#like. she was so fucking <> for mars for so long and they were moirails in all but name for like. years. till yarrow was like my god you two

[trollbreak]

Do u KNOW that peipre’s purr is soso quiet and hard to hear BUT it’s so intense and hard to miss if ur touching her btw. Just a fun little fact

[cotestuck]

16. Wrath

(Warnings for a wide range of implied abuse and some gore.)

(Non explicit)

A docile little pacifist...

Between legal permission to exist dependent on being the property of someone blue or coolerblooded and viscerally feeling anything she could possibly inflict on someone else, Risori had not been aware of there having been any option other than that.

"Obey who ever owns you," her Grandmother had said, "and you will have the chance to be allowed to live."

Trying so hard to be the best match for the quadrantmates who had accepted her...

Mutants don't get to have descendants.

That was the entire mission statement behind culls: To avoid having an abomination mar an otherwise healthy gene pool.

That is what Risori was.

An abomination.

A stain on the gene pool that should not have come to be.

Should not still be alive.

But despite that, she was very much alive.

And free.

With full quadrants!

In and of itself, that was more than most trolls on the legal spectrum ever ended up achieving.

There could be no doubt of being indescribably lucky, and nothing was more important than just

not.

fucking.

this.

up.

You'll never get another chance for anything this good.

Don't fuck it up.

She'd go to hell for them.

She'd been already.

She'd go back as often as they needed her to, so they wouldn't have to.

Don't fuck this up...

You'll never get another chance.

She'd done so much harm and let so much slide, trying to be the best quadrantmate she could...

Her first moirail loved that she was bright, agile, and quick to pick up patterns. It ensured that she'd survive the next violent collapse of the pirate clown's sanity, and the clown would not break her favorite toy.

She won't show mercy if you can't out maneuver her.

She won't know your face.

Would she even notice you were gone after she'd eaten you..?

.............................

Her second moirail, another clown who'd hatched blind, was her first pail.

He vascillated through every quadrant with her, unable to settle on one, and demanded they fill a practice pail every light that rolled to help make up his mind.

He'd been so sweetly reassuring about everything leading up to that first time...

He'd even laid out boundaries he would never cross.

She could disengage at any time, for any reason she needed to. There would be no punishment.

He would never force or coerce or beg her, and her relief at how tangibly genuine that promise had felt like the weight of the world off her shoulders.

In practice, though, there was no way to decline that did not immediately result in a depression spiral that crushed her like being ground to paste under a millstone.

"Practice" was all she was intended to have been.

Settling finally, officially, on Red got her culled by the disapproving Church.

"Brrootherr, please! I oonly did what my Masterr asked!"

"Y'ain't no Sister 'a mine, y'disgustin' liddle vermin!"

There was no way of knowing how long it took to drag herself from that Corpsepile to The Cloverleaf.

…...................

But her new Master's welcome and the safety in which only a Brothel would allow a wounded slave to heal before being put back to work were not even the dubiously lucky break she'd gambled everything on them being.

That has been his sect of the Church.

The tone in which he reminisced to her was... wistfully conversational.

It began with an offhanded remark, while she sat nestled inescapably in the twelve foot tall sabertoothed giant's lap, tending to him, that he'd sereously considered finishing the job when she appeared.

And from there, cascaded into a sermon that waxed poetic about the capricious whimsy of the Messiahs being so perfect that even an abomination could be an instrumental vessel for that holiest of work.

Cute as a li'l button, sweet as cotton candy, so perfectly obedient that words weren't even required to direct you.

And his sect had been Blessed for their righteous care of a Brother in need by The Messiahs choosing to use him as the crucible by which you'd been purified and the mold that shaped your use.

His sweet, Good Girl~

Don't fuck this up.

Obey, and you will have the chance to be allowed to live.

"I've doone everrything they've asked me..."

........

The most important person in Risori's life had become that by being the first to treat her like a person.

A legal bronze with heroic dreams of rebellion.

Every time they crossed paths, she had to talk him down from trying to find a way to steal her.

Sweet as the thought was, there was no way in hell a bronze would be allowed to survive it if he got caught.

Best case scenario, the obviously unowned mutant would be collared again immediately, and the ballzy bronze workbeast with her.

"Please, Del, just goo back hive. I can't loose my oonly frriend..."

........

