly to secure the ropes. His coat hung loose over his shoulders, and his hair was tousled from the morning breeze, but there was a contented look in his eyes as he glanced up and saw her approach.

“Well, if it isn’t the queen of the cabbage patch,” he greeted her, a grin breaking across his face. “Come to see if I've hauled in a king’s feast for ye?”

YN rolled her eyes, crossing her arms as she stopped a few feet away from him. “I wouldn't go that far. but I'll settle for a decent fish, if you’ve managed one.”

He laughed, giving the rope a final tug before stepping back, wiping his hands on his trousers. “Oh, a decent fish, she says. Well, lucky for you, I've got just that.” He reached into a small wooden crate and held up a plump haddock, its scales glinting in the early light. “Not a king’s ransom, but it’ll do for stew, won’t it?”

She eyed the fish, unable to suppress a smile. “Aye, it’ll do. Might even save us from havin’ to wrangle another cabbage.”

Niall chuckled, tucking the fish back into the crate. “Couldn’t have that, now, could we? I’m doin’ my part to keep your cookin’ passable.”

“Passable?” She laughed, nudging him lightly as she stepped up beside him to peer into the crate. “You’re just glad to have an excuse to come round, steal our bread, and charm my sister.”

He gave her a mock-offended look, though his eyes glinted with humor. “Now, that’s hurtful, YN. I'm here for the food and the fine company, naturally. If your sister happens to be nearby, well, that’s not my fault, is it?”

She rolled her eyes, unable to help the small laugh that escaped. “Poor Ella’ll need more than a fish to be impressed. Best not get your hopes up too high.”

“Aye, she’s a hard one to please,” he admitted, a faint, wistful smile crossing his face. “But I'll manage somehow. or at least, I'll keep tryin’.”

They both fell silent, their gazes drifting out over the water, where a thin mist clung to the surface, casting an eerie calm over the harbor. The other boats rocked gently in the quiet, and the gulls called out above them, their cries echoing faintly across the empty stretch of sea. Together they turned back toward the town, the mist curling softly around them as they walked, side by side, in the quiet of the morning.

The midday lull brought a hush over the town, as folk took their brief respite between the day’s labors. The soft light of afternoon slipped over the rooftops, and YN found herself winding her way down one of the quieter streets toward Maura’s, a modest little cottage that doubled as the gathering place for the women in town. Here, around a crowded table of mismatched cups and chipped saucers, town gossip simmered as steadily as the tea.

Maura's door was open, the sound of voices spilling out into the cobbled lane, and YN slipped in quietly, greeting the women with a polite nod before finding a seat near the end of the table. The familiar faces of neighbors turned to greet her—Maura herself, with her cheeks flushed from the warmth of the kitchen, mrs. Harris with her ever-watchful eyes, and a handful of others who paused only long enough to give YN a quick nod before returning to the subject that had clearly held their interest long before she arrived.

“I'm tellin’ you,” mrs. Harris was saying, her voice low and edged with certainty. “There's somethin’ in that tower. maybe it’s a spy, maybe it’s worse.”

Maura scoffed, shaking her head. “If it were a spy, we’d know by now, wouldn’t we? why bother lurkin’ about if there’s nothin’ worth seein’ here?”

“There’s plenty to see, Maura,” the older woman sighed, leaning forward, her teacup nearly sloshing over the rim as she gestured toward the window. “Who’s to say he hasn’t been watchin’ us all along, takin’ note of who’s loyal to the new king and who’s not?”

Maura snorted, but one of the other women, Anna, leaned in, her voice barely a whisper. “or worse—what if it’s no man at all?” Her gaze darted to the others, her eyes wide with a kind of fearful excitement. “There are tales, you know. Of things that wander the woods. Spirits that linger in dark places, things that only come out when the days grow short.”

Mrs. Harris crossed herself, nodding solemnly. “Aye. folk say it’s a night creature—a demon, even.“

YN listened quietly, her fingers tracing the rim of her teacup, but she held back a smile. as the women exchanged anxious looks, she leaned back, sipping her tea, the warmth of it calming her nerves. To her, the stories felt like little more than old wives’ tales—a way for folk to pass the time when the days grew cold and bleak. A lonely man, perhaps, who’d taken to the tower for solitude, a soul with nowhere else to go. Nothing so sinister as the women here believed.

“You've a skeptical look about you, dear” Maura said, catching her eye with a wry smile. “Don’t tell me you’d walk up to that tower yourself, would you?”

She met her gaze calmly, setting her cup down. “I'd sooner believe it’s a wanderer, Maura. Maybe one who wants peace more than anything else. Don’t see why we should fear him.”

“Peace, or no peace, he’s still up there, watchin’ us all.”

YN didn’t reply, only nodded politely as the conversation swirled on, the voices around her swelling in speculation and rumor. After a while, she quietly rose, setting her cup aside and offering Maura a grateful nod before slipping out the door and into the fresh air.

The chatter of the women faded behind her, and she took a deep breath, the cool air filling her lungs and clearing her thoughts. She knew she was unlikely to shake their unease or convince them of her view, but as she thought of the lonely figure up in the tower, something tugged at her—a kind of curiosity that gnawed gently at the back of her mind.

Without a second thought, she made her way home, moving quickly and quietly, her mind already set. She slipped through the door, pausing only to grab her small woven basket from its hook. Her mother glanced up, but YN offered her a calm smile, murmuring something vague about a quick errand before supper.

IN the small corner of their kitchen where they kept their stores, she selected a handful of berries from the last of their foraging, a few slightly bruised carrots, and a small bunch of herbs tied with a thin scrap of cloth. Modest offerings, but enough, she hoped, to serve as a token of peace, a sign that she meant no harm.

She took a deep breath and headed toward the edge of town, her footsteps light as she made her way past the familiar lanes and toward the narrow path that led up to the old watchtower.

The path leading to the watchtower was narrow, winding its way up the hillside in gentle, uneven curves. YN had walked these woods many times before, though never with the purpose she had now. Above her, the sky was beginning to darken, clouds gathering in ominous clumps, casting long shadows across the land as the sun slipped lower.

Her heart thudded in her chest, not from fear, but from a strange mixture of curiosity and anticipation. The stories she’d heard that morning lingered in her mind like faint echoes, each warning a small reminder of the mystery ahead. But she felt something else too—a quiet resolve, an odd certainty that she had to see this figure, whoever he might be, with her own eyes.

The watchtower loomed before her, its crumbling stone walls climbing into the sky, weather-worn and scarred by time. She could see now why the townsfolk feared it; it looked like a relic from another era, half-hidden by the dense growth of ivy and the creeping fog that clung to the base of its walls. It was silent here, too silent, as if even the birds dared not sing in the shadow of the old tower.

Steeling herself, she moved forward, her footsteps muffled by the damp earth. The closer she got, the more the watchtower’s age showed itself in cracked stones and vines, a darkness that seemed to pool between the stones, deepening the gray of the twilight. At the base of the tower, a narrow door sat slightly ajar, barely wide enough for her to slip through. She paused there, glancing up, feeling an odd twinge of nervousness as her gaze drifted to the upper windows, dark and empty.

Drawing a deep breath, she pushed the door open, stepping into the dim interior.

The inside of the tower was colder, the air thick and still. Faint light seeped through cracks in the walls, just enough to reveal the sparse furnishings—a wooden table, books, a chair beside the hearth, long since gone cold. Dust motes hung in the air, catching the dim light like fragments of stars, and a faint, earthy smell lingered in the space, as though the room hadn’t seen another soul in years.

Yet something else lingered too, something that made the hair on the back of her neck prickle—a sense that she wasn’t alone.

A figure stepped forward from behind a wall, emerging so quietly she almost missed it. He was tall, with dark curls that tumbled around his face, shadows clinging to his features as though he belonged to the darkness itself. His eyes met hers, a piercing green that seemed to hold an entire century’s worth of secrets, and for a brief, unsettling moment, she felt as though he could see straight through her.

“What brings you here?” His voice was low, quiet, each word clipped and precise, yet holding a softness that surprised her.

YN swallowed, her hand instinctively tightening around the basket she held. “I–I thought you might be hungry,” she stammered, offering the basket forward with a hesitant smile. “Folk talk of you up here, you know. Thought it might be nice to see if you wanted some company.”

He raised a brow, a faint trace of amusement softening his gaze. He didn’t reach for the basket, but instead continued to watch her, as though trying to make sense of why she would come here, alone, to his solitary refuge.

Didn’t seem exactly the safest thing.

“People rarely visit me,” he said finally, his voice barely more than a murmur, as though he were speaking more to himself than to her. “Especially not with offerings.”

“Well, it’s no great feast,” she laughed breathily—nervous, setting the basket down on the table. “But it’s enough for a quiet meal.”

He looked down at the basket, his expression unreadable. The shadows seemed to deepen around him, and for a brief moment, she wondered if he would turn her away. But then his gaze shifted back to her, gentle, as though something in her gesture had reached him in a way she couldn’t quite understand.

“I don’t need much,” he breathed, finally stepping closer, his movements careful, almost tentative. “But thank you.”

The silence stretched between them as Harry’s eyes lingered on her, his regard tracing every movement of her face, the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders, the way her lips pressed together as if searching for words. He could feel it—her pulse thrumming in her neck, the warmth radiating from her skin, the soft, steady rhythm of blood rushing through her veins. It was maddening. The sound alone clawed at the quiet corners of his mind, stirring that old, cursed hunger he’d worked so hard to bury.

But he couldn’t let her see that. Couldn’t let even a flicker of it touch his face.

With a composed nod, he turned his attention to the basket, using the small action to steady himself, to pull his focus away from her and fix it on the modest offering she’d brought. Herbs and roots, earthy and clean, none of it touched by blood. He forced his breath to steady, aware of her watchful eyes on him as he sorted through the items, careful to keep his hands stable.

“Are you here… often?” She asked softly, breaking the silence in a voice that felt almost hesitant, as though unsure whether it was allowed. Her gaze darted around the room, taking in the sparse surroundings, the thick shadows that crept into every corner.

Harry let his fingers linger on a sprig of thyme, keeping his voice level as he answered. “Yes,” he confided simply, his tone giving nothing away. “I find it… peaceful.”

“Peaceful,” she echoed, a faint smile touching her lips as she looked back at him. “It doesn’t frighten you, being all alone up here?”

He allowed himself the smallest of smiles—him—frightened? How sweetly ironic. “Sometimes solitude is easier than the alternative.”

She studied him, and he could feel the weight of her eyes, searching for something beneath his answer. Her heartbeat quickened just a bit, a small, steady thump that seemed to reach straight through him, its warmth coiling like a spark inside his chest. He could almost taste it—the sweet, heady pull of her pulse.

But he forced the thought down, burying it beneath years of restraint. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, redirecting the focus onto her. “And what about you?” he asked, his tone soft but steady. “Doesn’t it frighten you to come all this way, alone?”

She gave a small laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “Maybe it should. But I suppose I don’t scare easily.” She paused, her gaze slipping to the narrow window where the trees outside swayed gently in the wind. “It’s quiet here, almost like a different world. Sometimes it feels like our town is shrinking, like it’s closing in. Out here, it’s–it’s freer.”

Harry’s gaze softened, though he said nothing. There was something in her words he understood, something that echoed faintly in his own memories of why he’d chosen this place—this forgotten, lonely tower—to escape. A life he could no longer live, a curse he couldn’t risk unleashing.

She looked back at him, curiosity bright in her eyes. “People say you’ve been here a long time—I mean, they say the tower’s been abandoned forever. But you don’t seem…” She trailed off, biting her lip as though she didn’t quite know how to finish.

“Don’t seem what?” he asked, his voice low, inviting her to continue.

She waited, and he watched her carotid flicker in her throat as she searched for her words. “You don’t seem like someone who belongs in a place like this,” she murmured. “Like you’ve got more in you than—than just seclusion.”

He felt a tug deep in his chest at her words, something he hadn’t felt in a long, long time—a faint longing, a half-forgotten ache for a life he’d once dreamed of. But that life was gone. He’d buried it the night he’d been turned, when the world as he knew it had collapsed into a semblance of hell.

“It’s strange,” he replied carefully, his eyes drifting toward the flickering shadows on the wall. The hunger gnawed at him, unrelenting, every second reminding him of how close he was to her. She was standing barely a foot away, her warmth filling the small space, her heartbeat a steady, maddening drumbeat that drew him closer, closer…

He straightened slightly, pulling himself back. “Solitude,” he said quietly, almost as if reminding himself, “sometimes feels simpler.”

