#it can stand alone

[ermakeys]

Andor

[thesparkthatlightsthemoe]

I had the great luck of finding yet another sweetheart of a character right after the one from the last book.

Lord Blackthorn, from ‘Ten Thousand Stitches’ by Olivia Atwater. Or as he named himself, “Juniper Jubilee”. The sheer wholesomeness of that name! I love it! And it suits him well. Perfect for a faerie who wants so badly to be of help even though he ends up causing more trouble in the process. He’s not a particularly mean faerie like many of the others around him, but the results of his intentions are only about a few steps up from what the rest do on purpose XD.

[spookberry]

Idiot to Idiot communication

[theoldkyokodied]

One wedding and three funerals

Background paintings under the cut

[redysetdare]

I think i just need to express that the culture surrounding QPRs right now made me think that i couldn't have strong bonds with my friends. Society told me i cant have strong bonds with friends because that was only for romantic relationships. Then i went into aro spaces and this idea was reinforced using QPRs instead of romantic relationships. it was "You can still have strong bonds with people without romance! It can just be a QPR instead!" "QPRs are MORE than friendship so you can have STRONGER BONDS than you would with friends."

it made me think that the relationships i wanted with my friends HAD to be something other than friendship for it to be as strong as i wanted. If i wanted to be the first person in someones life i had to enter some sort of committed relationship. if I wanted someone to care about me as strongly as i did them then it would have to be a relationship that was "more" than friendship.

I thought I wanted a QPR because i was told the only way to get that care and security that I wanted was to enter into a relationship that was "more" than friendship. because friends didn't care that much. because friends didn't live together their entire lives. because friends were never the priority relationship wise. and it took me years to realize that i didn't want any partnership and i shouldn't have to be in one to want these things from a friend. these things CAN be something friends can do. but i found that out on my own. because the aro community kept saying "you want a QPR" when i just wanted a friend who finally saw me as a priority in their life.

[morganbritton132]

Someone asks Eddie what the worst thing about Steve is and you’d think that he’d say Steve’s love for Wham! or his sports metaphors but no. No, the worst thing about Steve is his love for Corroded Coffin. Specifically this one power ballad they have that Steve says describes the love him and Eddie have for each other. It is the only Corroded Coffin song he likes. It is also the only song Eddie didn’t write. Jeff wrote it.

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[kagekitsuneoflight]

It’s kinda funny that Jason is, in every sense of the word, the most normal Robin. Unironically, there wasn’t anything uniquely special about him before he was Robin. He was a street kid. His dad was a goon (which makes sense for Gotham. It’s a goon breeding ground) and his adoptive mom was a girl who fell in love with the bad boy, got disowned by her upper middle class parents and adopted her boyfriend’s infant son. Even his biological mother isn’t anything special! She was just a doctor who ended up becoming corrupt.

Jason Todd was no circus kid who could do an impossible signature trick. He wasn’t being scouted by some evil hidden organization.

He wasn’t the rich boy genius who lived next door.

He’s not the son of a supervillain (as lame as cluemaster is, he still *counts*).

He’s not the secret son of Bruce Wayne.

And he’s not a metahuman, nor did he led a whole organization of teens to fight when Batman couldn’t.

He’s the most regular boy to ever enter become a hero in Gotham. He wanted to do good things for the sake of doing good. He grew up poor with regular parents, where bad things happened to them. The kinds of things that could happen to *any* person living in Gotham.

There is nothing about him, pre-Robin and as Robin, that makes him Not Like Regular Kids.

His dad was a goon (who, depending on the run, was either killed by Two-Face OR. Just sent to prison and killed in prison! Which makes his backstory even PLAINER-) and his mother was a drug addict with cancer. Jason ends up homeless, and almost steals the bat mobile tires. The only thing that makes him stand out from any other tragedy befallen kid in Gotham is the fact he was bold enough to do that, get Batman’s attention, and continue to be bold enough to go against a crime lord (who was apparently his grandmother, the most interesting person in his family, but since she’s almost never brought up, she’s likely no more significant than a one-issue villain in the crime lord power hierarchy). Batman realized that Jason wasn’t going to really stop, and honestly he kinda grew on him, so he decided to adopt Jason, and eventually allow him to become Robin.