Perhaps it was the transferal that made it hard to see herself as a free troll, when it finally happened.

A moving mountain of a Blueblooded Knight in literally shining armor had not liked the way Risori's Master's hired handlers dealt with her.

Being Cerulean made the cull legal, and shifted the mutant's status frroom property to booty.

His genuine intent to free her didn't matter as long as she remained on the Churches cull list.

A literal knight in shining armor saved her from captivity, freeing her to walk unaccompanied by the collar he was willing to give her as camouflage.

He acted as her faithful guard dog and made her his Princess

Like a fairy tale...

A fantasy.

Kindly and considerately as he kept her, it was impossible to get away from feeling like an object.

A doll on a pedestal.

"Please stoop looooking at me like a damsel in distrress."

Don't fuck this up, you ungrateful little bitch!

Mutants don't get quadrantmates.

..….......

A lifetime of servitude made service by choice a love language, and there was nothing she would not have done for her quadrantmates and theirs.

Her kismesis had introduced himself by binding her in place with her own weapon, shredding the only clothing she had, and pailing her stupid.

That had... kinda been on both of them, though, and there was no denying it had been fun~

So was the introduction to his moirail.

Under the snark and aggression that got under her skin like an infestation of mites, he was intensely affectionate and could be so thoughtful it took her breath away.

Finding out that he made most of his income on video of his partners... by stumbling across one of hers... had been a shock.

But everything else was so good...

And he was supposed to hate her, right?

That's how this was supposed to go...

Don't fuck this up.

Mutants don't get quadrantmates.

.................

Moirailegance was fundamentally terrifying.

Not the idea of supporting another troll that way, in and of itself. Being so strongly Empathic made that easy to do without even thinking about it.

But if any quadrant could be considered a sacred one that you didn't mess around in, it was that one!

When every serious conversation with someone you care about even slightly sounds and feels like a feelings jam, their actual moirails can be forgiven for feeling envious and hurt.

Risori had thought that having her own to go to would make her very first friend's feel less threatened.

Being set up with his matesprit felt perfect.

They clicked immediately, and talking to her was such a blissful relief.

It was strange to feel taken care of.

Stranger still not to be called upon to take care of her moirail...

With no real point of reference for how that was supposed to go, she could only assume that those needs were met through taking care of her.

It wasn't until one of the horrors had come out through her moirail that the realization dawned.

Both of their unpleasant emotions were being fed to them...

But maintaining that relationship put the most important people in her life more at ease than it had unsettled her.

Don't fuck this up.

.................................

Shit!

Shit, shitshitshitshit!

You can NOT just start shit with fucking highbloods!!!

A nearly seven foot tall highblooded cannibal...

With a particular taste for mutants...

So emotionally dead that he felt like a vague cottony hollowness until he was upset.

THAT... was now one of her quadrantmates...

Because refereeing fights between him and her fucking idiot who could not stop himself from picking physical fights was the only compromise that wouldn't get him culled either by that cannibal highblood, or by the law for culling him.

That he favored a fucking NAILGUN!!! would have been NICE to know! Ahead of time!

He's going to die if you fuck this up!

....................

Of fucking course... the cannibal's curious moirail is a torturer who collects mutants.

Aaand a fucking Bellum...

Had she not acquiesced to go see him, he would most likely have sought her out.

And found her swarm of warmblooded quadrantmates.

Injuring him would give his beloved moirail not just an excuse, but a damn good reason to tear through everyone important to her like wet hygienic paper.

Welp!

Never gonna see the light of stars again!

Better settle the fuck on in for the long haul...

They're all going to die if you fuck this up.

.......................

That hero complex of his is going to get them both culled.

Even with the consequences for his tiny Ashen spelled out to him like a wriggler by the Matron who had raised them both, he still couldn't stop himself from mouthing off to her and their C.O. immediately after conscription.

It only cost her fangs and claws.

Claws, in her case, was no euphemism. They bedded in bone that bore her weight, with blood vessels and nerve endings along most of their length.

Although taking those and arrogantly forgetting how sharp her chisel-flat incisors were had immediately cost those two handlers their throats in a pain-maddened frenzy.

It took agonizing weeks to grow them back, during which she had to be carried everywhere.

Every time he left her sight, some painful consequence would follow for some failure on his part to mask.

