wintersday (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wintersday) wrote2020-09-18 09:38 pm
wintersday) wrote2020-09-18 09:38 pm
Entry tags:
- character: friendsim: folykl,
- character: friendsim: marsti,
- fandom: homestuck: friendsim,
- fanfic,
- fanfic: length: 1-5k,
- fanfic: rating: teen,
- fanfic: type: f/f,
- pairing: friendsim: folykl/marsti,
- trope: character study,
- trope: established relationship,
- trope: fictional religion,
- trope: worldbuilding
Fic: Offerings
Title: Offerings
Fandom: Friendsim
Major Characters/Pairings: Folykl/Marsti
Wordcount: 1,255
Rating: Teen
POV: Second Person
Summary: Marsti isn’t a believer, but when survival is precarious and death is a constant, ritual is still a comfort. (Headcanon: the Handmaid is a rustblood religious figure)
Notes: Minor character death
The would-be legislacerator finds you on your way back from a night’s work uptown, walking slow and tired with your scourdray rattling along in front of you and Folykl at your side. You made it out of the dangerous part of town several streets back, before she slouched over to join you, and you’re not expecting trouble. The hives here are poor even by rustblood standards, damaged portions shored up by cinderblock and corrugated metal, and drones seldom even pass overhead. But a shadow falls across your path, just as you’re starting to let your guard down, and you look up to see a sleek, suited figure bearing a spike-tipped cane and a teal sign.
“You know that’s illegal, right?” he says mildly, and you bite back a curse. Seems like this guy’s made it his business to go where drones don’t and do their work for them, like he thinks it’ll get him a commendation or something. If you thought it would do any good, you’d tell him nobody above him actually cares.
“Cleaning? That’s news to me,” you say, even though there’s not much point in playing stupid. He’s already looking past you to where Folykl leans too casually against your scourdray, a half-empty chip bag clutched in one hand. Too late for her to hide, and not a chance she’ll have the energy for running.
“Course not,” he says. “But you’ve got your way of keeping the streets clean, and I’ve got mine. Let’s not interfere with each other.”
You wonder if he practiced than line in front of a mirror, action hero intonation and all. Probably. He’s not as old or as tough as he’s trying to look, and when you think about it that way, you feel cold and calm, except for the sweat that suddenly stands out on your palms and under your arms. He’ll let you go if you step aside, and he knows you know it. He might even let you go anyway.
Fuck it. He chose this. You didn’t. You‘re not going to feel sorry for him. You step back, holding your scrub pole up in a flimsy barrier.
“Wait,” you say. “Please wait. I know the policy, but – ”
That earns you an professionally-neutral smile and a slow advance. You give him a step or two, keeping up the tremulous invitation to come closer. He does, moving with a predator’s confidence, his arms loose and open at his sides. He’s probably good with that cane. Doesn’t matter. You’ve still got reach, and surprise. You drive the end of your scrub pole into his stomach, then draw back, swing low, and sweep his strut pods out from under him. Momentum overwhelms strength, and he goes down hard, the back of his skull cracking against the surface of the street.
If you were alone, that would buy you time to run, and you’d make good enough use of it to survive. But you’re not alone, and he doesn’t know that the little blind cullbait girl whose existence he’d objected to isn’t harmless. She darts forward as he hits the ground, wrapping her legs around his torso and grabbing at his face, clinging as he starts to rise. He lifts his arms to tear her off, and you hit him again, battering him with the scrub pole until your shoulders are aching. It’s distraction enough for her to keep her grip, and she digs her claws into the skin around his eyes and hangs on until it’s over. His legs buckle and he falls, no life left in him.
And that’s that, you think, suddenly shaking. He’s dead. You did your part in killing him.
Folykl’s hair hangs loose over her face as she stands, scowling at the ground, her shoulders hunched inward. She rubs her hands against her dirty sweatpants like she’s trying to brush off something unpleasant, and you get an arm around her thin shoulders and pull her close against you. Your bloodpusher is hammering from a threat not yet forgotten, and you hope she doesn’t think the fear you’ve got written in your shallow breath and sweaty hands is fear of her.
“It was him or us,” you say, which is both true and useless. “You OK?”
