“Of course not, come here.” The tone in whumper’s voice was so inviting whumpee couldn’t help it, they crawled towards whumper painfully. “It’s okay, take your time.” They said softly, encouragingly.
Whumpee finally came close enough for whumper to pull them into whumper’s chest and stroke their hair softly.
“There we go,” They muttered softly, rocking whumpee back-and-forth. “You did so well, imagine how good you’ll be next time!”
The words ring in Sarah’s head as she’s led down the white hallway, amplified by the smooth walls and narrow passage, sharpened by the cold. What did it mean? What was the drip? No one around here was willing to tell her anything; she didn’t know where she was, why she was there, what she was interviewing for, why they wouldn’t let her go, why she couldn’t see Aunt Verna. They’d laughed at her when she asked for Aunt Verna.
“There’s no Aunt Verna here,” they sneered. “Pets don’t have aunts.”
But no one will tell her what all this “pet” business is about. No one will tell her why she has a series of thin black bars and a number painted on this inside of her wrist—657128—or why she’s in this thin t-shirt and black shorts, or why she has a thick black collar locked around her neck. There’s a box on one side, with little metal stubs on the inside that poke into her skin. It shifts uncomfortably when she breathes or swallows. She doesn’t know what it does, and she’s not eager to find out.
The handler leads her to a new room, or what she thinks is a new room. All of them have looked the same thus far with only small differences. This one, however, has two metal hooks on the ceiling and restraints on the far wall. Near the floor is a short chain and a pair of cuffs.
Sarah stifles a whimper. She doesn’t like the look of any of this. In a way, it reminds her of her basement room, but her basement room wasn’t this bright or unnaturally clean and white—although something in the air underlying the staleness smells distinctly of fear. She’s never smelled fear before, not like this. This room has been used dozens and dozens of times before her, more times than she ever wants to consider. And she’s about to be it’s next victim.
The handler, ever with few words, ushers her toward the wall and shoves her to her knees. “Hands,” is all she says.
Sarah offers them forward, only to receive a smack across the face and her head pressed into the floor. She can’t help it this time, she wails with distress. “Please—”
“Quiet.”
But she can’t keep herself quiet. She cries and whimpers as cold metal closes around her wrists, trapping her hands behind her back. Even when the handler has stepped up and away, Sarah doesn’t dare move from her position. She keeps her head pressed to the cold floor. She doesn’t know what this handler wants, all she can do is guess. She stays in position, just in case. Maybe they’ll go easy on her.
“I need a bag STAT,” the handler says. There’s a crackle and a response Sarah can’t quite make out. She keeps her eyes on the floor, her ears opened to the conversation. “Yeah, Room Nine.” Another crackle, perhaps of confirmation, and then silence. Sarah shuts her eyes, gulping, hoping the handler won’t turn her attention back to her. Up until the smack, she’d been kind; Sarah’s opinion of her has rapidly deteriorated. If someone who she perceives as kind can turn on her in an instant, is there anyone here who won’t do her harm?
This is what I worried about with Aunt Verna, she thinks. I thought she would turn on me like the rest of them. But Verna had surprised her. She’d become the attentive, loving parental figure and protector Sarah had craved for years. Her father had never given her enough; his interactions always left her starved for more.
“Good girl,” the handler says, calmer this time, almost gentle. Her hand ruffles Sarah’s hair, and against her better judgment, she relaxes and finds herself pushing into the hand. Aunt Verna used to ruffle her hair like that, used to stroke her head and hold her close with a gentle palm against the back of her head like that. This hand feels almost like Aunt Verna’s.
Please, Sarah thinks, please don’t hurt me, please. She likes the kindness, the way this feels. Could everything going forward feel like this? She’ll do whatever they want if they just won’t hurt her, she can follow their rules, she can listen to them.
“Oh!” the handler whispers in surprise. Her hand presses harder into Sarah’s head, firm but still gentle. “Very good girl. That’s it, sweetheart, that’s what we like to see. Such a good girl, you are. You’ll make a perfect pet in no time.”
Sarah can pretend that voice is Aunt Verna’s, and she’s so close, but that sweetheart is laced with something and it’s not love. It sets her on edge, but she keeps her head pressed into that gentle touch. Presses so much that she misses the hiss of the door and nearly shoots her head up into empty air when the warmth vanishes. She presses her head back to the floor.
The handler had said she was a good girl—and even as it gives Sarah a sense of relief—she’s doing something right, okay, that’s good—it fills her with a greater sense of dread and disgust. Both of them fill the cavity in her chest left by the absence of the warmth running through her head.
