#moiraillegience

[xiart]

fun fact im not easy 2 fluster, i have no built in shame i dont give a shit but. pale fic. pale fic always Does Something to Meee...

ok this is my weird way of requesting pale ship fic requests/prompts in my askbox. (can be any pairign but i havent gotten 2 act six yet and i am fond of gamkar if you cant. tell. )

[dailyshittyhsdoodles]

DAY 29: oh.

[wolfkinsanya]

[trenchgardens-ooc-ooc-ooc-ooc]

Do you think there are sex positions for pile seshes? there's gotta be shoosh positions. like. IDK, there's cowgirl position, but is there rabbit farmer position? where you hold your moirail's head to your chest and support their legs and rear so they feel secure? There's doggystyle, but is there birdie style? where you both sit close together in intimate contact and play with each others hair to soothe like preening birds? There's the mating press, but is there the consolation press? where you lay bodily on top of them like a living weighted blanket like two stacked legos? Is hugging the moirail's missionary or is spooning? Are belly rubs a pile position? is it also called doggy style?? Do we call having your head in your moirail's lap the dentist or is that too evocative of teeth drilling to be comfy!?!

I have questions, people!! and I need answers!!!

[nekropsii]

When it comes to "Fanon Stereotypes", which characters(aside from the Alphas because they're already criminally underexplored) do you think have it the worst? Alternatively; One misunderstanding or lie per character you see shown around as some weird truth?

As far as “Fanon Stereotypes,” as you’ve put it, goes… The first examples that come to mind that aren’t Alpha Trolls are Dave, Karkat, Kanaya, Dirk and Jake in tandem, and specifically how a lot of people portray June. John’s fine, people get weird with June specifically half the time, and I’m not talking about the discourse surrounding her…

For the “Misunderstanding Passed Off as Truth” part of your inquiry… Here’s a small and random assortment:

John has literally never used :B during the entire run of Homestuck. This is a Jane thing. That is a Jane emoticon.

Rose is not good at therapy. She’s never been good at therapy. She’s a 13 year old girl armchair diagnosing her brother as gay using Freudian psychoanalysis. If you take Freudian psychology seriously… I don’t know what to tell you.

Dave’s character arc is literally not about “overcoming toxic masculinity.” Yes, this is a trait he picks up from Bro, that is undeniable, but that’s genuinely not what the focus of his arc is. His arc circles around overcoming childhood neglect and abuse. It just so happens that being a little more forthcoming with his thoughts and feelings fell in line with that. Toxic masculinity, and the head-on tackling of it, was never the crux of his development.

Please for the love of god Jade is not stupid, and she doesn’t mean nothing to the plot. She’s just forgetful and also doesn’t want to be fucking miserable. She also doesn’t “get in the way of DaveKat,” because Dave and Jade legitimately had a thing going on way before Meteorstuck even happened.

Karkat’s arc isn’t about overcoming toxic masculinity either. What. His arc is about how he was born a Mutantblood and raised in a society that hates him. He’s the fucking Second Coming of Troll Christ. There’s so much pressure on him, and none of that pressure is focused in any way on his personal expression of/experience with his own masculinity.

Dave and Karkat do not have arcs that parallel each other at all. They aren’t narratively fated to be together, they aren’t masterfully foils, or star-crossed lovers or anything. The only ways they truly parallel each other in writing is due to the fact that they’re both Knights, and therefore are both interacting with what’s most important to them in generally the same or similar ways. That’s how Classes work. Revolutionary.

Kanaya isn’t stuffy, or boring, or overly-wordy. She isn’t a “mom friend” either. She’s just an extremely awkward girl who cares a lot about her friends and is very bad at social situations. She also isn’t fashionable or cool. I implore you to look back on her dialogue and on the outfits she wears. She is a mess.