She nodded slowly, but her eyes stayed on him, and he could see the spark of curiosity still there, unquenched. She was brave, this girl. Far braver than most. And something about that bravery—the quiet way she stood her ground in the face of shadows and rumors, in the presence of a stranger—intrigued him. She wasn’t running away. And a part of him, despite everything, wanted her to stay.

“Thank you,” he mumbled—almost a dismissal, gesturing to the basket, his voice softened with a touch of genuine gratitude. “Not many would bring gifts to a stranger. Especially not one so isolated.”

She smiled, her cheeks flushing faintly in the dim light. “Well, maybe I’ll bring something better next time,” she replied with a small laugh. “If you’d want that.”

He paused, her words lingering in the air between them. Next time. It felt dangerous, allowing the thought of it, letting her return. But as she looked at him, her smile warm and unguarded, he found himself nodding almost without thinking.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I’d like that.”

But even as he spoke, he felt the old thirst stir beneath his words, a dark reminder that she was flesh and blood, and he was anything but.

Harry watched her retreating figure until the last of her shadow disappeared down the winding path. The silence settled thick around him once more, yet it felt different now, charged with the lingering warmth of her presence. The faint echo of her heartbeat still pulsed in his mind, like a phantom drum that refused to fade. He drew in a slow, deliberate breath, pushing down the hunger that had clawed so violently to the surface, fighting a void that had nearly overpowered him the entire time she’d stood there.

He had always been a weak man for the living.

Turning back into the tower, he closed the door and leaned against it, his hand flexing as he grappled with that old, familiar agony, the ache that thrummed through his veins whenever he was near a human. After all these years, after countless nights spent mastering his restraint, he still struggled. The curse was unrelenting—an obstinate thirst that he could never truly silence, only suppress.

Memories rose in him unbidden, dark and sharp, clawing their way out of the places he kept them buried. He could still recall the crisp air of that autumn night in 1601, back when he was alive, when he’d believed his life was bound for something beautiful. He’d been a poet then, a young man enamored with language, eager to make something of himself. He’d had dreams of attending university, of pursuing a life dedicated to literature and ideas, a life where he could spend his days wrapped in thought and art.

But all of that had been shattered in a single night. He had been walking back from a small tavern in London, tipsy and laughing, still reciting lines of poetry in his head, the night air filling him with a light, exhilarating hope. He remembered it so clearly—the dimly lit street, the damp chill creeping into his coat, the rough hand that had seized him by the throat and dragged him into an alley. He’d thought it was a robber at first, maybe a cutthroat from the docks looking for a quick coin.

But then he’d seen his attacker’s face.

The man’s eyes were inhuman, glinting with a feral hunger, and his skin was pale, almost translucent in the moonlight. Harry had fought, struggling against the impossible strength of those arms, but it had been useless. The man had pinned him down with a brutal ease, baring his teeth—a flash of something razor-sharp, malevolent—before sinking them deep into Harry’s throat. The pain had been excruciating, and then everything had gone dark, his life draining away into a cold, endless void.

He hadn’t known what had happened to him for days afterward. He’d awoken alone, hidden in the dark recesses of a forgotten basement, his body shuddering with an unholy thirst that tore through him like wildfire. The transformation had left him a half-mad, hollow shell, consumed by an insatiable need he didn’t understand. He’d stumbled through the streets, eyes wild, hunting without even knowing what he was hunting for. And when he’d finally cornered a man in the dead of night, tearing into his throat with a frenzy he could barely comprehend, he’d learned what he had become.

The first months were a blur of blood and horror, a nightmare he hadn’t known how to escape. He had been controlled by an ache, a greed—enslaved by it, a wretched creature lost to bloodlust. He’d fought it as best he could, but each time he tried to resist, the thirst only grew stronger, until he was reduced to a brutal, savage need that erased everything else.

It had been a year later, in 1602, when he encountered another vampire. His name was Thomas, a wily, unrepentant creature who fed freely and without remorse. Thomas had found Harry alone and ravenous, nearly mad from weeks of starvation in an attempt to restrain himself. He’d taken Harry under his wing, teaching him how to survive in this new, cursed life, how to hunt, how to kill cleanly. But while Harry had been grateful for the guidance, he quickly saw that Thomas reveled in the whispers of the devil, that he viewed humanity as little more than prey. He was malignant.

His own heart was too soft for such cruelty. He’d hated the feel of human flesh beneath his hands, the way his victims’ eyes widened in terror as he held them down, the way their life drained away in his grasp. He hadn’t wanted this life. But the need was too powerful, too all-consuming, and he had been too weak to fight it.

And then, in 1643, came the night that shattered him completely.

Her name had been Beatrice—a young woman from Manchester, one of the few souls who’d looked past his oddity, his quiet reserve, and seen something in him worth knowing. She’d been kind, curious, always showing up at his door with a warm smile, her laughter lighting up his otherwise bleak existence. For months, she’d been a balm to him, her presence a brief reprieve from the loneliness that gnawed at him. He’d been so careful around her, so painfully restrained, never allowing himself to get too close. But one night, after days of starvation, he had faltered. She’d come to visit him, concern etched on her face, her hand reaching out to touch his cheek.

And in that moment, he’d lost himself.

The memory of that night was burned into him like a scar, the scent of her blood, the warmth of it cascading from his lips and developing him whole— the sound of her heart slowing as he drank from her—all of it haunted him, even now, decades later. He had tried to pull away, tried to stop himself, but the hunger had overpowered him, consuming her life, taking everything she had. When he finally came to his senses, she lay cold and pale in his arms, her eyes staring up at him, empty and accusing.

After that, he’d fled, haunted by the horror of what he’d done, determined never to let it happen again. He’d hidden himself away in this tower, learning to feed from the animals that roamed the forest, forcing himself to endure the hunger rather than inflict his curse on another innocent soul. He would never again allow himself to feel that agony, that terrible loss.

And yet tonight, with her presence in his small, empty world, something had stirred in him, a strange, aching reminder of what it meant to be human, to crave connection, companionship. It was dangerous, foolish to even entertain such thoughts, yet he couldn’t deny the faint spark she had left behind.

He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe slowly, steadying the wild, restless energy that surged in him. She couldn’t come back. He couldn’t risk it. He would have to find a way to make her think the tower was haunted, or evil—something to scare her off for good. Because he knew himself, knew that he was a creature of hunger, bound to a curse he couldn’t escape.

And if she returned—he wasn’t sure how long he could resist.

#harry styles #harry styles blurb #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles imagine #harry styles one shot #harry styles writing #harry styles x reader #harry edward styles #harry styles concept #harry styles au #vampire!harry #vamprry #kinktober #harry styles series #harry styles fanfic #harry styles drabble #harry styles x you #niall horan

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imagine-darksiders · 3 months ago

Text

Absolute Anarchy - chapter 2

The Bull.

A Darksiders/Scp au.

Cw: Animal death, threat, guns, shooting, references to goring, livestock, abuse, blood.

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Two days.

By your count, it’s been two days since you were pulled from the SCP’s cell and tossed unceremoniously back into your own with Mullins’s gloat echoing in your ear.

“Enjoy solitary, Scuzz.”

A slammed door, a buzzing overhead light, and nothing but your peeling wallpaper and creaky bed springs to keep you company…

Two days is beginning to feel like an eternity.

You have to remind yourself that it’s not.

They’ve only given you four meals, after all.

Taking a mental account of the trays that are shoved through the slat in your door is just about the only way you can measure the passage of time in here. Two meals a day, morning and evening. That’s the facility’s standard. And they’re all ‘served’ to you with the decorum of throwing slop to a pig.

Apparently, you revoked your rights to eat in the mess hall with the other D-Class after you refused to follow orders to shoot at the new SCP, or so you assume.

The first day was embarrassing, to say the least. You spent it in a state of near-complete hysteria, wailing and pitching a fit at the locked door, out of your mind with fear that at any moment, they’d come through it and drag you off to a fate worse than death. When you were hoarse in the throat, and your eyes red-raw from trying to scrub them dry, you hunched over in the corner like an animal, shivering violently in sporadic bursts.

Then the first meal arrived.

You ignored it, and it sat there unappealingly on the shelf attached to the slat on your side of the door until, hours later, that slat scraped open again and the second tray was shoved through, neatly sending its predecessor clattering to the floor.

It sounded so much like the gun you dropped in that thing’s cell.

It takes another few hours to muster the courage to unfold yourself from the corner and stumble towards the food, stepping absentmindedly around the grey porridge going hard on the floor.

The second day is spent on your back, staring bleakly up at a grey ceiling and trying to occupy your mind. Inevitably, your thoughts turn to the SCP. Moreso, the colossal gun fused with its biological arm, and the chambers that had been pointing straight at you, so much like Mullins’s Beretta…

But it hadn’t fired a single round…

Why…?

Well, you suppose you have an indeterminate amount of time to muse on its reasoning. You have no idea how long they plan to keep you in solitary, after all.

However, as punishments go, you think this one has so far been remarkably tame.

Nearly two whole days without being thrown to the wolves! Marvellous, in the grand scheme of things.

You suppose if anything, you ought to just settle in and enjoy the relative peace and quiet where you aren’t being tested against the nightmares of this facility. Why, this isolation is practically bliss!

Of course, no sooner have you thrown that semi-optimistic spin on your situation…

“Oi!”

Somehow, not even complete and total separation from your fellow humans could make you miss the sound of Mullins’s strident shout.

When your door is roughly hauled open for the first time in days, you feel no joy or elation, and certainly not gratitude. All you know is the unshiftable ball of dread rolling around in your guts.

Mullins looms in the doorway once more, his lips moulded around a cigarette that hangs loosely between his teeth.

“Get movin’,” he growls, the dog end of his cig flaring like a red-hot poker, “Dinner time.”

-----

Is it comedic or tragic to find yourself once again standing rigidly in SCP-8103’s loading dock? Because you sure as Hell don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

When you arrived, you half expected the scientists to shove another rifle in your hands and order you to finish what you never even started. Instead, much to your astonishment and trepidation, they hadn’t given you so much as a by-your-leave before they forced you through the doors at gun point.

No instructions. No way to defend yourself. Just your jumpsuit, and your wits – which seem few and far between these days.

Chewing ravenously on your lip, you wait for the secondary door to start ascending; just another yawning beast opening up to welcome you into an entirely different maw.

You really, really don’t like what Mullins had alluded to when he said, ‘dinner time.’

Are you finally being thrown to the very deadly wolf?

The SCP did have teeth, you recall in uncomfortable detail. Very big, very sharp teeth, suggesting to you that it must have to use them at some point. Though for what, you hardly dare imagine.

You’d convinced yourself you got lucky the first time you were pulled from the cell without being riddled by giant bullets. Now you wonder if your luck wasn’t just biding its time, waiting for you to let your guard down before it suddenly pulls the rug out from under you and abandons you to your fate.

The secondary door of the loading dock whooshes open to admit you, and you have to release a shaky breath when no body flops through the gap. Then it occurs to you that the bodies might not have been removed by human hands, and suddenly you feel like being sick all over again. The blood is still there, of course, dark and dry and crusting over the tiniest cracks in the floor. But at least most of the truly gory viscera is… absent.

With an audible gulp, you tread carefully around the dark patch near your feet and tiptoe to the corner of the dock, bracing your spine to the wall.

Once again, you can’t hear anything inside. But it must have heard the door open. It must know you’re here.

“D-Class,” a scientist’s voice crackles over the speakers.

Almost instantly, a familiar growl thunders to life, spilling across the airwaves and rolling around the corner towards you.

Ah. There it is.

“Stop hiding by the door this instant and step into the containment unit.”

Well… If it didn’t know where you were before, it certainly does now. At least it’s stopped growling.

Biting down on the inside of your cheek, you lean cautiously out past the threshold, twisting your neck about to try and catch a glimpse of the entity before it can spot you.

Of course, that was wishful thinking.

A pair of golden eyes leer down at you from the other side of the room, sending you ducking back behind the wall with a gasp, clutching at the front of your jumpsuit. Whatever courage you’d scraped off the sides of your empty reserves had been entirely spent on throwing your weapon down the other day, defying orders and expecting, genuinely, to be gunned down.

You can’t do this again, not when your heart is on the verge of breaking out through your ribcage. Perhaps you can linger here in the doorway for the duration of the-

“-Now!”

You flinch, smacking the back of your skull against the wall.

“Ah! Shit.”

