#it straight up won't post it

[altraviolet]

Jane Austin didn't know she was Jane Austin / writing encouragement

Cozy fantasy/romance author Lidiya Foxglove has a youtube video called "How to write a classic bestselling novel that everyone will read in 200 years," that's very interesting and inspiring. Here are some parts that really struck me, and that I think other creators will resonate with:

…Pride and Prejudice has been one of the most enduring novels of our time. It's very impressive to me that all of Jane Austin's novels are still widely read, and I'm quite sure that Jane did not write them thinking, “I bet people are still going to be reading my books in 200 years.” And then she died without ever knowing that she was Jane Austin, which I think about constantly … She sold some books, some of them sold decently well. A few prominent people read them, which I'm sure must have pleased her very much at the time. And then she died and then over the course of ages she became Jane Austin. … The point that I want to make … is that I think it's just really important to write the books that call to you. Maybe even just the books that you need to write to make money. I think it's really important to write the books that call to you, even if they feel a little self-indulgent or silly at times. If they don't feel like they're necessarily what you're capable of, but they're what you want to write because you don't really know where a powerful theme or a character that's going to resonate with people will emerge, and you also don't know where culture is going in the future, it could be that people of the future appreciate different things than we appreciate now, and that something that's only minorly successful now is going to be huge in the future.

Perhaps you really love literary fiction and you got a bachelor in English, and you got an MFA, and you genuinely love classic literature, and you love, like, really beautiful literary prose, but the work that you're working on is like a cute little romance about lesbians running an adoption agency for baby dragons. Something in your head is like, “That is what I'm capable of. That sounds kind of silly, but it's just something that I write because it's fun.”

I'm here to give you permission to write whatever calls to you, whether it is yet another broody vampire, or a horror novel that just reminds you of books you read under the covers when you were 12. Even if you want to write a literary novel about a sad man suffering, yeah, you know, if that's what calls to you, there's always room for another one. Don't feel bad about writing something that just feels like you, and don't get too in your head about whether it is a great work or not. If you're going to devote some of your time, your one precious life, to writing, then I think the last thing we should be worrying about is whether it's important or whether it will be a classic or a bestseller, much less both, which as we've established is extremely rare.

You have no idea what will resonate with people 50 or 100 years from now and you don't know what will resonate with people now. It might be that you die not knowing that you were Jane Austin, but aren't we so glad that Jane Austin just was Jane Austin without knowing she was Jane Austin?

And the other point I want to make is if you need to write something for money, as I have done, it doesn't mean that that book won't mean something to people as well. You really have no clue how long a book will last or what kind of long term relevance or popularity it will have, or whether it will just like hit someone a certain way at a certain time in their life. There are entire categories of creations like pulp science fiction or superhero comics that were kind of treated as throwaway amusements when they first came out, and now have a much more elevated place in our culture. So it's also possible that a Court of Thorns and Roses will in fact be more popular in 50 years and that people will be getting their Sarah J Maas books graded and encased in plastic. Like, I don't know. They are also books that never become classics in a broad sense but have a small group of people who love them, or there's books that really influence someone when they came out so, they might not have been known themselves, but some other great artist would never have been what they were without that work.

I think all of these things are important and that art is just a big web and conversation and that you can drive yourself crazy trying to decide where you fit into it. So write what you love, write what you need to write to be able to keep on writing, and don't worry about tests of time or bestseller lists.

Be sure to check out the video, because she touches on so much more. And check out Lidiya's channel, The Cozy Creative!

[raycatzdraws]

Wolfie and Four friendship appreciation doodles! They're shared secrets besties! I hope Four's distrust of the shadow crystal doesn't drive anything between them. Wild found his way into this compilation with a force. It seems I can't draw Wolfie and not include him too!

[bixels]

tarpit site.

[dkettchen]

I do enjoy dressing her entirely in canon outfits/cuts and the occasional top she's borrowed from nami and being like ye canon!sanji sure does own a pair of 3/4 pants with ballerina loafers he sure did wear that before with his whole cishet man ass and we didn't bat a single eye at it

[anistarrose]

SO as an aromantic villain liker, I have to admit that whether aro or not, there's something compelling about Philip perhaps clinging to Caleb in part because of an alienation from the Other way of acquiring a Good God-Loving Family in his day and age. because if Caleb spurns their witch hunting dreams to go fall in love with a witch that's a perceived betrayal to Philip on two fronts, the witch sympathizing and the abandoning Philip for romance. it's compelling in a "Belos selectively ignores all the norms of his own oppressive belief system that he spurns, when he could have easily found a home amongst the freaks if he let go of his hate" way. it's compelling in an "adds even more parallels to Lilith, who avoids following his path, and shows that people who start in a similar place, with both genuine flaws and genuine instances of being wronged by the world, the latter not entirely unrelated to aromanticism, are still able to find joy instead of hatred, because aromanticism is not a destiny to endlessly suffer nor a destiny to do evil" kind of way.

