#Also implied OC x OC

[conspiracycyborg]

Introducing my favorite headcanon

That all of the rogues form their own little found family of anarchy. Which includes three of my OCs plus Wasp, because he makes much more sense as a neutral than a Con. Also Flicker isn't present because this was made before I revived his character but yeah, Flicker becomes a neutral too.

[lyrouxx]

again just realised I never posted this here but! a few months ago I made a gortash replacement mod for Stardew Valley as a desperate act to romance him somewhere... I'm still really pleased with the art so ig it's prime time to show him off again <3 I based it off of my own post-canon au but I kept his lines vague enough in case y'all would like to play around too! Here's the nexus modpage: link

[delopsia]

stalling | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 3,200 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, cunnilingus, hand jobs, a men's masturbation sleeve, PBR! Rhett, implied marriage. (But also, Rhett Abbott being needy.) Exhibitionism, if you wanna be technical about it. Brief Summary: You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

It's the obnoxious squelch of his drooling tongue gliding over your clit that's going to give him away. 

Wet little noises punctuate his every movement. So sharp that they bounce off the walls, running round and round the room and in your ears until it's all you can hear. Has your shivering fingers pulling harder on his hair, yanking him away just enough for one of those deep groans to escape, and oh god, it's only making things worse.

The last thing you need to do is give someone a reason to open the bathroom door. Walk in and catch sight of Rhett's knees against the concrete floor, between another pair of legs. Unzipped jeans pooling around his ass, one-of-a-kind rodeo buckle glinting in the light, right next to where his neglected cock rests in his lap, so heavy that it can no longer stand upright. 

Cheers roar outside. A buzzer sounds, chased by the muffled shout of an announcer you've already forgotten the name of—another eight-second ride. But it's not going to be enough to steal the number one slot. No, not with that shiny new record, not even thirty minutes old yet. 

"Thank you," he's panting, hardly able to draw himself back to speak, as if doing so will cause his whole world to crumble.  "Thank you for letting me eat your pussy."

His tongue is so hot. A wet flame that presses into you, lazily working in and out, the tip of his nose bumping against your clit, barely there touches that have your hips jolting. But as quickly as his tongue appeared, it's drifting away entirely. Bold enough to test the waters but too impatient to commit, already venturing up, up, up, back to the swollen little bud that he can't stop tormenting.

You're going to be in so much trouble if someone walks in and finds out that the PBR's best cowboy is eating you out in a bathroom stall.

"Y' taste so good," speaking directly into you, his voice rumbling up your belly and into your chest, jostling the cluster of butterflies that have been resting there. 

The heels of your palms press into his forehead, but it's not doing anything. You can't escape the frenzied twitch of his tongue, rolling back and forth, a feather-light contact that ought to send you through the roof. 

"Rhett, you're gonna..." The sound of your voice is meeting your ears, but you can't feel your mouth moving. "Oh fuck—Rhett, you're gonna get us caught." And there's more that you want to say, but you're being cut short by your own drawn-out squeal, fingers knotting in those deep brown locks.

Your heart hammers against your chest with all the strength and fury of those bulls he rides. Thighs shivering, nerves set alight as his lips wrap around your clit, sucking so harshly that the noise echoes all around the room. 

"'s my reward, ain't it?" He sounds almost innocent. As if his devilish tongue isn't hanging out of his mouth, the definition of sin itself. "They can't object to that."

You'd like to argue that they can, but fuck, those loose little circles are about to put you on the goddamn floor. Hips writhing, held in place by the big hands squeezing the fat of your ass, forcing you to remain upright until he's had his fill of you. 

"Rhett—"

Hinges squeal as the bathroom door swings open. 

Sparkling blue eyes dart up to your face, and you can't see it, but you can feel the grin working its way across his face. Boots thump across the floor, then fall silent. The sharp sound of a zipper sliding down kisses your ears. Whoever it is, they're only here for the urinal. 

But Rhett Abbott doesn't care what they're here to do. Opening his mouth to lick a long, fat stripe up your pussy, so content with himself that his eyes close midway. And there's not a damn thing that you can do about it. Hands flying up to clamp over your mouth, stifling a whimper that would surely give you away. 

That big, dumb idiot is pointing his tongue now. The soft tip of it delicately dancing across you, like too much pressure will cause the walls of this bathroom to come crumbling down. Diligently rolling your clit around like you're a piece of candy that he can just idly toy with. A cry squeaks out of you, hardly masked by the loud flush of the toilet.

There's no reason that this should be causing heat to pool in your lower belly, but it is. Winding tighter and tighter, a taut string pulled to its breaking point. So close to snapping that every step this stranger takes is too slow. Thunking closer and closer to the door, until finally...

It screeches open. Then, begins to close once more. 

You've never been so thankful for someone not washing their hands. Already reaching down to tangle your fingers in Rhett's hair and yanking. Forcing that sinful mouth of his away from your sex before—

"No, no, no," Rhett's babbling, whining, like his life depends on it. "Please, I want y' to cum on my tongue. Please, please, I want, I want..."

You can't even begin to argue with him. Because he's already wriggling himself loose, and his dripping tongue is back on you, and his stubble is scratching against you in the most mind-numbing fashion, and your whole world goes silent. 

Nothing but a faint ringing in your ears as your thighs clamp down around his skull, cumming without the slightest bit of warning. Head tilting back, thunking against the wall. A wildfire rushing across your skin in the form of a shiver. And Rhett just can't help himself, humming, licking you through it until the involuntary spasm of your pussy devolves into oversensitive, full-body jolts. 

"You..." sucking in a gasp, "have a problem." 

Understatement of the century. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was being paid. 

Rhett leans back onto his haunches, scruffy, unshaven chin glistening in the light. Dripping, even. "But I'm your problem." You don't know who taught him that, but they're going to get an earful when you catch them.

"That you are," weak, you pull on his hair, hardly enough to even sway his head. "Come up here, dummy."