Right… Foolish of you to forget that in this place, choice is a badly concealed illusion.

You’ve already pushed your luck once, and just because it didn’t result in your becoming a lure subject for the Old Man or some other horrific fate, doesn’t mean that won’t happen if you continue to refuse orders.

You wonder how pathetic you must look to the Lab Coats now, sniffling in miserable resignation as you force yourself to edge around the corner, hugging the wall, with your eyes cast to the floor, falling back into that old childhood mindset that if you can’t see the monster, then the monster can’t see you.

The door you’d crept beneath falls shut with a deafening ‘wham,’ and there’s the familiar whirring of the locks as they pivot back into place.

You’re immediately greeted by a low, throaty rumble from the SCP.

Quaking, you drag your gaze off the floor and venture a glance up at the other end of the cell.

And there it is.

Stooped in a crouch against the furthest wall of its cell, SCP-8103 is lurking, that streamlined tail lifting and slumping to the ground like an agitated feline’s, and its great, silver head turned in your direction, poised to watch you through raptorial eyes.

A lipless mouth peels apart and issues a steady hiss between its blackened fangs, eyelids narrowing to thin slits that bleed golden light.

“Hssss…!”

“…Yeah,” you murmur under your breath, bracing each palm on the wall and pushing yourself away from the security of having a solid surface pressed to your fragile spine, “I’m not exactly thrilled to see you again either.”

The entity’s hiss peters off at the sound of your voice, and for an uncomfortably long moment, the pair of you merely regard each other; it with apparent aloofness and you with the trepidation of a mouse trying to step through a trap unscathed.

There is one imminently glaring thing that you can’t help but notice; the entity has made no move to aim its gun arm at you, which you suppose is a good thing. Evidently, it appears content for the time being to simply glare down at you from the opposite side of the room.

Does it even remember you? It must, if it isn’t aiming a weapon at you, you muse. Implying that it doesn’t see you as much of a threat.

Fine by you.

Hands clasping and unclasping, you somehow find the strength to tear your gaze away from its relentless stare and turn instead to the observation window, noting the several figures muddling about in the dimly lit room, some motionless, some scribbling away on their clipboards, and one hunched over a bank of monitors, no doubt keeping watch over everything that happens in this cell.

Swallowing past a lump in your throat, you flick a hurried glance over to the SCP again, only to go stiff when it turns its head parallel to the wall behind it, regarding you from the corner of one eye. At least it doesn’t otherwise seem inclined to move any more than that.

“Um…” Breathing a near silent sigh, shuddering at the thought of accidentally provoking a reaction, you peel your tongue from the roof of your mouth and shout-whisper at the window, “I… I never got a debrief?”

The inferred question goes unanswered, and you’re just beginning to muse on whether or not they can even hear you when the speakers crackle to life once more.

“D-One-nine-three-five…” comes a female voice this time, clipped and staccato. And cold. Cold like an icy road in winter, dangerous on all fronts for those unprepared to face it.

“Approach SCP and commence interrogation.”

Interrogation?

As if it understood the word just as well as you do, the entity’s tail flicks up to curl over its helm in one, smooth motion, pivoting slowly towards the window as a quiet hum starts to build at the base of its throat.

“So, that’s their game,” you huff, watching the SCP snap its jaws at the scientists, privately pleased that the focus has shifted away from you for the time being.

For as much as they like to try and impress upon you all that this place is a research facility, not a prison, the Lab Coats aren’t very good at keeping a lid on the jailhouse jargon.

You can still remember your own awful interrogation, back before you learned what this place really was. Two men in grey suits, each carrying themselves with the highest level of self-importance…

‘Do you have any family?’ they’d asked you in that too-bright room, a fluorescent light buzzing noisily overhead, ‘Close friends? Are you employed?’

You often kick yourself for not hearing their real question woven between the lines.

‘Is there anyone who would notice your absence?’

You’d been blinded by confusion, panicking from the sudden threat of having your future ripped away from you, bleak as it was. It might have been bleak, but it was still yours.

You answered ‘no.’

It probably wouldn’t have made a difference even if you’d told them ‘yes.’ They’d have soon found you out to be a liar when they inevitably sent agents to administer amnestics to your supposed friends.

And now those same people want you to interrogate an unclassified, highly volatile SCP?

The deliberate echoing of their method sparks an uncomfortable comparison in your mind, and you find yourself suddenly unnerved by the idea that you D-Class aren’t truly so different from the entities in this place, are you?

Both subjected to tests you want no part in. Both locked up against your wills. Both at the mercy of people who believe your suffering will lead to the greater good…

You catch yourself before such thoughts can develop. Dangerous territory to be delving into.

Stupid.

But still, the irony of your paralleled circumstances doesn’t escape you.

Just how on Earth are you even supposed to begin interrogating a gigantic, unknowable entity anyway?

Say ‘How do you do,’ and offer a handshake?

Blowing a slow and unsteady breath through your lips, you elect to ignore the first order to move closer, and instead hope the scientists will be appeased when you open your mouth to speak.

Its attention has already returned to you, its horns jutting forwards like prongs ready to skewer.

You shove aside the visceral thought of your body dangling from one of those horns, and instead clear your throat, resolving to say whatever comes to mind. Even if it’s nonsense, even if it’s ineffectual, even if it’s…

“Er…. Mm. H-hello.”

Smooth as a country road…

The entity just stares down at you blankly for a second before two slitted nostrils open up just above its mouth, flaring widely as it gives the air an audible sniff.

It doesn’t raise its gun though, which is encouraging.

Giving another hard cough to re-clear your throat, you stammer out, “I-I… I like your gun?”

‘Smack.’

Someone must have slapped a palm to their face and left the microphone on for you to hear it. Still, that saves you from doing the same, at least. If you aren’t careful, this will quickly turn into less of an interrogation and more of a social blunder.

Even the SCP looks bewildered. You’re sure that’s the first time you’ve seen it blink – just a quick flicker of golden light as it recoils its head slightly and spares a glance down at the aforementioned weapon fused to its arm, helm cocked in the opposite direction.

“It… it is a gun, isn’t it?” you ramble on, clenching your hands into the overhanging sleeves of your jumpsuit, “I mean, I never actually saw you fire it but… I – I can only assume that’s what… happened to the people before me…” Your sentence tapers off into silence when the entity looks down at you once more, opening its mouth.

You brace yourself, all the breath caught in your lungs whilst you wait for it to let out another snarl… Or worse…

Instead, what travels up its throat and slips between its crooked fangs is less aggression and more… well, you don’t know what. But it’s a far less vehement sound than you’ve heard prior. A hum, you suppose, still deep and hollow, but the intention behind it doesn’t strike with the same chord as a growl.

“I suppose I should thank you for that,” you add with a stilted laugh that doesn’t even touch genuine. When the beast blinks again, you hastily add, “For not killing me, I mean. Not for… Well, y’know.”

A vague gesture at the blood staining the walls and floor says more than enough, though it is odd that the SCP’s gaze follows your hands and glances at each of the dark patches in turn, warbling another strange note from its chest.

“Sooo…~ Yeah.” Drumming your fingertips against the front of your thighs, you click your tongue and reach for anything constructive to say. “Thank you.”

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“Did you see that?”

The scientist’s painted lips crook up, intrigued. The expression is quick to falter as she glances about at her peers, all of whom are shooting her looks of varying uncertainty.

With a sharp tut, she stabs her chin at the SCP. “It reacted to the mention of its gun. Looked right at it when the D-Class referred to it. Which tells us…”

When all she received are several, blank faces, she heaves an enormous sigh and lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, eyes screwing shut in exasperation. “If it looked to the gun when the D-Class mentioned its gun….?”

“Oh!” It’s her intern who eventually pipes up. “It speaks English!”

Frankly, she thinks her fellow researchers ought to be embarrassed that a greenhorn is the one who makes the connection.

“Or understands it, at least,” she adds, flicking the microphone on once more.

"D-One-nine-three-five. Tailor your inquiries to matters of the SCP’s origins.”

With the instruction dished out, she removes her finger from the switch and steps closer to the observation window, taking a mental note of each expression flitting across the D-Class’s face.

Surprise, then horror, then settling on a grim acceptance, illustrated by the hard line your lips draw themselves into.

At the very least, she plans to get some information about the SCP before the next, real test can begin.

Tossing a look over her shoulder at Mullins, she asks, “Is the specimen ready?”

The guard, who had previously been leering at the scientists from his spot by the door, snaps to attention with a click of his boot before he whips out his walkie-talkie and mutters something into it.

After a static-laden response from the other side, he gives her a nod. “It’s in the crush,” he says, “Prepped and ready to be deployed.”

“Good,” she returns, straightening her back with a satisfied hum, “We’ll give the D-Class a few more minutes to get what little information out of this thing is to be had…. Activate the crush at…” Trailing off, she checks her watch, “- Fourteen hundred hours.”

Bringing everything right up to schedule.

Perfect.

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You wonder if you’ll go down in the Foundation’s history as being the first D-Class who ever thanked an SCP for not killing them.

What you said - that hesitant, ‘Thank you.' - you said with the intent to appease the armoured titan somehow, a feeble attempt at appealing to whatever intelligence might lay behind its silver helm.

Because you’re only too aware that in this cell, placating the enemy is the sole weapon you have in your arsenal. For when the enemy is this much larger, stronger, and deadlier than you are, you’ll never beat it in a confrontation.

You had not, however, expected that this kind of SCP was the type to be assuaged.

And yet…

By some miracle, you’re still alive, and the fact that its thunderous growls have petered out entirely suggests you’ve done something right, at least. Even if that something was just letting your mouth talk while your brain was busy frantically trying to make sense of the SCP’s bizarre behaviour.

Is it the sound of your voice that’s caused it to fall silent and take a single, heavy step towards you – one that you match with a rapid retreat of your own – or is it the words themselves that seem to have piqued its curiosity.

And if the latter rings true, would that imply that this entity is capable of understanding English?

Now there’s a question that befits a proper interrogation.

You have to admit, you’re about willing to ask it anything that’ll stop the beast from backing you into the far wall, something it’s been doing with its slow, measured steps for the past few moments, the pale pupils of its eyes large and round as it angles its head from side to side and peers down at you like it means to take you in from every perspective.

“Hey, um-“ you begin, swallowing your spit when the tail sprouting from its back twitches with apparent interest, “Can you… understand me?”

You almost feel the scientists holding their collective breaths. From the corner of an eye, you see several of them lean closer to the window.

Even you’re waiting on tenterhooks as it pauses, one of those terrible, clawed feet thumping back down in the spot it had just lifted from. You give the SCP a moment, but soon enough, as it raises its snout to the air and gives a few audible sniffs with those slanted nostrils, you realise you’re not going to get a discernible response.

“I’ll take that as a ‘no,’ then,” you finally add, neither pleased nor put out by the revelation. All you want is to leave this cell. Once is lucky, twice is coincidence. You don’t want to find out if you’ll survive your third visit…

It doesn’t offer a response beyond lowering its head and staring straight down at you again, an upsetting display that leaves you feeling as though you’re being pinned by the gaze of a hunter.

“So, can I come out now, or...?” you ask the people on the other side of the window without taking your eyes off the towering brute. There’s only half a containment cell separating you from it.

You don’t realise at first why nobody responds to you.

Their silence is quick to make sense however, when there’s a sudden sound to your right.

At the disturbance, you nearly trip over your own feet in your haste to face the noise, and as you do, the SCP follows suit, its tail hurtling up into position above its head, aimed with rigid precision at a large panel of the otherwise featureless wall that’s suddenly sprung open.

A door, you realise belatedly.

And your stomach drops the moment you remember exactly what kind of door it is.

You’ve only seen it in operation once, in a much different cell with a much different SCP.

D-Class call them ‘feeding tubes.’

The Lab Coats call them ‘crushes;’ close-fitting cages hidden behind the walls of a cell where drugged up livestock are held until the scientists release them into an SCP’s unit for consumption….

‘Dinner time.’

“Oh, fuck,” you hiss through your teeth.

You can’t see around the corner into the crush, but goddamn, you can hear the very recognisable bellow of an animal that’s just come around from sedation, its hooves stamping in confused fury against the metal floor beneath it.

A stomach-lurching snarl punches through the air and draws a cry of fright from your lungs. The SCP’s hackles are raised, bulging and bristling as it snaps at something you can’t yet see, its black fangs protruding from dark gums, and the pupils in its golden stare shrinking down to pinpricks.

