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You watch him touch your man.
Okay, he's not literally your man—you don't own him in any legal sense, nor would you want to. Lowblood enslavement is so last Empress. But Kurloz has his shady hands all up in Mituna's business, twining his arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug while your matesprit just stands there and takes it, clueless to the all-around red flag that is his moirail.
Kurloz is a creepy motherfucker. And the only person who can’t see that is Mituna.
You feel semi-guilty because Kurloz is good for him; he gets Mituna up at night, makes sure he washes, smiles through the bipolar episodes. He does it all without complaint. You should like him, be grateful to him, even. But something just feels off.
There's something wrong with him. It's rotten, something shadowed waiting under his skin. The others brush off your concerns. Sure, he's weird and morbid, but he's harmless, see, look at him waving! It drives you crazy. He's hiding in plain sight. Somehow, they can't see the warnings right in front of their eyes.
He smiles at you over Mituna’s shoulder and whispers something in his ear. You can see the poison on his tongue, patiently waiting to fall.
You hate him. The inky feeling corrodes you, coating your insides like tar, and twists your mouth into a grimace. All you can think of is hurting him, exposing him, making him into something better. He has the potential for kindness; you’ve seen it in his diligent care of Mituna. There is worth in him. Good traits you lack and ones that Mituna needs in a quadrant, like patience and observance. You can bring those aspects out with enough pitch taunting, you can fix him. Though a part of you knows he’s too late to be saved.
It doesn’t mean you won’t try.
You've seen him weak with blood loss and lust. You can't stop yourself from wanting to see it again. There's an ever lingering need to show him how much better you are, that you would never stoop to his level, and that you are so much stronger than him—
Porrim taps you on the shoulder and you remember that you're mid-conversation about her latest knitting project. You shrug off her concerns and nod along as she tries to restart the discussion, but you can't focus, not while Kurloz stares at you with his knowing eyes and smug mouth. You can't do anything but watch him as he watches you.
"Look, Popo, I'm so totally sorry, but I gotta go. Catch you later, kay?"
"Wait—"
It's rude and you'll apologise later, but you walk away, not letting her finish her sentence. Not looking back to see if he follows. You know the answer.
He’s there, watching you. His eyes burn the back of your neck. You can feel him like the breeze against your skin, lurking like the dark corners in an alleyway. With pretend nonchalance, you lead him somewhere quiet and alone. Through the gate and into your land, a place where the teal and purple stains will be found by no one but yourself.
When you're deep into the lilac-laden forest, you stop at random. Without warning, you equip your sword, twist behind you, and throw it at him. A cursory effort to surprise him, already knowing it’s in vain. It buries into a tree trunk with satisfactory ease even if it doesn’t hit the mark you’d hoped. As if it would’ve. He knows you too well and anticipates your movements, just as you do his. You’re long past the point of underestimating each other.
"Come on out, dude. Let’s skip the games, huh?”
“Thought you was all about games, sister.” His voice soothes through the leaves, somehow all around you at once. “What with all your motherfucking playing. All those secret lil’ rendezvous' with Vantas, the ones you got yourself believing are hush-motherfucking-hush. Don’t think Tuna would find those games any fucking fun.”
You swear under your breath before you can stifle the reaction. It sounds bad when he puts it like that. Which is exactly how he’d say it to Mituna if you aren’t careful. He’s been looking for a way to get you out of the picture and now he’s got ammunition loaded and ready to shoot, sitting on tenterhooks ready to slander you. Ugh, you knew he was tailing you—the guy has creepy stalker vibes all over him—and you’re almost more upset with yourself for not being vigilant enough.
Thing is, your meetings with Kankri are platonic. Mostly. On your end. Sometimes you get the sense that he feels differently. The way he talks to you, about you, those little compliments he scatters in. If you’re being honest… the attention is nice. Mituna is so sweet, the sweetest babe ever, and you know he loves you. He just can’t tell you like he used to.
Is it so wrong to want affection? For it to be about you for five minutes? You just get so tired sometimes. It’s Mituna this, Mituna that, Mituna don’t put that in your mouth, Mituna stop yelling, Mituna keep your clothes on, Mituna, Mituna, Mituna.
