Archive of Our Own

They broke up last month. 

In hindsight and alone at night, now that she has sent Bronya to a boarding school, she thinks she could have gone about it better. Maybe she should have let Serval down easy, but she has never believed in softness for pity’s sake. Their relationship had to end. Partially because whenever she read Serval’s research, she could see it written plain on the page, the effort to breathe life into a corpse. Belobog has been dying for seven hundred years, and there comes a time when a merciful kill is the only way forward. Serval’s proposal would have put it on life support, a bright flourish only delaying the inevitable. 

She never could get Serval to see her side of things. On the flip side, she never did want to rot her heart with the same despair bubbling in her own. Late at night, she tells herself that is also a kindness, a mercy. Serval’s licking her wounds, nursing resentment, but underneath it all she has the seeds of hope still.

Maybe, on the other side, things will be different.

But not in this lifetime.

Of course, she tells a different story at the dinner table, the crystal chandelier casting its glittering light on all the guests. She smooths out her face, looking apologetic to even bring the topic up, but surely, they will understand. 

“We were already growing apart,” Cocolia begins, furrowing her brow, like she’s still enduring a broken heart. “When I found out that she had been delving into dangerous research, unsanctioned. It hurt Bronya the most. She looked up to Serval. But what kind of Supreme Guardian would I be — no, what kind of mother would I be, if I let that kind of thing slide? It hurt me that she would do that. It hurt me to have to make an example out of her.”

It hurts less, the more she tells the lie.

The elder Landaus are looking down at their plates, nodding. As a show of mercy, she has kept Gepard on the guard, and it has them on their best behavior. Their eldest daughter is an outcast, but at least there’s hope for the middle son. 

The Landau matriarch looks up and meets Cocolia’s gaze, and there’s not a single streak of Serval in her, no challenge, no defiance. She has long since given into the machinery of the noble families, upholding the Supreme Guardian, trusting in her completely. Her cheeks are red with shame. 

Last year, Serval was with them at the table, celebrating the solstice, letting Bronya sleep with her head in her lap, napkin covering her face to make sure nothing disturbed her. Cocolia never understood how, but Bronya only slept well if there were noises near her. Serval said it probably made her feel surrounded with safety.

Now they are both gone and Cocolia raises a glass. “To moving forward,” she says, smiling a tight-lipped smile. “Ever forward, despite distractions.”

She empties the glass and excuses herself to go to the bathroom. She runs the tap cold, putting her wrists under the water as she stares at herself in the mirror. 

No tears. No dark circles. The lack of grief frustrates her. The stillness of Serval being gone isn’t right, it’s meant to be a reward but it unnerves her.

As she turns off the tap and wipes off her hands, she hears a soft knock on the door. The doorbell is repaired, has been for weeks. And that knock, it’s the same rapping of the knuckles she’s come to associate with a warm cup of tea, a blanket, a kiss…

Against better judgment, she opens it, despite knowing what she risks. 

“Hi,” Serval says, kind of foolish, definitely tipsy. “I got lost.”

She looks a mess as she leans on the door jamb, hands shoved in the pockets of her leather jacket, blood dripping down over her face and staining the fur collar. 

“And got into a fight,” Cocolia says icily, her words measured in tone. 

“Yeah.” Serval smiles then hisses, the motion cracking open the cut over her lower lip. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

In the dining room, the honored guests of the noble families Cocolia invited tonight are laughing at a joke. They are having more fun with her out of the room, looming over them with her strict presence. It’s so hard, navigating these affairs, without Serval there to soften her approach. Serval, on the other hand, freezes when she hears the familiar lilt of her parent’s voices, her posture snapping straight out of habit.

“Is it…”

“Yes. It is the solstice, after all. The dinners continue.” 

“Of course, right, they would.” Serval wipes at the blood on her face. “I know it looks bad but not all of it is mine.”

“That does not make it better.”

“No? Damn. Thought it was kinda cool myself.”

The joke hangs in the air, untouchable. 

“I lost all my money,” Serval continues after a beat, licking at her dry lips and then wincing at the blood. “I just needed some money for the tram to Geppie.”

“You can walk, can’t you?”

Serval leans her head on the door, hair falling over one of her eyes. “Maybe I wanted to see you. It could be either or.”

This close, Cocolia can see the raw edges of the wounds, and a shining shard of glass embedded in one. Qlipoth, there must be a lot of alcohol in her blood stream to have her not feeling it.

“How deep is that cut?” 

“Oh, I don’t know.” She reaches a hand up to touch at it, but Cocolia stops her.

“You will get it infected.”

“Probably already is. What’s the worst I can do?”

She’s a pathetic mess.

Cocolia has more important matters to attend to, but her guests are getting along fine without her, bouncing easily between anecdotes. She’s not said much the entire dinner — it’s just a kind of formality, the annual solstice, a long line of history tracing back centuries, now in Cocolia’s hands. 

It was better with Serval. A lot of nights like these were.

Sentimentality is a vicious weakness, and she’s not yet immune to those puppy dog eyes.

Cocolia darts into the bathroom where she keeps the first aid kit and puts on her shoes, pushing Serval back out into the hallway. “Come along.” Her heels click against the spiral granite staircase as they descend all the seven floors together, down to the communal glasshouse garden in the courtyard. 

It’s warm and lush year-round, and it’s been Cocolia’s pet project for years, paying out of her own pocket to have florists and gardeners come around and improve the place, turning it from a paltry decorative rose garden the widow on the fifth floor barely cared for, to an orangerie for everyone to enjoy.

It’s been months since she came down here. Some of the plants are withering. One of the trees looks like it’s infected with mold. Distantly, she remembers Serval tried to talk to her about it a few months back but it wasn’t a good time. Her mind was elsewhere, occupied with all that she never told Serval about.

Serval makes herself at home quick as lightning, shrugging out of her leather jacket and slumping back on a chair. She looks even worse in the warm light down here, the rings under eyes more visible. Grief took a bite out of her and never let go.

Jealousy is probably not the first thing that should flare up in her chest, but it does. She envies that Serval gets to feel it, in a way, because it doesn’t feel real to her this way. Coming home, she sits in an empty apartment, waiting for the other shoe to drop but there’s nothing left to take. A part of her keeps waiting for Serval to come back through the door like none of it happened.

Again, Serval tries to pick at the wound, hands full of that anxious energy she gets.

Cocolia reminds herself that Serval is none of her concern anymore. This is just a favor to get her out of here faster.

