#happy birthday letter to you

[ghostsmp3]

Bruce Springsteen, NYC, 2018. 📸: Danny Clinch.

[outofthebluess]

𝜗𝜚 birthday boy .ᐟ

currently playing ❛ stargazing ❜ in which: ❛ percy's typically home this time of year, leaving you to celebrate his birthday in your own cabin with one single iris message update at the end of the day. but, for whatever reason, the gods were in your favour because you got to celebrate your boyfriends birthday with him. ❜

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pairing: ❛ percy jackson x fem!reader ❜ warnings: ❛ use of y/n (😔), cursing ❜

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when you first heard from percy that'd his school year was starting up later than usual and that he'd be able to stay at camp a week longer, you thought to yourself wow, maybe those offerings do work.

it was a blessing and a curse that percy took forever to wake up in the morning, giving you just enough time to sneak out of his bed and spend the few minutes you had blowing up balloons you'd gotten the stoll twins get for you along with everything else you needed.

for gods sake you even contacted his mother a few days earlier just to ask her what he normally did on his birthday so you could make his day perfect.

the balloons flooded the floor and the overwhelming scent of latex and frosting from the singular cupcake you had mixed with the smell that always wafted through percy's cabin.

eventually, the son of posiden would come to realize that this whole time no one had been laying next to him. worry would shoot through his body as he shifted to reach for you. his hands lifted to rub his eyes before sitting up.

"y/n?" his eyes met yours almost instantly, the furrow of his eyebrowns loosening. "gods you scared the shit out of me."

once he finally got a good look around, a smile lifted. the little indents next to the corner of his mouth becoming more prominent. "what's all this?"

"it's for your birthday!"

percy never understood how he got so lucky with you. he watched in admiration as the flame flickered on the freshly lit candle. the blue wax slowing dripping down it's frame.

"it is your birthday right? august 18th?"

percy kicked the covers off. "yeah - yeah it is. when did you do all this?"

"while you were absolutely knocked out like 20 minutes ago. come blow out your candle before it gets in the frosting."

percy's feet hit the ground almost too quickly. he sits down next to you and presses a quick kiss to your forehead. he looks to you, then the candle, and closes his eyes before blowing out the flame.

"i wished for us by the way."

"you can't say that now it won't come true." he gently takes the cupcake from your hands, the warmth of them together waking you up a second time.

"yes it will." percy began, his mouth full of the bite he just took. "you think i'm gonna let my totally perfect girlfriend do all this and not marry her? you're kidding yourself, y/n/n."

you scoff before wiping the frosting off his lip. "happy birthday seaweed brain."

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. . .

A LETTER FROM LAY! is this lay? actually posting?! everyone clap!

"happy birthday seaweed brain!" we all chant in unison with our fists in the air

[buwheal]

YAYYYYYY Birthday cake for the birthday boooyyyyyy hooray 46!!!!!!!!!! Made him a cake cause he deserves it :^D

#1 Salesman 1997 !!!!

....look familiar perhaps..?

[hitlikehammers]

Post S4 Steddie featuring Russian-Hostage!Steve (again) and Ransom Notes Sent to His Family (!)—hilarious

...but is it?

Steve doesn’t remember getting drunk as fuck. In fact, he…

This doesn’t even feel like a hangover, not exactly. There’s the headache, the stomach-lurching, but there’s a, a weight almost. Something in his limbs that feels off and too stiff but also like noodles, if you could make noodles out of lead. This, this kinda feels like—

His hand goes automatically to his neck, near his jaw, tries to see if he can feel—

Ah. Okay. Yep. Already scabbed over the injection site. Must’ve been something else this time, like probably a bigger needle. Sedative to start, maybe. Like the appetizer course.

Steve starts chuckling to himself—no off-the-books truth serum needed to get hysterical, not this time—as he tosses himself to lying back down, only then really clocking the cuffs on his wrists and, well.

At least he’s not in a fucking sailor suit.

——

When he calms down, and no one’s come for him into his very unexciting grey-stone cell for enough minutes to trust in a lull, at least, where he can just…just try and think?

He does in fact think he’s got something of an outline for maybe, like, the first leg of the story: they had to have gotten him after work.

Probably right after work, between locking up and getting to his car. He closed alone last nigh—

Well. The last time he remembers being at Family Video, he was closing alone. If he’s waking up drugged, it’s probably not super smart to just assume it was ‘last night’ by default.

Not that he’s sure it even matters, but.

Everyone knew he was closing. And everyone, except his boyfriend and sometimes Robs, knows to leave him be for a good twelve-to-twenty-four hours to recover when he’s soloing for the late shift on a weekend. Fucking brutal, honestly. Plus there’s a stormfront on the way and he’s had a migraine brewing at the back of his skull for days that was due to explode the minute he clocked out. Rob’s in Chicago scoping colleges, wasn’t gonna be back until midday after his shift anyway. Eddie was doing the same, but in Indy, looking to book gigs—he’d get back around sunup, probably, and he might come by as his first stop home, in fact he usually does and...

