Miriam stills the moment she catches the movement of his hands. She’s not fluent, not really — but she knows enough. Enough to understand the shape of his fingers. The slowness of it. Intentional. Careful. Meant for her.
❝ The cicadas went silent when you touched me. ❞
It hits her like a gut punch wrapped in silk. She blinks. Once. Twice. Eyes locked on his hands like they might start glowing, like they’ve pulled something holy and terrifying out of the air. The breath she takes is sharp — like it surprises her.
A beat passes. Two. Then, finally, her lips part. ❛ . . . Jesus, ❜ she breathes, and there’s a hint of a laugh behind it. Soft. Shaken. The kind of laugh you make when your heart trips and forgets how to land.
She steps forward before she can stop herself, just barely into his space, chin tilted as she looks at him — really looks.
Her voice is quieter now. Like a secret. ❛ You can’t just go saying stuff like that. ❜ A pause. ❛ You’ll undo me. ❜ But her expression is gentler now, eyes flicking between his face and his hands. And though she doesn’t say it, the truth is in the way she stays close, in the way her hand lifts — hesitating, then lightly brushing the back of his knuckles.
The cicadas really had gone quiet. And maybe that silence meant something.
The jungles offer no sanctuary to those who are lost.
The same can be said, however, for the remnants of civilisation — broken cities living under an iron fist.
Most remain in these ruins out of fear; others take their chances in the sweltering wilderness.
Bare feet pad quietly along the forest floor, muddied and lightly blistered. The jungle is too quiet—something lurks—and Leah's instincts scream for her to put distance between herself and the vague buzz of a threat. So she runs, swift and silent, along the route she remembers to the refuge in the depths of the jungle where even the bold dare not tread. A misstep, then—
The world flips in an instant.
A blur of lush green tilted sideways, overshadowed by instant pain. The snare snaps tight, biting into her ankle as it yanks her from the ground to dangle like caught game from the branches above.
She hangs there, shell-shocked, fear creeping up her spine, fury climbing faster. Blood rushes to her skull as she swings with gritted teeth, unable to grasp at the rope coiled like a tourniquet. Without her knife—lost—her thoughts turn frantic:
❛ How much would I have to chew through to get free?
Would flesh be easier than rope? ❜
Then, amongst the hum within her mind, something else is heard in the brush. Not a trapper come to claim their prize. Something else.
Something quieter.
the last two weeks haven't necessarily been kind to zeev — abducted by a strange organisation he had never met before nor had held any intentions to do so, life might as well could have ended. with no idea as to why all of this had happened in the first place, he isn't quite sure what to make of it when a stranger breaks in, adds another set of trauma onto zeev's list of experiences and at the same time seems to have rescued him as well. or so the witcher thinks. what if it's just another person trying to play their cards right for their personal gain? | @killquest
There was hardly an explanation for what Zeev saw before him that would not result in muddled justifications or apologies. On the other hand, Zeev doubted that the young man had any sense of remorse. What had happened was a serial offence. There was a skill and precision in the execution, there was no doubt that he had been trained in it. It took a special kind of person to master the art of killing. A kind of person Zeev didn't really want to meet in his life and yet he now found himself sitting on the cold, barren ground, surrounded by people he didn't know and in all likelihood would never meet again. Not that he necessarily wanted to; after all, they had also promised brutality and brought him into this situation in the first place.
Being kidnapped hadn't been part of his bucket list, but that was how fate sometimes played out, he guessed.
Cold light wavered over their heads, the halogens hanging with their last strength from red cables, torn from the crumbling ceiling. His sanity hung similarly from a taut semiconductor cable, threatening to shatter his skullcap in equal measure. A bitter taste settled on his tongue, he didn't know if it was his own blood, but feared an answer to the contrary.
His face contorted in disgust. His heart was beating wildly in his throat, making it difficult to breathe. He had fallen on his head so hard that he doubted his perception and fervently hoped that what had just happened was only the product of his extraordinary imagination.
Naive as his weakened mind currently was, he imagined that if he didn't move, he would be ignored. If he didn't move, sooner or later he would simply walk out and go home —wherever that was. In fact, anything was fine at the moment, as long as it wasn't here. He didn't know where he had been dragged off to weeks ago, let alone why. He had merely cowered in the darkness and had been more than aware of his helplessness.