Not that she was necessarily any safer with him in sight either.

Being overtaken by rage made him forget that bullets existed during a live exercise.

Both of them were hit, but the much smaller troll had nearly bled out before they made it back to their cell.

But the Sopor withdrawals were what finally broke her.

His inability to sleep without it made rest for her impossible.

Without that respite to recover in, the rage she kept siphoning the edges off of to keep him clear panned started to coat her ribs like tar.

And her own began to stick to it.

Don't fuck this up.

Everyone dies if you fuck this up.

Obey, and you might have a chance to live.

"When have I everr doone anything elsse?!"

"Wherre the fuck hass it gootten me?!"

"Wherre the fuck hass it gootten them?!"

Maintaining the moral high ground had only ever been a luxurious illusion covering a sopor laced glue trap.

How much more freely could she move unstuck from it?

[activatingaggro]

there wasn’t any water in the wishing well

ICONIC CONETL

10.5 sweeps / 24 years old | somewhere in the continental core

2191 words

“Sweetling,” you say, “d’you figure I’m just bad at this?”

The bathroom smells like bleach and copper, sharp enough that it makes you want to gag. The cool of the tile against your forehead’s some help! It’s a distraction, at least, for a few moments at a time. And then you hear the scrape of metal on metal, and your gorge is back up, heavy as a softball in the back of your throat.

You’d known what you were getting into! But, oh, knowing your intolerances didn’t mean you’d realised it’d be quite this bad. If anyone’s going to be pawing at your ports, though, it might as well be Sipara.

She was the first to see them after they were installed. Why shouldn’t she be the first to see them now that they’re broken?

“Bad at what?” she says idly. When you glance back at her, she’s still digging through her toolkit, pulling things to the side and setting them on the sink. Her little sterilisation box is behind them, its mouth half-open and waiting with a patience that nearly feels palpable.

When you look at it, it winks at you.

“Don’t ask me. Oh, everything? Bonnie’s off in space. Vadadear is -” You drag your tongue across your lips. “- a bad idea,” you decide, slowly. “A terrible idea. Steamy’s - well, Bonnie’s off in space. D’you think she would be, if I were, y’know - better at this?”

“I think,” she drawls, “your face’s going white, nerd, so, like, stop watchin’ me set up?”

You turn back to the tile, closing your eyes as you rest your head against it. This isn’t Sipara or Hadean’s apartment, you don’t think. Maybe the little brownblood dawdling in the living rooms? The walls are all green and white, painted up in something that edges uncannily close to jade, and if you stare long enough, you think you could dig up the hex code. “So bossy, sweetling.”

“But fine! I’m looking away.”

“Good.” All you have to listen to is the clink of metal as she moves. A message from Cramel pops up in the corner of your vision, but it’s as scrambled as everything coming in from your wetware’s been, lately, so you blink the notification off. Oh, if it’s important, she’ll call. “And, umm - Bonnie’s your rail, yeah?”

“Mm~!” If you just focus on the conversation, this is all nearly tolerable. There’s something nostalgic about this, for all that you’d never let Sipara work on you back when you were still quadrants. Shepherd would’ve skinned the both of you if she’d so much as nicked any of her hardware, and the scars had still been fresh, back then.

No, it’s not the portwork that’s familiar. It’s just the feel of her, and the comfort of being near. Sipara’s practically a weight in any room she’s in, and it’s soothing enough to fall into her orbit. You’d mostly combed through her problems! She was a pupa. But that was a sweep ago, and she’d always wanted to try, at least, for yours. “Mm. She’s gone all the time. Policeradicator business, y’know,” you say, and you hear the twitch of her ear. “Which is fine, I’m not exactly a clingy sort of fellow, but - well - it’s just kind of wretched, isn’t it, when you don’t know when someone’ll be there, or when they’ll be gone?”

Your words are getting a little heavy. You roll your shoulders, letting your eyes drift up for all that no one can see it. “How did you manage with your dear fourprongs, sweetheart?”

She doesn’t reply. You give her twenty seconds, then thirty, but the silence is just dragging on, getting heavier with each passing moment, and then you give in. “Sipa?”

