#torture in fiction series

[etirabys]

a frustrating thing about battle royale stories is that they take place in a world where there's a massive popular appetite to see torture and death, the existence of this appetite is the main moral evil of the story (so far so fine), and the author tends to pretend this is also a huge problem in our world so that their work can stand as a Commentary On Real Evil. when the world their actual readership lives in has the opposite problem – too squeamish about seeing torture and death and coercion and collectively agrees to sequester it out of view so that nice things can keep being available for under five dollars at the grocery store

[xoxochb]

If I can’t have him, I might just die, it would make no difference

[bowiestarzzz]

God I genuinely don’t get why people hate Nightheart so much. Every reason they have is they’re actually just angry at the authors not at Nightheart lol. Like you’re allowed to hate whatever character u want but I just saw a comment saying the fandom should scalp every Nightheart fan alive and it’s like woah okay. Jesus he’s just a cat dude

[ultfan]

me when tumblr recommends me someone defending dr3 in the tags and i read through the entire thing and get mad bc they don't understand what brainwashing really is.

[jakkon-and-rose-topic]

Cw: Swearing, Alcohol usage, mentions to torture, PTSD, implied Depression, and yeah... just don't read this if you're sensitive.

Uhhh... So... It's a little different. And Weird. And probably has a lot of flaws, but... enjoy?

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“You look nice!” Rose smiled at her brother-in-law. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in Blue before.”

“Hey, you look good too Petals.” Jakkon offered her his arm. “But I will admit, you look better in red!”

“Is that what you told Eveny when you had Rune?” Rose took his arm with a sly smirk. Jakkon froze and looked down at his sister-in-law, face turning bright red in embarrassment. “Oh, you are so easy to make fun of!”

“Hey!” Jakkon shook his head, trying to clear the heat from his face. “You… I… Hey!” 

“Take it as revenge for what you said about the red dress.”

“What- All I did was compare the color. It was meant to be a compliment!”

“I’ll take that as a compliment when I’m dead.”

Jakkon gaped at her in fake offense. “Rude! Any man who tries to dance with you has my condolences for dealing with that flame of a tongue you’ve got!”

Rose smirked. “Well, I pity whoever asks you. The two-left-hooves I know couldn’t dance if his life depended on it.”

“What person in their right mind would ever ask me to dance?” Jakkon laughed, smoothing the hair out of his face.

“Hey, Horns? If my sister thought you were attractive enough to marry you, you’ve got to have something going for you.”

The Satyr and Fae both smiled.  “Do you want to go look at the food options?”

“Really? You want to?” 

“Sure! Why not?”

“Alright!” Rose glanced around at the other guests, noting that most of them had something, whether it be a drink or a small bit of food, and let her brother-in-law lead her through the crowds over to a series of tables. 

The two lightly teased one another for a bit, Rose taking a few small fruits, and Jakkon just keeping her company before they ventured back out into the crowds to strike up conversation with Morena and Finn.

Jakkon put his hands behind his back. “So, have either of you tried dancing yet?” 

“No. Um… Not yet.” Morena smiled sheepishly, the tips of her ears tinging pink as Finn looked at the ground.

“Come on! Have some fun! Live a little!” Rose elbowed Finn.

“Now you sound like Jak.” The harpy glanced up and met Jakkon’s eyes. The Satyr broke into a smirk and Finn managed a smile.

“Go on! Have fun you two! Don’t just stand here!” Jakkon smiled at Morena and threw his arms around her. 

Morena smiled softly as Jakkon stepped behind Morena and leaned forward. “Sorry.” Then he pushed her toward Finn. Both jumped, and Finn caught Morena, their faces turning bright pink.

“I… uh… sorry!”

“No, no, you’re alright!”

“Same to you I just…”

Both of the harpies froze, looking at one another before Finn offered Morena his hand. “Well… um… Would you like to dance?”

Morena smiled and took it. “Yes. I would. Very much.”

Rose held up a fist, and Jakkon bumped it with a smirk. “Mission accomplished.”

After a few minutes of silent celebration, Rose and Jakkon snuck through the crowds to watch the slow dance. The two harpies stumbled over their talons a few times, this particular dance not fit for them, but they came back holding hands and laughing. 

“So, have fun?” The Satyr smiled.

“Yes, no thanks to you!” Morena smiled at him and hugged him. “Thank you.”

“Just doing my civil duty ma’am.” Jakkon gave her a fake salute and Rose smirked.

But suddenly, a voice interrupted them. “Finn! It’s good to see you!” 

Rose eyed the newcomers but leaned against her brother-in-law. “Hey Horns, how many times do you think you’d fall over if you tried to dance?”

“Every step!” He laughed as someone in the crowd moved and he caught sight of a painfully familiar figure with the group talking to Finn. Pale skin, sharp ears, and cold piercing eyes. The smile on his face faded as his pupils constricted in terror, and he flinched back.

“Huh? Horns?” Rose reached out to him, but Jakkon pulled away from her as the figure turned, a long black braid rested against the golden buttons on his suit. 

Just as Jakkon was about to run, the cold, hissing voice called out cheerfully. “Jak! It’s good to see you here!” The Satyr flinched, shivering as he closed his eyes. But the elf ignored his obvious fear and grabbed his wrist, faking a handshake as he pulled him back. “Are you… enjoying yourself?”

Jakkon froze, his shoulders slumping as he looked down at the ground. “Yessir. It has been… very nice. Thank you for inviting us.”

“Glad to hear you’re grateful.” He smiled. “Now who’s this lovely creature?” He let go of Jakkon, turning to Rose as he took her hand and kissed it.

“DON’T-” Jakkon stopped himself, “touch her.”

“What was that?” Eynalis turned back to Jakkon, his eyes narrowing.

“I… I uh… N-nothing sir. Please don’t touch her... She’s my family. I wouldn’t want anyone getting any ideas!” He laughed nervously, pulling Rose away from the elf, who smiled, knowing he now had a good method of keeping Jakkon right where he wanted him.

“Who is this?” Rose tilted her head.

“Yes Jak, don’t be rude. Please, introduce us.” The Elf grinned.

“Um…” The Satyr shifted. “Rose… this is Eynalis. He… he’s my boss. And our host. He’s been like a father to me since I got this job. Eynalis, this is… my sister, Rose.”

“Ah! It’s good to meet you, m’lady!” Eynalis grinned, shifting the glass of wine in his hand.

Rose glanced at Jakkon and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Why are you so desperate to leave? He doesn’t seem so bad.”

“I- I… um… I don’t… never mind.” The Satyr avoided her eyes as Eynalis grabbed back onto his wrist.