“Sit still,” Cocolia orders, and Serval stills immediately. That hurts a little, and Cocolia finds herself wanting more, to see Serval respond to her. What a traitorous heart she has, but what is the harm? It’s just a favor. It means nothing at all. Tiny enough that it shouldn’t draw the encroaching darkness to the forefront of her mind. 

Opening the first aid kit, she soaks some cotton wads and begins cleaning the edges. Serval wasn’t lying when she said half the blood wasn’t hers, but it’s all still an ugly smattering of cuts and bruises. Not all of them new.

Her whole life has been lived in this precarious balance, trying to position herself perfectly on the tightrope between despair and desire. Everything she has ever wanted, prone to awaken the visions and whispers. The first time she kissed Serval the whispers turned to screams and she bit Serval’s lip, but Serval thought it was romantic.

Over the years together, Cocolia felt herself splitting apart.

She uses a set of tweezers to extract the glass shard from her cheek, and that at least makes Serval wince. 

It’s not the first time Cocolia has done this for Serval, stitching together a wound she got through her own idiocy. She has kept an eye on her in the month they have been apart, making sure Serval doesn’t go around talking about things she has no right to, but Serval has just. Spiraled. She didn’t show up for her new appointment at the Academy, and lost her research grant. She’s been crashing at Gepard’s, the rest of her family wanting nothing to do with her. 

“You didn’t have to go that far in exorcising me,” Serval says, studying the succulent plants on the table.  “I need to survive too.”

“You went too far.”

“So did you.”

Cocolia soaks a cotton ball in saline solution and grabs Serval by the chin, forcing her to come closer. Her expression goes from frustration to pain, and then that strange softness she never can keep from Cocolia too long.

Looking up, Serval grins, but it’s a lopsided one, full of melancholy. 

“Your friends are watching.”

“Our friends.” 

“Not anymore. They chose you.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“It’s fine. I get it. I’m not… Worth the hassle.” Serval follows Cocolia’s hand with her hungry eyes as Cocolia cuts a band-aid to size to fit over the smallest cuts that won’t require any stitches. “You took everything from me,” she says, her voice small and pathetic.

“Don’t be dramatic.”

“Can I at least talk to Bronya?”

“She’s asleep,” Cocolia lies. 

“Could I look at her? Sorry. That sounds weird. I just miss her. I miss you.”

Serval’s squirming. She’s an open book to Cocolia, they have been intertwined for so long, and she knows what every minor movement and every muscle twitch means by now. Serval wants to ask questions, she wants to dig into the pits she should stop touching, she wants to get her fingers dirty with answers. 

And why should Cocolia stop her? It’s a quick solution.

She finds the sterile needles and breaks open the packaging. “This will hurt,” she warns.

“Good thing half my face is numb,” Serval says, smiling like an idiot. 

It doesn’t take long for that smile to melt into a pained grimace, Serval clutching the table as Cocolia leans over her, opting for speed over gentleness. 

“It will scar if you don’t relax.”

Serval grunts. “I’ll look very dashing with a scar.”

For who, Cocolia wants to ask, but bites it back. She hates the thought, so sharp and barbed in her mind, snagging on her heart. But that’s the rub — Serval will move on, she has to, and then Cocolia will be alone. She realizes Serval will be her last and she feels an icy chill run down her spine.

She ties the stitches off and tugs a bit too hard on the thread, making Serval flinch. It will definitely scar. And she will look handsome with it. And it will not be for Cocolia at all. 

“Where did we go wrong, Cocolia?”

Qlipoth, she wishes the world would end faster.

“Sometimes, love just dies,” Cocolia replies, looking at Serval without a single emotion rippling through her chest. She has held this answer for so long she thought she might die without telling it to the one person who should hear it. “Sometimes, you got so hungry for love that I couldn’t keep anything for myself. In those moments, you wanted and wanted, and I surrendered myself to you in bits and pieces. I carved myself up so you could feast. You took everything out of me, including my love for you.”

Serval’s mouth twitches and she looks up, blinking furiously, pressing her fingertips against her eyes. “I didn’t, though. I would have stopped if you said it was hurting you.”

“I never loved before you. Because of you, I thought love was meant to hurt. I thought it was meant to scrape you bare.”

“Lia… I never wanted you to feel like that. I never, ever.”

“Intent doesn’t negate harm, does it?”

The lies come easy as breathing to her. She has had a lifetime of pretending everything is fine when it isn’t, and can do this in her sleep by now. Love snaps so easily in her hand, broken like it never meant anything. 

Serval’s chest rises and falls at an uneven pace. It takes a second for Cocolia to realize she is crying — Serval has never been a quiet crier before, she’s been loud and snivelling, dripping tears and snot and having to shove her face into her shirt or handkerchiefs to get it to stop. This is quiet and subdued. Like she’s struggling to catch her breath. 

“I still need to stitch one more up,” Cocolia says, hoping she sounds gentle, but it’s hard to tell.

Serval lets out a shuddering breath from her mouth, avoiding meeting Cocolia’s eyes even as tears roll down her cheek. 

As she threads the needle, Cocolia can’t help but think of the good life they did have together.

Weekend breakfasts in the orangerie with fresh bread from the bakery around the corner and coffee so rich it felt sinful to drink. The month she finally got the light and nutrition balance right and all the trees blossomed at once, which led to Serval discovering she had a severe pollen allergy and they had to consult a doctor well-versed in medical history to find a functional medicine to counter it. When she’d come home from working overtime getting through reports and signing off on new budgets for the quarter, and she’d find Serval and Bronya playing, way past Bronya’s bedtime, but they were shining with a happiness that made Cocolia both jealous and hopeful.

They had a good life. She didn’t mind the difficult balance because she just about managed to stave off the thoughts and voices for so long that she deluded herself into thinking it might always be like that.

The needle slips through Serval’s skin easily, and Serval’s so numb from the alcohol she just sits there, her eyes burning hot on Cocolia’s skin. 

“I don’t believe you,” Serval says through gritted teeth. “I don’t believe that it was all hurt and pain. We had good moments. Perfect moments. We loved each other so much.”

“Believe what you will.” She finishes the stitches and ties a clean knot before cutting the thread, sitting down to put things back into the kit.

But Serval has other intentions. She cups Cocolia’s face, scooting forward in the chair, one knee sliding up between Cocolia’s legs. 

Cocolia has no defense against this kind of proximity, the scent, the warmth, the touch that stirs up the darkened lake of memories she has done her utmost to keep placid and dead. 

