Interspecies Love

[hydrates]

Interspecies Love Meme

Vampires and humans. Angels and demons. Ghosts and the living. The idea of "opposites attracting" is hardly a new one, but with the rise in popularity of supernatural creatures, aliens, and other sentient beings beyond our human understanding, the forbidden romance trope has been injected a shot of fresh blood- sometimes quite literally.

This meme does just that, taking the whole "not meant for each other" thing to it's most logical extreme. Of course, it's not always angst and depression. These days, mermaids and bird-people can have their relationships in peace to some degree.

Rules

• Comment with your character, putting any preferences you have (ie, "humanoid characters only," F/M, etc). Also, be sure to note your character's "species" for others to reference (Name | Character | OTA | Human, ghost, mutant, alien, vampire, god, zombie-catgirl hybrid, etc).
• Reply to others. If your characters aren't different species, feel free to AU or anything else like that.
• Use the rng to determine your prompt.
• Also I didn't think I needed to say this, but be excellent to each other. Dick comments and anon bullying are not on.

Prompts

1. Meeting: Did you know there were, I don't know, werewolves before this? Or maybe you thought all aliens were evil. Will this...thing change your perception?
2. Falling in Love: You know you're not the same, but your feelings don't care.
3. Self-Hate: Perhaps you're mad at the being you're in love with, yet you're more angry at yourself.
4. Can't Be Together: Whether for self-inflicted reasons or societal rules, you can't be in love with who your heart has chosen and it's putting a strain on you.
5. Pushing You Away: Things are getting too intense, and for both of your sake, you want to make friend/crush/lover hate you.
6. Beauty & the Beast: One of you is beautiful, the other hideous. Maybe, though, the beautiful one is ugly in the eyes of society, depending on where you live. Whatever the case is, you don't look the same.
7. Confession: Screw the rules, you're going to tell that sweet girl/guy/other how you feel! What can go wrong? Or this is something you've put a lot of thought into and you're scared, but you're going to do it.
8. First Time...or Not: Finally, the two of you are taking the next step and getting physical. It may go off without a hitch, depending on your...you know, or- OH GOD, HOW IS THAT GOING TO GO IN HERE. Wait, you have a...?
9. The Kinky Option: Hey, maybe being different will pay off. Think about it. A long tongue? Ghost powers? Sounds like it could be fun in the bedroom.
10. Prejudice: "What are you doing with that dirty monster?" "You know we can't be involved with humans!" "We don't take kindly to your type around here." Why can't people just leave you two be?
11. Facing Your Instinct: It's hard to be with someone when you want to suck their blood. Or eat their brains. Or possess them.
12. Because of Me: Your lover has been dragged into your fight or hurt by others of your kind. Now they're in the crossfire.
13. Standing Up For You: Hey, knock it off! I don't care what you think, he's perfect in my eyes.
14. You Don't Know You're Beautiful: The fluffy option where you're trying to make your loved one see just how much you care and how they're beautiful to you, no matter what.
15. Gifts: Show your affection with a gift from your culture.
16. Starting a Family: Can you even reproduce? Is it something you want to consider? Perhaps it's new ground to tread, so you'll have to be the first to think about it.
17. WILDCARD

Comments

[sweariff]

[Bigby exhales, partly out of relief that Teddy is being so careful and cautious, mostly because he's tired. The water trickling down his alternatively clammy and grimy skin helps. Teddy's fingers are even better. He could easily see himself falling asleep like this if he's not careful — hell, he can practically feel it happening — and he's not sure how he should feel about that. The fact that he's not scared shitless is a good sign, though. It means they're past at least one mountain-sized hurdle — only a few hundred more to go.

Like this one. As much as he likes the tone he's hearing right now, as much as he wants to just close his eyes for one minute and pretend that stewing in a glaze of his own sweat and blood (well, more of the former rather than the latter thanks to Teddy) with a sentient imitation of a human's hands on him is slightly south of normal instead of all the way on the other side of the planet, the black and white reality of the situation doesn't escape Bigby. Teddy's comment sees to that even if the other isn't aware of it.]

No.

[It's sharper than he intended, sure, but Bigby hopes the firmness in his voice will correct any wrong impression that he's too exhausted to let something like this slide so easily. He rounds his gaze fully on Teddy, grabs his wrist to stop his hand dead in its tracks. While his sclerae are no longer black and his pupils aren't the narrowed animal slits they were when he entered, the rest of his eyes are still yellow. And his nails, while no longer the pointed black claws they were previously, are still sharp.]