“Yes! Why are you so eager to go somewhere Jak? Are you… afraid of being tied down?”

Jakkon gasped a shaking breath. “I… No sir…”

“Good!” Eynalis grinned. “You know Jak, emotions are so fleeting. Like the love of flowers in spring.”

Eynalis tightened his grip on the Satyr’s arm as he gasped a shaky breath. “I’m so glad you work for me. There are so many things you’re capable of in this fleeting world. There’s so much fun to be had at parties like these you know. Do you remember the last time we had a meeting?” Jakkon froze, horrified as he remembered the screams of Eveny and Rune. “Or what about when you met my friend? Such good times!” The Satyr flinched back, air not reaching his lungs at the mention of the serial killer and the memories of Eveny’s cold dead eyes and ashy flesh. He stumbled back as Eynalis’ magic seeped through his skin, flaring the pain and the memories as the Elf’s grip tightened, crushing Jakkon’s wrist.

He leaned forward. “You know she held out hope for you until the last moment. Your little boy might still be alive if you hadn’t refused? You’re my son. Do you want me to take that pain away? I could. Just give me a knife and a few minutes.” Eynalis straightened. “But Rose! I don’t know a lot about you dear! How do you know Finn and Jak?”

But the voices blurred together as Jakkon's hands flew to his face, thorny whips of icy fire slicing through every inch of his skin, weaving through his whole body like a sewing needle fastening him to blood and bones swallowing him whole. His hands reached out of the void for help only to grasp the blades of the knives which drew screams from his family's lips. 

… 

Rose pulled away from the strange Elf. “Thank you for your time Mr. Eynalis. You're very kind. But I think I ought to discuss a few things with my coworkers. I hope you understand.”

“Of course my dear! It was a nice talk! I hope to meet you again another day.” He kissed her hand, holding it a little too tight as Rose pulled back.

Eynalis waved and trotted off into the crowd, leaving Rose alone. She glanced around. “Hey, Horns-” But the Fae stopped as she turned, confused and startled to find that Jakkon wasn't beside her. “Horns?” She looked around frantically, eyes wide. The Fae whirled around and lunged for Finn, yanking him toward her.

“Hey? What?” The harpy raised an eyebrow.

Rose lowered her voice and hissed through her teeth. “Have you seen Jak?”

Finn froze and turned, looking around the room. “Wasn't he with you?”

“He was! But I… he's gone!”

“Shit. Uh… try looking around, ask for him. The servants might know!”

“What? Why would they know?” Rose's breaths came quicker as she began to panic. 

“They're your best bet, they're everywhere.” Finn shrugged. “Listen, Rose, I'm not a detective, alright? I may not like Jak, but I want him to be okay. You got this Rose.”

“Thank you, Finn.” 

“You're welcome. Tell me if there's any way I can help.” The harpy smiled encouragingly at her.

Rose shook her head and raced off, lifting her skirts just enough so she wouldn't trip on them as she asked any guests she ran into, but none had answers until she moved past the tables. Two servants leaned against the wall arguing in hushed tones, catching Rose's attention. 

“Why the hell did you let him take those?”

I didn't! He asked how many we had and what they were for, and then when I showed him, he took them from me. I mean, good riddance they're gone. But I'm a little concerned.”

“A little? Aeridine could kill a man!” Rose froze at the mention of the name. Aeradine, generally used as a painkiller or as a party drink for the more animalistic species like Aperrunai or Ferrakin.

“I've seen him before. He's one of us…” The second servant stared up at the ceiling as Rose stopped to listen. “Eynalis has him on a leash. He's terrified of boss. Rightfully so.” He shuddered. 

“Oh…” The first stopped. “Oh no, oh shit… we can't leave our post, but we have to help him. That's… oh no.”

“We need to get someone… but who will listen to us? Who won't tell boss?”

Rose perked up. “Hey! You two. Who are you talking about? I'm looking for someone!”

The Second servant paused before the first one elbowed him. “Um… Dark brown hair, almost black, long ponytail? Curly Horns, Dark red eyes… Oh shit… Was that Jakkon Erwhyn?”

“Yes!” Rose grinned. “If that’s who it was I need to find him!”

“How did we not recognize- uh, he went that way! Please help him! He didn't look good when we saw him!”

“Will Do! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Rise bolted off in the direction the servant had pointed until she found a large door. She took a step back, staring up at it in uncertainty. But a flash of blue caught her eye, and she turned, a ripped piece of blue fabric torn on the thorny branch of a tree. 

Rose steeled her resolve and shoved the doors open. But she froze in her tracks as her eyes landed on the familiar thin figure of Jakkon, slumped at the bottom of the steps, one of his arms wrapped around himself for warmth as he drained the remainder of the silver bottle.

“Hey! Horns! Horns, stop it! Are you okay?” Rose hurried down the stairs, then yelped in horror as she tripped on her skirt and fell. Jakkon whirled toward her, falling halfway and bracing himself with one hand on the steps.

“Ughh… Fuck.” But he shook his head and launched himself to his feet, catching Rose in a hug, wavering on his feet as she gasped. The fae just managed to gain her footing as she held onto her brother-in-law. 

“Hey, Horns, what the fuck is going on?” Rose looked up at him, wincing at the strange scent of alcohol, but stopped as Jakkon’s eyes glazed over in a dead expression. He murmured something about blood and crumpled to the ground, his supporting arm around Rose ending up taking her down with him.

Rose yelped in surprise as they landed in a tangled heap on the stone, Jakkon absorbing most of the impact as she scrambled back, shaking his shoulders. “Jak! Jakkon! Are you alright? Can you hear me?” But when he didn't respond, she balled her hand into a fist and punched his shoulder.

Again, she was rewarded with nothing. No sound, no movement, simply shallow raspy breaths. “Fuck. Finn!” Rose launched herself to her feet and ran back to the party. “Hey! You two! Find a Harpy named Finn for me, will you?”

“Yes ma'am! Is he alright?”

“No. That's why I need Finn. Tell him Rose sent you.”

“Yes ma'am, understood!” The second servant raced off as Rose returned to Jakkon to find him curled up, shivering lightly. She cleared worried tears from her face and picked him up by both arms, trying her best to drag him over to the railing so she could prop him up correctly. 

…

Jakkon sat up to find himself in a dark room, tangled in a thick white blanket. He pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead with a muffled groan of pain. But he just sat there for a moment, head in his hands, as his thoughts returned to him and he kicked the blanket to the side.