You love him, you really do, but you’re at the end of your rope.
And then you feel guilty for even thinking like that because it’s not his fault, and he is genuinely kind and funny and loving, when he’s not clawing at himself or pissing his pants, and you are red as roses for him regardless of everything. You’re a bad matesprit to let these thoughts take up space in your mind, to not just be grateful that he’s alive. He risked his life for you and this is how you repay him? With feelings of resentment and bitterness?
Porrim, in your unofficial piles, has tried to talk it out with you, but you shut her down the second she goes there. Talking about it makes it real. It risks Mituna finding out. You won’t let that happen—Mituna deserves a happy matesprit who loves him unconditionally, one that has the patience and energy to love him even in his worst moments. You failed to protect him once, you won’t fail again.
If Kurloz has been watching you, he knows that. At least, he knows you haven’t done anything with Kankri. That doesn’t make you feel any better, though; you don’t doubt the ways he could twist what he’s seen.
“What, I need permission to talk to someone? From a guy who wears his underwear over his pants? Guess I missed that memo.”
“Ain’t just talking, though, is it?” A hand curls around your bicep and you tense. It strokes down your arm, imitating the awkward pet Kankri gave you earlier. “Nah. Mighty friendly for a couple of choice bros.”
His voice is in your ear, slow and sickly. You want to pull away so badly, but you won’t give him the satisfaction.
“You’re literally making shit up. He touched my arm. Big deal. Can't a rad girl get her talk on with a friend without some creep blowing it way out of proportion? Say whatever you want; I’ll call your bluff.”
“But, sis, sometimes you don’t gotta say nothing.” His tone warps into one of intense pity and you feel nauseous to have it aimed at you. “I wasn’t wanting to say nothing, Tuna, but I saw her"—his voice breaks with false emotion—"shit, man, I’m so fucking sorry.”
“And this? What if I bring up whatever this is?” You wave your hands around you. “Sneaking around, meeting in private, keeping it from him. You’re no better than me, Makara.”
He sidles to your front, taking his time, keeping his back to you. Doesn’t even turn when you unequip a spare blade. It’s a power play—suggesting you’re not a threat all the while taunting you to prove him wrong.
“I ain’t worried about it none.”
“Sure about that? Wouldn’t it break his heart to find out how long you’ve been hiding it? I mean, you’re his moirail! If you can’t trust your diamond, who can you trust?”
It makes him pause and you celebrate the tiny victory.
“You know there’s nothing between me and Kankri,” you continue. “And if there were—if there ever is, I want you to tell Mituna.”
Kurloz turns slowly, frowning. It isn’t often you catch him off guard.
“You jesting?” He steps closer, expression dark with suspicion, and you remember how scary this guy can be. “Having a motherfucking lark with me? ‘Cuz as much as I got a devotion to clowning, your jokes ain’t funny.”
“No, I’m serious. I won’t hurt him like that, even if it means having your freaky ass keep me in line.” You close the gap between you, eyes level with his jaw, looking up at his painted face. “I know you wanna keep him safe—it’s like the only thing we agree on—but making up some story about me and Kankri would only upset him. And then I’d have to come clean about you and me… it could get messy.”
You can feel the hatred coming off him in waves. The anger that he knows you’re right, that it’s a stalemate again.
He doesn’t want Mituna, or anyone, to know he has feelings this dark. For a reason you can’t figure out, he needs to hide the violence he yearns for. He keeps up his act of a goofy, odd-but-innocuous apostle, someone who couldn’t hurt a fly, a person with the purest red quads with two of the sweetest trolls around. It’s so carefully constructed you can’t believe you’re the only one who doubts it.
“And the loudmouth? Ain’t nice leading him on like that. If you don’t try at getting a shade more careful, it might situate some… dishonourable thoughts up in that motherfucking skull of his.”
