carving out some time to chat between Fafnir and her moirail Sigurd :) trigger warnings in place here for non-graphic implications of CSA and graphic violence. if you read you're my hero, thanks for your time, lots of luv
“Long weekend with me, huh,” nearly sounded like a purr, if she hadn’t known the speaker any better. “Last chance to back out, girly. Spend that time kickin’ around your little faux mansion. Could be cozy. Nice and quiet, all that square footage to yourself.”
Fafnir tossed the backpack at him, full force. It smacked into the wall of a man with a dull thud, landing in nonchalant arms and prompting a grin from him. A couple days of necessities for her didn’t actually amount to much. A change of pants or two, a handful of shirts, some hers, some permanently borrowed. Toothbrush, bar of soap. When roughing it is what you’ve known, what more do you need than the comfort of being clean?
“Don’t make it sound so nice,” she huffed, “I was just gettin’ excited to hang out with you. Want me gone that bad already?”
Sigurd shook his head, softening that toothy smile into a friendly smirk. In lieu of words, he simply gestured at the boat ramp. Paradise awaits.
It was peaceful enough, at first. Setting sail with the help of Sigurd’s sea serpent lusus, setting down luggage and taking inventory; all the mundanity of a sleepover on a houseboat was quickly addressed and dealt with. He offered his bed, a surprisingly small thing for the size he was; she shook her head and opted for the couch. Comfortable and soft, with hand knit cushions and artfully stitched quilts neatly folded at opposite ends. It had been thoughtfully set up by his departing matesprit, Merle, with the rightful assumption that the little yellowblood might want her own personal space.
They soon got to lamenting what got them in this position in the first place; Merle had wanted to drag Karbal, Fafnir’s matesprit, to a fashion thing. Some show for a new line of outdoor workwear by a label better known for indoor sensibilities. It was a “kicking and screaming” sort of affair, but somehow Merle got the greenblood out the door. The fashionista was probably treating poor Karbal as a dress up doll in some lofty hotel room at that very moment. Forcing her to drink high end champagne, splashing her in a spade shaped jacuzzi tub filled with berry-scented bubbles. Absolute torment.
That left both Fafnir and Sigurd unoccupied for the time being, and it was mutually agreed that they should do the rational thing and just spend the weekend together. A tense moirallegience is still a moirallegience, and with their usual third party suddenly declaring how ever so busy she was, what else was there to do? Bea must have an awful lot of cupcakes to decorate. Certainly a reliable woman like her wouldn't have fibbed to give the two a convenient excuse to be alone together.
Maybe time alone together was needed. Just the two of them, an old school samurai movie, and a bowl of popcorn. The couch wasn’t a tight squeeze, but still Fafnir found herself curled up close, head resting on his side as she coaxed sword trivia from him. It was easy getting him to ramble about steel quality, handle types, little things like details etched into the blade. His voice was deep and steady, an even rumble that mixed with the gentle rocking of the boat to make Fafnir’s eyelids heavy. With an arm around her shoulders, he idly traced his fingers back and forth along the curve of her nearest horn, ruffling her hair with the motion.
Next thing he knows, she’s clambering over his lap, and he feels small despite the great size difference in his favor. She straddles his thigh, pressing in close against him, the scent of lilacs washing over as she closes the distance between them. Claws ghost over his shoulders, catching on the fabric of his shirt and leaving lavender raised ribbons on the bare skin of his collarbone.
His head feels cloudy, and a sudden spike of heavy vertigo sets the room swirling. She mumbles into his ear, little taunts melting into misplaced sweetness and a trial of soft kisses. A thumb tilts his dizzy head back, cool fingers soothing over his jawline, running down to the tip of a horn, playfully testing the dull point. Sigurd, her voice isn’t hers, let me show you something new.
Before he can respond her black lips are on his skin, parting over the oh-so-tense muscles of his neck. Sharp teeth prick, prick, break the skin of his throat and she’s opening streams of purple and black out of him, cold blunt tongue curling messily over the tender flesh.
She leans away, realigns, and clamps down.
He thinks he hears the gentle click of her teeth meeting somewhere inside him.
She pulls back, nails digging into his shoulders, jaws tight, and he’s ripped, torn suddenly back into the waking world, coughing and gasping in through a mercifully intact windpipe.
Fafnir raised her head from his thigh, rubbing the glow out of her eyes and groaning. Entering dreams wasn’t ever on purpose for her, just a side effect of her overactive psychic muscles flexing in her sleep. Usually, she found Sigurd’s mind empty, in a sleep too deep for her to reach. Rarely, he would dream of being in the ocean; warm, hazy, comfortable. The rocking of his ship leaking into his subconscious and leaving him drifting weightlessly in deep sapphire.
“Most of the time,” she grumbled, “when I sleepwalk into a horny dream, it’s fun and weird. And I know, I know; you didn’t choose any of that. But what the fuck was all that?”
He flushed a deep purple, clearing his dry throat before mumbling a response, “Was that the real you back there?”
She nods.
“Did, uh,” he paused before lowering his voice, as if someone might hear, “did you control any of that?”
“No.”
“But you saw all of it?”
“Yes.”
“Hm.”
She waited. When he crossed his arms and trained his gaze on a far corner of the room, she leaned into his field of view, holding herself up with her hands on that broad thigh of his. The contact made him jump, but the weight grounded him and he finally gave in, locking eyes with her.
“Well,” he started, “you’re the expert. Psychoanalyze me already. Let’s get this over with.”