If anyone’s noticed Steve’s missing? Or will, maybe soon?

Might…might actually be Eddie, first.

Steve feels…more than a little tight in the chest, in his throat, having to think about it; imagining if the tables were turned.

So he shifts tacks, moves quick to trying and figure out what the fuck he’s been abducted for in the first place—yeah they’re gearing up for the eventual final showdown with Vecna, but once the ash stopped raining, and the sky went back to generally regular colors, and the government paid to fill in enough of the ‘earthquake’ damage for the roads that were still drivable to be noticeably better than they were pre-apocalypse? People generally calmed down, so. He really doesn’t know who the fuck’s got it out for him. He actually hasn’t broken his NDA, particularly considering he doesn’t even socialize with anyone anymore who hasn’t signed one themselves, and therefore doesn’t count on the subject of keeping to the terms of service, and honestly? Even peak-Vecna with his clock bullshit didn’t have a real-world army to do his bidding because, like: shit. That’s still the thing he’s pissy about, right? So.

It’s not like whoever’s-got-him-chained-up-because-if-anything-they’re-more-serious-about-imprisonment-than-he’s-encountered-before—but whoever they are, Steve cannot for the life of him figure out a good reason for them to be after him on Upside Down business.

So, like: the fuck, you know?

He’s trying to figure out property damage, like did he ruin someone’s prize roses when he was driving that RV, or else; was the couple who owned that RV, like, retired assassins and they’d been gearing up for revenge this whole time? That was plausibl—

The door—thicker, heavier than Steve actually was guessing—swings open with a godawful screech before he can weigh the likelihoods of the wife, or husband, or both having been secretly cold-blooded-killers, and in walks…

Oh. Oh, so…it is actually that predictable. Same script, different scenery.

Because Steve knows that fucking uniform, and it’s actually involuntary, swear to god, the way he sighs.

He gets slapped for it, which would hurt less than the first go around—those gut shots had been brutal—if the asshole hadn’t been wearing rings.

Not nice ones like Eddie’s, either. Ones meant to fucking tear skin and peel at the layers beneath it, too. Bear down to the bone, if given the time.

Steve feels the blood drip down toward his mouth, but there’s enough that he tastes it on the air before it even rolls past his lips. He’s panting a little, more for the sake of the impact, like the shock of it, but even then he hears it. The…weird whirring through the open door and he tries to catch his breath so he can focus, because there’s something…familiar about it, something he should know—

“Who do you work for?”

He snaps back to what’s in front of him and fuck, god, so: same script.

But, but: literally.

He instinctively curls his fingernails against his palms; knee jerk reaction. And fucking justified, too.

“Video store,” Steve answers because, what else, and good thing he’s still wearing his vest, was taking it home to wash because it smelled too much like…store. He nods down at the logo on his chest, pulled awkward and lying askew but pretty goddamn clear. “Like VHS tapes. Movies.”

He gets another slap. He’s grateful for even more reasons that Robin’s not with him this time. They’re not even proper Russian cinephiles, she’d be so offended on principle.

“I mean,” Steve decides in a split second to play along, to roll the dice with his chances on his lonesome and be grateful—and maybe because the thought of Robin, following the thought of Eddie and his rings, all weaves together to make him bold, but also make him desperate: he doesn’t want them in danger. Doesn’t want anyone goaded by these bastards into coming for him, wherever he is, and getting themselves hurt. Or worse.

So: maybe goading this captors into thinking he’s not worth the time anymore and making this quick?

Maybe that’s the card he’s gotta play.

“I’m guessing you think I know shit because of Starcourt,” and yep. Eyes get big for that being slid across the metaphorical table so casual. But Steve’s more impressed at himself because the minute he says it? The humming sound, the whirring? It clicks.

It’s what he heard in that underground lab. With that machine. With them trying to, to tear open—

“I don’t, for the record, know anything, Steve clarifies; “but if I’m like, missing for too long? My friends are gonna flip, and last time my friends were with me, y’know, so this time,” Steve sucks at his front teeth and shakes his head, and it fools them while it grounds him: two-for-one.

“They’ll freak, basically. Especially after last time,” his boldness lasts him through tossing his captors—maybe torturers—a judgmental quirk of his brow.

“Probably gonna tell Hopper like, y’know, chief of police,” he adds, blames Eddie for the theatricality buried in it as he purses his lips and nods like he’s considering; tries not to dwell on a deeper reason for why these bastards are letting him talk—nope. Nope, shove those thoughts down, just keep talking yourself, ignore the steady trickle of blood down to his tongue as he yaps.

“And Hopper, hell, it’s not his first rodeo, so he’ll probably call the suits,” Steve presses on Because what else does he have, what else can he do, he can barely fucking move; “you know, like you,” he nods at the medals on the very Soviet-style uniform; “but the American version. He’s got friends. So.”

And Steve manages to stare the fucker down, just eye-to-eye as the man scowls, glances at his associate standing closer to the door and—

Yep: yep. Another slap with those rings. Steve can’t pretend the blood’s not spilling from the line where the impact dug out his skin. He’s glad there’s no mirror; can only imagine what it looks like.

