punyaweephillips

[pencokun]

22/8/2024

[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

[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 !

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀

⠀⠀

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ───── 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 incríveis 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、そし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

[byrdstrolls]

(Dia belongs to @chowtrolls!!! go give leo some love <3)

It’s difficult to tell how hard a sudoku puzzle is going to be by glance alone. The tiny booklet had no organization regarding each one’s ease. It doesn’t help that he’s not quite sure what he’s looking for, or how long he’ll be here. The Cellists fingers pass from page to page with deft and careful consideration. The night is young, the AC of the car is just a little too cold, just enough Mondes shudders. Alador always liked things just cold enough to be uncomfortable. There's too much fire in that man, Dietes had often teased him, complaining about the thermostat. 

“The palace isn’t exactly pupa-proof.” Faeria Longse says, leaning over the rolled down front window, where the adults are talking. The words don’t matter much to Mondes, who is preoccupied. 

“He’s five sweeps old” Alador retorts to The Intoxicant. “He’s old enough to know how to mind his own business. 

“Wildly unprofessional of you.” She says. “Every hear of a pupasitter?” 

“His cello tutor usually watches him, but he’s got knee surgery.” The taller oliveblood sighs, tapping the wheel. 

“Why not call The Matchmaker to look after him.” Faeria jokes, in the sense of humor typical of her. Where every joke is less an expression of absurdity and joy, and more just the easiest way to poke a hot rod at a sleeping tiger. 

“I will ask The Matchmaker for parenting help.” Alador replies slowly, tiredly. “When hell freezes over. Work with me, Faeria. How many rooms in that ridiculous hive?” He says with a pointed gesture at her gargantuan estate. “I’ll hide him someplace and he can color all day. You won’t even know he’s there. Mondes, tell her how quiet you’ll be.” 

Hearing his name, the child perks up, glancing over to Faeria as if seeing her for the first time. Slowly, he mimes zipping up his gas mask and throwing away the key. 

“Cute,” Faeria says disdainfully. “I don’t want him going through my things.” 

“He’s not a thief, Faeria, he’s a child” Alador snaps, jumping to the young man's defense. But then he deflates slightly, seeming to remember he’s supposed to be behaving professionally. 

“Pupasitters are ridiculously expensive these days, Faeria. Just give me one night. You won’t see head or tail of him.” He sighs.

“You know what’s ridiculously expensive as of late? Alador’s asking fees.” She retorts. “He’s not allowed in my hive.” 

“What am I supposed to do, drive him two hours home? Come on, how often are you on planet? We're wasting time.” 

“I would never have called you” She sighs, running a hand through her hair. “If I knew it was bring-your-grub-to-work-night.” 

“He can stay in the car,” Alador says. “Final offer. I’ll crack a window.” 

“Deal” She says, her eyes glittering. 

Alador turns hopelessly back to his descendant. “Is that okay with you?” 

“(Can I have a water)” Mondes asks, muffledly. Not quite answering the question.

“I’ll bring you one back out when I leave” His ancestor promises, cracking the windows, climbing out of the car to follow Faeria inside. 

The child watches them disappear into the palace’s gates, waiting a prolonged moment, before climbing up into the front seat and turning down the AC, with a quiet sigh of relief. He finally lands on a sudoku puzzle, chipping away at it for what feels like an age, before becoming frustrated and giving up. He glances at the clock on the dash. Only fifteen minutes have passed. He sighs and begins leafing through the book of sudoku puzzles again. It only takes him an hour or so to really begin longing for the promised water. So much that he considers climbing out of the car, and knocking on the palace doors to demand it. He sits up and stares at the gate every so often, daring himself to make this move. Before looking back to the fleet logo emblazoned on the palace’s walls, and thinking better of it. It’s too cramped in here to truly practice, and his cello is in the trunk. He taps out Nietne’s waltz on the dash to count time in measurements of the seven minute song. He attempts, and again abandons the sudoku. As the moons crawl across the sky. 

About seven hours into his stay in the car, the young Mondes slowly climbs into the back seat, and lays down across it, closing his eyes. Not out of a genuine want or need for rest, but an all consuming, soul crushing boredom bearing down on him like a weight. Duke Leto Atreides would never leave Paul in a locked car for this long, the five sweep old thinks vengefully. Maybe that seadweller just killed him, he thinks, of Alador and Faeria. Equal amounts of guilt and pleasure overtaking his mind at the thought, before he remembers that if that was the case, he would likely be next. Somberly, he closes his eyes, so sick of sitting here making company of his own thoughts. 