Fafnir scoffed her way into a giggle, shaking the remaining psychic frizz out of her hair. “Bein’ able to get in your brain doesn’t mean I know how it works in there. If you just have the key to a door, you don’t know the building layout.”
“You read my mind all the time, Fafs. I thought you’d have some insight by now.” He cocked an eyebrow skeptically.
“That’s kinda the thing, big guy. The mind works in layers, and I can only skim the top. Loose thoughts, emotions, and sensations.” She held her hands out flat and hovered one above the other, wavering the top one, “I only get what crosses your mind, dog. If something provokes a reaction from you, I can only feel the reaction. Unless you’re thinkin’ about why you’re feelin’ a certain way, I can only tell that you’re feelin’ a certain way.” She follows up by giving her bottom hand a wiggle, “When I’m asleep things get a little stronger, but I still can’t get to your undercurrent down here.”
“So you have no idea why I have fucked up dreams, is what you’re telling me.” Trying to shrug it off with an aloof huff, he rolled his eyes. “You’re bad at this psychotherapy stuff, Fafs.”
“Buddy, you’re fucked up in ways I can’t even perceive. Besides, I think you’ve got the questioning roles reversed here.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah!” She squeaked defensively, “I’m the one being dreamed about all evil and sexy!”
“Ah. Yeah. That’s fair. Sorry for dreaming about you all evil and sexy.” He chuckled, “I promise I don’t find you particularly threatening or tantalizing. So….” He fell silent.
Graciously, Fafnir waited for him to collect himself. Something in her fast-paced heart was begging him to hurry up, explain himself already, clear the air and get them both on the same page already; but the more rational part of her, the part that had known him her whole life, knew better. The high blood would be ready when he was ready.
“Sigurd.” She prodded, hoping to remind him to speak.
“I’m working on it.”
With a sigh, he shifted and scooped her up, lifting her over his leg as he stretched across the couch under her. After it was all said and done, she found herself sitting in his extended lap, leaning with her back against him and his hands on her stomach in a loose sort of hug. Eye contact was not his strong suit, and she recognized this whole maneuver as a common little power play he used to avoid it.
“It’s been brought to my attention,” his tone is grim, “that I might not have the healthiest relationship with romance.”
“No…!” A squeak of shock.
“Mm, I know.” A hand landed on top of her head, ruffling her messy hair. “I recently realized that joining the game as early as I did might have been a mistake. Not, uh, not my mistake. But still a mistake. You know what I mean?”
“I don’t think I do, dog.”
He tensed. It took him a long time to clarify; Fafnir had started to rub the curve of her own horns with a nervous tension. He’d seen that habit of hers plenty of times, a self soothing motion that usually ended with her pulling at her own skull through those conveniently placed handles. No, not handles. Get it together, Sigurd. He redirected her hand, gently pulling it away and idly prickling his fingers with her pointed nails as he fumbled with his words.
“Fafs, remember way back when, that one apprenticeship I had? With the on-land violet?” His breath hitched a little, inhaling sharply when he meant to exhale. “We were, what, maybe five sweeps old. It was a little after your lusus took you away.”
“Gnuh, yeah, I recall you bragging about the glamour of life outside,” she pouted, “What was her name, D- something...”
“Datura,” he corrected. The uncharacteristic choke in his voice startled her.
All but tossing his hand off her stomach, Fafnir swung around to face him. Her eyes narrowed, wide pupils shrunk into focused snake-like slits. His expression was as hard to read as ever, but the tensed muscle of his jaw gave him away.
“You’re implying something.”
“So I am.”
“Mind taking away the subtext for me, big guy?” She leaned back, sitting with crossed arms on his lap, head cocked to the side.
“Mm, well, I think I do mind, just this time.”
“Sigurd,” she prodded gently, “If you don’t want to tell me, I could find out another way. Just- If that would be easier. Your choice.” Her clawed finger tapped her own temple.
With the cabin lights low and the gentle rocking of the ship, her cool hands cupped his jaw with a practiced tenderness. She had blossomed into quite the powerful psychic, hardly hindered by distance; still, she knocked her forehead into his. Between the chamomile scent of her soft hair and the familiar feel of her contact, he felt securely grounded for the next part. He nods.
Eyes alight with gold, Fafnir delves in. The weighty vertigo of her presence in his skull sends him reeling for a moment before her tangible grasp on his body steadies him. Somewhere, he opens a metaphorical door and offers out-of-place apologies for the mess. She can’t dig through anything, she explains, so he’ll have to show her. Okay, he replies, but you know what you’re getting into.
Sensations of youth, all scraped knees and sea air, wash through them both as the scene is set. She’s been whisked away by the shadows of a past she didn’t know, and he’s too little to do a thing about it. He quests for skill, for knowledge, for strategies, from mentor to mentor. He wasn’t ready before, next time he needs to be ready. He asks for help, for technique, from more practiced, older trolls. Repetitions of practice, stance, swing, parry; the tide goes out and he’s called in.
His next scene washes through and over them in a nauseous flash. Sharing hurts, and the rising panic and shame bubble up in his throat like bile. His revulsion is mirrored back at him from that looming shadow in the back of his mind; not directed at him, never so, but felt and shared, acknowledged. While he squeezes his eyes shut and tries to dodge the fine details in his memory, he can feel the warmth of Fafnir draping herself over his chest and shoulders in a loose hug. He wraps his arms around her, feeling weight of her light frame, the knit of her sweater, keeping him safely in the now. Scent memory is overpowered; the dusty furniture and floral perfumes fade, and he inhales pine and dirt and chamomile.
The recollection ends and she doesn’t let him go in either sense.
