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jezebelblues · 1 month 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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wired-for-weird · 11 days ago

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need more monster posts about recieving pleasure that doesnt automatically make the recipient the sub

like. allowing a human settlement to slowly grow right at a distant edge of my territory til I deem it worth razing, taking my pick of new toys and devouring the rest along with their livestock. returning to my den and servants with limbs aching from the long journey, maw and claws and mane matted with gore. tossing my prizes aside for the moment, knowing they'll be taken care of, fed, cleaned, dressed, restrained if necessary, and sinking into the waters of a hot spring. the heat soaking into my muscles and starting to warm away the aches there while half a dozen pairs of hands work the dried blood from my fur and muzzle, the only interruption the occasional sting as an arrow or splinter is dug from a flesh wound.

when that's done, hauling myself out to drowse and be dried off and have my body worked over more fully. Claws spread and sharpened, sensitive pads pressed and checked for injuries and softened with oils if they're looking too dry. Jaws open so my teeth can be picked clean of cloth or sinew, irritating splinters of bone or metal dug from my gums. The pleasure of having my tongue pushed on and the taste of skin more than enough to get me hard, tail curling and uncurling with every shiver through my body.

having a bound toy brought and positioned under me, so as my cock emerges from its slit, I push straight into a hot, tight, slick hole. rocking my hips into it as my muscles are worked over to finish what the hot water started, especially around my shoulders, hips, and the base of my wings. especially my wings. pressure on the aching flight muscles is delicious, the limbs being moved and stretched making me purr. the purring only gets louder when hands move to my belly, the skin there extra sensitive because of how I gorged myself earlier.

a second toy placed between my jaws, legs forced apart and pinned between my back teeth, licking the salt and fear-taste from their skin, burrowing my tongue into them until they howl, the swell I make in their stomach pressing against the back of my incisors.

a full-body shudder as I come, pulsing so much into the toy beneath me that the bulge of my cock disappears. they're pulled off me, turned around, and have barely enough time to open their mouth before I plunge my cock into their throat. barely softening, I press myself deeper, as far as I can go, purring still as my servants carry on massaging my aches away.

that continuing til I physically cannot come any more, having each toy replaced as they're filled up or worn out, til I'm mindless and limp with well-fed animal pleasure.

#nsft.#wires writes #dragon #dubcon #monster pov #I just want to be spoiled senseless in a way that doesn't make me sub is that so much to ask

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imagine-darksiders · 7 days ago

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Absolute Anarchy - chapter 2

The Bull.

A Darksiders/Scp au.

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

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

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.”

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

“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.

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

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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short-honey-badger · 1 year ago

Text

Peppermint Tea 8

Holy crap the amount of likes and comments and reblogs you all have left is amazing! Thank you so so much for enjoying!

Anyway! On to the next part.

Masterlist

The sound of the native birds of your island is what wakes Mihawk. He cracks his eyes open, wincing when his back protests him moving as soon as he wakes up. He stands and moises his way to the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting it on the stove. Mugs and tea bags are next, and Dracule makes sure to dump some sugar into your own cup. He then moves on, collecting fresh fruits and vegetables from your garden and investigating the smoke room. He finds very little inside and decides that his haul now is enough for breakfast.

Fixing it up doesn't take all that long, and soon, he has a platter of foodstuffs that looks similar to the one last night. Dracule makes a mental note to try and bring you some type of livestock, though he dreads the thought of anything bigger than a house cat on his ship.

The tea is placed on the tray, and Dracule makes his way to your bedroom. He eases the door open, and a soft smile crosses his lips at the sight of you curled up with an arm around Hank. The big pooch whines and drags himself off the bed and out the door, going to do his business. Mihawk takes his spot and sets the tray away from you but still on the bed.

“Sweet thing,” Dracule rumbles and slides his hand up into your hair, scratching your scalp just the way you like it, “It's time to get up. I've made breakfast.”

Those seem to be the magic words for you rise like the dead and look at Mihawk through squinted eyes. He thinks she looks adorable when you rub your eyes, pout on your lips from being woken up.