And worst of all, bad enough to put the fear of death back into your quibbling heart, is the arm it raises slowly into the air, the all-too familiar whirring of machinery filling your ears as the cylinders near its elbow start to rotate - a gatling gun gearing up to fire.

The animal in the crush snorts madly, and with an abrupt rattling of metal followed by a clang and a thud, it charges from its confines and hurtles through the gap into the cell, a blur of black hair and dark, rolling eyes and a pair of horns lancing forwards from the top of its head.

It’s a bull.

Massive, terrified, furious.

You let out an embarrassing bleat when he bursts into the cell.

Almost at once, he catches sight of the titan in front of him, and he throws his head back with a snort, cloven hooves scrabbling to find purchase on the smooth concrete floor as he skids to a halt just several yards shy of the looming SCP.

You can only reason that he’s burned through the sedative quicker than anticipated. Usually, the livestock are so drowsy, they’ll stand stock still and do absolutely nothing to stop themselves from being killed or eaten alive by the SCPs.

Even months down the line, you still shudder to recall the time you painted the floor of SCP-5031’s cell with the contents of your stomach after witnessing it slice mercilessly into an unfortunate sheep.

You’re really not eager to have a repeated incident here.

Flanks quivering with adrenaline, the bull’s bulging eyes stare up at the colossus in front of him. And then, as bulls are often wont to do, he begins to size up his opponent.

Your heart flips upside down in your chest as you wedge yourself firmly into the corner, blood-shot eyes darting up to the SCP’s gun arm.

Why hasn’t it fired yet?

The gun is still humming, aimed squarely at the poor animal, but all its wielder does is snap its fangs together a few times, not unlike a bird clacking its beak to warn others off its territory.

In response, the bull huffs a breath through wide nostrils, sweat clinging to his glossy shoulders. Then, tossing his horns and turning to the side, he begins a back-and-forth trot from left to right in front of the SCP, who tracks the agitated creature’s movements steadily with its weapon.

But still, it doesn’t shoot.

Your knocking knees can’t hold you up any longer, and they give out quite promptly, forcing you to hunker down instead. The position in your corner is too open, too vulnerable. If bullets do start flying, you need to be as tiny a target as possible.

Breathing fast and hard, your vision starts to swim as you shoot a desperate, pleading glance at the window, praying to a god you no longer believe in that one of the Lab Coats will take pity on you and open the door.

It’s wishful thinking at its finest.

The bull’s moos only seem to grow increasingly frantic with each second that ticks by, shrill and broken as though he too is calling for help the only way he knows how. He paces like a caged rat, looking for an escape even as he continues throwing his head down and tilting his horns in the SCP’s direction. A meagre threat to be sure, but the bull isn’t to know that.

And as for the entity, while its arm continues to follow the bull's path across the room, its only outward acknowledgement of the animal in its cell is to utter a slow, continuous growl that seems to build towards an inevitable crescendo.

“Come on,” you breathe, teeth chattering between the words, “Open the fucking door!”

You shouldn’t have opened your mouth. You shouldn’t have made a sound. If only you’d just shut up and hunkered down in your corner, perhaps you wouldn’t have drawn any attention to yourself.

One of the bull’s ears flicks backwards, and all of a sudden, he wrenches himself away from the SCP and spins around on his hooves to face you, head held high and the whites of his eyes shining clear as day against his jet-black hair.

You meet that gaze; and understand. You’re both cattle here. Just a pair of frightened animals trapped against their wills with a common enemy who outmatches you in every conceivable aspect.

But the bull, of course, doesn’t think like you do. He doesn’t know you’re just as afraid as he is. He’s been brought here by creatures who look and sound and smell like you, and now here’s one of them: standing in front of him like a target, stark against his grey-walled cage with hard floors and no familiar sky over his head.

A bull doesn’t consider the fairness in a fight. A threat is a threat, no matter the size.

Tail whipping madly through the air, the bull leans back on his hindquarters, and before you can blink, he abruptly surges forwards into a head-long charge, nose tucked into his chest, horns aimed with deadly precision at your abdomen.

You don’t even notice when the SCP’s growls cut out. You’re too busy throwing your hands up in front of you and wrenching your head away from the charging missile, letting your jaw hang open around a silent scream. If you had the time, you’d pause to reflect on the irony of being killed by the least likely suspect.

As it is, the bull is only a few strides from you, hooves flying, thick neck rippling with muscle that’s about to thrust forwards and impale you on an entirely new set of horns. He bellows, the haunting din deafening to your ringing ears, and then he –

‘-BLAM!’

There’s an almighty thud, and something wet splatters across your shaking palms.

At last, your scream catches on a vocal cord, and the sound rips out of you like a wailing siren.

Someone in the observation room must have left the microphone on because you can suddenly hear an exclamation of ‘Jesus Christ!’

Your eyes are screwed shut so tightly, it’ll take a crowbar to pry them open again.

Even as the mechanical whir of machinery dies down, even as something with titanic lungs heaves deep, grunting breaths, even as the ground beneath your plimsoles vibrates with the fall of enormous feet, you don’t look.

You can’t.

You can’t… until out of nowhere, in a suddenly deafening quiet, your right hand is promptly and unexpectedly nudged.

Another piercing shriek fills the room as you wrench your eyes open and come face to face with a wall of silver and grey.

“FUCK!” you yelp, collapsing onto your backside but finding there’s nowhere to retreat to with your spine squashed up against the wall.

The SCP’s head is hovering before you, mere feet away, its yellow eyes almost crossing over one another to peer down at you, utterly still and disconcertingly silent.

‘Oh god. Oh god. Oh god….’ The words repeat in your head like a mantra, rapid-fire and frenetic.

But you don’t make a sound out loud.

Your mouth dangles open, not a breath nor a wheeze slipping in through your teeth as you wait, blood pounding in your ears. Somehow, even your body knows to be still. You’ve stopped shaking, too afraid for the adrenaline to control your muscles.

The instinct to play dead has taken over.

Through tear blurred eyes, you can see the SCP up close for the first time, the blank, white pupils floating in pools of gold, the charcoal skin sitting beneath the sockets of its visor, each nick and scrape zigzagging across the surface of its silver helm….

You let out a squeak when it pries its jaws apart and chuffs a hot breath over your face, catching the finer hairs at the side of your head and blowing them off your scalp. The air from its lungs smells acrid, and it burns your nose when you accidentally inhale.

It takes everything in you not to choke.

You wait for the bite. For the agony of those giant teeth sinking into your body and crushing you between them with a flex of its jaws. You wait, and wait, and wait, unheeding of the commotion occurring in the observation room. You only have eyes for the entity now, as though even taking the tiniest of glances away and breaking eye contact might spur it to attack.

Its horns, much like the bulls, jut forwards, each one a massive spear that hems you in on both sides, their tips nearly pressed to the wall to your left and right so that there’s truly nowhere to go.

"Please," you whisper, though it comes out wobbling, "Please, don't..."

A single blink is your only reply.

Then, as suddenly as it had crouched in front of you, the SCP - apparently satisfied with its impromptu inspection - lifts its great, silver head and stands up, moving away from you once more. Its leg stretches backwards, stepping deftly over the dark shape of -…

Oh…

Oh dear.

The bull lays dead on his front, hooves tucked up underneath his stomach. He had died collapsing forwards. And the only tell of what had killed him comes from a still smoking hole in the back of his skull. Murky eyes stare out at nothing and blood trickles in a steady stream from his nose, tongue lolling.

At first, your eyes dart over his entire body in search of wounds similar to those you saw on the D-Classes who died in here, but even with the fluorescent overheads lighting up every angle, you can’t pick out any other damage to his otherwise pristine pelt.

There’s only one wound.

One shot to the back of the head. Quick… Merciful.

Your eyes raise to the SCP’s gun arm and see that from one of the barrels, a dainty wisp of smoke is drifting steadily up towards the ceiling.

SCPs aren’t merciful.

What the Hell is this thing?

Peeling your bone-dry tongue off the roof of your mouth, you tilt your head back and gape up at the face of the entity towering above you. Its arm is reaching out for the bull, and you can do nothing but watch aghast as its clawed hand curls around the animal’s back legs and drags him back towards the opposite wall on the other end of the cell.

Slowly, methodically, it bends down onto its haunches and squares its stance over the bull, hissing at the Lab Coats behind their window like a lion guarding its kill. And like a lion, it doesn’t seem intent on letting the meat go to waste.

By the time the secondary door has begun to rise, you’ve scrunched your eyes shut again and slapped both hands over your ears to try and block out the sickening cacophony of snapping bones and the squeak of flesh being torn from muscle.

Staggering into the loading dock, you barely make it three steps inside before you collapse onto your knees, then your side, a wide-eyed, shivering mess of a human being.

Two guards have to haul you up by the arms, and without prompt, they drag you, crying hysterically, back to your cell.

#darksiders #scp #scp fandom #strife x reader #reader #D Class

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seat-safety-switch · 1 month ago

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Although it may imperil my citizenship, I have to tell everyone that I have never owned a pickup truck. Not even a trusty little Ranger, which is so small these days to practically be a compact economy hatchback. Sure, I've thought about it. Everyone loves the image of the truck-drivin' person, going back and forth to Home Depot in order to place one (1) length of 2x4 in the bed at a time.

Thing is, I've never really missed having a truck. Vans and wagons are where it's at, because I can get the aforementioned 2x4, and then make an ill-advised stop at the local diner without worrying about it raining on my wood. Or fear of wood thieves, which are rampant in my part of town. Or anxieties regarding the exposure of the wood to too much sun, which will cause it to warp. Basically, the plank is safer with a roof over its head.

In recent weeks, however, I have found one (1) thing that I want a truck for. No, it's not hauling livestock, or picking up spare engines from the junkyard, or even having an extra place to park tiny British cars. What I'm missing is the carwash experience.

When you collect as much worthless junk as I do, sometimes that junk is very dirty. The last thing I want to do is spend time cleaning that junk, because that uses up valuable time I could otherwise be spending acquiring more junk. With a truck, you can simply leave that shit in the bed, and drive through a carwash with it. The carwash washes the truck (probably needed to be done anyway) and the junk at the same time.

The only problem with this is that trucks cost actual money. To avoid this, I've decided to make do with my van. I've started just opening the door to my van whenever I visit the car wash around midnight and spend an hour guessing the door code. "Touchless" it isn't, but you can't deny that the seats and carpet are also super clean and smell much better than before.

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destielaureversebb · 2 months ago

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Coming soon for the @destielaureversebb: “the long haul”

Author: LoversAntiquities @tragidean Artist: Wellwatersurprise @wellwatersurprise

Rating: Mature Archive warnings: none Length: 10,000 words Tags: Western AU, Rancher Castiel, Cowboy Dean, 1890s Relationships: Dean/Castiel

Summary: With an ongoing drought in Texas, Castiel is forced to sell a portion of his herd of longhorns to make ends meet on his ranch. Dean, a cowboy under his employ, agrees to travel with him to Kansas. Only, a few weeks into their trek, something unknown begins to pick off their cattle, and Dean has a sneaking suspicion it may not be the coyote Castiel thinks it is.

Excerpt:

Dean spares a glance behind them, at the two oxen hauling their wagon at the back, at the thirty longhorns filling the space between them and their horses, everyone following in line without any need for wrangling or pressure. Just a neat, orderly group, no complaints, no wandering off. Even their two calves don’t seem phased by it all. “How do you do that?” he asks.

Castiel looks at him out of the corner of his eye. “Do what?”

“The whole…” He motions to the herd. “I’ve done drives before”—just two, but he knows how they work—“and I’ve never seen them this…”

“Calm?” Castiel snorts a laugh. Quiet, but there. “I’ve always had a way with livestock.”

You’re telling me. With the way they’re behaving, Castiel might as well be their god.

The sun looms. Two miles feels like a lifetime, like at some point, Dean committed some grievous sin and this is how God intends to punish him, by letting him bake under the Texas sky. On the horizon, though, he makes out the shape of what could be a house, or an abnormally large tree with the canopy ripped off. Shade, finally—and more importantly, shelter for the night. “Thank God,” Dean whines and pats Baby’s neck. “I can finally sit down.”

Castiel chuckles and shakes his head. He’s even more handsome when he smiles, something he shouldn't pay attention to or even consider, but out in the middle of nowhere with no one around for miles, he allows himself to indulge, even from a very close distance.

You shouldn't trust cowboys, his father’s voice echoes in his head. But Castiel is probably the best cowboy he’s ever known, and the only one he trusts with his life.