CRACK

The palace door slams open, and so do Mondes’s eyes as he dives under the seat instinctively, covering his head. Alador is yelling something up at the palace, garbled and angry and strange, he only catches, or understands, the tail end of it. 

“-BLACKLISTED!” The older olive calls at the balcony. “YOU HEAR ME? I’M NEVER COMING BACK HERE!!!”

Faeria leans over the railing like a misplaced Juliet, her hair cascading down the side as her form shakes up and down with laughter. 

“You know everytime you say that Alador, I believe you a little less!” She calls at his retreating back as he storms back over to the vehicle. Alador slams into the car, muttering under his breath as he revs the engine. 

“Mondes! Put on your seatbelt.” He snaps. The kid scrambles to do just that as his ancestor swerves violently out of the parking lot. They drive at high speeds back towards the freeway for a bit, before Alador starts poking buttons on the dashboard. 

“Are you okay?” He asks. 

Mondes elects not to answer, as he does often, and Alador stares helplessly into the rearview mirror, before looking back at the dash, and huffing.

“Okay. I told you to stop touching my AC settings” He complains, turning up the AC. Staring up at his ancestor, Mondes realizes disappointedly that Alador had not brought back any water, but judging by his mood, he knew better than to comment, or ask. 

.

.

.

.

.

“Rostve,” Says Dietes, his face at a slight off-tilt, as he watches the kettle boil. 

“No,” Mondes replies. 

“Come on, what did he do?” The jadeblood huffs. “A complete sweetheart, from what I remember of him.” the older man flips through his notebook, presumingly containing information on orchestra related nonsense. 

Your name is Dia Monark, and you feel a bit out of loop as of late. Your boyfriend has, in what seems to you like an incredibly random and bizarre event, decided to join an incredibly prestigious orchestra contest, something you didn't even know existed until a few weeks ago. This change in career prospects has gone against everything you know of him as a person. Mondes, for all you had seen of him, through a suddenly busy and rigorous practice schedule, has approached the whole thing with the grim resignation of a troll filing his taxes. You have seen him in fits of passion, falling asleep in his studio with the master mix of a composition still playing faintly on his laptop. You know these moments of inspiration well enough to know this is not one of them. When Mondes Rosado falls into an obsession with art, he does so as quietly and effortlessly as a drawer sliding into a cabinet. 

Right now, you are sitting on the floor of the Cheong’s living room with Ness, who is attempting to give you a tarot card reading that you are struggling to pay attention to, eavesdropping on your boyfriend and his teacher’s argument. 

“How about Kydney Ideine. Excellent bassist.” The old man says, pausing on a page. 

“No” Mondes says, pulling the kettle off the stove as it whistles. 

“Shit, Mondes” The old man complains, walking over to the freezer. “Were these kids kicking your ass every single time me or Alador left the room or something? You can’t do this without kissing a little ass to the established orchestra scene. It’s just not going to happen.” He says, looking through the freezer. “Where are your ice trays?” The jadeblood asks. 

“The icemaker is in the door.” Mondes says, pointing as he grabs some mugs, pouring them both tea. 

“Right, your majesty” Dietes says, as if he considers an ice maker in a fridge some kind of luxury item. He gets two ice cubes out of it, walking over and dropping one into his and Mondes’s cup respectively. 

Putting a single ice cube in a cup of hot tea was just one of a million strange rituals Mondes had, like knocking on wood, and not leaving flip flops turned over, and always leaving a house through the same door he came in, and not whistling in the dark. Stuff to keep away spirits and sheyd that Mondes claimed not to believe in but still got mad if you interrupted or suggested he not follow these tenets. Quote unquote Folksy things, that you had teased him about. You had many times called him an old man in a young troll's body. 

When Dietes suddenly came back into his life, it was jarring and at the same time comforting to meet the old man from which he seemed to have borrowed a great majority of these mannerisms. They were similar in many ways you noticed but would not dare name. The time Mondes had spent with his ancestor, and by association Dietes, has always seemed a touchy subject. 