The new conversation is partially drowned out by the thundering of her heart in her ears. It sounds like some small exchange, quiet and quick, and the door is closing before she can grasp any sense of what’s to come. Even if she wanted to ask what was happening, she couldn’t. Her mouth is dry, her tongue is like lead, heavy and uncomfortable in her mouth. Every inch of her trembles. Any words she tries to form come out as choked, unintelligible sounds.
“Shh, shh, shh,” the handler says. “Don’t start that now, sweetie. You’re doing so good. There’s a good girl.”
Sarah bites her lip to quiet any sounds that push at the back of her throat. The handler says she’s doing good. That’s good, right? That means she won’t get hurt? She knows all about getting hurt, with reason and without. The belt scars across her back say everything she can’t.
Something pricks her arm.
Sarah yelps in surprise, tries to wiggle away, the warmth of Aunt Verna fading into a rush of cold fear. “Wait, wait, please, please, what, wait—” Something is in her arm, something sharp and uncomfortable, and the handler is taping it in place while trying to soothe Sarah into compliance, and it’s not that Sarah doesn’t want to comply, but she doesn’t understand, she doesn’t know what’s happening, she doesn’t know what’s in her arm—
I’d get that one on the drip as soon as possible.
This is it, isn’t it? This is the drip?
“Please,” she whines. “Please, please, don’t—”
“Ah, ah, ah,” the handler chides. “Don’t do that, don’t do that. This is just a little something to help you feel better, okay? It’s going to help you relax, sweetie. Be a good girl for me now, alright?”
Sarah lets out a sound that’s somewhere between affirmation and fear. She doesn’t want this, she doesn’t care if she’s supposed to be good, if not fighting is making her good, she doesn’t want to feel better, she wants her Aunt Verna. “Please,” she tries to whisper, but it never comes out.
Instead, it catches at the back of her throat, dying somewhere on her tongue, as something cold and warm and cold again rushes into her veins. She can feel it, she swears, she can feel it slipping into her bloodstream. It feels unnatural and uncomfortable, and she wants it out. But her movements, her attempt to shuffle around are sloppy and futile; she falls against the wall, sliding down to the floor. The lights look different when she looks up. Still bright, but slightly fringed around the edges. The handler’s face is blurry. Her head spins.
Wrong! Her body screams. This is wrong! Everything about this is wrong! Wrong wrong wrong wron g wro ng
Aunt Ver—Aunt Verna…oh, God…
A wave of nausea hits her. Every thought she could ever have flees from her mind. This isn’t making her feel better, this is making her feel worse.
What is this? Her eyes search for the handler, her tongue searches for words. Both searches come up empty.
“That’s better,” the handler says, somewhere off in the distance, but she’s not really there, is she? Then why is her voice the clearest one in Sarah-Sar-Sar—her head?
What’s happening? Why can’t I think? Why can’t I remember anything?
She groans.
“See, sweetie, isn’t that better?”
No… She rolls her head against the wall. ‘S’ not better. ‘S’ worse…
“None of those pesky memories in your head now, alright, sweetheart?”
No, she tries to say, in protest, her head rolling again, but the handler’s hand is on her head again, ruffling her hair. Don’ touch… She doesn’t have the strength to reject it.
For the fluff prompts: I heard you talking in your sleep
Ben awokeas his backside collided with the ground, his blanket still tangled around hislegs. He slowly allowed his body to sink to the floor, breathing hard as hechased away the last of the nightmare. He was still staring at the ceiling whenthe bunk bed creaked, and a head popped over the side to stare down at him. Benstared at where he imagined the eyes would be, but it didn’t deter Armitage.
“You were talking in your sleep,” he said.
Bensnorted and began to tight with his blanket, pulling at it until he was able tofree his legs and toss it back onto the bed, following swiftly after it. He laydown, pulling the crumpled sheets over him, leaving his feet uncovered andcold, but he didn’t have the patience to fix them. The bed creaked again, andArmitage’s head appeared over the edge of the bed, his hair floating in a haloaround his head.
“So,you talk in your sleep and say nothing when you’re awake, is that how itworks?”
Bendidn’t respond with words, but he raised one leg and kicked the underside ofthe upper bed, making the whole bed frame shake. Armitage looked to one side,then looked back at Ben as the bed stilled.
“Wasthat supposed to knock me off?”
Benrolled to the wall, curling up on himself. After a moment, he heard the bedcreak as Armitage withdrew, only to begin creaking even louder a moment later. Bentwisted around again, watching as Armitage came down the ladder, arms full withhis own pillow and blanket.