BUT. unfortunately. I've seen way too many posts that just spew garbage like "Belos is evil because he's incapable of love, obviously! and the heroes are good and moral and (cough) not subhuman (cough) because they actually love people 🥰," just total horseshit right at the intersection of aphobia and ableism. just a total admission that they don't think love can ever motivate people to hurt anyone, that they don't think they can hurt anyone they love and no one they love could really hurt them, that love is a get out of jail free card when doing harm while harm is a get banned from love and humanity permanently card, so. basically, we can't have nice things.

[murderofsomeone]

when playing the social media game, some people give up on trying to be funny for engagement and go to the next big thing: being really really mean to strangers online

[feyhunter78]

Chapter Twenty - Jon finally is allowed to taste the forbidden fruit.

NSFW content below the cut CH 21

Jon’s feet hurt, he has been given far too many toasts and wishes for a son by men he has never before met. And though he tried desperately to avoid drinking, Robb was still able to force two or three glasses of wine down his throat. He wished to be clear-headed when he took you to the marriage bed, wished for nothing to rob him of his memories or his senses.

When you grab his arm, a controlled look of apprehension and annoyance on your face, he bristles, all the wine and revelry draining from him. Who has upset you? Who has dared to wipe the smile from his bride’s face? Then Tyrion appears, looking as insistent as you, and Jon simply pauses, waiting for you and your father to silently decide who should speak first.

He should not have paused; he was a fool to pause. The call for the bedding ceremony rings out, and you are pulled from him, from Tyrion, swallowed up by a crowd of hungry noblemen. He has no sword, why would he, it is his wedding day, but he is still Ser Jon Dayne, still your sworn protector, he should not have let his guard down.

“Fucking savages. Jon, get y/n out of here.” Tyrion yells over the noise of the crowd, scrambling out of the way as Jon pushes away from the noblewomen who have flocked to him, eager to tear the clothing from his body. His tunic rips as he wrenches himself free, his sleeves being torn from his shoulders, and he lets the fabric flutter to the ground, his arms and half his abdomen exposed to the cheering onlookers.

It is chaos, and he remembers how Lady Catelyn used to fawn over his uncle’s words even a decade later. His proclamation that there would be no bedding, for he did not think it right to break a man’s jaw on his wedding day. But Jon has no such qualms, and you are not Lady Catelyn. He shoves men aside, elbows, trips, punches, throws them away from you, his knuckles bloody when he breaks through the circle of lechers and grabs you. You, who fights like a lioness, your claws bloodied as well.

You startle, ready to claw his eyes out, then recognize and cling to him, yelping when he throws you over his shoulder and continues on. The two of you leaving the noblemen to fight amongst themselves, unsure of who hit who, blaming old rivals and new enemies.

Jon has done this twice before, glad of his strength that allows him to swiftly take you away from danger. Though he laments the fact that his blood will stain your gown and skin, his busted knuckles dripping red onto the marble floors. He makes it to the nearest opening, a balcony overlooking Lannisport, and sets you down gently, in the corner, the climbing ivy shielding you and him from the doors. It is quiet now, the roar of the crowd muffled, the bright candlelight dimmed, the wind cool as it tumbles down the Rock and onto the city below. “Are you hurt?”

You look down at your gown, pure white painstakingly embroidered by Sansa and Myrcella with threads of gold and precious gems. It is torn, dirtied, stained with drops of his blood and the blood of others, and your hair has fallen from its intricate updo, gathering about your shoulders. “No, but my gown is ruined.” You say in a small voice, clutching your skirts tearfully.

Jon gathers you in his arms, resting his forehead against yours. “You still look beautiful. The most beautiful bride in the Seven Kingdoms.”

You release a shaky breath and smooth your hands down his arms, leaving small streaks of red. You must have gotten a few good scratches in as you defended yourself. “My father invited the fucking dragon queen to our wedding.”

His mind stalls, akin to a wheelhouse stuck in mud, then it lurches forward free of the muck. “Has he gone mad?”