“Tell me it’s all gone,” Serval whispers against Cocolia’s lips. “Tell me with your own words and I swear, I'll leave you alone forever, but I need your words to cauterize the wound you left.”

And then she presses her lips to Cocolia’s, a kiss that has them both whimpering. Her lips are so soft and warm. The tip of her tongue teases against Cocolia’s closed lips, looking for hope in all the wrong places.

It takes everything in Cocolia to keep her body still and cold and non-responsive. It’s a kind of ache that splits her in half, yet Serval finds the gap in her armor and slides her fingers under it like it never meant anything at all. She knows, of course, it was a foolish endeavor Cocolia set out on, but she can’t, she can’t risk it, she can’t open the gates again. 

“Please,” Serval whispers. “Cocolia, please.” Her fingers dig into Cocolia’s jaw, hard and sharp. 

She can’t yield. She can’t surrender to something as childishly hopeful as this.

“I’d do anything, Cocolia, I’d be good, I’d be anything you want me to be, just please…”

It was easier when Serval was angry at her. Anger she knows how to handle and deflect. But with Serval, it eventually turns on herself, becoming a downward spiral, a desire to self-destruct. She has seen it before, like when Serval messed up the first deadline for her PhD by mixing up the dates and she convinced herself they were going to throw her out. 

How small those problems seem now, in retrospect. 

She puts her hand on Serval’s chest and pushes her back. 

“The last tram leaves soon. Don’t miss it.”

She throws a few coins over to Serval, enough to cover the fare, then begins packing the first aid kit back together. 

Serval stares at her for a few moments before she picks herself up, peeling herself out of the chair. “I know you’re lying,” she says, voice thick and wet. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this, Lia, but I’ll go. I’ll go.” She drapes the leather jacket over her shoulders. “This way you can’t say I ever disobeyed you when my heart was on the line.”

On her way out, Serval slams the door so hard that several glass panels shatter.

Cocolia’s hands drop down flat on the table as she stares at the mess on the floor. Her fingers are trembling. Her mouth tastes of the beer Serval’s been drinking, and she swallows several times. She feels fine. Absolutely fine. 

The only one who ever saw past her surface, who could ever get through that thick bramble of safety she has woven, was Serval.

She breathes in deeply, listening for the sound of the tram passing by. Then she will be safe from the impulse to run down the street, chasing after her, pull her into her arms, kiss her, beg for forgiveness. 

It’s not fair.

The bells toll, the electric wires spark. 

She still wants to follow Serval. To the ends of the earth, if necessary. She never should have opened the door. It’s all pouring back in, all the sensations she craved, all the emotions she thought denied her. They were all there, tamped down into the dark soil of her soul, welling out with a sickening fury now.

When she returns upstairs, she slips into the party as if she was only gone for a moment. She is pitch-perfect as the hostess, after all, and all of them are too courteous to point out her absence. Her smile is mellow enough, gentle enough, that none of them even concern themselves, and their conversation quickly carries on without interruption while Cocolia watches them from what feels like half a city away, her heart aching in a way it hadn’t before. 

Serval wakes up to the sound of a knock on the door, low and discreet, but her body is too sore to move. Her head throbs menacingly, and she fell asleep in the bathtub again while fully clothed. 

Geppie will get whoever is at the door. He has to, because there is no way she will get up within the next hour.

If it’s their parents come to yell at her for causing a scene with Cocolia, he can at least lie to them about where she is, now that he’s the golden child of the family. They’ll believe him. If it’s Lynx, Serval does not want her to see her like this, but she won’t believe Geppie’s lies. 

And if it’s anyone else, they’re there for him and not her, so it doesn’t really matter. 

She slumps back in the hard porcelain tub and groans, feeling the mistakes of yesterday unfurling in her body, heavy and hot and revolting. 

She hadn’t intended on showing up at Cocolia’s. It’s just that she has been drinking in that neighborhood a lot because it’s what she knows, and she doesn’t want to embarrass her brother more than he’s already stuck his neck out for her. Last week their mother threatened to cut him out of the will and estate unless he also disavowed Serval, and she was ready to pack up and go, slink into the night like the pestilence she is in other’s lives, but he wouldn’t let her. She may have gotten really bleeding heart and tearily promised him to do better, to start a new chapter in her life, but she didn’t really manage to get anywhere with that yet. 

If she thinks too hard about how much she’s been messing up lately, she might explode.

Shoving the sleeve of her leather jacket into her mouth she chokes back the humiliated noise rising from her raw throat.

The doorbell rings, the sharp sound cutting through her disoriented anxious thoughts and making her shudder. It’s painfully loud, but Geppie had her install it like that because he wants something that jerks him out of his reading reveries. She listens as he sighs, getting up to answer, and slides herself down further in the dry tub. 

“Ah, madam Co—” 

“Is she here?” 

Guilt and fear drop in her stomach like a filthy stone.

“Yes, she’s sleeping yesterday off,” he says. Traitor. He’s so incapable of lying that it’s a problem.

“I will need some time alone with her if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. I am needed at the front, anyway.”

Serval can hardly breathe, and she doesn’t want this, she doesn’t want Cocolia to see her this messed up again, she can’t stand the thought of having that knife shoved into her heart again. It’s too sick and mean, and Geppie is rushing to grab his things and leave them alone? 

“Go easy on her,” he says, his voice so clear and embarrassing. “She’s going through it.” Apparently, it’s a free-for-all shoving knives into Serval kind of day. Would have been nice if someone had informed her beforehand.

The front door closes. She hears Cocolia unzip her boots and put them away on the shoe rack, the noise of the hangers moving against each other.

Her head aches too much to get up out of the tub, the palpable risk of fainting or throwing up too real, so she slumps back and lolls her head into the uncomfortable position she slept in, closing her eyes. There’s no way out of the embarrassment but at least she can avoid looking directly at Cocolia at this low. If she’s lucky, Cocolia might even decide she’s not worth the effort after seeing her like this, and it’s a terrifying thought as much as it is comforting.

The bathroom door opens and Serval hears nothing but her own heartbeat, throbbing so loudly her eardrums might burst. Cocolia’s presence fills the room, trailed by her perfume of dusty lilacs. The bottomless feeling in her gut worsens, even as she pretends her hardest to be asleep.

Cocolia turns on the tap, filling up a glass of water. She drinks, fills it up again, tap closing. Then she dumps the cold water on Serval’s face. “Wake up.”