Sure as fuck knows what it feels like.

“I can’t tell you anything you don’t already know,” Steve doesn’t even think he’s trying to reason with them, wonders idly if he’s like, some Russian-identified spokesman now for all things spy-y and otherworldly, like if his picture’s on a cork board with strings going around it as the number-one suspect-slash-target-to-pump-for-nonexistent-info.

Fucking fantastic.

“I work for a video store, dude,” he finishes with, and it doesn’t even come out desperate, or pleading—it’s way closer to resigned.

“We will see.”

The man grabs Steve’s chin rough, too rough and for a second? Steve’s a little afraid he’s gonna try to snap his neck but he just shoved him back, straight into the wall—cracks his spine a little, but. Actually, given his limited range of motion, it kinda gets out at least a couple kinks. Huh.

Silver linings, or whatever.

But then they’re leaving, and something leaps in Steve chest uncomfortably, just as something sinks in his stomach and the whirring, the hum from beyond the door sinking with it, too—ominous—and he’s lunging against his restraints without thinking, cringing for the bite of the metal but there’s…something in him wants more time with these people. To figure them out. Maybe just to stall for time or find the one last straw to break and get himself beaten to death, no longer a threat to his friends by proxy.

“We have Sour Patch Kids, now!” Steve calls out on a freak instinct, a stupid desperate whim as they walk out, maybe more to drown out the whirring, the pit that’s opening in his stomach for all the memories its familiarity dredges up; “can totally hook you guys up!”

The door shakes the air somehow, but not the walls, or Steve’s chains, when it slams closed and Steve can’t hear the machine anymore, it’s all cut off and—

Holy shit, Steve is so fucked.

——

They keep sliding sandwiches and water through a hole they literally lock and unlock in the thick-as-fuck-special-soundproof door. Steve is reminded weirdly—or not, it all looks perfectly normal—but given the circumstances, he thinks he’s justified to be thrown back to that lime-green battery acid they’d considered drinking in the elevator: and that, probably more than anything, is why he refuses to touch a single bit of what’s shoved into his cell.

Well: that and then also the fact that no one actually comes in for a long stretch of time, and there’s no noise, save for…the hum. Only when they open the little hatch for food, at first but…then it increases. Then it somehow overrides what Steve imagines to be a pretty fucking effective insulation job to make everything thus far so soundproofed; so deadened. The fact that it even bleeds through a little sinks sicker in his stomach than hunger ever could.

Because definitely, one-hundred-percent, in case there’s been any doubts hanging on: it’s the machine, the thing they were using before to rip holes in…the world. As if Hawkins needed any more but—

The Russians want to know who he works for, and they’re trying to unleash the Upside Down. Again.

Jesus Christ.

It might be comical, the repetition after everything, with even less reason—the gates have been shut and sealed now almost a full year and shit, the whole party had been banging on about a cookout to celebrate, to sneak in one good thing before it was time to strike against Vecna for the last time, and Steve really hopes they don’t abandon the well-earned party for the sake of his imminent demise but, point is: it would be comical, almost definitely, if it weren’t so fucking horrifying.

They thought this was over. This part at least, the peripherals. Steve was the last real holdout to be on high alert, everyone was trusting in the alert system that was El and Will and even him and Eddie a little bit from the bats, all connected to some degree with activity in the Upside Down and everyone else was counting on that and trying to live in the middle while they could and…shit.

Look where it got Steve, giving in to the hope for an end in sight, and maybe even a happy one at that.

It runs sick through his veins, now that he’s thinking about it, about any of the possible outcomes and ramifications beyond this cell and…basically Steve’s glad he hasn’t trusted a bite or a sip of anything they’ve left him, lest he have to endure anything worse than dry heaving in captivity.

——

Eveually, Steve goes back to counting out the positives. It’s a fairly safe subject. Morbid, maybe, but what else has he got?

His friends aren’t here. He’s lonely, but honestly, even if that’s a part of his life that’s seen major improvement the past couple years? It’s not something he isn’t used to, can’t work with. But if his friends aren’t here? They’re safe. El or Will can tell there’s something weird with the Upside Down if the machine gets powerful enough, they’ll all be able to come up with a plan and strike when the time’s right, and Steve…

Steve can survive a little longer, at least as a distraction, even if he’s apparently a shitty one since people aren’t coming in to ask about the latest new releases, or smack his other cheek and give him a matching set of bloody gouges.

The machine, also—and why he figures he might not outlive the time it takes for the others to notice a disturbance in the Force—ha, they’re not even here to appreciate his wholly unprompted and almost definitely correct nerd reference, but that’s good: they’re not here, they’re safe—but the machine is humming, and turned on? But even at a distance it should be louder. It should be louder to destroy the world.

They’re not there yet. They’re not there yet; there’s still time, and Steve may not be there to help everyone fight, to protect them but—

There’s time.