“Whatare you doing?”
“You’retalking… that means you’re asleep, yes?”
“You’rebeing stupid.”
“Andyou’re keeping me awake. Move over.”
Ben staredat him dumbly until Hux raised a foot and began to nudge at his leg. Heshuffled over then, watching as Armitage lay down his pillow, and arranged hisblanket so it would be covering both of them. He lifted a corner and slippedunder it, lying on his back with just his elbow pressed against Ben’s arm. Hewas boney and would likely hog the blanket once he’d fallen asleep, but rightnow he was warm and he was there.
“Armitage-”
“Youdon’t have to talk about it,” Armitage replied, cutting him off. “Notunless you want to.”
Armitageturned his head on the pillow, and Ben imagined he could see where his eyeswere by how they caught the glints on light on their too wet surface. Ben couldhear the unspoken words, the nights when it was Armitage who cried out, themarks on his body he wouldn’t talk about.
Bennodded, allowing Armitage’s proximity to lull him back to sleep. He was lookingout for Ben now, just as Ben looked out for him. That was all they needed.
Never Let Me Go AU: Don't change that beautiful face!
The first session of surgery is the worst. Newton warned it would be bad and- it is. They pushed it forwards as far as they could and Hermann has barely been with Newton two days before he’s taken to the little backstreet surgery and-
And that’s all there is, for a while. Until he opens his eyes some blank time later and his face is a numb devouring hole of pain.
They cut down the bones of his jaw, smoothing them to a sharp point. The cartilage of his nose worn down to get rid of that distinctive bump. They will be back next week, to work more on the muscles, then another week later they’ll finish the skin and it’ll be- over.
He will never see his.. his.. owner again. No matter how far he could run, he would always see him, that mocking face in the mirror. No more. He’ll wear the bandages for three weeks, then they’ll go and he will be- himself. For the first time.
Hermann smiles wearily. Newton puts down a steaming bowl of soup in front of him, a basket of soft, home-made bread. Oh, it’s wonderful, it’s blissful. No energy bars, reconstituted and tasteless. This was every dream he had once had, everything he had read about in his precious, stolen books. He soaked the bread in the thick broth and ate, soft food not to aggravate his healing jaw, the flavour bursting bright and glorious until he could only close his eyes and revel in it.
When he opens them again, Newton is grinning at him. “You know how to appreciate good cooking.” He tops up Hermann’s glass, it’s beer, and he isn’t supposed to drink, but Hermann’s spent twenty something years doing what he’s supposed to do. It’s sharp and bitter and he loves it.
“I look forwards to meeting you.” Newton says, sitting down opposite him. “When all that comes off.” He waves at Hermann’s bandages.
Maybe the alcohol wasn’t such a good idea, Hermann yawns, suddenly exhausted. “So do I,” he says absently.
He’s almost dozing by the time he finishes his soup, nodding off over his empty bowl, feeling the delicious heat of it soak through his stomach. “Hey.” A hand on his shoulder.
Hermann starts awake. “I wasn’t sleeping!”
Newton blinks. Hermann shakes his head. Here. Now. Safe. “I’m sorry-” He starts.
“Nah, it’s okay.” Newton smiles. “Want me to see you home?”
Hermann smiles back, the skin of his face tight and sore, pulling taut on bloody bone. It’s worth it. Newt leads him to the little guest bedroom just off the kitchen, the warm one, right behind the stove. With the overstuffed bed and the window overlooking Newton’s crazed garden and the door.
Newton doesn’t try to go in, even though it’s his house and he could just go in, he waits for Hermann to open the door, and makes no move to go in. It’s such a small thing, but Hermann could almost cry for it. He glances back at Newt for a moment, a quiet thanks and a goodnight-
And there’s something in Newton’s eyes, a sort of uncertainty and hunger and want and- oh.
Hermann blinks and for a moment, something cold trickles down his throat, locks in his stomach. No-
But Newton will not even go into his room without permission, let alone feel entitled to- anything else. But even though Hermann nods stiffly and slips in without a word, he only feels safe when the door is closed, and can only try and calm down when he’s pushed the chest of draws in front of the door and sits down against it, heart racing.
It wouldn’t- have been the first time, of course. Hermann hugs himself and shivers. He reaches up and touches probing fingers to his face.
Pain flares up, but he ignores it. Let it hurt. Let it hurt and leave scars. Let him be fearful and hideous and never be looked at in desire again.
