wintersday (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wintersday) wrote2022-01-23 08:02 pm
wintersday) wrote2022-01-23 08:02 pm
Entry tags:
- character: friendsim: marsti,
- character: homestuck: original character,
- fandom: homestuck: friendsim,
- fanfic,
- fanfic: length: under 1k,
- fanfic: rating: teen,
- fanfic: type: gen,
- trope: au - alternate setting,
- trope: au - canon divergence,
- trope: au - characters as gods,
- trope: character study,
- trope: fictional religion
Fic: Of Cleanliness And Godliness
Title: Of Clownliness and Godliness
Fandom: Friendsim
Major Characters/Pairings: Marsti & Original Character
Wordcount: 500
Rating: Teen
POV: Second person
Summary: A Mirthful believer meets a rustblood in a graffiti-covered alleyway. Everything old is new again.
Notes: Takes place in some kind of Alternia C AU with Friendsim trolls as gods.
You’re putting the finishing touches on your graffiti masterwork when you realize you’re not alone.
You’re not sure what calls your attention back behind you – rustling newspaper, a gust of wind, a chill – but you look. There’s a girl there, wearing sturdy slacks and a button-up red shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a pair of goggles hanging around her neck. She’s leaning against the wall at the mouth of the alley with her arms crossed, and she’s watching you.
“Sacred iconography?” she asks, arching one wry eyebrow. You’re used to being mocked for your faith, but never mind.
“It’s the mood that’s sacred, sister mine,” you say. “The creative impulse. Someone’s going to walk by here, expecting only things thrown away, and what they find instead is these rainbow miracles.”
The eyebrow climbs a little higher, but the girl says nothing, just closes the distance without warning. You freeze in place, though she seems too plain to be dangerous. There’s something about her eyes. They look normal at first glance, deep and vibrant burgundy, but the pupils seem to swallow light. There could be whole worlds in there, and you’d never know it. You’re transfixed. She’s the one who looks away, bending to pick up a can of aerosol pigment from the pile at your side and scan the ingredients.
“Synthetic,” she says. “Your rainbow miracles aren’t quite the ones I remember.”
You’re not sure what she’s going on about. Do they make all-natural, organic aerosol pigment? Are you about to be accused of selling out? You hardly care, but there’s an unreadable look in those eyes, and a silence that seems to pull the words out of you.
“Miracles are miracles,” you say. “Never mattered to me what they’re painted in. But you’re not one of the Mirthful, are you?”
“Can’t say that I am.”
“Ever thought about joining up?”
She gives you a flat look. “I’m no good at juggling.”
“You could learn.”
“I’m no good at believing, either,” she says, and then, unexpectedly, something in her face softens. “Which means that when something surprises me, it’s usually for the better.”
She looks down at the pigment she’s still holding, then flips the cap open and sprays a design beside your work of art in bright rust red: a slightly clumsy string of letters that you recognize as a name. The Void’s not your faith, so you don’t recognize which name until a moment after she hands you back the can. Her fronds brush yours, and then she’s walking away, and you’re left looking at the mark she made on crumbling brick beside your neon loops and whorls. Marsti Houtek. Not the worst Voidgod a sister could run into in a dark alley, or in the process of breaking what you might technically call a law.
No god is safe. Every god is capricious. You trace the letters of the holy name and shiver, remembering the startling warmth of her touch. You think you might have just been blessed.
Fandom: Friendsim
Major Characters/Pairings: Marsti & Original Character
Wordcount: 500
Rating: Teen
POV: Second person
Summary: A Mirthful believer meets a rustblood in a graffiti-covered alleyway. Everything old is new again.
Notes: Takes place in some kind of Alternia C AU with Friendsim trolls as gods.
You’re putting the finishing touches on your graffiti masterwork when you realize you’re not alone.
You’re not sure what calls your attention back behind you – rustling newspaper, a gust of wind, a chill – but you look. There’s a girl there, wearing sturdy slacks and a button-up red shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a pair of goggles hanging around her neck. She’s leaning against the wall at the mouth of the alley with her arms crossed, and she’s watching you.
“Sacred iconography?” she asks, arching one wry eyebrow. You’re used to being mocked for your faith, but never mind.
“It’s the mood that’s sacred, sister mine,” you say. “The creative impulse. Someone’s going to walk by here, expecting only things thrown away, and what they find instead is these rainbow miracles.”
The eyebrow climbs a little higher, but the girl says nothing, just closes the distance without warning. You freeze in place, though she seems too plain to be dangerous. There’s something about her eyes. They look normal at first glance, deep and vibrant burgundy, but the pupils seem to swallow light. There could be whole worlds in there, and you’d never know it. You’re transfixed. She’s the one who looks away, bending to pick up a can of aerosol pigment from the pile at your side and scan the ingredients.
“Synthetic,” she says. “Your rainbow miracles aren’t quite the ones I remember.”
You’re not sure what she’s going on about. Do they make all-natural, organic aerosol pigment? Are you about to be accused of selling out? You hardly care, but there’s an unreadable look in those eyes, and a silence that seems to pull the words out of you.
“Miracles are miracles,” you say. “Never mattered to me what they’re painted in. But you’re not one of the Mirthful, are you?”
“Can’t say that I am.”
“Ever thought about joining up?”
She gives you a flat look. “I’m no good at juggling.”
“You could learn.”
“I’m no good at believing, either,” she says, and then, unexpectedly, something in her face softens. “Which means that when something surprises me, it’s usually for the better.”
She looks down at the pigment she’s still holding, then flips the cap open and sprays a design beside your work of art in bright rust red: a slightly clumsy string of letters that you recognize as a name. The Void’s not your faith, so you don’t recognize which name until a moment after she hands you back the can. Her fronds brush yours, and then she’s walking away, and you’re left looking at the mark she made on crumbling brick beside your neon loops and whorls. Marsti Houtek. Not the worst Voidgod a sister could run into in a dark alley, or in the process of breaking what you might technically call a law.
No god is safe. Every god is capricious. You trace the letters of the holy name and shiver, remembering the startling warmth of her touch. You think you might have just been blessed.