And then like, of course, full circle: no Scoops uniform, check—those shorts bunched up his ass like nobody’s business. He cannot forget that as a massive plus, here, because come on, think about it: decked out like a shitty ice cream sailor on an ocean of flavor, Jesus.

Just a flat out shitty way to have to die.

——

“We have sent the ransom demands.”

Steve blinks; he was kinda spacing out. He probably shouldn’t be able to do that. The machine isn’t any louder—yet—but it’s…ambient, in a way.

Morbid, probably. Again.

The lack of eating or drinking might be getting to him. He really should have eaten before his shift.

“The what?” Steve blinks some more because…maybe if he can see clearer he can hear the words in a way that’ll make sense.

Jesus fuck, he should probably start being concerned about his…overall cognitive function or whatever, at this point.

Or something.

“You are a rich man,” the main bastard, with the rings, looms over Steve with a skeevy little grin, cracks his knuckles and how, he’s watched Eddie struggle because it’s so hard to get your fingers in the right position to do it with rings on—

“You’ve got the wrong guy, pal, look at these shoes,” Steve shakes his head while he kicks his feet out: “very last season.”

They’re still fucking excellent shoes, but. High-school-him wouldn’t have been caught dead in them.

Ha. Haha. Graduated-useless-townie-him is gonna get caught dead in them. Ha.

Add that to the positives list, because irony is sometimes funny. He listens when Robin tells him about her boring-ass art movies. Because Robin’s opinions matter, regardless of the topic.

“Property records,” the lackey who stands behind points out and it takes Steve a second to catch up…rich man. Property records.

Ransom note—

Oh fuck, but he cannot help himself. He snorts.

And then he laughs hard enough that both his captors actually look concerned which: fair. If he had information, it’s probably hard to wring anything useful out of somehow who’s totally lost their mind.

“Dude,” Steve wheezes, and then gets back to cackling because it’s too funny, just the picture in his head—

“Dude, no,” he shakes his head over and over and gets a little dizzy but who can even blame him. Richard and Amelia Harrington, paying their failure of a son’s ransom to the Russians?!

Fuck, they’d be better off putting up a shitty politician and soliciting their donations. Like the whole thing with mayor what’s-his-face.

Steve really doesn’t need any black market drugs to find it hilarious and, like, honestly.

Going out laughing isn’t the worst way to die, so. Seriously.

Mark that down for topping the list of goddamn positives.

——

He doesn’t actually know how long it’s been, but the time does come where he gives in, and is therefore eating the morning and the afternoon sandwiches he’s been left—they don’t take the uneaten stuff until he’s sleeping, given that he’s never seen them do it and the old food’s always gone. He’s only guessing that he gets three plates a day, and…well. He remembers something Erika said about three days without water being the limit for the human body and it sure as fuck felt like it, and poison seemed a better alternative than thirst as reasons for kicking the bucket, so.

Least it wasn’t the neon acid; little mercies. Gotta remember that.

But on an empty stomach it had gone down easy and quick for desperation, but fuck if now it didn’t hurt which: in for a penny, or whatever the saying was. He didn’t understand it. Just knew it fit the situation. Kinda.

Probably.

He’s curled up now, though, kinda moaning super pathetically, almost loud enough to drown out the machine’s hum even, for the way his stomach roils and he tries to distract himself; tries to think…

He is just clearheaded enough to recognize how morbid he’s being, again—but it’s the first thing that comes to mind. And also it’s relevant, so fuck you, morbid-police.

But: Max’s letters. They’re what comes to mind.

He doesn’t have paper. Or a pen. Or something to etch into the floor with. So it’s just a…thought exercise. That’s what they’re called, right?

Whatever. Distraction. He cannot die covered in his own puke, that’s one bridge too far, so he needs to focus. Not on the state of his intestines.

So…start with, who should he start with?

Hmm. Hmmmmmm.

El. She’ll figure things out first so:

Dear El

Solid start. Good job, Steve.

You are fucking extraordinary, and it’s not for being able to move stuff with your mind. You’re so strong, and brave, and selfless. I look up to you. I like when they call you Supergirl, but, like, those are the reasons why. Keep finding reasons for laughing, remember you’re entitled to extra because of all the dark years you came back stronger from. Remember the way you are and the way you think and the things you do are awesome and you don’t have to relearn anything you don’t want to, or change anything you don’t want to, to fit in. People should be trying to be more like you.

Love you, Supergirl.

P.S. there’s a freezer in the basement fucking loaded with Eggos. All yours. 

Hey. That’s a solid letter. He’s not bad at this.

Then his stomach lurches and apparently he’s not even allowed to celebrate his wins, okay, fucking cool.

Who’s next, who’s next…

Dear Dustin, and maybe that’s the best way; this is gonna hurt like hell just thinking about so maybe, like, that’s the best way to distract himself.

Okay. Okay. All or nothing.

You die, I die was a general feeling, thing, not a real thing. So take care of yourself, for real, okay? Lean on people. If the other shitheads aren’t what you need, turn to Robin. Turn to Eddie. Promise me you’ll be everything you’re meant to be. I’m so proud to know you, man, always. All the things about you are things worth being proud of.

