#dia monde

[pencokun]

22/8/2024

[voidmin]

*let me hope dia*

dia I have good news

so I looked at randy's blog and, although he's reblogging stuff with slightly annoying additions, from the point where he said he actually supported trans right onwards, he seems to be *tolerable*

like from the recent stuff I wouldn't actively call him an asshole

...let's hope it lasts

(also I'm not saying he definitely is getting better, he might be harassing people behind closed doors, this is just what I observed from what I can find from his newer stuff)

yeah that stuff temporarily happens

he’s probably gonna flip back to being problematic eventually🧍

[creamyandrich]

two very popular bottom heavy gems are Garnet and Peri. do you have a preference on your fat-assed magic woman? (also sorry for SU spam if its a bother)

Those are two very good picks HOWEVER

[chowtrolls]

It'll All Decay.

Google Docs Link || Song Link

It took you two days to say goodbye to everyone for good after the trial. You were very specific about it. The last time you left for the Fleet without a goodbye, your matesprit died. So, you made sure you hunted down each person. 

Marsie was the easiest, for obvious reasons. Carbyn wasn’t too hard to hunt down, you got him when he was visiting Nesseo. Two birds, one stone. Daseos and Hanagi were the same. You gave Das a letter, and asked she give it to her reading teacher. 

Your siblings made their displeasure very clear. None of them liked your decision. Even Bertie seemed hesitant to speak to you. As you hugged Faxaen, you promised them it’d just be a couple weeks. You needed your things. And had to steal a cat. That got a smile out of them. Calysa was quiet, but there was more under her lime eyes that you didn’t dare dive into.

Mondes was the most difficult to track down. It seemed like he was avoiding you. His gaze was cold again. You felt like you were betraying some unspoken promise. All you could do was tell him the last time you forgot to say goodbye, someone died, and you’d had enough death for one sweep. You hesitated, resisting the urge to hug him. You stared at each other, silently, in some odd unspoken duel. You left first. 

Your moirail dropped you off at the shuttle. It wasn’t a lengthy or glamorous goodbye. He didn’t ask you to stay, or questioned why you wanted to go back. Tori was a good moirail like that. Or maybe you were a bad moirail for wanting him to not express his concerns. 

Time began to move in fast forward after you hugged him goodbye. 

You blinked, and suddenly, you were back in space. You didn’t even remember the shuttle back to Commander Almiss’ ship. You were just there. Breathing in the stale recycled air through the filter on your mask. Each step took an eternity. Everything felt hazy and unreal. You had to be asleep. Still on Alternia, sleeping on the floor of that AirBnb while Mondes made soup in the kitchen. You could almost smell the soup on the stove.

You were on the floor. But not the AirBnb. The floor of Paenit’s office, cradling Mavrik’s head in your arms. No soup, just blood. Violet blood stained the clothes you stole from your brother. That was all you could think of in that moment. How difficult those stains would be to get out. Bertie would never forgive you. Bertie would never forgive you, and another person you loved would die before you could help them. Selfish thoughts to have in the moment. 

Mavrik would have surgery to fix his jaw. You would confront Paenit about why he did it. But you didn’t have it in you to hate him for breaking Mavrik’s jaw. You just hold him as he cries,  go to sleep instead. 

And thus the cycle begins. You wake up. You counted the bandages in your cabinets, took stock of the medical supplies, reorganized the locked medicine box. You forced down food. You checked on Mav. You stared out a window in his recovery room. You went to sleep. 

Two days becomes two weeks. Two weeks of waking up, working in the med wing, checking on Mav, staring out a window, going to bed. 

Two weeks becomes a month. You stop eating. Mavrik is cleared to leave. He and his crew leave suddenly, and you forgot to say goodbye. 

One month turns into two. With Mav gone, you spend more time staring out the window in your block. You wake up, attempt and ultimately fail to organize your medical supplies. You stare out a window in some random spot of the ship until Paenit finds you, and tries to get you to eat. 

Three months. You tell your commander that he should find another medic. He just agreed, and you looked back out the window of his office. That’s the last time you speak to him. The medical wing you worked so hard on is now in disarray. You’re barely ever there. You spend a lot of time sleeping in Paenit’s office. And staring out the window. 

Five months. You’ve stopped talking entirely. Words took too much energy. You only eat when you’re told to. You haven’t left your block in weeks. All you do is stare out the window. Watching the stars go by. 

You think about her constantly. You watch the extraterrestrial clouds swirl around stars and space debris, and you think about her. How scared she must’ve been. How much pain she must’ve been in. You should’ve been out there. You could’ve stolen another ship, you should’ve called Mav to find her. If only you had gotten to her. Hanagi was a doctor, but maybe you could’ve done more. You would’ve given anything for one more minute with her. One more minute, and maybe you could’ve changed the way this played out. 

Was death kind to her? Did she find peace in the stars? Did she finally meet Daisee, if the afterlife was real? Could she hear your thoughts? Did she know she was loved? If by no one else, by you? Where does the soul rest if lost in the expanse of space? Was it wrong to miss someone who caused so much hurt? Did you tell her you loved her enough? You didn’t mourn the death of that uncaring, cruel version of her. You mourned for the little kid who held your hand as she took her first steps, who learned how to braid with your hair, who taught you how to climb high into the trees.  All anyone on Alternia could talk about was how horrible she was. The entire courtroom was filed with contempt for her. You sat in front of Alternia, and it took every ounce of self control not to scream into the cameras that she was still your sister. Everyone wanted her to be the villain. But even villains deserve to be mourned sometimes. 

Your lusus told you once that grief was just love with nowhere to go. Grief made people do horrible things. Didn’t you do horrible things when Festur died? You didn’t have a killer to hunt down, so you made yourself out to be the murderer. You tried to kill the person you used to be, made yourself a new face. There was more blood on your hands than Twitch could ever have fathomed being a possibility. Her academy’s simulations could never conjure up the things you’ve done in the name of grief and self destruction. Like now, for instance. 

You didn’t want your stuff. You didn’t want a medal, you didn’t want the cat you told Faxaen you’d steal. You didn’t come back for Mavrik, or Paenit, or your med wing. There was no way you could explain it, nobody would understand. You went back to space, because that’s where she died. And that was the only way you could be close to her again. Because you swear the stars were stained violet. 

You don’t know what day it is. You just miss her. And Daisee, and Festur, and Mezaka, and Necrol. And Marsie, and Mondes, and Toresce, and Hanagi, and even Paenit. You’re so sick of death that it consumes you to the point of mourning those still alive. 

You don’t know what time it is. But based on how sick you felt, Paenit was due to bring you another tray of tater tots. You barely touched the plate of hashbrowns he left. You hug your knees tighter to your chest, and rest your mask against the cool glass of the window. You were tired of this grief. You were tired of being tired. 

When Paenit brings a tray of food to your block this time, you don’t just stare at him silently. You hold out your arms. Take off your mask. And finally let someone hold you while you cry. 

[byrdtrollsunoreversearchive]

I know he isn't your oc but mondes and dia? for the swap, perhaps?

you know me I could never turn down a turning mask4mask into mask4mask request!! Dia belongs to @trollcafe

[discet]

An AU of your AU where one of the girls starts off at Dia Mond's ship instead of Wartwood/Toad Tower/Newtopia.

God that would be so indulgent for me to write about. Fanfic based on my fanfic.

Ah well, what else am i gonna do tonight.

So on a character arc level, I actually think there isn't a bad choice among the three. I think a more fleshed out crew would have something for each of the girls.

Anne: While probably not on board with all the violence so much, but I think she'd vibe with the comradery among thieves. She'd probably have the hardest time with the life at sea bit. Also insist on various quality of life improvements including a movie night where she figures out how to project a move onto the sails. The Civil Wart Episode equivalent ends with the whole crew drawing swords on each other.