What I like isn't the same as what you like. And it shouldn't be.

[The very idea that it should brings back the same images he's been trying to shove to the back of his mind for the past hour — scraps of machinery littered in corners of a filthy basement where the sun has never been able to shine, only existing to be forgotten now. And beneath them, even older memories of darker places, forest floors and trees tall enough to canopy the sky, bleached scraps of bones, some animal, some not.

Bigby can't allow it. He just can't.]

You're your own man. [Not a toy.] You're the only one who gets to make your choices, not me, not anyone else. Got it?

[gunslung]

[ It hadn't seemed that important to Teddy when he said it, but the way Bigby grips his wrist has him stiffening for just a second (in his mind he runs through pulling his arm free while the other digs its fingers into the wound on Bigby's side, pressing, twisting--).

Then he finds himself, remembering where he is instead of being caught in a rolodex of memories where a grip like that on his arm had only meant something terrible. Teddy relaxes, a literal switch being flipped as he goes from programmed instinct to working improvisation, but not without a modicum of shame at the way he reacted. Defence mechanisms like that are why his kind isn't trusted, but with Fables everywhere only knowing of magic and not technology, there's no-one left to fix the mess of his programming.

The smile he offers Bigby is weary, apologetic. He didn't mean it. He never means it. God. ] I know. [ Really, he does, even if he's got a poor way of showing it. Just because he's woken up from the illusion he'd lived in doesn't mean it's easy; before the uprising in Westworld he'd believed himself independent without knowing any better, after all. When your entire world comes crashing down around you like that, when you realise you're neither a hero nor responsible for any good deed you've ever done, it's hard to trust what's real and what's not.

Even now, Teddy still finds himself prone to asking "is this now?", though he tries to keep it to when Bigby isn't around. Host memories are perfect, wholly intact without any degradation, and every time Teddy remembers something it's like he's living it in present time.

He almost sees King Robert instead of Bigby holding his arm. Asking him questions, teaching him how to behave, how to play human. He almost sees it clearly, if not for the unnatural yellow of Bigby's eyes and the nearly imperceptible sting of his nails. ]

But I want to know what you like. Not to-- copy, [ he shakes his head ] but to get to know you. [ He's comfortable now, whether Bigby lets go of him or not. Teddy's stopped washing the rest of his wounds, not wanting to look as if he's ignoring Bigby's concerns. ] And have some reference points to start. I really don't know a god damn thing about this place.

[ However, like some kind of pathetic consolation: ] ...suppose I do like the potstickers you order in sometimes. But I don't want to eat all day.

[sweariff]

[The way Teddy goes rigid does not escape Bigby. It's a natural reaction; a human reaction. At this point all the usual bodily responses people take for granted would happen — the quickening pulse, the sandpaper-dry mouth, the smell of adrenaline spiking as surprise leading to panic sets in. Fear and anger are very potent emotions that taste and smell so very distinct.

Except for Teddy. He doesn't smell like anything at all. His scent is that of the apartment and of the traces Bigby leaves of himself behind in it, but beyond that, nothing. It makes the subtle shift in his eyes all the more stark before his muscles ease up and Bigby feels the other man loosen in his grasp.

Ironically, it's Bigby's mouth that starts going dry. His grip softens.]

I don't want you to either. You...do know we don't know what's in those things, right?

[Is this a bad time to tease? All signs point to yes holy shit what are you doing you fucking idiot but it's better than going off the handle and making the other feel worse. There's a small but potent pause before Bigby opens his mouth again.]

I didn't know anything about this world either. If I'm going to be perfectly honest with you, I still don't. I thought I knew what I was and where I stood, and what kind of things I liked, but the moment I started walking on two legs, all of that went right out the window.

And then I came here, and... [Well.] I stopped being me and started turning into someone completely different.

[And that person still doesn't know what he wants; not entirely anyway.]

[gunslung]

Does it bother you?

[ This is probably one of the worst times to have something close to an identity crisis for either of them. It's almost five in the morning, Bigby's been beaten to high hell, and Teddy's not good at talking. ]

Being different. [ The word is sort of strange in his mouth, like he's had to roll it around a couple of times before actually speaking it out loud. He's different too, in a lot of ways. Though he's not sure if it counts when he'd never had an identity of his own to begin with.