Talk to Eddie about tone, though. Like, when the time’s right.

Thanks for being the first person to show me what family’s really like, what it’s supposed to be. You’re mine, y’know. Like, you’re my brother, but then, you’re also my friend. Thanks for that, too. I love you, man.

P.S. They discontinued The Hairspray. Be on the lookout for a good replacement, and conserve what you have for special occasions. 

The cuts on his cheeks are apparently not yet healed over enough not to burn when the tears streak through. Awesome.

Definitely fucking distracting so…run with it, he guesses.

Dear Max,

Thanks for the idea. 

Cop out. Absolute cop out. He means it, this is helpful, he hasn’t barfed yet which is really the point but.

He’s being a coward, now. Seriously.

It needs to hurt. If he actually put himself into writing Max’s it’d be ugly, but…

Go big or go home. And he’s never going home again, is he, so:

Dear Robin

Fuck. Fuck, his breath catches with just those two words.

I’m really glad we never figured out how to meld into a single being, because I don’t want you here when…you know. When.

But I wish you were here in a safe way, if that makes sense, and somehow were possible. They don’t call them soulmates for no reason. And I never called you mine without meaning it.

If there’s anything after, I will miss you through all of it with everything I am and hope like hell when the time’s right—like at least 90 years from now and no less, you understand?—I get to see you again. Maybe then we can work on the melding thing and get it right.

I liked being your dingus. So much. And I will always be your capital-P soulmate.

I’m sorry. 

He doesn’t even remember his stomach hurting from the sandwiches, anymore, or drinking the water too fast. He’s sick for so much bigger reasons, now. Everything fucking hurts.

That’s the point, he reminds himself, that’s the point, so:

Dear Eddie—

He chokes on the air, just for the thought, because here’s the tipping point. Here’s where he breaks.

He can’t. He can’t.

He loves all of them. All of them.

But he’s only in love with one. Like he’s never loved before. Like he’s never been loved back before, not ever.

He doesn’t know if it’s possible to pass out from heartache, or if it’s more the not eating, or drinking, or if he’s feverish, maybe the cuts on his cheeks from the rings are infected and he’s on borrowed time in more ways than one.

Doesn’t matter. He can’t write a letter to Eddie, not even in his head. And he doesn’t want to think about what it means, such a nonexistent-mental-letter.

Someone told him once that if you were falling to your death, you’d pass out before impact. Like…like self-preservation in your last few seconds or something.

Steve thinks—with the way everything fades to black in seemingly seconds—he thinks this is…kinda like that.

So the big question now is:

DOES HE SURVIVE? SHOULD HE GET RESCUED?!?!

*chews nails, or hair, or—*

yeah, like that

For @devondespresso, who requested 'Nightmares' at my HOBBIT-STYLE BIRTHDAY MONTH PROMPT FEST (sorry it's in the contexts of LIVING ONE OUT) and incidentally also for @steddie-week for the Day Two prompt 'Hands' (which okay if you DO NOT want a rescue it's only in mean violent ways but...he could be rescued)

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @pearynice @hbyrde36 @slashify @finntheehumaneater @wxrmland @dreamwatch @perseus-notjackson @estrellami-1 @bookworm0690 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @nerdyglassescheeseychick @swimmingbirdrunningrock @goodolefashionedloverboi @sanctumdemunson @theheadlessphilosopher @lawrencebshoggoth @mensch-anthropos-human

divider credits here

ao3 link here ✨

[jerrythebug]

Lately I've been drawing a lot of female presenting J'onn & haven't shared that on Tumblr yet! Gotta fix it so here goes!

[peachsukii]

🎂 happy birthday to the man, the myth, the legend; dynamight, katsuki bakugo. 🧡💥

it might sound sappy, but finding love in writing again is all thanks to this silly little guy. i didn’t pick up a pen to write in almost a decade, keeping all my daydreams locked in my mind. i’ve loved bakugo since i first started watching & reading my hero way back in 2016, easily becoming one of my favorites. he’s relatable in a lot of ways, having been a wild teen full of rage and learning to contain those strong feelings myself - it brought comfort to me. the fandom space was tumultuous and crazy, but i stuck it out and tried to keep in my own lane. at the end of 2023, i started reading fics again. i rediscovered something i loved and didn’t even know i put back on the shelf for so long. the start of 2024, i bit the bullet and started writing again for the first time since filling journals with rambles and collages. finding friends in this space made me feel understood, that this is a form of media that not only brings joy, but offers comfort and healing. something my younger self always ran from because everyone said ‘that’s weird.’ i’m not scared of that now.

i know you’re the fictional man in my head, but that doesn’t change how much you’ve helped me, truly. finding comfort in you is the best thing i’ve done for myself in a long time.

he reignited a spark in me that i didn’t think i possessed anymore. so thank you, katsuki. thank you for giving me that creative fire again. 🔥

love you to the moon and to saturn, blasty. 💜

art by @themetalhiro ✨

[imminent-danger-came]

My best friend's favorite number is nine. It's because there isn't a number that's higher. 9. 99. 999. 9999. If everything gets high enough, You become invincible. Nothing can hurt you anymore. Nothing can hurt anyone anymore. But isn't it scary, to think there's a highest number? That, if you made 99 good memories, you couldn't hold anymore. So I don't like to keep count of the flowers we pick, or the times that they laugh, or how many scary faces they make. I just hope we'll be friends for 999 more year.