Marcy: I think Marcy would have a fucking blast as a high seas swashbuckler. Definitely longest adjustment period among the three just cause of clumsiness. Ends up with a rope tide to her waist whenever she's above deck after nearly falling overboard three times. While Marcy and Dia had a rapport in awiw, it was ultimately marred by the implicit threat to Marcy's loved ones that loomed at all times. Without that and with Marcy making improvements to the ships armaments' and general tactics, Dia and Marcy get along fabulously. Definitely kind of bummed when her electronics run out of power though.

Sasha: Probably the most interesting case study here. Dia, unlike Grime and Yunan, isn't an authority figure. She is a straight up criminal. I think Sasha would be onboard with the crew pretty quickly in the same way she took to being a luitenent naturally in canon. But rather than being a power trip, I think it would be interesting to see her have to value and work with everyone else. No idle hands on a sailing ship. Dia wouldn't be as noble or moral a compass as Yunan is in awiw or indulge Sasha's worst controlling tendencies like Grime does in Canon. She'd be really interesting middle ground between the two. A leader who does care about her crew for their own sake, but doesn't have qualms about kicking down someone in between them and their goals. I think her development there would be really fun.

I think ultimately the catch with all of these is that as a pirate ship, Dia and her crew is gonna be well away from the rest of the plot. You'd have to probably overhaul the rest of the geography of Amphibia to let a pirate ship be relevant to the plot. Though it wouldn't be hard to change things into a island chain? But yeah, I love Dia, thanks for asking about her

[termina-festival]

goodmorning husbands of the world! :D

[st3f4no1897]

Buongiornissimo amici bellissimi e finalmente buon venerdì a tutti.

[homicidalfantrolls]

perhaps…now that things have… developed……..

GRAB BAG JUDGEMENT MEME

hehe wanted an excuse to use this gif again :3 grab bag judgement meme! reblog with a troll and I’ll pick someone to judge them back! let me know if minor characters, one troll per reblog, multiple reblogs and judgebacks allowed <3

[imninahchan]

𓏲 ๋࣭ ࣪ ˖ 𐙚 ⌜ 𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐒: 3some, swann!namoradinho, enzo!fotógrafo, fetiche por foto como chama não sei, bebida alcoólica, cigarro (não fumem!), dirty talk (elogios, dumbification e degradação tudo junto) oral e masturbação fem, tapinhas, masturbação masc, sexo sem proteção (proibido entre as sócias desse blog). Termos em francês ou espanhol — petit poète (pequeno poeta), merci (obrigada), pour la muse (para a musa), Sé que más tarde suplicarás por mí, nena, tan lejos que tu gringo no oye (sei que vai implorar por mim mais tarde, nena, tão longe que o seu gringo não ouve), Eres una perra, lo sé (você é uma cadela, eu sei)⁞ ♡ ̆̈ ꒰ 𝑵𝑶𝑻𝑨𝑺 𝑫𝑨 𝑨𝑼𝑻𝑶𝑹𝑨 ꒱ colidindo dois mundos diferentes das girls ─ Ꮺ !

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⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ───── 𓍢ִ໋🀦

VOCÊ NUNCA DUVIDOU DO TALENTO DE ENZO nem por um segundo. Aqui, finalmente apreciando a exposição, seus olhos se enchem ao ver o resultado de tantas horas frente às lentes dele naquele estúdio. Se vê maravilhada com a perspectiva artística do uruguaio, na forma sensível com que te captou. Os seus pezinhos no chão de madeira do apartamento dele. Os seus joelhos manchados de tinta esgueirando por baixo da barra do vestido. O seu olhar perdido, sentada na otomana vintage ao piano, os fios de cabelo bagunçados, na sala da sua casa mesmo. É de uma satisfação enorme se enxergar pelos olhos dele quando a visão é fascinante o suficiente pra beijar o seu ego. É como ler poesia, e não ser o poeta enfim, mas o poema.

“Para o nosso petit poète!”, Swann saúda, servindo a taça do Vogrincic. Champanhe escorre pela garrafa de marca chique, recém-aberta. Já é a segunda rodada de espumante e comemorações, se contar o festejo de taças e elogios cordiais durante a exibição mais cedo. Agora, um pouco mais intimista, só vocês três no conforto da decoração boho maximalista da casa. Merci, Enzo arrisca na língua local, espalmando a mão no peito, por cima da camisa social, e com aquele olhar agradecido. “Pour la muse”, Swann te serve, com um sorriso, e você faz charme, balançando os ombros.

A garrafa retorna para o balde com gelo. O francês puxa do bolso do blazer o maço de cigarro e saca um, guardando o resto. Risca o isqueiro, acende. Depois do primeiro trago, prossegue, “Foi um sucesso. Definitivamente.”, embora o artista latino pareça mais humilde. “Amanhã você vai estar no Le Monde, no Le Parisien, todos os jornais… Todos aqueles críticos de nariz empinadinho pareciam maravilhados.”

Enzo faz que não, com certeza ainda incrédulo após um dia inteirinho nas nuvens. “Obrigada pela oportunidade, é a minha primeira exposição assim, numa galeria fora do Uruguai”, explica, “e mostrar o meu trabalho junto com artistas incr��veis é… Uma honra. De verdade.”, os olhinhos castanhos brilham. 

Swann não quer levar as flores sozinho, te oferece um olhar de canto de olho, “Tem é que agradecer a ela”, lembra, “está apaixonada pelas suas lentes.”

O uruguaio te mira com doçura, “claro”, diz. Pega na sua mão, trazendo à meia altura, “não poderia deixar de agradecer à minha musa”, e beija, “a maior arte dessa noite era você, nena.”

Você se exibe mais diante o elogio, pomposa. Já sente as bochechas queimando de tanto sorrisos fáceis, tanto regozijo, mas mantém a pose de diva, o que não falha em fazê-los rir. “Sempre quis ser musa”, conta, ajeitando os cabelos, de queixo erguido, “quando eu conheci o Swann, ele já estava trabalhando na galeria, não pintava mais”, os beicinhos crispam, numa adorável tristeza teatral, “ainda bem que a sua câmera me encontrou, Enzo.”

“Impossível não te encontrar quando se destaca tanto”, o tom dele se torna ainda mais terno, “não precisei de muito esforço, só tive olhos pra ti desde o começo”. Leva a taça à boca, prova um gole, “Acho que morreria de ciúmes se você fosse minha”, os dedos correm pelos lábios recolhendo a umidade, enquanto os olhos retornam para a figura grisalha no ambiente. 

Não, ele não sente ciúmes, é você que rebate primeiro, com bom humor, ele é francês. Swann ri, sopra a fumaça na direção do quintal, a porta de vidro aberta. Descansa o braço nos seus ombros, “E não posso ser tão egoísta ao ponto de ficar com uma obra-prima dessa só pra mim, não é?”

Você toma nos dedos o cigarro da boca dele, oui, mon amour, e traga. Enzo te observa puxando a fumaça, o seu batom vermelho marcando o pito. Nota, também, a maneira com que o Arlaud te contempla — os olhos azuis banhados a afeto, cintilantes. Tão rendido, tão vassalo. Não o julga, entretanto. Enquanto te eternizava nas imagens, com certeza deve ter te mirado com a mesma significância. 

“Não acha, Enzo?”, o eco da voz caramelada do outro homem desperta o fotógrafo, ao que murmura hm?, molhando a garganta mais uma vez para escutá-lo. “Quer dizer, olha só pra ela… me apaixonei na primeira vez em que a vi”, Swann confessa. Vai chegando com o rosto mais perto de ti, revelando, “...tão bonita, saindo do mar. Pele salgada. Parecia o nascimento de Vênus, ali na minha frente”, até recostar a ponta do nariz na sua bochecha, rindo quando você ri também, vaidosa. “Não dá vontade de beijá-la?”, a pergunta tem ouvinte certo. Os olhos claros voltando-se para os castanhos. “Eu sei que teve vontade de beijá-la em algum momento durante as sessões. Não precisa mentir.”

Em outro momento, talvez com pessoas diferentes, Enzo não se sentiria tão à vontade feito está agora. É que a energia entre vocês três é singular, entenda. Desde o primeiro momento que conheceu o uruguaio, a sua atração física e pelo cérebro de artista dele foi perceptível — além de mútua. E Swann, ele é francês, e são um casal que foge o tradicional, que experimentam. Não é uma ameaça pra ele saber que um homem te deseja. Na verdade, dá ainda mais tesão. 