“Hawk?” You mumble out and wince when your head throbs like a bastard. You whine and lay back down, not wanting to deal with the pain, “Don't feel good.”

Dracule can't help but laugh at your pitiful state, “Oh, Darling. I'm not surprised you don't feel very well,” he coos and gently pulls you back into a sitting position. He shifts to sit behind you, back against the wall, as he drags the tray of goodies closer to both of you.

“One must be careful when indulging in alcohol. Is this your first hangover?” Mihawk asks quietly, and you shrug, not really understanding what he's going on about. You frown when he laughs at you again and cross your arms over your chest, only to wince when you brush across your breasts.

“Owee,” you murmur quietly and wonder why your chest aches so badly, only to drop your head in shame when you happened to remember most of last night.

Mihawk gently lays you back and lifts your shirt, shushing you gently when you squirm and try to fight him, “Hush, let me look. There is nothing to be embarrassed by,” he chides and sends you a look that has you ducking your head and looking away from him. Mihawk examines the seldom hickies and love bites with a smug twist of his lips, hands reaching up to gently trace the bite mark that still lingers from last night.

You look beautiful all marked up, and a dark feeling blooms in his chest at the sight of what he did. Mihawk wants to see more of them on you, proof that you want him. That you are his.

“Just sore, sweet thing,” Dracule comments lowly and kisses your cheek, lingering to leave a trail of hot kisses all the way down your neck and to your shoulder, “We will have breakfast and then you will have a hot bath while I do my morning routine.”

You nod, completely at the warlord's mercy as you glance down to see that he hasn't stopped his gentle ministrations, thumbs rubbing over your nipples over and over again until you can think of nothing but the man who holds you. Even your hangover doesn't seem as bad with Dracule here.

Mihawk glances over the tray and picks up a cubed melon slice, lifting it up to your lips and grinning when you obediently open your mouth for him. He feeds you one piece after another until you are pleasantly full and ready to go back to sleep, “Tea first, sweet girl,” he orders when he feels you shift again.

You nod slowly, wincing when your head aches at even the slightest movements. The tea has cooled, but it still tastes wonderful to your cottonmouth. You sip until it is empty, and Dracule takes the mug away from you when he notices you finished. He taps your thigh gently, “Up you go, Darling.” He encourages softly.

He leaves you to find some clean clothes and a towel while he goes to the bathroom and begins to run you a bath. He is surprised by the amount of modern utilities he finds in your cottage and wonders who you really are. While simple, your home was filled with older but no less luxurious items. The hot water and plumbing were just one of the many things that he's noticed.

Mihawk's thoughts are interrupted when you appear in the doorway with a thin robe and towel. You smile at the sight of your friend starting you a bath, “Thank you for taking care of me, Dracule,” you say, and step close to press your lips to his cheek when he rises from his slouch over the tub.

Hawkeye feels hot satisfaction curl in his chest at your thanks. He turns and pulls you in for a kiss, hand coming up to tangle in your hair and pull you close to him. Mihawk likes the way you say his name. All breathy and full of gratitude, and all for him.

You whine at the less than soft treatment, but you can't bring yourself to care or complain about it. Not when you love it when Dracule touches you like this. He kisses you breathless, leaving you a gasping mess as he turns away to fiddle with the knobs of the faucet. You pout a little, annoyed that Dracule is never as affected as you are after a kiss like that.

Your annoyance disappears the second that Dracule steps behind you, hands placed on your shoulders as if to slide your robe down. Nerves surge through your entire body, and you clutch the thick fabric to your chest, “I um. I can take It from here, Mihawk.”

You shiver at the feeling of his warm breath on the back of your neck. Your hair is up in a messy bun, allowing the warlord to press chaste kisses to the flushed skin there, and thankfully, no more than that.

“Take your time, dear one. I'll be outside if you need me.” Dracule assures you, and then he is shutting the door behind himself and leaving you alone in the bathroom.

You shrug off your bathrobe, and a relaxing sigh escapes you as you settle in the hot water, eyes closing as you do what Mihawk bid and take your time.