I'll be thinking about this one for a while

[liedende]

「Happy birthday, ____, thank you for being born」

[tenthsfreezeout]

Danny Clinch on the iconic Letter to You album cover - a sweet NYC coincidence, taken in March 2018. Via Liz Leavitt.

[sophiethewitch1]

Its currently may 18, my birthday!

So what better way to celebrate than draw WWWreader experiencing the worst birthdays of her life two times LMAO

omg dude happy birthday!!! i hope you have (had maybe) an absolutely fantastic day!!!!! ALSO URGHKDJSGBNKSDGBSDGHKJB CELEBRATING.... AND YET I'M BEING GIFTED SUCH AMAZING ART.... nnnnnnnghhh thank you once again!!! also yeah the fact that she had to go through this twice lmao get fucked <3

[iridescentmirrorsgenshin]

My birthday fic for Kaveh is up! I've based it off of his birthday letter!

The Pendulum of Weal and Woe (on Birthdays and Light Novels)

Summary: Kaveh becomes enraptured with the overheard plot of a light novel and enlists Alhaitham’s help. 

[msbhagirathi]

The Madhumati Gupta Buaji Weekly

Mugzeen Adison (Magazine Edition)

Namaste Nandkisore!

Aasaa karat hain ki, nandkisore, aap sab logan theek haai. Hum logan bhi theek haai, nandkisore. Sasi babua bhi ab theek hi haai bas pahile se tanik kamjor hui gaye, chhari ke sahare chalat haain ab. Aoor humka bataye rahe ki oo ki ee halat bhi oo Syaam ki kirpa rahi. Humra mann toh karat raha ki oo sasure ko ek ghumaai ke lagay de ki jindagi bhar phir aisan kucho karat ki jurrat naa karihe, haa.

Chalo choro babua/bitiya. Arre nandkisore ab tanik aapan baat bhi karau, ghar mein sab logan theek haai na? Tohre Amma-Bauji, tohri kauno humre jaisan Buaji hau toh oo sab theek haai na, nandkisore?

Ab kaa batyay tohka, nandkisore. Kal parso ki baat rahi, Sanka Devi aayi gayi phudakti-phudakti Laxminagar. Humka kahine lagi ki Arnav babua ke daftar mein kauno mugzeen-wugzeen ke khaatir humka kucho likhna haai. Hum kahe ki ab nandkisore humre jamane mein toh hum aoor tohre phuphaji itni chitthi likhat rahe ki bas pucho naahi. Toh oo kahi ki theek haai buaji aap chitthi likh ke humko bataay dena hum aa kar le jayenge, ab humri buddhi bhi umar ke kaaran mand pari rahi, oo ka jaaye ke baad, hum bhi bhul gaye nandkisore.

Saara kaam karke aaike baithe the, ki oo ka fone aayi gaya, humka puchi ki chhitthi likhe haai ki naahi, toh hum kahe, nandkisore, kaam mein thora byast hoyi gaye the, abhi likhat rahe.

Ab hum kaa bataay, nandkisore, humri jindagi mein kauno bataane layak khaas toh kucho haai nahi. Athaarah (18) ke the, amma-bauji ne byaah karaaye diya, tohre phuphaji un dino rail maashter kaa kaam karat rahe. Byaah ke baad humka liye eehan Delhi aayi gaye Laxminagar, ab nandkisore tabahu se hum idhar hi rahat haai.

[Buaji aur phuphaji honeymoon ke liye puri dilli ghume the. Phuphaji jab bhi kaam ke wajah se dusri jagah jaate toh wahan se buaji ko chitthi likhte the. ~Buaji ki pyaari SD ;)]

Sabahu theek chalat raha tha. Byaah ke teen saal baad, ek din khabar mili ki kauno train mein aag lag gayi haai, aoor bohut logan ki jaan gayi haai, a phir hum bhi chakkar kaat kaat kar thak gaye, nandkisore, daftar se aspataal aoor aspataal se phir daftar, phir unke daftar se ek din chhitthi aaye ki tohre phuphaji toh milat naahi toh unki penson ki raakam ab humko mila karegi, hum bohut roye oo din.

Bohut hi ache insaan the, nandkisore, hum behad prem karat the, ab kaa karaein, oo din ke baad se hum aapan nandkisore ke charno mein samarpit hoye gaye. Khair jaane do nandkisore. Ee sab toh bohut purani baat rahi.