Enzo pega o cigarro dentre os seus dedos, leva à própria boca. Traga. A fumaça escapa, nubla a face de traços fortes de uma forma cativante, quase que sensual. “É”, admite em voz alta, “tive vontade de beijá-la… tocá-la… diversas vezes desde que a conheci”, está com o foco das íris castanhas nos seus lábios, “aliás, tô sentindo agora.”

O sorrisinho de satisfação estampado na sua cara é inevitável. 

Swann recolhe o pito de volta para si, das mãos de um latino totalmente indiferente ao tabaco, preso à sua figura. Enquanto traga, a voz do francês soa como um demoniozinho nos ombros do outro homem, encorajando, então, beija, como se a solução fosse a mais simplória do mundo. 

O Vogrincic assiste a sua mão espalmar no peito dele; os anéis dourados, as unhas num tom terroso. Você mergulha os dedos entre os botões defeitos da camisa social dele para capturar pingente da correntinha. O olha. Aquela carinha de quem tá querendo muito ser tomada nos braços, devorada. Uma ânsia à qual ele não te nega. 

Pega na sua nuca, a palma quente conquistando espaço. Firme. Fica mais fácil te conduzir para mais perto, trazer o seu corpo pra colar no dele. Encaixar, invadir, sorver. Sente o gosto do espumante, o pontinho amargo do cigarro na sua língua. Um ósculo intenso, diferente do que está acostumada. É puramente carnal, desejoso. Parece que quer te engolir, verga a sua coluna um bocadinho, sobrepondo o próprio corpo por cima. Estalado, e profundo. Cheio de apetite. A taça por pouco não cai dos seus dedos. 

Quando se aparta, é porque o peito queima de vontade de respirar. Ofegam, ambos. A visão dos lábios dele até inchadinhos, avermelhados pelo seu batom, é alucinante. O uruguaio nem se dá ao trabalho de limpar as manchinhas rubras, como quem sabe que a bagunça ainda vai ser maior.

Swann apanha a taça da sua mão para entornar um gole. Ri, soprado. Bom, não é? A pergunta faz o Vogrincic se perder, outra vez, no deslumbre da sua figura. Um olhar de fome, daqueles que precedem o próximo bote. Vê o francês estalar um beijo na sua bochecha, bem humorado, e depois ir descendo pelo seu pescoço. A forma com que segura na sua nuca, guia a sua boca até a dele. Faz o uruguaio sentir um tiquinho de ciúmes, sabe? Mesmo que tenha plena consciência de que não teria justificativas pra esse tipo de sentimento. Já era de se esperar um nível aflorado de intimidade entre você e o seu homem. O roçar da pontinha dos narizes, o mordiscar implicante que ele deixa nos seus lábios, rindo, feito um menino apaixonado, não deveria surpreender o fotógrafo. Mas surpreende. Instiga. Esquenta. 

Enzo traga o pito pela última vez antes de se apressar pra apagá-lo no cinzeiro da mesinha de centro e soprar a fumaça no ar. Ávido, as mãos viajando em direção ao seu corpo — uma firme na sua cintura, e a outra ameaçando tomar o posto na nuca. Swann o interrompe, um toque contendo o ombro e a proximidade de um certo latino com muita sede ao pote. “Aprecia, mas não se acostuma”, avisa, com um sorriso, “tem que tratá-la muito bem pra fazê-la te querer de novo.”

Enzo te olha, analisa. Parece que as palavras estão paradinhas na ponta da língua, porém as engole, prefere te beijar novamente, te tocar novamente. Afinco. Te domina, mostra soberania com o corpo pesando sobre o teu. Você cambaleia, abalada por tamanha intensidade, as costas se apoiam no peito do Arlaud. 

Os beijos escorregam pelo seu pescoço, desenham o decote da sua blusa, por cima do tecido, descendo até a barriga. É crível que vai se ajoelhar, porém acaba tomando outro rumo, retornando com o foco pro seu rosto. “Vou deixar o seu homem te chupar”, diz, com uma marra tão palpável que um sorriso não deixa aparecer nos seus lábios, “porque eu sempre morri de vontade de saber como era meter em ti”, e oferece um olhar ao francês, “deixa a sua mulher molhadinha pra mim?”

Tipo, a construção da frase, a entonação, os trejeitos do uruguaio; tudo faz soar como uma provocação. E, de fato, é. Um homem como Enzo não sabe amar mais de uma vez e muito menos partilhar esse amor. Mas Swann leva tudo com o bom humor de sempre. Faz um aceno com a cabeça, ajeitando-te para que possa encará-lo. Aquele sorrisinho de dentes pequeninos que você tanto acha um charme. O assiste retirar o blazer, fazendo um suspensezinho, além de dar a entender que vai literalmente ‘colocar a mão na massa’. É engraçado como o seu corpo não abandona o estado de calmaria. Poderia estar com o coração acelerado, o sangue correndo nas veias, por diversos motivos, porém tem tanta certeza de que vai sentir prazer ao máximo que não anseia por acelerar nada. 

Swann te conhece muito bem. Cada detalhezinho na sua pele, cada região erógena, cada fio de cabelo que nasce por mais fininho e imperceptível. É um artista que aperfeiçoa a sua arte — dedica tempo, esforço, e não se importa com a bagunça molhada ou com a língua dormente. Antes de se ajoelhar, pede, com ternura, “um beijinho?”, para selar a boca na sua, rapidinho. E afrouxa as mangas da blusa, uma das suas mãos apoiando-se na mesa enquanto a outra mergulha os dedos entre os fios grisalhos à medida que a cabeça dele está na altura da sua virilha. Te liberta da saia longa, da peça íntima, apoia aqui, colocando a sua perna pra repousar sobre o ombro dele. 

Corre as mãos pelo interior das suas coxas, sem pressa. A boca deixa um chupãozinho no seu joelho, mordisca. É louco como ele sabe até o quão forte tem que ser o tapa na sua buceta pra te fazer vibrar e quase perder o equilíbrio. Sorri, sacana, calminha, meu bem, e ainda tem a pachorra de murmurar, é só um tapinha. 

Você até cerra os olhos, prende o lábio inferior entre os dentes praticamente sem notar. O seu corpo se contorce sob o toque, é natural. Swann percorre o dedo de cima a baixo, se mela todinho na umidade que ali já tem, e não vai desistir até que exista muito mais. 

Contorna o seu pontinho doce, te arrancando um suspiro dengoso. Leva o olhar pra ti, “vai gemer manhosinha pra ele ouvir, vai?”, quer saber, “Tem que manter a pose, divina. Não pode mostrar que derrete todinha nas minhas mãos”. Você apenas escuta a conversa suja, já perdida demais no deleite do carinho que recebe, e pior, na visão de acompanhar Enzo se sentando no sofá, com os botões da camisa social desfeitos, e a mão dentro da calça. Aham, é tudo que murmura, alheia. A carícia concentra no clitóris, o dedo circulando mais rápido, mais forte, que a onda de prazer te faz arrepiar dos pés à cabeça. Boquiaberta, por pouco sem babar pelo canto. Swann, você chama, manhosa, me chupa. E ele sorri mais, a língua beira nos dentes de baixo, brincando com a sua sanidade quando só mostra o que tem pra oferecer e demora a te dar o que quer. 

Mas quando te mama, de fato, porra… Chega a ver estrelas, os olhinhos revirando. Ainda bem que aperta os fios dos cabelos dele nas palmas, pois, aí, tem algo pra descontar o nó delicioso que sente no ventre. Quer fechar as pernas, involuntária, no entanto o homem te mantém, faminto, sugando a carne inchadinha. Passa os dentes pelo seu monte de vênus, dois dedos nadando por entre as dobrinhas quentes, ensaiando, parece, até afundar lá dentro e fundo, fundo. Você chia, preenchida na hora certa, na medida certa, pra se sentir conquistada, excitada. Encara Enzo, pornográfica com as expressões faciais, como se quisesse instigar uma prévia do que ele vai provar posteriormente. 