Leading him on? That’s not fair. He hasn’t heard your conversations with Kankri. It’s not like you’re stringing him along for a bit of attention—you’re not! You just talk to him. He’s lonely and needs someone to ramble to and, yeah, you talk a bit too, even if you don’t always understand what he’s so angry at. There’s no making passes or chatting up. Like, seriously, you barely even listen to the guy. If Kankri interprets your glazed eyes as flirting, then that’s on him.
“Don’t pretend to care, dude. It doesn’t suit you.”
Kurloz just shrugs, knowing you’re onto him, but not wanting to admit it.
It’s another deadlock, neither of you willing to concede or make the next move.
"I guess my lookstubs saw wrong then. Fine," he says, deadly calm. "Keep up your shindigs with the squealer. But know this—the Messiahs see all, and I, as their votary, do too." And then he waves his hand like he's wafting away the subject and the dark tension falls away. "Don't suppose you bid me here just to talk pretty nonsense now, did you?"
You didn't. You actually try to spend as little of your meetings talking as possible. That hasn't changed and you doubt it ever will, unless you slip ass backwards into crazy town and start enjoying his god-fearing, the end is nigh speeches. Between him and Mituna, they've got the whole 'inevitable death and destruction’ thing covered.
"Nope. I actually had something a lot more fun in mind."
He's right, why waste any more time? You throw your blade to the side, knowing you have more catchalogued if it comes to it, and punch him straight in the stomach before he has a chance to prepare. You aim at the unprotected soft spot beneath his ribs, hoping to hit something vital (or at least something that hurts) and you know you've succeeded when he doubles over and drops to one knee like a twisted marriage proposal. Well, if he weren't clutching his abdomen and making those annoying gasping noises. His head is at a much more convenient height for your second punch to meet his cheek, and you hook him with enough force to bruise, your own hand hurting like a bitch when it makes contact with his razorblade cheekbones. He doesn't fall back like you hoped, but the cuff has clearly left him dazed. With a sick sense of pride, you realise he hadn't expected you to be so evenly matched. Highbloods and their arrogance. Relying on size might work with BUOYs, but he needs to learn he's no stronger than a midblood until he molts and, with how your game session is going, you doubt he'll get the chance.
While you're internally gloating, he takes his chance to sweep you off your feet, literally, so you land on your ass with a thud and a worrying zap of pain up your tailbone. Whatever, you deserved it for being an idiot. Don't turn your back on Makara. You're lucky he didn't do worse while he had the chance.
He scuttles on top of you like a big, overgrown bug and pins your wrists to the floor. His face is too close, his breath sliding into your lungs, and you hate him, you hate him so much. The mass of fluff he calls hair is blocking out the light in the aptest poetic metaphor, but it's been a long time since you were scared of the dark. Or scared of him. Because even though he's resting his weight on you, it's all spindly knots of veins and bone, not the body needed for fighting. He's all brains, with too much reliance on natural advantage. That's his first mistake—hubris. His second mistake is forgetting that while you're not the sharpest tooth in the fly trap, you can learn, too.
So, when the burst of chucklevoodoos comes, you're prepared. He's tried this trick one too many times to surprise you. Your mind's defences are getting better and you cut him off before he can grasp at any sense of fear or doubt, imagining an immovable brick wall, one that will not crumble under the weight of his rage. You won't be able to keep it up for long, especially if he attacks with his full ability, but you've brought yourself some time and made him vulnerable with shock. The look on his face is pure disbelief; you doubt anyone has fought off his powers before.
While he's dazed, you flip him over so that you're on top, but he doesn't even resist, which unnerves you more than if he spat violent promises or tried to bite your voice box out. He just watches you with incredulity and what you think must be newfound respect. It's disturbing. The whole thing seems to have completely thrown him off, kind of like Mituna when you put psionic dampeners on him. There's a similar disorientation in his eyes like he's lost one of his senses, and he almost seems… unsure of himself, which you've never witnessed before.
You slap him. No thank you to that pitiful shit. You came here itching for combat, not to hold his hand while he reevaluates you, reality, and his self-esteem. If there's one thing you can appreciate about Kurloz, it's his composure. How you can break him down so many times and he'll still turn to you with his shit-eating face and demand more. This, his stunned stupid routine, is nearing moirail territory.