Spluttering and coughing with the water in her nose and all over her neck, Serval reluctantly admits defeat and opens her eyes, looking up at Cocolia. She’s as coldly beautiful and severe as ever, and it makes Serval’s heart and cunt ache. Her body is still wired to her, and all it needs is a whiff of her perfume, a look at her perfectly manicured hand, to drift back into that ravenous desire and love.

“You are a mess,” Cocolia says, surveying the state of her. 

“I didn’t ask for you to come here,” Serval snarls, but her raw voice comes out pathetic and dry.

Cocolia fills up the glass again, and Serval braces to have it poured over her a second time, but Cocolia crouches down so they are at eye level and holds it to Serval’s lips. “Drink,” she orders, tipping it back.

It’s a struggle to get it past her swollen tongue, choking and coughing it up once, but Cocolia persists, intimidatingly patient. It makes Serval wonder what she’s here for. To yell at her? To tell her something worse than she did yesterday? Because she would have to try very hard, considering how those words eviscerated Serval. She cried so hard on the tram home that the driver asked her to get off and walk the last two stops on her own. 

Cocolia makes her drink another glass before she puts it away on the sink. “You reek,” she says. “Undress.”

“Lia?”

“Undress. I need to wash you.”

Serval knows how to bite these days. She knows how to be mean back. What is she meant to do with this?

It’s a clumsy struggle as Serval shimmies out of her clothes, piece by piece, the top and skirt reeking of smoke and booze, covered in indeterminable stains, and it takes her an embarrassing effort to wriggle out of the ripped fishnets and her underwear. The second she drops the last articles of clothing onto the floor Cocolia turns on the water, going through the sparse cabinet to find some salts and oils to add. Neither Serval nor Geppie are big on the whole self-care thing, but she still manages to find something that she tips into the waters, a soft foam rising up.

The water stings with how hot it is, and Serval’s skin turns bright red, her body coming awake with groaning joints and stiff limbs softening in the bath. Her hair is a snarly mess. She hasn’t brushed it out properly in days, just gathering it up in a bun and letting it tangle as it will. Briefly, she has thought about shaving it all off, because Cocolia loves her hair so much, and it’d do absolutely nothing for anyone, she just wants to do something to herself that matters. 

Taking the showerhead, Cocolia runs it against her own naked hand until she’s satisfied with the temperature and pressure. She sits down on the edge of the tub and tips Serval’s head back slightly.

“Do you have any cuts I haven’t seen?”

“Probably,” Serval says with a shrug.

Cocolia runs the water over Serval’s head, her fingers working through the lengths and snagging on tangles. It hurts, a lot, and Serval whimpers each time Cocolia goes a bit too hard, her scalp so very sensitive. 

“You have made yourself into a mess,” Cocolia says, too softly.

Serval doesn’t know what to do with herself at that tone of voice. It’s the voice of Cocolia pulling Serval into bed, it’s the voice of Cocolia praising Serval when she’s eaten her out so good her thighs are quaking. Not the voice of someone who severed their relationship with such clinical chill that Serval still feels it kicking like a phantom limb.

Cocolia turns off the water and reaches for the shampoo bottle Serval stole from her when she packed up. It’s the fanciest hand-mixed thing you can get in Belobog, and Cocolia turns the bottle over but doesn’t comment on it, just pours out a small amount in her hand and starts massaging it into Serval’s scalp.

She wants to ask why, she wants to know so badly, but she’s terrified of upsetting the delicate balance. Cocolia can be like a fawn when it comes to love, easily startled, prone to fleeing, sensing some unknown terror she never lets Serval in on. 

Against her better judgment, Serval leans her cheek against Cocolia’s wrist, trying to catch her gaze, asking the silent question of if it’s okay, if she can have a little tenderness, if she’s been good enough.

Cocolia lets her stay there for a few seconds, which is enough to have Serval contemplating buying an engagement ring.

Maybe it’s the lingering shame, maybe it’s the fact that she really isn’t over Cocolia, but Serval has to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from uttering a pathetic, needy whine from the way she’s being touched. It’s been so long. In the weeks and months leading up to the break-up, Cocolia worked late, and Serval tried to stay busy, tried to keep Bronya in a good mood, and the last time they had sex was at least five months ago. Their last kiss? Three months. 

In hindsight, she should have seen it coming. 

The worst truth is, if Cocolia wasn’t here, doing this, Serval would just sleep the day away without caring, rinsing her mouth out and drawing on a new smudgy eyeliner before going out again. She’s been neglecting work, research, and above all, herself. It hurts too much to look at herself in the mirror for extended periods of time. It hurts to touch her own skin, remembering the ghost of Cocolia’s fingers skimming over the same stretch marks and burns from her tinkering gone awry. 

And Serval thinks she doesn’t deserve to have care poured into her by anyone, least of all herself. She’d rather rot in bed, the sheets stinking of tears and her own desperate masturbation, trying to alleviate anything and failing miserably. 

“Close your eyes,” Cocolia instructs, her voice betraying no emotion, and Serval does as told. She always has. At least when it comes to Cocolia.

She rinses out Serval’s hair, wringing it out a little before applying conditioner. Also one Serval took from her, and again she doesn’t comment. Twisting Serval’s hair, she piles it on top of her head to let it sit for a while and rolls up her sleeves. 

“Your arm.”

Serval obliges, trance-like. Something about Cocolia’s touch always gets her there, like the world around her dissolves and she’s being led into a beautiful dream. 

Cocolia uses a rough oat and salt soap on Serval, running it over her skin and scrubbing away at all the dead skin and dry patches. She takes great care to wash it all off before moving to her back, scrubbing gently and washing it off. She picks up Serval’s right arm from the water, starting from the shoulder and working her way down to the hand, stopping when she gets to the knuckles, shining red and raw. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” Serval says, trying to hide the scrapes. “Really.” The soapy hot water has them throbbing with a sharp sting. 

“Why do you do it?” Cocolia asks. 

“It’s the only thing I find fun.” It’s the adrenaline thrill when she doesn’t know if she’s going to win or lose. It’s the rush when she feels the impact on her own body. It’s so utterly pointless but she just wants to pick fights with someone who will fight back because Cocolia sure isn’t. 

Cocolia brushes her thumb over the scabs, an act so intimate Serval feels sick. This can’t be real, it has to be a dream, she’s drunk beyond saving on a park bench and having a delirious dream as she’s freezing to death. She can’t think clearly like this. Having Cocolia do this to her, and then what? What comes next? Is she going to walk out? Why is she here, being this tender and sweet?

