He Lived Bitch.

[evilkitsch]

"Interstate 55 carries 10s of thousands of abortion seekers out of southern states to Illinois, where abortion is legal. I-55 is covered with horrific, shaming billboards. Shout Your Abortion put up 6 good ones, to show love & affirmation to those making the journey." x

[whereserpentswalk]

Ok this makes me incredibly happy for some reason. You are loved. Remember that you are loved.

[animentality]

[prvt-tucker]

Coffee and Cigarettes: A Viktor x f!Reader Rehab AU

TWs: mentions of drug use (future, not this chapter) mentions of anorexia and bulimia, smoking, mental health issues

Summary: You didn’t exactly sign up to spend part of your time as a scholarship student at the elite Piltover Academy on medical leave at a co-Ed rehab for those who struggle with addiction, but you want to keep your academic standing, so here you are.

You also didn’t sign up for the cute theoretical physics major turned fellow patient with the golden eyes and irresistible accent, either

A/N: hi all I’m backkkkk it’s about damn time!!! I’m currently going through a very transient period in my life and all that, and I haven’t watched act 2 yet due to that but I do know Jinx and Vik meet, and ik he calls her Powder. I figure that he would call her Jinx here if she wanted it though. I may have made reader a cello player because my sweet golden retriever of a boyfriend plays the cello lmao

I’ll have 15 months clean + sober at the end of November, gd willing 🙏💜

—-

The ward smelt of antiseptic. Wait—no. This isn’t a ward. You’re bleary eyed and tired from the meds they’ve given you to detox; being shuffled from a more intensive unit to this co-Ed rehab just feels like a blurry stop on a long road.

Your belongings are in a plastic “patient belongings” bag and a single wheelie bag; you hadn’t planned on this. On any of this.

On the Disaster. On having to take a leave from the elite Piltover Academy, the university where you had gotten a scholarship as a music student. The Dean said your scholarship wasn’t in danger; that the department just wanted you well again.

You didn’t know what you wanted anymore.

The intake isn’t much of a change as before. Name. Vitals. A new hospital bracelet to replace the other. Answering the same questions over and over, as though they aren’t in your file. You want to crawl into bed and stay there forever.

The charge nurse, a no-nonsense woman whose name tag reads “Sevika” seems done with you before you even open your mouth.

As you sit there, in the hard plastic chair, drawing your knees up to your chin, a short, blue haired girl approaches the nurses’ station.

She’s thin. Too thin, her collar bones sticking out and her cheeks hollow. You know that look, the look of malnourishment, and envy burns worse than the stomach acid.

“Sevika—“ the girl starts, and Sevika holds up her hand in a “stop” motion.

“I’m busy. Intake.”

“You can’t just—“

“Jinx. Unless your arm is about to fall off or something, it can wait twenty minutes. Go talk to Lest.”

“Fuck you too.”

Sevika rolls her eyes, and turns her attention back to you. “Well, now I can say you’ve met your roommate.”

“My roommate?”

“You’ll be in Room 2 with Jinx. We’re gonna keep your luggage locked up here until after dinner when the night staff can search your belongings for contraband with you.”

You want to say that if you possibly had contraband it would have been taken at the detox; that Sevika surely would know that given your paperwork. But she doesn’t seem like the type you want to get into a pissing contest with, especially on your first day.

Finally, she lets you go with a gruff, “you can go into the community room now,” flagging down a lackey to lead you, still shell-shocked, down a hallway and through a pair of double doors.

The community room is a little rough around the edges, but you can forgive that, given you’re more than a little rough around the edges yourself.

There’s a few couches scattered here and there, a plain wooden table in the back with some chairs drilled into the floor. A series of cubbies along one wall, with personalized name tags clearly designed by one of the patients’ in blue and pink paints.

A bookshelf with a small lending library of books; if your mind wasn’t so fuzzy you would gravitate towards here immediately. If you weren’t busy with your cello, your head is always buried in some book or another. It didn’t exactly make you the most popular growing up.

Maybe that was why—

No. That was stupid.

You stand on the precipice, the stupid binder they’ve given you on entry held close to your chest, taking in the scene around you, of the other fuck ups in the cage, so to speak. There’s the blue-haired girl, the skinny one, that’s supposed to be your roommate. She’s sitting all wrong on one of the tall-backed armchairs, the kind that you used to see in the Academy library. In the matching armchair next to her is possibly the most attractive boy you’ve ever seen.

All lanky limbs and sharp angles, with bright golden eyes and thick brown hair you immediately want to run your hands through. His crutch is next to the chair, and he has an Academy pin on the lapel of his vest—his shirt underneath is rolled to the elbows and you keep thinking about his forearms for some reason.

Oh god, this is bad.

Your mouth goes dry, and it gets worse when you notice he has the most perfect mole by his mouth, begging to be caught by an errant kiss. Your heart is hammering in your chest and your realize that not only is this quite possibly the worst “first day of school” vibe ever, but you haven’t said anything for the past thirty seconds like some sort of startled creature afraid of her own shadow.