There's hardly a bit of strength left in your body, and yet, somehow, your little motion is enough to get him moving, knees creaking and all, as he rises to his feet. Wet nose bumping into your cheek, nuzzling you in some odd, dog-like fashion that has you succumbing to the urge to slide your hand down and scratch him behind the ear. 

Eyelashes flutter. Pushing back into your hand. "You pettin' me?" 

"You gonna do something about it if I am?" Taunting, beneath your breath. 

His eyes roll, but he doesn't need to open his mouth for you to know what his answer is. Not when he's smiling like that, a lopsided grin and half-lidded eyes. So laid back and content that he hardly seems to realize that both of your hands are making their way down to his waist, grabbing hold of it and forcing him to spin around. 

Boots chirp against the floor. And you're reaching toward your purse with one hand, blindly feeling against the stall door until you can find where it's hanging. The other arm slips around his belly, cinching him to you. His back knocks into your chest, so close that his hair tickles your cheek. 

"Y' ain't gotta..." he starts, but whatever he's trying to tell you dies in his throat. Shut up by the clear object you're drawing out of your bag. The new stroker sleeve you've been saying you'll try out but have never had the patience to dig it out of the drawer. Inconspicuous at first glance, just a rubber cylinder, textured with little nubs on the inside. 

"Can you do something for me?" Ghosting your lips over the shell of his ear. 

It's impossible to miss the shiver that rattles down his spine. "Uhuh." Nodding dumbly. 

"Touch yourself." Comes out as more of an order than a request, but that doesn't matter because Rhett's already reaching for himself. Big hand wrapping around his neglected cock, sucking in an audible breath from that alone.

You can't dig the lube out fast enough, popping open the cap and blindly pouring it into the toy. So half-assed that some of it winds up spilling out the side, running over your fingers and dripping to the floor. But you don't care; a mess is worth the sight of Rhett stroking himself, twisting his wrist just how he likes it, hips greedily leaning up into his own touch.

Lazy, you drizzle some of the lube right onto his hand, uncaring of the mess you're making. Almost entranced as he spreads it over himself, shimmering in the dull bathroom light. 

But then he's reaching out, sticky hand impatiently curling around yours, trying to guide the toy toward himself. "I want..." his head shakes, searching for words. "Want..." 

If this were any other day, you like to imagine you'd play dumb. Force him to put into words exactly what he wants and how. But the rodeo crowd and the booming voice of the announcer are still out there, anticipating his celebratory return, and that new, sparkling record ought to warrant him a reward. 

He knows that he's getting what he wants, too. Hand sliding back to his base, holding himself still as you lower that dripping toy onto him.

His head tilts backward with a gasp, falling onto your shoulder.

All that and you've hardly slid the thing past his flushed tip, almost have to squeeze him to you in order to keep him still, working down him inch by devastating inch. 

"Oh my god," a little waver in his voice, hips involuntarily jerking up into the sleeve. Those knees buckle, knocking into each other. "Fuck."

A giggle rumbles out of him, and you don't need to look in the mirror to know that his cheeks have turned a nice shade of strawberry, set off by the sound of his own voice. One of these days, you'll get him to believe that he sounds pretty like this, but right now, you've got a different agenda on your plate.

"Tell me how it feels," you whisper, slowly drawing that toy back up, squeezing your fist past his cock head, then beginning to draw down again. 

"Feels..." but he's forgotten how to talk, mouth floundering without a sound. "'s tight...and—mmh!"

Maybe it's your fault for twisting back up so quickly, but you just can't help it. Not when his ass is squirming back into you, unsure if he wants to push into the toy or wriggle away, mouth hardly muffling that long, drawn-out groan. Even through the thick silicone, you can feel the way he twitches, jerking in your hand like a live wire. 

So, so sensitive after a couple days of no fun.

Your hand is already quickening. Too eager to hear those breathy little oh, oh, oh's, set off by the flick of your wrist when you pass over his head. Thighs squeeze together, one of his hands flying out to brace himself against the mirror. The one that you can't quit looking at. Downright obsessed with the sight of this clear silicone hugging tight around his cock. The way precum is already spilling out of him and dripping onto the floor below. 

"Feels—feels good," tripping over his own words, voice so high that you hardly recognize it. "Fuck." 

And just like that, your hand stops. Squeezing firm at his base as he involuntarily jolts forward. 

A whine echoes through the bathroom. Pitchy. Frustrated. "Why...why did you..." He tilts his head to meet your eye. "You stopped." Speaking dumbly.

"I know." Grinning. Your hand loosens just enough for him to move again. "Try and fuck it by yourself."

Almost automatically, he tries to jerk forward. Boots stumbling across the floor, forearm flying up to catch himself as his upper body falls forward. Forehead against the mirror, dark blue eyes locked on the sight of that sleeve wrapped around his cock. 

Weak, his hips begin to move. 

Hissing as he draws back, almost hesitant to move, like he's afraid to slip out of the toy entirely. And it's...fuck that's a sight you haven't seen before. The obscenity of Rhett fucking a cock sleeve, how his balls sway with the motion of his body, perfect for you to reach down and grab. Heavy in your palm, so full that you worry what may happen if you do anything more than run your thumb up and down them. 

"This ain't—I can't," Rhett croaks, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "This is hard." 

The hand around his dick tightens, sends him jumping. "You can do it." 

And he just can't help himself. Feet shifting the slightest bit, trying again. Quicker this time, the lube squelching so loudly that it bounces off the wall. His mouth falls open, fogging up the mirror, panting like a dog on a summer day. Soft noises tumbling out of him, unable to stop a single one of them. 

"There you go," you murmur directly into his ear. "That's a good boy."

Pearly white teeth sink into his bottom lip. Eyes squeezing shut. 

He's trying. 

He's trying so, so hard. But he just can't move quickly enough. Trapped in the crevices of this awkward position, fucking himself into your hand, arms braced over his head, legs too close together. So frustrating that you can hear it in his little grunts, bubbling out of him with every thrust.

"Please," he rasps, head thunking against the mirror. "Please, please, please." 

