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You're pale for him.
He lives halfway across the planet and you're pale for him.
Of all the times to be strung out and lonely and maybe even a little horny, you choose the middle of the day when no one is awake but insomniac freaks like you. Way to go, champ.
Maybe (probably, most likely) you're being overdramatic, but you've never needed to be papped as badly as you do right now. It's killing you. Your horns spark without your permission. There's a pounding in your head like someone slamming a door on your thinkpan over and over. Twitchy and nervous, you wouldn't trust yourself near your thermal hull right now, let alone your beloved code. So, you can't distract yourself, can't ask for help, can't eat, can't sleep.
Everything sucks and you're going to die.
Out of desperation, you've sent Kurloz messages ranging from no rush but call me when you're awake to AAHHHHHHHH. He can sift through all 48 of them at his leisure. But it looks like it won't be anytime soon, and you're right on course for some kind of world-shattering meltdown, so it looks like you're going to have to fix this yourself.
Already blushing, you load the pale vids you have hidden in the depths of your husktop. You used to watch them a lot before you and Kurloz became official, but ever since, it felt weird to go to them instead of him. You've thought about deleting everything; you're kind of embarrassed you still have them on your hard drive… but it took you years to amass this glorious collection. These videos taught you your best moves. The actors' faces are more familiar to you than some of your own friends. Strike that last one. Way too depressing.
Purple and gold are common in porn, spectrum opposites or whatever, but the government-sanctioned broadcasts all verge too close to culling territory for your tastes. You can pap a goldblood without treating them like a wiggler, for fuck's sake. And good luck finding anything where the goldie tops—that kind of unthinkable content can only be found through ludicrous pay walls or under high-tech lock and key. Half of the reason you got into coding was to unlock the good shit.
You're in the mood for simplicity, something that'll mellow you out like sopor without the fancy stagecraft and plot. Just to take the edge off until Kurloz wakes up. You pull up an old favourite. Going by the camera quality, it's pretty dated, but the two actors aren't far off from you and Kurloz. The purple's horns curve back at the tips, and the gold's psionics glow green instead of your red and blue, but most of the differences you can ignore in favour of some sweet, sweet papping action. You like this one because it feels… genuine. At least, more so than the slop posted on Hornhub. They look at each other like they really care, like there's nothing they'd rather do than make sure the other is okay.
Ugh, seeing them all happy and pale is just making you lonelier. You don't know if it's better or worse how similar they look. The purpleblood laughs lowly, just like Kurloz does, and you decide on worse. Definitely worse.
Push through it, push through it. If you can get yourself in the mood, you'll be floating in pale heaven in no time.
Hand meet cheek. You start slowly by stroking along your cheekbone, copying the movements on screen. Your hand is small and warm and nothing like you imagine Kurloz's would be, but with the video and how much you need this, it's almost enough. God, you've never even met him in person, but you're still getting giddy imagining him touching you.
The purpleblood's croons filter through your crackling speakers in a deep, calm melody, just like Kurloz's does when you convince him to voice chat. It's so close to your moirail's it's almost spooky. His voice is just… fuck. It does something to you, man. You feel it down to your bones and relax on instinct like your body already knows you're safe when he's around. He's not even here and you're already slipping. Your eyes flutter closed as your palm encircles your cheek. You know the video off by heart anyway; it's not like you're missing anything. The purple eases goldie down into the pile, eyes warm with affection, the camera zooms in on the gold's face when he gasps—authentic, maybe—as the purple begins his exploration at the tips of his palemate's horns. You wish Kurloz could touch you like that. Slow and curious, like he is with everything. Running his fingers over you like you're one of his holy books, teasing the ridges of your horns until your toes curl.
Your whine echoes the goldblood on screen when your other hand curves around your neck. Baring your throat to someone, fuck. That's the kind of hardcore shit you can only dream of. Would he let you touch his neck? Could you stroke his face while he closes his eyes and trusts you? Or trace his lips without fearing his teeth? Maybe one day, if you lived closer and got to pile him regularly. Fuck that—daily. Goddamn hourly if he'd let you.
You are so ready to meet him.