The blue-haired girl throws a wad of paper at the Beautiful Boy’s head. “Hey, Vitya!”

“I told you to stop throwing things at my head.”

Oh, his accent is enough to bring you to your knees, too.

“Fine. But look! We got a new one! And Sevika said she’s rooming with me!”

Vitya—if that’s his name—turns his attention to you, and you don’t know what to say or do.

Thankfully, you don’t have to. An effortlessly cool young woman takes control, sticking her hand out for you to shake, blocking your view of the boy.

“I’m so sorry they just left you like this. Lest. One of the floor counselors.”

“The only cool one,” Blue Hair drawls from the corner.

“Jinx—“ Lest doesn’t even pretend to be mad.

“Would you like to introduce yourself?”

You shrug your shoulders, mutter your name. That’s enough, apparently, and you are about to go hide in a corner, but no such luck.

“Hey! New roomie!” Jinx waves you over.

“Hm?”

Jinx hangs off the chair. “I scared off the last roommate.”

“Jinx, you snuck contraband up your—“ Vitya points out in a matter of fact tone.

Jinx cuts him off with the wave of a hand. “Details, Viktor. Does it really matter?”

“Well, yes.”

You laugh. You can’t help it. Viktor has a wry sense of humor; you can see the twinkle in his eyes when he speaks, and it’s precisely the same type you enjoy. The sound seems to catch him off guard, and he looks at you up and down for a long moment; you find yourself wondering if you’re being studied, and it takes a lot of effort to keep your gaze level.

A click of a doorknob and heavy footsteps.

“Jinx, meds.” Sevika.

“Do I have to?”

“What do you think?”

“Ugh, fine.” Jinx gets up, blue braids trailing behind her, leaving just you and Vitya-Viktor. You’re still standing awkwardly, not sure if you’re bold enough to take her spot.

“She has a thing about the chair,” he says, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking.

“I mean, I get it. If I had been here a while I would probably have a favorite too.”

You settle for the floor, drawing one knee up to your chest and circling it with your arm.

“It has been a while.”

Shit. If this is what Jinx looked like after a while in treatment, you probably didn’t want to see what the “before” was. You decide to change the subject.

“Vitya or Viktor?”

“An abrupt topic change.”

“I noticed you were called both. I was wondering what your name is.”

At this, you are gifted a rare smile from him, something you know you’ll be playing over and over again in your mind.

“It’s Viktor.”

——

[strawberrykidneystone]

put her canine teeth in the side of my neck

summary: you’re lest’s favorite client, but her services aren’t free

a/n: yk that saying of the devil works hard but fan fiction writers work harder? yeah.

tags: fluff, making out, dry humping, drug use, lest is transfem, female reader, biting

ao3 version

you tentatively knocked at the door with your hood up over your head, glancing back to make sure no one had followed you. lest opened the door with a hum and stepped to the side, an open invitation that you happily took. shucking off your cloak and setting it on one of the hooks by the front door, you made yourself at home on her couch.

lest was in a comfortable purple skirt with slits up the side and a simple strappy white tank top. she strode into the living room where you were lounging, her hips swaying side to side in a very purposeful way. glancing over to her as she leaned down with an intentional arch in her back, she could feel your eyes burning into her ass. your mouth salivated a little which you embarrassingly gulped down, turning your gaze away quickly as she straightened up. with the shimmer paintbrush in her hand, she kneeled down next to the couch and started painting a twirling pattern on your wrist.

lest continued to paint patterns and gently dragged the paintbrush up your arm, ending with a swirl around your bicep that matched the other patterned brush strokes adorning your skin. a familiar buzz worked its way into your bloodstream as the shimmer traveled through your veins, giving you eyes a purple glow at the peak of your digestion. your body sagged with relaxation and a euphoric sigh left your lips.

currently, you were in lest’s shoebox apartment draped over her velvet flea market couch with faded tassels lining the edges. some were missing while others had very few strings left, but she had the couch re-stuffed and replaced the springs so it felt like new. she usually insisted on traveling to her client's houses instead of letting them into her home, but you were a lifelong friend, so she didn’t mind. maybe a friend was the wrong way of putting it, friends don’t usually kiss.

seeing as you were properly satiated, lest turned to her own vice of smoking through a pipe. while she mainly worked with clients who preferred being painted, she always smoked. if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it you supposed to yourself.

she carefully set the brush into its proper case and stuffed it into her doctors' bag. picking up her pipe from the coffee table, she took a long drag and blew the air straight up. you watched as the purple clouds danced in the air and slowly dissipated as if it were never there in the first place.

was she always this pretty or did the shimmer haze just make her seem more ethereal?

she climbed on all fours onto the couch and straddled your lap. your hands connected to her hips and squeezed the soft flesh. rubbing her sides to slightly pull up her shirt, you softly dug your fingers into her fur and felt her shiver above you. she took a long drag from her glass pipe and blew the purple smoke into your face, which you happily inhaled.

