#there are worse critters by far...starting with tics

[scratchandplaster]

Dulosis

CW: sleep deprivation, white/noise torture, creepy/intimate Whumper, defiant Whumpee, hallucinations

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

The room was as barren as it was functional, two square meters of locked space. They called it a white room, but the walls were padded with dusty-gray foam, which he already tried to pick apart. In no way did the tapered spikes budge.

Not that this changed anything, the noise was still kept inside. It came once every half hour, he counted, a deafening sough in close intervals, at least one minute in length.

Counting was the only thing he was able to busy himself with, though, so he didn't mind when they decided to change the frequency up to put the ungrateful guest on edge.

On the third day, he ripped a button from his cardigan, throwing and blindly fumbling for it. Another game, another way to keep the last sliver of his mind in place. He remembered vaguely seeing this trick in a documentary about Alcatraz, a little how-to experience about keeping sane in solitary confinement.

The issue wasn't the silence or the solitude; he preferred that to being kept downstairs and playing house with a person he barely knew. That fucking psycho snapped, he had thought when they shoved him in here, food or water missing since day one.

No, it was the noise.

The chaos that dug itself deep into his brain's fissures, keeping his mind alert and body awake even after what felt like eternity. 

The ants came after the fourteenth alarm, he counted that too, crawling through the barely visible slit that was separating him from freedom. A few at the start, but where they came from others waited for an equal opportunity, and soon the floor was sprinkled with them, too large to number. On his skin, his lashes, pushing his lips apart to engulf every pore with the prickly tap of their countless feet.

And then they were gone again, nothing but foam and noise for a while. They would return, no doubt, and with that knowledge he started to get thankful for the scheduled terror, just barely. Scratching at the back of his senses, the thirst that dried his body up from the inside had become just a minor problem.

At one point he could hear his own intestines working; pumping, contracting and rhythmically meandering to the sound that just so snapped him back to reality.

Again.

And then again, never a warning beforehand. Did that happen in the documentary too? He couldn't tell anymore; didn't know anything. Mind so fuzzy, he nearly caught himself wishing for that freak to come back and open the door, turn off the sounds, anything to let him rest.

Now, after cowering on the ground with both hands pressed tightly against his ears, so nothing would crawl inside, there came a new fuss. A single light click, then another as the heavy steel door moved outwards and his captor's silhouette blocked the entry. The sudden brightness left him nearly blinded, another misery piling on top.

"Hello there, I nearly forgot about you."

The friendly chuckle they let rain down on him felt like poison. But they lied through their teeth, spending every quiet minute they stole from their captive to plan the inevitable outcome, success now prickling right on their fingertips.

The cowering mess at their feet let out a weak hack, voice sore from misuse: "Let me rest."

Bloodshot eyes met an unmoving stare. There was no room to negotiate.

"Ask nicely, sweetheart," the shape offered instead.

"You fucking-"

Without another word, they turned on the spot, ready to leave him stewing in his own misery. Maybe five days weren't enough, they could wait.

The room was practically filled with his stare that clung to their back, heart thrumming so heavy in his chest it felt like it would burst out any second. Not willing to give up the last sliver of freedom he had kept safe so carefully, but too weak and confused to do anything about it, the words just slipped from his lips.

"Nonono wait, I'm sorry. Stay. Stay!"

He wanted them to keep talking, to hear anything else than that ingrain blare, the thrumming of his heart, the legs crawling along...

Behind the veil of quickly forming tears, he could see his captor halt and turn. More? Did they want more of this? Living the lie with them, just as a short break, maybe. A workaround. Get strength back and try again. If he made it that far... Just to rest for a bit.

"Please," the hurt voice pressed out, "I'm j-just so tired. I won't make you any more trouble."

"Again," the shadow replied, voice warm as the summer noon. They knew he was so much closer to what they imagined. The other sessions they had together were not as successful, but finally he seemed to let his guard slip. Almost there.

A lone sniff could be heard in the room, more closet than anything.

"Please. Can I please go to sleep, just for a bit?"

It was over for today. Other fights would come, ones he would win, or so he assured himself.

Fights he would give up again, his captor knew.

Nearly gone again, he was quickly brought back by the thin smile that crept across their face, victorious after all. They gave a single nod that made the sore loser fold into himself, eyes closed and face flat against the barren floor.

Maybe the light will stay on too. Oh, please stay on, it's safer that way...it's safe.

A warm palm gently placed itself on his matted hair, not touching but resting in a most innocent gesture.

