wintersday (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wintersday) wrote2020-02-27 09:56 pm
wintersday) wrote2020-02-27 09:56 pm
Fic: Conciliation
Title: Conciliation
Fandom: Homestuck
Major Characters/Pairings: Tavros & Dave
Wordcount: 755
Rating: Teen
POV: Third person
Summary: Vriska’s sense of appropriate gift-giving leaves Tavros with a wary and traumatized alien in his respiteblock and a choice to make.
Content notes: Implied past rape/noncon, slavery
Notes: This is a snippet of a larger story that will likely never be written.
The alien does not look afraid.
He hadn’t looked afraid when Vriska delivered him to Tavros’s quarters, an extravagant and unannounced gift draped in sheer silks and silvery chains, and he’s calm now, standing in the entry to the respiteblock with his head tilted insouciantly and his hips casually angled. All the fear is contained beneath his skin, in muscles held back from bolting and hands curled loosely, not quite in fists. Another troll might not realize it was there at all, and take the stream of words spilling from his mouth for defiance. Tavros listens.
“You may find yourself assured,” the alien says, as he crosses the block with something approaching a swagger, “that you are in possession of the last true renaissance man, a jack of rough trade, the elegantly-tuxedoed maestro of a symphony composed for romantic violin and the unorthodox use of cleaning equipment. As drums or something, I don’t fucking know where this shitshow metaphor is going. Maybe there can be a cannon in there somewhere, and the cannon can be a metaphor too. But to get to the point already, which is a thing that on rare occasions even I know how to do – ”
He kneels at Tavros’s feet with hands clasped on folded knees, bows his hornless head, and says, in a quieter, flatter voice, “I know how this is supposed to go.”
That’s the last of it. The alien waits in silence. Up close, it’s possible to see that his skin is unarmored and pimpled from the cold, and that his bones are delicate, too easily broken. Beneath the weight of chain-link jewelry, there’s a scar running along the line of his shoulder that might have been scored by a claw, and for a moment, Tavros doesn’t know what to say. He knows how to deal with wild frightened creatures, even those of unfamiliar species. Animals wear their instincts openly. Intelligent aliens are more complicated. He can’t tell from behavior alone whether distance or steady touch would be more calming, although he thinks, judging by circumstance and probable history, that the former would be best. But he has to do something, and most likely even clumsy clarification would be better than continuing to let this unanticipated prisoner believe what he is currently believing.
“You don’t, actually,” he says. “Or rather, I think that in most cases, you probably do, but in this case specifically, you are definitely mistaken.”
The alien takes a measured breath, and says, “Provided there are no puppets or clowns involved, I eagerly await the expansion of my personal horizons.”
It is unmistakably sarcasm. The alien’s shoulders tense in anticipation of pain, and Tavros wishes it were possible to soothe the threat away, like he could for a panicked beast, with only a touch of mind to mind.
“There will be no puppets involved in any capacity,” he says, which is at least something he can be certain of. He can make no promises regarding clowns. If he’s going to do anything dangerous – and he is already certain with a reasonable degree of confidence that this is going to end with him doing something dangerous – then Gamzee’s assistance might be necessary.
“What is going to happen, after this,” he says, “is that I am going to find you some clothing of a more substantial nature, and some food which is also substantial, after which I am going to treat any injuries you might have, in a manner that is, uh, entirely non-concupiscent. And then I am going to find a way to get you off this ship and to someplace safe for your species.”
He’s expecting wary relief at those words, and hoping for comfort. The accepted way to dispose of an unwanted slave from a conquered world is by passing it on to someone else, or simply disposing of it; liberation is subversive enough to merit culling for any caste lower than teal. The alien must know that, if he’s been in Alternian custody for as long as it seems he has. But instead of gratitude for the reprieve, there’s an instant when he does look frightened, openly, before the mask slots back into place and he kneels again. He touches Tavros’s knee, moving with more hesitation than he’d shown before, and looks up through downcast lashes; the cyborg limb registers weight but not warmth, and despite the pleading softness in the alien’s touch and the set of his mouth, the look in those pale red eyes is very cold.