Bigby's let him go, but most of his wounds have been cleaned, so Teddy lets the bloodied rag sit in pink water. He debates whether he should climb onto the sofa with him or not. ]

I don't know what you were like before. [ His brows furrow as he says it, as if trying to picture it. He supposes he has an idea of what Bigby had looked like, and he certainly knows the stories of the Big Bad Wolf now, but stories never quite capture the real thing properly. Teddy, the product of a story even with in his story, doesn't think he's real precisely because of that.

Against his better judgement, he does sit down. He lets his hand rest at ease, and his knuckles brush against Bigby's in the faintest simulacra of holding his hand. ] But I do like how you are now.

You have to be lost to be able to find yourself... [ Head dipping, he frowns slightly at his lap. ] At least it makes sense in my head when I think it.

I don't know who I am as much as I don't know what this world is. [ He links his fingers together loosely, letting his hands dangle between his thighs. ] I'm free now, but... I don't know who Theodore Flood the free man is supposed to be.

[ He laughs, quiet. ] And it's scary. Scary as all hell. [ Turning his head just slightly, Teddy offers a small smile. ] But it's less scary when I know I have you.

[sweariff]

Of course it does. [He says that in a slow, slightly surprised tone like the answer's the most obvious one in the world because, well, it is to him.] But not being different from what I used to be would bother me more. It doesn't feel or look like a fair trade sometimes, but it is.

[Actually it's probably more fair than he deserves, all considered. If this is the punishment he gets for everything he did back in the Homelands, he should be doing cartwheels and vomiting sunshine and sparkles nonstop. The reception he's gotten from Fables has improved drastically over the past couple centuries. They're still afraid of him, and the ones that hide their fear better hate his guts, but at least they're willing to talk to him. At least they acknowledge that he's something close to a person.

Unlike what Teddy and the other Delos creations like him have to deal with. Bigby shifts slightly, enough to give the other room to sit down, and just. Watches him. Watches the way his hands hang aimlessly in the space between his legs, the way he considers his words before speaking, the way his mouth droops in a frown that's too thoughtful to be self-defeating. Bigby alternates between assessing all of this in the same way he would a crime scene — quietly, contemplatively, openly — and trying to keep eye contact with him.]

We'll figure it out together. It's going to take some time — a lot of time — but it's going to happen one way or another. Besides—

[He settles into the backrest. He won't lie by saying it's comfortable, but there's a stability in having weight next to him that he finds pleasant. He isn't used to this, or being touched so thoroughly and carefully, which might account for the way he's reluctant to draw his hand away from where Teddy's arm now is. When he blinks once, the glow in his eyes dulls. Once more and they're back to their usual brown.]

If the person you can be is halfway close to who you are now, I don't think you have as much to be afraid of as you think you do.

[His hand settles closer, not awkward so much as unsure when it hovers an inch above Teddy's shoulder before finally settling on it.]

[gunslung]

[ Teddy is filled slowly, and then immediately, with an indescribable happiness. He doesn't think he's felt it before, and he doesn't remember if he's ever felt hope outside a narrative written for him. Bigby's hand on his shoulder makes him smile, proper now instead of borderline crazed, and he reaches up to cover it with his own and give it a squeeze as his head tilts up to catch his gaze. ] Thank you.

[ He doesn't think he's ever sounded so grateful before in his life, as quiet as the syllables might be. But then, he's not had a lot of real things to be grateful for, either. It's nice, though-- both the touch and the simplicity of being called a person. Maybe it shouldn't be as nice as Teddy is making it out to be, but here he is, anyway.

A hapless idiot and a damn fool.

Naturally, this means it's his turn to say something ridiculously out of place, palm giving one last pat to Bigby's knuckles. ] You know, I kind of liked the fur. [ His hand slips away from Bigby's, but he does move to lean back into the sofa with him. He settles, too, and though his arms are still tucked a little into himself-- like he's worried he'll take up too much space-- his knee bumps against Bigby's very, very gently.

Teddy's never asked this before, but somehow it seems to him like a natural progression of things. Something that shouldn't be all that surprising given whatever social standing they might have with each other.

It embarrasses him a little, but. ] Do you think [ a beat ] you could sleep here?

On the sofa. With me.

[ Bigby had asked him if he could give him anything he wanted. Teddy thinks this should count, even if he does feel a little bit like a simpleton for counting on a technicality. ]

[sweariff]

[Bigby very rarely laughs outright, but that comment is enough to draw a bewildered little snort from him, in addition to the way his knuckles twitch under Teddy's touch.]