“Why this?” Serval asks, unable to stop herself. “Why are you doing this?”

“Someone has to care for you when you won’t do it yourself.”

It’s a terrible answer, twisting hard in Serval’s chest.

Dipping her hand into the tub, she starts scrubbing Serval’s legs, from the ankle upwards. When she gets to the knee Serval assumes she’ll stop, but Cocolia keeps going, her hand slipping between Serval’s thighs.

Unable to stop herself and her careening thoughts, Serval lets out a whine. 

Cocolia pauses, hand still. As if she remembered. It’s so quiet in the bathroom. 

“May I?” Cocolia asks, her voice husky, laced with that particular suggestion Serval could get into a hundred bar fights for if she knew at the end of the split lips and busted eyebrows there it’d be.

“Yes.” The word is so thick and difficult for her, but she’d say it a hundred times if necessary.

Cocolia puts the soap on the edge of the tub, her hand quickly moving back between Serval’s thighs, and just the touch of her thumb on the outer labia has Serval keening. She’s so starved of touch, so desperate for it, she’d do anything and she knows it’s pathetic but she doesn’t care anymore.

Cocolia’s fingers part her labia expertly, touch so cruel and light. It’s like she is just feeling Serval without any deeper intention, cold and functional. 

It’s still enough. It’s something Serval can take, a crumb she can cherish. She squeezes her legs around Cocolia’s hand and grinds herself against the still fingers. It’s not exactly an orgasm, but something releases in her, face burning hot as she lets out a strangled cry.

She leans her cheek against Cocolia’s thigh, rubbing against it. Her tongue weighs words, trying to find the perfect ones, but thank you is too small, and I love you so dangerous. Both are true though, but too honest. She’s not as good at lying as Cocolia is.

Cocolia keeps her hand between Serval’s legs, her cheeks blushing pink. Serval doesn’t know what to do with herself. She doesn’t know what any of this means. 

The doorbell rings and Cocolia’s hand darts out of the water, the lack of skin contact leaving Serval reeling.

“Rinse yourself off,” Cocolia says, closing the bathroom door. A command, and nothing else. 

Serval sits still for a minute, the furious beating of her heart and the ache between her legs unsolved. She considers rubbing one out quickly, but she can still feel Cocolia’s hand there, a ghost promising nothing, and even if it torments her, she can hold on to that sensation for a few hours. It’s better than starvation.

She drags it out, sullen and desperate to not lose what she’s gotten, but the water is getting cold. There is only so much self-inflicted misery she can take at a time. She kicks the drain and puts her head under the showerhead, rinsing out the lengths until they feel silky smooth. Well, not counting the snarls at the back of her head. But that’s a problem for another day. 

Drying off, she puts on a robe Geppie bought her that she has not used, because he’s trying to show care despite being at work all day and not knowing how to talk about it beyond cheer up and maybe it’s for the best, which are useless things to say and they both know it. So. He buys things. Leaves them around the apartment like offerings that she picks up or ignores. Landaus aren’t great at talking feelings out.

Cocolia’s in the kitchen, and Serval peeks in. She’s setting the table, scraping takeout out of its boxes and putting it on plates. She’s always so damn proper about it. 

“I don’t mind eating right out of the box, you know. Fewer dishes.”

“I know,” Cocolia says, not looking up. “But this is more civilized.”

Serval shrugs. This isn’t the fight she wants to have, either way. The way her head is throbbing and Cocolia is pouring coffee, she’s still unsure if their break-up was just a bad dream or not. She wants a late breakfast, coffee with a dash of milk, and for Cocolia to tell her something sweet. Is it too much to ask for?

“You embarrassed me yesterday,” Cocolia says, blowing at the rim of the mug.

Clearly it is too much to ask for. 

“I just wanted to see you,” Serval says, sitting down across the small table. “Is that so wrong?”

“Why is this so hard for you to accept?”

Serval’s appetite vanishes. “Don’t give me that, Cocolia. You come here, you do all this to me, you damn near finger me in the tub, and now you want to suggest I’m the one making it worse?”

Cocolia’s ear tips redden. It’s still cute, and it irks Serval that she finds it cute, because everything about Cocolia is a barbed wire she can’t stop palming like the next time, it won’t slice her skin open.

“I’m only trying to care for you.”

“You were perfectly fine turning me into the pariah. You don’t get to come here and act like it’s all fine again.”

There’s so much to say, so much to yell. And yet, a part of her is begging for her to shut up, to just take what she can have, there won’t be anything more the minute Cocolia is out the door so why is she making it so damn difficult for herself?

“Why do you shut down when it comes?” This strange shift in mood that they can’t talk about, yet rules them.

Cocolia pulls her shoulders up. Go easy, Serval knows it, but it’s so damn hard.

“When the feelings come, it’s like the world turns grey,” Cocolia begins, each word sounding like she’s pulling a splinter out from under her nail. “Everything gets tinted by it. I look at you, I look at us, and it’s just nothing.”

Serval asked. She shouldn’t be surprised it hurts, but it’d probably hurt less if she just had Cocolia ram a kitchen knife through her ribcage at this point. 

“We are not nothing.”

“Maybe.” Cocolia puts her chin in her hand and leans forward. “It’s hard for me to see us together during these times. We are so incompatible, long-term, that it is hard to see the point. We are not those bright-eyed girls who entered the Academy at the same time. Running Belobog takes so much, and it isn’t fixed with idealism.”

“Let us run our course.” Serval glares. It’s not about the damn city, it’s not about the damn world, it’s about them and she always does this, making it bigger than it has to be. “Fine, the world feels like it’s ending for you, but you’d rather do it alone? You’d rather watch it all crumble alone? I don’t get it. This is about you and me and no one in the rest of the city needs to know a thing about what goes on between us. Fine, we hit fifty and we can’t see eye to eye, we can take it then. But what we have right now is good, and it’s worth fighting for.” Her voice cracks a little, and she swallows, a taste of salt in the back of her mouth. “It matters a lot to me.”

“Perhaps you don’t understand what I mean.” She’s so calm and collected, her voice even. There’s no fight in her. “I don’t enjoy breaking your heart.”

“But it’s a necessary medicine, is that it?”

“Don’t you think I missed you?” Cocolia says, looking out the window at the snow whirling through the winding street, covering the cobblestones in a powdery soft layer. 

“You seem to be doing well without me.”

