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trashfireradiowaves · 10 years

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Temperature, Touch, Emotion, and the Potentially Triggering Consequences Thereof; SignKri, SignKarKri

yeah so this is mainly super self indulgent head canon fic so all the characters are probs super ooc and shit so sorry i guess

"Kankri."

You refuse to turn over, huddling further into your nest of blankets. The collar of your red turtleneck is pulled over your chin, hiding your mouth and nose. You hadn't bothered to change out of your day clothes earlier, simply falling into bed and pulling the sheets over your head, blocking out the world.

It had been one of the few times in the past month that you had actually been tired enough to fall asleep. You should have known it was too good to be true.

"I know you're awake."

You wish you weren't.

No, that's not true; you're glad you're awake. You wish you'd never fallen asleep in the first place.

The bed dips, and a hand rests on your back. You flinch at the contact, but your other self, older and better and wiser than you, well liked and influential and everything you’re not, refuses to move. You wish he would. You wish he'd stop touching you, that he'd pick up him damn hand, get up, and leave you alone. You don't want his comfort, false comfort, false, false he doesn't care no one cares you wish he'd just leave you alone-

He makes a quiet noise and moves, and for a split second you think he's actually going to leave and you are both relieved and filled with abject terror because you need to be alone but you don't want to be alone, you'd rather have false comfort than no comfort, and you are so, so conflicted.

But he doesn't leave. He wraps his arms around your middle and pulls your limp, unresisting body onto his lap, cradles you close to his chest, and asks you, "What's wrong?"

What's wrong. What's wrong, he asks. For a moment, you are filled with wrath, complete and utter hatred, a need to rip and tear and kill because it's his fault, all his fault, it's his fucking fault-

"Nothing's wrong," you reply, tone modulated, even, calm, "I'm fine.”

Anger is triggering. You cannot be angry, you are not allowed to be angry, showing anger can be traumatizing for those who have suffered at the hands of angry trolls, you cannot-

"You aren't," he rebukes, and his hand buries itself in your hair, pets your head in a soothing manner, "I heard you crying."

"I wasn't."

Sorrow is triggering, expressions of sorrow are triggering, showing sadness can be triggering to those who have more a cause to be sad that you- you’re sure there is no evidence of your tears. You're also sure you cried quietly enough to keep anyone from hearing, to keep from accidentally triggering those around you with your disgusting, histrionic displays of emotion, but obviously that wasn't true. He doesn't buy your objection, taking your face in one hand and tilting your head up to face him.

"You were. Kankri, you don't have to hide your emotions away. You don't have to-"

"And you don't have to stick your nose into things you don't care about," you snap, hands fisting the sleeves of your sweater, claws piercing the thick material. You regret it instantly. You should not have snapped, you should not have taken your anger out on him even if he is the cause, you know you shouldn't have but it's so hard, you're so tired and control is coming to you with more and more difficulty every day, and he is so, so infuriating sometimes-

"I care about you."

His voice flows over you like water over river stones, quiet and calming, though you think you hear the slightest bit of worry, the smallest bit of hurt.

"I care about you a great deal, Kankri, and I'm sorry if I have made you feel as if this is not the truth. I care about you just as much as I care about Karkat, and I love you both with all my heart. So please, tell me why you cry yourself awake every night you manage to sleep? I'm worried."

You don't respond. You can't bring yourself to say anything- ironic, that you, the motor mouth, the Insufferable, cannot speak. You wonder what your game-mates would say about this occurrence. You wonder if they'd even care. You wonder if you care.

He cradles your face in one hand, using the other to brush away wetness you had not realized was there. You're crying again. You're disgusted with yourself, with your flaws, your cullability. He doesn't seem to care, simply continues to clean your face of mutant red, pressing a kiss to your forehead every so often, and his tenderness is so foreign and it feels so, so good it breaks you.

He touches you so carelessly, like the color of your blood doesn’t even matter, like your break from acceptable attitude parameters doesn’t matter, like nothing matters but you, and it’s so strange, so extrinsic, you can’t even find it in yourself to be triggered by his unanticipated physical contact. Usually anyone touching you without your permission, especially in ways that are typically highly quadrant-oriented, would send you into shivering, revolted fits, but… his skin is the same temperature as yours. His skin is the same temperature as yours, and something about that makes you shatter.

"I keep dreaming," you gasp out, covering your face with your oversized sleeves, unable to face him, unable to watch his expression morph from caring to ashamed at your weakness, "I dream of- I keep seeing- reliving-"

And you can't do it, you can't spit out the words, you can't verbalize the horror you go through every time you close your eyes and somehow that makes it worse.