“Hey Dia,” Nesseo says. “Alternia to Dia” They say, snapping their fingers in front of your head, pointing to the first card in your spread they’ve just flipped over. 

“The loversssss” Ness says, dragging out the syllable in the affected way in which they often spoke. 

You finally draw your eyes away from Mondes and Dietes in the kitchen, to glance down at the tarot card, picturing two trolls, who, seem to have had their breasts extenuated by a hot pink paint marker. 

“Okay” You say. “Why did you draw boobs on them?” You say, staring. 

“You’re supposed to really connect with your deck, Dia. I drew boobs on all of them. They’re all lesbians. But regardless” They say, flipping through the little reference book for the tarot deck. “That’s gotta have something to do with your quads, right?” 

“You’re asking me? Aren’t you the psychic?” You retort. 

“Rostve, Ideine, Darque, any one of these would make an excellent duettist.” Dietes huffs, his attention still on his protege. “Are you just not gonna play with anyone who knew you when Alador was alive? That disqualifies half the competitive orchestra world. This is the big leagues. Swallow your pride.” 

“You’ve shown me what, one landweller?” Mondes snaps back. 

“It was hard enough to get YOU into this contest. Why won’t you play with Darque. He’s a landweller.”

“I don’t like him,” Mondes says, pressing his teabag to the side of his cup with the spoon, dancing it in a perfect little circle around the rim to get the juices out. Why are you staring at his hands? Too many things happening in this room. 

“You know what,” Nesseo says, tracing your gaze. “Yeah, I am the psychic. I know everything. This is about you and marshmallows.” They declare.

“What? Why not Pae or Fester” You say, looking back at the deck. 

“That's the vibes. That’s the vibes.” They repeat, flipping over the next card in the spread. 

“The six of cups” They narrate. 

“Is that bad?” You joke. 

“No. I mean yes. I mean hold on a second.” They say, leafing through the deck's instructional booklet. Across the room, Dietes draws his cane close to his body. 

“You’re killing me, Rosado.” He says, a turn of phrase that seems incredibly comfortable in his mouth. Mondes is not the first Rosado he’s said it to. 

Mondes gives the tea one last long press to the side of the mug.

“I’ll hold auditions,” He says. 

“You’ll what?” 

“I’ll hold auditions for a duettist. I’m a millionaire.” 

“Right, sorry.” The old man says sarcastically. “Those same five players I already listed will apply.” 

“To be my duettist? you're kidding.”

“You’re good press, Mondes. You were in all the news, highbloods taking on charity cases makes them look good.” 

Finally, you decide to interrupt. 

“Why does he need a duettist?” You ask. 

“The second round of the competition is done in pairs.” Mondes answers. “But we have time. Let me hold auditions. I’ll find a lowblood.” 

“I feel more gray hair growing in as we speak, but sure!” Dietes says, tugging at the pages of his little notebook as he flips through it. “Let’s push our luck that far. Let's do this with two lowbloods.” The jade says, standing up to pace. “You want me to drop dead from stress. You hate your old man music teacher who is doing all this for you from a flat in sunnyside. You want to give him migraines. But it’s okay you’re a millionaire and we’ll just hold auditions” He says, tossing his hands in the air. 

“Laying on the guilt trip a little thick, aren’t you?” Your boyfriend replies. 

“I’m just trying to be realistic with you.” He sighs. 

“I’m not willing to compromise on this” Mondes says, staring at his reflection in his mug. 

“Okay.” Dietes caves. 

“The SIX OF CUPS” Nesseo interrupts, reading aloud from their booklet. “Means childhood memories… innocence. That's.. Gonna be relevant to you and Mondes somehow.” 

“I’m sorry” Mondes says, walking over to the two of you. “What's gonna be relevant to me?” 

“Cups” You reply, pointing at the card. 

“What is this, wizard couples therapy?” He asks, leaning his head on your shoulder. 

“I’m a psychic, Marshmallows. I could never be a therapist. I love drama too much. But anyways.” Nesseo flips over the last card in the deck. 

“Seven of Swords” You read aloud.

“Seven of Swords reversed.” Nesseo corrects. “That means secrets.” They say, staring at Mondes. 

“You didn’t even look that one up.” Your boyfriend replies. 

“I just know.” they say, staring at him, Mondes glances at you, and back at Ness.