“Am I?” Cocolia holds up her hands. They are trembling. “I don’t want to hurt you. I really don’t enjoy it. But there are places in me I can’t bring you.” She licks her lips, staring down into the mug. “There are thoughts in me I can’t put into words nor explain. And you want to know. You want to see every piece of me. And I can’t let you that close.”

If it had been a year ago they had this fight, Serval might have cried at hearing this. But something in the last month has shifted in her. “You could try.”

“Try what?”

“Try to let me just be near you. I don’t need to know everything in you. It’s a want, yes, but not a need. Put up your walls if you need to. Just come down on the other side once in a while.” 

Cocolia smiles, wiping at the corner of her eye. “Eat your food.”

As if it’s all magically fixed. 

Serval looks at the plate in front of her, and she feels the hunger gnawing at her stomach, but she’s not done. “When we have these fights I think it’s something I did. And I start looking back at the day, at the whole week, wondering what it was. I wonder what is wrong with me. That’s the message you send when you slice me out of your life like I’m a malignant tumor.”

Cocolia hardens again, and Serval knows the ice is thinner than paper, but she has one last swing in her, and then she’s done. Maybe forever.

“I don’t know how many more rounds of this I have in me, Cocolia. So make up your mind right now because I need to know where we stand. If you stay now, you stay and you try. If you go… Don’t come back for me. Ever.” Serval’s surprised at her words, and she is not entirely sure she means them all the way, but they feel true. Because she doesn’t want to live on scraps of affection anymore. But she knows she can. And so does Cocolia.

The chair scrapes as Cocolia pushes it back, and Serval knows the familiar pain all too well, she has no defense against it, she has nothing to put against the terror of ripping Cocolia clean out of her life, she blinks furiously, screwing her eyes shut and just hoping to hear the door close already,  leave and let her break apart into a thousand pieces alone—

“Serval,” Cocolia says, her voice accompanied by two hands cupping Serval’s face. “Look at me.”

When she opens her eyes, Cocolia leans down to kiss her, deep and warm, and all the love she has ever felt towards her comes rushing back in, drowning her fully. She hits Cocolia’s chest with her closed hand before clinging to the lapels of her coat, pulling her in closer, wanting to be swallowed whole by her heart. She doesn’t know how to love in any other way. It’s everything or the tundra.

As they break apart, both are gasping for air, Cocolia thumbing Serval’s swollen lips. “I think Belobog makes you miserable.”

“You make me miserable. Don’t get them confused.” 

“That’s the thing, isn’t it? I am Belobog’s will and heart. I am the one guiding her into a better future.”

“The city can wait,” Serval says, biting Cocolia’s chin as she stands up and sways on her feet, dizzy and hungry and weak. “I can’t.” She stumbles forward and Cocolia has to catch her.

“You are a mess,” she tuts, pushing Serval back down into her chair and pulling hers over. “Do I have to make sure you eat?”

“Maybe,” Serval teases, and Cocolia stabs the fork through a roasted potato, dips it in the salted egg yolk and holds it up to Serval’s mouth. If it was anyone else, Serval would have been embarrassed. But with Cocolia… Well. She opens her mouth and bites down.

Serval takes the cutlery in her hands and eats obediently, her leg pressed against Cocolia’s. Not everything is back to fine, but it’s going to get there, she knows it, they have done it before. They can do better this time.

“There,” Serval says as she polishes off the last of the sliced carrots on the plate. “Now… I need you to finish what you started in the bathroom.” She slides herself over Cocolia, straddling her lap and wrapping her arms around her neck. Like the last few months didn’t matter.

“Do you now?” 

“I do.” Serval leans in, putting her lips to Cocolia’s ears. “I’ve been terrible, haven’t I? Don’t I deserve some correction? Some rough treatment?” It’s a suggestion she plays when she knows exactly what she wants, and she lays it on the table like an offer for Cocolia. Take me, do as you please, if you want, I’m all yours. 

Her breath catches a little in her throat, her fingers on Serval’s leg digging into the soft flesh. “Is that what you want?” Her voice is husky, mirroring the hunger Serval feels. 

“Yes,” Serval says, biting at Cocolia’s earlobe to draw a hiss from her. 

“Terrible,” Cocolia mutters, yanking at Serval’s hair. “Utterly terrible.” Her hand slides in under the robe, up the back of Serval’s thigh, and she gets that look on her face when she feels that Serval didn’t put on any underwear. It’s just her bare ass, and oh, how it stings when Cocolia pinches the skin before raising her hand and striking the tender flesh.

Serval rocks forward on instinct, whimpering, wanting to rub her cunt against Cocolia’s thigh until she comes and Cocolia makes her lick every drop off of her. There’s so much shared history between their bodies and it’s right there, ripe for opening back up.

“You want this pain,” Cocolia says, hand hitting Serval’s ass again, harder this time. “You’re just the same filthy mess.”

Serval nods eagerly. “Yes, yes I am, I’ve always been.”

The whiteout outside is so intense she cannot even see the buildings across the street, yet Cocolia tugs at the curtains to close them. It’s a toxic sting in Serval’s heart, one she can’t handle, never has — is she this rotten? Is she forever just going to be a dirty secret, easily passed off as a footnote in Cocolia’s grand history?

Yet those thoughts quickly fade from her mind when Cocolia spanks her again. 

“Lie down. Over my lap.”

Serval scrambles to comply, noting distantly that she’s too eager, too willing to do it, and also shoving that thought deep down and far away because when Cocolia slides that robe up over the back of her thighs and bare ass is revealed to the soft touch of her palm, how can she pretend she has ever wanted anything else? Impossible.

Cocolia runs her hand over the curve of Serval’s ass, dipping it a bit lower before raising her hand. The anticipation of the incoming stroke has Serval holding her breath, and when the palm connects with her skin again she shudders, biting down on the soft skin underneath her thumb.

Again and again, Cocolia strikes her ass, alternating hard and soft to keep Serval guessing, and she’s squirming and panting, struggling to keep balanced on Cocolia’s lap but if she slips too much Cocolia gets meaner. She has her right where she wants her, and it’s got her dripping on the inside of her thighs. 

A merciful pause, during which Cocolia’s fingertips skim down to between Serval’s legs, and the horridly perverse noises of her touching the blooming wetness there fill the kitchen. 

“You are as depraved as ever.” To underline her point, she slides one long finger into Serval, no resistance, all the way to the third knuckle, and wiggles it around. “Can I still fit my fist inside of you?”