Zeev had never been so aware of the uselessness of his abilities, which could not even save him from captivity with his life depending on them. Given this, it was not unlikely that even his captors had realised that he was of no use. He should probably be grateful to them that they had nevertheless spared his life.
Unfortunately, his theory didn't work out. The bloodied stranger turned his gaze to him, scrutinising him in a way as if he wasn't yet sure how to proceed with him. If at all. By hesitating, Zeev—or so he believed—didn't seem to have been the target of his break-in. It remained to be seen whether that was a good thing or a bad thing. Nevertheless, he slid backwards across the floor to get away from him. He raised a hand protectively, as if it would stop something.
“Hey–hey–hey–no, no, no, no. You stay right there and I stay right here, okay? Cool, cool, splendid. Hey, I said don't move!” Or else?
Zeev was not exactly in a position to make demands, let alone issue warnings, apparently that didn't stop him from trying anyway. He crouched on the ground with two weeks' worth of dirt on his body, blood he didn't want to know the source of, and a hunger and thirst that made him dizzy.
The stranger eyed him with an expression of confusion.
“I don’t belong to them, I promise!” he gasped, suddenly realising how croaky he sounded. It hurt to speak despite the fact that he had done so little.
Zeev had rarely felt real fear in his life. In most cases, insecurity had led the way. The vague feeling of uncertainty and the silent hope that everything would be cleared up in no time as a hilarious misunderstanding. However, when he pressed a palm into a pool of blood and crouched right next to a shattered skull, he realised the extent of the situation more than clearly. Zeev was in a situation he didn't belong in and had never wanted to. He didn't even like watching mindlessly brutal films and when it came to horror, as entertaining as they were, he usually hid his eyes behind his hands. Strange, considering his background, but on the other hand, his supernaturalism had nothing to do with the horror at hand—even if death was something natural in his eyes.
But this wasn't a heart attack at eighty or the consequences of a nut allergy.
His pulse was pounding and his breathing frantic. He had always prided himself on his effortless ability to keep calm. It was important to him to be in control of a moment, not to lose his temper. Important decisions could only be made with full understanding of one's own mind, to weigh risks and probabilities. None of this was currently present in Zeev. His brown eyes spoke pure fear, his lungs burned under the strain of his panic and cold sweat clung to his forehead. He didn't dare wipe it away. He didn't want any more blood on his body.
“Please, please, just let me leave… I’m no threat.” Obviously.
He was still being eyed strangely.
This had been going on for so long that Zeev couldn't help but pause.
His hand slowly dropped. The sparse light of the halogens, which were still oscillating, shone on the stranger's face at irregular intervals, revealing only phases of non-verbal communication.
Zeev frowned.
“Are you not speaking english? Êtes-vous français?” Still no answer. “¿O español?”
Unfortunately, he had reached his limit as far as global languages were concerned. Even if he asked him whether he spoke Russian, Cantonese or Mandarin, they would still be stuck in the same situation. Apart from that, he didn't know what good it would do.
Zeev just wanted to get out of this hell and, if he was reading him half right, the stranger had no intention of leaving him there. Or did he?
𝐕𝐈𝐁𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆: most of their conversations are through intense eye contact, raised eyebrows and chaotic hand gestures. but somehow they always understand each other. Dipper once watched them “argue” silently for five minutes and asked, whats happened with Kami answering “he's wrong.”
𝐌𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: Out of nowhere, they came to a silent agreement to meditate together. It was rather something, that Boy introduced Kami to, in a moment of being overwhelmed by everything. He sat her down in front of him, facing her, and made her follow his movements. Since that day, they also use it, if they sense that the other one is feeling down.
𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄 𝐒𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐒: they teach each other strange skills. Kami shows Boy how to interpret supernatural elements of the world, like reading a room's energy, while he teaches her some of his own fighting skills and how to use weapons properly.
𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄: they are both very protective about each other. Whenever Kami dives head first into a dangerous situation, Boy shows up to make sure she doesn't go too far and puts herself in danger without having someone watch her back. Kami, on the other hand, knows how deep his emotional and mental scars run. She creates layers of protection, whether it's lightning a candle to keep his nightmares away or placing herbs by the doorway.
Stiles: Fight me!
Boy, standing behind him and holding a knife: *mouths* Do not.
Boy: If I die first, promise to wait up for me, okay, Stiles?
Stiles: Oh, Boy. When I die, I’m taking you with me.
Boy: I can’t tell if that’s a threat or a compliment.
Stiles: I’d think of it more as a grim inevitability.
Boy: I feel like I can be myself around you.
Stiles: You’re weird and quiet around me.
Boy: Yes.
Stiles: Boy, I beg of you. Please, please go to the doctor.
Boy: Hey, I'm sorry. Is this OUR stab wound?
Boy: When I first met you, I thought you were weird and annoying.
Stiles: And?
Boy: And you are.
Stiles: Okay, but what if we went to dinner not as friends this time?
Boy: AS ENEMIES?
Stiles:
Boy: Just a minute. I need to go take out the trash.
Stiles: Oh. We're going out?
Boy: Wh…
Dipper: Will you date me? Breathe if yes, recite the Bible in Japanese if no.
Boy: 初めに、神は天と地を創造されました。
Dipper: What the…?
Boy: 地球は形もなく虚無であり、暗闇が深海の面を覆いました…
Dipper: Is that actually the Bible?!
Boy: …そして神の霊が水面の上に浮かんでいました。
Dipper: And you stopped breathing, too?!
Boy: そして神は「光あれ」と言われました。
Dipper: Christ, it would have been preferable for you to just have beaten me up and called me gay!
Dipper: You’re alive.
Boy: No need to sound so disappointed.
Dipper: Treat spiders the way you want to be treated!
Boy: Killed without hesitation.
Boy: What are your three best qualities?
Dipper: I’m hot, I have soft hair, and sometimes I cry because I love my friends.
Dipper, looking at a selfie of Boy’s: I hate this photo.
Boy: I’m cute as f--- in that photo! I’m smiling kindly.
Dipper: You’re not smiling kindly; you look like you’re up to something.
Boy: Up to kindness.
1. The Stone. Boy once gave Stiles one of the carved stones from his collection because Stiles particularly liked it. “Ooo, this one’s nice,” he said. Boy handed it to him without a word. “Wait, I can have it?” Boy didn’t answer. Stiles still keeps it with him. Always. In his pocket, in his backpack, in his palms on rough days.
2. Stiles narrates their scavenging trips like it’s a nature documentary. Boy is quietly cracking open a locked drawer and Stiles is behind him whispering: “Here we have The elusive Boy in its natural habitat, sniffing out a possible cache of beans—oh! Another predator must have beaten The Boy to the stash. It will have to go hungry another day. Tragic.” The bit hasn’t made Boy smirk yet, but Stiles swears it will one day.
3. Stiles gets offended on Boy’s behalf before Boy even notices anything’s wrong. If someone so much as looks at Boy funny, Stiles starts vibrating with righteous indignation — arms crossed, jaw clenched, already rehearsing insults.
3.1. Addition: But if it’s about Boy being deaf or mute? If there’s even a whiff of condescension or some smug little comment? Stiles skips the buildup entirely. He once broke a guy’s nose before the sentence was finished.
4. They share a flask. There’s only one rule: don’t finish it without refilling. Stiles breaks the rule constantly. Boy now just wordlessly shakes the empty flask it at him like a judgmental mom.
5. Stiles secretly tries to copy Boy’s fighting style. He would never admit that he’s impressed by it. (Not even under threat of death.) But he is. So sometimes, when he thinks Boy isn’t looking, he’ll try to mimic one of his signature moves. It never looks quite the same, and if he gets caught, he mumbles something about “trying out new techniques.”
6. Stiles makes Boy birthday cards. They’re always terrible: Stick figures, jokes about murder, glitter made of crushed foil. Sometimes they’ll say “Happy 14th birthday”, other times they will congratulate Boy on his 70th. And because neither of them know Boy’s real birthday, Stiles just makes them whenever he feels like it.