Posting date: February 3, 2025

#destiel fic #destiel art #promo post #author: loversantiquities #artist: wellwatersurprise #spn fanfic #spn fanart #destiel au reverse big bang

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nerdygoth77 · 18 days ago

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How would horses fit into Fallout?

I love thinking about equines and all their potential uses in the Fallout universe so I finally decided to write it out! Equines(horses, donkeys, mules) have been essential tools and companions for humanity for a very long time, and their roles in the tough Fallout universe would be no different!

I have a lot of thoughts and general headcanons that I've complied into a list that is in no specific order! :)

*horses could be used in many different ways! But caravans, farms, and soldiers would probably use them the most. Horses are best at carrying a rider and traveling long distances. They're strong and hardy and can be more than just mounts. They can drive(pull carts, plows,etc) and even be used in a variety of ways for farming and other labor!

*Donkeys and mules are more common for hauling weight/being pack animals, but they can also be ridden and used for pulling carts or plowing fields! They are both known to be more intelligent and more surefooted than horses, making them great companions for rockier areas. Mules and donkeys are also fierce protectors and can be used as livestock guardians!

*Every equine can have multiple uses, but mules and horses are the most desirable due to being the ideal ride. Mules are a bit more stubborn than horses and aren't nearly as willing, so horses are always preferred by the majority.

*Horses and their special body types were all bred for different reasons. They can be used for almost anything under the sun! Some were bred for war, or race, or heavy work, or leisure riding, or simply just for a pretty color and good temperament.

*So, different kinds of horses have different uses. For example, larger and more muscular horses like draft breeds are used more hard work like plowing and driving carts. The horses of average size would be used more for personal mounts. The horses with smaller and more lean builds would be used mostly for riding. Horses like that are usually faster and made for endurance, while drafts and similar are bred for their strength.

*Smaller donkeys would be perfect for people living in and around canyons, or even just traveling through. They are incredibly sure footed animals and do the best in the desert areas where you find most canyons. Their small tough feet are perfect for small and precious canyon lands. I highly recommend reading about the history of this, like the donkeys and mules who work(ed) in the Grand Canyon

*Horses and donkeys both do fine in any kind of weather, but horses do have better coats to support them in the rain and cold. Where donkeys do not have as much water resistance in their coat. So regions make a big difference in what kind of equines you would see.

*Equines would do lots of caravan work. They can haul carts and packs just like Brahmin. Mules probably end up doing a lot of hauling since they are extra sturdy. Caravan guards could be mounted on horseback too, riding solo on their own mounts would be so beneficial. Like larger field of view for being up high, intimidation, and they can travel much further for longer chunks of time than on foot.

*If you're asking what I mean by intimidation; Horses can be very scary. First off, they're huge animals with a nasty bite and even nastier kick. Also, trained war and riot horses have no issue with running people and things down. Horses are very dangerous and can do a lot of damage if needed.

*I love love LOVE the idea of NCR rangers using horses to travel! Maybe some of the ghoul rangers have some extra hardy ghoul horses.

*Maybe the NCR and other groups have a specialized cavalry?? There are a lot of possibilities with this thought!

*The NCR would probably save the horses for higher ups and specialized groups like Rangers.

*Caesar's legion would so use horses to do a lot of work and to travel. Horses are very resilient but can also die very very easily. I could see the legion working a lot of horses to death and using them in odd shows of bravery and glory. I also picture legionary spies and other specialized members like assassins using horses to get places fast.

*The commonwealth Minutemen would be unstoppable if they had horses! They could help others and spread even faster with the help of horses. I love picturing them sharing the skill of horsemanship to the rest of the commonwealth as they spread and grow. *I love picturing the minutemen having stables at a few of their settlements, maybe even one or two have training areas.

*Horses would be very helpful to the big Brahmin ranchers out west. I could go on and on for reasons why, but mainly they would be best for helping herd and to travel the large farms and grazing land quickly.

*Ranchers/farmers of any sort would def have horses or at least a mule or donkey. There are lots of farm animals that aren't shown in the games that definitely survived and have a number of uses. Like goats, sheep, and pigs.

*I love picturing old world ranches and ranchers surviving and building their ranches back up in the new world. Their herds half mutated and ghoulified but still strong.

*Thinking of surviving ranches and ranchers, I always picture a ghoul cowboy and his loyal ghoul mule mount. Maybe he even has a loyal herding dog that tags along!

* Riding horses isn't just something can do with no prior knowledge. You can try, but If you want to survive your first ride and not have your incredibly valuable animal die on you; you'd have to learn at least the basics of riding and horse care.

*Equines need a lot of training before they can do any sort of work. It's also considered unhealthy to ride a horse and work them hard before they are fully grown. (It can cause joint and growth plate issues, along with a million other things) Horses are not full grown until the age of five. Horses can live well into their twenties and even thirties, while donkeys have an even longer life span and can live past the age of fifty.

*As someone who works with horses at a horse rescue, I have seen it all. And one thing I know for certain, these majestic animals can die so fucking easily. Even in today's world it can be rare to have a horse die of old age. Most die of problems like damage in their legs and feet, and tummy troubles. Horses would have to toughen up quite a bit to survive in the wasteland! But I still bet they wouldn't live very long lives.

*Ghoul equines would be on a whole different level. They would be extra strong and fierce, toughened by the wasteland. perhaps even mutating to grow extra long 'wolf teeth' for a more ferocious bite. Their skin and whats left of their hair toughed by the world. Maybe their vision is even better than before, their eyes glowing in the dark.

*Horses would be incredible assets to tribals and similar. I could see the skill of horsemanship passed down through generation after generation. There would for sure be some tribes whose ways of life revolves entirely around their horses and the nomadic way of life they can build around them.

*The wasteland is cruel, no matter if you're on the east coast, west coast, or somewhere in between. Equines would be almost everywhere. Horses would be much more common in the midwest. No one needs a horse in the ruins of Boston or DC, not that they'd survive a trip into the dangerous old world cities. They'd be much more common and useful out on the big open spaces like the plains and deserts.

(*If you want a more fallout "realistic" picture of where horses would be since they'd be more rare: They'd only be in very specific areas that have the things horses need to survive like abundant grazing land. So they'd mostly be herds and groups scattered throughout the midwest and west coast. Appalachia and the Deep South would have a lot of horses as well, but they probably survive the best in the midwest. They'd be in little pockets out in the in the wasteland, more than likely protected by people who keep them thriving in the wasteland. )

*Everyone loves the idea of mutated zebras and their tribal riders surviving in the bombs. I've thought a lot about zebras in the apocalypse and talk about them in this post!

*Cooper Howard is clearly an expert horseman who seems like he was born on horseback. He's probably gone through his share of mounts while surviving out in the wasteland. He's still got his spurs on and his saddlebags, he's just waiting for the next horse he finds suitable

*Raul Tejada knows how to ride a horse well. I don't think he was an actual Vaquero, but he for sure has a few skills in horsemanship. I like to think that he would be quite found of horses.

*Some groups would be drawn to horses, but I could see some completely avoiding them. Like how the Rust Devils and Gunners from Fo4 prefer their robots for labor instead of animals.

*I imagine the Brotherhood of Steel and other developed groups like the Institute and Enclave would not find horses worth their time

*Super Mutants probably treat them like any pack animals, so they'e probably seen as food. Unless someone out there(Enclave) tried and succeeded in putting FEV into horses. They did it to dogs with the mutant hounds, so it seems possible in the Fallout universe! A super mutant horse would be scary af

*Groups of raiders using horses to raid caravans and homesteads would be super interesting. I could see a group getting into horsemanship just because they started stealing horses from the NCR.

*The Fiends probably eat horses or sell them for drugs. So it really depends on which group of raiders/tribals you get. The Great Khans would probably respect horses and maybe even use them, but the fiends do not.

*horses require routine care like hoof trimmings and dental work for longevity. This means a lot of things! There would need to be people who specialized in horse health. The most important requirement is hoof care by a professional called a farrier. They do a number of helpful things, but mostly, they put shoes on the horses hooves to keep them protected and strong. Wild horses break down their always growing hooves on rocks and stuff by all the traveling they do. Domesticated horses don't wear down like that so they need routine work.

*Farriers in the fallout world would probably specialize in metalwork as a whole. Making their homes and shops in cavern towns where the most livestock traffic comes through. I could see some Farriers even specializing in horse health as a whole, so they also do dental and other vet work.

*Equines are incredibly strong, with hooves and teeth that can pack a real punch. So many ignorant people would be killed by these animals, which can happen very easily if you can't ride well and don't know anything about horse body language

*I love horses with all my heart. I think they are wonderful and intelligent creatures. They are some of the best companions I have ever had the honor of knowing, they are just incredible.

BUT, they can spook at things and throw your ass in a heartbeat. Sometimes they even do it just because! But more often than not, horses act up because of pain and discomfort. Like a saddle that doesn't fit right or a bit that causes pain. Maybe even the rider is making them uncomfortable by pulling on the reins or giving improper signs the horse doesn't understand. A lot of things like this need to be taken into consideration when it comes to horses and work. These incredible animals are very high maintenance, and I haven't even mentioned how much water and food they consume in just a damn day! Or how they need to build muscle and stamina just like humans do! A lot of these things would make equines not really worth the trouble for a lot of people and groups.

These are just some of my most coherent thoughts!

If you have any thoughts or anything please share! I love to think what others think about topics like this!

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electricneonvalkyrie · 16 days ago

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This chapter sits around 8k words. It deals with heavy themes of violence and death, based in TLOU universe. I can't stress enough that my works are 𝟙𝟠+ 𝕠𝕟𝕝𝕪.

Smut.

So, there is a third part. Otherwise, this would've been a very, very long second.

It's much like this one, dealing with the aftermath of Isaac and the WLF, Abby's journey as a mother, partner and leader. I personally like exploring Abby taking on a parental role, but I realize it's not for everyone.

If you guys enjoy the first two parts, I'll happily upload it. Otherwise, thanks so much for being here.

I'll catch you on the next one.

Happy nerding.

𝓞𝓾𝓻 𝓢𝓪𝓷𝓬𝓽𝓾𝓪𝓻𝔂 𝓸𝓯 𝓡𝓾𝓲𝓷

𝒫𝒶𝓇𝓉 𝐼𝐼

You've seen this before.

This is where everything burns.

Fractures.

You felt it coming, a slow, grinding pressure like drilling a well, the earth groaning and cracking until finally, you hit bottom—not a fresh spring, but a cold, heavy dread.

The stadium lights blind you, burning like artificial suns against a menacing, inky black sky. You know the generators are on borrowed time, their shuddering hums barely masking the screams below. It doesn't scare you anymore. The threat of being shrouded in darkness is a comfort.

You squint, eyes straining, trying to make sense of the undulating graveyard below.

Soldiers—proud, disciplined, the very backbone of the WLF—start breaking. One by one. It happens fast. Orders dissolve into frightened shouts, and the people who once carried themselves with unwavering purpose now scramble, break ranks, deserting their people beneath the weight of it all.

The rest of them turn, one after the other, beyond your worst nightmare. People you once knew, rapidly morphing into vile, diseased monsters, and all you can do is watch it play out.

This place once flourished. Sun baked laundry, and the sizzle of frying vegetables. The low, lazy bleat of contented livestock. Baskets brimming with plump, ruby red berries and crisp, green apples.

Life.

Now, it's no more than a rotting, writhing thing.

The air stinks of churned-up earth and something worse. Shadows twitch, scatter. Bodies crawl where they shouldn't. Your stomach knots. You want to squeeze your eyes shut, force it all away.

Searing pain tears through your forearms as you haul yourself up, the rusted rungs of a dilapidated ladder biting deep into your palms, turning them raw. Every muscle in your body aches, but there's no time to hang back.

Clammy hands lock around your ankle, the weight of their terror dragging at you, but you wrench your leg free, heart hammering between your ribs. Bodies thrash, stampede, disappear under the panicked flood of footsteps pounding against cracked concrete. The stench of sweat, blood, and fear thickens the breeze, suffocating you, but you don't look down.

You climb.

Every gulp of air splinters your lungs and the madness is everywhere, closing in fast.

You climb higher.

It's all you can do—keep climbing, keep pushing, because if you stop, even for a breath, the relentless tide of despairing souls will sweep you away and it's a fate worse than death.

By the time you drop onto the rattling steel platform, the cold has already wormed its way in, gnawing at your bones. Your numb fingers, stiff with cold, fumble uselessly with your firearm. You slam the mag home, but the ghost of Abby's presence whispers against the shell of your ear.