Terezi is not a manic pixie dream girl. I’m in pain. This is still going on…

Jake’s character actually does extend past him being Dirk’s arm candy, actually! Jake isn’t just a “Sexy Lamp”! He’s very, very interesting, and he can exist outside of the concept of shipping- in fact, he canonically really, really wants to exist outside of the concept of being people’s object of romantic affections!

Tavros did not reciprocate Gamzee’s feelings. I’m not knocking on people who ship them, because I genuinely could not fucking care less, but I have seen people say that Tavros reciprocated those feelings, which… No, he didn’t.

Nothing to do with a character, but Moiraillegience is a romantic quadrant. It’s inherently romantic, just in a platonic way. It is not just “best friendship”- it’s more comparable to a Queerplatonic Relationship than anything. It is, in fact, weird to Paleship two siblings.

[trashfireradiowaves]

I love me some pale erisols. Maybe post-game, new world, highblood drama pale?? Or, hemoflip. I too, love hemoflip. Same pairing, maybe eridan works for sol, or saves his ass from something?? Whenever you can word good, is good.

Y’ALL SHOULD KNOW I’M BAD AT DRABBLES

You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone so fucking stupid as the skinny-ass little yellowblood wandering around with his sign and color in on infuriatingly clear display.

The sight of his sharp, angular face makes something in your chest stutter to a stop, his mismatched eyes tracking over the small, run-down marketplace with idle curiosity- no purpose, no destination, just long limbs ambling around and picking up random things in random stalls, turning them over in his hands, and does he even know what he’s doing? Does he realize how dangerous it is for him here? Does he realize there’s four other lowbloods in varying deep shades of purple and indigo tracking his every movement, following him as he slinks his way from one side of the narrow street to the next?

God, they’re going to kill him. God, they’re going to get him backed into an alley and even powerful psions can’t fight back against a group of angry paintheads, the lean hunger in their faces only amplified by the black soot and white powder they coat their faces in. They’re going to rip him to pieces and sell off everything he has on him, in him, and pocket the cash.

It’s none of your business. You should turn on your heel and walk away and let the uppity fucking highblood suffer for thinking he could step foot in a space he does not belong, but something stills your feet, wraps a thick hand around your bloodpusher and squeezes tight, holding you frozen fast. It’s none of your business but you can’t just let him die. You can’t just let someone die- Feferi, gods bless her soul, would haunt you for eternity for allowing something so terrible to happen, and you can almost feel her hands pressed against your shoulders, pushing you forward.

One second, you’re halfway across the market- the next, you’re four steps from him, three, two. You stand beside him and nod and put a hand on his shoulder; he startles, staring at at you [with such tired eyes, god], and you tighten your grip, smiling pleasantly at him.

“Play along,” you hiss through your teeth, needling through the thick cloth of his embroidered jacket with your ragged claws; he narrows his gaze but tips his head agreeably, setting the little trinket down and following as you tug him closer to the middle of the street.

Your hands seem to move for you, like someone else is guiding your touch; you straighten his jacket for him, your fins angled low and easy, fingers curling to adjust the little golden chain hanging from his lapel; at the physical expression of fondness, you can feel the gazes of the other lowbloods wavering, the four of them staring at each other and flicking signs across the streets, arguing. Good.

“You’re bein’ followed,” you murmur, and comprehension dawns on his face; the hand that presses against your shoulder is hot, almost too hot, and you shiver beneath it, trying not to cringe away from the feeling you’re decidedly unused to. Warmth is not something you experience regularly.

“And I take it you’re supposed to be my rescuer?”

God, his voice is awful, but at least he’s not fucking stupid; some highbloods, their pans practically rot from lack of use, their brains reduced to mush by all that lazy indulgence, but he speaks with the sharp snap of someone who can at least string multiple words together to form a complex sentence.

“Unless you want to get ripped to pieces and divided up into coolers to be sold to the highest bidder,” you reply calmly, because if you’re not calm then the idiots still staring are going to think there’s something wrong, god forbid; a weak relationship is worse than no relationship at all, and the only reason for a highblood to be so deep in the slums is because of some attachment or another.