When you turn around to look at her, her shoulders are hunched in, and.. oh. She’s not looking at you. You step over, careful, and each step feels like weights are tied to your feet. (How do people ever manage without psionics?) “Sipa,” you croon, reaching out. Her hair’s covering her face, thick as a curtain. You have to tuck your hand under her face to tilt it up, one thumb on her chin, and -

- she’s crying, the sort of runny brown tears you haven’t seen since she was little. “Oh, no,” you say, alarmed. “Oh, no, sugarpop - Sipadear - what’re you doing?”

She snarls at you, baring every last one of those fangs, and just like that, you withdraw. There’s plenty of old scars on your wrists and arms from her snits as a pupa, rings of weals and chalk-white skin. You don’t need to add more. “Sipadear,” you scold, but that doesn’t bring down the threat display; she just whines instead like a broken car engine, with the sort of rasp that you don’t know where she got. “What’s wrong? C’mon, sweetling, you’ve got words. What’s the matter?”

She sniffs. You croon at her, voice pitched low and soft as a lusus. “Cinnamondumpling,” you half-sing, “c’mon, now, spit it out -”

She opens her mouth.

There’s a sharp knock at the door, loud as a gunshot, and just like that, Sipara wilts.

“Sips?” Hadean calls a moment later, and you’re going to strangle him.  “You okay in there?”

“I -”

Oh, for fuck’s sake, she actually sobs, before she clamps both hands over her mouth.

It’s a little too late. If it was anyone else, you’d be impressed by how quickly the door snatches open! Hadean’s certainly got a mind for dramatics; if he wasn’t as ruint as the rest of you, blood-dark shadows marring his skin and hollows in his cheeks, it’d be almost striking. His horns are up, his lip is curled. He looks like a hound stepping in front of his herd, after it went and got hit by a car.

It’s pathetic.

“We’re fine,” you drawl, stepping forward. There’s blood streaking down his face again, a sticky cherry river creeping down those cheekbones, and if Sipara wasn’t here, you’d lick your thumb and wipe it right off.

But she’s right here. It’s a shame, really! If she wasn’t, you can’t help but reflcet, this would be a nice enough opportunity to get rid of your little clone, once and for all.  (Even down to the initials - every time you’re over it, something reminds you of exactly how subpar her replacement for you was.) “We’re just talking, sweetheart. Y’might’ve heard of it~! It’s what folks do when they’re not cracking heads with strangers online, mm?”

“So don’t worry!” There’s the smaller brownblood peeking out from behind him, dull eyes wide as saucers in the dark. “You and your little sap-eyed potoobrain can just settle down.”

“We’re fine,” Sipara echoes behind you, scrubbing at her eyes with a palm. “I promiiise -”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure!”

He glances your way with a derisive flick of his eyes, and then he clicks his tongue, pulling the door shut.

You give it thirty seconds, then you tilt your head at her. “Sipara,” you coax, soft. “Sweetheart! What’s got you started, hmm?”

“.. Pheres’s dead.”

Oh.

You don’t think congratulations are what she’s after, exactly! Or, well, no. Of course it isn’t, for all that it’s warranted, and for all that he isn’t her quad any longer. But that’s alright. You can say something comforting, the sort of things she’s waiting to hear. You open up your mouth -

- and what comes out is a crackle of static instead, as the censoring device kicks in.

If you could, you’d scalp Raphae for this. But he’s over two hundred miles towards the sea, and you can’t focus on the swell of rage, not when Sipara’s right here. “Don’t cry over it,” you try instead, and this time, when you reach out, she doesn’t growl. Her hair’s wiry under your palm, the way it always was. Has been. And when’s the last time you had to comfort her when she cried? “C’mon, now, chin up, sweetling. What d’you think that’s gonna do?”

“It’s not fair.” She leans into your hand hard, eyes fluttering shut, and if her voice’s ragged, her expression’s just tight. “It’s not fair, Ico, it’s - he’s dead, and I couldn’t do anything - nobody even knew to do nothing - and - and Riccin’s hurt, and -”

“Everyone keeps leaving.” Her voice’s getting thick. Your throat’s tightening in response, a cold weight hanging in the back, somehow so different from the way you were gagging before. “Hads almost died, too, and - everyone keeps leaving, and so did you, and now you’re trying to pretend we’re normal.”

“I thought you were dead!”

You’d have preferred to stick with the gagging, you think.

