wintersday (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wintersday) wrote2021-09-26 08:14 pm
wintersday) wrote2021-09-26 08:14 pm
Fic: Trouble Is Just Like Love
Title: Trouble Is Just Like Love
Fandom: Friendsim
Major Characters/Pairings: Folykl/Marsti
Wordcount: 500
Rating: Teen
POV: Second person
Summary: Marsti doesn’t care about sentiment, but some things still matter. (Angry pining while cleaning a grody bathroom. As one does.)
You never put much thought into pity or hate. Wild flights of romantic fancy were something for other people to worry about, ones with more glamorous lives. Movie stars, maybe. You’re not going to assume they’ve got it easier, or that they don’t have their own bullshit to deal with. As for you, the drones would be a problem eventually, but you’d figure something out when the time came, or you wouldn’t. One way or the other, it would be unpleasant and over quickly.
This isn’t like that.
This is realizing you haven’t made progress on this fucking toxic waste hazard of a load gaper in the past five minutes because you’re thinking about a girl – not like the pretty ones who caught your eye in passing, before you brushed them out of your mind like cobwebs, but vicious and bitter, mean in a way that you can’t make yourself hate. You’re thinking about scabbed-over skin and empty eyes, the kind of absence that kills, old filth wrapped like armor around older pain. There’s nothing pretty about it. You spent so long not caring, and now you’re on your knees in a public ablutionblock with a scrub brush in your frond, breathing in the smell of chemicals and strangers’ shit, and you’re filled up again with that same old useless anger at something misaligned in the order of the universe. You always do what you can. The job in front of you. It’s never enough, but –
You’re thinking you’ve got a shower to spare, and it wouldn’t be a big deal to let someone else inside your hive long enough to use it.
You scrub the bowl until your arm aches, putting all your strength into it, because right now there’s nothing else you can do. Your bloodpusher beats too fast. Your thorax is tight, and an uninvited pragmatism reminds you that a girl with a cull-on-sight mutation wouldn’t exactly solve your drone problem. Fuck your drone problem. You don’t care about that any more than you did before. You’re too busy wondering what you’ll see if she ever lets you get down beneath the dirt – the naked carapace beneath your hands, the soft and open places, the hollow core of an endurance that has nothing to do with power.
Would she let you scrub the grease from her hair and the sweat from her body, though it would mean defenses washed away? Or only let you kneel, as you’re kneeling now, to run your fingertips up her thighs, holding contact long enough to share what life you can give her? You don’t know. You’re not sure it would make a difference if she did. But you remember the feeling of her wrist in your frond, too thin beneath loose cloth, and the easing of tension around the corners of her mouth when you told a joke and shocked her into a smile.
It would be a big deal. It scares you. You never want to stop feeling like this.
Fandom: Friendsim
Major Characters/Pairings: Folykl/Marsti
Wordcount: 500
Rating: Teen
POV: Second person
Summary: Marsti doesn’t care about sentiment, but some things still matter. (Angry pining while cleaning a grody bathroom. As one does.)
You never put much thought into pity or hate. Wild flights of romantic fancy were something for other people to worry about, ones with more glamorous lives. Movie stars, maybe. You’re not going to assume they’ve got it easier, or that they don’t have their own bullshit to deal with. As for you, the drones would be a problem eventually, but you’d figure something out when the time came, or you wouldn’t. One way or the other, it would be unpleasant and over quickly.
This isn’t like that.
This is realizing you haven’t made progress on this fucking toxic waste hazard of a load gaper in the past five minutes because you’re thinking about a girl – not like the pretty ones who caught your eye in passing, before you brushed them out of your mind like cobwebs, but vicious and bitter, mean in a way that you can’t make yourself hate. You’re thinking about scabbed-over skin and empty eyes, the kind of absence that kills, old filth wrapped like armor around older pain. There’s nothing pretty about it. You spent so long not caring, and now you’re on your knees in a public ablutionblock with a scrub brush in your frond, breathing in the smell of chemicals and strangers’ shit, and you’re filled up again with that same old useless anger at something misaligned in the order of the universe. You always do what you can. The job in front of you. It’s never enough, but –
You’re thinking you’ve got a shower to spare, and it wouldn’t be a big deal to let someone else inside your hive long enough to use it.
You scrub the bowl until your arm aches, putting all your strength into it, because right now there’s nothing else you can do. Your bloodpusher beats too fast. Your thorax is tight, and an uninvited pragmatism reminds you that a girl with a cull-on-sight mutation wouldn’t exactly solve your drone problem. Fuck your drone problem. You don’t care about that any more than you did before. You’re too busy wondering what you’ll see if she ever lets you get down beneath the dirt – the naked carapace beneath your hands, the soft and open places, the hollow core of an endurance that has nothing to do with power.
Would she let you scrub the grease from her hair and the sweat from her body, though it would mean defenses washed away? Or only let you kneel, as you’re kneeling now, to run your fingertips up her thighs, holding contact long enough to share what life you can give her? You don’t know. You’re not sure it would make a difference if she did. But you remember the feeling of her wrist in your frond, too thin beneath loose cloth, and the easing of tension around the corners of her mouth when you told a joke and shocked her into a smile.
It would be a big deal. It scares you. You never want to stop feeling like this.