"Not in here," they whispered, "Not after you're finally behaving, dear."

The hand slipped down further, and with it the reassuring touch. He was being pet, a part of him recognized. A small price in the end.

Hand placed in shaking hand, he was pulled up to face the victor of this little game.

"Come on. You will love it."

More carried than led down the hall, through blurry and burning vision, he could see doors beside them passing. They pulled him around the corner and through the wooden doorway onto a bed, ready and freshly made.

The heavy comforter atop the sheets seemed too pristine to hold his filthy body, but his captor didn't seem to mind one bit when they dragged him under the white heaven. Both would clean up tomorrow, the next step that was oh-so carefully prepared.

The shaken man shouldn't dare to forget how divine this felt, and if he did, their special room would still be vacant for another time.

As he was tucked in with peaceful humming right behind his ear, his mind sank into the comfort he had denied himself for such a long time. And for this moment, freedom traded in for peace, numbing sound for forced touch, he believed it was worth it.

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thanks for reading 🤍 [Masterpost]

[the-everqueen]

it’s quarantine, i’ve done zero quals work in the past week--so i’m posting the only thing that’s consistently gotten words from me in these troubled not-times: a hannibal wereverse kidfic

The cafeteria is chaos at lunch. 

Usually Will avoids the cafeteria, preferring to retreat into the library for the hour. But his English teacher caught him headed upstream against the wave of children jockeying toward recess and corralled him in the “right” direction, even going so far as to make sure he got in line for a free lunch. Now, balancing a plastic tray with his tattered copy of Child of God, a bologna sandwich, and a fruit cup, he weaves among tables, looking for a semi-isolated place to sit. The fluorescent lights buzz at a pitch that hurts his ears. The smells of sweat, musk, and processed food make the fur on his arms prickle. And the people—humans, wolves—press too close, their loud voices splitting his head like a hundred drill bits. 

Surrounded by so many others, Will Graham feels…adrift.

He could probably sneak out. Ms. Mitchell will have gone back to her office. Or if he ran into another teacher, he could say he was going to the bathroom, hole up in an empty stall until next period. Boring, but not the worst. 

(His mind shutters against The Worst.)

The thing that keeps him here is food. Most days he ignores the pinch in his belly as a matter of fact: Dad can’t afford more than bare staples, and Will can’t bring raw chicken or canned beans to school. He’s not too proud to accept a free meal, but the meagre offering has never seemed worth the stares. Except, as he settles down at a table in the far corner, he thinks he might suffer the headache once in a while, if he gets a sandwich for his pains. 

He’s finished the last scrap of bologna and is picking at the plastic seal on the fruit cup with clumsy, clawed fingers when the kid sits next to him. 

Will glances over, frowning. The table he chose has two bitten weres opposite him—sisters, one of them nonverbal, neither of them with enough social weight or investment in the situation to chase him away. This kid smells human. He has no reason to sit with them; the humans have their own table for social outcasts. 

The kid catches his gaze and offers a smile. “I’m Jim,” he says, friendly. 

Will grunts. 

Jim seems undeterred. “You like McCarthy? I read Blood Meridian, it was real good.”

Will stubbornly continues to poke at the fruit cup, manages to puncture the seal so that he can lap at the thin syrup that pools from the ragged hole. Jim hesitates but poses another comment about his taste in books. Like paws slapped against the ground, an invitation to play. Will pins his ears in annoyance, mouth tight at the corners. It’s enough to make the sisters uneasy, shuffling closer together, but Jim doesn’t pick up on the cue.

“I get that you’re the new kid,” Will interrupts, when he can’t take it anymore, “but are you stupid, too?”

He darts a look at the kid’s face. Jim gapes, shoulders curling inward. He’s got the same naked lankiness of his non-wolf peers, but the first word that comes to Will’s mind is pretty: girlish fine features and huge dark eyes with long lashes. Will shakes the thought loose. His brain does the mental math to fill in the other necessary details—first day in the local high school, recent move from the suburbs, human but immune to the bite. 

Will scoffs. “Oh. Figured you’d start with low stakes, since I’m not a threat to you.” 

A blush patches over Jim’s pale, freckled face. “You—what you said in class. About the Shakespeare. That was clever.”

It takes a second for Will to recall. He rarely participates in classes, but he’d been so frustrated at Ms. Mitchell for not understanding Iago. Her unsubtle questions posed to the room got moralizing answers, banal platitudes that no one actually thinks, and Will’s hand had shot up of its own accord. 