Aye nandkisore, agar tumlogan ka kauno dikkat paresaani rahe toh humka bataayi dio, hum tohka tanik samajhaai denge, aoor baaki sab humre nandkisore ke haathon chor denge, theek haai naa? Bilkul kauno dikkat rahi toh bitiya humka aapan buaji samajh kar, eehan aaike bataai dena, mann bhi thora halka hoat jayi. Aoor hum toh waisan bhi jyaada kaam-kaaj naa kar sakat haai naa, toh pura din bas baith ke hi gujar jaat haai. Tohka chitthi likhan ke khaatir humra bhi tanik samay beet jaye.

Ab hum thehre bujurg, humse kaun baat karihe? Oo bhi chitthi likhke, nandkisore? Aajkal toh naa jaane kaa oosab bhatsup-discaard bhagwaan jaane aoor kaa-kaa aayi gaye haai, chitthi likhne ka phursat kaun ke paas rahai?

Khair choro. Humka toh aoor kuch soojh hi naahi rahat haai nandkisore, aoor kaa likhe? Chalao phir rakhte haai kuch batana hau toh likhat dena theek haai naa?

Aoor haan. Humka sunne mein aawat haai ki Sanka Devi ki kauno saheli ka aaj janam din raha? Ee baat sach haai ka, nandkisore? Janam din ki bohut bohut subhkamna tohka, nandkisore. Khub kaam karau, mehnat karau, Arnav babua aoor titaliya ke jaisan naam-paisa kamao, aoor tohka pati-parmeswar toh bohut hi bhagyawaan raha ki oo ka tohre jaisan patni milat rahi, nandkisore (byaah kee ho ki naahi, nandkisore?)

Aoor humri taraf se kauno meethaai wagerah khaa lena, tohka ghar ka pata (address) hota toh dukaan se jalebi aoor kucho dusri meethaai bhijwai dete par kauno baat naahi bitiya muskuraayete rehna. Jindagi mein rone ke bohut mauke milenge par muskuraaye ke mauke khud hi dhundne parat haai, nandkisore.

Chalao phir, ab rakhat haai. Garima ke saath mandir jaanat haai nandkisore. Namaste.

P.S. : Lol. I got this idea today like literally today and then thought of getting started but now I am kinda confused about something whether I should continue this one from buaji's POV only or I should write from all the characters' POV's. Let me know. And also ket me know ki yeh kuch samajh mein aaya bhi ki ekdum kachra kar diya hai maine. Lol :') Ok so I should have added this bit in the beginning but nvrmnd *shrugs* So I have considered double 'a' for आ sound, double 'o' for ऊ sound, double 'e' for इ sound and single 'a' is for अ sound, rest if you find any kind of confusion, please feel free to ask for help, considering this is not regular Hindi so :) Ok. Bye. God bless you.

[kaeyachi]

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY SON

PRIDE IS NOT THE WORD IM LOOKING FOR. THERE IS SO MUCH MORE INSIDE ME NOW.

KAEYA, YOU OUTSHINE THE MORNING SUN, MY SON.

Kaeya's birthday letter is very sweet! Diluc giving him a seasonal brew for his birthday melted my heart. I bet Diluc collected those ingredients and created the new drink himself (just like how Crepus specially made a new drink for Kaeya named Cider Lake when he was younger hehe)

(unfortunately, i didnt get to finish the actual birthday art for this year due to my job being very VERY time consuming this year, but please have this chibi kaeya i drew!)

(and and just the top half of big bro alhaitham au kaeya design!)

[eternalflashh]

reflection ; aspiration

neuvillette / furina (platonic or romantic, your pick) | 999 words

“There’s been an uproar in rumors, you know,” says Brigitte, a relaxed countenance accompanied by the darkening night. “Regarding the Hydro Archon—whether she has truly died. They say—“

“—the Hydro Archon faked her death, and is really just shirking her duties? I’ve heard,” the Iudex hums. There isn’t any trial scheduled for the day, so the court of Erinnyes is considerably empty. The winter air blows pleasantly past them, the fountains by the court lazily reaching for the skies. “The idea isn’t particularly new, either. Even the light novel writer who popularized it admitted she drew inspiration from past research that was buried in the depths of Meropide.”

“That explains your lack of surprise. But if the idea managed to persist through time…”

“Perhaps only testifies to how tempting the idea is, to humans—to those who cannot accept loss so easily.”

Neuvillette’s steps slowed down before the Fountain of Lucine, Brigitte following suit. It’s one of the few things in Fontaine that has observed significant change since the Hydro Archon’s resignation; the Chief Justice had been quite insistent on retaining everything in Fontaine as they were, as if the god had never left. Truly, life had continued with all of Fontaine still worshiping their god, no matter that she had become human. No matter that she had passed.

The Fountain of Lucine blooms ever the brighter in the night, water gleaming cyan with a power of Hydro that exists nowhere else. Water sprites swirl around the fountain, crooning a gentle melody, heard only to those with particular affinity. 

It’s a wonderful night to treat your friends out to a meal, speaks the teasing voice. Whether the voice is real or simply a figment of his imagination, Neuvillette refuses to discern. Turn back before it is too late—or I will splash you with a rage that rivals the Tulpa’s.