Her eyes are shining red, now, that rheumy cusp-hue that you’ve never been sure what to think of. It’s trailing sticky tracks down her cheeks, for all of her swiping; there’s tears dripping off of her lashes and rolling down her nose, and it’s awful, because through it all, she’s watching you. And you don’t know what to do.

With Bonnie, you’d have papped her. Or shooshed her. A sweep ago, you might’ve done the same with Sipara, properity be damned! How many times is your fledging going to swing into the nest, singing her sad songs? These are the sort of things that her moirails should be dealing with, but..

Well. Sipara’s always had wretched taste in that sort of thing, hasn’t she?

So you ruffle her hair, running your fingers through the ironed-flat strands, letting your nails scrape at her scalp in the way you know she appreciates. “Oh, my poor little hellion. D’you want an apology?” Her eyes are so red. “Because I’m sorry I left you,” you say, warm and soft and carefully, meticulously free of your usual contempt. Sipara’s all shining light and brittle edges, right now. The wrong word could shatter her like a pane, you think, without even trying.

So you keep it docile. “I would’ve brought you with me, if I’d thought about it - but, gosh, I didn’t, and that was downright cruel. But I’m here now. And I’m not going to leave again, how’s that?” You free your hand from her hair, give her ear a little tug that sets all of the rings to jangling. “It’ll be you and me, from now on,” you half-croon, lusus-soft, but she’s just.. staring at you.

The last time you’d had to comfort her like this, she’d been round-cheeked and moptopped, nearly a whole sweep younger. Her face’s got angles, now. She looks older, and the shade of her pupa-self rests in the twist of her mouth, the cant of her ears. It’s painfully familiar. It’s distressingly new, too, and like a routine set to new music, you’re not sure exactly where to set your feet.

“Sipa -” you prompt, and then she flings down her tools in a clatter of metal, and throws herself at you.

Her face fits neatly into your collarbone. She’s just small enough that her curls tickle at the bottom of your chin, and her hands, when she wraps them tight around your back, are entirely too warm. She’s too warm, really, to be touching you; you can feel the heat of her sinking through your skin and burning each of your scars, wedging its way in like brands on your husk. You’ve gone stiff as a rod, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

You hate folks touching you like this, but it’s Sipara. You pat her head, awkwardly, twice, and you give her a moment before you start gently prying her off. She goes, grudgingly, ears drooping so low that they’re brushing her shoulders. “Don’t strangle me,” you tease her, once she’s finally loose. She looks like a half-drowned rat, poor pupa, so you sling an arm around her shoulder, haul her in as close as you can tolerate.

“It’s understandable you’re upset, sugarhorns.” There’s a fine line to dance here, between true sympathies and false, but you can manage it. Haven’t you spent sweeps learning how? “And I’m sorry for your loss. For everyone’s. But you’ve still got your little red-mite out there, don’t you?” A beat. “And you’ve got me.” You give her shoulder a tug, then you let go. Her hair’s all a mess from your tousling! Fingers through it straightens it out neat enough, at least. “So don’t fret -”

She exhales, deflating under you, and then she pulls back. “I don’t believe you,” she says, quiet. “I dunno how I can.” She’s not looking you in the eyes as she turns away, shoulders down, her ears still drooping, and.. oh. Oh, damn it all. “Sipa,” you try, coaxing, “hey -”

“We got work to do, dude.” Her voice’s getting steadier, now that she’s not looking at you, and somehow that hurts. It used to be that you could comfort her out of whatever ruts she was in, as easy as soothing your lusus.

But you suppose a lot changes, in half a sweep. “Go ahead and take off your shirt, and we’ll get started.”

[tiip2ydoodles]

Secret Santa

Happy holidays, @irakitminthy ! I’m your @homestuckss secret santa! Sorry to make you wait so long, I wanted to post it on Christmas day <3 I hope you enjoy!

The Peixes girl hated these stupid 12th Perigee’s Eve holiday masquerades.

She huffed, toying with the dress that her council had stuffed her into this time. Bad enough that she had to make an appearance instead of actually doing something important, but she had to wear this...frilly pink nonsense.

Black and neon, she’d told them. But no, it wasn’t “in the spirit” enough for them.

Fuck them.

Looking off into the distance she could see a few faces that she knew. It was impossible to miss Kurloz, her guard and sort-of moirail, standing tall in the crowd with his spiral horns making the chandelier tinkle and chime. He looked just as uncomfortable as she felt, dancing stiffly with a violetblood in an elegant evening down. There was a scowl on his face but the violetblood didn’t seem to notice or care.

