#the evening letter

[imyourcomputergame]

[brainlessbaguette]

Crappy Botw AU where, instead of waking up alone, you wake up to a skull kid trying to rob you then get to meet up with old companions of heroes you once idolized. While you work to regain your memories you also learn from them that those heroes were FAR from perfect and its okay to be a person first hero second. Or in less sophisticated words, an AU where botw Link becomes and STAYS an absolute menace to society. Because lets be real Totk seemed to have him go right back to knight mentality and thats not what I want for him.

[carpe-aurore]

[yeah-thats-probably-it]

Hot take maybe but I think Bertie would be FAR more likely to survive the first two months of Dracula than Jeeves would be. Bertie has a healthy sense of self-preservation. Jeeves consistently underestimates how dangerous a situation might get (Steeple Bumpleigh, the club book) because he’s overconfident about his level of control over any given situation. He'd handle Dracula masterfully if they faced off in England, but on Dracula's home turf? Much more doubtful.

I realize this might be a tough sell, so I will explain further (or it's not a tough sell, and I'm going to explain further because I want to). (criteria taken from @canyourfavesurvivecastledracula) Without further ado.

Would Jeeves and Wooster survive Castle Dracula?

Jeeves

Jeeves' survival will depend on how long Dracula finds him more entertaining than irritating. On that basis, I don't think he's long for this world. On the one hand, he has a huge wealth of knowledge about English society and culture that he can recite perfectly from memory. That should buy him at least a little time with noted teaboo Dracula.

On the other hand, he would be absolutely no fun as a vampire plaything. Jeeves cannot be got. Sneaking up on him while he's shaving will yield zero reaction (though that's at least good for his short-term survival--given that, although he DID take the crucifix from the old woman out of politeness, he certainly isn't going to wear it. The rules of fashion don't go out the window just because you're in a spooky castle). Then, although managing the whims of rich jerks is not an insignificant part of a valet's job, Jeeves usually does this by bending his employers to his will. Dracula is not the sort of employer this will work on. It'll just add insult to injury when on top of being impossible to scare, NOW Jeeves is telling Dracula that his favorite cloak is several centuries out of fashion and he's not allowed to wear it anymore.

Jeeves will 100% go exploring in the areas he was told not to go-- though to be fair, he MIGHT actually get away with this, what with his superpower of appearing in rooms without being seen or heard. Said superpower might save him from the brides as well (though this is by no means guaranteed). Since I find it doubtful that Dracula would come to rescue his annoying ass, not being noticed is his best defense.

There are a couple other things working in Jeeves's favor; the question is just whether they'll be enough to save him.

He DOES know shorthand, and could try to send coded letters. He might even have the foresight to squirrel away some extra stationary where Dracula can't find it. But could he get them posted? Would it even do him any good?

He certainly has enough cultural literacy to figure out what his new boss is pretty quickly. If he didn't chuck the crucifix out the carriage window, he might start carrying it around in his pocket.

Psychology of the individual, sure, but the individual in question is a 400-year-old vampire who lives in an isolated castle in a foreign country and is regarded as a terrifying mythological figure in the surrounding villages. Jeeves has never come up against anything this alien before, he's cut off from his normal resources, and opportunities to play people against each other are limited.

He probably has enough upper body strength from all that shrimping and fishing to climb the wall, so he COULD escape if he wanted to, if he survived long enough. It's just, again, that overconfidence, and also Dracula has a vast library full of rare old books that are entirely at his disposal. He's keeping his eyes and ears alert for potential escape strategies, of course, but I don't see him being as desperate to get out as Jonathan was.

There are just a lot of "depends on"s here, and I'm not convinced that luck would shake out in Jeeves's favor, all things considered.

Bertie

Bertie is so perfect for the job of Castle Dracula Prisoner it's like it was made for him. Think about it. Being held against his will in big manor houses comes more naturally to him than breathing. He's afraid of things that are scary. A lifetime of dealing with Aunt Agatha has made him the world's preeminent expert in "curl[ing] up in a ball in the hope that a meek subservience [will] enable [him] to get off lightly." He will NEVER go exploring in places he's been warned away from if nobody is forcing him to (Rev. Aubrey Upjohn's office notwithstanding. There were biscuits in there). He's both fun to talk to and easy to toy with (and extremely English). A+ prisoner. Dracula adores him.

