A/N- I'm.. hesitant to post this here, mostly because it's kind of terrible? And also bloodswap? And also non-con moiralliegiance? So like, everything wrong with the fandom in one not-even-1,000-words-long fic. I am a quality addition to this fandom, guys.
You used to be best friends, but just like everything else you managed to fuck that up quite nicely.
It didn't take much, to be honest. Instability was common among highbloods like yourself. It was inevitable that you'd snap, he said, knowing full well that you hadn't snapped at all. You were simply being you, but even for a system that adored psychotic and literally coldblooded killers, what you had done was wrong and you should be ashamed. Should have been killed, according to him, the useless interfering lawfucker. Killed. Huh. And for what, exactly? If that little green fucker couldn't take a few stabs in the stomach, well then the planet didn't need his weak ass.
Honestly, they acted like a few shanks between friends were dangerous or something.
It wasn't long after that when Gamzee came back, but he was acting different. Coddling. Petting your hair and shushing you and telling you that it wasn't your fault, like you didn't already know that. Treating you like a braindamaged grub instead of his best friend, or an actually formidable opponent. That was when he settled you down on the floor and started trying to fucking play lusus, tried to feed you. When you got your first taste of sopor slime, warm and disgusting and lumpy and utterly incapacitating. You vaguely remember heaving it up on the floor for nights afterward, the taste refusing to leave your mouth the entire time.
Trolls are not meant to eat fucking sopor slime, and that was the one thing your lusus had managed to beat into your head throughout your life. Sopor slime fucks with a troll's head and makes them stupid, makes them forget things. It rots out their thinkpan and gets them addicted to eating it. It took you sweeps to realize that that had been his intention from the start, to give you some manner of problem so he could claim to be helping you.
Gamzee Makara did not and does not help people. He manipulates, he goads, he tricks, he solicits, but he has never helped anyone out of the goodness of his blood bladder. It simply isn't in there, but you knew why he acted. It got him closer to people, taught him their strengths and weaknesses, taught him exactly how to break them down from the inside out. He was a sadist and a loose cannon both, and neither trait should have belonged to one person.
But that's enough about him.
You're done with him, except you're not because he is the other half of your diamond, huge fucking laugh there. Makara was everyone's diamond, everyone's palemate. The fact that he decided to make you official simply means you're his preferred client, and you don't want even the tiniest part of it.
Not that it matters much what you want. This moirallegiance has never been about you, regardless what he claims.
He forced you into your predicament, forced you into the relationship, and he's been forcing you to be pale ever since. Those filthy shooshes, those lecherous paps, all of them are washed away down into the gunky, undermaintained drain in your thinkpan by the very substance he put you on. Powdered sopor is much better than the normal stuff, not as diluted, and you're life's a lot easier when you can barely tell which way is up. Of course, using so much of it means you're getting used to it, having to use more and more with each dose or risk snapping back far worse than you ever started out.
And that's exactly what he wants you to do.
He wants you to detox, let the sopor filter out of your system. He wants the rage to come back full-fucking-force for some convoluted plan of his. You don't pretend to understand his methods, because for all the holes rusted into your pan you know you're just the mentally-retarded Knight in his little game of speed chess and always have been. Everyone you know is a piece in his games, and no matter what you do, or how you play, he will adjust his plans to incorporate your every move. And he will win.
Or at least, he thinks he will, but the joke's on him.
The joke's on all of you, really.
You may be spouting your own religious bullshit, but if there's one part of your religion that still seems worth believing in, it's this. The universe is one huge joke, and the joke's on everyone. Not a goddamn thing matters, and one overambitious psycho vigilanteradicator isn't going to change that, if that's even a real thing you can be. You're fairly certain he made it up. For someone who's so into law, he makes a lot of things up.
You're skull's about ready to split open from both hangover and withdrawal, but what the hell, it's not like you care.
You're not the one that's going to get hurt in the end.
A ping comes from your husktop and it shatters your skull with the noise. It's him, pretending to be concerned. Pretending to care.
You used to be best friends, but just like everything else that failed spectacularly.
Now all you have left is a destroyed quadrant and a frazzled thinkpan, a psychotic palemate and an empty tin of powdered sopor.
R&R is your best friend. If people don't think this sucks too badly, I'll post more bloodswap things.
Also, if you get the title reference you win a tasty e-cookie.