There just isn’t anything amazingly special about his backstory. The few moments where something could have been done to make it more interesting (like his biological mother) but ended up taking the most boring option. You can’t do much of anything now to enhance his past without upsetting much more well established canon, and not without making people wonder “well if his grandmother was such a big name in crime, why hasn’t she been brought up before?”

Jason Todd was a wonderful Robin (providing that he actually has a writer who likes him). He has a golden heart, he’s the voice of reason. He’s everything that a Robin needs to be for Batman. But compared to everyone else, he was nothing special. In a way, his lack of Not Like Regular Kids makes him stand out in a much more subtle way.

As if someone asked the question “Do I need to be someone special to be Robin?” And the answer was “You don’t need to be someone special, you just need to be brave, like Jason Todd was.”

[the-fandom-is-now-my-life]

melusines say the darndest things

Even after successfully hiding your relationship to the eyes of Fontaine's people sometimes children melusines can have loose lips and accidentally say a bit too much and cause misunderstandings

Wc: 1.2k

Cw: reader gets called mom by Ngen but treated as GN/ they/them, melusine causes a pretty big misunderstanding, ideas of having children (unspecified if pregnancy or adoption)

“Good morning, mister barista” a small Melusine calls from behind the cupboard, the little green girl tiptoes so her eyes could be seen.

“Morning Ngen, chocolate milk?” The kind man asks as he does everyday, and already knowing the answer he starts heating the milk.

“ Yep, thanks” she hops towards a table and keeps seated while kicking her feet waiting for her milk.

Soon after Arouet came with a tall glass with a little bit of foam on top and grated chocolate over “Here is your milk, do you want something to eat?”

“No, thank you” she smiles at him, making him beam, “but can I ask something?” She asks softly.

“Of course, what is it?”

“What is a mom and a dad? When I go play on the playground ladies always ask where are my mom and dad” she pouts

At the question his blood runs cold “ uhm, a mom is someone who takes care of you and comforts you when you feel scared and a dad is someone you know can protect you from anything and spoils you rotten?” The forty year old man never thought much about that but attempts to summarize it with his own experiences.

“ Oh! Then I do have a mom and a dad!” Her small eyes shine

“ Really? Good for you”

“ Yep! That makes Dr. YN my mom and Monsieur Neuvillette my dad! So that is why they sleep in the same bed then!” She clasps her fin like hands together as if she just figured out the answer to a riddle.

The base chatter that always swarmed the cafe and gave it its characteristic liveliness fell silent, the different tables all were interested in what the Melusine said.

The journalists found a fresh scoop that could be exploited for months on end, amdeven if the noblewomen would spread the information around their circles faster than they can finish editing the news, such a shame the great judge isn't a bachelor any longer but that does allow them and their husbands to try and social climb by associating with his spouse.

On the other hand the salarymen working for the palais mermonia were neither happy nor sad, simply concerned. If their boss had a fight with his lover or decided to take half a day on valentine's day or his anniversary would they have to shoulder the extra work?

“ Oh~ how cute” a pitchy and sickly sweet voice starts speaking at her, a woman with black hair and wearing a noble dress takes a seat next to Ngen “tell me more, shop owner get me a platter of macarons for the sweet girl!”

“ And a portion of madeleines!” The reporter sits on the other chair, leaving him facing the noblewoman with the Melusine on the middle

“I'm not sure… Dr. YN, I mean mom always says too many sweets are bad for you”

“ Don't worry! It's just some cookies for breakfast, I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you don't eat dessert at night”

“ Exactly as the woman says, moderation is key”

As the plate with macarons gets settled on the table first the lady pushes it towards the melusine accompanied by her questions “So, tell me what do your mom and dad do? Do they frequent a certain restaurant? Or do they read certains books?-" Before any of the cookies were grabbed the journalists pushes the macarons away with the madeline plate, the colorful sugary dots moving to one of the edges because of the force.