“Yes,” Serval moans. She knows it’s possible, she knows she can be that good. “Try. Please, try.”

Cocolia only laughs, pulling the finger out and spanking her again, the wet finger adding a sting that has Serval begging in broken noises and incoherent words. 

“I think you’ve had enough,” Cocolia says, patting Serval’s sore ass. “There you go.”

She slides off Cocolia, sitting on her knees for a moment as she re-orients herself, dizzy from the treatment. Cocolia pets her head and gets back to the cooling coffee, finishing it off as if that one finger on her hand isn’t shining wet. Serval stares at it, her mouth dry.

“Fuck me,” Serval asks, throwing the last shreds of dignity in the trash and hoping they stay there forever. “Cocolia, please. I need you to fuck me.”

“Is that so? Prove it.”

“Am I not wet enough? Wasn’t I dripping?” Serval dips a hand between her legs and skims over her vulva, holding it up towards Cocolia as it shines in the low light. “I’m yours. I have been ever since you first kissed me. So take me. Have me. Fuck me until I can’t say anything but your name.”

“You’re so cute when you get like this,” Cocolia muses.

And yet she doesn’t move, she doesn’t do anything. 

It’s bait, and Serval is all too willing to bite. Literally. She sinks her teeth into that spot on Cocolia’s hip she likes to leave bare, Qlipoth knows why but Serval doesn’t complain, it’s soft and tender and it hurts when bitten. She knows, she’s done it many times, leaving marks so brilliant red against Cocolia’s pale skin she has to wear clothing that covers it for days after. 

Cocolia hisses, yanking hard at Serval’s hair to pull her away. Serval grins up at her, a string of saliva dangling down over her chin that she lazily laps up. The way Cocolia’s eyes are darkening, she knows she got her where she wants. She knows she is going to get it. 

It’s hardly a surprise when Cocolia slaps her cheek lightly, nor when she rises and pulls Serval up with her by the hair. A familiar dance. A familiar cruel tenderness.

It’s exactly what Serval needs right now.

She gestures to the door that’s her room, trying not to flinch at the childish SERVAL’S, KEEP OUT she has taped to it, but at least Cocolia doesn’t comment on it. Nor the state of her room.

It’s cramped, the bed taking up most of the space, an entire wall covered by boxes she hasn’t unpacked. On the shelf above the crumpled sheets sits a collection of sex toys she’s bought to pass the time. She used up her severance pay for them, which is a humiliating thing to admit. She hung up the riding crop and ropes Cocolia used on her next to them, and in her weaker moments she pressed them to her body, let the crop land on her thighs, and it was not the same but it made her feel something, and at the time, that was enough.

“You use these?” Cocolia leans in, looking closely at the toys. They are… Different. Not the regular smooth and somewhat normal Cocolia prefers. Serval wishes she could explain what got into her head except that she wanted to get as far away from how Cocolia felt inside of her as possible, and the silicone models shaped like fantastical, nonexistent cocks get her there. 

“Yes.” No use denying it. She’s worked every single one into her at some point or other, wanting more, wanting bigger, wanting to just clamp down around them and rocking herself back and forth softly until she comes hard. 

“Show me.” Cocolia turns and looks her up and down, speaking in that voice that she only uses to command Serval around. “Show me how you fuck yourself with them. I want to see.”

Serval shrugs out of the robe and climbs onto the bed, feeling naked and vulnerable, but wholly determined to put on a show so good that Cocolia won’t be able to keep her hands off of her. 

She grabs a toy on the medium end of the size spectrum, pumping out lube and coating it thoroughly before she reclines on the bed and spreads her legs. It’s hard not to blush under Cocolia’s stern gaze, her presence in this room outsizing it. 

Guiding the tip to her opening, Serval teases it there for a while, feeling her body softening, muscles relaxing, before she pushes it in. Slow. Keeping eye contact with Cocolia throughout. Look at me and love me so much you never leave me again. If she just tries hard enough she will find the magic trick that turns their love into eternity. 

It’s a twisted and textured dildo, and with some wiggling she has it nestling it just right so that it’s pressing against both the g-spot and a-spot. She pushes the palm of her hand against the flat bottom of it, keeping it firmly lodged inside herself as she squeezes down on it. 

“And then I just…” Serval finds it difficult to put words together cohesively. Partially because it feels so good to be filled up, and partially because she’s ashamed to admit what she gets off to these days. “Uhm. I look at. Stuff. Or listen to some audio.”

Cocolia sits down on the edge of the bed, one hand on Serval’s ankle. “What kind?”

Serval shakes her head, embarrassed, but Cocolia’s fingertips dance over Serval’s skin and it’s so hard to say no to her when she does these simple things. In the end it’s more embarrassing how easily she folds for a mere touch than anything else.

“A recording I bought of a woman talking down to me. Well, the listener. It’s generic, but.”

“Really. And does she do it better than I did?”

“No.”

“Good to know,” Cocolia says, clearly amused. She slowly crawls up the bed until she’s got her mouth to Serval’s ear, one hand gripping her hair, the other her chin, nothing lower than her collarbone, and yet she has such precise and exact control over Serval. “I might have been jealous otherwise.”

Serval shudders at the way Cocolia drops her voice low, the edge of cruelty meant to get to her.

“Have you missed being called filth by me?”

“Yes,” Serval says, nodding eagerly. 

“You better not have let anyone else touch you. Your body, your cunt, they’re mine.”

“Yours,” Serval repeats, her lower lip trembling.

“That’s right,” Cocolia hums into her ear, the effect of her voice rippling through Serval’s body like a runaway fire. “And you will do as I say, won’t you? Be a good girl and pull that toy out just a little, good, and then back in. Again. Fuck yourself for me like this.”

Serval obeys, eager to prove to Cocolia that she is good, that she deserves sweetness, that she deserves everything and anything Cocolia can give her. The dildo rubs against her g-spot each time she thrusts it into herself, and it takes so little for her to get close, touch-starved for months.
She presses her thighs together and whimpers. “Can I come?”

“You can ask better than that.”

“Please, please.” She squeezes her eyes shut, embarrassed but willing. “Madame, can I please… May I come?”

“You may.”

Eager to not disappoint, Serval pushes herself hard over the edge, harder than she usually does alone, and the orgasm crashes over her. She digs her feet in and arches off the bed, her thighs aching, the toy slipping out of her as the clenching muscles push it out. 