In my opinion, Bertie is at Castle Dracula either because Aunt Agatha got some wires seriously crossed and thinks he’s going to meet an eligible potential bride (I mean, there are certainly brides there), or because Dracula has something Aunt Dahlia wants him to steal (far less likely, given that one of Dracula’s THINGS is famously not owning anything silver). Either way, he's shown himself entirely willing and able to escape down drainpipes if a sitch gets too scaly.

He DOES take the crucifix, and DOES wear it (which is what will save him during the shaving scene, because you KNOW he's going to jump a foot and cut himself like the dickens). He's read enough supernatural goosefleshers to be genre savvy about terrified old women cryptically pushing crucifixes into one's hands. I also think his sunny disposish endeared him to the villagers, and they were particularly vehement about urging him not to go. He doesn't speak German or Romanian, but he's empathetic enough to recognize Pure Terror. So by the time he actually gets to the castle, his imagination is already running wild and he's plenty aware that he is in imminent danger.

I think the biggest risk to Bertie will be the brides; whether or not he's susceptible to trances, if he thinks they're trying to marry him, it's against the code of the Woosters to turn them down. But that only becomes an issue if he comes face to face with them, which, luckily, I think is unlikely on account of the aforementioned "won't go exploring" (and if he did, Dracula would definitely rescue him).

I'm inclined to say due to his drainpipe-escape habits that he WOULD be able to climb the wall and MAY attempt to sneak into Dracula's room to look for the keys if his desperation grows to outweigh his fear. Whether he does or not, though, he does NOT have the stomach to attempt shovel murder, and therefore won't get magic brain fever, and may very well simply walk out the front doors when the people come to take the boxes away. OR he climbs his way out like Jonathan did. Either way.

When Bertie tells this story at the Drones later, Tuppy will say that no doubt it's been greatly exaggerated and all that probably happened was that he spent a couple months in an oldish house entertaining a weird loner.

[dykepaldi]

homestuck was so perfect for autistic teenagers bc it took characters being sorted into categories and having Attributes to its absolute extreme. forget four hogwarts houses, every character has their associated colour their zodiac sign their associated animal their dream planet their god tier class and aspect their typing quirk their pesterchum handle their weapon their planet of x and y, as well as each of them having a handful of other very quantifiable Personality Traits and Interests (e.g. this one is a clown this one is angry this one likes fashion this one is just rufio from hook for some reason) and THEN they all also have their respective ancestors and dancestors(?)(plucked that word from my memory) who have all of those things as WELL

and god not to mention the fucking quadrant system

as a 13-15 year old autistic kid i didnt even need homestuck to have a plot i just happily made a big big spreadsheet of character attributes in my brain

[chatlote]

ive been rewatching voltron....

[jadewritesficshere]

Steddie soulmate AU where Eddie is a famous musician, everyone assumes he doesn't have a soulmate. Eddie was just smart and doesn't confirm, doesn't want to go through rabid fans who claim to be his soulmate. He's had too many show up wearing his initials they tattooed on themselves even before he was asked about soulmates in an interview.

Enter Steve Harrington who works as a nurse. Just casually on his third nightshift in a row in the ER. Sipping some coffee trying not to fall asleep when they get the call about some confidential patient coming in.

Eddie comes in for some injury. Steve has 0 clue who he is, just says "You look familiar, did we go to school together?" And Eddie practically falls off the stretcher at Steve's feet. Goes all googoo eyes at him. Steve being mildly concerned because Eddie's heart rate keeps skyrocketing (its because Steve is touching him).

One of the other nurses can't help but try and get the gossip from Steve, who is very much confused as to why she cares about this random patient. She tells Steve who Eddie is, and he's just like ???? Okay???

Steve doesn't admit it but the picture she shows is HOT. It's Eddie, flipping off the camera, tongue out. He's covered in tattoos, including the word 'sorry' written in a weird script on his middle finger. He's shirtless and his pants are so low that Steve can see the dip of his hips creating a v and-

Steve has to walk into the supply room to get himself under control. Pretends it doesn't mean anything and goes back to his job as his heart thuds rapidly in his chest.

Eddie tries not to pass out when they draw his blood, Steve holds his hand. It feels right. Eddie can't help wanting to ask," Hey, do you have a soulmate?" But he hates being asked that question, so he won't.

Until Steve bends over, his scrub top lifting up slightly. Eddie can't help glancing at his ass, but then he can't breathe. Because on his lower back is the initials EJM.

"Steve G. H?" Eddie asks as his voice goes up an octave. Steve turns, bewildered ," How did you-?" "Edward James Munson." Eddie whispers.