“ At least ask something interesting, when did they get married? How long ago was that?”

“ What is up with those useless questions? How are you even using that information?” The manicured fingers tap methodically against against the glass tables, the noblewomen who were still on the other table started muttering about the scenario

“And for what use would knowing what books they read? Readers of the gossip column need to be started with the base of the gossip, like when and how it started“

Before they can keep bickering Ngen bit on a madeleine before taking another bite of the macaron as she spoke “ I know dad really likes soup at the hotel Debord so that is why mom rented the whole place for a night for next week” the journalist mentally notes the date for later use

“ A special secret dinner? So romantic”

“ Yep, mom said they wanted a private moment when they told dad…” she keeps speaking when suddenly she seems to notice something

“ Told what??”

“ Oh, does that make me a big sister then?”

“Is that another baby set?” Neuville looks at your reflection from the bathroom's mirror, your hands holding a yellow dress with daffodil embroidery and white knit socks

“ It's from Mrs Jonquille” you rub the cotton skirt between your fingers “ it seems to be good quality too”

Neuvillette walks towards you and grabs the socks, inspecting it awestruck. They could barely cover the tips of his fingers, causing you to laugh “ Are human newborns so… tiny?”

When suddenly a howl breaks the silence startling you both and leaving the set on the nightstand

“ I'm sorry, daisy!” Ngen apologizes to the puppy barking at her under her bed

You quickly tell her “Ngen, I told you to be more careful where you walk, daisy is still very little” a soft thumping against the tiles approaches the shared bedroom and a sad melusine hugs your leg

“ I don't want daisy to be mad at me” she whines into your pajamas

“Don't worry, I'm sure she will forgive you” you pat her head softly, messing the green and blue hair “she is just scared because you hurt her, but she truly likes you”

“ because I'm her big sister?”

As she asks that Neuvillette’s eyes dart towards yours, confusion meeting with confusion. The only idea that Neuvillette could conceive of the sudden titles being thrown around was Ngen being jealous of the attention towards the new puppy. Even then he recognizes to himself that he doesn't mind the familiarity and might even enjoy the cozy feeling in his chest.

Holding her in his arms a placid smile on his lips “Yes, Ngen, Daisy loves her big sister” Without her noticing the dog now peeks her head inside the room after hearing her name the puppy sits down at your feet and you hold her to Ngen’s face

“See? She was just scared. Now get ready for bed, it's past your bedtime”

“ Okay~” she quickly jumps out of Neuvillette's arms and the puppy follows after her, her tail playfully waging

A few seconds of silence settle in the room and you walk to the bathroom to brush your teeth

“Why did she suddenly start with the mom and dad thing?”

Neuvillette starts tying his hair back in a braid, his two blue streaks outside of it “ I'm unaware, she still referred to me as ‘monsieur Neuvillette’ when she accompanied me to the Palais mermonia” he sits down on his side of the bed, the white sheets matching his pajamas made of white silk and blue details “I hope it didn't bother you. If it did I apologize, I will talk with her about it tomorrow”

“ I didn't mind, actually. I think kinda sweet, like if she was our daughter”

As he pulls back the blankets he finds the baby dress on your nightstand and stretches over to grab it, the yellow cotton intricately embroidered with a darker stringing the form of daffodils, it was a very delicate work, noticeably even just by touch “it would be a waste for this to go unworn” he mumbles softly

“ It would, wouldn't it” you smile at him from the on suite bathroom

[couch-house]

something thats been in my head for a long time abt vulnerability and comfort and echoes of the past

[ghostlyarchaeologist]

A collection of Eliot's 'Dammit, _______'s over the years!

Honourable mention:

[drippyboycunt]

i see a lot of love for sucking clit but not enough for tongue fucking hole

[poetrysmackdown]

what makes a poem a poem? does it have to be written in a certain way? is this question a poem if i want it to be?

