Fanfiction: And There You'll Find (Forgotton Anne, Anne/Fig)
I'm still very annoyed with the Forgotton Anne fandom for inconsiderately not existing, thus forcing me to be the one to write about a human and an animated wooden figure having sex. I CAN'T WRITE SEX SCENES EVEN WHEN ONLY HUMANS ARE INVOLVED.
The good news is that, even if this hasn't worked at all, it's still the best fic in the Forgotton Anne fandom. (Unfortunately, it's also the worst fic in the Forgotton Anne fandom.)
Title: And There You'll Find
Fandom: Forgotton Anne
Rating: R
Pairing: Anne/Fig
Wordcount: 1,100
Summary: Anne and Fig try to navigate sex in a world that provides limited opportunities to learn about it.
“What do you know about love?”
“I know we’re all poorer without it,” Fig says. “Why do you ask?”
Anne fidgets with her blankets, sitting on her bed in the room she and Fig share. Her old house was larger, but she couldn’t stay there. Not after Bonku, not after everything. She’s fortunate that the rebels were prepared to take her in.
When she gave the Arca up to the Cornerstone, she hadn’t expected she would need to worry about finding a place to live. But she hadn’t crystallised, not right away. She’d spent weeks in suspense, Fig holding her hand through the worst times, both of them thinking it would happen any moment. In the end, the Caretaker had explained it to her: the Arca had kept her life suspended, and now she was at the start of a normal forgotling lifespan.
She’s not sure how to articulate this. “I don’t mean... between friends, or a father and daughter. I mean the type of love an alarm clock might have seen, or a bedside lamp.”
“Ah,” Fig says, beginning to smile. “Yes, I suppose you would be curious. You’ve heard stories, then?”
“I haven’t exactly had the opportunity to learn myself,” she says, a little irritated. Is he patronising her?
“I meant no offence,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’m afraid my own knowledge is limited; I was never privy to a bedroom in the Ether. But I’ve spoken to forgotlings who were. I can give you their names, if you’d like.”
Somehow she’d expected him to know more. But it’s a human thing, she supposes; why would he?
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to speak to other forgotlings about this.”
“No?” Fig asks. “Are you sure? They could certainly tell you more than I could relay second-hand.”
Anne closes her eyes for a moment. Presses her fingers to her temple.
“You know,” she says, opening her eyes, “for such an intelligent forgotling, you’re surprisingly dense.”
Fig looks at her for a moment.
“Oh,” he says.
It’s a struggle not to laugh at the expression on his face. “Did it really not occur to you that I might be asking...?”
“Should it have?” he asks. “I’m not a human. I’m not a... forgotling of specialised design. I know a forgotten vibrating device, she’s very lively and funny, she’d really have much more authority on-”
“I’d like it to be you, Fig,” Anne says. “If you’re okay with that. And, if you’re not, we don’t have to talk about this again.”
“I’m honoured that you’d ask, Anne,” Fig says, after a moment. “I’d like to help you. But I’m not sure I’m adequately equipped.”
“You have hands,” Anne says. “That’s enough, that’s all you need, I’ll show you.” She’s experimented a little on her own, enough to know that much. “We don’t need to limit ourselves to the functions we were designed for. You were the one who taught me that.”
“I suppose I do have my nose,” Fig says, thoughtfully.
“I think it’s probably better if we stick with the hands for now,” Anne says.
He leaps onto the bed with her, with that strange, agile grace of his, and having him suddenly so close makes her heart beat faster.
“You’re sure, Anne?” he asks.
She touches his wig; it still makes her laugh, that vanity of his, although she tries not to tease him too much about it. “I’m sure.”
He puts a gloved hand to her face, and she clasps his wrist, the wood cool against her fingers, a little roughened by wear. She no longer wears the Arca, but it almost seems like she can still feel the anima burning just under the surface.
-
It’s clumsy; he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, and neither does she, and at first she’s afraid of getting splinters. But his uncertainty quickly gives way to curiosity. He’s always seemed to find her so interesting.
“How does it feel?” he asks. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”
She shakes her head.
“No?” he asks. “It feels no, or no, I’m not hurting you?”