What’s the point? What’s the point of living a life like this if I live just to be tortured and reach sleep in the next few hours? Why do I care? Rose won’t forget me no matter what I do, so why do I keep trying to make her? They all love me. But why? I’m worthless. I live three hours in misery just to live the next five in agony. He flinched, reaching into the pocket of his overcoat and pulling out the glass shard he’d kept, staring at it. What’s the point of living if there’s no way to feel anything but hollow? Why should I care? I’ve only done damage by living. What do I care about? My family. I need to protect them. But how? By taking away the danger in their life. And that danger… He paused, looking down at the glass and his hands. Is me.

@aestheic-writer18 @ajgrey9647 @agirlandherquill @aalinaaaaaa @generic-whumperz @angst-is-love-angst-is-life @rivenantiqnerd @goldencomet69 @lumpofsand @blueberryseast1 @cybercelestian @chainsawpuppy88 @baconandeggs-25 @corinneglass @carosbee @danielleitloudernow @darkandstormydolls @illarian-rambling @idunnobutliaiscool @katwritesshit @kia-is-poisoned @phoenixradiant @thelazywitchphotographer @whumped-by-glitter @vyuntspakhkite-l-darling @i-hate-happy-endings @randomfixation @leahnardo-da-veggie @oliolioxenfreewrites @caffeinatedscorpio

It's done :]

[cookie-de-baunilha]

𝚃𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚂𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚝 𝚕𝚢𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚜 + Percy Wainwright | pt. 1

[art-beyond-the-stars]

Do you ever revisit fan content that you have nostalgia for and wish that it was Better

[lovelikeafuneral]

the world needs more female slasher killers in horror movies and i’m very serious about that.

[ilovereadingandstuff]

I find so funny that in a matter of just one episode of 23 (?) minutes long, Link Click manage to consume my whole soul and integrity, crash and hold tight my heart to the point it hurts physically...

and i love it.

I love it when fiction and media somehow manage to me feel things i don't usually never feel in real life.

and, yes, my favorite shows are the ones that make me feel the most, which characters consume my thoughs all day long, they become part of my being, my motives to go on with dailylife routines...

Fiction in all forms is probably the most beautiful lie human can create in such an imperfectly perfect way...

[always-a-joyful-note]

may I also bring this contribution as you wander down the enstars rabbit hole (it's enstars characters and their supposed crimes)

OP I appreciate you so much, but I fear that you are trying to kill me? Just -

Just a few questions.....

- Why are Switch and the seniors of Ryuseitai and Wataru??? on kidnapping?? (wait, did he kidnap Hokuto is that it?) - Wait, what did Tetora and Sora DO? - Midori's in attempted murder?????? WHY??? - What's with forgery?? Why's that on there? Why am I questioning forgery when sexual harassment and murder are RIGHT there??? - Yeah, I still can't believe there's a literal idol duo who is also a mob group.... - "tried to break the windows with an iron pipe" what - of course Hokuto has the ultra specific one (I love him so much. Rich airhead princess to me, so far anyway). - Bullying for Subaru NO what have you DONE starshine boy??? - and at this point I've given up on getting mentally tortured by the others

I am eternally grateful for this list. Why did it have to exist? OP, come back here and let's just talk - actually. No, I desperately want to sit down with the writers and ask what they've experienced to do this.

[gillianthecat]

Bed Friend really kinda IS A Little Life lite.

[jakkon-and-rose-topic]

MASTER POST - Chronological Order :]

Here's my new master post!

[NEWS: THIS WRITING AND BLOG ARE OUTDATED AND NEED TO BE FIXED, BUT PLEASE FEEL FREE TO READ ANYWAY]

My main blog & Where the story has transitioned to is @the-ellia-west

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AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH

THIS BLOG IS CURRENTLY BEING REVAMPED

(No longer Canon to the up-coming comic at this point in time)

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Love - Jak and Eveny Just after their Wedding

Grief - Jak after Eveny's death

Gone - Jak and Rose at Eveny's Funeral

Injuryyyy - Jak's Return after TRAUMA

Forget - Jak's intro to Alchoholism After TRAUMA

Empty - Is Life worth living anymore?

History - This one takes place on a mundane evening before the inciting incident

- (Flashbacks stop here)

Arena - Jak and Rose's intro from someone else's POV

Morena - Jak talks to Morena after Rose left to Help Finn with Something

Phenik - Phenik joins the crew

Rivalry - Jak and Wild's Rivalry

Prank - Jak's first Good night of sleep in a while

Eynalis - The party

-[The Loss]

A Night out #1 - Half the Crew go into town

A Night out #2 - >:]]

Defense - Jak kills a guy

Gift - Rose & Jak Wholesome Moment

-[The Scene I'm still putting off]

Letting go - Jak Tells Rose To forget him

Argument - Tension

Anniversary - Jak and Eveny's Anniversary was also Eveny's Birthday

Immortality - The Story only ends when they're forgotten

(Other Stuff)

A Memory

What Used to Be

Rune's Fate

Eveny's Fate

Jak's Fate (?)

Fae and Nonhuman Details

How everybody met

Jak's Psychology #1

Jak's Psychology #2

Jak being a Dick Compilation

Surprisingly accurate Picrew

Description of Jak from Eveny's eyes

Dialogue Test Sheets

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Go follow @corinneglass @i-hate-happy-endings @fantasy-things-and-such @cybercelestian @pastellbg

@nkikio @darkandstormydolls @aalinaaaaaa @thelazywitchphotographer @ash1223456

[1982grapejuiceblues]

The Mistake I

Series Masterlist | Official Masterlist

The Wrong Pitch Part 1

Summary:

She sat at the wrong table. He didn’t tell her. It was supposed to be a mistake — a mix-up, a meet-cute with no consequences. But something about him lingers. And something about her makes him stay. One unexpected conversation. One missed connection. And two people who can’t quite let it go.

A/N: This is the first part in my first Harry fic! I'm so excited, this has been a labor of love and an outlet for my creative juices. I hope you guys love these two as much as I do.

Word Count: 5.2K

Warnings:

• Emotional miscommunication

• Mild angst

• Anxiety spiraling / fear of rejection

• Self-doubt

• No physical touch — only emotional intimacy

• Delayed gratification (they do not kiss in this part!)

• Vibes: if-you-like-to-suffer-softly™

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Tuesday 9:06 a.m. - Milk & Honey

Y/N was late, and it was entirely, stupidly, predictably her own fault.

She’d set her alarm. Gotten up early. Even made a checklist. But then she’d done the thing she always did — convinced herself she had just enough time for a homemade coffee and a quick scroll through email.

Which became a not-so-quick scroll. Which turned into a rush out the door, half-dressed and under-caffeinated, with a latte that was more oat milk than espresso and an anxiety level creeping into the red.