There, in the corner, she spotted her Captain. Another violetblood, with two frightening scars marring an otherwise royal face. He, too, was scowling, but at least he knew how to socialize properly unlike her Highblood. He was currently chatting with a strange fellow, a shorter troll whose blood colour she couldn’t tell. The conversation seemed terse and for a moment, Meenah was curious.

Then someone passed in front of her view of them and she found other things to occupy herself with. For example, the over the top champagne bar that she hadn’t yet even touched.

Slowly, she made her way across the hall, mask over her face. It wasn’t hard to tell who she was, with her long horns and vibrant fuchsia eyes, but at least others had the sensibility to pretend like they didn’t know her as she moved through the crowd. Maybe they were just too preoccupied in their own enjoyment. Either way, she was grateful no one had come up to talk to her yet.

“You know, I think this party needs to liven up a bit.”

God fucking damn it.

Meenah nearly crushed her glass in her hand, eyes narrowing. She knew that voice. With a whirl she turned, seeing a pair of familiar bright red eyes and a cocky grin full of blunted teeth. Even under his red and black lace mask (real fucking secretive, this one), she’d know that face anywhere. So, too, did she recognize that he’d been the troll Ampora had been talking to.

“You’re not supposed to be here.” She hissed, glaring at him as if he’d done her person wrong. His smile only widened and she felt her gut twist.

“And yet, here I am,” He said, putting his hands out. “What, do I not get a hello? No happy holiday?” They were work-roughened and scarred, not smooth like many of the higher-class citizens here and good lord Meenah stop staring at his hands--

Looking at his face wasn’t much better. “I ought to call my guards on you,” Meenah said, pursing her lips in a sullen expression.

“But you’re not.” Her pout told him that was the last thing she had on her mind. His smile warmed slightly and he reached out a hand to take hers. Her cheeks flushed and she flinched, pulling away for a moment, but he was patient. Like a troll training a meowbeast he waited, hand extended, until she felt comfortable enough to take it of her own volition. Finally, with a sigh, she did so. “I suppose you want me to dance with you, listen to your tall tales again,” She said as he gathered her into his arms. He held her gently, leading her onto the dance floor and keeping an eye on her guards - just in case. “Sorry, Princess. No tall tales tonight. I’m short on time.” There was a strange sense that he meant it in more ways than one, his face sobering for a moment before he spoke again. “I just came by to give you a gift and say farewell.”

Farewell? Meenah’s brow furrowed in confusion. “You sound like you’re talkin about the end of the world or somethin,” She said, lowering her voice slightly so no one around could hear. For once, concern shone in her features. “What’s goin on?”

The smile on Kankri’s face turned almost sad. “Nothing you need to worry yourself with, my dear. It’s 12th Perigee, you deserve to enjoy it.”

Meenah sighed. Of course Kankri would treat her like she was made of porcelain. She handled the fate of the Empire on a daily basis and yet, he treated her like a fragile doll, both emotionally and physically. Sometimes she loved it, but other times, like now, it frustrated her.

“Just tell me what’s going on,” She said, an unusual hint of urgency and pleading to her voice now.

Kankri’s smile turned to a slight frown. Glancing up at her (thankfully) distracted guards, he took her hand, stepping away from their waltz and leading her through a side door. Meenah’s heels clicked along the marble floors of her palace halls, she herself staying wordless until he stopped walking. He pushed through a back door and into the snow-laden courtyard. The wilted rose maze stood tall above them and around them, and he made sure they were good and lost in its winding branches before he finally stopped walking.

“So?” Meenah said impatiently, panting somewhat from the rushing pace. She wasn’t used to that much exercise. “What’s going on?”

Perhaps it was paranoia that had him looking around one last time for interlopers, but Meenah couldn’t blame him. When he was sure they were alone, he sighed, taking off his cloak and wrapping it around her shoulders. She looked up at him, clutching the warm material to herself.

“Tuna’s started to hear my voice.” He said quietly. “It wakes him up at night. Screaming.”

Ice flooded Meenah’s veins. “But - if he’s hearin your voice--”

“Then I’m doomed.” He said, nodding slowly. “I know. I don’t know how much time I have left but I wanted to make the best of it and say goodbye.”