Which doesn’t explain why he’s here, but whatever.

“Highbloods pay a lotta money for organs, you know.”

Your fingers pet over the side of his cheek, a mockery of a pale caress, and you can see the struggle in him not to snap at your hand; instead, he leans into your touch, and you tug him back to your own stall with little resistance on his part.

“Four’a them,” you continue, voice lilting sweetly as you push him into a chair; the words don’t matter so much as the tone, and you know they can still hear you but the noise of the busy street will drown out most everything else, “Three purples and an indigo. Clearly you’re fuckin’ pandead if you think it’s a smart idea t’parade around like a goddamn peacock with all your finery all aflutter in a neighborhood where the profits from one’a those gold chains would feed a troll for more than a month.”

He has the audacity to raise an eyebrow at you, the bastard; you rub a thumb over his horn and delight in the startled little chirp he lets out. [You refuse to admit it’s cute.]

“Last I checked,” he drawls, lathht and it makes your fins twitch, “You aren’t my lusus.”

Luthhhuthhh. Dear god.

To shut him up [and not because he’s nearly as skinny as you, fucking hell], you stuff a cup full of your particular ware into his hands, even though you can’t really afford to go handing that shit out for free. It’s whatever. Fuck, you’ll just skip lunch. You ate yesterday, you’ll be fine.

Your own stall is tucked out of the way but still gets plenty of business; cheap fish is hard to find, and your particular shade needs all the nutrients from the fatty flesh as they can get. You primarily sell street food, because it’s easy and quick to make- little fried balls of dough stuffed with cubes of barely-seared salmon and tuna, but you sell bulk meat as well- and jars of fish eyes, but only for special customers. Your favorites.

He picks at the food like it’s going to bite him, but after a chitter and a flick of your fingers he’s eating, at least; you keep an eye on the four that seemed hellbend on stalking them, but one’s already given up the chase and the three remaining are fussing at each other, debating the intelligence of pissing you off. Good. You hope they fuck right the fuck off a cliff, but if not, you’d gladly sharpen your claws and teeth on the hide of some overinflated buffoon who dared to snatch yours out from under your nose.

Not yours. Whatever. Just don’t think about it.

“One down, three to go,” and he nods at you, staring with those weird mismatched eyes, his gaze a little too intense and making your skin itch and shivery with the force of it; impeccably manicured claws pluck little bites out of the cup you’d handed him and you just. Twitch.

“Why?”

You busy yourself handing another cup to someone who hands you a dented bronze coin in return; it goes straight into the safe you have stuffed under your stall specifically for that purpose as you ponder the answer to his question.

“There’s already too much death here,” is what you decide on, the words sitting strangely in your mouth, not quite the truth but not quite a lie, “An’ besides, if you die in a lowblood market the whole place’ll get razed to the fuckin’ ground by highblood patrol officers.”

Also true. But not the truth; he stares at you and it’s like his gaze is clawing its way into your chest to settle in among your lungs, heavy in your throat. He looks tired, he looks thin; despite the pristine care he’s put into his appearance there are certain signs, certain blaring alarms of exhaustion and overwork that you see on your own face, on the face of every troll that frequents the marketplace here. The narrowness of his limbs, the brittleness of his hair, the dark, dark shadows underneath his faintly glowing eyes…

Fuck.

You scan the market; another purple is gone, leaving only an indigo and a clown with dark, messy streaks of soot-paint down his face; they’re huddled together across the street from you, and you make a point to rest your hand on the highblood’s head, fingers petting down the side of his face.

The indigo turns and leaves.

“If you wait a half hour, I can walk you back to the Wall,” you say, and when he blinks his eyelids are so thin you can still see his eyes glowing through them; despite the symbol of power it makes him look so fragile. Your face aches from the false smile you’ve had plastered to it since you picked him up like an errant barkbeast pup. You kind of want to hit him.