She was now power-walking down a narrow Notting Hill side street with her bag bouncing against her hip and her phone buzzing in her coat pocket like it had something judgy to say.

9:06 a.m.

The meeting had been set for nine sharp.

Her boots slapped the pavement as she skidded around a corner and spotted the café ahead — Milk & Honey, of course. Brody Talbot would only agree to a meeting at a place that sounded like it was trying too hard to be whimsical.

It was charming in that perfectly curated way: potted plants in mismatched mugs, fairy lights in the windows, chalkboard menu with extra loops in the cursive. Inside, it was a mosaic of indie girls, old couples with newspapers, and creative types nursing cappuccinos like they held life-altering secrets.

Y/N paused at the door just long enough to press a hand over her chest and try to slow her heart rate. She could do this. It was one meeting. With one very opinionated, very overrated, very tortured author.

She scanned the tables.

And there he was.

In the corner by the window.

Notebook open. Black jumper.

Curls falling lazily across his forehead as he scribbled something into the page.

Sleeves pushed to the elbows. Rings catching the morning light.

God help me, that is absolutely a Brody.

She approached.

“Hi!” she said, breathless and maybe too bright. “I’m so sorry I’m late. Y/N, from Primrose Literary.”

The man looked up. Slowly. Casually.

Like he had all the time in the world.

And that’s when her brain stalled out.

Because holy shit, this man was beautiful.

Not just attractive. Beautiful. In a way that made time hiccup for a second. Green eyes sharp and calm, mouth soft at the edges, a face that somehow made you want to confess something. And a dimple. Of course there was a dimple.

He blinked once, then tilted his head slightly. “I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped.

“You’re… not Brody Talbot?”

He smiled. Just a little. “Nope.”

Her entire soul tried to crawl out of her body.

“Oh my god,” she said, already backing up. “I’m so sorry. I thought you were— You just looked very—”

“Writer-y?” he offered, amusement curling around his voice.

“Yes! Exactly. You looked like someone who would write emotionally devastating fiction and judge me for being late.”

“I mean, I can judge you, if that helps.”

She groaned, covering her face. “Please don’t. I’m begging you.”

“I’m just saying,” he added, “you walked in with the energy of someone who’s about to pitch a debut novel and cry about the advance.”

She laughed in spite of herself. “That’s painfully accurate.”

“I’m Harry,” he said, offering no last name, no explanation. Just that — warm and simple and a little too easy.

“Y/N,” she replied, like they hadn’t already been through this part.

“I know. You introduced yourself. Very professionally.”

She gave him a flat look.

He grinned.

Harry watched her flounder with the kind of amused stillness that only someone deeply confident — or deeply entertained — could pull off.

Y/N, on the other hand, felt like she was unraveling in high definition.

“I can’t believe I just sat down across from a stranger and announced my job title like it was a secret code.”

“To be fair,” he said, “you had a very convincing entrance. Firm intro. Apology with just the right amount of panic. Strong eye contact. That’s the kind of energy I want from my wedding speeches.”

She blinked. “You’re married?”

“What? No.”

“You write wedding speeches?”

He nodded, unbothered. “Professionally.”

“That’s a real job?”

“Apparently. People pay me to make them sound like they understand their own feelings.”

“That’s…” She narrowed her eyes. “Honestly kind of amazing.”

“I get that reaction a lot. Right after ‘you’re making that up.’”

She raised her brows. “You are, though.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Cross my heart.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It is,” he agreed, “and also mildly lucrative.”

Y/N laughed — really laughed — and something about it lit him up a little. She saw it. That flicker in his expression like he hadn’t meant to enjoy this quite so much.

“I don’t usually do this,” she said, waving a hand between them.

“Crash tables?”

“Talk to strangers.”

“You sat down like you knew me.”

“I thought I did.”

“Well,” he said, “I’d argue you weren’t completely wrong.”

She tilted her head.

“You said I looked writer-y,” he said. “Broody. Like someone who’d glare at you for being late.”

“Right…”

“I do write. Just not fiction.”

“Wedding speeches,” she said again, still incredulous.

He nodded.

“What does one even say in a speech like that?”

“Depends on the person,” he said. “Some people want heartfelt. Others want funny. Most people want to sound like they’re not terrified.”

“And you… translate that for them?”

“I take their chaos,” he said simply, “and turn it into something that sounds like love.”

That landed like a stone in her stomach.

“That’s…” she started, then stopped.

He just looked at her — patient, still, a little too knowing.

“Sorry,” she said quickly, looking down at her latte. “That was more profound than I was prepared for on a Tuesday.”

Harry smiled. “You’d be surprised how often that happens.”

Next thing she knew, she was fifteen minutes in. Still sitting. Still talking. Still not texting her boss to say yes, I found Brody Talbot and no, I haven’t fantasized about throwing a drink in his face yet.

She didn’t even know what she and Harry were talking about anymore. Favorite cafés. The ethics of ghostwriting love. Whether or not books were better when they made you cry.

(He said yes. She said sometimes.)

There was something about him — his ease, his warmth, his unhurried way of speaking — that made the air around them feel like something different. Not romantic. Not exactly.

But charged.

Familiar.

Safe.

Dangerous.

And then the door opened.

She didn’t have to turn around to know it was him. Brody Talbot radiated disdain like a cologne.

Harry followed her gaze. “Is that…”

“Yep,” she said, standing too quickly. “The real Brody. The one I was supposed to impress instead of, you know, you.”

“I’m flattered,” Harry said, not moving.

She grabbed her tote. “Thanks for not being weird about this.”

“Thanks for making my grocery-list-writing morning wildly more interesting.”

She paused. Hesitated.

“You know,” she said, “you’re very good at putting people at ease.”

He looked up at her with that soft, crooked half-smile.

“That’s literally my job.”

And that was the problem.

Because he meant it. And she kind of wished he didn’t.

9:43 a.m.

Y/N turned toward the door.

Brody Talbot had spotted her, of course — standing with his arms crossed and a frown like someone had given him almond milk instead of oat. She gave him a short wave and started across the café, but paused — just for a breath — and turned back to Harry.

He hadn’t moved.

Still in the corner booth, arms resting lightly on the table, watching her with a soft kind of curiosity. Not clingy. Not expectant.

Just… present.

“I hope your client’s less of a diva than mine,” she said, half-joking.

He quirked an eyebrow. “You were kind of my favorite meeting of the week.”

She blinked.

“I’m not saying much,” he added, “but still. Thought I’d mention it.”

She smiled, a little caught off guard.

“I hope they know how lucky they are,” he said, more seriously this time.

Something fluttered low in her chest.