“I was gonna tell him anyway,” he says to Ness. “You didn’t have to prompt me. I was just looking for the right time.” 

“I didn’t plan this” they reply. “Shuffled at random.” 

“Tell me what?” You say, pausing, reaching over to take his hand in what you hope is a reassuring gesture. It’s still ever so slightly warm, the ghost of his mug's heat imprinted upon it. He runs a thumb across your palm. 

“Why I’m doing this whole orchestra thing.” He sighs. 

“Oh. I was wondering that.” You admit. 

Mondes glances back as if to ensure that Dietes has indeed exited, and he has, probably still muttering under his breath. 

“It's a smoke screen” He says, turning back to meet your gaze. “I’m distracting the media so Hanagi and Bee can complete another rescue mission.” 

A million different emotions run through you in quick succession. Your brain frantically attempts to sort them into boxes. 

“Okay” You say. 

“Okay” He replies. 

Don’t do that, your mind pleads. You had just started to feel comfortable in a life that existed in a state of after. After the fleet, after prison, after Twitch. 

“Remember when we were at the airbnb” You say softly. “And you said that thing about not martyring yourself.” 

“We’re being safe” He promises, taking your hand in both of his, clasped in between them like in prayer. 

“We have the time,” He says. “The resources, to be careful, Dia. I wouldn’t do this if we didn’t.” He says. You pause. 

“Okay” You say. Your mask modulating your robotic sigh. “Can I help?” You ask. 

“With the contest? Yes. With the heist? No.” He says. 

“Why not?” You ask. 

“Dia,” Nesseo says. “Bee’s like, pretty heavily involved with it.” 

“And?” You say. 

“And what the hell is your like, situation with Bee anymore anyways?” Mondes says, glancing at Nesseo in silent agreement. “Forgive me my bluntness, but you haven’t spoken to her since she was resurrected. We’re not tossing you on a team together if all that’s not sorted. It’s a liability.”

“Oh” You say. “I can talk to Bee.” You say. In a way, this has always been true. In a way, it was not true until this very moment. 

“You don’t have to,” He says. “You don’t have to have any part in it.” 

“No… I’ve been meaning to.” You sigh. 

“Okay” He says. He exhales. “Thank you for understanding.” 

“I just want to help.”

“I know” he says, lifting your hand and bonking it gently with his mask. He turns back toward the wall. 

“I should probably go find where that old man ran off to,” he breathes. 

“Okay” You repeat for the third time, always struggling with words in moments like these. 

Mondes leaves. He's forgotten his half full tea mug on the counter. 

“I kind of hoped you’d talk him out of it,” Nesseo says, resigned and quietly frustrated as they gather up their vandalized tarot cards. 

“Since when am I the guy” You say, watching a trace of steam disappear into the night air from the tea kettle. 

“Who talks anyone out of anything” You say. 

.

.

.

.

.

So much of what you know of each other starts with the eyes. You’ve heard it said isolation breeds innovation, or constraints make creativity, or pain makes you appreciate beauty, or order makes you long for chaos. You had a feeling you and Mondes would have loved each other’s eyes even if they looked completely different, even if they were faded or colorless or dull or scarred, if your lashes were thin or jagged or clumped you would have loved each other eyes, because the way you gravitated towards each other’s had never been aesthetic. 

Everything another troll puts on their face, the two of you fit into eyes alone. You find yourself often staring into Mondes eyes not the way a poet looks at a piece of art, but the way a traveler studies a map. Sometime you found Mondes’s eye’s beautiful the way you are sure other people consider them. In evenings and mornings they catch flickers of the sun on its way up the horizon, glittering reflected yellow back through the tin of his gas mask’s lens like the opalescent back of a beetle. If you caught him from the side, gaze turned downward over the pages of his homework with a simple thoughtful expression, those nights you could trace the diagonal of his eyelids down to the lashes that extend from them and think Mondes looks like a doll, and maybe that’s why the occasional weirdo still sends him odd fan letters or unhinged rants that he throws away without reading. 

You understand how he is beautiful the way a troll is supposed to be. The way a golden retriever puppy is beautiful, or a rose, or a perfect circle. The same way you are beautiful, mostly by genetics, partly by accident, mainly by some age-old standard that doesn’t matter in the slightest and hurts more people than it helps. If you stopped right there, you could maybe stare at him the way one does at the night sky, thinking him pretty without knowing why, as if he were beautiful without cause, or reason. 