It's okay on your own, you can deal. The self-papping is fine. But it's not enough and you know it. You've got a good chill going, but you know you won't fall under, proper pale dead-to-the-world under, without Kurloz's guidance. It's happened a couple of times—damn him for being so talented at piling through a screen— where your brain went all fuzzy at the soothing lull of his voice and, even sleepy and out of it, you knew you would've done anything he'd asked so long as he kept talking. The purpleblood is doing something similar, telling his palemate things like you're safe and let me take care of you, things that make the gold go limp in his hold. It's all surface-level stuff but, yeah, it's doing it for you too.
There's a minor scuffle when the goldblood tries to resist submitting—staged probably, how could you say no to that guy's dulcet tones—but, spoiler alert, it doesn't work. You open your bleary eyes long enough to watch the purple hold him down with a hand on his chest, stilling any struggles (you can only imagine how strong he must be), and starts nuzzling his face. Bringing out the big guns. You breathe along with the pace of his words as he whispers things you have to get Kurloz to say. "Nah, nah, don't even think on it. Just lie there and let a bigger motherfucker care for his weak lil' bro." You're not usually into caste play, but these actors know how to work it without making it too real. If you hear one more lecture about the good and gracious empire disguised as pale talk, you're going to send a virus to the Empress herself.
Man, you wish you had a snuggleplane. You reach out with your psionics to drag one over and it struggles along like a sad slug squirming across the floor. Honestly, you're impressed your powers are even working. Maybe you should just head to your 'coon. Get some sleep while the sun is still burning. It's boring but what else can you do besides sit here slouched in your gamer chair, getting more and more miserable by the second, wallowing about how your super hot moirail isn't online—
And then the ringing starts.
It’s him! IT’S HIM!!
You almost fall to the floor in your rush to accept the call. Who cares if it makes you look desperate? You are desperate. Because now you’ll finally, finally hear the hush of Kurloz’s voice without having to close your eyes and pretend, always knowing it isn’t enough. The bounds of your memory are nothing compared to the real hum that rolls through your shitty speakers and you imagine lying on his chest and hearing that sound rumble through you. Wow, okay, deep breaths. You’re shaking so hard you miss the button three times, but you get there and the call tab pops up and there’s his profile picture blown up to fill the screen, and it’s good, it's perfect, you’re already feeling better knowing he’s there.
“Hey!” Your voice cracks at the end, totally ruining any suaveness you might've had. “What’s up? Because I'm fine. Sooo fucking good.”
You fiddle with the ratty ends of your sleeves, tugging at the loose threads and avoiding eye contact with the screen as if he can see you. He must think you’re so lame. Your earlier freak-out seems kind of ridiculous now that you’re face-to-face (sort of) with him.
"Tuna," Kurloz says softly. "What's got your sweet self in such a state?"
You shiver as his voice rocks through you. What were you thinking believing the other guy's voice even came close? This isn't just another level of warmsafepale goodness, it's a different league altogether. You try to hold back the words dying to spill free (because you refuse to make yourself look like even more of a hot mess), but something about him always draws them from you.
“I don’t know,” you whisper. “I was fine, just doing dumb shit like normal, and then suddenly everything fucking sucks and I'm freaking out and shaking and I can't breathe right—nothing even happened! What the fuck is wrong with me, like, I can't just sit and code for five minutes without my atrocity of a thinkpan panicking for no goddamn reason, how fucked can I get—"
"Enough."
He doesn't yell. He doesn't even sound angry, but your mouth dries up and your tongue stills as quickly as if he had hit you. You're left reeling and feeling vaguely scolded, but in a good way? Your pan is actually silent for once. Maybe miracles are real.
"I—sorry—"
"Shh," he soothes. "Who called for any atonement? Not this motherfucker. Didn't want all that deprecation neither, Tuna. Ain't kind on the sponge clots to cast unfriendliness at your own fine self."
"Yeah, yeah. I know."
Be nicer, don't be so hard on yourself, blah blah. He tells you it every time. Yeah, he's right and you swear you are trying, but it's hard when you're such a constant fuck up.
"I'm motherfucking earnest, brother. I'll write fucking scripture on it if you don't get believing quick." He sounds like he's smiling and you feel yourself smiling a little too. "Look, the cameras don't have to have their roll on for me to figure your thoughts are hurting something fierce. Bid me what you need and I'll motherfucking supply, best of my ability and all."