“They don’t,” she replied before she could stop herself.

And then, before the moment could stretch too long, she offered him a final, crooked smile — one part thank you, one part I wish this were different — and turned away.

She walked toward Brody like someone crossing a tightrope: careful, deliberate, already regretting it.

Harry watched her go.

Didn’t stop her. Didn’t call after her.

But something in his chest pulled taut, like he’d just been written into a story and cut from the next chapter before it started.

He opened his notebook.

Wrote:

“She sat down like the seat was waiting for her.

She left like the moment didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

I know it did.”

10:14 a.m.

Brody Talbot looked like he hadn’t smiled since the 2012 Booker Prize shortlist.

He was tall, pale, and sharp-edged — not in the sexy, mysterious way, but in the “I’ve definitely written a twelve-page takedown of a debut author on my blog” way. His coat was expensive and unnecessary. His frown was immediate.

“You’re late,” he said, voice flat as his espresso order.

Y/N inhaled through her nose and gave him a polite smile. “Yes. Sorry about that. The tube was a nightmare this morning.”

“I don’t take the tube,” he replied. “Claustrophobic.”

She nodded like he hadn’t just said something wildly out of touch. “Shall we sit?”

He dropped into the seat with a sigh like he’d already decided the meeting was a waste of his time.

Y/N followed, clutching her tote like it might protect her from his disdain.

“You’re younger than I expected,” Brody said, after a long sip of coffee. “Your boss said you’d handled difficult clients before.”

“I have,” she said smoothly, sliding out her notebook. “And I’m still here.”

He didn’t smile. But something flickered behind his eyes.

She knew the type. Egotistical, overly precious about his work, probably obsessed with the phrase art for art’s sake. A man who thought deadlines were suggestions and notes were personal attacks.

“My last agent,” he said, “wanted me to do social media content. Can you imagine?”

“The horror,” she said dryly.

“She suggested a giveaway. Like I’m a bloody influencer.”

Y/N scribbled nothing in her notebook. “We’d never ask you to give away your soul for engagement, Brody.”

“Thank God.”

He paused, then added, “Unless you liked the book.”

Y/N blinked. “What?”

“She didn’t like my last manuscript. Said it was ‘too internal.’”

“Isn’t that sort of your whole brand?”

That earned her a sharp glance.

She stared back, unbothered.

He set his coffee down. “You’ve read it?”

“All of them,” she said. “I liked the second. The third needed a stronger editor. The first one tried too hard.”

That startled him.

“You asked,” she said, flipping a page.

He crossed his arms. “Maybe you’re not a total waste of my morning.”

“Thank you,” she deadpanned. “I’ll put that on my business card.”

10:46 a.m.

They spoke for another twenty minutes. He talked in circles. Repeated himself. Lamented the collapse of intellectualism like he wasn’t sitting in a café filled with people reading real books.

Y/N nodded and made all the right noises, but her brain was elsewhere. Somewhere softer.

Back at the other table.

Harry.

The quiet way he watched her. The way he’d smiled when she said he was charming. The way his voice dropped when he said, “I like putting feelings into words.”

It was completely irrational. She didn’t even know his last name. But something about him had made the morning feel fuller.

This? Felt like a chore.

She realized with a jolt that Brody was still talking.

“—so obviously it’s not commercial, but it’s important.”

She blinked. “Of course.”

“You weren’t listening.”

“I was.”

“What did I say?”

“That it’s not commercial, but it’s important.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’re good at bluffing.”

She smiled tightly. “You’re good at monologuing.”

A beat. And then, to her surprise, he laughed.

It was short. Clipped. But real.

“You’re a pain,” he said.

“You’re a lot.”

“This might actually work.”

She wasn’t sure if he meant her representing him, or something more ominous — like emotional warfare.

Either way, she was ready to get the hell out of there.

10:56 a.m.

They stood. He offered a curt nod and handed her a business card with only his name and a lowercase email address on it.

“I’ll send the manuscript,” he said. “You can send your notes. But I won’t read them.”

“Perfect,” she said. “I love being ignored.”

“You’re going to do well,” he said, oddly sincere. “Just don’t lose your edge.”

She wanted to say, I left my edge in the corner booth with a man who made me laugh before nine a.m.

Instead, she said, “I never do.”

He left without another word.

She counted to five. And then, before she could change her mind, she stepped back inside the café.

10:59 a.m.

He was gone.

She didn’t know what she expected — a note, maybe. His number on a napkin. His voice, still lingering in the air.

The booth was empty.

The seat was cold.

And Y/N realized something that she really didn’t want to admit:

She hadn’t just walked away from a stranger.

She’d walked away from a spark.

And she might never get it back.

10:48 a.m.

He saw her before he left.

She was sitting at a new table, diagonally across the café. Her back was straighter now, her shoulders squared in that quiet, professional way people do when they’ve put their walls back up. Her face was calm, practiced — polite in the exact way it had not been with him.

The man across from her looked like he came with footnotes. Expensive glasses. Sharp lapel. Frown lines carved into his face like he’d earned them. He gestured with his spoon when he spoke. The kind of man who probably didn’t ask questions so much as wait for silence so he could fill it.

Harry didn’t need to guess who he was.

Brody.

Y/N didn’t look miserable. But she didn’t look like the girl who’d laughed into her latte twenty minutes ago, either.

She wasn’t touching her drink. Wasn’t gesturing. Wasn’t letting herself take up the same space she had at his table.

Something about that bothered him more than he expected.

Harry lingered by the counter with the remains of his flat white in hand, watching the espresso drip into someone else’s cup. He should’ve left already. He knew that.

He wasn’t sure what he was waiting for.

Maybe a glance. A nod. A half-second acknowledgment that she still remembered what it felt like to talk to him instead of the person she was supposed to be meeting.

But she didn’t look up.

He considered staying — for real. Sitting back down in the booth they’d shared, pulling out his notebook again, letting the day stretch. But something about it felt… off. Intrusive. Like pushing his luck would break whatever weird little moment they’d already had.

So instead, he quietly reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled five-pound note, and left it folded under his cup on the counter.

He passed the table on his way out. Let his eyes linger for the span of a breath.

She was mid-sentence, eyebrows raised at something Brody had said. Not smiling, not quite frowning. Just… present. Distantly.

Harry stepped through the door, letting the bell chime softly behind him.

He didn’t look back.

11:52 a.m.

He walked. Aimless, slow, hands in his pockets, mind full.

Past the florist next door. Down toward the canal. A street performer was tuning a guitar just outside the station, playing half-chords that didn’t go anywhere.

Harry kept walking.

She hadn’t looked up. And why would she?