But you were driven to understand it. 

Some nights you try to catch Mondes when he thinks no one is watching, lost in a group setting, he’ll glance sideways at a wall as if sharing some private joke with the scenery. While the Cheongs argue, or joke, he’ll sit there poised silently as if he were a stranger at a table in a cafe watching a conversation happen on the street. 

Some nights, when he's teaching Daseos to play guitar, his gaze would take on a sudden distance as she plays back to him. You had never thought distance could be loving until you had grown accustomed to his eyes. Until you saw Mondes Rosado stare at a person, or listen to a sound, or taste a bite of food and watch his gaze turn distant like a person stepping back to admire a view, like his love was at such a scale it could only be seen as a landscape. You remember feeling so safe the first time he stared that way at you. 

Maybe just to be contrarian, you find Mondes’s eyes most beautiful when they don’t reflect anything at all. In the gray haze of a rainy evening, they don’t shine like a puppydog but are as flat as still, deep water. Green so dark out of the light it almost looks black. The flatness takes the hardness from them. No longer the shining back of a beetle, they become the shadow of a cave or the deep of a well and you can fall into them and you can just keep falling. 

You could never put this in as many words. Sometimes, you find yourself saying 

“Mondes has beautiful eyes” 

And people think you’re shallow, because it’s the first thing everyone notices about him, but they don’t understand his face like you do, they don’t get that you’re not saying Mondes has beautiful eyes, you are saying Mondes has beautiful eyes, and they don’t understand the difference. 

All of this is to say, you can read him well, you can read him better than anyone. The night of the first orchestra qualifier is long. There are a lot of people playing. You can’t remember the last time you went to an event so fancy. You grew restless in your seat. Later, he has to do interviews, the Cheongs wanted to get ahead of the press circuit before it got ahead of them, Mondes had booked interviews later that very night. You aren’t allowed in the TV studio but you wait outside, despite being told over text it’s late and you don’t have to do that, Hanagi and Nesseo are both waiting too, and you’re not leaving before them. Eventually, your boyfriend exits the building and you lock eyes, and you think, in an immediate assessment,

I have not seen him look this tired since before Bee died.

And you hear Nesseo’s voice in your head saying, why didn’t you talk him out of it, but you don’t say that, you walk up and say, 

“Let me help you with your things” 

And he says “The car’s not far” but despite his verbal protest lets you pry his heavy instrument from his back, a child's cello no longer. And Hanagi hands him the hot tea she’s been holding and he takes it gratefully in his hands, and Nesseo’s making jokes about the interview, asking when it airs, and he’s giving bare minimum answers. He’s leaning on your shoulder, wiping off the steam of his tea that’s fogged up his mask’s lenses and he says,

“Can I stay the day at your place” As he is sometimes prone too. And you say

“Yes” and he gives Hanagi the keys so she can take the car back to the Cheongs, and he’s taking your hand as you head towards the parking garage, and his cello is way heavier than it looks. 

When the two of you get back to your place he stumbles straight to the bathroom, and you’ve wandered over to your bed, picking at the million buckles and buttons associated with dressing up fancy. Mondes returns, his hair is free and cascading down his shoulders in adorable curls made from the constraints of his braid, and he’s working leave in conditioner through it with a comb. Eventually, he sets down his comb and leans his hand on the side of your wall, twisting to stretch his back. It was an exercise you had seen him do after playing the cello a hundred times. But he stops midway suddenly, and instead just lays down on the floor. 

“You okay?” You ask. 

“Fucking, cello spine” He mumbles into your floorboards. 

“You want me to crack your back?” You say. 

“Not now” he answers, with a playfulness and demureness to his tone that immediately conveys to you he’s mistaken this for innuendo. 

“I mean literally, idiot” You say. “Your medically trained kismesis” 

“Oh” he says. “Okay, sure” 

You sit down over where he’s lying face down, pressing one hand firmly on his back and then cracking it to the best of your ability. There is a slight sound from his spine, and then from Mondes, several parts pain and relief, he relaxes into your floor. 

“Thanks,” He says. He lays there still, for so long you eventually offer, 

“You want me to put you on the bed?” you say. 