Everything in Meenah screamed No, this isn’t fair, it’s not right, I’ll stop it somehow but she knew there was nothing she could do. The moment his voice began echoing in the empath’s mind, Kankri’s fate was sealed. Stubborn, angry tears spilled hot through her mask and down her cheeks, crystallizing in the cold winter air.

She backhanded Kankri, as hard as she could. He went flying, landing in one of the bushes. Snow from its manicured hedge toppled over onto him and he groaned as he sat up, rubbing his cheek. Meenah was standing over him, ignoring the pink spilling down her cheeks, glaring at him with bared, sharklike teeth. She’d torn the mask off, letting her tears pour as they wished.

“Where have I seen this scene before?” He said, trying to make light of the situation. It didn’t work; Meenah only looked like she wanted to hit him more.

“Shut up,” She hissed. “How dare you. How dare you come here, sneak past MY guards, dance with me and then tell me you’re dying and that I’ll never see you again?! What gives you the right, you stupid little mutant?!”

Kankri flinched at her words but he knew they were only out of anger and pain. Slowly, he stood up. “I’m sorry.” He said gently. He stood over her, reaching one hand up to her cheek. Despite her steely resolve to be angry at him, she couldn’t help letting out a whimper. The Meenah he knew was clearly not as strong as the Empress she projected to the worlds. “I’m sorry. It was selfish of me. I just wanted to see you one last ti--” He didn’t get to finish his sentence. Meenah pulled him in by the lapels of his worn suit and kissed him, hard. His red eyes went wide for a moment before he relaxed, pulling her into his arms and enveloping her in his warmth. A quiet sob pushed its way out of her and against his lips.

“Don’t cry, love.” He murmured into the kiss. He could feel the cold wetness of her cheeks, feel her tremble under his touch. “Don’t cry. It’s okay. We both knew this was coming.”

“Fuck you.” Meenah didn’t seem to want to accept it, not this soon. She pressed herself harder against him, kissing him more desperately now and winding one hand through his hair, pulling it. He let out a shuddering breath and broke the kiss.

“Meenah,” He whispered, panting. She looked up at him, lashes stuck together from tears, cheeks flushed and lips kiss-bruised. He smiled at her sadly, reaching up and brushing her tears away.

“You’ve never looked more beautiful than you do now.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Meenah’s voice was weak and watery as she rested her head against his chest. He stroked her hair. Her fins shook, gold jewelry rattling. A low, soothing purr settled itself in his chest, trying to help ease her pain but it only made things worse. His was a heartbeat, a voice, a purr she’d never again get to hear.

“Why would I lie to you?” Kankri said quietly. Slowly, he guided her to a nearby bench, brushing off the snow and sitting her down. She laid her head on his chest.

“You said you’d always be here.” She said sullenly. He had no reply to that. It was one lie - the only lie he’d ever told her. They both had known it was a lie when he said it, however.

“I’m sorry.” He said softly.

“No you’re not.”

Kankri would have replied, but a rustling in the bushes made him look up and frown. Meenah’s fins twitched and she looked up as well, eyes narrowing. She heard Kurloz calling her name and froze.

“You need to leave,” She said, urgency in her tone again. Kankri’s face went deadly serious as he stood, helping Meenah to her feet as well. As the giant’s footsteps came closer, he pulled her in for a heated, breathtaking kiss that left her head spinning.

“I love you,” He whispered, and then he was gone, vanishing behind row upon row of maze walls. Meenah was alone when the Highblood found her, eyes still streaked with tears, a scowl on her face. He was her moirail, but at the moment, she’d never hated someone more for interrupting her last moments with a friend.

On the outside she was making a joke about being bored to tears at the ball and laughing airily, letting herself be guided back inside and taken in by the highblood’s promises of a warm bath and hot chocolate. Her anger dissolved into a weary sort of resignation and she nodded along to all of his offers despite wanting to just be alone.

As she looked out the windows of her palace, she saw a figure racing through the woods, unseen by anyone else, a flash of red at his breast. Meenah realized that she still had his cloak and she clutched it tightly to her own chest. There’d be no giving it back, that much she knew. The next time she saw him, his blood would be on her hands.

When Kurloz looked away, she wiped her eyes.