Os lábios de Swann até estalam, tudo tão ensopadinho que escutar a umidade do ato contribui ainda mais pro seu regozijo. O francês bate a palma da mão na sua bucetinha, esquenta a região, antes de voltar a chupar o seu pontinho. A língua dança pra cá e pra lá, também, tão rapidinha, habilidosa. Ai, você chega a sentir uma inquietação, balança os ombros, se contrai, espreguiça. Mas ele quer estar olhando nos seus olhos quando te fizer gozar, porque deixa só os dedos lá e ergue o queixo pra encontrar os seus olhos. As íris azuis brilham, um marzinho cheio e cintilante no qual é fácil querer se afogar. Os cabelos grisalhos estão bagunçadinhos, os lábios finos reluzindo de babadinhos. “Goza pra mim, meu amor”, a voz ecoa numa doçura tamanha, caramelada e derretida feito o seu doce preferido, “quero te beber, você é tão gostosa. Quero chupar você até não sobrar uma gotinha, hm? Vem pra mim, vem. Ver esse seu rostinho de choro quando goza, bobinha, docinha… Daria um quadro e tanto essa sua carinha de puta. Hm?”, e fica difícil resistir. Quer dizer, se entrega sem nem mesmo tentar resistir. É possuída pela ondinha elétrica que percorre seu corpo todinho, eriça os pelinhos e te faz gemer igualzinho uma puta. 

Tremendo, frágil. Quanto mais a boca suga a buceta dolorida, mais você se contorce, mais choraminga. Os olhinhos até marejam, o peito queima, ofegante. 

Quando satisfeito, o homem se põe de pé. Nem se dá ao trabalho pra limpar o rosto melado, sorrindo largo, mas sem mostrar os dentes. Você envolve o braço ao redor do pescoço dele, só pra se escorar enquanto recupera-se, os olhos ardendo sobre a figura do latino masturbando-se no sofá. “Vai lá nele”, Swann encoraja, tocando o canto do seu rosto. Beija a sua bochecha, ganha os seus lábios assim que você mesma vira a face pra alcançá-lo. A saliva misturando com o seu melzinho, um gostinho obsceno. A língua dele empurrando a sua, ao passo que o maldito sorriso canalha não abandona o rosto estrangeiro. 

Ao caminhar sobre os próprios pés, dona de si outra vez, Enzo está com a mão erguida na sua direção. Os dedinhos inquietos até que possam apertar a sua coxa. Vou montar você, é o que diz, num fiozinho de voz, se acomodando sentadinha no colo do fotógrafo. Sustenta-se nos ombros masculinos, alinha-se pra engolir tudo — está babadinha o suficiente pra ser um deslize só. 

O uruguaio suspira, completamente no seu interior, até o talo. Embaladinho lá, no calor divino, delirante. As mãos cravam nas suas nádegas, está pulsando dentro de ti, domado. “Acabou de tirar a buceta da boca dele pra vir sentar no meu pau…”, observa o seu rebolar lento, a maneira jeitosa com que se equilibra bem, não perde nem por um centímetro que seja, “jamais deixaria a minha garota sentar em outro pau senão o meu.”

Então, ainda bem que eu não sou sua, é o que você sussurra. Chega com o rosto perto do dele, a pontinha do nariz resvalando no nariz grande. Enzo aperta o olhar, mascara um sorrisinho. Você sente as unhas dele machucando nas suas nádegas, ele te encara com uma vontade louca de rancar pedaço. Daí, começa a quicar no colo dele, jogando a bunda pra cima no compasso ritmado. Pega nos cabelos negros que se somam, espessos, na nuca alheia, vai me avisar quando for gozar, ordena. É fria com as palavras, mas tentadora, carrega no tom um certo nível de erotismo, que parece deixar Swann orgulhoso, recostado na mesa. Não vou guardar a sua porra porque você não tá merecendo. E o Vogrincic ri na cara do perigo, cheio de si. Abusa da língua materna pra murmurar, “Sé que más tarde suplicarás por mí, nena, tan lejos que tu gringo no oye.”, porque sabe que o francês não vai nem sacar uma palavra que seja, mas você sim, “Não me engana. Eres una perra, lo sé.”

Você maltrata os fios dele entre a mão, como um sinal para que ele pare de falar em espanhol, soltando essas frases riscosas, sujas. Mas Enzo não te compra, não engole essa marra toda. “Faz o que quiser, musa”, fala só por falar, pois o outro escuta, quando quer dizer exatamente o contrário. A rebeldia te excita, faz acelerar os movimentos, torturá-lo com mais intensidade. Lê no jeitinho que ele retesa os músculos da coxa, no ar se prendendo nos pulmões que está logo na beirada, próximo de jorrar. Não o perdoa, não permite que o desejo mais lascivo dele se torne realidade hoje. Finaliza o homem nas palmas das suas mãos, ordenhando o pau duro, meladinho, até que a porra morna atinja as suas coxas, respingue na sua blusa. 

Enzo respira com dificuldade, pela boca. Cerra os olhos com força, parece irritadinho, indignado — uma reação que te deixa com água na boca. Se inclina pra pertinho do ouvido dele, adocica a voz, perigosa, se quer brincar, tem que aprender a respeitar as regras do jogo, okay, bonitinho? 

[1vidapoeticando]

Eu sei... que muitos estão triste nesse momento, mas tudo na nossa vida tem um motivo e um propósito, se tem uma coisa que eu aprendi é não reclamar de mais nada e agradecer a Deus por minha vida e a oportunidade de estar aqui nesse mundo, não estamos aqui do nada, estamos aqui pra sermos instrumentos de Deus, e viver a vida da melhor forma possível, ajudando sempre a quem pudermos, críticas, sempre vai ter, sempre vão falar de nós, falatório não paga nossas contas, não devemos viver com o intuito de agradar ninguém, só a Deus e a nós mesmos, olhar com bons olhos foi oque Jesus nos ensinou, essa lição sempre carregarei na minha vida, eu sei de onde Deus me tirou e já sei o quanto devo ser grata a Deus por tudo e por pessoas especiais na minha vida, e agradeço sempre, muitos não sabem oque passamos, só sabem julgar e criticar, deixa pra lá, e vamos é viver a cada dia mais e melhor e agradar a Deus e ser feliz 😊 isso incomoda muita gente...

Lo sé... que muchos están tristes en estos momentos, pero todo en nuestras vidas tiene un por qué y un propósito, si hay algo que he aprendido es a no quejarme más de nada y agradecer a Dios por mi vida y la oportunidad. estar aquí En este mundo, no estamos aquí de la nada, estamos aquí para ser instrumentos de Dios, y vivir la vida de la mejor manera posible, ayudando siempre a quien podamos, críticas, siempre las habrá, siempre las habrá. hablar de nosotros, hablar no paga nuestras cuentas, no debemos vivir con la intención de agradar a nadie, solo a Dios y a nosotros mismos, mirar con buenos ojos es lo que Jesús nos enseñó, esta lección la llevaré siempre en mi vida, Se de donde me sacó Dios y ya sé lo mucho que debo ser. Estoy agradecida con Dios por todo y por las personas especiales en mi vida, y siempre estoy agradecida, muchos no saben por lo que hemos pasado. solo saben juzgar y criticar, dejenlo pasar, y vivamos cada dia mas y mejor y agrademos a Dios y seamos felices 😊 esto molesta a mucha gente....

I know... that many are sad right now, but everything in our lives has a reason and a purpose, if there's one thing I've learned, it's not to complain about anything anymore and to thank God for my life and the opportunity to be here In this world, we are not here out of nowhere, we are here to be instruments of God, and live life in the best possible way, always helping whoever we can, criticism, there will always be, there will always be talk about us, talk doesn't pay our bills, We shouldn't live with the intention of pleasing anyone, just God and ourselves, looking with good eyes is what Jesus taught us, this lesson I will always carry in my life, I know where God took me from and I already know how much I should be I'm grateful to God for everything and for special people in my life, and I'm always grateful, many don't know what we've been through, they only know how to judge and criticize, let it go, and let's live more and better every day and please God and be happy 😊 this bothers a lot of people.....