“No” he says, pressing his hands to the floor and pushing himself up. He sits down on the bed next to you, fumbling with his buttons, hands probably tired from playing. And you reach over to help him, unbuttoning the cuffs of his suit jacket as he leans into you. 

“I’m sorry,” He says. 

“What?” You answer. 

“It’s so late” He says as you peel off his jacket. “You didn’t need to stay up and take me home.” 

“Least I could do” You say. 

“I know,” He says. “But you didn’t have to.” 

You aren’t sure what to say to that, continuing to help him out of his outfit. 

“I don’t mean to not sound thankful” He says. “I just shouldn’t need a boyfriend to unbutton my shirt.” 

“You’re exhausted” You say. He slips out of his button down, standing up to go through your drawers. 

“Where’s your Marsie shirt?” He says, not answering you, and you don’t even bother denying you have one of the purpleblood’s shirts, because it'd be silly at this point.

“Bottom left” You say, and he steals the shirt you worked so hard to steal from Marsie. But you forgive him, because if he sleeps in it now in the morning it’ll smell like pomegranates and honey, Mondes’s leave-in conditioner that lingers on your pillowcases and t-shirts after he stays like a ghost. He slips the shirt on, and walks back and collapses onto your bed. 

“I should be better at this” He complains into your pillow. “I did this when I was like, four.” 

“And you hated it” You say, laying down beside him, wrapping your arms around him. 

“Are you really gonna do the… refusing to accept help thing? After how many times you’ve gotten mad at me for exactly that?” You say.

“I know it’s fine,” He says. “To accept help. I’m here, aren’t I? Back cracked? I know it’s fine not doing it all on your own.” He says, voice retreating to the back of his throat. 

“I know that. My thinkpan knows that. My therapist knows that. I’m allowed.” He rambles. 

“But It’s so… familiar.” He breathes. 

“Every other part of me knows it's different.” He says. “But for some reason my eyes still linger on the crowd, like I’ll blink, and he’ll just be sitting where he always did, just left of center row.” 

You are sure he must mean his ancestor. You take a second to form your response, passing the moment by pulling him closer to you. 

“You want me to sit there?” You offer.

“What?” 

“Leftmost center row” You echo. “So it’s like, just me?” You say, genuinely trying to be helpful. He shakes, and for a moment, you worry he’s crying, until you realize he’s laughing. 

“What?” You say, defensively. 

“Sorry” He says. “What a freudian nightmare.” He jokes, this thought coming uninvited into his mind clearly being what he was giggling about in the first place. 

“Pssh” a noise leaves your mouth involuntarily. “Frued can eat my ass. I’m trying to help.” 

“I know,” he says. “Thank you Dia.” 

“You’re welcome.” 

“I just” he pauses. 

“Wouldn’t you all feel relieved. If you didn’t have to hold my hand like this.” He says, and you feel Aladors cast shadow darkening every word. Your lover did not usually talk about himself that way. You take his hand, clasping it just as you had done in the living room a couple days ago. 

“I think I’d feel relieved” You pause, stumbling. “If you let me help you.” You say, and you're glad your mask disguises the unsteadiness in your voice. 

Something in him tenses, sharp and angled, and then just lets go. He melts back into your touch. 

“Oh” he says. And you can’t see his face, not with the way you’re wrapped around him, but his eyes have gone that same way. Loving and distant. Like his love had all at once become so big he was suddenly humbled by it. 

[pencokun]

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

Here's the YouTube link!

[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.

[chowtrolls]

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

[byrdtrollsunoreversearchive]

what is bonking?

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

(hehe, dia belongs to @trollcafe )

[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

[aurevoirmonty]

Quelques phrases intéressantes du livre saint des Juifs, le Talmud :

Sanhédrin 59a : « Tuer un goy (un goy est toute personne qui n'est pas juive) est comme tuer un animal sauvage. »

Baba necia 114, 6 : « Les Juifs sont des êtres humains, et les autres nations du monde ne sont pas des hommes, mais des bêtes. »

Aboda zara 26b : « même le meilleur des goyim devrait être tué. »

Nidrasch Talpioth, p. 225-1 : "Jéhovah a créé les non-Juifs sous forme humaine afin que les Juifs n'aient pas à utiliser les services d'animaux. c’est pourquoi les Gentils sont des animaux à forme humaine qui sont condamnés à servir les Juifs jour et nuit."