"I need a number, baby. Don't make me guess."

The metal beneath you is unforgiving. It digs into your knees, sharp and merciless, pain blooming like hot coals pressed into the ice of your skin, but you take inventory.

You count your bullets.

"If you have two bullets left, you have none, yeah?"

The memory of her mantra crashes into you so hard you nearly flinch. Abby's voice, a calm and commanding rumble, drilling the lesson into you over and over.

"Not until we can't get out."

It's a one-for-you, one-for-me pact that scrambles your guts, shatters your heart. The horrifying prospect of facing such a choice makes you sick to your stomach.

Abby's always been the one to make the tough calls.

She's always been the one to plan ahead, preparing for the unpleasant situations that others refuse to face. The memories of all your training sessions fade as you swallow hard and lick your dry lips.

You glance down.

A terrible mistake.

They're coming.

Hands, slick with filth, claw at the rungs, splitting their nails down to rotting, pulpy beds. Torn clothes hang off their bodies in damp, weeping shreds. Their flesh, once warm and freckled, is bloated, peeling apart. Some of them move with frantic, snapping hunger.

Others shouldn't be moving at all.

One looks up at you, its jaw hanging loose, unhinged, teeth bared in something too wide, too wrong.

Your heart pounds so loudly that you can't hear anything else.

By the time the helicopter's deafening chop-chop-chop reaches your ears, its blinding spotlights are already cutting through the darkness, illuminating the gruesome scene below in stark bursts of white and gold.

You can't see Abby.

But you know she's there.

The infected twist in the field below, a seething, mindless mass drawn to the light. Lured by the sound, they flow into the arena from every corner.

You force yourself to look down again. The ladder, shiny with fresh blood, offers no other trace of the infected who left it behind. Before you can even begin to stand and wave your arms, the chopper lurches like a wounded bird, tail whipping sideways, rotors making ribbons of the grey fog.

Your vision swims as the helicopter dips, unstable but righting itself. Even with the skill of Jordan's piloting, the aircraft is fighting for altitude. The wind pushes against it and the chopper banks hard, pulling away from the stadium at a punishing angle.

You expect it to loop back.

It doesn't.

You don't blink. You can't get a full breath.

They left you.

The despair is a deep, murky pit, a choking darkness that swallows you whole. You're going to die here—a forgotten casualty. No hero's sendoff, no blaze of glory, just a whimper lost in the chaos. You resent it all—the wasted years, Isaac's pointless war. The nights you lost with Abby, for a cause that ultimately meant fucking nothing.

Then—

The air shudders.

A tremor, deep and resonant, snakes through the steel beneath your feet until the vibrations make your teeth chatter. The chopper returns with fury, its rotors a deafening blur, kicking up an odour of hot metal and exhaust fumes that sting your nostrils.

The moment the wheels slam down on cold earth, the doors explode open, and the squad spills out into the storm. Their reckless intrusion causes the horde to shift and press in, and you fight to keep track of them from above.

The sight of Abby, her weapon at the ready as she surveys the calamity in horror, nearly forces a scream from you. You yearn for her gaze, to see those ethereal blue eyes meet yours again, even if only for a moment, even if it's the last time.

Even if you both perish fighting for the cause.

Abby and her squad, a lethal wall of muscle and firepower, move with precision through the commotion. Bullet-riddled infected crumple like limp marionettes, their strings snapped. Abby takes point, jaw tight, eyes set with relentless focus as she clears the path ahead. Manny flanks her, every pop from his rifle a kill-shot. Jordan and the others hold formation, moving as one through the writhing sea of decay.

No wasted movement. No hesitation.

Until suddenly, Jordan freezes, hitting an invisible wall.

His shoulders tremble, like some unseeable force has cleaved through his ribcage and taken hold of his lungs. You can't see his face, but the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the way his body nearly collapses, is enough to make your mouth go dry.

Your eyes follow his, squinting through the flickering emergency lights. Beyond the smoke curling against the rafters. You fight to discern the shifting, stumbling shapes among the pandemonium.

And then you see her.

A figure near the bleachers.

The way she's standing isn't right. She sways, her arms hanging limply at her sides, like they don't quite belong to her anymore. A slow, unnatural tilt of her head makes your stomach drop.

Leah.

"No," you breathe, and the sound of your own voice barely registers under the riot.

Time stretches and warps and the tower is too high. Everything blurs at the edges of your sight, ears ringing hellishly. You can't think, you can't catch your breath. Leah's wide eyes, scrappy emerald, the same ones you've seen soften at Jordan's voice, crinkle at his teasing, are clouded and vacant.

You can’t see it now, but you've seen it so much—too many times to count. The milky white gaze that turns everything numb, forcing bones to forget how they fit inside the body.

Jordan breathes like he's drowning, hemorrhaging in all the places a widower only bleeds in the shadows, and he doesn't move.

Even when she does.

The infected are everywhere. They pour over the field, climb the scaffolding. You have no ammo, not until there's no way out.

And then you see it.

Leah's backpack strapped haphazardly to her shoulders. A bulging bag wrapped in fabric. She's tried to conceal what's inside, but it moves, a nearly indiscernible shift. When the cloth loosens, and a tiny, socked foot slides out, your brain refuses to believe it.

Jordan's fucking baby.

Still alive, still breathing, but Jordan doesn't see it.

He only sees Leah. The one who used to roll her eyes when he fixed her scope. The girl who, with a shameless grin, stole his damn rations.

He doesn't see the life Leah still carries.

Your voice, shredded from shouting, from fighting, comes out in a squeak. You inhale again, dragging in every ounce of air you have left, and scream.

"Abby!"

She whips her head up, and your eyes meet in the madness.

Jordan doesn't look away from Leah and Abby doesn't look at any of it.

She's locked onto you.

With a sharp intake of breath, her jaw tightens, shoulders set, and she grabs Manny's wrist with bone-crushing force. She whispers something in his ear. His lips part and his throat bobs, but he doesn't dare argue, not now.

She lifts two fingers in the air, and with a flick of her wrist, she makes the signal.

Because Abby's always been the one to make the tough calls.

Her voice cuts through the roar at the end of the world.

"Light them up."

--------------------------------------

The corridors of the stadium are a disorienting maze of shadow and death. Dust covered lenses bleed an anemic glow onto blood spattered walls, emergency bulbs buzzing like dying moths against a porch light, burning themselves out one by one.

It's hard to believe that just hours ago, this place was home. Now? Nothing but remnants of what you'd always known. Abandoned halls, overturned chairs, books soaked through with ruin, their pages curling and damp.

You try to push the screams out of your head. The memory of people, your people, shoving toward the exit gates, rushing to their rooms, desperate and afraid.

The sirens wailed until the generators gasped their final breath, their shrieking call echoing through the city, beckoning every infected from miles around. If, by some stroke of luck, you had escaped? You would have only found yourself trapped in a slower, crueller death.

Abby's voice pulls you back, and she's softer spoken than you've ever heard her.

"Take the baby for a second."

A motion detector bulb flares to life outside, beyond the shattered floor-to-ceiling windows of Jordan's apartment. For a brief moment, it paints the field in harsh, false sunlight.

A figure lurches into view.

Its movements are jerky, disjointed, a body still discovering its own demise. Its jaw works like it's trying to remember how to chew.

The light flickers, dies.

Darkness swallows the thing whole.

And then the bulb flares back to life.

Closer now.

The soft shuffle of rotting feet, a wet, dragging sound.

Another flicker, and then nothing. The light doesn't come back on.

From the corner of your vision, a shadow shifts. One of Abby's comrades, tall, broad, rifle already raised, meets her gaze. No words needed, just a nod. Then he's gone. Glass crunches beneath his boots as he moves through the space like a ghost and into the night.

A few seconds later, a single flash of muzzle fire.

The soldier steps back inside with his rifle lowered, his pale expression unreadable.

A hand drops to your shoulder. It's heavy and grounding. You flinch but immediately reach up, covering it with your own.

"Hold the baby. I have to take care of this."

No.

It erupts from your chest before you even think.

"No! You are not leaving me, Abby."

That she would even suggest it after everything, after the horrors you've barely survived together, it blindsides you—knocks the breath from your lungs, leaves you stammering.

Fear, camouflaged as anger, lingers at the edge of your voice.

"Don’t you dare leave my sight. Do you hear me?" you hiss.

Abby doesn't argue. She simply nods toward Jordan, and it punches the breath from you.

Your friend, silent and peaceful, rocks his son in his arms. The soft rise and fall of the baby's breath is the only other movement in the room. He's taking it all in, the baby, the space, the life that's slipping through his fingers, not from neglect, but from time.

Time he doesn't have.

Weakened, he sinks onto the edge of the mattress.

"I can't leave him like this," Abby says, her voice thin and quiet.

Abby moves to kneel beside him, her hand resting on his knee. They don't speak. Slowly, Jordan looks at you with quiet resignation.

Your hands shake as you reach forward, and he places the baby in your arms.

The tiny body wriggles, restless, until, without thinking, you begin to sway, matching the rhythm Jordan had kept, a quiet instinct guiding you.

Small eyelids flutter open.

In the darkness, a luminous galaxy of guiding stars blinks up at you.

"Hey, little moon." Your voice shakes. "God, you're so tiny. How did someone like you make it through all this?"

You're so engrossed that you don't notice Abby approaching until her warm breath touches your temple. She whispers a light, lingering kiss to your forehead, her voice breaking as she softly cracks, tears sliding in muddy pearls down her cheeks.

"I'll fix this."

Her promise hangs in the air between you, but it's a fragile prayer, and a plea all at once.

Abby guides you out of the room and the door clicks shut. You hold the baby tighter, pressing a shaky kiss against their soft little head.

You hum a melancholic tune, the only one you can think of at a time like this. The baby whimpers, their tiny fingers curling against your sweater.

For a moment, it's the only sound in the world.

And then, swallowed by your lullaby, is a single, muffled gunshot.

++++++++++

The grassy, sweet notes of green tea drift down the hallway from the kitchen, where you can hear Abby humming a familiar tune.

You bury your face into the silk pillow beside you, its shape still molded by her presence. The fabric is cool against your cheek, a stark contrast to the lingering warmth of the blankets.

A small child clings to you like a sleepy little sloth, their soft breath warming your collarbone.

At some point in the night, they must have crawled in, tucking themselves close. You feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest, his tiny fingers twitching in sleep.

Despite the ache in your back, there's a quiet relief in already knowing where he is before your feet even touch the floor.

"You awake back there, Caelus?" you whisper, your voice carrying a sleepy rasp.

The only answer is a tiny, contented sigh.

For now, you let him be.

The sound of Abby packing up for work is a comforting disturbance, a reminder that she'll be waiting for you somewhere nearby when you wake.

And just as sleep pulls you back under, you feel a gentle kiss pressed to the top of your head.

"Come find me when you wake up," Abby murmurs.

The front door clicks shut, and for a moment, you simply breathe.

--------------------------------------

With each passing morning, as the sun makes its gradual climb into the sky, you and your child set off on your route to the schoolhouse, delighting in the energy that accompanies your journey.

"What’s this one?" Caelus asks.

In his state of fascination with insects, he eagerly points at a beetle, its iridescent shell catching the light as it scuttles along a sun-warmed stone. Abby always stays updated on topics like these, effortlessly rattling off facts, and you hate not knowing, so you make your best effort to sound confident.

"It's a Doodlebug," you lie.

"Oh!"

"It’s got a nice shine to it, don't you think?" you ask.

Caelus shakes his head and wrinkles his nose, mirroring Abby’s notorious expression of uncertainty.

"The feet are too prickly," he says.

The child kneels to get a closer look, but when the beetle abruptly flies away, causing him to scream in surprise, it's confirmation that Caelus dislikes Doodlebugs completely.

Moving through the thoroughfare, the sharp aroma of charred wood fills your nose, while colourful murals bring life to the buildings lining the path.

Scattered throughout the streets, small flower gardens bloom, greeting the season. The petals ripple with the breeze, spilling soft bursts of colour into the morning light.

The settlement thrives under the careful guidance of a small committee, its heartbeat sustained by the hands of those who call it home. Yet, it is your family with Abby that the town holds in highest regard—its founders, its steady roots, the ones who first dared to carve a future from the unknown.

The town's warmth is evident in every passing glance and every familiar voice that calls your name. A neighbour pauses, pressing a small wooden helicopter into your sons' hands. He turns it over in his fingers, spinning the tiny rotor with quiet fascination, tracing the carved details, before pulling it close to his chest, his laughter bubbling up and bursting out like sunlight spilling through the trees.