She was doing her job. Meeting her author. Handling her morning like the competent, sharp, slightly chaotic literary agent she clearly was.

What they had — that half-hour window of strangeness and connection — it didn’t mean anything.

Except… it kind of did.

He hated that. The way it clung to him. Like fog in his chest. Not heavy, just… present.

He pulled out his phone and opened Notes.

Typed:

I shouldn’t care.

But she made me want to listen to myself speak.

That doesn’t happen often.

Deleted it. Started again.

There was something there. I know there was.

It felt like breathing with someone else in the room.

No. Too much. Too abstract.

Deleted it again.

12:43 p.m.

He sat on his sofa. One leg curled under him, tea on the coffee table. Notebook open to a blank page.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then wrote:

She sat across from me like it wasn’t a mistake.

Like the seat had always been mine.

Like maybe I was supposed to be there.

Then:

I wanted to ask her to stay.

I didn’t.

She left.

I watched her walk toward someone else.

And I didn’t stop her.

Because I didn’t think I had the right to.

He closed the notebook before he could second-guess it.

Ran a hand over his jaw. Pressed the heel of his palm against his eye.

It was nothing.

A stranger. A spark. A moment.

But still… he felt off.

Like something had been almost real, and now it was out of reach.

3:10 p.m.

He passed the café again.

Didn’t even plan to — he was just walking, really. But when he saw the familiar string of fairy lights through the window, his heart gave a little thud he pretended not to notice.

He slowed down.

She wasn’t there.

Different crowd now. A group of friends chatting over croissants. A man in a suit reading a thick paperback. An older woman sipping something bright green with both hands wrapped around the cup.

The booth was empty.

He stood at the edge of the window, looking in for a second too long.

And then kept walking.

He didn’t know what he was hoping for.

He just knew that nothing else that day had felt as vivid as the first five minutes of it.

6:03 p.m. - Y/N's Flat

Her flat was too quiet.

It wasn’t usually a problem — she liked the quiet. She’d picked this place because it was small and cozy and didn’t echo when she walked barefoot across the hardwood floor. But tonight, the silence felt different. Like it was waiting for something she hadn’t said yet.

She stood in the kitchen, staring at the stovetop like it had personally offended her. The pasta was overdone. The sauce was barely warmed through. She didn’t even bother with a plate — just poured it into a chipped ceramic bowl and sat at the kitchen table with a glass of wine she didn’t remember opening.

The light above her hummed faintly. Her phone buzzed once. Then again.

Two new emails. Both boring.

She didn’t open them.

She stared down at her bowl, fork dangling from her fingers, and let the weight of the day settle on her shoulders.

It wasn’t supposed to matter this much.

But it did.

6:16 p.m.

She hadn’t meant to sit with him.

That was the thing she kept circling back to — the randomness of it. How easily it could’ve gone another way. If she’d arrived five minutes earlier. If she’d looked left instead of right. If he hadn’t looked like a writer.

But he had.

He’d looked like the kind of person who knew how to listen — really listen. The kind of man who wrote longhand and drank coffee slowly and said the word romantic like it wasn’t embarrassing.

She hadn’t expected to like him.

She definitely hadn’t expected to leave the conversation feeling like she was walking away from something unfinished.

It was a mistake. A mix-up. A one-off interaction.

But she couldn’t stop thinking about it.

Not in the swoony, fairy-tale way. She wasn’t an idiot.

It was just… something shifted.

And she felt it.

Still felt it, hours later, like an echo.

6:42 p.m.

The water was too hot, but she didn’t get out.

She lay still, arms floating, trying to focus on the quiet splash of the bathwater against the tub. Her phone buzzed on the counter. She ignored it.

Tried to think about work. About the manuscript she needed to review. About the client who’d ghosted her for a week. About Brody, whose ego was roughly the size of London.

But instead, she thought about dimples.

And green eyes.

And that line — “People don’t know how to say what they mean.”

And the way he’d looked at her when she told him his job was weirdly romantic.

He hadn’t laughed it off.

He’d just… seen her.

And now he was gone.

And she didn’t know how to explain why that mattered.

7:12 p.m.

She curled up on the couch, still damp from the bath, oversized jumper sleeves pulled over her hands. The wineglass was on the floor beside her. Her planner was in her lap. She hadn’t written anything yet.

The page was blank.

She flipped back a few days, just to ground herself. Checked her own handwriting like it might remind her who she was before this morning happened.

But all she saw was white space.

Like something had started today — and she didn’t know how to write it down.

Eventually, she opened a new page in her notes app. Started typing, slowly.

Today I made a mistake.

Sat down at the wrong table.

Met a stranger.

Talked about nothing.

Felt more like myself than I have in weeks.

Then, under that:

It shouldn’t matter.

But it does.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

She didn’t delete it.

She didn’t send it to anyone.

She just stared at it until the screen dimmed.

8:04 p.m.

She poured another glass of wine and walked into the bedroom. Turned on the fairy lights. Crawled into bed fully dressed, covers pulled up over her legs like armor.

She opened Instagram again. Searched Milk & Honey Café. Scrolled. Searched her own photos, wondering if maybe she’d caught him in the background of something — a ghost of him somewhere.

Nothing.

She didn’t know why that stung.

She reached for her planner again, flipped to Sunday, and wrote:

Milk & Honey – 9:00 a.m.

Then circled it.

Then added a question mark.

Just to keep herself honest.

9:12 p.m.

She turned out the light and lay in bed, wide awake.

And when she finally drifted off — slow, heavy, unwilling — she dreamed about a corner booth, a cold cup of coffee, and a man with ink on his fingers who smiled like he already knew the ending.

Wednesday 8:04 a.m. — Y/N's Flat

The sun had the audacity to be golden.

The kind of light that filtered through gauzy curtains and made everything feel softer than it deserved to be. The kind of light you woke up to when something good was supposed to happen. Not when your stomach was twisted and your brain was still playing back a voice you barely knew but couldn’t forget.

Y/N lay in bed longer than usual.

Eyes open. Motionless. Staring at the ceiling like it might offer some answer to a question she hadn’t asked out loud.

What was that?

She didn’t say it. But it sat there — right in the center of her chest, heavy as anything.

It wasn’t supposed to matter. It wasn’t even supposed to happen. But now it lived somewhere in her, and she didn’t know how to unfeel it.

She finally got up around 8:17, shuffled into the kitchen barefoot, and stood in front of the kettle like it owed her something.

Her planner was still on the table.

The line she’d scribbled the night before — Milk & Honey – 9:00 a.m. — stared back at her like a dare.

She hadn’t crossed it out.