“Not without my sister.”
Fandom: Homestuck
Major Characters/Pairings: Tavros & Dave
Wordcount: 755
Rating: Teen
POV: Third person
Summary: Vriska’s sense of appropriate gift-giving leaves Tavros with a wary and traumatized alien in his respiteblock and a choice to make.
Content notes: Implied past rape/noncon, slavery
Notes: This is a snippet of a larger story that will likely never be written.
The alien does not look afraid.
He hadn’t looked afraid when Vriska delivered him to Tavros’s quarters, an extravagant and unannounced gift draped in sheer silks and silvery chains, and he’s calm now, standing in the entry to the respiteblock with his head tilted insouciantly and his hips casually angled. All the fear is contained beneath his skin, in muscles held back from bolting and hands curled loosely, not quite in fists. Another troll might not realize it was there at all, and take the stream of words spilling from his mouth for defiance. Tavros listens.
“You may find yourself assured,” the alien says, as he crosses the block with something approaching a swagger, “that you are in possession of the last true renaissance man, a jack of rough trade, the elegantly-tuxedoed maestro of a symphony composed for romantic violin and the unorthodox use of cleaning equipment. As drums or something, I don’t fucking know where this shitshow metaphor is going. Maybe there can be a cannon in there somewhere, and the cannon can be a metaphor too. But to get to the point already, which is a thing that on rare occasions even I know how to do – ”
He kneels at Tavros’s feet with hands clasped on folded knees, bows his hornless head, and says, in a quieter, flatter voice, “I know how this is supposed to go.”
That’s the last of it. The alien waits in silence. Up close, it’s possible to see that his skin is unarmored and pimpled from the cold, and that his bones are delicate, too easily broken. Beneath the weight of chain-link jewelry, there’s a scar running along the line of his shoulder that might have been scored by a claw, and for a moment, Tavros doesn’t know what to say. He knows how to deal with wild frightened creatures, even those of unfamiliar species. Animals wear their instincts openly. Intelligent aliens are more complicated. He can’t tell from behavior alone whether distance or steady touch would be more calming, although he thinks, judging by circumstance and probable history, that the former would be best. But he has to do something, and most likely even clumsy clarification would be better than continuing to let this unanticipated prisoner believe what he is currently believing.
“You don’t, actually,” he says. “Or rather, I think that in most cases, you probably do, but in this case specifically, you are definitely mistaken.”
The alien takes a measured breath, and says, “Provided there are no puppets or clowns involved, I eagerly await the expansion of my personal horizons.”
It is unmistakably sarcasm. The alien’s shoulders tense in anticipation of pain, and Tavros wishes it were possible to soothe the threat away, like he could for a panicked beast, with only a touch of mind to mind.
“There will be no puppets involved in any capacity,” he says, which is at least something he can be certain of. He can make no promises regarding clowns. If he’s going to do anything dangerous – and he is already certain with a reasonable degree of confidence that this is going to end with him doing something dangerous – then Gamzee’s assistance might be necessary.
“What is going to happen, after this,” he says, “is that I am going to find you some clothing of a more substantial nature, and some food which is also substantial, after which I am going to treat any injuries you might have, in a manner that is, uh, entirely non-concupiscent. And then I am going to find a way to get you off this ship and to someplace safe for your species.”
He’s expecting wary relief at those words, and hoping for comfort. The accepted way to dispose of an unwanted slave from a conquered world is by passing it on to someone else, or simply disposing of it; liberation is subversive enough to merit culling for any caste lower than teal. The alien must know that, if he’s been in Alternian custody for as long as it seems he has. But instead of gratitude for the reprieve, there’s an instant when he does look frightened, openly, before the mask slots back into place and he kneels again. He touches Tavros’s knee, moving with more hesitation than he’d shown before, and looks up through downcast lashes; the cyborg limb registers weight but not warmth, and despite the pleading softness in the alien’s touch and the set of his mouth, the look in those pale red eyes is very cold.
“Not without my sister.”