Home. It feels like something stable, something earned. A place where roots have taken hold, where love lingers in every brick, every whispered greeting, every hushed gesture of kindness.

--------------------------------------

The second Caelus spots Abby in the distance, his whole body lights up like a struck match. His eyes go wide, a breathless gasp escapes him, and before you can say a word, he's tugging at your arm with frantic energy, bouncing on his toes as his hands flail wildly to get her attention.

Abby and her crew work in practiced rhythm, securing salvaged metal sheets and reinforcing weak points along the storm damaged wall. Sparks fly as welders seal the cracks, the metallic tang of heated steel lingering in the air. Along the perimeter, watchful eyes scan the horizon from the guard towers, residents standing sentinel over the home they've fought to protect.

Under the morning sun, Abby’s powerful body glistens with sweat, showcasing her unwavering dedication to removing the sleeves from all her shirts. The sight of her muscles flexing makes you want to take a pair of scissors to every piece of clothing she owns.

Your little one races toward Abby at full speed, his shoes pounding across the pavement, giving you no time to dwell.

Laughter ripples through the early morning crowd, a warm, easy sound as people glance over at Caelus, grinning before returning to their routines. But it's Abby’s reaction that holds you still—how her stern face softens the second she sees you both, her rigid expression shifting into unguarded simplicity, as if for a moment, nothing else in the universe matters.

"Mama! Mama! I found you!" Caelus squeals, his little legs moving as fast as they can carry him.

Abby catches him mid-air with practiced ease, spinning him in wild circles until their laughter tangles together. Dizzy and breathless, they topple to the ground in a heap, giggles spilling out between them. Caelus barely gives himself a second before launching onto her again, sending Abby flat on her back with an exaggerated "oof!" Her deep, rumbling laughter rolls through the air, pulling you into the joy right along with them.

"When did you get so strong?" she asks.

"Today!" Caelus exclaims, his eyes shining with triumph. He flexes his tiny arms with all the seriousness of a seasoned warrior. "Look at my guns! They're huge!"

You give your woman a playful scolding, hands firmly planted on your hips.

"Really, Abby?" you ask, arching a brow, already bracing for whatever ridiculous answer she's about to give.

"Well, someone's gotta teach him how to be cool," she teases, effortlessly trapping Caelus against her chest. Her fingers sneak under his arms, and the second she starts tickling, laughter rushes out of him like an overflowing creek—helpless, gasping, uncontrollable. "Right, Cae? Or are you just all talk?"

Your child gasps for air and pins Abby with a serious look when the giggle attack subsides.

"Wait—how come you’re not ticklish?" he asks, squinting suspiciously, as if Abby's been keeping some grand secret from him all along.

"Oh, I am," Abby says, eyes flicking up to yours, full of mischief. "But only Mommy knows where."

"That’s not fair," Caelus grumbles.

Manny hobbles over on his crutches, curiosity piqued by the commotion. Despite his arduous path to recovery, he never hesitates to contribute, continuing to be the finest marksman you've ever encountered.

In his excitement, Caelus momentarily forgets about Manny's injuries and lunges at him. Your heart jumps, instinct kicking in as you lurch forward, arms reaching before you can even think.

"No, Caelus!" The sharpness in your voice cuts through the hum of morning work before you even realize you've spoken.

Caelus startles, his little shoulders tensing at the sudden edge in your voice. His bottom lip wobbles before he ducks his head. But Manny only chuckles, giving the little boy a playful shake, waving off your concern like it's nothing.

"Sorry, Uncle Manny," he mumbles, voice small as he scuffs his blue rainboot against the dirt.

"I've survived worse, kid," Manny snorts, tousling your son's hair. "Gonna take more than that to bring me down."

You watch them walk together, Manny's hand resting gently on your son's shoulder, their voices blending into the hum of morning work. The guilt doesn't hit all at once—it seeps in slow, curling at the edges of your mind like mist. Your voice had been too firm, too fast, not cruel, but enough to weigh heavy in your chest. It sits there, unwanted, no matter how many times you remind yourself that Caelus isn't still flinching, that he's already moved on.

But you haven't. The moment replays, looping in your mind, making you wish you could pull him close and undo it all.

With a dirt streaked forearm shielding her eyes, Abby looks up at you from the grass, her gaze searching, a mix of empathy and softness.

Abby puffs a breath, her eyes tracing over you, not just seeing, but understanding. "Don't do that," she murmurs, voice warm, steady. "You don't have to punish yourself for caring."

You stand still, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, eyes fixed on your sneakers like they hold the answers you need. The world around you is alive—easy laughter, bright voices, the distant sound of hammers against wood—but it all feels far away, muffled by the weight pressing against your heart.

Then, a gentle tug at your shoelace.

Playful, coaxing, like Abby's daring you to notice her. When you don’t react, Abby tugs again, firmer this time, an amused huff slipping past her lips. You blink, and there she is, kneeling in front of you, deft fingers making quick work of the knot. Her head tilts like she’s trying to figure out how to pull you back in.

When she meets your gaze, there's tenderness behind the teasing now, a quiet kind of insistence.

"C'mon," she says, low and certain, her voice curling around you like ivy. "Sit with me for a bit."

With a sigh, you give in, sinking down beside her as Abby's crew patiently guides your son through the art of hammering a nail. His tiny hands grip the tool with more determination than skill, his little brow furrowing as he listens intently to their instructions. The careful way they gesture, showing him where to place his fingers, keeps you mesmerized.

A gentle stroke along your thigh pulls you back to her. Abby's fingers trail slow and deliberate, tracing the curve of your knee before giving it a light squeeze—just enough to tether you before the thoughts swirling in your mind can drag you under.

"I’m a terrible mom."

Abby shakes her head, not sharp, just firm. "Don't do that to yourself." She nudges your knee with hers, voice gentler now. "You're an incredible mom. Caelus is lucky to have you—we both are."

You swallow hard. "I scared him."

The words feel fragile, like they might shatter if you hold them too long.

Abby pauses, and you sense the heavy burden of her sorrow. It's a loss she rarely gives voice to, mourning a mother she never got to know. Ghosts linger for her where memories should be.

"Yeah," she admits, voice quiet. "Maybe you did. But he knows you love him." She runs her thumb over your knuckles, grounding. "And love is what sticks. Not one bad moment."

She lifts your hand, pressing a soft kiss to your palm. "Baby, look at me."

You meet her eyes. Abby wouldn't hesitate to tell you if she thought you were slacking. But guilt is a cruel liar.

Her lips quirk into a half-smile. "Raising a kid with you is the best thing I've ever done. Just so you know."

Her grin tilts wickedly as her hand slips beneath your shirt, fingertips skating lazily over your stomach. The touch is light, absentminded, but intentional, like she enjoys the feel of you under her hands as much as she enjoys teasing you.

"Uh oh," you murmur, narrowing your eyes. "That’s a dangerous look."

"What?" Abby hums, like she's completely innocent. "I never really thought about it before this—having kids, you know?"

Her thumb strokes along your ribs, slow, warm, making it harder to focus when she chuckles low in her throat.

"Watching you with him does something to me, I guess," Abby murmurs playfully, her fingers hooking through your pant loops. "Can't help but think about putting a baby in you. You'd wear it so good."

"You can't just say things like that," you blurt, shoving her hand away, but your face feels hot, betraying you.

"What? Just stating facts," she smirks, glowing with mischief.

"And what about you, huh? You think you're off the hook?" you challenge, tilting your head.

"What about me?" Abby snorts.

"Think you’re too good for pregnancy?"

Abby blinks, her mouth opening slightly before she clamps it shut. A blush creeps up her neck, warming her ears, and for once, she's the one caught off guard. The sight stuns you. Bathed in the sun's warmth, she looks ethereal, something too good, too beautiful, too constant to be real.

With a cocky brow raised, Abby shrugs.

"You'd miss my abs too much. Not sure I could do that to you," she teases, recovering fast, but you catch the way she swallows.

Manny approaches, his limp more pronounced after a long morning's work. He doesn't call attention to it—he never does. Instead, his focus shifts to Caelus, watching the little hands gripping the hammer too tightly, the same way Jordan used to clutch his rifle.

The memory drops an anvil on your heart.

The bond between Manny and Caelus has always been more than just Abby's best friend looking out for her kid. It's deeper, stitched together by something unspoken—by the night Manny and Jordan crushed beers in celebration, welcoming the newest wolf cub into the pack.

Manny had been there when Leah gave birth, cracking jokes to mask his nerves, promising Jordan he’d always look after them. That promise lingers in every quiet moment like this.

"He’d be proud," Manny murmurs, voice quieter than usual, like he's saying it more to himself than to either of you. His fingers pick at a scab on his elbow, a nervous habit, but his eyes stay locked on Caelus—watching, remembering something he'll never speak aloud.

Then, softer, almost an afterthought, Manny continues. "Jordan couldn't swing a hammer to save his life."

He says it with a forced chuckle, humour trying to cushion something heavier.

When you glance at Abby, it's an understanding that hums in the space between breaths. You don't need words.

You've never needed them with her.

You barely lift your hand before she's already there, fingers closing around yours like she's been waiting, like she knew exactly when you'd need her.

--------------------------------------

Life here is steady, growing, rooted in something stronger than survival. The greenhouses thrive, rows of crops flourishing under careful hands.

This is the first year your town has made substantial trades with other communities, and it has brought about a remarkable transformation.

Abby leads differently than Isaac ever did—she builds bridges, not walls. The treaties, born of trust rather than fear, reflect in the unwavering loyalty of her community.

Prior to the stadium's collapse, most had already observed this trait in her, so it came as no surprise when many of the survivors and soldiers distanced themselves from the WLF and instead opted to follow Abby.

At first, you worried—loyalty can be fickle—but hardship forged something unbreakable among those who stayed. They weren't just survivors anymore; they were a family.

Humanity continues to surprise you with its remarkable ability to inspire hope.

"Carrots or beets?" you mumble, trailing your fingers along the leaves, feeling the sun-warmed greenery beneath your touch.

The simple luxury of deciding what to cook for dinner still feels like a quiet miracle.

Abby has a fondness for tomatoes that are crunchy and seasoned with a sprinkle of salt. Once they become squishy in the middle, she doesn't hesitate to toss them into the pigpen. You pull a few from the vine with a satisfying tug, their deep red skin firm and smooth.

Abby's fixation with snap peas borders on absurd, but her true talent lies in launching them across the kitchen with a precision that would make any marksman jealous. It creates playful chaos that your child eagerly joins in on, but you've caught one in the eye a time or two.

You drop only a few handfuls into your basket, as you prefer to see the nutrients being consumed rather than flung across your linoleum floor.

It's no great loss as potatoes are Abby's true obsession, anyway—so much so that she asks you to keep a clandestine garden dedicated solely to their cultivation in the backyard.

Your backyard gardens, crafted from old rubber tires and scrap planks, is your quiet labour of love. You've lost track of how many times you've watched Abby's hands help work the soil, grounding herself in the rhythm of growth. Your heart spills over with a bittersweet ache every time she convinces your son to join in.

She has a knack for making learning fun.

Upon returning home from the greenhouse, the unexpected sight of two leather boots greets you, their muddy soles peeking out from the end of the couch. Inching forward on silent tiptoes, you notice Abby is indulging in a rare afternoon nap.

Her work ethic hasn't changed in the slightest, her muscular hands calloused from keeping the community in one piece, but she no longer embarks on any overnight journeys.

A blessing you value every morning as you wake up beside her.

Leaning against the breakfast nook, you watch her chest rise and fall, the quiet rhythm of her breath a testament to hard earned peace. The golden afternoon light filters through the curtains, casting a honey glow over her skin, highlighting the freckles scattered across her nose.

The air in the room is thick with the scent of freshly chopped wood and the faint trace of her timber-steeped soap, grounding you in the moment. It has taken years to convince her it's okay to take a break, and now, watching her like this, you know it was worth it.

"You're welcome to join me," Abby murmurs, voice thick with sleep. "Or you can just keep staring. Up to you."

"Abby," you sigh, shaking your head as warmth spreads through your chest. "How long have you been faking sleep?"

"Since you walked through the door."

"Great," you sigh dramatically, bending over to scoop up a pile of wooden blocks spilling from the back of a toy truck. "Just another day of cleaning up after both my children."