What you need is him papping you, but you obviously can't have that, since he's a zillion miles away. You need him holding you and making you a pile and taking charge so you don't have to think so much all. the. time. But you can't have any of that. Not yet. So you ask for something you can have.
"Can I see your face?"
It's risky. You've seen pictures and you've got him on video chat once or twice, but you know he doesn't like it. He's shy or something (which is ridiculous because he's smoking hot and so fucking cool and completely out of your league). But you figure you're desperate and malfunctioning and you've got nothing else to lose.
He takes way too long to answer. It makes your pusher sink all the way to the bottom of the murky, unwashed tank of your chest cavity. You take back what you said earlier; you do have more to lose.
"I. I can," he finally says. "Give me a minute."
And then he's gone. You can't even open your mouth before he's ending the call and disappearing off to sort whatever horrors he has stashed in his hive. Well, holy shit. He's actually going to do it. Somehow, of all the potential outcomes, this was the one you were least prepared for.
You hurry to the mirror to make sure you're not a total mess. You fix your clothes, check your teeth, pat down your hair, but then ruffle it again because it looks more pitiful that way. Should you change your shirt? You've got an oversized one that makes you seem tiny and underfed. Maybe he's into that. Do you have anything purple? That could be cute, surprising him with his colour—
In the end, you don’t have time to do anything because your computer is ringing again and oh shit oh fuck it's him you're going see his face you're actually doing it you're making it happen.
Your chair makes a worrying snapping noise when you throw yourself into it but you can worry about that later when you're not about to see your moirail in glorious high resolution. The call connects and there's your face looking dishevelled and slightly panicked, but then, oh, then there's his face.
He's perfect. The first thing you see is wild hair. Not the purposeful mess he usually has, where he spends way too long poofing and styling it until it's organised chaos, but genuine helter-skelter madness. He must have just woken up—and the first thing he did was check on you, fuck, he's so sweet. Despite that, his paint looks fresh in sharp, defined lines and you realise that's what he had to do before you saw him. Your pusher can't decide whether to break or melt because he looks so damn pitiful with his pyjamas and tired eyes. It's tempting to care for him instead; have him wash his face and get back in his 'coon. You can see the fear in the slight crinkle of his brow, even though he's trying to hide it, which just makes your yearning worse. He wants to make this good for you because he knows you need it, and he's putting aside his nerves just to look after you.
UGH. Long-distance sucks. He'd look so good snuggled up in his pile with you stroking his hair and getting him all blissed out. And you can't make it be a thing that is happening because of bullshit like “extreme spacial intervals” and “travel costs”. It's not your fault psionics live as far away from the ocean as trollishly possible! It's not his either! And yet everything still sucks!!!
Okay, dial it back. You've got a moirail to swoon over.
"Dude, you're like. Wow." Your own awe is mirrored back in camera-you's face. "It should be illegal to be so pappable." A soft intake of breath sounds from his mic. "Uh, sorry, too forward? You just look really good right now."
He shakes his head, hair waving with the movement. Is he blushing? "Caught me off-tilt is all. You're being mighty tender-like on my lookstubs too, brother."
"Sap." You're blushing too, oh god, you're both so pathetic. "I'm sorry I woke you up."
"Didn't do nothing of the sort; I roused on mine own sweet volition. Maybe I got a sense at all that unhappy mischief tearing you up inside."
"Your spidey senses were tingling?"
"Something like that, motherfucker."
You both laugh little breathy, nervous giggles. After all these sweeps, you think you'd be less shy around him. You've seen each other at your weakest, where you're drowsy and spewing your most vulnerable secrets, trusting the other will be there to comfort you, surely that should count for something. You'll get into your flow in no time, but the camera is throwing off your usual ease.
"You got a headache wracking at your pan, by any chance?"
"No shit," you grumble. The headaches are near-nightly at this point. "Sorry, didn't mean to snap."
"Ain't no matter. Look, you got a pile going on?" He asks and you nod. "Good. Take this call to the palmhusk and get your salacious bones all up in that pile party. I'm gonna pap you motherfucking silly."
That sounds like heaven, or as close as you're going to get.