Summary: Logan is still unwilling to trust Roman, but his desire to learn about humans is strong despite his fears
Pairing: Logince (platonic)
Warnings: food, mentions of kidnapping/ running away, brief reference to abusive parents, please let me know if I missed anything
Word count: 1099
a/n: This chapter is shorter, but I hope you guys still enjoy it! I am excited for the coming chapters and hope you guys like the story as much as I do!
Logan is surprised when Roman shows up that night.
“Hey Logan, i'm back!”
“You came.”
Roman shrugs, “ Like I said, I'm a man of my word.”
Logan considers this, perhaps he can trust this man, “Did you bring anything?”
Roman smiles, “I did, I brought some moss, a bunch of seaweed, and a good assortment of food.”
Logan suppresses a smile, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Roman replies as he pulls the things he brought out of his bag.
Logan ‘s eyes grow wide when he sees how much moss and seaweed and food Roman managed to bring, “Wow, I am impressed. It is almost as though you genuinely care.”
Roman looks at him, offended, “What makes you think I don't?”
Logan’s face softens and he raises his eyebrows at Roman, “Nothing. I just hadn't considered that maybe you would. I didn't think it was a possibility.”
“Well now that you know that it is a possibility, would you believe that I care?”
Logan nods slowly, “Yes, I think so.”
Roman smiles, “I'm glad. Now please eat something, I don't want you starving on me.”
Logan reaches for the sack of food and opens it. Inside he sees some nuts, bread, dried fruits, fish and chicken.
“Is this fish?” he asks, pointing.
“Yes... wait oh my gosh that’s practically cannibalism i'm so sorry!”
Logan covers the food as Roman ruches forward to grab it from him, “No, don't take it back, we eat fish, that is why I was wondering in the first place!”
Roman pulls away, “Wait, you do?”
“Yes, what else would we eat?” Logan asks.
“I don't know, clams or something.” Roman says with a shrug.
Logan nods, “Clams and oysters are pretty good.”
They sit there a while on the beach, a comfortable silence between them as Logan eats what Roman has brought him. The silence is only occasionally broken by Logan asking what a certain food is before he eats it.
“I have a question.” Logan says.
“Yes?”
“I assume humans have families and children. And I am a bit confused because I have only ever seen adult males on ships and I was wondering where the women and children stay”
Roman chuckles, “Yes, we have families. In the kingdom there are males and females, and people who live outside of the gender binary, or move within it, or any variation of the above. We do get married and have children. The reason you wouldn't have seen any women or children typically is because women and children tend to work and play on land or in very shallow water. You have probably only seen boats sent out for fishing or expeditions. Fishing boats return overnight and the men, or women, stay with their families overnight and on days where they do not work. If you saw any fishing boats I would argue that you probably have seen some women or nonbinary folks and just not noticed because they all wear the same basic clothes while fishing. Expeditions are made by the army, which is mostly male, which happens more out of tradition than anything else, but we do have a fair share of women and nonbinary folks in our military.”
“Do you have a family?”
Roman sighs, “Depends on how you mean. If you are asking if I am married or have kids then the answer is no. However, I do have a father, the king. My mother and older brother are gone. We can only assume the worst since they have been gone so long. You see my mother was kidnapped by a dragon, my brother went off to save her and never returned. It’s been about ten years since that happened”
Logan stops, staring at Roman in shock, “Wait... dragons do not kidnap people!”
Roman stares at him, incredulous, “Yes they do! They come at night and grab women and children and even men sometimes! I've seen it happen!”
“You misunderstand me,” He sighs, “Dragons do not take people if it has not been arranged beforehand. Which is mostly done when a person is being hurt and or attacked by a bad person and needs to get away. They feel trapped and they come to the dragon for help. It isn't kidnapping if it’s consensual and intentional on the human’s part. That is much more akin to running away under the guise of a kidnapping.”
Roman frowns, “My father isn't that bad of a person!”
“Has he ever laid a hand on you in anger or frustration that was anything other than kind?”
“Well... I didn't say he’s a good person, I just said he isn't that bad.”
Logan quirks an eyebrow at him and shrugs, “If both your mother and your brother ran away then say whatever you like, I think that alone speaks for itself.”
Roman huffs, “Fine, whatever.”
“If you don't mind me asking-”
Roman throws his hands in the air, “You know what, I don't wanna talk about this anymore. Why don't you just eat and then I can help bandage you up and we can never talk about that again.”
Logan shrugs, “Fine, i’ll finish eating this bit of.... What did you say this is again?”