Before shuffling across the carpet to put them away, you can't resist tossing a block at Abby's backside. It bounces off with a soft thud, landing on the rug beside her, skidding an inch before coming to a stop.

She grunts in protest, but the lazy smirk she shoots you makes your heart flip.

"Careful, baby," she drawls. "You keep that up, and I'll have to put you in time-out."

Abby arches her back in a slow, indulgent stretch, her drowsy gaze lingering on your body, tracing every curve and contour with possessive hunger.

Her lips part slightly, a slow, pleased breath escaping her.

"How long before our rug rat gets home?" she asks, her tongue briefly wetting her lips.

Your stomach flutters as you hear the subtle shift in her tone.

"Any minute now," you say.

Though you're always together, truly being alone feels impossible. Over five years of stolen kisses between bedtime stories, of hushed whispers under covers, of shifting apart when tiny feet shuffle into bed at midnight.

Wanting each other is a constant; having each other is rare.

Abby nibbles at the dry skin on her finger, deep in thought. She shifts, making space for you, but she doesn't move to sit up.

"If you let me," Abby murmurs. "I’ll make you feel good. You won’t have to lift a finger."

That cunning smile awakens a powerful, bone-deep ache. It’s different this time, more urgent. All the whispered promises, all the stolen glances across dimly lit rooms, every second spent wanting but never quite having, all of it culminates here, pressing down on you like gravity itself.

It's the kind of want that builds in layers, heavy with all the nights you've curled against her, desperate for more but settling for warmth.

It vibrates through you like starvation finally being sated.

"Here?" you ask, pulse quickening. "Right now?"

"Or… I can take you to bed," she says, voice husky, fingers tracing slow circles on her thigh, beckoning you to stare. "But you won't be leaving. Not until I've had you how I want."

The hands of the clock seem to mock you as your eyes dart to them, and back to Abby, shifting anxiously on your feet.

"Come here," Abby says, sitting upright on the couch. She spreads her legs and gives her thigh a gentle pat. "Please. You have no idea what you do to me."

The plea catches in her throat, and it's thick with desperation. She craves your touch more than air, and you watch as she lays it at your feet, the waves of her desire lapping at you like shallow ocean pools.

They rise higher with every breath she takes.

You swallow hard.

"I want you," Abby whispers.

And like a taut wire pulled too far, the hunger inside you stretches and snaps. You rush to close the curtains, fumble with the lock on the front door, pressure crackling under your skin. By the time you turn back to her, your shirt is already hitting the floor.

Abby's breath catches at the sight of you, her pupils blown wide, her grip tightening on the couch like she's trying to steady herself.

"God, you’re beautiful," she says, dipped in sugared rust. "I love watching you lose yourself on me."

Abby sets a match to every nerve ending, grabbing your wrist and pulling you flush against her. The warmth of her body seeps into yours, the scent of moss and cedar wrapping around you like a drug.

The gentle, deliberate way she moves, how she drags her hands over your skin, leaves you trembling before she's even begun. Sparks spread for miles in every direction as her calloused hands map the familiar terrain of your body, relearning you with a reverence that makes your breath hitch.

She moves slowly, agonizingly so, stopping to trace the dip and swell of each scar she lands on, her fingers memorizing scripture. Just when you’re certain she’s missed a spot, her fingers flex and the smooth bed of her nails backtrack, ensuring nothing goes unnoticed.

You knead the tension from her sculpted shoulders, letting your fingertips slide up to her braid. You tug, and the woven strands unravel, slipping loose between your fingers. Her hair spills down her back in golden waves, cascading over her flushed chest. The scent of pine and salt clings to each strand, as if she carries the wild, open forest with her.

Abby whimpers, tilting her head into your touch like she’s already lost in it.

"Tell me how to take you apart," you say, barely above a whisper, eyes locked onto hers. "Show me."

Abby puffs out a breath, her pupils darkening as she drinks you in, looks at you like she's the one unraveling.

When she yanks her shirt over her head, the fabric barely clearing her arms before her hands are on you again, she's breathtaking. Hard muscle wrapped in soft, freckled skin, every inch of her carved by effort, and now, she's at your mercy.

She drags her lips over your cheek, your jaw, tracing the curve of your throat like she's savoring something long overdue. The first press of her tongue against your pulse is devastating, and you're desperate to make up for every moment you've had to hold back.

Looking down at her through your lashes, you see that she’s already fighting for breath.

"Ride me, yeah? Let me feel every inch of you," Abby says, breath catching as you push her knees further apart, her thighs flexing beneath your touch.

"We have to make it quick," you murmur, your hands tightening on her like you can't stand the space between you for even a second longer.

"Don't worry," she laughs, the sound spilling out of her like she’s coming alive with the realization of just how badly she needs this. Her fingers twitch against your jaw, pressing her forehead against yours. Her grip tightens on the edge of too hard and just right. "That won’t be an issue for me."

She helps you settle with one leg on either side of her thigh, but she doesn't wait, afraid you might disappear if she lets go. She guides you down against her and the friction is dizzying, sharp, electric. The first drag of your body against hers wrenches a sound from her throat and the heat of it is overwhelming. Abby sucks in a sharp breath, her fingers digging into your hips, rough enough to leave marks she won't even remember making.

The slow grind of muscle flexing between your legs as she urges you down harder, sends a pulse of pleasure coiling low in your belly, leaving you gasping, aching for more.

"I need you so bad," Abby groans, her head falling back, jaw slack with pleasure. "I think about this all the time."

"Keep talking," you beg.

"Every time I close my eyes—every time I touch myself, it’s you. It’s always you."

Her hands slide up, palms rough and warm, molding over your breasts, her thumbs teasing your sensitive peaks with divine, gentle flicks. She lingers, coaxing helpless sounds from you, sounds no one else has ever touched. When her mouth finds your nipple, her tongue curls over itself, devouring you, taking your body apart like she's unravelling silk.

She sucks harder, until you notice her cheeks hollow, stirring up hot, carbonated sparks that climb your spine. You ride her thigh faster, fingertips tracing the edge of her waistband, slipping just beneath—just enough to make her hips lift.

"Fuck, I’m right there—" she rasps, breaking on the last syllable.

With tenderness, you cup her face in your palm and take a moment to appreciate the newest lines now etched at the corners of her eyes. How beautiful her scars look when they’re dipped in pleasure.

"Make a mess for me, Abby," you say, dragging your nails down the column of her neck. You feel the slow ripple of her throat as she swallows against it, a shudder running through her. You're dissolving her piece by piece, a squeak of leather as her toes curl in her boots. "Show me how much you need me. That's it."

And then—a knock.

Abby jolts violently, her fingers spasming around your waist like she can hold on to the moment if she just grips tighter. Her thigh flexes hard beneath you, her entire body wound tight with the ache of what was just about to happen.

Another knock, so loud it feels like the cosmos is shattering, the moment detonating into smithereens. Fragments of pleasure scattering into nothingness.

She mutters something under her breath, too low to catch.

And just like that, the universe proves once again that it has a personal vendetta against your sex life. The knocks grow louder, more insistent—an all out assault that rattles the doorframe, filled with the kind of unrelenting energy that can only belong to a six-year-old and a very amused Manny.

"This cannot be real life," you groan, pressing your forehead into Abby's shoulder like you can physically block out reality. "If we stay still, do you think they'll go away?"

Abby lets out a frustrated, breathless laugh that stutters on the edge of wrecked, her chest still rising and falling in uneven, gasping breaths. She's trying and failing miserably to pull herself together.

She drags her calloused thumb over your lower lip, watching the way it bounces back into place before whispering, "We really need to build that damn treehouse."

Evidently, Manny is also quite skilled at making learning fun, because to him, everything is a game. The frantic tattoo of knocks surely denting your door grows louder, more rambunctious, nearly shaking the panes from the window frames.

Abby presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, willing the frustration to dissipate, setting free something dangerously close to a growl. She scrubs both hands down her face, head thumping onto the back of the couch with a dull impact, her fingers flexing, clenching at the cushions, physically restraining herself from dragging you right back down onto her.

"I swear to God, I’m making this happen. If we have to barricade the door, send them on a scavenging hunt—hell, fake my own death—I'm fucking you properly tonight," Abby chuckles humourlessly.

Then, after a long, suffering sigh, she mutters, "How long has it been? We still can't get five goddamn minutes? Jesus Christ."

She lifts you up to place a tender kiss on your bare stomach, her lips lingering for just a second longer than necessary, still gripping your hips like she's contemplating sneaking you away and ignoring reality altogether.

"And you want another one," you say, your voice just as ruined as hers. "You see how that's insane, right?"

Abby closes her eyes with a goofy grin, forcing herself to let go. "I blame you."

Then, in one last act of pure defiance, Abby steals a bruising kiss, wanting you to feel exactly what she was about to do to you—all the ways she wants to love you.

All the ways she already does.

As she disappears down the hall to splash cold water on her face, you hear her grumble, "I need a minute."

The sheer exasperation in her voice sends you over the top, and you bite your lip, a giggle bubbling up before you can stop it.

As soon as the door opens, Manny's beaming smile suggests he didn't miss much of your conversation. With a cheerful squeal, your son launches himself at you, his little arms wrapped around you in a tight hug.

Abby slips by—her face still flushed as she grabs a glass of water from the kitchen, the cool splash against her skin clearly a poor relief from the tension. Manny shoulders his way past you, never missing an opportunity to antagonize her.

"Should we come back later?" Manny teases, leaning against the wall with an exaggerated smirk, arms crossed like he's been thoroughly entertained. "It looks like you haven't finished your reps."

"God, your timing is fucking horrendous," Abby groans.

"Bad word, Mama!"

"Yeah, you better watch your mouth, Abs," Manny grins. "You need to set a good example."

Squatting in front of Caelus, Abby softens her voice, tucking a stray curl behind his ear as she murmurs an apology. She reaches for the folded piece of paper in his hands with gentle curiosity, treating the artwork like something sacred.

It's a picture of a helicopter, and for a moment, she forgets to breathe. Her fingers graze the edge of the drawing, tracing the lines. She studies every intricate detail, her throat tightening. "You made this all by yourself?" she asks, voice just a little rougher than before.

"Miss Dina helped me with the udders," Caelus says.

"Do you mean the rotors?" Abby asks, her face lighting up with the kind of smile that reaches her eyes. She taps the drawing playfully, pressing a kiss to her sons' forehead. "These great big blades that help the helicopter zoom through the sky?"

"That's what I said, Mama," he insists, furrowing his brows in dramatic indignation.

With a smirk on her face, Abby lifts the little one up to the fridge, basking in their excited chatter as they debate the perfect spot to place it.

Your refrigerator is a gallery of imagination, a chaotic masterpiece of smudged crayon strokes and slightly crumpled pages, some barely clinging to the surface with mismatched magnets. The waxy texture of each drawing catches the light, the colours bold and unrestrained, a testament to boundless creativity.

Most of the artwork consists of endearing, abstract sketches of your family—Abby lifting wonky shaped weights, you reading on the couch, your head comically oblong and purple, Manny with his signature goofy grin, his eyeballs questionably placed.

And the world as Caelus sees it, from the towering walls of your quaint town to the whimsical classroom where Miss Dina teaches with endless patience.

Each drawing, in its own way, is a love letter to the life you’ve built together.

"Do you two need a little alone time?" Manny teases, nudging you hard enough to rock you on your feet. "Because you're looking a little wound up."

You reach into the vegetable basket on the counter and toss a pea at Manny's head.

Turns out it's pretty great.

"That depends," you say, nailing Manny square between the eyes with another pea. "Are you offering?"

Manny tilts his head, tapping his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness before shooting you a knowing grin. "Hmm... tempting, but I don't think you could handle me." He pauses, then gestures vaguely at himself. "I mean, I'd hate to break up a happy home, but I do look great in an apron."

You shake your head and shove him back. "Please."

Manny scoffs, straightening his shirt like you just insulted his honor. "What am I, a full-time uncle now? Might as well start charging for my services."

"That's exactly what you are," you say smugly. "Hope you like bedtime stories and dinosaur shaped pancakes."

You watch with delight as Abby and Caelus chase each other, their gleeful laughter filling your home.

Your son shrieks as Abby scoops him up, swinging him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes, her own laughter mixing with his. He wriggles and giggles, kicking playfully as Abby spins him around before setting him down, only for Caelus to immediately retaliate with tiny, determined hands pushing at her legs, demanding another round.

Abby would move mountains for him, for you, and you'd be right there beside her.

One night without little ears around couldn't hurt, though.

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