You've got a feeling you know what he's after. "What do you want?"

"I wanna cum!" He's blurting before you've even finished talking. "Please—please let me cum." 

The buzz of yet another eight-second ride sounds. Loud. Booming through the walls and into this little bathroom. But it's not enough to cover up Rhett's sob as your hand begins to move once more. Pumping him in tandem with his frantic hips. Drinking in those airy cries rolling off his tongue, hanging halfway out of his mouth.

"This what you were wanting?" Coy, your teeth find the lobe of his ear, tugging gently. 

"Mhm," is all you're getting out of him. And he's reaching down between his own legs, dragging your hand out from where it's still toying with his balls and squeezing it tight. Needs something to cling to. Anything that isn't this cold mirror in front of him. 

Those darkened eyes peel open, locking with yours through the reflection, and his mouth is shaping around what you think is your name, but not a syllable is escaping. Almost immediately, they flicker shut once more. Your wrist flicks once. 

Rhett cums with a strangled moan. Body jerking against yours. Feet stumbling. And your hand is moving so fast that the toy catches that first rope of cum before it can splatter on the mirror, then the second. Smearing it across his spasming cock, creates a dizzying mess with the lube, so much of it that he's dripping, little spots of it scattering on the floor and the toe of his left boot. 

"Fuck," his breath fogs the glass. "That was...oh."

Your hand freezes halfway down his length. Almost forgot it was moving to begin with. 

"No, no, no," lazily tilting his head to peer over his shoulder, "keep goin' for a second."

And so you do. 

Slow as you can possibly manage, dragging the mess of a toy up and down his cock. He's sensitive. You know he is because he's shifting his weight onto the tips of his toes, fist tightening until his knuckles whiten, but there's a shiver visibly running up his spine. Cum spills out of his swollen tip. Hardly enough to count, but it's something. 

"'s good," Rhett murmurs after a moment. You've hardly got to do anything; he's already pulling away on his own, drawing that softening cock of his out of the toy altogether. Falls limp against his thigh, that sickly mixture of cum and lube already beginning to stain his jeans. 

It's a mess that'll have to be dealt with in the privacy of your hotel room because he's already tucking himself away. Pulling up his zipper and fastening that gaudy championship buckle. One of a kind. 

A selfish part of you hopes that tonight's buckle is a little easier on the eyes. 

One of his knees buckles as he turns, a big hand flying out to catch himself against the wall. "Shit," he's giggling, peering at you through the hair that's fallen into his face, "y' got me all weak in the knees, doll."

"Don't tell me you need to be carried," you're saying as if you're not intrigued by the idea of giving it a shot. 

"Nah," shaking his head, smile so big that his teeth glint in the overhead light. "Might need a few kisses to get me through the night, though." 

Eyeroll. Your free hand darts out, grabbing hold of his shirt collar and hauling him in, meeting those pale, swollen lips for a sloppy smooch. The first one lands awkwardly on the corner of his mouth, both of you leaning in the wrong damn direction. But then Rhett's tilting his head, nose bumping into yours, and he's meeting you properly. One little chaste kiss after another. 

A muffled voice creeps through the walls. Distorted, but you can still hear those two little words all the same. 

"They're calling for you, Abbott," speaking against his lips, making no real effort to pull away. It'll be a few hours before you get to steal this many kisses again. 

He hums. "Which one?" Kiss. "There's two of us standin' here." Kiss.

Weak, your hand thunks against his chest. "The dumb one who climbs on dangerous animals for fun."

"That's both of us, sweetheart," he had to have been storing that. There's no way he could have come up with that so quickly on his own, grinning like a cat that's gotten the cream.

"You're not a wild animal," adjusting the hem of your shorts, blindly feeling about to make sure that they've fallen back into place. 

Nobody will know what you've been up to, so long as they don't see the bite mark on your inner thigh. 

"I can be," Rhett winks. 

That's an argument that you'll have to settle in the hotel room. Before you can even say another word, he's darting for the door, sliding open the latch, a melody of laughter trailing behind.

"Hurry!" He's barricading himself up against the entryway. Feet dug into the ground, hair sticking up every which way. "Before Archie comes lookin' and figures out 'm not actually sick." 

You can't get to the sink quickly enough. 

And if anyone notices that Rhett is a little looser than usual when he climbs that stage to accept his award, nobody says a word. Too focused on the hoopla of a brand new record, the glimmer of a brand new belt buckle, tacky as all hell and a lifetime worse than the one that sits sideways against his belly. 

...but they might notice when he turns his head and flashes a ruby red bruise lurking just below his ear. 

Sure wonder where that came from.

[lavshaze]

Love

✧ contains ⤐ fluff, fluff, fluff! established relationship goodness and several mentions of explicit activities. weekend hair viktor is a blessing not many get to witness so I felt like I had to put this into words. for my lovely editor who's been craving viktor fluff <3 @saydontgojo this one's for u babe w.c. ~ 1.3k

Ao3 version

Your whole life has been building up to this moment. 

Years of studying, innovating, and experimenting with dangerous ideas, all that effort pales in comparison to the great lengths you’re going through to make your boyfriend of two years a decent breakfast. Recipe books always overcomplicate things, you liked to say, but Viktor— the filthy traitor— would always say that you were the problem in that equation. 

Well, Viktor is out cold in your shared bed after one of the best nights of his life, so you don’t think he has any room to complain. He isn’t allowed to. 

You look down at the mixture, seemingly of normal color and consistency. You lean down and sniff it for good measure, normal smell too. None of the eggs were rotten, none of the expiry dates on the packages were alarming, and you’d made sure to use exactly a pinch of salt this time. Salt was a lethal weapon in the kitchen, you were finding out based on recent experiments— experiments that may or may not have had Viktor as the involuntary test subject.    

Okay, maybe he has a little bit of room to complain. 

You turn around to look at the stove. Such an innocent looking machine that’s actually capable of ruining your life, and you’d have to work with it to get the desired final product. You groan to yourself, scooping the bowl of batter up and making your way to the biggest challenge of the recipe. 