"Fight back!" You pull him up by his shirt and shake him, enjoying how his head hits the ground each time. "Going soft on me already, Makara?"
He grabs your forearm quicker than you can blink and yanks it to his mouth, the savage knives of his teeth submerging into your muscle. You cry out, screaming obscenities that would make Mituna blush. The bite hasn't caught bone, so the damage is minor but, still, it fucking hurts. You try to wrestle your arm from his jaws, swatting at his face, but it only makes him clamp down harder, and you realise your mistake of letting his wrists go. After his moment of weakness, he's out for blood.
You have to claw at his eyes to make him let go. There's greasepaint under your fingernails and his face is a mess of smudges, so different from the immaculate strokes of white and grey, and you find you like this dishevelled look on him. Especially when you've caused it.
There's a scuffle as he tries to flip you, but you have the high ground and the strength to keep you from tilting over. You want him on his back so you can shove his pompous face into the dirt where you don't have to look at it, but you doubt it'll be easy unless he complies. Kurloz would refuse just to spite you, whether he wanted it or not. But you don't play games if they're a cakewalk, kismesissitude included.
"Roll over, little barkbeast. We both know you're gagging for it—"
Kurloz hits you in the jaw, but the angle is all wrong to put much punch into it. He realises this, and his disadvantage, and jumps on Plan B: abscond. Shoving you back, he starts squirming out from underneath you, twisting and crawling through the arch of your legs like an ailing worm, and it's as successful as you'd expect. So, not at all. He manages to get onto his side before you stop him. It's too late then for him to resist as you push him over onto his stomach, one arm stuck beneath his chest and the other only good for clawing the earth. The only way to get Kurloz to do something he doesn't want to do is to trick him into it.
"Good boy," you say as you press down on him, grinding your hips into the plushness of his butt. You know he can feel your bulge waving hello. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"
Teal mars his cruel grin. When he speaks, your blood speckles the ground.
"This how you get your cavort on with Tuna? Force that divine fucking sunspot onto his knees and defile his wicked nook? Bet you hold our blessed boy down and hurt him, make him cry a lil'. Can't see how else a motherfucker would deign to conjugate with a foul faking wisecrack like yourself."
Fuck him. You slam his head down hard enough for something to break. When you lift him up again, his nose is bleeding purple trails down to his smirking mouth.
"You don't seem eager to leave, but if my company is that bad, you're free to go. I bet your wacko cult really misses you right about now—oh, wait! They all got owned by mega meteor ass, didn't they?"
If he can play dirty, so can you.
He kicks his legs out in protest because that's all he can do besides run his mouth, but you cling like you're on a bucking bronco, trying to tune out the malice spilling from his lips. His struggling doesn't stop you from tugging his pants down, dumb purple underpants included, or from getting a look at his sweet little nook. Despite his complaining, he's all flushed and wet downstairs. Pretty lavender lips parting for the rich orchid within, hole leaking trails of slick each time he clenches, bulge impatiently wriggling free.
Maybe Kurloz isn't all bad.
There's plenty of opportunity for him to escape. You're sitting on his thighs now, not this back; he could twist free if he really wanted. But you both know why you came here. The game will only last so long before you tire of pretending you don't want this, even if neither of you will admit it out loud. You let your bulge out and he lifts his hips to take it, moaning low when it traces his slit. He's always such a slut when you're on top, but painfully teasing when you aren't. Good thing you (almost) always win.
"Who knew you were such a whore, Makara?" You did. You knew.
“Tuna gets his whore on for me like such. All spreading his legs and begging up a ruckus at me to sate his sinful yearnings. Ain't satisfying him none, are you?” He grinds his nook over your bulge, daring it to slip inside. “Has to beseech his own moirail to fill him up proper. Just sickening, ain't it?”
It's a nasty lie, one he knows will upset you even though it's untrue. You have to admit, you'll never beat him verbally—you'll have to shut him up the old-fashioned way.