You shrug, still dragging your hands up and down his arms, a soothing gesture he believes is more for you than him. “Perhaps.”

“He cannot think to overthrow the king here, The Rock is all but impenetrable, and will not fall to dragonflame.” Jon’s fingers splay across your back, and he shakes his head. “We swore an oath to the king.”

He feels your head raise, your lips brushing against his own as you speak. “You swore an oath to me, a stronger one, as I did to you. That is the only one that matters.”

There is an ache in his gut, an unease crawling up into his chest and making a home. “I have already broken my oath to the crown two times over…”

You nod, your hands on his back now, one moving up to tangle in his hair, resting at the nape of his neck. “They were not fit to rule, you did what was necessary for the realm.” Your voice is soft, barely above a whisper.

“You would ask me to break my oath again?” He asks, his nose bumping against yours, your eyes a dark forest green in the shadows of the night.

“I…” The word is tinged with uncertainty, and he silences you with a kiss.

You lean into his touch, tightening your grip on him, nails scraping against his scalp as you pull him closer. Your body melds to his, soft and yielding, the taste of honey and cinnamon on your lips—from the cake made specifically for the wedding—your breath warm against his, mingling, the feel of you, the taste of you intoxicating beyond all measure.

“How many kings must I fight against to have you?” Jon breathes, trailing his hands down your sides, fingertips finding where parts of the fabric has been ripped away, exposing your skin to the night air.

“You already have me.” You say, shivering when his hands ghost over your hips, your breath catching in your throat when he slowly lowers himself to the ground kneeling before you.

Jon looks up at you, and swears he can feel his pupils expanding, desperate to take in as much of the sight before him as he can. Bathed in moonlight you are a goddess, and when he rucks up your skirts and presses his lips to your core, his tongue desperate and eager, the sound you make is truly divine. Jon wants to hear it again, needs to hear it again, so he pulls your small clothes to the side, and feasts, your skirts draped around him, hiding him from the world. His hands grip your thighs, easing them apart, and when your hips shift, he realizes you have leaned back and gripped the stone railing, opening yourself further to him.

“How many kings must I fight to keep you, then?” He asks, cock beginning to stir as he rolls his tongue over your bud, parting with you only momentarily to nip at your thigh, marking you as his own.

“Jon, oh gods, please.” You beg quietly, the skirts on his right side bunching up from where you have gripped them.

He lazily laps at your core, nose pressed against your bud, smirking when your breathing picks up. “I do not know that number.”

You let out a flustered, strangled sound, but rock your hips against him. “You have me, you may keep me, even if you do not fight another king.”

“Is that so?” He hums, watching as your thighs clench in response to the vibrations.

“Do not tease, Husband.” You whine, sounding so desperate that he debates giving up his line of playful questioning.

“How can I deny My Lady Wife anything she desires?” Jon eases a digit in careful as he knows you are still a maiden, and he never wishes to hurt you.

You tense for a moment, and he freezes. Then light floods in, and he finds himself looking up at you. You hold out your free hand to him, and he takes it, intertwining your fingers, chuckling softly when you throw your skirts back over him.

Jon curls his finger experimentally, biting back a groan when a small moan slips past your lips. He adds another, his thumb circling your bud slowly, waiting to hear or see any signs of discomfort.

“Jon…” You gasp, and he hears the diamonds on your sleeves clatter against the railing, your core pulsing around him. “More.”

He curls his fingers, searching for that sensitive spot within you, his lips attaching to your bud, tracing nonsensical shapes as his fingers coax you closer and closer to the edge.

Moans spill from your lips like music, and he cannot help but echo them, tongue joining his fingers in their devouring of you, mouthing at you like a man starved. Finally, he rips your small clothes free, slipping them in his pocket, to allow himself the use of both hands.

Jon shoves your thighs apart, offering a silent apology as his beard scratches against the sensitive flesh of them, too enraptured by the taste of you, divine and delightful, just as you are. His cock aches, straining against his breeches, desire driving him mad.

Your high comes abruptly, and his eyes nearly roll back into his head at the way you drip around him. Your arousal running down his hand, mixing with the blood still sluggishly flowing from his broken skin.

You pull him up and grab at his breeches, freeing his cock from the restricting fabric, as you whine, “now, Jon, I need you now.”

He leans forward, gripping the railing, forcing his lust back, attempting to regain any semblance of control. “Y/N, we should go to our chambers, anyone could come upon us.”