Fire, such a fascinating tool. Just as dangerous as salt. 

You turn it on and thank the gods when it doesn’t somehow combust or set your entire apartment aflame. You reach for a spoon and fill it to the brim with batter, approaching the cursed thing with determination. The concoction pours into the pan smoothly on top of the butter, forming the perfect circle you were aiming for, you watch as the little bubbles form into it in the next few seconds. 

“Very good. Will you be able to flip it next?” 

You can’t fight the groan that escapes your throat at the voice of your tormenter. Too busy with the life-changing experience of making pancakes, you hadn’t seen or heard Viktor limp his way into your small kitchen. Him being awake at ten in the morning is nothing new, but it completely spoils your plans of serving him breakfast in bed. You had actually managed to convince him to take a few days off, convinced the both of you really, and the one thing you wanted to do in this time was keep him off his feet. 

Last night was very successful in that regard, this morning doesn’t seem to follow. 

You turn to look at him and you immediately curse yourself for being so stupid, because the minute you lay eyes on him, all the frustration escapes your body as if in osmotic diuresis. Viktor is gorgeous in the morning, even more so when he’s forced to actually get a full night of sleep. Disheveled brown hair and shining amber eyes flickering with mischief, the weight of everything you did last night comes back to you like a fucking bulldozer. He’s wearing nothing besides his underwear and a half buttoned white shirt, exposing his bruised and marked torso, and the devilishly seductive curve of his neck and collarbones. 

Curse the gorgeous scientists. 

“Yes, Viktor, I’m gonna flip it next. I can cook.” 

He leans on the doorway and hums to himself, “yes, lásko, I’m sure you can. I’m not sure, however, if I would call making pancakes cooking.” 

“I’m using a fire, am I not?” 

“It would appear so,” he turns to the stove, “it would also appear that you’ve burnt the first pancake of the day.” 

Your head snaps to the pan and you’re disappointed to find that he’s right. He limps to your side and reaches out a hand for the spatula, you dejectedly give it to him and he grins in response. Smug bastard. 

Within a few minutes, the burnt pancake is cleaned off and long forgotten. He places and flips around twelve in the time it would have taken you to finish two, especially with how low you keep the fire. You sit on the counter next to the stove and watch him work, discussing details of your latest project and how the funding process is going. 

“If I have to listen to another pretentious old man— who isn’t Heimerdinger, though he’s on thin ice— question another minute detail of this research, I’m actually going to fucking lose it.” 

Viktor hums, “unfortunate how everything is managed by such individuals.” 

You groan, “gods, I know. They should really have an age limit for these things, there’s a certain age where you just shouldn’t be allowed to run things like this. Especially if you’re following old guidelines, because hello? What year is it again?” 

“Miláčku, pass me the butter.” 

You mindlessly hand it to him, a new memory coming to mind that makes your rant start all over again. 

“And don’t get me started on getting the council’s approval, it’s like they made that group with the idea of having the most insufferable people in control. I’ve never seen such shallow people all in the same room!” 

He smiles, “I thought you liked Mel.” 

“I do, and Cassandra is sensible enough. But, gods above, it does not cancel out the rest.” 

His eyes crinkle in amusement, understanding exactly what you mean. What’s worse to Piltover than one undercity scientist? Two undercity scientists, with very expressive faces, who are deeply in love and gossip about you at every given chance. 

The silence after your little rant settles over the kitchen as he finishes up the batter you prepared and moves the equipment to the sink. He runs them under water and leaves them to soak, turning around to face you, still on the counter. He smiles when he sees you were already watching him, and walks over to stand in front of you. 

“We make a great team,” you say, “I make the batter and you handle the rest.” You bat your lashes innocently. 

“You always like things done for you, don't you, love?” There's that dangerous glint in his eyes, the one you're used to seeing in the dim light of your shared bedroom.

With one arm placed on each side of your thighs, he leans forward to whisper, “you look lovely today.” You smile, knowing exactly what he’s playing at, “I’m barely wearing anything.” He hums and plants a short, sweet kiss on your lips, “that’s what I was aiming for, yes.” 

“Viktor, baby,” you reach up to cup his face and he leans into your touch, “we are not going to fuck on the kitchen counter.” He smiles and leans forward, planting more kisses on your mouth, clearly not listening to that warning. You curse the gods above for making him so irresistible, your body following his lead before you could do anything to stop the natural progression of events. 

“What makes you so sure of that, miláčku?” 

The words are kissed out of your mouth before you can think of a reply and you physically feel all the resistance escaping your body, allowing yourself to enjoy this rare occasion to laze around and make love to your gorgeous, brilliant boyfriend. His hot mouth drops to your cool neck and you lean back in bliss, sighing when he gently grazes your skin with his teeth. Last night’s marks weren’t even close to healing and he was already giving you new ones, such an overachiever. 

You lace your fingers through his dark hair and allow yourself to get lost in the moment. In these sacred moments, in the private comfort of your shared apartment, none of the work you do outside matters. Piltover and its progress doesn’t measure up to the satisfaction you bring each other within these walls, none of your stress or work could catch up to you when you’re in each other’s presence. It doesn’t matter if you’re not ready for the future, it doesn’t matter if you doubt your abilities or feel hopeless, all those worries seem so irrelevant right now. 

Within these four walls, all you care about is the love you and Viktor have cultivated. 