Oh

[umblrspectrum]

the Solver of the Absolute Fabric, the Void, the Exponential End acting like an entitled toddler is the funniest thing

[soldierandawar]

Eddie is such a good father. It takes a good parent to give their child the space they need but still invite someone in who can be a safe space so that Christopher is talking to someone. Giving your child that time speaks volumes of who he is as a person and a father.

He doesn’t want to bust the door down he wants Christopher to open it. He wants the privilege of being allowed back in and he recognizes that he needs to earn it. That he cannot force it upon him. Until then he’s going to do what he can to provide Christopher the support and trust that he probably feels like he’s missing from his dad right now.

[originalartblog]

@bsdfanweek's skk Valentine's week day 2: Camellias and Floral Troubles

Dazai's love life is so hard. This is in reference to my recent skk post!

[tchaikovskaya]

I will defend teaching kids to read and write in cursive with my dying breath sorry im with the boomers on this one

ETA: YALL STARTED BEING ANNOYING IN THE NOTES SO NO MORE REBLOGS FOR YOU!!!

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

moonshine leaks in through the window blinds.

suguru is undressing, sluggishly, in the dim darkness of your bedroom. he is weary; as are you. it’s been a long, long day, celebrating in the morning, in the evening, going to the spring festival downtown and grabbing hotpot with satoru and shoko right after — stopping by their favorite bar before finally heading home. fatigue drags your bones against soft flooring, as you rummage through his closet, pull your worn hoodie over your head and let it fall to the floor. 

suguru’s birthday is always eventful. your boyfriend is a well-loved man, after all; no less by you than anyone else. it’s been worth it, worth every ache in your joints, to see him smile and scoff and swallow down mouthfuls of soba and cake. to see him a little sheepish, a little tipsy, a little more open with his heart than usual. sweetness brings it out of him. 

(you’re happy, that this year was a success as well.)

a low groan. you turn your head, to watch as he cranes his neck, stretches his arms, as the muscles of his bicep coil and twitch under the linen of his shirt. as he slips out of it, lets his hair fall, a hair tie slipping down to rest around his wrist. his roots must ache, by now — you wonder if he’ll let you massage his scalp, just to help him unwind. but suguru gets restless after being pampered for too long. could barely stop himself from pouring your drink, over and over, carrying you the last bit home even though his own legs must have yearned for respite too.

sometimes, you want to ask him — can you please just let me love you?

(his answer is usually a smile.)

”god,” comes the voice of an angel, raspy and sweet. the heel of his palm meets the blade of his shoulder, digs into the skin as if to soothe it. ”’m exhausted.”

a smile tugs your lips up, blooms like a peach tree and flutters in tune with your heartbeat. you put your arms through the gaps of an oversized tee, press your nose against the fabric and inhale, the scent of laundry detergent and musk soothing your muddled senses. after pulling it over your head, you’re left in nothing but your boxers and his shirt. it makes him melt, you’re more than aware. when your hair is tousled, from the midnight air and satoru’s restless hand — when you’re engulfed in nothing but him.

”well, we walked a lot,” you exhale, sending him a sweetened glance. he returns it with a huff. 

”talked a lot, too,” he mutters, too tired to sound as displeased as he’d probably like. you drink in the sight of his skin under lunar light, lap up the excess cobalt, swallow softly. ”why is it that all my energy magically drains as soon as satoru’s involved…?”

a breathy giggle. ”he loves you,” you supply, not-so-helpfully. ”he just hadn’t had a chance to bug you in a while, i guess.”

a scoff. 

”he has a funny way of showing it…”

suguru unbuckles his belt, kicks off his jeans, slumps back on the bed with a silent sigh — the mattress creaks beneath his weight, allows him to get comfortable as he rests on the edge. gazing at you, patiently, spheres of rusted-gold through lidded eyes. heavy with what you know to be fatigue.

he pats his lap, one heavy hand. 

”come here, sweetheart.”

(his voice alone melts you down to the marrow. sweet and smooth, roughed up from the outing; the purr of a needy cat, silken sheets and jasmine buds.)

a moth to a flame, or a lamb to a knife — you are pliant as you move towards your lover. weak, as you tuck your legs over his knees and slide into his lap.

an inhale. he buries his face in your shirt, his shirt — smiles, noses against your pulsepoint and the tender valley of skin between your jaw and shoulder. engraves your scent into his being.