“I cannot wait any longer.” You grip him tightly, thumb grazing the head of his cock as you pout up at him, lightning shooting through his body, your touch burning to the point of pleasure pain. “Please, Jon?”

He backs you up against the railing, swearing under his breath, and pushes in, head falling forward as he is engulfed in your walls.

You make a stifled pained sound, and he curses himself, raising his head to press chaste kisses to the plains of your face. His hand moves between your bodies to your bud, stroking you softly as he waits for you to adjust.

“Breathe y/n, breathe.” He urges, his free hand leaving the railing to brush the hair back from your face, his thumb smoothing along the apples of your cheek.

You take a deep breath, then another, and he feels your muscles relax, but your bottom lip is caught between your teeth, and your eyes will not meet his.

Jon presses a kiss to your temple and pulls out slowly before tucking himself back into his breeches.

You blink at him, a frown marring your perfect face. “Jon?”

He cannot do it, he will not take you here, in the open air where he cannot calm you properly. “I will not risk us being caught.” He takes your hand in his and presses it to his lips. “We have a fine bedchamber awaiting us, let us make use of it.”

Jon should feel bad, he knows he should, sneaking you past all the guests, your family, his family, the servants. All while he salivates like a hound over the thought of you bare before him on the silk sheets of your shared bed.

It is not right to take you like this, spread out, his body above yours, your gown, his clothing discarded, the windows open so that all can hear. You are a lady, his lady, his Lady Wife, he should act with decorum and honor, but it is so very difficult when you beg and praise so perfectly.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, how—gods, how are you so good at this?” Your breasts are heaving with each breath, your words broken up by moans.

Jon chuckles, tweaking your nipples, ravishing your throat with his teeth and tongue, his cock driving you higher and higher, his hand in your hair, keeping you from turning you head and hiding from his gaze. “I dreamt of this, of you, I practiced many times in my dreams.”

Your back arches and your core pulses around him, liquid fire filling his veins.

“My starlight.” He coos, his free hand groping your perfect breasts, groaning at the feel of your soft skin. “My wife, how beautiful you are.”

“Jon, oh gods, I do not underst—” Your words are cut off by a desperate moan, your emerald eyes glazed over with lust, your pretty lips parted as you frantically take in air.

“Trust me, I have got you. You need only enjoy, can you do that for me?” Jon asks, caressing the curve of your cheek, admiring the way the candlelight plays across your skin. He has claimed many of your firsts, and he intends to be the last to do so.

“Yes, yes, I can, I can.” You say, and he bites back a groan at the way you look up at him, so trusting and eager.

“Good girl.” He praises, brushing a kiss to the corner of your lips as he thrusts into you, harder, faster, finding that spot within you that makes you sing and focusing there.

You whimper in response, squirming in his hold, hips rolling to meet his incoming thrusts, warm walls clenched around him, making him lightheaded.

“Jon, Jon, Jon, please, please do not stop.” You beg, nails digging into his shoulders, your eyes screwed shut.

“Never.” He promises, releasing his grip on your hair to trail his fingers down your bare body until he comes upon your bud, setting a cruel rhythm that makes your body tremble, cries of his name growing louder and louder.

He wants the whole of The Rock to hear you, to know you are his, to keep their filthy hands off you.

“Swear it to me, swear you will never let anyone separate us.” You say desperately, your eyes open now, pupils blown wide, but there is a clarity within them.

This has been your fear since King Stannis took the throne, one he has not been able to banish from your mind. “I would fight the gods old and new to stay by your side, none shall tear us asunder, I swear to you.”

“So would I, Jon, I love you, I love you.” You say, pulling him closer to you, smashing your lips to his hungrily as if you cannot get enough of him.

“And I love you.” He whispers, nipping at your earlobe, liquid lust and pure unfiltered adoration raging in his veins.

Jon TL: @mostclevermiss, @solacestyles, @2valentines, @sharknutz, @idohknow, @bdudette, @pluraldoggo, @legolastheleafyelf, @faerie-film, @wifiatthetrainstation, @duskypinki, @tartine-de-pain, @rebeccawinters, @taylorsfemalerage, @rax-raxus, @certainwonderlandperfection, @nymeriiiia, @burkgolden, @drewsivy

[jula483]

!!!!!!