The next half hour passes so slowly you could swear time has become molasses; you sell a lunch-rush’s worth of dough-fish snacks and bulk packages and fish eyes and he just sits on his ass and stares at you so much you want to shake him, except if you did he’d probably snap in half. It’s infuriating. Your chest aches. You hate it. He says nothing, except when you turn to stare back at him and he reminds you your food is burning. His lisp makes you want to pull his teeth out.

[Except not really.]

Except yes really, fuck off. You pack your pans and everything you can’t live without into your safe and stuff that into your worn and overladen sylladex, and he stands without a word, following you as you lead him to the monolith of stone that separates the lowblood slums from the highblood lawnrings you can’t even afford to look at, much less live in.

You hold his hand, even though you don’t really need to.

There’s no sign of the final purpleblood but he could be hiding, you justify to yourself; his fingers curl around your hand sun-hot and skinny and your fins flutter. It’s always possible. Your prescription hadn’t been changed in sweeps and your glasses are cracked and dirty- for all you know he could be standing right down the road and you wouldn’t be able to see him if he had a bright-ass neon sign.

So you hold his hand. You walk him to the Wall, and when you part, he looks at you with all the feverish fervency of someone on the verge of solving a centuries-old puzzle. Like you’re something to be cracked open and examined with all due clinical interest. It makes your skin shiver.

“Thanks,” he says, and he slides his hand from yours and is gone, disappearing with a burst of bright red-blue, a powerful leap boosted by psionics that takes him straight over the Wall.

There’s something heavy and cool in your hand. When you manage to uncurl your fingers, a thick gold chain lays twined in your palm, along with a note- a name, a trollian handle.

Sollux Captor, Advisor to the Court, Seer First Class

twinArmageddons

take me on a real paledate next tiime, diip2hiit

It takes you five minutes to stop choking on your own spit.

[nekropsii]

Gentle reminder to everyone that Moiraillegience is a Romantic Quadrant. It’s just platonic.

It’s a form of Romance. There’s just no sex involved. If you’re Moirails with someone, you’re a little bit in love with them in your own special way.

Maybe don’t slap that label onto people who are related.

[positivestuck]

hi nep! So, you and eq are pretty close, right? Well, my meowrail and I are too, but l8y shes been hanging out with another girl a lot and I barely get to see her... shes all I really have & I don't know what to do and I want to keep her as a friend!

arsenicCatnip began trolling you.

AC: :33 < hi anon!!!AC: :33 < first, let me say that i completely understand how you f33l

AC: :33 < the best thing about meowrallegiances is that you have someone trust enough be completely open withAC: :33 < but i will admit that there are times im worried about telling equius about something because im worried about how he would reactAC: :33 < but sooner or later, youll have to get it outAC: :33 < because holding in your discomfurt will only make it grow bigger and bigger until finally you cant hold it in anymore and you end up with a broken relationship :((AC: :33 < you just have to remember that you became meowrails for a reasonAC: :33 < and just let efurrything fall in place in your f33ling jams :33

AC: :33 < fur this reason, my suggestion would be to just tell your meowrail how you f33lAC: :33 < let her know how much you miss her companyAC: :33 < ask her if there is any purrticular reason shes not hanging out with you much anymoreAC: :33 < if there is, then now would be a good time to come clean and get efurrything out for the reasons i already mentioned

AC: :33 < but if there isnt a reason besides just wanting to be with that purrson, then you have a great oppurrtunity to make a new friend! ;33

AC: :33 < is that other girl someone you already know or someone completely new?AC: :33 < if its the latter, ask your meowrail if she can introduce you to her!AC: :33 < because its always good to make new friendsAC: :33 < and its good for meowrails to be friends with each other’s friends too!

AC: :33 < the same thing applies if its the former, except of course you dont really have to be introduced, h33h33! XPPAC: :33 < in that case, you could just ask your meowrail if it’s alright if you join themAC: :33 < im sure that theyd be happy to let you in on the fun :33

AC: :33 < good luck! i know you can do it!!! :DD