You push his shoulders down as you let your bulge split him open, feeling him writhe as he gurgles out fragments of swears and pleas into the unhearing ground. The bite on your arm stings from the strain of holding him still, even as the blood flow stems, but the pain keeps your mind front and centre, concentrated, so you can fuck him up as much as he deserves. If you're not careful, the tight clenching of his nook will trick you into relaxing—and you're not risking him stealing the upper hand. He's going to lie there and take it and let someone else run the show for a while.
Kurloz moves his hand over yours where it's pressed to the ground, keeping you up. He entwines your fingers like this is a romantic stroll along the beach and you gag on instinct—you two are not red in the slightest. The hateful grin on his face says he knows exactly what he's doing, the malignant asshole. Trust Kurloz to be well versed in unsettling assholery. You'll forgive it, though, because he's feeling helpless, and you're about to rub that pleased look right off of his face.
You force the last few inches inside him with a harsh shove, the rim of his nook yielding easily. When the base of your bulge meets his plush lips, you both moan, because as much as you hate each other, your genitals get along like old pals. Dribbles of slick ooze around you and you can't say who's wetter, him or you. It makes the glide in and out effortless, even with his nook clinging to you like it doesn't want to let you go. His hips rock back into your bulge, impaling himself with eager little bounces, wet squelches sounding each time he hits the base.
You'd be content to watch him tire himself out if that didn't mean him topping from the bottom. Motherfucker is forgetting you won this round.
Leaning forward, you crush him flat with your body. He doesn't relent completely, even when you bite his shoulder in warning, but keeps grinding his hips back into yours because he knows exactly what to do to set your teeth on edge. You thrust harshly once, and it causes a full-body shudder. That stills him. After that, you don't stop. You keep up a relentless pace of pummelling him into the earth, fucking him hard and fast until he goes limp, eyes rolling back in his head, as he has to admit you've won.
You'll confess, it's nice to not worry about size. Mituna can take you—and does frequently—but you always have a niggling fear of hurting him. Not to blow your own honk instrument, but you're pretty well endowed for a midblood. You have no such worries for Kurloz. He's bigger and a masochistic size queen, and you enjoy stretching him further than he can take. Win, win, win.
"That's it, Makara, let go." Because that's his problem—all those irons in the fire and no sign of stopping, no resting. "I've got you, promise."
It's what a kismesis does. Make him be better.
"You—"
Whatever noxious drivel he was planning on spewing comes out as a muddle of sounds even less eloquent than a keysmash. You can feel the hungry sucking of his nook and know he could come as soon as you'd let him. Your own nook is drooling slick down to where your body meets his, while his bulge is a frustrated mass trapped between his shut legs. As funny as his suffering is, you really wish you were at a better angle for mutual penetration. Win some, lose some.
You slow to a grind and soften your voice. "Time out. You good?"
"Fuck you. Hate you."
Yeah, he's good.
"Don't know why I even bother, jackass. Hate you too."
Full of pitch fondness, you place a kiss on his cheek—which, if his snarl is anything to go by, he loves—before falling right back into annihilating his nook. With thrusts of your bulge rough enough to have him whining, it doesn't take either of you long to fall back into rhythm. His nook pops wetly each time you pull him over your ridges, syrupy slick oozing out with every shift to stain his thighs purple and teal. You burrow far enough to meet his seed flap, feeling him tremble as your tip tickles the rim, sliding in nice and slow as he prepares to take your come.
You lift off of him long enough to free his arm. It's probably sore from being crushed underneath you both, burning with pins and needles, but you pull it anyway, bringing it back until it reaches his ass.
"Hold yourself open." You pinch his side when he doesn't obey. "Come on, other side too."
Kurloz is mumbling fuck you mixed with verses of holy word, clearly mutinous, but he complies. He grips his ass cheeks and spreads them wide so you have an unrivalled view of how your bulge stretches his sopping nook. He's pretty like this. Alive with caliginous rage, but too fucked out and needy to do anything about it.
"Oh, snap! That's perfect," you croon. "I guess you can be taught."