”i love you,” he whispers, a low lull of his tongue. a kiss against your neck. ”thank you for today.”

the words have left you long before your mind tugs at your lips. ”i love you too, sugu.” you nuzzle against his locks, relish as they tickle your sensitive skin. ”i don’t think i did much, though…”

”no?” you hear the smile, the hint of a chuckle, even as he lifts his fingers to pinch your little nose. ”you don’t think so, silly?”

he tuts — eyes gleaming under artificial light, the lamp on your nightstand. 

”even made me breakfast.”

”… it turned out so-so.”

an exhale, at your little frown. humoured, your mind supplies, if a little exasperated. he clicks his tongue, rubs his thumb over the bridge of your nose before letting go. ”it was lovely,” he corrects. ”you’re lovely.”

and you know that he’s displeased. you know by the way he says it, how softly he shuts you down and guides you in the right direction, lips smearing kisses on your vulnerable skin as if reproaching you. he’s sleepy, can’t help but be lazy, no less thorough in his mission. has no mercy for your jaw, or collarbone, or neck. you’re shivering, shaky sigh slipping out — curling your arms around his neck and angling your head to give him more room to work with. he can be greedy, tonight, you don’t mind. whatever he wants. his fingers find solace in the plushness of your hips, squeezes softly, molds the flesh. a silent thank you. 

for what, you wonder.

melting when your skin meets his? letting him touch you like this? trusting him to do it gently?

your mind is tangled up in knots. just letting him love you, hold you close, feeling his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt — ba-dump, ba-dump, like waves crashing into shore. you hope he cannot hear the constant patter of your own; hope he cannot sense the prickling of your nerves. he might think the night is over, but you still have something more to offer.

… or, at least you should.

it’s nerve-racking. your heartbeat knocks at your ribs, sticks its head out to ask how you’ve been. better, you’d like to say. a lot less close to passing out. silly, silly body, never letting you get off easy — never being of any use. it shouldn’t be this scary, not even close. you know your lines. you’ve practiced all week. but it is, and it’s paralyzing, and suguru is so tired he’s just gnawing at your earlobe now. 

clammy hands, beating heart, shaky fingers.

(you wish it was easier to say what’s inside.)

”i… have another present,” you mumble, finally, into his hair. as if that will muffle it. swirling a lock around your finger, playing with it to ease your mind.

suguru blinks. you feel the flutter of his eyes against your skin, the ghosts of pretty raven lashes. he pulls back, just enough to look into your eyes — watching you, closely, to see what you mean. attentive. 

there’s a certain look in his eyes.

”… more?” he asks, voice scraping against the walls of his throat, the buzzing of a dragonfly. he slips a hand under your shirt, curls it around your naked waist to tug you closer, keep you safe and still. ”haven’t i been spoiled enough, today?”

he’s smiling. you don’t think he knows what you mean, but he must sense your hesitance. keeps his hand on your hip, rubs comforting circles into your skin, seems to delight in the way your body can’t help but tremble all while leaning into it. stupid, beautiful suguru, stupid wandering hands. he’s only making your heartbeat sputter more. 

it’s too difficult. even after that peptalk with satoru and shoko, you can’t find the words you need. 

finding a birthday gift for suguru is always a hurdle. every single year. you can never decide on what to go for, never settle for just one thing — because he’d be happy with anything, you know that, but it’s not enough when you’re as smitten as you are. when all you want is to give him something that will make him smile brighter than ever, a smile that’s just for you.

what would make him the happiest? what do you want to tell him, more than anything? 

you always agonize over it, sure, but this year…

(even if it’s a little much, you —)

”haha… well.” 

you shift on his lap, tuck your thighs around his waist, just needing stability. and it’s muscle memory, your skin against his, bodies molding together like liquidated gold. he watches you, patiently — doesn’t rush or force the words out. a sun god in your room, on your bed. tangled up in sheets he washed for you. 

a sliver of sunshine, that belongs only to you.

what is there to say?

even now, you can’t uncap the lid over your heart. your hands are too shaky to dust off the longing. if you could, you’d say something like: 

i love you, i love you, i love you.

i want to wash your hair, and kiss your eyelids when you sleep, and scrub the rot from off your bones. i don’t want to care about what anyone else thinks. 

i could tell you i love you a million times.

also, do you want to get married? 

i know i’ve made you wait — you always wait so patiently — but would you mind?

would you be mine forever? 

a sudden sting. your teeth sink into your bottom lip, as if to silence your own thoughts, the phantom taste of heavy iron blooming on your tongue. slick vines wrap themselves around your teeth and sew your mouth shut. no words, no breaths, no nothing. 

just clammy hands, beating heart, shaky fingers. 