Fun question! This is just my personal sense as an avid reader and less-avid writer of poetry, but for me it’s useful to distinguish (roughly) between poetry as a genre and poetry as an attitude or philosophy through which language and the world can be understood. And of course these two go hand in hand. I see poetry the genre as essentially a type of literature where we as readers are signaled, somehow, to pay closer attention to language, to rhythm, to sound, to syntax, to images, and to meaning. That attentive posture is the “attitude” of broader poetic thinking, and while it’s most commonly applied to appreciate work that’s been written for that purpose, there’s nothing stopping us from applying that attentiveness elsewhere. Everywhere, even! That’s how you eventually end up writing poetry for yourself, after all. There’s a quote from Mary Ruefle floating around on here that a lot of folks have probably already seen, but it immediately comes to mind with this ask:

“And when you think about it, poets always want us to be moved by something, until in the end, you begin to suspect that a poet is someone who is moved by everything, who just stands in front of the world and weeps and laughs and laughs and weeps.”

Similarly, after adopting the attentive posture of poetics, there’s plenty of things that can feel or sound like a poem, even when they perhaps were not written with that purpose in mind. I’ve seen a couple of these “found poems” on here that are quite fun—this one, for example. The meaning and enjoyment you may derive from the language of a found poem isn’t any less real than that derived from a poem written for explicitly poetic purposes, so I don’t see why it shouldn’t be called poetry.

That said, I do think that if you’re going to go out and start looking for poetry everywhere, it’s still important to have a foundation in the actual language work of it all. Now, this doesn’t mean it has to be “written in a certain way” at all! But it does mean that in order to cultivate the attentiveness that’s vital to poetry, one needs to understand what makes language tick, down at its most basic levels. It will make you better at reading poetry, better at writing it, and better at spotting it out in the wild.

Mary Oliver’s A Poetry Handbook is an extraordinary resource to new writers and readers, and a great read for more experienced folks as well. Mary Oliver’s most popular poems are all to my knowledge in free verse, and yet you might be surprised to find her deep appreciation for metrical verse (patterns of stressed/unstressed syllables), as well as for the most minute devices of sound. In discussing the so-called poetry of the past, she writes,

“Acquaintance with the main body of English poetry is absolutely essential—it is the whole cake, while what has been written in the last hundred years or so, without meter, is no more than an icing. And, indeed, I do not really mean an acquaintanceship—I mean an engrossed and able affinity with metrical verse. To be without this felt sensitivity to a poem as a structure of lines and rhythmic energy and repetitive sound is to be forever less equipped, less deft than the poet who dreams of making a new thing can afford to be.”

In another section, after devoting lots of attention to the sounds at work in Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, she writes,

“Everything transcends from the confines of its initial meaning; it is not only the transcendence in meaning but the sound of the transcendence that enables it to work. With the wrong sounds, it could not have happened.”

I hope all this helps to get across my opinion that what makes a poem a poem is not just about the author's intention, and not just about meaning (intended or attributed), but also about sound and rhythm and language and history, all coalescing into something that rises above the din of a language we would otherwise grow tired of while out in our day-to-day lives.

I'll always have more to say but I'm cutting myself off here! Thanks for the ask

[turtleblogatlast]

imo Leo has every right to be prideful about his appearance because if I had red stripes over my eyes, I’d make my face a personality trait too

[sweetteaanddragons]

Happy Thanksgiving! In celebration, have an awkward family dinner scene from my current WIP.

“You know,” Earwen said, taking a careful sip of her wine, “you could petition the Valar.”

This was not a new concept. It had not been tried recently, but Nerdanel still had to pause in her meal for a moment to poke at just why Earwen was presenting it so cautiously.

“On what grounds?” She had certainly tried everything she could think of.

“Precedence, mainly. It is not so different from the case of Finwe and Miriel.”

Arafinwe sat with his fork half frozen between his plate and his mouth. Nerdanel felt half frozen herself, trying to understand. How could the statute of Finwe and Miriel possibly be similar to her own case?

“I know you might not have anyone in mind now,” Earwen continued, “but it might help to already have your right established.”

Her right. Her right to -

To do what everyone had been so insistent she do.

Get up. 

Smile.