He hushes you again, kisses the top of your head, holds you close. You've never felt safer than you have in his arms, and it's terrifying, because you cannot get attached. You cannot allow yourself be so vulnerable, cannot allow yourself to fall prey to comfort and closeness. It will make it harder to rip yourself away, later, and you will need to rip yourself away. Even if his skin is the same temperature as yours, you cannot allow yourself to become comfortable with his care, because, in the eyes of yourself and those around you, it would be construed as a sign that you are incapable of caring for yourself.

"Oh child," he sighs, rubbing a hand up and down your back, "Oh child, I would not wish those memories on the worst of my enemies…"

You choke out another sob, and you cling to him, to his warmth and reality. Maybe you could allow yourself this, if only for a few minutes. He’s real, warm and solid under your hands and he's here, you're not stuck in your head, you're safe, you're free-

"Signless?" you whimper, tense and fearful, "My wrists hurt."

He holds you tight, almost enough to hurt, but not quite, just enough to ground you in the present, and he presses kisses to your tangled hair and whispers soothing things into your ears. You wrap your hands in his shirt and allow him to comfort you, despite your inherent dislike and fear for such things. You can't go on like this. You can't keep avoiding sleep until you pass out, only to snap awake a few hours later, terrified. You can't keep doing this, you're too exhausted, too scared, in too much pain.

You have been haunted by memories of his death for as long as you can remember. In the dream bubbles, it wasn't as bad; you could stay up for weeks, months at a time with no sleep at all, sweeps, if you really tried. One nightmare every few sweeps or so, that was alright. That was manageable. But now, living, you need rest, or you feel sick and dizzy and you pass out whether you want to or not, and even unconsciousness doesn't stop the torment, the burning, the sound and sight and smell and taste and touch of pure, unadulterated agony and fear. Now, living, you can't escape the nightmares that plague you, the aches and pains of his execution, and you're weary, you're burned out, you're exhausted and you are just so, so sick of dealing with this alone.

And now he's here. He's here, and he says, "Let me take care of you. Let me hold you. Let me protect you," and you can't say no. You’re terrified because, all your life, you have learned that if you cannot care for yourself, then you are less. You are less than whole, less than troll, less than those around you, and people will treat you differently for that. But… but you can’t say no.

So you nod, and cry into his chest and he holds you tight, rocks you, lulls you into a state of semi-awareness, of reduced cognizance. Not sleep. You can't let yourself sleep, not so soon after… after your dreams, but this, this is nice.

"You don't have to worry about anything anymore, Kankri," he murmurs into your hair, "You don't have to live like this anymore. You don't have to be alone to prove a point, there's no one left to prove your point to. You don't have to be afraid. I'll take care of you, I'll protect you."

"I… I don't know how," you whisper, shuddering, "I don't know how."

You've forced yourself to be independent for so long, forced yourself to detach from everyone around you on the off chance that you could prove your worth, prove capable of living on your own, that you aren't sure how to let go of your rigid self control. You're terrified to let someone else take care of you, let someone else shoulder your problems, because if you can't handle anything by yourself, then maybe what the highbloods said was right. Maybe you are inferior, maybe you do need to be culled. But he isn't a highblood, he's a mutant like you, warm and flushed red with his criminal color, and his skin is the same temperature as yours.

"We'll teach you, Karkat and I," he sooths, rubbing the back of your neck with a broad hand, "We'll teach you. Just let us take care of you."

It's too close to being culled, your mind shrieks, they're trying to take everything away from you, take away your independence, your autonomy, your freedom-

But he's being so kind to you. He's being so kind, and he's a mutant, he's like you. He wouldn't cull you, he wouldn't report you, he wouldn't… there isn't even anything to report you to anymore, no risk of being culled, not when all that's left of your home is a ragtag group of trolls stuck on an astroid hurtling through space, but… you're still scared, and you can't stop thinking what if, what if.

You're still arguing with yourself when he picks you up, holding your small frame in the crook of one arm, cradling you like a child. The position places you right against his chest, your ear over his heart, and it's such a comforting, novel experience you can't bring yourself to protest the indignity.

He brings you out of your room, and you don't want to leave your dark hideaway but you also don't want him to leave you alone, you don't want to be alone so you whine deep in your throat but don't protest when he settles you both on the soft, lumpy couch that dominates the small living space between your three rooms.

"Karkat," he murmurs, and you pull the collar of your sweater over your mouth and nose, hiding, because you don't want him to see you like this, you don't want anyone to see you like this, weak, deficient, imperfect- "Karkat, please go get a glass of water from the kitchen?"

Footsteps pad away and Signless pries your collar away from your face.

"Do not be ashamed," he says, deep voice rolling over you, smooth and calm and rumbling deep in his chest, "You have nothing to be ashamed of. You have no reason to hide, little one."

He pets your cheek and you settle into the contact with a sigh, leaning into his touch.

"Is he alright?"