“Better than I was,” she says, with a shudder so faint you almost don’t feel it. “Fucker should have watched more horror movies.”
You kind of wish she wasn’t right about that, but there’s not much you can do to change it, so you bury a hand in her hair and tug her head back, bend down to kiss her and hope that gets the message across. Her lips are dry and chapped, and you taste salt and chip grease, and hear the sound she makes low in her chest when you curl a palm around her ass and squeeze, just before you let her go.
With that done, you ought to be getting out of here, back to somewhere safe; your hive is waiting, and so’s her moirail – but there’s one thing you have to do first.
You don’t have to search to find the pouch, papers and lighter in your apron pockets; they come easy to your hands, and with the familiarity of ritual, you roll a joint, light it up and let it burn. The night fills with the earthy scent of weed, and Folykl gives you an incredulous glance as she sniffs the air.
“You smoke?”
“No. This is....” You laugh reflexively, embarrassed by your own superstition. “It’s an offering to someone who does. Supposedly. Maybe. If she ever existed at all.”
You’re not sure you do believe in the Handmaid, or in her other, sharper-fanged face. You know that if she’s real, she doesn’t care about you or yours, any more than death itself does. But death is still its own promise, and every so often it helps to remember – or imagine – that there’s someone out there whose entire purpose is to break the universe and all its hierarchies down. And real or not, there are times and places to show respect.
Another one for you, you think, watching the smoke rise into the night. Folykl leans heavily against you, relaxing second by second, breathing in the traces of smoke like that alone is enough to ground her. You’re sure she’d understand, if you told her, but it’s personal and she doesn’t pry.
It’s good to have her here with you anyway, helping keep your vigil over what you’ve done together and what was almost done to you. There’s a different kind of calm than the jagged clarity of survival instinct, and as the seconds pass, you feel the uneven shift from one to the other. Your breath evens out. Your hands stop shaking. One way or another, the Demoness takes her due. You’re not sure that should be as comforting as it is.
And just like that, it’s done. In your aching muscles and the tiredness that follows fear, you feel the weight of an offering accepted, a job done not willingly but thoroughly. It’s enough, and you don’t need to linger here. You flick the joint onto the asphalt beside the dead troll, and let both lie where they’ve fallen. It bothers you more than the corpse does, just leaving your trash in the street – but that’s part of the offering, that concession to disorder. It smolders like a failing star as you walk away, brief and bright. Someone will be along to sweep it up eventually, just like everything else.
Fandom: Friendsim
Major Characters/Pairings: Folykl/Marsti
Wordcount: 1,255
Rating: Teen
POV: Second Person
Summary: Marsti isn’t a believer, but when survival is precarious and death is a constant, ritual is still a comfort. (Headcanon: the Handmaid is a rustblood religious figure)
Notes: Minor character death
The would-be legislacerator finds you on your way back from a night’s work uptown, walking slow and tired with your scourdray rattling along in front of you and Folykl at your side. You made it out of the dangerous part of town several streets back, before she slouched over to join you, and you’re not expecting trouble. The hives here are poor even by rustblood standards, damaged portions shored up by cinderblock and corrugated metal, and drones seldom even pass overhead. But a shadow falls across your path, just as you’re starting to let your guard down, and you look up to see a sleek, suited figure bearing a spike-tipped cane and a teal sign.
“You know that’s illegal, right?” he says mildly, and you bite back a curse. Seems like this guy’s made it his business to go where drones don’t and do their work for them, like he thinks it’ll get him a commendation or something. If you thought it would do any good, you’d tell him nobody above him actually cares.
“Cleaning? That’s news to me,” you say, even though there’s not much point in playing stupid. He’s already looking past you to where Folykl leans too casually against your scourdray, a half-empty chip bag clutched in one hand. Too late for her to hide, and not a chance she’ll have the energy for running.
“Course not,” he says. “But you’ve got your way of keeping the streets clean, and I’ve got mine. Let’s not interfere with each other.”
You wonder if he practiced than line in front of a mirror, action hero intonation and all. Probably. He’s not as old or as tough as he’s trying to look, and when you think about it that way, you feel cold and calm, except for the sweat that suddenly stands out on your palms and under your arms. He’ll let you go if you step aside, and he knows you know it. He might even let you go anyway.