Move on.

She could get up. She could smile. She could - move.

But to move on? To take someone else in his place?

She was furious with him. Incandescently so. She wanted to claw out those clever, unsatisfied eyes. She wanted to bite out his beautiful, poisonous tongue. She wanted to pour molten rock over him and let it settle around him until he could never move from its confines again.

But to move on? To take someone else?

She imagined someone coming to Feanaro after his vaults had been torn open and telling him it was alright, really, that the Silmarils were gone; look, they had all these pieces of lovely shattered glass, and he was welcome to take his pick between them.

“I could remarry, you mean,” she said, and Feanaro would have known that just because her voice was still, it did not mean she said it calmly. “Have children again, even.”

“If you liked,” Earwen said, though her own voice was careful now.

Nerdanel sipped her wine. “I do not know why you do not take your own advice. You would not even have to appeal to the Valar for it; no one would have the slightest right to object to you and Arafinwe having another child. Then it wouldn’t matter that Aegnor is never going to come out of the Halls.”

Earwen’s face went white.

“Excuse me,” Nerdanel said and left.

. . .

She was already packed by the time Arafinwe came to her room. She had steadied by then, though not calmed.

“She meant well, and I did not,” she conceded without looking up from securing the last of her things. “I won’t trouble you till I’ve thought up a proper apology.”

Everyone remembered that she had fought with Feanaro. No one ever seemed to remember that if it had just been Feanaro raging, it would not have been a fight.

“Please don’t leave,” Arafinwe said wearily, leaning against the door. “We’ve had quite enough of that.”

“It’s what I do,” she said shortly. Hear something horrible. Say something horrible. Leave.

Not come back until it was too late, and he had already sworn that stupid Oath.

He scrubbed a hand across his face. “As your apology to me,” he clarified, “please at least wait until morning.”

She paused.

He looked so very tired.

“Alright,” she conceded. She sank down on top of her bags. “Do you think I should move on?”

It was poking at a bruise for no good reason. Her answer wouldn’t change for him. 

But she wanted to know just how long she should take to come up with an apology.

“I have no right to tell you how to handle your personal affairs,” he said, and for a moment, he sounded like her king, gracefully holding himself to the limits of his power.

She scowled at him.

“No right,” he repeated. “And if you want to - to never make another statue of him and run off to join the choir in Alqualonde, I will be the last to tell you otherwise.”

“But?”

“But if you came back and told me you wished to remarry, I think I would offer you the crown of the Noldor not to,” he admitted. “As much as he would laugh to hear one of my mother’s children speak against it. Right now it is only the verdict of the Valar that he may never return, and the Valar have changed their minds before. If we should lock that door forever . . . “

It was probably immaterial anyway. The Valar had needed Miriel’s permission to allow Finwe’s remarriage; Feanaro, surely, would not give it.

Surely. Surely she still meant more to him than that.

She did not wish to bare that corner of her soul tonight, not even to Arafinwe. Instead, she confessed to an easier thing.

“When I was pregnant with the twins,” she said, staring at the ceiling, “it was - difficult. More difficult than any of the other births had been. I had half lost myself by the end.”

“I remember,” he said softly.

That surprised her; she did not remember him from then at all, but she supposed that only supported her point. “I was convinced I was going to die, and I was in no state to think clearly about it. I swore to him over and over that I would come back, that the very moment Namo allowed it I would come back, that he would not need to be patient long.”

Some irrational part of her had been terrified that they would lie to him; that they would say she had refused the call of life while she was desperately pounding on Mandos’s walls.

When she had been saner, she had known the fearful fancies for what they were. But in the midst of them . . . 

“He kept promising that I wasn’t going to die, of course.” And he had been right about that, though it was the only one of their arguments that she would concede now. “But when that didn’t settle me, he told me that he believed me, and that if it took me a hundred thousand years to return, he would believe me still and wait.”

She had never doubted that promise. Even when they had burned everything else between them, she had believed that promise. In their worst moments, it had been because she was sure he would never concede any ground whatsoever to Indis’s marriage, but she had still believed it.