Je sais... que beaucoup sont tristes en ce moment, mais tout dans nos vies a une raison et un but, s'il y a une chose que j'ai apprise, c'est de ne plus me plaindre de rien et de remercier Dieu pour ma vie et l'opportunité. être ici Dans ce monde, nous ne sommes pas là de nulle part, nous sommes là pour être des instruments de Dieu et vivre la vie de la meilleure façon possible, en aidant toujours qui nous pouvons, la critique, il y en aura toujours, il y aura toujours parler de nous, parler ne paie pas nos factures, nous ne devrions pas vivre avec l'intention de plaire à qui que ce soit, juste à Dieu et à nous-mêmes, regarder avec de bons yeux est ce que Jésus nous a enseigné, cette leçon que je porterai toujours dans ma vie, je Je sais d'où Dieu m'a pris et je sais déjà à quel point je devrais l'être. Je suis reconnaissant envers Dieu pour tout et pour les personnes spéciales dans ma vie, et je suis toujours reconnaissant, beaucoup ne savent pas ce que nous avons vécu, ils ne savent que juger et critiquer, laisser tomber, vivre plus et mieux chaque jour et plaire à Dieu et être heureux 😊 cela dérange beaucoup de gens....

Lo so... che molti sono tristi in questo momento, ma tutto nella nostra vita ha una ragione e uno scopo, se c'è una cosa che ho imparato è a non lamentarci più di nulla e a ringraziare Dio per la mia vita e l'opportunità essere qui In questo mondo, non siamo qui dal nulla, siamo qui per essere strumenti di Dio, e vivere la vita nel miglior modo possibile, aiutando sempre chi possiamo, le critiche, ci saranno sempre, ci saranno sempre parlare di noi, parlare non ci paga le bollette, non dobbiamo vivere con l'intenzione di piacere a nessuno, solo a Dio e a noi stessi, guardare con occhi buoni è ciò che Gesù ci ha insegnato, questa lezione che porterò sempre nella mia vita, io so da dove Dio mi ha portato e so già quanto dovrei essere sono grato a Dio per tutto e per le persone speciali nella mia vita, e sono sempre grato, molti non sanno cosa abbiamo passato, sanno solo giudicare e criticare, lasciamo perdere, e viviamo ogni giorno di più e meglio e piacendo a Dio ed essere felici 😊 questo dà fastidio a molte persone....

أعلم... أن الكثيرين يشعرون بالحزن الآن، لكن كل شيء في حياتنا له سبب وهدف، إذا كان هناك شيء واحد تعلمته، فهو ألا أشتكي من أي شيء بعد الآن وأن أشكر الله على حياتي والفرصة التي أتيحت لي. أن نكون هنا في هذا العالم، لسنا هنا من العدم، نحن هنا لنكون أدوات لله، ونعيش الحياة بأفضل طريقة ممكنة، ونساعد دائمًا من نستطيع، النقد، سيكون هناك دائمًا، سيكون هناك دائمًا تحدث عنا، الكلام لا يسدد فواتيرنا، لا يجب أن نعيش بهدف إرضاء أحد، فقط الله وأنفسنا، النظر بعيون جيدة هو ما علمنا إياه يسوع، هذا الدرس الذي سأحمله دائمًا في حياتي، أنا أعرف من أين أخذني الله وأعلم بالفعل كم يجب أن أكون، أنا ممتن لله على كل شيء وللأشخاص المميزين في حياتي، وأنا ممتن دائمًا، فالكثيرون لا يعرفون ما مررنا به، يعرفون فقط كيف يحكمون وينتقدون، اترك الأمر، ولنعيش كل يوم أكثر وأفضل ونرضي الله ونسعد 😊 هذا يزعج الكثير من الناس

私は知っています...今、多くの人が悲しんでいることは知っていますが、私たちの人生にはすべて理由と目的があります。私が学んだことが一つあるとすれば、それはもう何も文句を言わないこと、そ���て私の人生と機会を神に感謝することですこの世界では、私たちはどこからともなくここにいるわけではありません、私たちは神の道具となるためにここにいます、そして可能な限り最善の方法で人生を送り、常にできる限りの人を助けます、批判、常に存在します、常に存在します私たちのことを話してください、話してもお金はかかりません、私たちは誰かを喜ばせるつもりで生きるべきではありません、ただ神と自分自身だけです、良い目で見ることはイエスが私たちに教えてくれたことです、この教訓は私が常に人生で持ち続けるでしょう、私は神が私をどこから連れて行ってくれたのか知っています、そして私がどれだけあるべきかすでに知っています 私はすべてのことと私の人生の特別な人たちに神に感謝しています、そして私はいつも感謝しています、多くの人は私たちが何を経験してきたのか知りません、彼らは判断し批判する方法しか知りません、それを手放して、毎日もっともっと良く生きて神を喜ばせて幸せになりましょう😊これは多くの人を悩ませています

[pencokun]

Guess who made a new persona and has started working on music in their own time

Here's the YouTube link!

[canines-alter-creation]

HI i saw the word parkour and jumped into the ask box faster then Clown doing a parkour race Could I have a EMF/Evbo's Master Friend fictive? Everything else is up to you i just want my friend back tbh :sob:

-- Your local Evbo fictive :D

Hi Hi!! This is so exciting for Us+!! We've+ picked up a recent fixation in Parkour Civ (I+ may go back and watch it again after this :p) but here is Our+ attempt at an EMF pack!! I+ took off a lot of the linked stuff (faceclaim, moodboard, song theme) just because it's. . . difficult to maintain from time to time. That being said, I+ hope this is helpful! I+ sort of based it around to match the Evbo pack I made, so some of the details are match-y with that one, but you're sourced off of Evbo and can of course change details to better match you!

As always! Not all alters based on this pack are going to turn out exactly as described but I+ hope it is helpful nonetheless.

+ parkour, source, sourcemates, gold or jewelry, shiny things in general

Name(s): EMF, Champion, Gold, Ender, Noir, Anubis

Pronoun(s): he/it/voi/win/par/kour/crown/gold/dia/mond/boot/

Age: ageless, but appears around 18 or 19, or similar age to Evbo, maybe a year older!

Gender: voidgender, genderlessmasc, hornjewerlyaesic, demonichandsgender,

Sexuality: masc attracted, demisexual

Role: Co-host (matching to Evbo pack) or confidence booster/mood booster

Source: alterblogic + Parkour Civilization

Sign-offs: 👑,💛,🖤,🐦‍⬛

Front triggers:

/ sourcemates, a friend being down or needing uplifting

+ parkour, Evbo, shiny things, going outside, being around people that are encouraging and fun

- feeling hopeless, bed rotting, doing poorly in things that are important to voi (schoolwork, artistic ventures, physical activity, work performance)

Likes/dislikes:

- Seawatt, being ignored, being let down or abandoned, situations with no positive offset

Personality: EMF seems cocky, he talks a lot about himself/the body, but it's really more of a reflection of his pride. He's proud of his friends and of himself, and that includes the system and the body, he wants to inspire confidence, and that might mean setting boundaries and pushing for everyone to respect the system/body. Unfortunately he may struggle to set boundaries with close friends or people he finds important just because he wants them to like him. He may also at times get too cocky about his abilities and needs someone grounded to give him a reality check.

Ways they do their role: EMF may talk a big game, or boost the system's confidence by talking about themselves and the body in a positive manner. Their role is to make everyone feel good, and content and that sometimes means giving the tough love of getting people out of their slump. They might drag or push people into doing things they might not initially want to to get them out of their shell (like making someone go dancing to get them to try new things or to get them to stop stressing)

Inner world occupation or behavior: May seek out high status jobs or friends, working alongside architects and managers to help build and alter the innerworld. May seek out high in the air places to live, and might be difficult to find or meet with because of this. May also hold gold and jewelry, almost in a dragonlike way.