[noctxj]

the reaper | part i

as far back as human memory can recall, the origin of flower marks remains unknown. if perhaps they came during or after the birth of humanity, or are benevolent gifts from the gods to aid ones navigation in life— milestones to remember and learn from, a north point on a compass lest you stray from your path. regardless, they have always been. and while flower marks remain an important aspect of ones journey, there is none other more significant than the soul flower mark. wherein the moment someone is born, this mark blooms above ones heart, as it is considered a pure reflection of who that person is and will be.

part i / part ii

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.

so it was no wonder that during a gloomy winter evening, stricken screams of hysteria and the shrill wailings of a newborn baby echoed off the walls of the cold estate in a coalescing manner. the head midwife having no choice but to hurriedly pass the tiny squirming bundle to a reluctant nurse and focus on trying to placate the madam’s delirium— 

"that is no child of mine! keep that accursed child away from me! nurse--!" 

flower marks are a language all on its own, one that humans do not need to learn. rather, it is an inbuilt knowledge and understanding. and in the case for this newborn child, their soul flower mark had already predetermined their fate as forsaken.

as amidst the turbulent mess of bloodied towels and blankets, death had just been born. 

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

initially mesmerising in its opulent visage, its only when the mind catches up and registers its meaning that its beauty is quickly replaced with fear and alarm. 

a blooming grandiflora rose of black petals mixed with subtle hues of reds and haunting purples rests above the girls heart, with bramble-like stems arching up across her frail collarbones to ensure it is there to stay.

a black rose, promising the bearer as the omen of death.

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

even at such a young age, the cruelty of fate had already determined that little flora would not be given mercy or reprieve from the reality that is her cursed existence. a forsaken trail of purple anemones had lightly entangled itself amongst the thorny stems of her soul flower, almost as if to placate its loneliness. 

a swath of lilies of the valley sprawl from her left shoulder over and down her shoulder blade, the burning trail of pain and suffering almost numb to her senses. 

and then upon the delicate skin of her left wrist lay a singular bloom— a moonflower, reflecting little flora’s most earnest thoughts, dreaming of love from her own mother.

all these marks permanently etching themselves into little flora’s skin before her third birthday.

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

despite living under the same roof as her mother, rarely did little flora see her; instead following in her late grandfathers footsteps as a ruthless businesswoman, silver spoon in her mouth and all. instead she herself was always surrounded by staff always heeding to her mother’s orders, to "always have that child within your sights", with an ever rotating door of tutors and nannies.

“madam, miss flora is an intellectually gifted child, it is quite remarkable! she has just—", 

"… so?" her mother had sharply interrupted, “a high level of intelligence is a common trait within this family. i expect you to provide the girl with more difficult material to not only accomplish but also excel in; anything less than perfect and dare i say failure to meet my— this family's standards, will not be tolerated. or are you stating that you are not competent enough to fulfil your tutor roles' duties and responsibilities?"

"i— no— my apologies madam, of course there is no problem. if you would allow me, i have colleagues who would be thrilled to assist in miss flora’s academic—"

"do as you please. now, i have an important meeting with a gentlemen flying in from st. petersburg. a mr. z it appears… the estate staff will assist with your queries about the girl. so do refrain from contacting me any further-"

so as determined as a young child her age could be, she promised she'd keep being good to strive for her mothers praise, be an obedient and perfect daughter that her mother would realise is worthy to be loved— despite her soul flower.

“a curse that should never be shown to anyone lest she receive punishment,” her mother would often remind her.

a punishment that envelopes the expanse of her back as raised scars. milestones just as permanent as her flower marks. more lilies of the valley creeping down her back. 

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

little flora never knew who her father was, had asked her mother once and received a harsh slap across her cheek, her small body whipping to the carpeted floor from the force. 

the silent burning of nightshade on her right pointer finger ironically mocking the hush motion.

she never cared to ask again. 

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

little flora remembers the day she believed her mother had finally saw value in loving her. barely eight years old and still holding onto that naive hope— and she foolishly believed she finally did.

waking up early in the morning as per her routine, only to see her mother sitting in the chair beside her bed, happiness written across her usually severe expression, looking at little flora herself. blinking once— twice— then rubbing her hands across her eyes to make sure what she is seeing is real and not a dream.

“good morning flora,” what is going on— “you and i have an agenda for today, so please come downstairs for breakfast once you’re ready.”

is today the day? did she finally do it? is her mother finally learning to love her—

“as it is a special occasion, i’ve taken the liberty of selecting your attire. now, off you go to wash up.”

little flora had been ecstatic, her heart thrumming like a hummingbird out of excitement to prove that her mother would not regret placing value on her. 

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

little flora’s only ever seen her mother’s soul flower once, only by chance of course. her evening robe slightly loose across her shoulders, her motions lax from the glass of wine she was nursing— a far cry from her usually sharp and elegant appearance. 

a beautifully victorious gladiolus cradled upon her chest. she envied it, a blessing to be born with. unlike herself. however, it wasn’t until later that she understood why her mother despised her existence so much.

as victory and death are eternal enemies— always on opposing sides. 

⋆.✧̣̇˚.

“it is the perfect place for you to grow in flora, a place for you to finally thrive in,” her mother’s words had echoed in flora’s ears.

she doesn’t know how long ago that was.

she didn’t even feel alive.

flora’s small body strapped down to a cold metal table, no longer wearing the attire her mother had especially picked out for her. instead wearing a customised medical gown, allowing an unobstructed view of her accursed soul flower mark to the blurry shapes her dull gaze had tried to focus on.

the harsh clinical smell of the room burning her nose, and the glaring overhead lights further disorienting her senses. flora couldn’t move her head if she tried, a strap also tightly bound across her forehead attached to the metal table. 

what is this place? why would mother send me here? this is wrong, they must of got it wrong, i shouldn’t be here, i—

flora could feel the burning of a new mark directly below her soul flower. almost the same in size she guesses, if only she could move her head.

the agonising pain of a broken heart flourishing as a vibrant yellow rose.

˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚. ˚. ✦.˳·˖✶ ⋆.✧̣̇˚.✦ . ˳

tric’s notes

this highkey spawned from my hanahaki disease fic. flower meanings/symbolism was a bit difficult to grasp (ie. countries, cultures, time periods), so don't take this too seriously lol. 

i was hoping to make this a oneshot but it just kept going ugh. this is unedited. part ii may be more backstory, part iii the boys will appear (no promises though, just a rough idea).

i recommend listening to “my flower” by ladies code. it’s a korean song but i think it matches the mood of this piece - so i encourage listening to it.

thanks for stopping by!! ♡︎

crossposted on ao3 (same username)

[inkyu]

Oh BTW I finished Y/N!Sans that I decided to create cause of this reblog I did U_U

I love Y/P so much auaguagau... also if anyone wants to create their own Y/N sans with different tropes go ahead, no need to credit me as Y/N can be many different tropes

Although if you're directly making an AU off of this Y/N!Sans I would love credit U_U

Other than that if you wanna make your own Y/N sans with the same concept but different personality and design go ahead, no need to credit XP

(IDK how to draw gaster blasters im so sorry X>X)

[yourresidentstanlover]

I made a dumb thing

Text transcribed below the cut:

"Y'know, with the way Bill acted, I would've assumed you two fucked!"

But it's a good thing you didn't! Don't know what I'd do with myself if I did... that."

"You didn't fuck him... right?"

"Right, Stanford?"

"..."

"STANFORD!!!"

"OH GOD!"

"It was karaoke night!"

"I cannot believe you, Stanford!"

"It was before he betrayed me..."

"YOU STILL FUCKED THE SPACE NACHO!"

[silly-ehggy]

Guh

[chamaesotis]

the bachisagi is in ur face and the bachimori is implied by the 'alr has a gf'

ermsies. anyways this is about the how isagi calls everyone slurs on the field bc he's silly like that (except for the pookies wookies ->) (bananase,hiori,kurona,bachira)

rin is just there bc i didnt wanna draw kaiser tbh

[azriona]

Not a Fairy Tale Kiss, Chapter 46

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/Avenger!OFC (2nd person POV)

This Chapter word count: 3.1k ~ Total Story count: 151k ~ This chapter is rated Mature. Chapters are posted on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and some Sundays.

Summary: When you and Bucky are both accidentally hit with sex pollen while on a mission, you're determined to keep your relationship status at friendship, even if you’d like it to be more. Even if you think he feels the same. Even if you accidentally end up pregnant. Even if it kills you.

(Spoiler Alert: it might actually kill you. Good luck with that.)

Trigger warnings include discussion of abortion, failed pregnancies, deaths of both mom & baby--not the MC! Full warnings on AO3. Happy ending is guaranteed, despite warnings. Please see AO3 for full A/N and tags.

Chapter Summary: In which there is midnight ice cream. And yeah fine, a nightmare, overly observant journalists, and heart-to-heart talks, but hey! Ice cream!

The flickering light from the television shifts as the commercials fade back into programming. “Footage from today’s Avengers fight in Phoenix shows an unexpected surprise,” says the newscaster, and you almost drop the pint of ice cream in your scramble to grab the remote. Seeing the battle from the public’s point of view is the last thing you want right now. “The Avengers were called out for an attack on Phoenix’s Heard Museum, where news crews captured some rather interesting footage,” continues the second newscaster. Your finger pauses on the power button as you stare in surprise at the screen. Sam and Natasha had talked to the press gang in Phoenix. But you’re clearly visible in the background, leaning against Bucky as you board the Quinjet. Especially when the video pauses, and the image of you is enlarged. There’d been a lot of blood on your uniform, and you don’t quite remember the hysterics, except that you hadn’t calmed down until Bucky had taken off your jacket and given you his. The problem? You only wear a t-shirt under your jacket. It doesn’t leave a lot to the imagination. Including baby bumps. “Oh, shit,” you breathe, and turn up the volume.

Oh dear. But ice cream, right? Ice cream, all your favorite AO3 flavors!

[peipakao]

that post about the lack of fic in opm fandom made me remember this fuckin. essay i wrote like a year ago for a reddit comment that i then shamefully deleted cos it was so entirely irrelevant to the original post. but i saved it so. here it is. a fanthropological analysis on the state of fic in opm fandom:

One Punch Man is not a small fandom by any means, but it definitely seems that most fans are of the 'dudebro who likes to powerscale' variety, and I'm continually surprised by how small the shipping and fanfic writing side of the fandom is in comparison. Like, this is one of the most popular well known anime series in the world, I'm pretty sure even the most casual of anime fans has to have at least heard of it. But it only has 5k fics on AO3, which isn't exactly small, but considering its popularity and in comparison to other popular battle action "shounen" manga (technically OPM is seinen but no one remembers that so), it is bafflingly tiny. I've thought about it a lot, and I think it comes down to multiple related reasons, both internal to the story that limit the likelihood of a fan to write fics for it, and external, lowering the number of ppl who would want to write fics for it that become/stay fans in the first place.

Let's start with internal reasons. The cast of characters is huge, made up of mostly men (a lot of whom are young + attractive). Which seems like it should be a definite boon to M/M shipping--the backbone of a large number of fandoms! But I think there's a difference in that with so many characters, screentime/focus is really spread out across them, and I'd find it hard to really tell you who counts as a "main character". On top of that, there's not a whole lot of interaction between them, they all seem much more isolated. I think this is especially the case in the biggest arc that took 7 years to complete. Even the biggest ship/pair had a ~3 year gap in the manga where they didn't appear together at all.

But there are definitely still lots of ships with potential and interactions to fuel shipping (although I still think less than comparable media), so that's not the whole story. Which brings me to my next point about external factors. Most of those ships are not in the early parts of OPM, and you're probably gonna have to read through the manga and also the webcomic to get to them. Most people have not done this, and have probably only watched season 1 of the anime, considering that was the peak of its popularity. And those early parts are much more comedic, so I think the impression most ppl have of OPM is that it's primarily a gag anime/manga. Which is still true, but the story has definitely gotten more complex and serious. So I think a lot of people who might want to write fic for OPM probably don’t get into it because they don't expect it to have much potential in that regard.

I think the release schedule of the anime also plays a huge role, with the anime taking 4 years to come out with a (widely considered) disappointing second season, and with a third season trailer having been released after like 5 years. It’s probably not an understatement that most anime/manga fandoms are much more focused on the anime side of things, and not everyone who enjoys an anime is going to then get into the manga.