The Champion Duelist remains silent. Then, “I don’t suppose you are so much different than us, in that regard.”

“I don’t make up stories to convince myself she’s alive,” Neuvillette chuckles, but his eyes are still fixated on the statue before him. 

“You don’t. You make a shrine of her—a sentient image—that should remind everyone of her existence, her divinity, her sacrifice. An eternal reminder that serves as your company when she is no more.”

The water swims around Furina’s curtseying figure, before resting upon the pool with a splash. “I believe the difference lies in that I have thoroughly accepted her death. I am… remembering her for the life she’s lived, not spun-up tales about boasted magnificence, or a selfishness to her that never existed.”

“Yet you pray, like she's to come save you.” Brigitte laughs, but it is pitiful. “I believe that is your own manner of delusion.”

“Is that what it is, to you?” Neuvillette lets out a gentle smile, running a hand through the diaphanous waters. “Here I thought I’d simply been reminiscing.”

The skies let out its first teardrops; like this has happened one too many times, Brigitte quickly pulls out her umbrella, shielding herself from the rain. Neuvillette, as always, takes the rain as it is—lets it run down the length of his hair, the edges of his coat, his gloved fingertips. 

“I’ll take my leave for the day, then,” the duelist says in greeting. Neuvillette lets out a hum, barely casting a glance her way. She turns, but pauses just then.

“You say this is reminiscence, to you.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Why is it that you reminisce of her, when it is your birthday?”

The trickle of rain against the stone road fills the air. Neuvillette hardly budges, gazing still at the fountain, the statue, the vigorous waters, the glowing waters, holding moonlight in its palm. 

“What do you do on your birthday, Brigitte?”

“We commemorate our lives, how far we’ve come,” she responds in an instant, “and make wishes for the upcoming year, what’s more to come.”

Neuvillette then turns to her, granting her a small smile. “Isn’t the Fountain of Lucine perfect for such notions? For reflection, for aspiration?”

Brigitte raises an eyebrow. There seems to be a question barred behind her gaze, but she shakes her head, and gives him a nod, before walking towards the station, leaving the Chief Justice to his own company. His own, and the spirits of the fountain before him.

You are hopeless, it seems to be saying. A fine night, and you ruin it with rain and gloom.

Neuvillette takes his gloves off, lets himself feel the touch of benevolent waters. He lets the fountain dance, feeling currents run through his fingers, feeling its poison, feeling its kiss. 

He closes his eyes. 

In his mind, indeed, are plenty of memories. Of banter in the court from the Iudex and the Hydro Archon’s respective seats. Of watching Furina dance on stage, him holding his heart with the utmost admiration. Of distress, seeing Furina shrieking over the smallest critters, running over the smallest problems. Of all the times Furina would question his faith in her—to retrospectively understand the fear that underlied her accusations, the desperation in her violence.

Neuvillette would spend hours in the rain doing this—to replay each memory, four hundred years worth of a performance; to learn why she had chosen to act the scene in that specific way, to appreciate it all belatedly. The show is over, but Neuvillette has plenty of time going ahead anyway—if there is anything he owes her, if there is anything he can do, as the specially invited audience—it’s to learn.

To learn, to praise, to immortalize. 

The skies betray his heart, thundering and pouring through the night, swallowing the full moon with its weight. But Neuvillette stays by the fountain, letting it dance to its heart’s content until it decides to rest. 

What is the meaning of my existence? He’s had to ask for centuries. 

This, he’s realized. To be your witness, to be the arbiter of true Justice, for past, present, and for all of the lightless future.

[loveistheword]

I haven't had such a hard time writing about someone in so long.

Maybe it's because we are still getting to know each other.

Maybe the lack of a label,

maybe the distance.

Or maybe it's because it's you.

maybe it's because when I say "cute",

I mean when you smile, your eyes smile too,

they crinkle up and every part of your face brightens up.

Maybe it's because I tell you "you're so far",

I mean I long to hold you,

I long to hold your face with both my hands,

to pull you close and never let go.

As far as promises go, I usually hate making them,

but if you were to give me your heart,

I promise I would keep it close and safe cause it's yours.

We're still figuring this out.

So happy birthday to you.

You that's made this a complicated mess.

You that's turned all rationality upside down for me.

But we're still figuring this out...

But nothing changes the fact that;

I have adored every moment of getting to know you,

even the ones where you've made me cry.

And if we never find the right label,

That’s okay.

Because in my heart I will know,

that it isn't the label that made it special,

but you.

So here's to you.

all I can say is I'm glad for today...

because today gave me the chance to get to know you.

But we're still figuring this out.

So, I'll keep it small and say "Happy Birthday".

[fandomsandfairytales]

Happy Birthday, Max Way! 🥳

The cookie was delicious, albeit more sugary than I remembered that type of cookie being. 😂

@thegreenleavesofspring look, I celebrated Max's birthday! I was going to draw a motorcycle on the card but there wasn't a lot of space and it would've been fairly complicated. I really liked including the star, though.