“That’s bread.”
Logan nods,“Yes, well, i will finish this bread, which I do really enjoy, and then I would very much appreciate your help in bandaging me up.”
“Okay. However I can help I'll do it.”
There is a pause as Logan finishes eating. He wraps up the remainder of the food and looks over the piles of seaweed and moss.
“So how do you want to do this?” Roman asks.
He frowns, “How about we bandage my arm first so it is easier for me to maneuver to get the tail done?”
“Sounds good.” Roman says as he grabs some moss and a few strips of seaweed and situates himself next to Logan. “Why don't you hold the moss in place and i’ll wrap?”
Logan grabs some moss from Roman and holds it in place, “That does seem to be the most efficient way to do this.”
Roman lays the seaweed over the moss and Logan removes his hand. He closes his eyes, wincing slightly as Roman wraps his arm.
“How do I secure it?”
Logan opens his eyes and takes the end of seaweed, “let me show you,” he tucks the end of the seaweed under a piece that’s been wrapped and ties a knot on the end to keep it in place.
Miles really had no idea how to act around Kate because she played by different rules than the ones he’d been taught by Peter Quint, or even Miss Jessel. She didn’t just say one thing in front of people and then expect something different from Miles when they were alone. She didn’t want to touch him the way Quint had--or be touched by him, for that matter--or control him. And she didn’t ignore his obvious signs of distress the way Miss Jessel had; Kate repeated asked him what was going on with him and reached out a hand to help, and it actually seemed sincere. Miles had come to expect certain things from certain kinds of adults (read: not Mrs. Gross), and Kate did none of them. It was confusing and honestly a little distressing, because he didn’t know what she wanted, so he didn’t know how to make her happy, so he didn’t know how to protect Flora.
She always had, though she didn’t know it at first. It was an involuntary reaction, a need, a desire, to eat and store them within herself. As a child, she’d see their dark shapes, open her mouth, then they’d be gone. She never could remember those early times.
She ate most demons she came across. It was hard to not eat them all, but she would not eat all demons around humans. She specifically did not eat the demon living on her first husband’s shoulder.
He had known her for what she was, when they met. He called her “Purifier,” and praised her for “her work”. She loved him more than she could articulate, but when he struck her the first time and she saw the demon on his back, she walked away. He stalked and tormented her, insisting she eat his demon and return to him, growing more agitated as she refused again and again.
She had seen what he could not, what he would not. The demon was with him because it could not help itself. If she ate it, another would take its place. They were drawn to his personality, not influencing him. She knew this in the scar across her right cheekbone, where her mother had dragged a knife along her skin, where the demon she’d eaten from her mother’s back resided.
It had been less than an hour before another arrived.
Now she traveled the world, eating demons that torture or torment humans. In her scars are sealed those that drove people to self-harm. Those that instilled lust rested in her breasts, while those that pushed someone to unhealthy eating lived within her belly.
She had met others of her kind on her travels. Some praised her efforts while others condemned her for not doing enough. One told her she would die, when she ran out of space for them.
She decided that was acceptable.
She eats demons, and would do so until she no longer could.
i’ve been struggling a lot with who i used to be and events from then recently.
i want to think i’m a lot better about stuff but honestly. . .that doesn’t help me look reflectively on who i was and feel like i’ve improved. improvement isn’t what i’m aiming for. it’s nice but i want to recognize it was totally possible back then for me to be happy and that the only reason i couldn’t be were the circumstances. it gives me a bit more hope.
i wasn’t the shittiest person. i tried to listen and be helpful and there for people. i still do. i tried to be a shoulder to lean on, or someone who was capable of being open about my experiences so i could be someone others could see parts of themselves in. i still do.
i was just really weak willed. one long term friendship had taken a turn that made me feel like a resource and a person, and a new friendship started hurting the friendships with the other people i had in my life. i let those get to me and i isolated myself and just. stopped listening. stopped caring. it wasn’t me and it wasn’t getting me to that happiness i wanted.
i’ve considered going back to the former now that i’m a stronger person but i know how that stuff typically winds up. falling back into patterns. there’s no good reason for me to look back and want the friendship i had back again. loose ends were tied up as much as i could. there’s no resolution to have anymore.
the only reason i’ve been able to think of and focus on is that even with all the people i have around me still i’m lonely. like. the depressed kind where you have someone to talk to and you want to talk to them but you just kind of don’t. maybe you’d be a bother. maybe they’d just never respond to you. maybe you do get to talk to them for a bit but then you space out and they’re gone for the day.