It's an hour later by the time you step outside. It's nice and sunny like usual, and you grin when Hank bounds up. The big lug presents you with a stick, and you toss it into the woods for your dog to go running after. You glance around, humming wordlessly as you look for Dracule.

You find him at the back of the cottage where the sun shines brightest. Your home is situated up a small embankment, leaving your backyard to drop off into a cliff face. Dracule stands at the edge of the cliff, looking regal and dramatic as the wind blows his dark hair this way and that.

You wonder why he keeps coming back here. He's told you before that your island is like a safe haven from the rest of the world, but sometimes you aren't sure that you believe him. You don't know what the rest of the world is like, and when you first came to this island, you yearned to leave and explore the world. How much of the world has Mihawk experienced to say that your island in the middle of nowhere was a safe place for him.

What did your friend go through for him to run and hide away from it all?

“I can hear you thinking from up here, dear,” Mihawk says, and you nearly jump out of your skin. He turns and gives you a smug smirk, “What's on your mind?”

You huff at him and step by his side, eyes flickering to the crashing waves of the ocean. Your devil fruit reacts to the sight, sending flurries scattering about the two of you. You debate asking the real question you've wanted answered since Dracule stepped foot on your island. Just who exactly was Dracule Hawkeye Mihawk?

“Nothing, just admiring,” you say instead. You didn't want to give him any reason to leave early.

Dracule huffs at you with a roll of his eyes, “Is that so?” He presses and eyes you, “You can ask me things, Dear One. I won't lie to you.”

“Even if it's about who you really are?” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. You tense, flurries sticking to your skin as your nerves get the better of you. The silence is thick between the two of you, and you are terrified to even look in his direction.

“I introduced myself when I saved you from those pirates, did I not?” Dracule's tone is one of forced calm, and more snow begins to fall when you hear it. You can't help but feel like you've messed up. A warm hand catches your chin, and you are forced to look into the golden, ringed eyes of your friend. His gaze is as cold as your devil fruit, and you find yourself shivering under it.

“You did,” you agreed carefully, “But, you just… don't speak about yourself often, and I'm curious.” You swallow harshly and catch the bird following the movement of your throat. His eyes catch your own in the next moment, and you force yourself to hold his gaze.

It feels like it takes an eternity, but Dracule relents, eyes softening just a fraction and grip becoming more tender, “I have a good reason for not doing so, Snow Angel,” he murmurs.

You suck in a sharp breath at the new name, wetting your lips as you latch on to the pretty words that he spills. You want to say more, but your lips won't move. Your jaw won't work to form the words that you want to say to him. Dracule has you, hook, line, and sinker, just where he wants you. He traces the curve of your jaw with his thumb, then leans forward to press his lips to your brow.

“Promise to not ask me again, and I'll tell you in my own time,” Dracule suggests softly and you lose yourself even more to him, “I do not take the sharing of personal information lightly,_.”

And there it was. The nail in the coffin. Mihawk rarely calls you by your name, so hearing it in his sinfully melodic voice sends shivers of pleasure racing up your spine. The flurries melt, and you find yourself nodding eagerly.

“I promise not to ask again,” you say, and feel like you are about to explode when Dracule gives you a proud quirk of his lips.

“Good girl,” Mihawk praises softly and brings you in for a quick kiss, pleased that you see his way of things. The tension in the air is all but gone, and the warlord leads his snow angel away from the cliff edge.

“Come, I didn't get those books for you for nothing, Dear One. How about you read one of them to me?”

You let Dracule pull you back to the cottage, Hank meeting you with a happy bark at the door. His anger still lingers in the back of your mind, but you can let it go for now.

@writingmysanity @foggyturtleknightangel @kenkenmaaa @browneyedhufflepuff @goth-mami-writer @djbumblebee

#fanfic #one piece #reader insert #fluff #dracule mihawk #mihawk x reader #opla mihawk x reader #op mihawk #one piece mihawk #hawkeye mihawk #mihawk x y/n #mihawk x you #peppermint tea

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