The swap to your palmhusk is easy if a little clumsy. He gets a great up-nose shot before you readjust the camera angle, but he's kind enough not to mention it. What a sweetheart. You lead him through your measly hive to the respiteblock, turning off the lights so he can't see the squalor you live in. Even your pile is pretty sad and deflated, but it'll work for now. Jeez, on a call with your moirail and you bring him to an unmade pile? You really need to work on your game.
When you're settled in the cushioned hug of controllers and snuggleplanes, palmhusk squished between two plushsquares so you don't have to hold it, you finally feel your headache ease.
"Snatch yourself some blankets to be being all up and snuggified in."
Blankets. Listen to him and his highblood nonsense.
"Got 'em."
"Cosy? Got all the motherfucking goods you need?"
"Yes, Dad." You roll your eyes. "Come on, tranquillise me already."
"Hey now. Wouldn't be much of a moirail if I didn't get my care on at you, now would I?" He's sitting in his own pile. You can almost pretend you're sharing the same one.
"Wish you were here." You say it quietly because you still get nervous about deep and intimate stuff. That's more Kurloz's area. He can say things about 'dreaming of you' or 'sewing his hand to yours so you can always be together', and it works in a creepy, romantic kind of way. You're still struggling with the L-word.
"Me too, brother." He's trying to stay strong, but you can see the resignation in his eyes. Your sad clown. You couldn't be any paler for him if you tried.
He's tired. Of the situation, the distance, maybe even of you. It would be kinder to let him go. He could find a moirail he can actually touch, one who listens to his fussing and doesn't have pan issues the size of Troll Texas.
"Maybe I should just burn out already so you can be my culler." You meant it as a joke, but neither of you laughs, so it sits in the air like a rain cloud. Worst part is, it's the most realistic option if you ever want to see him. "Too dark, sorry. Pretend I didn't say that. Can we just start?"
"Hell yeah!" He lightens up immediately and his smile brings with it all the warmth of the sun. It makes your eyes water. He opens his mouth to say something but his eyes get caught on you and he stops, distracted. "Shit, you wise to how fucking cute you look?"
"Pft."
"None 'a that now, my wretched motherfucking sunspot. Hark to a sinner who knows his mirthful antics from his holiest tomfoolery—you just keep your trap shut and let me pull the strings of that sickly pan into a wicked slumber."
Yes, bring on the theatrics! No one does a religion-infused monologue like your Kurloz. You pull a snuggleplane to your face to hide your mushy grin.
He has the lights set low, so he's half-hidden in shadow (but really, when isn't he), with candles and incense scattered about, making his block look like the sultriest cult headquarters you've ever seen. You feel cocooned just looking at it. When he brings out your shirt, the one you sent him soaked in pale scented sweetness, you damn near disintegrate.
"One of my most hallowed possessions." He brings it to his nose and inhales, his eyes never leaving yours. Holy mother of the messiahs, is he trying to kill you? The look on his face says he knows exactly what he's doing to you. "If I ain't careful, I'll get my zone on too. What good a remedy would I be then?"
"Oh, KL, dude—"
"Shoosh, chatterbox. Did I not mandate silence in this motherfucking court?" He gives you a pointed look. "That's what I thought." With the shirt in hand, he holds the fabric against his cheek, careful not to smudge his paint. His eyes slide shut. "I'm thinking about holding you. Getting my hands around that sparkbox body of yours. The look on your face when you're all contentified and nap happy, curled up in my arms like a baabeast what knows no better."
You whine quietly, which he allows.
"I'd touch your horns—nothing dirty-like, mind. Only the lightest of pink in our pile, ain't that right, Tunabro? Just trace along 'em. Rub those hornbeds 'til they stop their rudeness, play with your hair, settle that thinker down."
"Please," you squeak. "It's so loud, Loz, I've got all these thoughts and—and the voices, they're always screaming."
You're breaking the no-talking rule but you just, you need him, and it's too overwhelming not to voice it, to use up the nervous energy you have stored. It's your body resisting him like an exhausted wiggler fighting back sleep.
"I'm here, I'm with you. Breathe for me a lil', won't you? Thinking, listening, that ain't on your agenda. It's what I'm for, got it? You let me handle the horror what's corrupting a brother's mellow. Trust me, there ain't a sparkle in the sky what you need to get your fret on over right now."