“That was nothing,” Will says. One furred ear flicks in irritation. 

“I read Othello last year, back—back before we came here, and no one in class had anything interesting to say about it.”

“Including you.”

Jim’s flush deepens. “I like Hamlet better,” he mumbles.

Will makes a dismissive noise in response. He finally manages to scrape back enough plastic to snap up pieces of canned fruit; the sweetness is almost too much, but hunger demands its due, and so long as he’s lapping chunks of pear and pineapple he doesn’t have to make eye contact. 

Jim stops trying for a conversation, but he doesn’t move to another table.

As soon as the bell rings, Will grabs his book and darts for his next period.

***

He assumes that will be the extent of their interactions. Most kids at the various schools he’s attended categorize him as an outsider, and the few that don’t quickly learn not to bother with him. That’s all he wants, really, is for them to leave him alone. Often the fact that he’s a bitten is enough—the prejudice against bitten youths as unstable frames his moody distance as more dangerous than normal teenage angst and less explicable than psychological problems. Humans and purebloods alike keep their distance from bitten weres. But there are other things about him that discourage anyone from getting close. 

Jim does not seem to recognize these things.

As it happens, they share a similar schedule. Jim tries to catch him after biology, and again when school lets out. Both times Will pretends he can’t hear his name being spoken over the din of students—a transparent lie, given his wolfish ears—and slips into the crowd. 

The kid’s persistence bothers him. It doesn’t feel malicious: Will has endured his share of bullying, he can scent the nervous tics and dark amusement under a friendly gesture. But he can’t puzzle out the underlying motive. Any human trying to form a social connection should attempt to insert themselves at the upper echelons and work their way down until they find a niche that’ll accept them, not start at the bottom. 

Maybe Jim just doesn’t understand that. Maybe Will has found someone worse at interactions than him. 

He ponders a possible social malfunction on the walk home. It doesn’t fit quite right in his head, but it’s an explanation. 

The trailer is dark when he lets himself in—Dad must still be working. Will tells himself this even though, when he flicks on the lights, he sees his dad’s discarded work shirt and steel toed boots, feels the resentment simmering in the humid air. He glances at the clock. Late afternoon. He’s hungry, but it’s too early for dinner—he’ll just wake up in the middle of the night with stomach pangs. Might as well waste an hour on homework while he’s got the quiet. 

He finishes his English essay sprawled out on the sagging mattress: the position is awkward but allows for his tail and shifting hips. When he’s done making a clean copy, he spends a minute examining his tail, which is losing some of its puppy thinness and starting to fill out nicely. Then he stretches and sets about scrounging for dinner. 

There’s nothing in the fridge besides a rind of sour-smelling cheese. Will eats it while he digs around the pantry. Some canned goods, a jar of peanut butter. He considers. Dad won’t like it if he finishes their groceries, and he hasn’t given Will permission (or cash) to go to the store. 

No one else is home. 

Just behind the trailer park is a stretch of trees and bracken. Will gets over the fence separating the two spaces with relative ease, his bare feet giving him needed traction. He’s come out here before, when he wanted to be alone, finish reading a book. 

But solitude isn’t the plan.

He drops to all fours, weaving in a zigzag pattern while he sniffs at the grass. It’s not close enough to full moon for this position to be entirely comfortable, but the twinge in his hips and shoulders eases as he pads along. His feet and hands are rough with developing paw pads; his nose flares and twitches with the influx of smells. It’s hard to pick up a trail—there’s so many things alive and moving out here, he keeps getting distracted—but eventually his brain snags on warm blood, little creature and he’s on his way. 

His hunger almost disrupts the hunt. At one point he moves too fast, makes a racket pushing through some undergrowth. But finally he sneaks up on his prey: a good-sized, unsuspecting squirrel. 

Tense, leap, bite. Will’s heart surges as he cracks down through the squirrel’s spine, his mouth filling with a rush of blood. Yes, good, hunt, food. Once the critter stops its death throes, he settles down to enjoy his meal. 

It’s gone too soon. He nibbles on the scraps of fur, licks the blood from between his fingers and around his mouth. He’ll have to splash about in the nearby creek to be sure he’s clean, but there’s no sense in wasting any part of a kill. 

When he gets back, it’s dark outside and he’s tired and damp, if better sated. Dad remains absent, so Will takes a shower and does his math homework. Geometry proofs are soothing, mindless. When he feels suitably numb, he crawls into bed and huddles under a blanket. The weather is too warm for covers, but he needs something to try and block out the sound of his dad’s return.