[weregonnabecoolbeans]

It's unfortunate that since Ahsoka existed exclusively in animation for so long...

a place where what she was able to do really had no limits...

no matter what..her live-action appearances are gonna feel like a step down

they could have the greatest stunt team in the world but the fact is no human being can move like this fictional animated alien

[gaylactic-fire]

When I say there's something Deeply Fucking Wrong with BOTW/TOTK Zelda haters this is what I mean btw

[biancadavri]

MAN,

[dkettchen]

[nguyenfinity]

Every time I draw Mamagi it does AoE damage (I am also in the area of effect)

Lighthearted bonus:

[chenziee]

OPKisstober: Straw Hats

Day 6 for OPKisstober: Law/Luffy (HAPPY BIRTHDAY LAW!!)

[ Masterpost | Series on AO3 | Ko-Fi ]

When Law had proposed his alliance with the Straw Hats, it was a thing of opportunity for him. They appeared out of nowhere in front of him right as he was starting to think about how to put his plans against Doflamingo to motion, almost like a sign from the heavens. The helping hand in a moment of need that the Sister from his school in Flevance had told him about.

He had expected it to end in maybe 24 hours, the moment he actually faced Doflamingo. He tried to make it end there. But, unfortunately for him, Straw Hat Luffy was much more stubborn, much more selfish, and much more caring than Law had given him credit for.

And now, here he fucking was.

“Torao!! Where are you?!”

Law groaned. Can’t have peace for five fucking minutes…

“Up here!” he called back—after all, he had learned the hard way that if he pretended he wasn’t there, he wouldn’t hear the end of it.

A second later, a hand appeared on the railing circling the roof of the Sunny’s bathroom. Law sighed as the entire Straw Hat hauled himself up, a wide grin on his lips and a plate full of meat in his free hand. “There you are. Why are you hiding? It’s your party today!”

Law rolled his eyes, muttering, “You guys are too loud. I needed a break.”

“You never change,” Straw Hat snickered, finally jumping off the railing he had perched himself on earlier to join Law in his hiding spot. He would have to find a new one. Again.

“You expected me to change in the two weeks we didn’t see each other?” Law asked, a small, teasing smirk finding its way on his lips.

“Who knows? You’re officially old now!” 

“I’m turning thirty, not fucking eighty, Straw Hat-ya. And we’re still only six years apart.” Law deadpanned.

Luffy shrugged, plopping himself on the floor next to Law, placing the plate of meat on Law’s lap.

Raising an eyebrow, Law looked at Straw Hat questioningly, but Luffy only grinned. “Sanji’s special BBQ meat you missed! I’ll eat it if you don’t want it tho.”

With a huff, Law grabbed the fork that was on the plate—no doubt thanks to Black Leg; there was no way Luffy would think to grab one—, bringing a piece of the meat to his mouth. He could feel Luffy’s eyes glued to the juicy bite, clearly having to physically hold himself back from stealing everything for himself.

And honestly, Law couldn’t blame him; he shouldn’t be surprised by Black Leg’s cooking at this point, but the way the meat melted in his mouth, the flavour exploding on his tongue, the spices perfectly complementing the particular type of sea king… It was simply incredible.

“It’s good, right? Right?” Straw Hat asked eagerly, and when Law glanced at him, he was momentarily blinded by the excited, proud smile on his face and the stars dancing in his eyes.

It took Law a second to recover, but then he sighed, nodding. “It’s amazing. Although,”—he paused as he gestured towards the plate, giving Luffy a look—”I could swear there was more when you brought it here.”

Luffy blinked, his blinding smile melting into one so innocent and so awkward that Law was actually amazed by how unconvincing he looked. “It—It must be your imagination…”

Law couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing at the sight, a bubble of warmth growing in his chest. How was this guy so ridiculous? A Supernova, an Emperor, or the Pirate King, it didn’t matter. He was still just as dumb, just as selfish, just as reckless, and just as cute as he was when they first met at that auction house on Sabaody.

And Law just seemed to love him more every day.

“Don’t laugh,” Straw Hat muttered, a large pout replacing his fake grin.

Shaking his head, Law reached out with his hand, touching Luffy’s cheek, letting his fingers slide over that soft skin until they buried in Luffy’s messy hair, pulling him closer.

Luffy didn’t fight the guiding touch; instead, he shuffled a little closer, leaning forward eagerly. A moment later, their lips finally connected.

The touch was familiar, their lips moulding together with practised ease even as Luffy grinned into the kiss, a small snicker escaping him when Law ran tongue over Luffy’s bottom lip—tasting meat and spice, an unnecessary confirmation of Luffy’s crime of stealing Law’s food.