Fuck it. He chose this. You didn’t. You‘re not going to feel sorry for him. You step back, holding your scrub pole up in a flimsy barrier.
“Wait,” you say. “Please wait. I know the policy, but – ”
That earns you an professionally-neutral smile and a slow advance. You give him a step or two, keeping up the tremulous invitation to come closer. He does, moving with a predator’s confidence, his arms loose and open at his sides. He’s probably good with that cane. Doesn’t matter. You’ve still got reach, and surprise. You drive the end of your scrub pole into his stomach, then draw back, swing low, and sweep his strut pods out from under him. Momentum overwhelms strength, and he goes down hard, the back of his skull cracking against the surface of the street.
If you were alone, that would buy you time to run, and you’d make good enough use of it to survive. But you’re not alone, and he doesn’t know that the little blind cullbait girl whose existence he’d objected to isn’t harmless. She darts forward as he hits the ground, wrapping her legs around his torso and grabbing at his face, clinging as he starts to rise. He lifts his arms to tear her off, and you hit him again, battering him with the scrub pole until your shoulders are aching. It’s distraction enough for her to keep her grip, and she digs her claws into the skin around his eyes and hangs on until it’s over. His legs buckle and he falls, no life left in him.
And that’s that, you think, suddenly shaking. He’s dead. You did your part in killing him.
Folykl’s hair hangs loose over her face as she stands, scowling at the ground, her shoulders hunched inward. She rubs her hands against her dirty sweatpants like she’s trying to brush off something unpleasant, and you get an arm around her thin shoulders and pull her close against you. Your bloodpusher is hammering from a threat not yet forgotten, and you hope she doesn’t think the fear you’ve got written in your shallow breath and sweaty hands is fear of her.
“It was him or us,” you say, which is both true and useless. “You OK?”
“Better than I was,” she says, with a shudder so faint you almost don’t feel it. “Fucker should have watched more horror movies.”
You kind of wish she wasn’t right about that, but there’s not much you can do to change it, so you bury a hand in her hair and tug her head back, bend down to kiss her and hope that gets the message across. Her lips are dry and chapped, and you taste salt and chip grease, and hear the sound she makes low in her chest when you curl a palm around her ass and squeeze, just before you let her go.
With that done, you ought to be getting out of here, back to somewhere safe; your hive is waiting, and so’s her moirail – but there’s one thing you have to do first.
You don’t have to search to find the pouch, papers and lighter in your apron pockets; they come easy to your hands, and with the familiarity of ritual, you roll a joint, light it up and let it burn. The night fills with the earthy scent of weed, and Folykl gives you an incredulous glance as she sniffs the air.
“You smoke?”
“No. This is....” You laugh reflexively, embarrassed by your own superstition. “It’s an offering to someone who does. Supposedly. Maybe. If she ever existed at all.”
You’re not sure you do believe in the Handmaid, or in her other, sharper-fanged face. You know that if she’s real, she doesn’t care about you or yours, any more than death itself does. But death is still its own promise, and every so often it helps to remember – or imagine – that there’s someone out there whose entire purpose is to break the universe and all its hierarchies down. And real or not, there are times and places to show respect.
Another one for you, you think, watching the smoke rise into the night. Folykl leans heavily against you, relaxing second by second, breathing in the traces of smoke like that alone is enough to ground her. You’re sure she’d understand, if you told her, but it’s personal and she doesn’t pry.
It’s good to have her here with you anyway, helping keep your vigil over what you’ve done together and what was almost done to you. There’s a different kind of calm than the jagged clarity of survival instinct, and as the seconds pass, you feel the uneven shift from one to the other. Your breath evens out. Your hands stop shaking. One way or another, the Demoness takes her due. You’re not sure that should be as comforting as it is.
And just like that, it’s done. In your aching muscles and the tiredness that follows fear, you feel the weight of an offering accepted, a job done not willingly but thoroughly. It’s enough, and you don’t need to linger here. You flick the joint onto the asphalt beside the dead troll, and let both lie where they’ve fallen. It bothers you more than the corpse does, just leaving your trash in the street – but that’s part of the offering, that concession to disorder. It smolders like a failing star as you walk away, brief and bright. Someone will be along to sweep it up eventually, just like everything else.