Possible outerworld behavior: Very uplifting, to a point of almost being aggressive, especially for himself and friends, might take stupid risks, might like jumping or doing parkour

[chowtrolls]

going to think about festur and dia and mondes and maybe thatll settle the unease that has risen in my soul

[homicidalfantrolls]

Come Back to Me

The months old question is finally answered. (Though it’s not what you think.)

collab with @trollcafe that’s been forever in the making. please enjoy!!!

Part 1

Part 2

doc

It doesn’t take long for Paenit to find Jodiah on the dance floor. Even in a room as crowded as this, overflowing with more trolls than the pilot had seen in sweeps, his limeblooded siren stood out like a signal flare. Spinning in his iridescent dress, his new mask, his boots that didn’t match his outfit in a truly Jodiah manner; it all made Paenit’s heart throb painfully in his chest. He had seen a lifetime of stars, of swirling galaxies, experienced supernovas up close and personal, saw every wonderful and fascinating thing the universe had to offer- but none of that shone as bright as Dia did that night.

Paenit’s eyes follow as Dia spins with his kismesis. Seeing how Mondes was dressed made him feel slightly better about what he had originally intended to come in. At least he wasn’t the only one who was without much of a fashion sense. Though it was difficult to look good when standing next to someone as radiant as Dia.

It took every ounce of courage the cusp’s body contained not to turn tail and run. The beauty of the scene and how completely out of his league he was made everything overwhelming. Commander Almiss didn’t exactly consider himself cowardly—his track record of military operations would prove such. But this was no battlefield. He had traded the safety of gunfire for the hostility of social cues and the danger of a dancefloor. His leather gloves grew uncomfortable as his palms grew sweaty. For the second time that night, he was thankful for the cape draped over his shoulders, successfully hiding how bad he thought he was shaking. With one deep breath, he finally made his way over to Mondes and Dia.

The smaller of the two seemed to stiffen as the highblood approached, but across the floor Dia pulled him aside to mumble something into his ear. This seems to ease the olive’s anxiety ever so slightly, but his eyes stay fixed on Pae the entire time, even as he finally steps up to the kismesises.

Paenit turned to look at Mondes. The latter’s gaze scans the fleet troll up and down like he was searching for some sort of red flag only he could see. The two locked eyes under their masks, passing some unspoken understanding between them. Regardless of whether Mondes found a red flag or not, he steps aside and motions for his kismesis to get on with it. Be it the demonstration of respect, his kismet’s words, or the audacity of interrupting, something convinced Mondes to allow a strange highblood to sweep his kismesis away.

Paenit offers his hand to Jodiah.

Wordlessly, the limeblood takes it.

As gracefully as a man who had never really danced before the week began, Paenit swept him into a dance he couldn’t recall the name of. A waltz? A swing? He wracked his brain for the name, anything to avoid acknowledging just how out of his depth he was. Nostalgia plucked at his pusherstrings. Fondly recalling the time in basic training one of his drill sergeants made the recruits learn the basics of ballroom dancing. To help with grace and fluidity in a fight, that had been the reasoning at the time. If only he had known how he’d use those skills.

Jodiah speaks suddenly and interrupts his nostalgic train of thought.

“You took your time,” the lime scoffs, letting the masked stranger lead him. Despite Dia’s love of dancing he could hardly chastise the other’s skills in it. Or lack thereof. It wasn’t at the forefront of his mind. He pondered over the stranger’s strong hand in the small of his back, the other one holding his in a feather light touch. A gentle hand like that was hard to find. Not a possessive grip, but a confident one. Dia could flop over entirely limp and he was confident this stranger would catch him. It wasn’t every day he met a highblood who treated him so daintily. Dia bit back the initial annoyance that follows—he didn’t let just anyone get away with treating him so tenderly, especially not a purpleblood. But because he was playing nice, repaying the kind stranger for the drinks he swindled from him, he was content allowing such tenderness. For now.

The stranger’s mask prevented Dia from seeing where he was looking, but so did his own. The lime was studying every inch of him that could be seen, drinking in the details like he had the champagne had earlier that Mondes was currently keeping warm for Dia’s return. Sure, he had a decent look at the bar, but he had more time now. His dance partner was tall, but not too tall. Well built, standard for a purpleblood, but worth mentioning. Broad shoulders—oh, how Dia loved a man with broad shoulders—but he wasn’t imposing with his size. His posture was remarkably passive for a highblood dancing with a neon lime.

Their bodies swayed to the music, close enough to share heat, moving in perfect sync. To an outsider, it’d be easy to think they had done this plenty of times prior. Being so close, Dia recognized the cologne now—it was popular amongst highbloods in the Fleet, notably seadwellers. A musky, powerful, oceanic scent—he ever remembered the name of it. Megamare, a stupid name if you asked him. Just about any seadwelling commander had it somewhere in their quarters. Expensive enough to be high end, but not too advanced of a scent to be hoity-toity. It had been applied just right. It was a strong scent, one that could easily choke a person out. The stranger wore it lightly. Just enough to entice, enough to draw Dia in closer. His curiosity only increased at the unique choices.

Seadweller cologne on a purpleblood. A mute, overwhelmingly gentle purpleblood, who picked the masked anon out of a sea of possible dance partners.

“Usually I’m not the patient type. But what can I say, I like dogs,” Jodiah purrs, playfully hooking a finger in the shirt collar of his dance partner. His playful tone did a wonderful job of disguising his curious intentions.

The sudden claw against Paenit’s neck almost makes him trip. It’s a miracle he doesn't—perhaps that drill sergeant’s hard work paid off. He has to bite his tongue to keep from squeaking like the mouse he felt like. For not the first time this evening, Paenit was grateful for the face covering he wore. Though it still hid the identity of its wearer, it had the secondary purpose of hiding his flushed blue-purple face. Paenit was quite confident that even without the heavy cloak he had on, he would still feel unbearably warm. His heart was doing its best to break out of the constraining rib cage; the pilot’s throat seemingly experiencing anaphylaxis for the first time. He wondered if he had somehow been allergic to the whiskey Khirti had bought him. Or if, perhaps, she poisoned it. It wasn’t the thought of the impossibility of her getting the chance to do so that comforted him, but the unlikeliness of Khirti not just stabbing him then and there if she truly desired his end.

While Paenit’s mind raced with paranoid thoughts and panic, Jodiah yearned for knowledge. He studied the silent mask closely, looking for any hint of recognition, any sign or emotion. Some strange piece of him was daydreaming of a Hallmark movie moment. The realistic part of him knew this wasn’t the case.

“Still not much of a talker, hm?” Dia dropped the flirty tone. It clearly wasn’t getting him anywhere. His curiosity had yet to be sated, which only served to annoy him. While flirting got him nowhere, the change in his tone did have an effect of some kind: his dance partner tensing the smallest bit. Dia’s head tilted ever so slightly as he studied the mask once more. Finally, he relaxes, letting the troll take his hand once more, “That’s fine. We can just dance.”

His mind explored grandeurs of romance as they swayed to the beat. Specifically, Dia was thinking about Paenit. He hadn’t the slightest clue who he was dancing with—only that they hadn’t said a word, they wore Fleet cologne, and that a foolish, childish part of him wanted so badly for it to be Paenit. He wanted to tear that mask off and see who truly lies beneath it. He wanted to be twirled around in some grand romantic gesture, to be held lovingly and safely in the arms he missed so badly it hurt. However—Paenit hadn’t spoken to him since the day he left with Mondes. That same childish part of Dia’s pusher ached with hurt at the same time. Hurt and betrayal.

Dia knew his previous commanding officer well enough to know he never showcased himself as a purple blood, and never in his wildest dreams would Paenit Almiss show up to the Yule Ball wearing an outfit this grand.

But he had to know.

God, he just had to know.

Yanking off a strange purpleblood’s mask was a surefire way to get executed the second he left this safe zone. The masked stranger had yet to say a word to him, who’s to say he would respond to a name? Dia had to be smart about this. After what felt like an eternity of swaying in a thick silence, Jodiah sighed softly, wistfully, and rested his cheek on the stranger’s shoulder.

