Hey E, it's me again, the anon from a while ago! I finally finished writing a little one-shot for your Absolute Anarchy story!! I hope you enjoy it. And thank you for inspiring me to write this, I had a lot of fun exploring your character and story, and I hope I did your amazing work justice!! đŤśÂ
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Youâre not sure how long itâs been.
But it feels as if days have passed since the Lab Coats left you locked and alone in the dark with SCP-8103âs enormous sleeping body tucked securely around your small one.
At least, the SCP looks like heâs sleeping.
In the ominous red glow of the emergency lights, you watch his gargantuan chest slowly rise, remain at its peak for a moment, then gently lower again, his bristly mane shifting ever so slightly as he does so, like swaying switchgrass upon a pulsating hilltop.
(You feel a feeble little ache knowing youâll most likely never see such green hills again, but it fades as quickly as it comes in the face of your present circumstances.Â
That being: cramped in a corner by your monstrous jailer.)Â
He hasnât moved an inch, much less made a sound, since they damned the both of you to this dimly lit darkness.Â
You didnât either, not at first.
The main reason is big and obvious and currently curled around you, with the other, tiny little reason being that . . .
. . . you were just plain tired.
Your harrowing experience with Frost has completely obliterated your frayed nerves, draining you of all energy and emotion, leaving only the bitter dregs of dread, defeat, and to top it all off- a skull splitting headache.Â
(Maybe you should count yourself lucky thatâs all you have to deal with, considering Frost couldâve hurt you more than she did.
You doubt anyone would care about stitching your wounds.)
For a while, the only thing you tried to do was shut your eyes and will the throbbing pain away.
When that didnât work, you tried ignoring it, with somewhat better results.
But as time passed, the pain did not.
If anything, you began to feel even more pain.
It grew steadily down your back, thanks to the Entityâs elongated horn pushing your knees to your chest, pining your spine against the concrete wall and pinching your poor tailbone on the cement floor.
(The bed in solitary confinement is not luxurious by any means, but at least you can stretch out.)Â
Eventually, youâd become fed up enough to overcome your fear of the SCP, and after studying the Colossal to confirm he was asleep, youâd decided to scooch to the side, intending to put distance between you and his snout before you attempted to stand.
But when you took a breath, held it, and started to execute your escape plan, he stopped you.
That is to say, he opened his eyes.
He didnât growl, didnât move, didnât even breathe differently.Â
His bright, golden gaze was enough to instantly paralyze you the second youâd shifted.
A few moments passed with you staring unblinking into his illuminating eyes that seemed to tell you, wordlessly, to stay.
And then, apparently satisfied with your obedience, his thick, inky eyelids slid back down, breaking whatever trance his piercing white pupils had put you in.Â
Belatedly, youâd let your burning chest fall open and the breath youâd taken slipped shakily back out.Â
At the time, youâd wondered if you should say something.Â
Maybe try to explain why it was you were moving, or even just apologise for daring to do so.
But your voice felt too weak to shatter the glassy-sheet of silence, and even if you could, you didnât want to risk the shards slicing the tentative truce thatâs miraculously formed between you and the Entity. Â
So here you are, still scrunched stiffly betwixt its caging horns with no other choice.
You suppose you could lie on your side in what little space you have.
But the idea of lying with your neck bare to its fangs is unthinkable, and lying with your face to its jaw isnât any better. Â
A deflating sigh seeps from your lips as you rest your sore cranium against the cold wall.
Looks like youâll just have to suffer through until the Lab Coats come back.
If you make it that long . . . .
. . . you glance with glazed eyes at the snout- a good size bigger than your head- still pressed up against your side.
Every magnus exhale brushes his hot breath through your shirt and into your skin; a sensation akin to a summer sun doing itâs damnedest to roast you like a rotisserie chicken.
Itâs sweaty and uncomfortable.
Itâs also the only warmth youâve felt since youâve been here.
Warmth that, as strange as its source is, still gives you a comfort that your species so readily surrenders to.Â
Even the sound of the SCPâs breathing is a small solace.Â
Because while he would never, not in a million years, be your roommate of choice, the sound reminds you that youâre not alone.