Will has always been a troubled sleeper.

Sure enough, sometime in the night he wakes to the sound of the front door slamming shut. Dad curses mildly as he stumbles through the trailer, the smell of liquor in his wake. Something else, too—other wolves, other people, a tangle of scents that makes Will wrinkle his nose, burrow deeper under the blanket. 

“Billy?” his dad rasps.

Will goes very still. Tries to keep his breathing even.

Maybe Dad knows he’s faking, but he doesn’t call Will’s bluff. Instead he sighs, shucks off his shoes and pants, and climbs into bed.

***

The moon waxes and wanes. School continues to be both a distraction from home and a throbbing headache behind Will’s eyes. He stays out of the cafeteria, lurking in the library with his worn paperbacks. The librarian catches him squinting at a page and sends him to the nurse, who tells him he needs glasses. Will steals a pair from the local drugstore. They slip down his lengthening muzzle, and he’s constantly pushing them back into place, but it helps with the migraines. 

He doesn’t see Jim outside of classes. He thinks maybe Jim has moved on.

He is wrong.

The envelope taped to the outside of his locker stands out like a splotch of blood against the dull beige. Immediately Will is on alert. He thought he’d handled the bullies in his first weeks here; now he wonders whether they were just waiting for him to lower his guard. The hall is mostly empty at this hour—it’s a good twenty minutes before the first bell—but he scents the air, edges close enough to snatch the envelope and rip it open.

Inside is a generic card. It takes Will a long moment to process what the painstakingly neat handwriting says.

Will you go to Spring Dance with me?

There’s a signature and a phone number, but Will can’t make any meaning out of them. His vision has whited out with rage. He’s shaking, the soft scrim of fuzz on his hands bristling. A growl starts deep in his chest, an engine kicking to life. 

Whoever did this, they’d want to watch.

His gaze flicks around the hall, lands on a familiar, pretty face.

“What kind of sick joke is this?” he snarls.

Jim flinches. The reflexive part of Will’s brain catalogues that he’s put in the effort to make his appearance nice, wearing new jeans and an ironed button down with the sleeves rolled into crisp cuffs at his elbows. “It—it’s not a joke,” he stammers. Split second of hesitation, then he crosses the hall, getting closer while maintaining a careful distance. “I just thought…It doesn’t have to be anything, if you’re not—um, just if you didn’t have anyone to go with…”

What makes you think I’d go to a school event? Will wants to scream. But part of him feels the flush of embarrassment that colors Jim’s freckled cheeks as keenly as if it were his own. 

Before he can say anything, another voice juts in. “He doesn’t want your faggot ass, Walker.”

Will turns to see the resident jock prince strut down the hall, sycophants flanking his sides. Harry Bergeron. He radiates a smug assurance that no one should possess this early in the morning, least of all in a public high school. 

Will bares teeth. “Saving me for yourself, Harry?”

The jock—human, but with a good six inches and thirty pounds on Will, and isn’t that the kind of thing to make humans stupid—frowns at him. “Does the bitch want the fag, after all?” he sneers. 

Jim, wide-eyed and frozen in place, looks almost hopeful. 

“No,” Will snaps. “Just. Leave him alone.”

“Or what? I’m not scared of some pup.”

“Yeah?” He curls his lips back. It’s almost new moon, but he’s still sporting fangs. “Haven’t see you much since last fall.”

Harry’s face darkens. 

Will knows not to press his luck. He crumples the card in his hand, turns to open his locker, and feigns gathering supplies for his first class. 

Harry levels another insult at Jim. There’s a clatter—someone pushed the kid down. Roll over, know your place. Will rolls his eyes. Humans aren’t that different from wolves, and no one understands so better than teenagers. 

He waits until they’ve moved down the hall to slam his locker shut. 

Jim is still standing around, arms folded tight across his torso. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to…I thought maybe…”

“I know.” Suddenly Will feels very tired. “Look, I don’t get how you haven’t figured it out yet, but if you’re gonna fucking ask a boy out around here, at least make sure he’s human.”

“I’m not a speciesist.” 

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Will says, frustrated. “Fine. Do whatever you want. But leave me out of it.”

Jim stares at him. There’s something that Will is missing, he can feel it, but the close attention of another person makes his skin crawl. Shouldering his backpack, he ducks his head and hurries along to class. 

He can figure it out later, maybe, when he’s not cornered by all these people, their thoughts and expressions bearing down on him in ways he doesn’t know how to deflect.