Angled in just the right spot to see the stranger’s chin. To see the scar that decorated his skin.

Not unlike a scar he knew. One he stroked with his thumb as he held his CO’s face. One he kissed often, one he asked about several times and received a different origin story each time, all jovial and light spirited and none likely the real cause. A scar perfectly placed, perfectly colored, going under his chin and stopping right at his neck. He had spent a handful of days wondering how a scar like that must’ve hurt, how the scar’s owner was lucky it didn’t go further.

Now it was Dia’s turn to swallow his pusher back down into his chest. He looked down quickly, deciding it simply didn’t exist if he didn’t look at it. His own heart was racing so fast it was easy to ignore the stranger’s heartbeat. His chest ached with need and overexertion. The rush made him dizzy. The level-headed facade he put on for his kismesis quickly cracked. He wanted the scar to be more than a coincidence. He wanted the scar to mean nothing. He wanted his everyday mask, yearning for the way it drew out excess electricity from his body to reduce the strain of intense emotions on his heart.

They swayed in silence for a few moments yet. He would’ve been content to let that moment play out forever if the burden of knowledge didn’t weigh so heavily on him. Without another word, Dia lifted his head, and slipped the leather glove off the hand he was holding. His stranger missteps—probably from confusion—but in the end it doesn’t matter. Dia stopped the dance altogether. Almost obediently, the stranger stops as well.

There they stood, in the middle of the dance floor. Dia pulled away from the purpleblood to study his hand. The troll didn’t pull away. If anything, he seemed to relax slightly as Dia followed the trail of scars. Scars he knew all too well. Scars like a map to the troll he missed most.

He took the other hand in his, and removed that glove too. He turned his hand over.

There it was. In the space between his thumb and forefinger, was a small heart-shaped oil scar. Followed by a straight line scar crossing each knuckle, and the telltale scars of someone’s fist busting on teeth. The world seemed to close in on the two of them, music fading into the background. Bodies of blur swirled around them as if they didn’t exist. Dia traced over the scars silently, his fingertips dancing over the ragged and calloused skin with a feather-light touch.

Finally, he looked back up, eyes boring through the not-so stranger’s mask, “…You came back.”

Paenit froze. Even if the two of them had long stopped dancing at this point. It was amazing how his blood could run so hot while he was frozen stiff in his boots. Slowly, he curled his hand around Dia’s. They began to move again, stepping across the dance floor. Whether it was an attempt to rid himself of the nervous energy building or to resume a facade of normalcy wasn’t clear. Dia was content to let Paenit take the lead once more, allowing the highblood to guide him as they swayed.

“I had to answer your question, right?” While there had been hope for a suave, confident tone to his voice, Paenit’s response came out as rough and as full of cracks as old runway pavement. Yet another thing that did not line up with his plan. Truly, laying things out in advance was far from his strong suit.

Dia’s demeanor flipped

“So…is it a no?” Dia asked, frowning ever so slightly beneath his mask. Even with his face hidden, Paenit could sense the disappointment. He could perfectly picture the way the lime’s brow furrowed, how his eyes would darken when he didn’t get his way. Just imagining it made him dizzy with yearning.

“I-what? Wh-why would you think it’s a no?” Paenit stammered, almost tripping over himself and sending the both of them toppling over. Quick reflexes once again saved the dance from ending in catastrophe. This time, it’s Dia who encourages them to keep moving.

“Well, you showed up here.”

“I-I know it’s weird but—“

“And I don’t see her with you.”

Paenit sighed. Then he chuckled.

“This…isn’t really her scene.”

—

As Dia folded and put away clothes (not all of which were strictly his) into a surprisingly ragged suitcase, he was as stone faced as ever. No words were shared as he made sure to gather up all the things he had moved into his commanding officer’s block, knowing that nothing of his was left in the one off of his medbay. Paenit had helped Jodiah move things bit by bit until the medbay looked like it had before he moved in. Empty. Sterilized. Cold. Part of Paenit hoped that Dia would want to check, return there just to make sure that he hadn’t forgotten anything.

But he knew he wouldn’t.

“I want Ship Cat.”

For a second, he was sure that Dia had scratched one of the records in the corner of the block. When his eyes shifted up from a pair of pants he was folding and he saw Dia in the exact spot he had been, eyes locked right back on him, he knew he was mistaken.

Paenit can’t help but laugh. Not a laugh he was used to, not one he had done since the days of Dia stepping on his sunglasses and rigging his coffee maker to explode. Sheepish. Unsure.

“You—You want Ship Cat?”

“I want to take her back to Alternia. She deserves to retire too. There’s plenty of kittens that could take her place.”

Paenit’s pusher sinks. He had never been good at saying no to Dia. Never skilled at looking into the flawless green gems that were his eyes and telling him that he couldn’t do what he wanted. He knew in his chest it was not a skill that he would ever develop.

“Dia—“

“Not now,” he interjects, placing the last pair of stolen pants in his suitcase and closing it. “You can bring her to me as your answer when you retire, and become my matesprit.”

Warmth encompasses Paenit’s body so immediately, so intensely, he wonders if the ship was on fire. If smoke and ash were creeping into the ventilation systems, slowly suffocating him and showing him all the dreams of a future he could never have. A future where he could fly planes again, help people instead of hurt them. A future of happiness, green grass and trees and the eyes of his matesprit, Jodiah Monark. A future where he could be happy, where he didn’t have to worry about being taken away to hurt people for a military whose only goal was causing more and more despair. Where they could be together, happy.

It was impossible to say when Dia took his mask off or when he began to approach Paenit. Like a dog drooling for his food at the sound of a bell, the clicking of Dia taking off his mask forced Pae’s eyes to close in anticipation of his kiss.

As their lips connect and Paenit’s arms wrap around Jodiah to hold him close, he could feel an ache wrap itself tightly around his chest like a constrictor killing its prey. It spreads into the admiral’s fingertips, his legs, up to the base of his skull. It screams to him.

Don’t let go.

Don’t let go.

Paenit lets him go.

Dia steps back, the sound of his mask clicking letting Paenit’s eyes know it was okay to open, okay to see him once more. To see him with the shroud returned over him, blocking out his light from view.

“Don’t take too long.”

Dia rested his hand on Paenit’s face one last time. Then, he was gone.

————

“Where is she, then? Don’t tell me you left her on your ship all by herself.”

“She’s not by herself—“

"So she's still up there? On that damn ship?" Jodiah’s tone is sharp, tinged with annoyance, but hardly as hostile as it could be. As hostile as it would've been had he been dancing with anyone other than Paenit. "You came all the way here, dressed to the goddamned nines, and you didn't even bring me my fucking cat?"

Anxiety prickled at Paenit’s chest, his ears laying flat against his head. Had he a tail, it would be tucked firmly between his legs in a sign of submission. Dia was still dancing, though his footfalls seemed heavier with his annoyance.

“I-I couldn’t take her just for leave—I didn’t—“ Paenit swallowed, avoiding the intimidating eyes of his dance partner. “Didn’t know if you would still…be around.”

"Still be around?" the lime parrots in a voice positively dripping with annoyance, though hushed in tone to keep the other dancers from being concerned about the fight. "Where else would I be? All you had to do was call me, send a text, video message, fuck—email works in space, too! Then you wouldn't have to wonder if I was ‘around’ or not."

“I-I didn’t—I tried!“ Paenit sputtered, tone desperate, “Calls and texts wouldn’t go through and the fleet reads all my emails—I’m not allowed to have a personal account, you know that—I didn’t want them to try to bring you back after—“ he frowns, voice quieting before resuming, ”—after you went through all that to get out.”

He elected not to mention Annihilation’s recent bout of trouble and how it could have possibly affected Dia staying away from fleet custody. It wouldn’t help.

Under his mask, Jodiah’s expression softens. Knowing Paenit made an effort was enough to make him feel like crying. He shakes that feeling off without a word. He wasn’t a crier— he’d had enough of that emotional nonsense to last him a lifetime. Even his dance partner could tell he was still unsettled, though silence fell between them. He wasn’t yet satisfied with the answer he had been given.