Karkat's voice startles you, and you flinch, abortively trying to cover your tearstained face. Signless captures your hands in a gentle grip, though, and presses a kiss to your forehead, ignoring the edge of a thick white bandage revealed by your sweater’s overlarge, drooping sleeves.

"He'll be fine, thank you, Karkat."

He presses a cool glass to your lips and you drink with abandon, relishing the cold shock of water to keep you awake and aware. It doesn't stop you from flinching in shock when a warm weight settles against your side, though.

"The fuck is going on?" your dancestor grumbles, leaning against you.

Signless and Karkat had, at this point, made almost a nest with their bodies- legs thrown over each other, shoulders touching- and you were rolled into the middle of it, surrounded on all sides by warmth, Signless's arm wrapped around your shoulders, Karkat pressed against your side, your legs slung over theirs.

"Daymares, I think," Signless murmurs, rubbing a thumb over the back of your neck, "About… well, about me."

He kisses your head again, apologizes, and you don't know how to respond. What can you say? It's alright? It's not. You're not. You haven't slept more than four hours in the past week, you're dragging. You feel dead. You can't think.

"It's not your fault," you finally say, shuddering, "It's not your fault I…"

That you're defective. That you're broken. That the only thing your Seer powers show you is your other self dying horribly. That you can't sleep more than an hour at a time, two hours if you're lucky. That your wrists never stop hurting. That you're tired.

"I don't blame you."

He doesn't respond, just brushes your hair back from your face and croons at you, nuzzling one of your horns. You can feel yourself relax, feel your eyes droop in response to the comforting stimuli, and you feel a moment of gut wrenching terror because you can't fall asleep. Then Karkat grabs one of your wrists, presumably to coddle, to comfort, to do something but all you feel are burning fucking shackles and you panic.

You jolt, flail, instinctively trying to claw his hands away, all consuming fear bubbling in your chest, but he just catches your other wrist and holds them, keeps you from hitting him. Signless has both arms around you now and is holding you still and you can't choke back a terrified sob because it hurts, it hurts and you want him to let go, let go please just let go- He pushes back your sleeves, sees the bandages you hastily slapped over your cuts and bruises, unravels them.

"What the fuck, Kankri?" he says, holding your arms out, holding them still. Your wrists are covered in scratches and bruises, remnants of your terrified thrashing in the moments between waking up and coherency. When you're half awake and seeing shackles, feeling the skin burn from your wrists, smelling charred flesh and blood and dust, and hurting, hurting worse than you ever have-

Signless presses a kiss you your hair, runs a hand over your back, whispers into your ear, and you go limp, shaking.

"When I wake up," you stumble over your words, uncharacteristically tongue tied, terrified, torn because this should be triggering, it is triggering, but his skin, his skin is the same temperature as yours, "When I- I'm not, not awake yet, all the way, and I see- I feel- and I try to get them off but-"

Karkat's grip slackens until he's cradling your damaged wrists in his hands, not restraining you. His thumbs brush over the worst cuts, the darkest bruises, but it doesn't hurt. It feels… nice. Soothing. His skin is the same temperature as yours, warmer, even, and you can’t bring yourself to pull away because it’s been so long since someone’s touched you like this. It’s been so long since someone’s touched you like this, and you don’t remember a time when the press of flesh against yours has been anything but sickening, cool to cold and so, so nauseating.

You let your eyes flutter shut, lean more of your weight against Signless. You don't think you've ever felt so… cared for. No. You haven't. You lusus had been kind, but aloof, and when you'd been culled- well, you'd been nothing but an exotic playtoy, a thing to show off then put back on the shelf until the next party. You'd spend all the time between then trying to prove your independence, your intelligence, your ability to live without another person.

You'd never felt like this before, never felt like there were other people who cared about your wellbeing. It feels… good.

Karkat rubs circles into the abused skin of your wrists, easing out most of the pain and soreness that you thought would be permanent. He's gentle, so much more gentle than you thought he'd be capable of, and it takes a minute to realize that he's talking to you, too, they both are. Saying different things- while Signless is crooning to you about how you're safe, how you're cared for, how you're loved, even, Karkat's murmuring to you about how you'll be protected, how he'll defend you with his life, how he'll kill anyone who dares harm you.

Against your will, you find yourself slipping back into slumber, surrounded by them. And still, still you can’t decide what to do.

#signkri #signkarkri #vantascest #vantacest #so basically headcanon is that kankri has issues with touch because of the heinous temerature difference between mutant and normalbloods #and he's never come across anyone who matched or even surpassed his temperature before #so he's very affected by that #yeah #sorry this is shit #self harm tw #it's accidental tho #nightmares tw #trauma tw #injuries tw #im being safe with the tws because i left them out and now i feel bad #sfw #radiowriter

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