"Uncouth motherfucking harlot. NOT FIT TO SQUAT AMONGST THE MESSIAH'S MOST IRREPROACHABLE—"
Ugh. You unequip the only piece of clothing you have on you: a pair of underwear—Mituna's by the looks of the bee pattern—and shove them in Kurloz's filthy mouth. It puts an end to that 'righteous noise'. He's still babbling away, sure, but you can't make out specifics.
"Talk to the hand," you say, slapping him on the thigh. "I'm close and your bullshit is messing up my mojo. But if you're good… I'll let you come too."
You draw an invisible spades sign on his back, over the fabric of his shirt. One night, you'll get him naked and really leave your mark. Not now, while your bulge lashes inside him, impatient to come, but eventually.
He quietens down. Not to silence—you doubt anything could shut him up completely—but at least he's not screaming his head off anymore.
That's all you need to start up again. Your bulge dances inside him, distending his nook and seed flap until they gape, molding his walls to fit around you. He'll be feeling you for days; a phantom bulge to leave him aching and hungry. You rake your nails down his back, shredding his top, to feel him clench in outrage and finally, finally, let yourself come.
Curving over him, you release. Wave after wave of pleasure runs through you, and you know Kurloz is feeling it, too. He's moaning through the gag, nodding fervently as he takes it all. You pet his hair even as your body wracks with bliss because you know how intense it is to be filled and you're not the kind of troll, kismesis or not, to let him struggle through it alone. Greedy as he is, liquid still overflows, spilling from his nook in teal streams. You can only imagine how full he is inside. You would've used a bucket, but the sight of him pathetic and used, limp beneath you with your colour painting his skin, is worth the cultural disapproval.
“Look at you drooling all over your moirail’s panties," you murmur in his ear. Your voice is shaky, but you don't think he minds. “Bet you're such a slut you could come from just me flooding you.”
He nods again, purple tears dampening his cheeks.
You sit back and rock your hips, watching his swollen nook drag along your bulge, puffy lips parting for you. His waste chute winks above it and you know exactly what to do to make him come. Wetting your thumb with the fluid gushing from him, you brush over his furled hole, untouched and tight compared to the sloppiness of his nook. It flutters underneath you in greeting. He loves the taboo, the thought of you using the wrong hole when he's got one made for it right there. Something about that dirtywrong gets him fucking going. That's all he needs, the whisper of promise, before he convulses under you in a shaking, squirting mess, tongue-tied on his own moans and scratching gouges into the ground.
He's almost lovely like this. Quiet and worn, without all those ugly words spoiling the moment. And he really has been good for you tonight, cheating accusations aside. The dude deserves a reward. You press down harsher, milking his long-awaited orgasm for all it's worth, rubbing against each sweet spot until it hurts. It's gross to admit, but you know him—you can tell he loves it, even as he struggles against you with flailing hands, because his nook is still throbbing and leaking weak little rivulets. He's no stranger to a bit of pain, not with you.
"How you doing, hotshot?" You ease up on the touching when you feel he's had enough. Never let it be said you aren't a merciful judge. "Have I finally achieved the most inconceivable miracle of all and made Kurloz Makara shut up?"
He spits out the underwear, made soggy from all his drool. "You fucking wish."
Even as he says it, his voice is a raw and slurred melody. You count it as a success. One day, you'll fuck him so thoroughly it'll silence him good and proper until he won't be able to throw that self-satisfied grin your way without feeling the stretched ache of his nook.
"Got pretty close, though, didn't I?" You pat his flank like he's a well-behaved hoofbeast before getting the fuck away from him. "You can sort yourself out, right?"
Of course, he can. Plus, you can only deal with his company for so long. But it's worth asking just in case he's tugged the stick from his ass and is suddenly willing to ask for help.
"Get your vile self out of my motherfucking sight."
As if this isn't your land.
He may be tired and bitter, but you can see the contentment seeping from his bones as he basks in the afterglow. In fact, he might even be falling asleep.
"If you just asked politely, I'd totally do you. No idea why you have to be such a headcase about it." You begin to walk away but stop in front of his head. Leaning down, you whisper into his ear. "If you touch any of my stuff, I'll cut your bulge off and shove it up your nook. And, trust me, I'll know."