She hadn’t returned the promise. She hadn’t thought she would need to.

But now here she was, still standing, and the Valar promising that he would never, ever return.

It was not yet a hundred thousand years.

And when it had been, she would keep his promise in his stead and still wait.

[aquaquadrant]

Title: poor language

Warnings: Shipping (Ethubs, past Impdubs, kissing), session 4 spoilers, references to past seasons

~*~

“You know, Impulse came with me to kill the dragon.”

Bdubs says it casually as he slides off his horse. They’ve officially ended the session, but a few players are still hanging around, catching up on the session’s chaotic events before heading back to their respective worlds. So naturally, he had to stop by Etho’s place to gloat some more about his legendary accomplishment.

Etho, doing some last minute work on his chicken farm, doesn’t look over at Bdubs’s arrival. “Oh, yeah?”

(‘You know, our old thing- if things come down to it, we don’t betray each other.’)

“Yeah.” Bdubs ties his horse to one of the fence posts of Etho’s sheep pen. “Yes, he did, he- it was me, him, and Pearl first before those other- those sneak- snipers, freaking kill-stealers came in after, of course. But Impulse, he- you know, he couldn’t actually kill anything this session so he was just helpin’ out, shooting th- the uh… end crystals… moral support…”

Etho nods, his back still turned to Bdubs. “Good, good.”

“Yes…” Bdubs clears his throat. He puts as much admiration into his voice as humanly possible. “He did amazing.”

(‘Guess what? Impulse and I are in love.’)

“I’m sure he did,” Etho replies, his tone perfectly, infuriatingly neutral.

Irritation flickers through Bdubs. He pauses for a second, working his jaw. “Eeugh- you know it was my task, right?” he presses. “I ha- my hard task, most impossible task in’a world, kill the ender dragon in the life series…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Finally, Etho climbs out of the chicken hole, dusting his hands off. “I- I kinda figured, ‘cause you know, you were pushing real hard for it…”

“Uh huh.” Scowling, Bdubs puts his hands on his hips. “Well- thanks a lot, then, for the help!”

(‘You could’ve went for me, and you chose not to.’)

Etho’s grinning behind his mask. “What, you expect me to fight a dragon just to help you out?” he asks teasingly.

(‘You clearly don’t know how Etho works.’)

Bdubs’s voice dies in his throat. He swallows, glancing alway. “No,” he lies. “No, I don’t…”

“Gotta play smart in these games, you know?” Etho puts his hands in his pockets, walking over. “Going to the end, uh, it just doesn’t make logical sense. Like, especially if it’s not even my task.”

(‘Etho, I feel like if this whole thing falls apart, alliances and stuff- it’ll still be you and me. We’ll still stick together.’)

“Right,” Bdubs murmurs sullenly. He folds his arms. “Right, right, right, of course.”

Etho comes to a stop in front of him. “So like, why else would I go?”

“Why else, right…” Bdubs echoes. His chest feels tight all of a sudden.

(‘He’s a survivor, that’s all he does.’)

Etho sighs. “What- what’re you doing, Bdubs? Why are you here?”

Bdubs’s heart jolts. “Uh- jeeze, can’t I just stop by to chat?” he demands, throwing his arms up. “Goodness sakes!”

Etho tilts his head. “Well yeah, sure, but you’re always here,” he points out. “Like, since day one you’ve just been finding reasons to come over here…”

(‘Where’s your boyfriend, Bdubs?’)

Bdubs feels his face heat up. “Oh, would you- maybe I come over to see Cleo, did- did you think of that?”

“Cleo’s not here right now,” Etho says evenly.

“Ah hah…” Bdubs rubs the back of his neck. “Well, that’s- yes, yes, okay, you’re right. So what?”

“So, if you wanna be around me so bad, why didn’t you team with me at the start?” Etho asks, taking a step forward. “Why’d you go join up with the Mounders?”

(‘The first thing I wanted to do was… well, yes, of course! Of course, team up with you, yes.’)