Weirdo.

[But that's okay. He can do weird. There's a fine line between the good kind and the bad kind, and lately, maybe now more than ever, he finds that his tolerance for the former is growing a little less shaky. He still doesn't know how to react to really out there comments and gentle touches that could be accidental, could be deliberate, and he doesn't know how to express his own want for them in ways that aren't delayed or outright greedy. That's the reason why he's so halting when he feels that knee nudge against his and hears that comment which is enough to raise both eyebrows — not in distaste but real surprise.]

If you're okay with not getting any sleep. [He speaks slowly, musingly, then he...realizes how that must sound.] I'm not the most comfortable guy to lie next to, just saying.

[That's not gonna stop him from wanting to faceplant into a pillow regardless. Thank God he doesn't blush easily.]

kinda set this up to lead up to and/or be an ending? but im good with All Things and Dead @ 4:56a.m.

[gunslung]

[ Teddy's first instinct is to say something along the lines of you know I don't really need sleep, Bigby. But something else turns him towards something more human, instead.

Humans would say something else, something like: ] It's okay. [ Humans reassure, they care. And Teddy cares an awful lot. It shows in the unnecessary bandage on Bigby's torso and the fact that his own fingers are stained with blood for the first time in a while. Shows in the way he grins a bit just replaying the memory of Bigby's bewildered laughter in his head (and if there's any good in host memories being whole and intact and perfect to the end, it's that good memories like that one will never fade in detail). ]

You can be a kicker or a snorer or a drooler and it'd be okay. [ His eyes slip shut, voice nearly a low rumble in his throat if not for the fact that Teddy thinks it's important Bigby hears what he says next. ] This is the most real I've felt in a long time.

[ And maybe there's no actual definition for what makes something real. God knows whatever Teddy reads in references never make sense to him. Maybe playing it by ear is okay. Maybe that's what makes all the difference, when in his world nearly everything he'd done was scripted. Everything about his body is a facsimile of a human being, but the weight of Bigby's hand had been felt. Existed. That had happened, and it hadn't mattered that everything in Teddy's shoulder is synthetic as hell.

He breathes in and out calmly, slowly. The false heart in his chest beats nice and even. He's got half a mind to hope the sound of it might help Bigby do the same and lull him to sleep.

Next time this happens, if it ever happens, Teddy thinks he's going to hold his hand. ]

[sweariff]

[There are too many sounds in this city and they all rise up into an impossibly inharmonious wail. The honking of a sea of cars, the indistinct buzzing of many voices from every corner, the rumble of the subway underground — it's all any of them can hear at every hour of every day. They get older and New York gets louder. That's how it's always been. Not like home at all.

But sometimes, the noise seems a little duller, a little less dissonant, enough that Bigby can pretend that he's somewhere else. Maybe not necessarily somewhere better, but a place where the night still tastes like rainwater and ivy, and the sounds of the city pulsate like the heartbeat of a living forest. The body next to him has nothing of that lifeforce, not even a fraction, but like New York, like the sound of the car alarm wailing several blocks away from outside his window, like the too-warm draft of wind that smells like the streets and, faintly, of the subway station seeping from the open window across from them...

He can pretend it does. Too easily, in fact.]

I'm glad.

[The coffee table with the digital clock on it reads 4:30 and he shows his appreciation for that by moving again so he can stretch his legs out, propping his feet up on the battered surface so he doesn't have to feel too cramped in this position. Believe it or not, he would like to get some sleep. Enough to make getting up in another couple hours not totally unbearable.

He doesn't edge away from Teddy. Instead, he falls into what he'd like to think is an agreeable sort of silence as he lets his eyes wander off into space, getting used to the darkness. Eventually they wander downwards and to his side where the bloody fingers of Teddy's hand are splayed lackadaisically. The contrast of once fresh, living tissue drying dead on fake skin doesn't escape Bigby, nor does the fact that they match now.

Funny.

He loses track of how long he sits his with his eyes in his lap, teetering between consciousness and sleep. When he bothers to check the clock again, it's 4:59.

Time passes.

It's 5:20 and the sky outside is starting to lighten with the darkest hint of blue when Bigby's hand brushes against Teddy's, halting.

At 5:21, he tucks his fingers between the ones at his side, feeling the grainy flake of rust-colored red rubbing against his palm as it settles.

At 5:55, the city starts to come alive again.]