“Keep going,” Cocolia whispers, and Serval follows her command, fingers furiously rubbing at her clit. It’s cruel, it’s mean, and she moans as she keeps coming, unsure if the first ever ended. Her body is tuned to Cocolia’s will, performing just for her amusement, and it’s so deliciously terrible. 

“Lia,” she cries, her thighs quaking. “Please…”

Cocolia slips between icy cold and tenderly hot so easily in bed, and she does it without missing a beat in reading what Serval needs. 

“So good,” Cocolia hums, her hand sliding down over Serval’s naked body, pushing away Serval’s hand as she runs her fingers over her dripping cunt. “So good and wet for me. And you even stretched yourself out for me.” She slides three fingers in, pulling out and adding a fourth. It’s so good but it’s not enough and Serval turns to look at her, pleading with all the desperation strung throughout her body. “Now let’s see if you did a good enough job.”

Cocolia adds her thumb, folding her hand and sliding it in slowly. She pauses when she gets to the knuckles, pressing a dry kiss to Serval’s forehead. “Relax,” she says, wiggling her fingers around, but there’s no need. She slips her hand in just fine, Serval’s pussy so wet and ready that it takes the hand easily.

“Lia,” Serval groans, teetering on the edge, not sure how it’s possible that Cocolia can push her further, but trusting in her wholeheartedly. She’s done it before. 

“I remember you liked this.” Inside her, Serval feels all of Cocolia’s fingers, the wholeness of her hand, bigger than Serval’s, softer and well-maintained, and she feels how Cocolia twists her hand a little, opening the fist up and bending the thumb so the knuckle of it rubs against that spot in her that has her panting open-mouthed. “And you still do.”

“Because I’m yours,” Serval says, words hard to form, she’s there, she’s right there, she just needs permission and she will — 

Cocolia licks a long stripe along Serval’s jaw, teeth grazing her earlobe. “You’re mine. Come for me.”

And Serval obeys, her love and need a blind faith with which Cocolia can take her anywhere. She comes, clenching down on Cocolia’s hand, holding on to her wrist so hard she might snap it, rutting herself against it as she rides out the last crest, messy and screaming. 

Collapsing into a messy and wet heap, shaking all over, her lip trembling as she turns toward Cocolia, trying to nestle her face against her neck, struggling to find words. It’s the best sex she’s ever had. Soul-rending. Heart-wrenching. If her mind wasn’t completely blown to pieces, she’d write a song praising Cocolia’s knuckles. 

“You made such a mess.” Cocolia takes her time, gently slipping her hand out before she brings it up in front of her face, ignoring the whiny protests Serval lets out over how she feels gaping and empty. “Lick this clean.” 

Serval lazily licks at her fingers, looking up at Cocolia. “Was I good?” It’s the question she asks when she is too exhausted to do more, when she wants to be brought back to herself. Cocolia recognizes the code they use together, her face changing, softening, as she takes Serval’s hand and kisses her palm. 

“You were beautiful,” she murmurs, draping a blanket over Serval. “You were so good.”

“Thank you.” Serval presses herself against Cocolia, sore and tender and blissful. “Stay with me?”

Her body settles behind Serval’s, arm draped over her, and it feels safe, the first restful sleep she’s had in weeks. Like she’s back in the home they built together again. 

Cocolia watches Serval sleep for hours, her blissful expression stirring up a storm inside her chest. They won’t be safe together for long, but maybe… Hope is so dangerous when it flares up in her, euphoric and tantalizing, because it never lasts.

She carefully extracts herself from Serval’s arms wrapped around her, a difficult effort considering how Serval keeps refusing to let go, until Cocolia replaces herself with a pillow in her clutching arms. 

Pulling on her coat, she heads down around the corner and brings back a bouquet of Serval’s favorite flowers, the white droplets bowing in soft arcs. It’s not enough. It’s not good enough. But she can’t rip this open again. She made a mistake, thinking she had it under control. 

It’s hard to keep it silent when it comes. She has never figured out a lasting way to stave it off. 

It has happened before, and she sees it stretching out ahead of her, happening again and again. You will keep hurting her. And there it is, forming words. The closer she draws to Serval, the more accusing it gets. And it’s never been wrong before.

She doesn’t want to do it, but she has to. She doesn’t recognize her own hands as they open drawers, looking for a pen and paper. These hands, so determined, so decisive, they aren’t hers, it’s not her words being written on the sheet of paper, folded in half and stuck between the flowers. 

But it is. You will keep hurting her. End it.

It’s not fair, but being Supreme Guardian has never been about fairness. And it’s gotten harder to fight off, to justify her own indulgences against the onslaught in her mind. She has been wrong. It hasn’t. And that makes all the difference. 

Night grips Belobog hard and fast, and she’s not sure why she is standing down the street until she feels the hollow realization as she can watch the lit-up kitchen perfectly. She wants to leave. She knows it’s good medicine to watch, bitter and vile, but necessary. She has to see what she has wrought, know that the bridge is burned.

Serval enters the kitchen, sleepy but beaming, the kind of content joy she always radiated when they were together. She unfolds the note left with the flowers, and bit by bit her smile freezes, dropping. Dying.

Cocolia should look away. It’s terrible, watching Serval’s heart shatter again. The first time ripped something clean out of her, but a dark corner of her wicked heart almost enjoyed it. She steels herself. She has to see it through. She has to know that it is over, definite and absolute. That there will be no salvaging what she has done.

Serval bites her thumb, looking at the note. She puts it down and chews her lip, wrapping her arms around herself. Then she picks up the vase and smashes it on the floor, screaming, ripping at the flowers until her hands are bloodied. It’s a show worthy of songs. She sags down onto the floor, surrounded by shards and petals, and just sits there. Her shoulders shaking. Her eyes stare out the window, and Cocolia swears she’s seen, but there’s something too distant and glazed over with her. The cloud of grief settles over her body and mind.

Cocolia has never seen this part of the process. She digs her nails into the palms of her hand, hard enough that she feels blood pool in her pockets, but she can’t move her body back in.

It is done. It is over.

It hurts worse than anything she has ever gone through, feeling hope extinguished by her own malicious hands. There is no one left to fool. She is obedient to a fault to the voice guiding her, even when it takes everything she loves away.

It’s a righteous thing she is doing, she tells herself, but it feels like shredding her own heart in the process. Necessary, she knows. She can’t be tender and soft for what she must do. Maybe one day Serval will see what she has wrought and understand the value of every sacrifice. Even if it was their love on the chopping block. 

Serval is safe from her like this, at least. It’s more than she can say for herself.