When Dia finally spoke, his voice felt small and soft in his chest. Raw and uncertain, showing the hurt and distress his mask usually hid well, "...Well, you should've tried harder." He pulled his hand from Paenit’s to lightly hit his chest, taking out his frustration for something neither of them could control.

Guilt fell over the highblood like a shroud, his ears falling ever further down in his body’s subconscious effort to make him look smaller. The vulnerability in Dia’s voice felt like salt in a fresh wound, making his already aching heart pang miserably.

“…I’m sorry,” Paenit apologizes, even if the both of them knew there was nothing more he could have done. Still, he can’t help chuckle as Dia’s fist lands on his chest, much lighter than expected. He supposed the lime wasn’t as mad as he wanted Paenit to believe.

“I’ll steal a shuttle next time,” Paenit joked sheepishly in an attempt to add some levity.

"You don't even have to steal it- you're a fucking commander. You—Y-You can just—take it,” Jodiah countered, clearly not appreciating the humor. His words are broken up by a soft, sad laughter, as he continued his attempts to bite back tears. "A-A letter would've worked—or j-just, ask my dad to pass on a message? I..." He swallowed hard, throat aching with the threat of closing up entirely, "...I-It's been months, Paenit."

A knife to the chest would have been less painful than hearing Jodiah so broken up. Having experienced at least one knife in the chest before, that was something Paenit could attest to with confidence. His hands traveled to hold the lime’s face, his thumbs pushing under Dia’s mask to rub over his cheeks. Whether or not the other would electrocute him wasn’t the concern at the forefront of his mind. The sudden warmth of calloused hands passing the barrier of his mask forced Jodiah to freeze like a deer in the headlights. Once again, the pair had stopped moving.

“I couldn’t, Dia,” Paenit started softly, “I’m an admiral with no second in command. I can’t leave my ship even when I want to. The only…the only reason they let me come here is because they think I’m recruiting. They think I’m here in a fancy uniform telling everyone how great the Fleet is. I’ve been trying. I never stopped trying to reach you but…I couldn’t.”

He didn’t dare mention to Dia that it was most likely by design. Punishment for letting him go on leave, for letting him stay away so long when his sister went missing. For not finding a way to force him to stay under Pae’s employment. Nor does he—no, can he—mention why talking to Annihilation wasn’t an option. For so many different reasons. Reasons he was not confident Dia could understand, reasons Paenit couldn’t share, reasons Dia may not even care about.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” the admiral murmurs at last, resting his masked forehead to the limeblood’s. Dia relaxed slightly, having accepted that explanation. The certainty of his dance partner’s words, knowing the lengths he went to, knowing he at the very least made an effort- that was enough to make tears well back up. Words caught in his throat before they could be free. Forgiveness, hurt that remained, anger at the fucked situation, expressions of relief and love and sorrow, none of which could escape lest he stutter through his words like a stalled engine in front of his matesprit.

Matesprit.

Now, that was a lovely thought.

He was at the Yule Ball, and he was going to dance with his fucking matesprit.

Dia pulled away suddenly, grasping Paenit’s hand once more. He pulls the purple so suddenly, he nearly trips them both. He grasps Pae’s hand once more, pulling him back into the dance. The motion catches Paenit so off guard, he nearly stumbles and trips them both.

"You can get back to recruiting later—I deserve a dance with my matesprit first."

“Your…matesprit?” Paenit’s voice is barely audible from under his mask. His lungs fail to work and ache with need, his heart seems to have stopped pumping altogether, caught in the momentary excitement as Dia swings them both slowly.

Dia cocks his head expectantly, "Yes?" Paenit could picture his partner’s quirked brow and peeved expression perfectly, annoyed that his thought process needed to be explained at all. It was so easy to bury all those negative feelings, all the hurt and upset that still lingered, far under the surface with the promise of dancing. "You didn't bring my cat. But...you showed up. So I'm taking that as a confirmation."

“Y-Yeah…I-I did show up,” Paenit all but squeaked, as if reassuring himself he did such things. Confidence grew with his grin, wide and vibrant, under his mask. Pae springs to life with a giddy laugh, arms snaking around the smaller troll. He lifts Jodiah into the air to spin him around. Surprisingly, the lime lets him, going so far as to hug him back. His matesprit’s excitement proved contagious: Dia’s laughter joined Paenit’s in a bubbly harmony, holding onto the purpleblood for dear life while being swung around.

Matesprit. That was his matesprit.

Dia’s laugh was more beautiful than any song the band had played that night. Melodic and bright, it erased the weight Paenit had been carrying on his shoulders since he’d stepped inside the massive hall of the ballroom. The anxiety of how the evening would go, how Dia would respond to seeing him again, how absolutely fucked he would be.

Instead, the two were dancing in what felt like perfect sync. Perhaps not skilled, perhaps not enough to win awards or even gain the attention of any of the other couples scattered about the floor. Not that either of them noticed. No, they had stepped into a different world entirely. Where everyone else had faded into the scenery, turning into nothing more distinct than the dozens of windows looking over the sea. The only music was the sound of each other’s breaths, the beat of their hearts drowning out anything else.

Paenit’s hand drifted down Jodiah’s back, resting in the curve of his spine. Dia’s hand pushed into the slicked back hair of Paenit’s. If anyone had remained on the dance floor, they wouldn’t have noticed. They were too busy getting lost in each other.

Panting softly from all the excitement, foreheads pressed together, they stared into each other's eyes from under their masks. Until finally the edge became too hard to balance on.

Paenit’s hand brushed past the beads of Dia’s mask, cupping the lime’s face gently. His thumb danced over Dia’s soft and scruffy skin.

Dia knew what was wanted—hell, he wanted the same. For as much as he wanted to, he simply couldn’t in the middle of the dance floor, so publicly visible. Desire gnawed at his bones desperately. He could practically see his matesprit’s confidence waning.

With a sudden burst of energy, the limeblood took hold of Paenit’s cape and pulled him off the dancefloor. They spun as they went, putting up the illusion of dancing. For all his confusion, Paenit just went along with it, however clumsily. Dia pulled Paenit into him as they turned a corner. Pae’s hands went to the wall to prevent him from crushing the limeblood. The two stood there a moment longer, the heat of the previous moment returning tenfold.

Paenit’s size and cape proved to be the perfect shield. Dia felt safe under him, confident that Paenit wouldn’t let anyone see what lay under his mask. Without a word, Dia’s hands went under the wolfish face blocking his matesprit’s own, slowly removing it. Unveiling the truth he yearned for. His own mask follows suit. Both fall to the ground unceremoniously.

For the briefest moment, they could look at each other’s faces for the first time in months. Bare. Real. Full of flesh and life. Scars, freckles, mismatched blue eyes and blinding lime ones. More than just words and promises, more than a phone call or a text message or even a letter. Flushed cheeks and parted lips and eyes burning with desire. It was easy to forget Dia had a reason to keep his face hidden.

They closed the space between them at the same time. Dia’s hands tangled in Paenit’s hair, Paenit’s kept one hand firmly planted on the wall to shield the two despite his desire to hold his matesprit with both, the other pulling Dia’s small frame against his own. For the first time in months, the couple kissed. They kissed, and they kissed, and they kissed, until they were out of breath and dizzy. They kissed to make up for lost time, to apologize for things unsaid, to prepare for the time they’d lose until they could kiss again.

Eventually, Jodiah would leave. For as much as he loved Paenit, he made a promise and wouldn’t break it. He would return to his kismesis and get a proper scolding for running off and leaving Mondes alone. Paenit would have to return to his ship, to his crew, to his empty block. Painful memories didn’t sting as much, but the loneliness still ached deep within his bones.

They would leave each other once again, with a newly rekindled yearning. It may be weeks, months, sweeps before they saw each other again. But they were both confident. He would come always back.

In the end, the distance wouldn’t matter. As long as they could be together.

[byrdtrollsunoreversearchive]

what is bonking?

"Oh, that's that thing Mondes and Dia do instead of making out"

(hehe, dia belongs to @trollcafe )