She hadn’t meant to write it seriously. It was just a fleeting, impulsive maybe. An if-I-see-him-it-was-meant-to-be kind of note.

But now it was morning.

And maybe that felt too loud.

8:34 a.m.

She brushed her teeth with one hand and scrolled through her calendar with the other.

Two calls. One deadline. A reading sample from a client who “just wanted to see if the concept made sense” and had sent twelve pages of character backstory with no plot.

But still — her eyes kept flicking back to the corner of the mirror. To her own face.

She looked the same.

Except she didn’t feel it.

Her reflection stared back, still and a little guarded. Like she was waiting for something.

You’re not going.

It’s stupid.

It wasn’t real.

She picked out jeans and a soft jumper. The same coat she wore yesterday.

Told herself it was just what was clean.

8:59 a.m. — Y/N's Street

She wasn’t walking fast. That would make it obvious.

She wasn’t checking her watch, either.

She wasn’t doing anything except… heading in that direction. Coincidentally. Casually. Just in case she wanted another coffee.

That’s what she told herself.

But her heart sped up as soon as the café came into view.

And that’s when she saw it.

The booth. The table. The seat by the window.

Empty.

Just like yesterday.

No curls. No notebook. No dimple half-hidden behind a coffee cup.

Nothing.

She stood outside for a second, frozen, her hand half-raised toward the door.

And then she turned around.

Walked straight past it.

Didn’t look back.

10:24 a.m. — Y/N’s Office

Y/N stared at the blinking cursor in her inbox like it was mocking her.

Subject: Quick follow-up on Brody

From: Her boss, naturally

Message: Did you manage to get anything useful out of him yesterday?

She could answer that.

She could talk about his refusal to cut the prologue, his disdain for all marketing language, the fact that he referred to himself as “a vessel for unfiltered emotion” without irony.

She could even mention that he called her “tolerable,” which, from Brody, might actually be a compliment.

But she didn’t.

Because none of that felt like what the meeting had really been about.

She minimized the window and leaned back in her chair, letting her gaze drift toward the stack of manuscripts on her desk. Normally, she found comfort in them — in the work, in the flow of someone else’s story.

Today, it felt like static.

She pulled out her phone.

Scrolled to the planner photo she’d taken the night before. The one where she’d written:

Milk & Honey – 9:00 a.m.

She hadn’t gone in.

She couldn’t bring herself to.

But now she was sitting at her desk feeling like she’d missed something. Not just a second chance, but… clarity.

10:46 a.m. — Harry’s Flat

He was still wearing the same coat.

It was too warm for it now, but he hadn’t taken it off after he got home — hadn’t really done anything except move around his flat like a ghost.

He picked up his phone three times.

Didn’t text anyone.

Didn’t open Instagram.

Didn’t write.

The ache wasn’t sharp anymore. Just dull and lingering. The kind that makes everything feel one step to the left — like you’re moving, but nothing’s quite aligned.

He sat on the floor, back against the couch, notebook open in his lap.

Blank page.

The pen hovered for a long time.

Then he wrote:

What’s the word for when someone leaves and you don’t even know them well enough to miss them but you do anyway?

And then:

I think I was waiting for something and didn’t realize it until I thought it might show up again.

He stared at the page.

Then scribbled it out.

11:12 a.m. — Y/N’s Office

She tapped her pen against the side of her desk.

Five times.

Then she stood up. Pushed her chair in. Walked down the hall to the break room. Poured coffee. Didn’t drink it.

When she got back to her desk, she opened a new tab and typed:

Milk & Honey café Notting Hill staff

She didn’t even know what she was hoping to find. A name? A website? A list of people who worked there? Maybe some kind of event listing with his name on it?

But it led nowhere.

The café had no online footprint beyond its Instagram — and the last post was a photo of a croissant three weeks ago with the caption “Little joys.”

She stared at it for too long.

Then finally, quietly, she whispered:

“I should’ve stayed.”

And it wasn’t about the coffee.

11:38 a.m.

He found himself back at his desk.

Laptop open. Cursor blinking in the middle of a speech he was supposed to have finished yesterday.

He typed:

“Sometimes you meet someone for five minutes and they rearrange your furniture without touching a thing.”

Paused.

Deleted it.

Rewrote:

“You made me feel like the room had better lighting.”

Nope.

Backspaced again. Too sentimental. Too obvious. Too—

His phone buzzed.

Client.

He ignored it.

He flipped back to the page from earlier. The one with her name at the top.

Y/N

Didn’t stay.

Maybe she thought it was nothing.

Maybe she was right.

Maybe I just want her to be wrong.

He closed the notebook.

Stood up.

This time, he didn’t think about where he was going.

11:59 a.m.

She didn’t even grab her coat.

Just her bag, her phone, and a sharp tug of instinct.

The manuscript on her desk could wait. Brody’s ego could wait. The emails, the edits, the never-ending cycle of deadlines — they’d all still be there in an hour.

But the pull?

That what-if?

That felt time-sensitive.

She was halfway down the block before she even checked the time.

12:03 p.m.

His steps were steady, but not rushed.

He didn’t think she’d be there. That would be too neat, too cinematic. And he didn’t believe in timing like that.

But he still wanted to sit at the table again. Just to remember. Just to feel it.

That energy. That pause. That maybe.

12:06 p.m. — Milk & Honey

Y/N rounded the corner just as Harry stepped up to the door.

They saw each other through the window first.

He froze.

She did, too.

Time paused — not dramatically, not in a crashing, heart-stopping way. Just… softly. Like a breath held a beat longer than it should be.

And then he smiled. Small. Gentle.

Like he couldn’t quite believe it.

And she smiled back.

Like maybe she could.

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

Part 2

[heesingshoon]

My favorite fanfictions and who they're by. @ja3yun will be 99.99999% of these... Tbh...

WARNING!!! MDNI BECAUSE IT'S ALL SMUT. ALL. ALL SMUT.

Smut

Not series.

Kiss me through the phone - @heeseungsbm

Hehehehehehhehee... :3 hehe. Hehe hehehe Heheheheh he. Heeseung smut :3

Fuck buddy Sunghoon - @heeseungsbm

It's just a drabble about Fuck buddy Sunghoon and honestly it's so good.

Fuck buddy Jake - @heeseungsbm

SO IS THIS ONE

In safe hands - @ja3yun

AJ!!!!!! THE WRITER YOU ARE!!!!

Stretch it out - @ja3yun

No because like... FIGURE SKATER TEACHING BALLET IS SO SMART IT'S INSANE—

Dirty, Dirty girl - @minhosimthings

You ever wanna fuck bad boy Hoon? Anyway...