Not that Law really cared. He was used to it at this point, even expecting it. Honestly, he never truly minded sharing his food with Luffy—a fact that shocked both him, and everyone who knew him. Penguin still hadn’t let it go, teasing Law over it every fucking time Luffy grabs something off of Law’s plate with no repercussions, a feat that no one else would get away with.

Law simply didn’t share things, food especially. It made him feel weird and uncomfortable—just like the thought of kissing someone, caring for someone romantically, loving someone always made him feel weird and uncomfortable.

But Luffy always somehow found a way past Law’s barriers, defying logic and Law’s own convictions.

And Law was past wondering why or how.

As they finally pulled away from each other, Law raised an eyebrow at the unhappy look on Luffy’s face. “What?”

“You can’t just kiss me and expect me to forget you laughed at me! You didn’t even say sorry,” Luffy whined.

Law snorted, leaning in to press another kiss to Luffy’s mouth. Not saying anything.

“You’re a jerk. I hate you,” Luffy muttered, stealing all of the remaining meat on the plate, gulping it down in one go.

Shaking his head, Law reached out to ruffle Luffy’s hair. “Thanks. I hate you, too.”

When Luffy’s only response was to stick his tongue out, Law chuckled, kissing Luffy one last time before he grabbed the now-empty plate and got up, offering his hand to Luffy. “Should we go back?”

His annoyance obviously forgotten, a wide grin spread on Luffy’s face as he grabbed Law’s hand, letting himself be pulled up to his feet—only Luffy didn’t let go. Instead, he followed the momentum, crashing into Law, wrapping his free arm around his waist.

“Happy birthday. I love you,” he said, his grin widening.

The corners of Law’s mouth twitched in response. Pushing Luffy’s hair away from his face, Law leaned down, giving Luffy one final, small kiss. “I love you too, Pirate King,” Law muttered.

With a snicker, Luffy stepped away, never letting go of Law’s hand when he jumped off the roof, dragging Law down with him.

As the both of them rejoined the birthday party the Straw Hats had insisted on throwing him—a completely separate party from the one his own crew was throwing on his actual birthday in two days—, Law couldn’t help but marvel at how much his life had changed in the past four years.

Four years ago, he was still fighting against Doflamingo’s strings, attached to him like he was a puppet. Since then, everything had changed. He lost his ship, almost lost his entire crew—everything he had, for the third time. He experienced freedom, crushing defeat, crawling his way up again… and the Straw Hats were there for all of it. Law wouldn’t be where he was now without this crew of idiots, and their complete menace of a captain.

His ally, his partner, his king, the absolute bane of Law’s entire existence… 

The love of his miserable fucking life.

Four years ago, he didn’t think he’d see his 30th birthday but here he was, happier than he’d ever been.

[cartoonghosts]

genuinely people need to tag triggers. Love all the 'not my responsibility to tag stuff the way you want it' shit but that is for fandom and weird kinks and whatever not LITERAL PICTURES OF SELF HARM AND BLOOD EVERYWHERE like I'd be fine if it was tagged 'tw blood' (which I don't have blocked!! I'd still be triggered as fuck but hey you tried idc) but when you don't tag it at all I have to assume you are actually trying to hurt someone. Yeah I block immediately but thst doesn't change the fact that I'm triggered and the sh urges are back. This is true for text posts too, although I try to block words (I genuinely hate it so deeply when people sidestep other people's word blocks with 'sewerslide' or button mash numbers in the word like. I am going to fucking kill you. 'Oh noo it's triggering to me uwu' bitch you made me actively suicidal for the first time in months. Fucking die. Don't post that shit if using the actual words triggers you). You ABSOLUTELY ARE responsible for what you put out into the words. People saying 'oh ur not responsible for other peoples triggers and emotions' are genuinely heartless and have never felt human empathy. You ain't responsible for how I react to your content, but you NEED to try your best to give people the bare minimum of warnings when you post triggering shit. Look at ur vent post and be like 'hey I'm gonna tag this as tw vent/ tw si' and you genuinely might save someone's life. Probably not but the chance should be enough for you to care and if it isn't, block me. Don't argue, just block me now.

[whump-lover-and-reader]

New whump fic:

<Don't kidnap Pil, or else Hogae will be very sad>

Fandom: The First Responders

Summary: Hogae rescues Pil who got kidnapped by a serial killer

Tags: Kidnapping, Implied/Referenced Torture, Whump, Hurt/Comfort, Blood and Injury, Rescue, Chains, Hospitals

Word count: 1,520