Yebhamoth 11b : « les rapports sexuels avec une fille sont autorisés si la fille a 3 ans. »

Schabouth hag 6d : « Les Juifs peuvent faire de fausses promesses comme excuses. »

Hikkoth akum x1 : "Ne sauvez pas les goyim en cas de danger ou de mort. ne montrez aucune pitié aux goyim."

Choschen hamm 266, 1 : "Un Juif peut avoir tout ce qu'il trouve si cela appartient à Akum (goyim). Celui qui restitue la propriété (goyim) pèche contre la loi, augmentant ainsi le pouvoir des contrevenants."

Szaaloth-utszabot, le livre de jore dia 17 : « un Juif peut et doit jurer de mentir lorsque les goyim demandent s'il y a quelque chose contre eux dans nos livres. »

Siméon Haddarsen, fol. 56-d : « Quand le Messie viendra, chaque Juif aura 2800 esclaves. »

Tosefta aboda zara b5 : « si un goy tue un goy ou un juif, il doit en répondre, mais si un juif tue un goy, il n'a aucune responsabilité. »

Schulchan aruch, choszen hamiszpat 388 : « Tous les biens des autres nations appartiennent à la nation juive, qui a donc le droit de jouir de tout ».

Seph. jp., 92, 1 : « Dieu a donné aux Juifs le pouvoir sur les biens et le sang de toutes les nations. »

Schulchan aruch, choszen hamiszpat 156 : "Si un goy doit de l'argent à un juif, un autre juif peut aller voir le goy, lui promettre de l'argent et le tromper. De cette façon, le goy fera faillite et le premier juif prendra possession de ses biens conformément à la loi."

Schulchan Aruch, Johre Deah, 122 : « Il est interdit à un Juif de boire du vin dans un verre touché par un goy, car son contact pourrait rendre le vin impur. »

[soldier-requests]

Ngl Scottish me Bakugo was very cursed. Thanks 👍

This is Completely Random Stranger. By the Way.

Could I get some pronouns for that Max gift stimboard you made for... [Checks notes.] ....a friend. Fangs OC seems very gender :]

hello!! glad you liked it, completely random stranger! :] i almost think i should give you that as an anon tag LOL.

and sure!! hopefully you like what i came up with. your pronouns are under the cut!

act/acts

acting/acting(‘s)

actor/actors

actress/actress(es)

angry/angry(‘s)

ax/axes, axe/axes

bad/ass

bad/bads

bad/boy(s)

bad/girl(s)

bad/omen(s)

bari/bari(s)

bari/tone(s)

bark/barks

bee/bees, bie/bies

bit/ters

bitter/bitters

black/blacks

blade/blades

bleak/bleaks

bleed/bleeds

blood/bloods

blush/blush(es)

bone/bones

boot/boots

bour/bon

bow/bows

bow/tie(s)

break/breaks

breakup/breakup(s)

broke/broken

broke/brokes

broken/heart(s)

bruise/bruises

burn/burns

ca/nine(s)

can/dle(s)

candle/candles

canine/canines

cast/casts

cat/cats

chain/chains

chaos/chaos(‘s)

claw/claws

coal/coals

crack/crackle

crack/cracks

crack/cracks

crackle/crackles

crim/son(s)

crimson/crimsons

crow/crows

crown/crowns

curse/cursed

curse/curses

cut/cuts

cute/cutes

cute/cutie

cutie/cuties

cutie/pie(s)

dag/gers

dagger/daggers

damn/damned

damn/damns

damned/damned('s)

dar/ling(s)

dark/darks

darling/darlings

de/des

de/mon(s)

dead/deads

dear/dears

death/deaths

deep/deeps

demon/demons

devil/devils

dia/mond(s)

diamond/diamonds

dirt/bag(s)

dog/dogs

drama/dramas

dream/dreams

drink/drinks

drip/drips

drip/drops

drop/drops

drunk/drunks

dusk/dusks

dusk/dusky

ear/rings

earring/earrings

eerie/eeries

eldritch/eldritch(es)

em/bers

ember/embers

emo/emos

eve/eves

evening/evenings

evil/evils

fashion/fashions

fatal/fatals

fate/al(s)

fate/fates

fe/line(s)