(you wish you could be kinder to the monster in your ribs.)

”… tomorrow,” you sigh, at last, the word forcing its way through your throat. you slump your cheek against his forehead, fleeing from his prying gaze, the question on your mind. ”… you’ll get it tomorrow.”

(shoko’s voice rings in your ear. coward, she’d say. loser, satoru would add. they’d be right.)

stupid, silly heartbeat. beating so loudly you can’t even find your voice. 

but suguru only smiles.

”… not today?” he brushes against your bottom lip, traps it between his thumb and pointer finger. tilts his head, softly. ”did you change your mind?”

you melt, into his touch, head dipping forward. 

”… just wanna wait a little longer,” you sigh, a little shaky, feeling sheepish. ”is… that okay?”

”of course.” his answer comes as soon as you ask. 

as natural as breathing.

mwah. his lips meet yours, chaste and sweet, gone as soon as you’ve thought to lean into it. ”i’ll always wait for you,” he says. ”you know that, don’t you?”

(you do.)

a silent nod. he seems to note your sour mood, the ghost of a pout on your lips. because he chuckles, that familiar purr-like rasp, falling backwards and tugging you with him — pushing you down against the mattress, crawling over you, a praying mantis with the smile of a fox. gentle, gentle, his hands cupping your hips. black hair frames his face, his smile, the moonshine gliding across his nose and cheekbones. he’s all you can see, until he’s leaning forward, nosing against your pulsepoint to feel the pitter-patter there. you can still feel the weight of his gaze, sticky honey-webs of oak and cedar.

warm, warm, warm. a little sleepy.

and he sighs against your skin. 

”i want to tell you i love you a million times,” he says, an orange split into tender halves. ”you know that?”

he sounds tired. he sounds happy, deliriously so, like he can barely believe it himself. you like it when he gets this playful, like it when the hint of boyishness he keeps carefully concealed spills through the gaps.

you blink.

a matching sigh, from your loverotted lungs. ”.. yeah,” you murmur. ”i know. i’d say it back a million times.”

a plum tree blooms against your collarbone, the branches of his lips stretching up into a grin. ”see? you’re perfect.” he moves up, captures your lips with his own, savours the flavour of your lip balm. eyes gleaming like fireflies. ”just perfect for me…”

ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump. 

(your heart asks to be let out of its confines.)

”what other gift could i possibly need?”

and, well — it’s hard to argue when he sounds so convinced. when his skin is gleaming, when he’s on top of you, caging you in with his thighs and keeping you steady. when he looks like the rest of your life. 

it’s hard, even though a litany of words scratch against your windpipe, begging to be set free. even though you didn’t want to be a coward, today. 

(any other day of the year would have been fine.)

a hand cups your cheek. 

”… hm?” he tilts his head, raises an eyebrow. awaits your response, with fond, tired eyes.

you bite your lip. ”… i guess…”

”no, you don’t guess,” he huffs, half a chuckle. leans close to nip at your cheek. ”you know. i’m already spoiled with your presence. what else do i need?”

”well, it’s just—”

”no.” he shuts you up, mashes his lips against yours again. ”no more of that. okay, sweetheart?”

…

”thank you for today.” he echoes, into the shell of your ear. the warmth in his voice sparks against your spine. ”i had a lovely time. with the others, with you.”

an underlying demand —

you know what he wants.

so you give in. whatever he wants, you remind yourself. whatever he wants.

”… you’re welcome,” you mumble, finally. defeated, just breathing in his scent, smooth hints of bergamot and coconut oil. ”happy birthday, suguru.”

(and he smiles.)

one more kiss, and then he’s pulling back. watching you, softly, laid out across his sheets like sunshine spilling through window blinds in spring.

”… thank you, honey.”

(tomorrow, you’ll air out your restless ribcage. uncap the lid, dust off the longing.)

today, you will lie with clammy hands, a beating heart, shaky fingers — and simply let him hold you close. as tightly as he wants, for as long as he wants.

whatever he wants.

the words can wait; they’re good at that.

[ren-144p]

ARCANE: Silco & Vander ↳ “Everything might have been different.”

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Breaking Bread, and Spilling Soup [Bonus art]

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[ohrackham]

It is not what you do for me that makes me love you. It's your kindness. Your empathy. How much you care. Just being you is enough, Colin. I do not need you to save me. I just need you to stand by me. To hold me. To kiss me.

[blindbisexualgoose]

You guys don’t understand…. Amerie never got the letter