And let's not forget the manga and webcomic release schedule, with the webcomic releasing basically solely according to ONE's whims, and the manga constantly going through redraws. Which I'm not necessarily complaining about since we get all this lovely content for free! But it does pose another hurdle for new potential fans, and I imagine there are quite a few who simply didn't want to put in that commitment over time, or honestly just got confused about what was going on.

OPM as a whole has lost a lot of relevance, it seems not many people are getting into it right now and many fans who did write fic for it at the peak of its popularity have probably left the fandom in search of greener pastures.

This is all just speculation though. I wasn't actually in the fandom when it was popular, only got into it a few years ago, so my theories on its decline aren't super backed up. I hope it gets popular again, having said all that I think there's so much fandom potential that isn't being tapped into. Like others have said, a lot of fandom/fic is based on filling in gaps and aspects that weren't explored, and there's plenty to explore in OPM.

[thegreatyin]

there is SO much doomed bat yaoi in fallen london it's unreal. the fucked up and evil betrayal-into-cannibalism bat yaoi is happening at (mostly) the exact same time in the exact same building in the exact same workplace as nearly entirely unrelated perpetually bickering divorcing 2 gazillion times per week bat yaoi

[crystallizsch]

The opportunity was there

(a reference to this)

AHVVJDKSHDJSK HELP IM????? 😭😭😭

okay but ngl jade getting gems and visiting yuusha just to say that it’s the color of her eyes is really cute. i think yuusha would be into that. anyways. im.

(sorry grim i did not have the patience to draw you ghdksjfd but imagine he's like: “what's the issue here, ur getting free gems”)

i had unagi on his bday and jade sensed it from miles away. what is. wrong with him. why is he like this.

[dontvap0rdawave]

On the topic of wacky OC interactions, these two are friends and there's nothing you can do to convince me otherwise 💥

[sunbunfleur]

So recently I been dead, college is taking so much of my time. It's almost over! Almost.. by the end of May I'll be free 🔥🔥

So to interact with moots and other people, I'm opening requests? If you want me to draw your mario oc [ANY MARIO OC IS WELCOMED just ask] feel free to reblog with your oc, feel free to ramble about them!!

Also if you have a paring with a mario character let me know! I'll be free to draw something cute/sweet

Okay bye

[vaguely-concerned]

to begin with I think previous relationship trauma (max got real Weird and unpleasant about rye showing off too much with his magic in ways that reminded him that his prized pet mortalitasi actually wielded vast power of his own outside of what max could confer upon him through his name and money) and uh magical masking for lack of a better term (having long since realized how nevarran magic is viewed by outsiders and knowing he already has enough of the mannerisms of an extremely weirdly socialized crypt baby that he needs another social weak spot like a hole in the head) would make rye avoid doing necromancy specifically in front of lucanis for a long time whenever he could help it, especially as lucanis is quite vocally dubious about necromancy and the necropolis itself initially.

(rye watching lucanis like a hawk as he drags him along into the depths of the necropolis and to hezenkoss’ party to try to determine if this is going to be the sticking point and — with the muscle memory of trauma that has a lot less to do with lucanis in actuality and a lot more to do with rye’s unconscious dialogue with his own history — how he can maybe shape himself into something more acceptable, if so. like… DON'T BE WEIRD!! HE IS GOING TO THINK YOU'RE WEIRD AND LOSE INTEREST FOREIGNERS CAN BE WEIRD THAT WAY!!! THE SKULLS COULD BE A DEAL BREAKER WE MUST CAREFULLY DETERMINE THE LAY OF THE LAND BEFORE WE GO THERE!!! SOME TASTEFUL SUMMONING OKAY, HE’S KIND OF INURED TO SPIRITS BY NOW SURELY, BUT HOLD THE BONES UNTIL WE KNOW FOR SURE. the ‘I can deny whole parts of myself forever if it means that you will stay’ gambit (do NOT try this at home it’s an understandable siren song to be drawn towards when previously wounded but it does not in fact tend to end well this has been a PSA))

by the end of the game rye knows with his brain that lucanis would not in fact drop him like a hot coal over the bones, but what your brain thinks it knows and what your heart thinks it knows… not always the same thing, huh. Even with the proven knowledge that lucanis loves him to the god killing end of the world stage and beyond, I think some deeply buried raw part of rye would still hold on to this remembered flinch and do its best to not be known. 

The masking translates into other things than magic/necromancy as well — while Rye does feel genuinely in over his head as to the task before him in the Veilguard story (it’d be kind of wild to have any other reaction, considering lol), he habitually performs a level of haplessness that’s not truthful too, for a multitude of reasons — to make himself seem unthreatening, to convey the ‘hey I’m just a little guy (please don’t metaphorically and emotionally hit me I’m literally just a little guy max)…🥺’, to hide and sheathe the sharper edges in and not let on that he a) is actually pretty clever in a way the societies of thedas might not prefer for an an elf, even one who’s a watcher, to be seen to be and b) can be a vindictive bastard once roused… it can be an interpersonal swiss army knife to just give the gentle impression that you have no fucking idea what’s going on at all times fhdsakj. Varric didn’t buy it for even five milliseconds, but that’s part of what made Varric what he was to Rook, most people are quite willing to go along with that projected image for their own comfort (make yourself seem harmless and easy to dismiss and you will be left alone to do your own thing in the background uninterrupted quite a lot of the time hashtag rye ingellvar life hack. Wait. why am i so lonely I could cry I’ve only cut off all avenues of genuine expression in myself. This is surely completely unrelated) or because it occasionally awakens a protective impulse in people (davrin goes there sometimes), or whatever. the little black dress of social navigation that is being chronically underestimated.

rye’s relationship to his necromancy is also borderline, vulnerably religious and deeply complex in many ways independently of any of this, especially after his (perceived) exile from the necropolis. He does break the ol' dance macabre out on a couple of notable occasions over the course of the game — occasionally when he’s hanging out with emmrich, and when the Formless One tries to pull its bullshit in rye’s own damn childhood home living room (the GALL!!!). within the context of the necropolis itself he’s willing to let lucanis witness his Watcher Persona (‘don’t worry that’s my jobsona you won’t have to deal with that outside this house of many mansions if you don’t want to! :) ’). But I feel like that fearful ‘if I never put it to the test I’ll never have to find out if that is where the good thing breaks bad and everything will be safe, I’ll never have to know’ impulse is also a big part of it. Again, a largely a subconscious one, of course, I don’t think he would be aware of this consciously, but it’s a system of thinking that’s always active beneath.) 