Series

Doll House - @ja3yun

A Hyung line series that has me hooked. I reread it when I'm down. VERY SMUTTY... :3 We love that here.

Melting point - @ja3yun

This one right here is honestly my favorite fan fiction series... Of all time... It's like... PEAK SERIES. It's a sunghoon series where hoon and your brother are childhood enemies and you fall for Sunghoon. But that's just like... Part of the plot... It's smutty, as one does, but the storyline is so good it's actually insane. I forgot it was a smutty series until I got the smut, honestly.

I'm a virgin, not a murderer - @ja3yun

THIS ONE IS SO GOOD. READ IT. >:[ I'm kidding, obviously, I'm not forcing you to read it. BUT IT'S SO CRAZY GOOD IT'S INSANE.

Devil Knights' Prey - @dollyyun

Another VERY SMUTTY Hyung line series that I reread a lot. Very good, very nice, very spicy, very torturous, very GOOD!!

Lucifer - @minhosimthings

I really like this one. So so good. :3 Please, I HIGHLY suggest this one. O2z series.

Tik toks under cut

Here's some tik toks because I can :3

Heeseung edits:

Video one

Video two

Video three

Video four

Video five

Jay edits:

Video one

Video two

Video three

Video four

Video five

Video six

Jake edits:

Video one

Video two

Video three

Video four

Video five

Sunghoon edits:

Video one

Video two

Video three (MY FAVORITE FUCKING EDIT IN THE ENTIRE FUCKING WORLD I DON'T GIVE A FUCK WHO THINKS I'M INSANE- I NEED THIS EDIT AS A MEAL SO I CAN EAT IT WITH HOW HUNGRY IT MAKES ME)

Video four

Video five

More than one:

Video one - JakeHoon

Video two - HeeHoon

Video three - Jayke (More Jake)

Video four - HeeJake

Video five - JayHoon

Video six - HeeJay

[salemoleander]

Untamed Beasts Trilogy webweave

Created as a gift for a friend in the MCYT Recursive Exchange 2025 @mcytrecursive, recursing the Untamed Beasts series by @whisperwritingstuff !

// Sources under readmore // Webweave on Ao3 //

What is a webweave? Previous art: Third Life | Void Falling | Attempt 33 | Limited Life | Nightingale | solving counting sheep | Hunger au | catching signals that sound in the dark

Panel 1 (Grian / nothing you can say): girl help textpost/ @wizardpotions ◆ Projections (Rome 2007) / Jenny Holzer ◆ Excerpt from Kitchen Hymns / Pádraig Ó Tuama via @beguines ◆ Schrodinger’s Wood / Maskull Lasserre ◆ Zittend mannelijk naakt, met geheven arm / David Humbert de Superville ◆ Leonids / Heather Danforth ◆ Every Teenagers #4 / everyteenagerforfree ◆ Neighborhood Watch sign / @hazard-symbols-that-fuck-hard ◆ Excerpt from on Sunday mornings I dream of koi fish / Ahana Chakraborty ◆ Free Will radio buttons / @screenshotsofdespair ◆ Untitled (A gift for…) / Lois Van Baarle ◆ Plaque Series / Jenny Holzer via @requiem-on-water ◆ Excerpt from What Good is Heaven / Raye Hendrix via @geryone ◆ Excerpt from Unravel / Tolu Oloruntoba via @geryone ◆ Rays / Anastasia Trusova via @boycritter ◆ tiny cuts. / @dappermouth ◆ Untitled (that bright glaring moon) / @incendavery ◆ can we merge souls, or… / @cannibalchicken ◆ Amethyst scepters / @nouveaucrystals ◆ Excerpt from The Accident / Anne de Marcken via @luthienne ◆ sometimes when I’m reaping textpost / via @girlmostlikely

Panel 2 (Cub / walk with my legs): Plaques Series / Jenny Holzer via @requiem-on-water ◆ let’s do something unethical textpost / @probuccalfat ◆ Danger sign / @anthropophage (Deactivated) ◆ the frost / mitski via @wovi ◆ Excerpts from Hansel / Richard Siken via @aridante ◆ Untitled / Pep Carrió ◆ Untitled / @ghost-honeyy (Deactivated) ◆ The Shore / Barry McGlashan via @huariqueje ◆ two guys who sleep textpost / @byjove ◆ scared animal textpost / @iregularlyevadetaxes ◆ holding up a fictional guy tweet / caranthirs via @mossy-aro ◆ Excerpt from Dig / Bryan Borland via @geryone ◆ Untitled (Meet me here) / @hillhomed ◆ “Tortured” bubble from Tis Time for Torture, Princess / via @vforvalensa ◆ Whos side are you on chat screenshot / @theonionsound ◆ Scriptum V / Rima Day ◆ 20 Inflammatory Essays / Jenny Holzer ◆ love when a dynamic is like. textpost / @willowcrowned ◆ Their Third comic / @its-arson-time ◆ Same old mistakes sign / @mutant-what-not

Panel 3 (Scar / find yourself, let me find you): A good thing you can do textpost / @nohoperadio ◆ Collage of: Phenomenon / Remedios Varo /// Lovecraft in Brooklyn / The Mountain Goats / @mountainqoats ◆ The Best Thing About A Poem / Max Lavergne ◆ Pandemonium / Kim Jakobsson via @pankurios-templeovarts ◆ loving humiliating haunting worshipping gnawing diagram / @dostoyevsky-official ◆ eat one of you eventually textpost / @1-beadyeyes ◆ I’m not ashamed to say tweet / silicone_angel via unbotheredmuse (Deactivated) ◆ Untitled (Geryon was a monster) / @kitmillsdraws ◆ Exponatus / Konstantin Korobov via @antonio-m ◆ Etruscan ring ◆ Shibari study / @tegelsteg ◆ i’d devour you whole if you let me / @castletemprwine ◆ My roommates and I textpost / @solidseater ◆ ohhh big stretch textpost / ne0scythian ◆ The Big Comet / Antonio Tonelli via @myfairynuffstuff ◆ Redacted / Dale Dunning ◆ Excerpt from This is How You Lose the Time War / Amal El-Mohtar, Max Gladstone via @metamorphesque ◆ Plaques Series / Jenny Holzer ◆ Pressure / @susitseart

[jakkon-and-rose-topic]

Jakkon's New backstory is finished!

Poor Rune.

He didn't deserve to die that way.

Not seeing the face of someone he loved crying over the boy who can't speak, feel, or think anymore.

Not put down Like a dog.

Not stabbed in the back by his own father to stop him from suffering when he was going to die either way.

Check out this story on this blog :]