"Okay," your voice comes out small and meek. "I'm just so sick of it. Of everything."
"I know, beloved. But you'll get a good rest on now, promise. Wake up feeling every kind of wondrous there is." He blows out a nearby candle, one that drips black wax and whose light glows pallid instead of warm. "I've been keeping you in my prayers, beseeching the Messiahs to lighten your load and whatnot. They listen, Tuna. They'll grant you mercy. Good things will be coming at all us motherfuckers soon, I know of it."
You don't believe in the Messiahs, of the Vast Honk, or of angels ushering twofold death. If you're honest, you think it's all pretty silly. But Kurloz believes, and he believes with his whole self. You know what it means for him to ask his gods for anything, to address them like he has the right to, and that he'll hold their answers as law. If they say you'll be alright, Kurloz will make it so.
"They care about an old blasphemer like me?"
"You're in the shadow of our Lord's most faithful motherfucking follower; they've got their peepers to the blood I've marked on your door and know to leave a blessing be." He waves his hand, wafting away the subject. "Now, sweetness, let's get down to fucking business in this bitch. Cup your cheek for me, that's right, nice and gentle. Can you feel it? The way I'm stroking at that soft skin, over your cheekbone? What a sight you are, my starlight."
Your fingers pet along the hollow of your cheek, mimicking patterns you've seen in videos. Yeah, you can feel it. The way his hand would be a cool relief against you, how he could move you like you were nothing, that he could hurt you at any moment but makes the choice over and over to look after you instead. Your eyes slide half-shut, which makes the screen blurred and hard to see, but he's still there, a black and grey smudge against your eyelids.
"Touch that sweet spot between your horns, won't you?"
You do it without thinking. Something about him makes you obey—makes you want to obey. When your fingers press against your scalp, you kick out involuntarily from the burst of heady numbness that rushes through your veins. He laughs kindly as your face goes slack. Curse him for knowing all your weaknesses. Your thighs rub together—not in a sexual way, but from the overwhelming sensation of it all.
"Precious," he says, and he sounds so fond. "Take that other frond and settle it on your neck. Feel your pulse. How'd you think it would get to calming if I kissed slow and true along that bared strip of flesh?"
He's breathless as he says it, like the sight of you reeling is something wondrous to behold. Maybe this is affecting him as much as it is you. The idea that just soothing you, not even able to touch, can make him—detached, calculating Kurloz—restless with adoration makes your soul fucking ignite. Just call him Troll Michael Jackson because your world is rocked.
"There wouldn't be no worry in you, not a mite, because you're safe with this fucker right here. With me. I ain't not ever gonna hurt you, Tuna. Could put my maw around your motherfucking throat and wouldn't do nothing, not the smallest bite."
You close your eyes and let his voice wash over you.
There's a horribly high chance that you're drooling. The fabric of your snuggleplane feels as fuzzy as your head does. The hum of your lights sings like the buzz of bees and it calms you. You notice these things in fragments, grasping at sensations because your brain is working in slowmo.
"Just rest up. I'll be here keeping you snug as a grub. Shit, I just—" he makes a quiet, frustrated noise. "I want my hands all up and over you. I'd stroke at your hair and smooch your forehead, feel you go limp. Hold all those breakable bones nice and close."
"Sh'hh," you slur. "'M here."
"I know, I know." When he talks next, the distress has left his voice. "You get me suffering all these motherfucking emotions, getting me all protective and shit. There ain't no other troll my pusher aches for like this, Tuna, not one."
Your fingers twitch half-heartedly, as if they yearn to reach out and touch him.
"Won't you do me a kindness and let me watch you drowse a little? So I can get my sure on that you're nice and rested? It would make me the most jubilant motherfucker this side of Beforus to have you getting some shuteye."
Catching some z's does sound amazing right now. And he's going to stay on the call? Jackpot!
"M'kay. Pale for you." You'd do your side of the diamond if moving your arms didn't seem like the worst idea ever. He knows you'd do it if you could. He knows you better than you know yourself.
"And I, you. So fucking pale."
"See you soon," is the last thing your tongue allows before the inevitability of sleep silences you.
"You sure will, brother. I'll make it so."