And furthermore I think lucanis would eventually pick up on this — through such nefarious tactics as ‘actually paying attention’ and ‘genuinely wanting to deeply know rook as a person’ (*rye voice hissed out in distress while clearly sweating nervously*: ah shit… I planned for every eventuality but this one… fuck’).  and once lucanis understood why (at least to the extent that it involves ‘rook anxiously cutting himself into pieces trying to render himself palatable (to me???!! :( )’) it would probably kind of break his heart. and also make him carefully cradle rook’s face between his palms and go 'hey. hey please look at me? do you really think cutting off a whole part of yourself to make me comfortable is what I want. Have I done and said something that made you feel that way, and how can I avoid ever doing that again. do you think I love you so cowardly' (his face is doing the thing it does in the coffee scene with harding through this whole thing, needless to say. rye is toast immediately it is so over for him he’s done for pray for him), and caught completely off guard rye is like '🥺...nohoho😭😭😭' and promptly sobs into lucanis' shoulder for like half an hour while lucanis kisses his hair and rocks them back and forth (and spite is like ‘???!!?! well lucanis seems to be handling it but this is like advanced mortal shit I’m not sure I quite get this one yet’). 

Justttt… Them talking about it finally once Rye is capable of talking again and Lucanis bemusedly cradling rook’s hands in his and venturing ‘...did you think I somehow missed all the fifteen foot tall corpse statues before I married you or…?’ (‘HAH! well when you put it like that my clever ruse does lose some of its integrity you’re right’.) You know one of those precious conversations where someone is able to pick through the strange and twisted overgrown paths in your brain with you to figure out why the hell you do this thing you tend to do and maybe clear some new less troublesome paths in the process, in a way that feels safe and doesn’t make your neurons shut the whole show down nothing to see here please come back later? Yeah, it’s one of those, they get pretty good at those which is good since both of them have some uuuuh Issues to get through.

One of Lucanis’ most endearing qualities to me (they are many and diverse) is the way he seems to really enjoy listening to people he cares about talking about things they’re interested in, even if his own investment in the subject is negligible at the outset. (see him working intrepidly to understand the basic deal with necromancy and finding satisfaction in understanding the necropolis’ financial role in nevarra (lmao I love you lucanis) in emmrich banters, or quickly warming to and engaging with taash’ descriptions of how to fight dragons despite ‘*sigh of deep sincere exasperation* having had enough of dragons’.) so considering how much he canonically enjoys just listening to romanced rook speak about literally whatever and his own unique position in regards to spirit matters (and of course the helpful fact that he is completely unbothered by dead bodies as a baseline), I feel like there’s every chance that he’d actually get quite invested once rye opened up and talked more about it with him unfiltered. Being so ravenous for and open to the corners of your partner’s soul you don’t quite understand or even necessarily have instinctive ‘liking’ for on first brush but growing to understand and love them over time because it is all them (and also getting tricked into liking yourself a bit more by being seen through their eyes oh no I knew there was a catch) feels like a very central thing in their relationship. Permission to be everything you are including all the unlikeable annoying unsettling or difficult things you hide from other people not only granted, I am begging you on my knees for it share it all with me my hunger for you is endless sort of thing. The mutual ‘Please be your full weird self with me I want to study you for the rest of my life’ going on. Unspeakable. 

They both have had to exile their anger so far away from them to in their upbringings (Lucanis has had to navigate Caterina all his life, and Rye was raised to understand that raging, raging against the dying of the light is ultimately futile, young watcher, can you not skip this particular developmental stage for your own good and our convenience we've got stuff to do these corpses aren't going to bury themselves (it would be so gauche to ask them to)), I think having a space to safely explore being angry and sharp and unpalatable together is like. Revelatory there. Lucanis is the first (perhaps only) person Rook actually confides in about his deepest beliefs and duties as a Watcher eventually, and like… sex is not nothing, to be sure, I think they have some very good tender life-affirming AND room to express some rarely seen corners of the soul stuff going on that way… but THAT conversation is the final frontier of intimacy for him honestly. Once that is open he’s let himself be seen in life and death and there’s no fear left at all. 

I feel like Lucanis does make his own peace with the Necropolis in the end aside from just accepting it as an important part of Rook’s life in the way that like… you know, when you’re an abomination with all the cultural baggage that comes along with it in most andrastian nations, there must be a comfort in knowing there’s a place you can go where you are not going to be even the fiftieth weirdest thing in any given room at any given time. He wouldn’t want to stay there all the time, but it’s nice to have those normality checks sometimes. Reassuring, in a way, even with all the grinning skulls bouncing around.    

Annnd as a final note (why am I like this)... a little funny and weirdly moving that I imagine Lucanis would in fact have the exact opposite reaction from Max’ to seeing Rook be ruthlessly unapologetically competent (that is, not only entirely unthreatened but also incredibly underlyingly enduringly horny). Rook in battle already makes him resort to effusiveness otherwise reserved for descriptions of coffee, we could be in for some incredible scenes here in a post-game scenario (I’m imagining him with his eyes full of stars, grabbing davrin by the lapels and shaking him a little in sheer overwhelmed emotion as he’s like “have you ever seen rook fight???? mierda it’s like watching light moving over water” *davrin patting him on the shoulder and covertly rolling his eyes like ‘yeah yeah buddy’ as rook falls upon the enemy like a wolf upon the fold in the background*).