feline/felines

feral/ferals

ferro/ferros

fiend/fiends

fight/fights

fire/fires

fire/works

flame/flames

fluid/fluids

freak/freaks

fuck/fucks

fun/funeral(s)

funeral/funerals

gem/gems

god/damn

god/gods

goth/gothic(s)

goth/goths

grave/graves

grave/gravestone(s)

gravestone/gravestones

grief/griefs

grime/grimes

grin/grins

growl/growls

grudge/grudge(s)

grunge/grunge(s)

handsome/handsomes

hart/harts

haunt/haunts

heart/broken

heart/hearts

hell/hells

hell/hound(s)

hellhound/hellhounds

herb/herbs

hop/hops

hope/hopes

hope/less(‘s)

hopeless/hopeless(‘s)

horror/horrors

hos/tile(s)

hostile/hostiles

hound/hounds

hush/hush(es)

hx/hxm

ink/inks

ink/inky

jet/black

jet/jets

jewel/jewels

jewelry/jewelry(‘s)

joke/jokes

jump/jumps

jump/scare(s)

jumpscare/jumpscares

keg/kegs

keg/stand(s)

king/kings

knife/knives

knives/knives(‘s)

know/knows

lace/laces

laugh/laughs

leap/leaps

less/lesses

light/lighter

light/lights

lighter/lighters

lo/ser(s)

loser/boy(‘s)

loser/girl(‘s)

loser/losers

low/lows

lust/lustful

lust/lusts

lustful/lustful(‘s)

ma/roon(s)

mace/maces

mad/mads

make/makes

make/up

makeup/makeup(s)

mare/mares

maroon/maroons

max/imum

max/maxes

max/max’s

maxie/maxies, maxi/maxies

maximum/maximums

meme/memes

mid/mids

mid/nights

midnight/midnights

mon/mons

mourn/mourns

murk/murks

murk/murky

murky/murky(‘s)

music/musics

mutt/mutts

muzzle/muzzles

nail/nails

nail/polish

nerve/nerves

nerve/nervous

night/midnights

night/nights

nightmare/nightmares

ob/sidians

obsidian/obsidians

omen/omens

onyx/onyx(‘s)

out/cast(s)

out/outs

pitch/black

pitch/pitch(es)

poi/son(s)

poison/poisons

polish/polish(es)

pon/pons

pop/pops

pour/pours

pretty/pretty(‘s)

prince/prince(s)

princess/princess(es)

queen/queens

ray/rays

ray/ven

re/gret(s)

red/reds

regret/regrets

rib/ribs

ride/rider

ride/rides

ring/rings

roar/roars

rogue/rogues

ruin/ruins

run/runs

sad/sads

scare/scares

scare/scary

scorch/scorches

scream/screams

screamo/screamo(‘s)

self/selfs

set/sets

sev/sevs

sev/ven(s)

sev/ver

seven/sevens

sever/severs

sharp/sharps

sharp/teeth

shh/shhs

shoe/shoes

shush/shush(es)

shx/hxr

sick/sicks

sin/sins

skull/skulls

slash/slashes

smirk/smirks

smoke/smokes

smoke/smokey

snap/snaps

snarl/snarls

som/bers

som/soms

somber/sombers

son/sons

sorrow/sorrows

spark/sparkle(s)

spark/sparks

sparkle/sparkles

spine/spines

sprint/sprints

stag/stags

stall/stalls

stallion/stallions

stand/stands

star/less(‘s)

starless/starless(‘s)

starve/starves

stone/stones

stud/studs

sun/suns

swipe/swipes

tat/tats

tat/too

tattoo/tattoo(s)

teeth/teeths

teeth/tooth

that/thats

that/thing(s)

the/max (as in ‘to the max’)

thing/things

thxy/thxm

tie/ties

tiger/tigers

tone/tones

tooth/teeth

un/lits

un/nerves

unlit/unlit(‘s)

unnerve/unnerves

up/set(s)

up/ups

vam/pire(s)

vamp/vamps

vampire/vampires

vein/veins

ven/vens

vial/vials

void/voids

wea/pon(s)

weapon/weapons

wild/wilds

win/ner(s)

winner/winners

woodland/woodlands

woof/woofs

wrath/wraths

yawn/yawns

yearn/yearns

zom/zoms

zomb/zombs

zombie/zombies