She manages a laugh. “I can’t really talk. I’m not - it’s hard to focus.”
Fig frowns. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“No, it’s good,” she says, firmly.
“You’re sure? You sounded like you were in pain a moment ago.”
“I wasn’t,” she says. “It’s just... a little overwhelming. Please don’t stop.”
She wants to touch him, to return this feeling to him somehow, so he’ll understand. But she doesn’t know how, she doesn’t know where. He’s not like her. There’s nothing but smooth wood.
“Is there any way I can-” She tries to reach out for him, and tails off in a gasp.
“Make me make those undignified noises?” Fig asks. “I wouldn’t imagine so.”
She kicks him. Gently. She’s more likely to hurt her foot than to cause Fig any pain, but she still doesn’t want to leave a dent. He starts to laugh.
“I’m touched you’d think of me, really,” he says, “but I’m not a human. I don’t experience my body in the same way that you do. I’m glad you seem to be enjoying yourself, but it’s not something I can know first-hand.”
“So I can’t make you feel this,” she says, staring up at the ceiling. “I wish I could.”
“I’m watching you feel,” he says, quietly. She could almost call it reverent. “It’s enough, Anne.”
-
She’s exhausted afterwards, feels like she’ll fall asleep the moment she closes her eyes. Fig seems to have as much energy as ever. It strikes her as unfair, particularly when he keeps asking questions about the experience that she doesn’t feel conscious enough to answer.
“Fig,” she says, “I’m sorry, but can we talk about this later?”
“Of course,” Fig says at once. “Another time. I can leave, if you’d like.”
Anne shakes her head, as well as she can manage when it’s resting on the pillow. “I’d like you to stay.”
She studies him vaguely, lying on her side. She’s left marks where she’s dug her fingernails into his arms, his shoulders, his sides: little light crescents against the wood.
“Oh,” Anne gasps, sitting up suddenly, “Fig, I’m so sorry, I-”
“What’s wrong?”
She pulls his arm towards her to look at the damage. “I forgot - these marks would just heal if they were on my skin, but they’ll stay here, won’t they?”
Fig laughs. “Oh, don’t worry about that. They may well buff out.”
He pauses for a moment.
“To tell you the truth,” he says, with a smile, “I’m rather hoping they won’t.”
The good news is that, even if this hasn't worked at all, it's still the best fic in the Forgotton Anne fandom. (Unfortunately, it's also the worst fic in the Forgotton Anne fandom.)
Title: And There You'll Find
Fandom: Forgotton Anne
Rating: R
Pairing: Anne/Fig
Wordcount: 1,100
Summary: Anne and Fig try to navigate sex in a world that provides limited opportunities to learn about it.
“What do you know about love?”
“I know we’re all poorer without it,” Fig says. “Why do you ask?”
Anne fidgets with her blankets, sitting on her bed in the room she and Fig share. Her old house was larger, but she couldn’t stay there. Not after Bonku, not after everything. She’s fortunate that the rebels were prepared to take her in.
When she gave the Arca up to the Cornerstone, she hadn’t expected she would need to worry about finding a place to live. But she hadn’t crystallised, not right away. She’d spent weeks in suspense, Fig holding her hand through the worst times, both of them thinking it would happen any moment. In the end, the Caretaker had explained it to her: the Arca had kept her life suspended, and now she was at the start of a normal forgotling lifespan.
She’s not sure how to articulate this. “I don’t mean... between friends, or a father and daughter. I mean the type of love an alarm clock might have seen, or a bedside lamp.”
“Ah,” Fig says, beginning to smile. “Yes, I suppose you would be curious. You’ve heard stories, then?”
“I haven’t exactly had the opportunity to learn myself,” she says, a little irritated. Is he patronising her?
“I meant no offence,” he says, holding up his hands. “I’m afraid my own knowledge is limited; I was never privy to a bedroom in the Ether. But I’ve spoken to forgotlings who were. I can give you their names, if you’d like.”
Somehow she’d expected him to know more. But it’s a human thing, she supposes; why would he?
She shakes her head. “I don’t want to speak to other forgotlings about this.”
“No?” Fig asks. “Are you sure? They could certainly tell you more than I could relay second-hand.”
