Happy homestuck day! Ive seen this pairing sprinkled into some fics of yours but i don't remember seeing any art of Signless and GHB together. I remember a specific old pale short story from you where they were basically smoking church weed and being adorable. So anything involving those two old men would be great to see. Love your art!
I do a lot more pale GHBsign in fics because "we're two zealots of opposing causes; there's no way forward that doesn't end with at least one of us destroyed, whether we do it ourselves or we do it to each other." is a lot easier to bring across in writing than in art, haha. But also that AU where the GHB is like "aw, fuck it" and joins the rebellion to see what happens is still dear to my heart lol
(arathergrimreaper asked: I humbly request Signless making the GHB laugh on this Homestuck day, please and thanks. Happy 4/13!)
since my followers are dropping like flies for some reason i'm gonna post a fic
so here you go, it's ghbsuff with a lot of angst and sadness and all that good stuff
It’s been half a sweep since the rebellion was kicked off. The rustblood scourge has been pounding in waves against the threshold of the mirthful church and Her Imperious Condescension. It has reached the point the point of do or motherfucking die. And demand for authority is high and loud. But you’re the Grand Highblood, goddamnit, and you’ll do whatever you damn well please.
Tonight, the moon hangs low over the horizen, trailing its purple glow over the treetops, rooftops. You’ve come to see your wrigglerhood friend. Not friend to the exact. You knew him, you could say. But now... now that you and every troll on Alternia knew he was a mutant, the tables had turned. You held no respect for him, no remorse. No nostalgia surrounded your brief shared past, not even a pang of sympathy resonated in your pusher for this man.
But here he stood before you, irises red as poppy flowers, red as hornbase, red as trolls did burn.
“Makara..” he spits out in a weary tone, and even that singular word seizes your every thought. To you it is as if his voice holds pure sacrilege, and you can imagine the angels on his breath. “Makara, what the fuck.”
He is so casual, so smooth-toned like he knows you haven’t brought any covertraumatic officers along, no spies. And you haven’t. You do not want history to remember this.
“I am not Makara anymore, Kankri, YOU KNOW THAT. I am the harbinger of rage, THE MOTHERFUCKING SUBJUGGLATOR OF THE IMPURE SOULS THAT DARE TO PACE THIS ROCK.”
He interrupts you with a hand raised, two fingers erect, two more rested loosely, a gesture of silence. “Then I suppose to you I would not be called Vantas, nor Kankri. You would have me called the sufferer, no-.. no, the signless to you. For you do not know my suffering, the suffering of my people.”
“AND YOU DO NOT KNOW MINE, brother. I FIGHT FOR MY GOSPEL, MY TRUTH. And goddamn, maybe it’s all a motherfuckin fake thing, BUT IT IS SOLID AS ALL GET OUT. It is old, my truth is ancient, and it rests on the winning side, you HERETICAL BLOODED FUCK. You weren’t even meant to CRAWL FROM THE MUD YOU WERE HATCHED IN.”
“And who are you or I to judge what should or should not have been? Fate and destiny take their course. Those who take the path of freedom understand it. To me it is you, Subjugglator, who bucks against peace.”
You straighten your back, get your tower on over the small mutant blood. You look at his tiny horns shine just so in the moonlight and the look on his face matches. It hurts you like a spear to the chest. The dirt kicks up under your boots as you take a few steady strides towards the bane of your existence and gently cup his cheek with one calloused mitt. He places his own hand, so much smaller, so much more calloused, over yours, presses his motherfuckin face into the meat of your palm and sighs. There has never been a troll living or dead that has made you feel so confused. Not Marquise, not even your Lady Redglare.
You want to kneel, you want to tell him you believe in fate, you believe in his dumbfuck peace and equality idea. Because surely it is goddamn fate that allows you to not rip his nug from his shoulders. You have denied it outwardly since meeting him when you were boys, and you always will. But somewhere deep inside, you are his moirail, and he is yours. He sits at the righthand of your throne and you protect him from harm, you make him an exception, and no one knows about his hateful blood. But this is what you have now. His soothing touch on the back of your hand, soft skin on your digits.
“I’m so tired, brother...”
“I know, Kurloz” he says.
You end up laying between his legs, back to his stomach, his head rests between your spiraling horns. He pets your tangled hair, traces thumb over the line of your jaw, circles fingerpad around your hornbase and you are lulled into bliss. The walls of the abandoned hive are blank but your shadows cast look like artwork, look like miracles.
The leader of the rebellion leans down, presses rough and crackled mouth to your temple, kisses your frontpan, the bridge of your nose, kisses your flap all sad and sorrow. You pretend you are not the Grand Highblood. You pretend that you are not in charge of bringing about this trolls death. Just for today, you think, you renounce your messiahs.
He mutters something against the mess of your curls, breathes deeply. “You smell like iron, you bulgemunch, when was the last time you washed the blood out of your hair.” And you genuinely smile at that.
“I don’t know motherfucker, when was the last time you went to a doctorturer?” You look up, and notice his nose has been broken many times, you look down and the same goes for his fingers. He’s been captured before, probably by some false profits, highbloods who want nothing more than to bully the cullable instead of getting the motherfucking job done. You nuzzle your head against his chest. Between the two of you, there is a fair amount of growth. He is very small and sturdily built, near the middle of his short life, and will probably stay that way, while you are nothing but lank, big paws and feet, and will live for eons. You will live for eons without him.
“Kurloz, you know I can’t do that, I’d be caught and disposed of in a fucking second. And then where would my people be? Back at the quick end of the whip..” He looks out at the setting moon with something far too old in his eyes and you shift to lay across his lap. The curtains close on a timer. You nestle into the soft fabric of his cloak like a wriggler and he strokes your horns. Your name is Kurloz Makara and you have never been so happy in your life.
The moon set and as daybreak pierces through the clouds you fall asleep with your head in his lap. You have never fallen asleep in front of a soul before now and you never will again. Tomorrow you are the Grand Highblood, leader of the mirthful church, high priest of whimsy. Tomorrow you will despise him again. But tonight you press your face into his chest and smell his bright red blood through his bare skin and you let yourself live.
(After he is killed and the flame thoroughly doused, you are never really the Grand Highblood again. You become ancient as the gospels you preach.)