After days of total isolation, that contrast is stark.
And well, with how your luck has been . . . you might as well take what you can get.
Minutes, hours- maybe days for all you know- slog by in red and black and hot, stuffy breaths, your eyelids growing more and more heavy and your butt growing more and more numb.
But you canât close them, as much as you want to.
Even though fear is buried beneath exhaustion, a primal instinct thatâs very much awake within you refuses to lower your guard enough to sleep with a predator, a threat, so close beside you.Â
You try to reason with it, longing desperately for the sweet release of unconsciousness.Â
After all, he didnât threaten you earlier, and heâs definitely not threatening you now.
In fact, he hasnât truly threatened you since you dropped that gun.Â
You canât imagine why- and you donât dare dream that itâs because he harbors any amount of goodwill towards you.
The most liberal theory youâre willing to toy with is that heâs curious, like a cat.
And you, like a mouse, have caught his attention.
(You certainly feel like one, cramped into this corner, waiting to be played with either by the Entity, or used for experiments by the Lab Coats.)
But then a naive little thought whispers through your skepticism, suggesting that maybe, just maybe, the SCP is sentient and intelligent enough to see you for what you truly are.Â
A fellow prisoner, as trapped and at the mercy of the Foundation as he is.
Because even with his significantly higher chance of staying alive down here, heâs still a victim to their every whim, every experiment, every decision.
That thought alone nestles into the cracks of your weakening consciousness and takes root long enough to blossom into a fragile, and one-sided, sense of camaraderie with your Colossal inmate.Â
And then that thought immediately dies, because what the heck are you doing empathizing with a monster whoâs right arm is literally a machine gun?!Â
You snort at yourself, a dry, wheezy sort of sound, as you run a hand through your greasy hair.
You really need to sleep if you start thinking like that.
Letting your hand fall haphazardly back into your lap, you sigh and-
As your fingers twitch ever so slightly, you swear you feel a warm, smooth surface, something akin to keratin.
What, or rather who, it is youâre feeling hits you as quick as the bullet that took the bull down, and you yank your hand back faster than youâve ever moved it before.
Oh shit, shit, donât wake up, please-
The Entity rumbles a deep, throaty growl directly into your side, eliciting a full-body flinch from you.Â
âSor- sorry, sorry!â you whisper, your voice scratchy and splintered.
Shit, fuck- how do you make him stop?!Â
âSorry,â you stammer again, and in a moment of panic, you stupidly place your hand back on his muzzle, as if that could possibly placate-
You wait another breathless moment, straining to hear any more sounds from him, and hearing nothing in the silence but your own erratic pulse.Â
Slowly, you start to slip your hand back off-
-only for the warning to rumble through your entire body again.Â
You stop and the vibration peeters off. A few more seconds pass, but the silence stays the same. Confusion slowly pulls your brows together as you blink at the Beast.
But any sensible questions that this new development should raise are squashed under the weight of your apathy.Â
Because frankly, you donât really care why he wants your palm placed there.
Youâre too fucking tired to care.
So if keeping your hand on his heated muzzle while keeping him from biting it clean off, then thatâs fine by you.
(And like always- you donât really have a choice.)
Leaning your head back, you finally let your eyes close, knees curled to your chest, with your palm pressed upon the heated armor of the SCPâs snout.
And as you drift into a dreamless sleep, your fingers twitch softly against the smooth keratin.
But youâre too far under to notice how this subconscious touch results in a subtle swish from SCPâs tail in the blood-tinted darkness.Â
____________________________________
Unfortunately for D-1935 and for SCP-8103, the intern of a particularly cold and elite scientist, does notice.Â
The footage on his screen, captured by the night vision camera placed in an inconspicuous spot in the room, shows him exactly what the two of them are doing.
He clips it, saves it into a file, and jots a note on his report.
Dotting his âiâs with a smile, he takes a satisfied swig of his room temperature coffee.Â
Sheâll be thrilled to see this.
YAAAAAAAAAAAAAASS1!!!! BOSSED IT!
Writing is PEAK! Great pacing, beautifully congruent with the existing fic, I'm love it.