“Uh…” Bdubs takes a step back. “I mean, I didn’t- things happen, you know, organically, and- and I didn’t really… I had to build a- a house, upside-down house, other people started buildin’ around me while you- you ran off into the middle’a nowhere!”

(‘Etho has no loyalty to you. He’s just immediately teamed up with the next guy that’s come along.’)

“I think we both know why.” Etho starts walking forward again, forcing Bdubs to take equivalent steps back. “We’ve known each other a long time, Bdubs. We’ve got other worlds outside of these games, where we can spend time together without all the uh, the manipulation and deception and killing.”

Bdubs’s back suddenly hits a tree- he has nowhere else to go. His heartbeat pounds in his ears. “Uh, yeah? And…?”

Etho shrugs, looming over Bdubs. “But that’s just part of the game. So like, we can make all the promises we want, but uh, we both know that sometimes… things don’t end well. So maybe it’s better to keep our distance this time. That way it’ll hurt less, when it happens, and we won’t ruin what we have outside of the game.”

(‘I have a strong feeling we’re not gonna be friends at the end of this.’)

“So that’s it?” Bdubs challenges, indignation rising inside him. “Just- just avoid me, so you don’t feel bad if you turn ‘round and stab me in the back, huh?”

(‘You know I would never kill you, Bdubs.’)

Etho’s eyes flash. “You wanna know why I didn’t go to the end for you, Bdubs?” He leans in. “Cause I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

“Oh, is that a fact?” Bdubs breathes incredulously, staring back up at Etho. “You know what I think? I think you’re just scared. Not of the dragon, sure enough, but of what it’d mean t’go fight it for me.”

(‘I gave him the courage! He was scared.’)

Etho’s expression betrays nothing. “You think so, huh?”

“Yeah!” Bdubs puffs out his chest, a fierce grin spreading across his face. “Impulse didn’t care, as a matter of fact he was happy to do it!”

(‘Now, is this a happy marriage?’)

“Yeah?” Etho’s voice is dangerously soft, almost playful. “Then why aren’t you at his base right now?”

Bdubs deflates again. He should’ve known better than to try and make Etho feel threatened by his history with Impulse. They both know their connection goes deeper than that, than a single season of bound hearts and souls.

(‘Um… I want Etho.’)

“Okay, okay,” he says sheepishly, face burning, “you got me. In fact, I think Impulse- he was already planning on goin’ before I was, not even to help me out specifically.” He shakes his head. “Sheesh! I was just- is it too much to ask for a- a little attention?”

(‘Why can’t you be normal about Etho?’)

Etho hums noncommittally. He braces a forearm against the tree above Bdubs’s head, leaning in so their faces are mere inches apart. “You’ve got my attention now.”

Despite the tension, Bdubs huffs a laugh. “So much for- for keepin’ your distance, huh?” he jokes, reaching a hand up to tug Etho’s mask down.

This time, he can see Etho smile. “Well, we’re not technically playing the game right now. Session’s over.”

“Good point,” Bdubs chuckles, tilting his head up to meet Etho’s lips.

He knows this doesn’t come easy to Etho. He doesn’t have the same boldness as Bdubs when it comes to love, doesn’t throw his entire self into it with reckless abandon. He’s more cautious than that- always has been. He shelters his heart behind his aloof nature, his uninvested ‘easy-going’ attitude, and he wraps his words up in clever metaphors and the guise of amusement- lest anything he say be taken seriously as a weapon to wound him. So words aren’t always enough to convey what he really feels.

But they don’t need words for this.

Bdubs is well-versed in the dialect of Etho’s hands, the way they grip his waist to pull him closer. He’s memorized the divots that Etho’s scar has left in his lips, the way it feels against his own. He knows the slant of Etho’s jaw beneath his fingertips, the way his head tilts and shoulders bow to accommodate their difference in height. Every movement, every touch, every breath between them is part of their own unspoken language, communicating everything Etho’s left unsaid in his own unique way- and Bdubs remembers why he never should’ve doubted.

(‘He loves me. He cares. He does.’)

~*~

[supjello]

thinkin' about caspar...