Anne closes her eyes for a moment. Presses her fingers to her temple.
“You know,” she says, opening her eyes, “for such an intelligent forgotling, you’re surprisingly dense.”
Fig looks at her for a moment.
“Oh,” he says.
It’s a struggle not to laugh at the expression on his face. “Did it really not occur to you that I might be asking...?”
“Should it have?” he asks. “I’m not a human. I’m not a... forgotling of specialised design. I know a forgotten vibrating device, she’s very lively and funny, she’d really have much more authority on-”
“I’d like it to be you, Fig,” Anne says. “If you’re okay with that. And, if you’re not, we don’t have to talk about this again.”
“I’m honoured that you’d ask, Anne,” Fig says, after a moment. “I’d like to help you. But I’m not sure I’m adequately equipped.”
“You have hands,” Anne says. “That’s enough, that’s all you need, I’ll show you.” She’s experimented a little on her own, enough to know that much. “We don’t need to limit ourselves to the functions we were designed for. You were the one who taught me that.”
“I suppose I do have my nose,” Fig says, thoughtfully.
“I think it’s probably better if we stick with the hands for now,” Anne says.
He leaps onto the bed with her, with that strange, agile grace of his, and having him suddenly so close makes her heart beat faster.
“You’re sure, Anne?” he asks.
She touches his wig; it still makes her laugh, that vanity of his, although she tries not to tease him too much about it. “I’m sure.”
He puts a gloved hand to her face, and she clasps his wrist, the wood cool against her fingers, a little roughened by wear. She no longer wears the Arca, but it almost seems like she can still feel the anima burning just under the surface.
-
It’s clumsy; he doesn’t really know what he’s doing, and neither does she, and at first she’s afraid of getting splinters. But his uncertainty quickly gives way to curiosity. He’s always seemed to find her so interesting.
“How does it feel?” he asks. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”
She shakes her head.
“No?” he asks. “It feels no, or no, I’m not hurting you?”
She manages a laugh. “I can’t really talk. I’m not - it’s hard to focus.”
Fig frowns. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“No, it’s good,” she says, firmly.
“You’re sure? You sounded like you were in pain a moment ago.”
“I wasn’t,” she says. “It’s just... a little overwhelming. Please don’t stop.”
She wants to touch him, to return this feeling to him somehow, so he’ll understand. But she doesn’t know how, she doesn’t know where. He’s not like her. There’s nothing but smooth wood.
“Is there any way I can-” She tries to reach out for him, and tails off in a gasp.
“Make me make those undignified noises?” Fig asks. “I wouldn’t imagine so.”
She kicks him. Gently. She’s more likely to hurt her foot than to cause Fig any pain, but she still doesn’t want to leave a dent. He starts to laugh.
“I’m touched you’d think of me, really,” he says, “but I’m not a human. I don’t experience my body in the same way that you do. I’m glad you seem to be enjoying yourself, but it’s not something I can know first-hand.”
“So I can’t make you feel this,” she says, staring up at the ceiling. “I wish I could.”
“I’m watching you feel,” he says, quietly. She could almost call it reverent. “It’s enough, Anne.”
-
She’s exhausted afterwards, feels like she’ll fall asleep the moment she closes her eyes. Fig seems to have as much energy as ever. It strikes her as unfair, particularly when he keeps asking questions about the experience that she doesn’t feel conscious enough to answer.
“Fig,” she says, “I’m sorry, but can we talk about this later?”
“Of course,” Fig says at once. “Another time. I can leave, if you’d like.”
Anne shakes her head, as well as she can manage when it’s resting on the pillow. “I’d like you to stay.”
She studies him vaguely, lying on her side. She’s left marks where she’s dug her fingernails into his arms, his shoulders, his sides: little light crescents against the wood.
“Oh,” Anne gasps, sitting up suddenly, “Fig, I’m so sorry, I-”
“What’s wrong?”
She pulls his arm towards her to look at the damage. “I forgot - these marks would just heal if they were on my skin, but they’ll stay here, won’t they?”
Fig laughs. “Oh, don’t worry about that. They may well buff out.”
He pauses for a moment.
“To tell you the truth,” he says, with a smile, “I’m rather hoping they won’t.”