she set the pipe down on the table and started rocking her hips against yours, a soft moan sighed from her lips. leaning forward, she panted her hands on either side of your head. you met her rocking by thrusting your hips up against her, arching your back against the couch and zeroing in on her lips. she chuckled at your eagerness, you were always so needy when you were high.

she pressed her lips against yours, her canines quickly nipping your bottom lip for access into your mouth. the taste of the shimmer smoke flooding your mouth as your tongue danced with hers, her sandpaper-like tongue ticking your wet muscle. you giggled into the kiss and she smiled against your lips.

you felt her bulge pressing against you and you’re sure that she could feel the wetness soaking your underwear that was surely moistening your pants. a loud purring started in her chest as she continued to lazily grind again you, kissing down your neck. she licked up the side of your neck, smirking as you squirmed beneath her and held back your giggles. your hands trailed down her waist and gripped the flesh of her ass, needily bucking up against her with a whine. she scraped her sharp teeth against your neck, sinking them in shallowly at the junction between your neck and your shoulder. you gasped as she sunk her teeth into your skin, pleasure quickly overcoming the initial pain that you felt.

she pulled back and gently licked at the bite mark, burying her face in your neck with a deep sigh. you hummed and closed your eyes, rubbing her back as the tones of her purring slowly lulled you to sleep. while the shimmer was nice in your system, holding lest in your arm was better than any drug.

part 2 coming soon

[esvenusss]

Viktor from Arcane girlies…Get to work. I need fanfics‼️‼️

[not-another-side-blog]

I hope he’s watching his language while voicing his frustrations

[zooophagous]

I had a tattoo client ask if I ever used AI to design tattoos for me. Man I spent the better part of a decade doing shitty bit work as a graphic designer and now that I have the space to do whatever I want, I'm gonna let the computer generate random garbage for me? What next should I have a computer that eats my dinner and fucks my wife?

[zooophagous]

I feel like people get so hung up on the results of a thing that they don't appreciate that the process of making it is, actually, enjoyable.

It's like if you have a friend who likes to bake, asking if they'd like to just buy cupcakes from the store instead of making them. The end result of the cupcake is secondary to the joy you get from having made cupcakes.

Art isn't a slog or a chore or something I want to avoid. Art is fun. It's rewarding. It feels good to do it. You may as well be asking me if I want the AI to watch television for me, it doesn't make any sense, I'm not participating and would gain nothing from it.

[yournewfriendshouse]

yeah the AI debate really has revealed the staggering amount of people who fundamentally misunderstand what art making is about

[dragonbleps]

survived checking my bank account. i deserve a little treat

[dragonbleps]

this had better not alter the Numbers in my bank account

[dragonbleps]

by Talos this can't be happening

[lokiisntdeadyet]

Help the evil that lives in the corner of my room is speaking to me again

[lokiisntdeadyet]

Weird how I made this and it’s exactly how I feel

[lokiisntdeadyet]

Also this

[lokiisntdeadyet]

Weird how I made this and it’s exactly how I feel

[tolerateit]

[were--ralph]

MANIFEST

MANIFEST

[twentyyearstoolate]

Like to charge, reblog to cast

[smutfanfictiondoomscroller]

Renfield 2023 but he just wears this shirt the whole time

[beemovieerotica]

dystopia

[throwitback4mothman]

Fun fact, I helped do an install of Amazon’s graphics on the side of their vans a while back and we were briefed on the cameras because if we did anything to set it off for unsafe driving the DRIVER assigned to the van would get in trouble even though they weren’t clocked in at the time we were doing the install.

The hyper-vigilance that Amazon employs against its employees is wild and I’m glad they’re speaking up about it.

[comicgeekscomicgeek]

[dragons-and-handcuffs]

Aemond Targaryen x niece!reader

Cannibal chooses his rider

The battlefield was a chaotic swirl of fire and steel, the air thick with the acrid scent of smoke and the metallic tang of blood. The clash of swords and the roars of dragons filled the sky as the Targaryen civil war, known as the Dance of the Dragons, raged on. Aemond Targaryen, riding his colossal dragon Vhagar, was a fearsome sight as he soared above the fray, his one remaining eye scanning the ground below for his next target.

Aemond's heart beat with a fierce hunger for victory. He sought his niece, the daughter of Rhaenyra Targaryen, a reminder of the rivalry that had fractured their family. The sight of her, a symbol of the enemy, filled him with a cold resolve. He urged Vhagar lower, the massive dragon’s shadow casting a pall over the battlefield, and spotted her below—alone and vulnerable, her silver hair a stark contrast against the dark armor she wore.

He grinned, a sharp and cruel smile. This was his chance to deliver a devastating blow to Rhaenyra's cause. As Vhagar descended, the ground trembled beneath the dragon's immense weight. Aemond could see the panic in the soldiers' eyes as they scattered, leaving his niece isolated. He reveled in the fear he inspired, the power he held over life and death.

But as he prepared to unleash Vhagar's fiery breath upon her, a sudden roar pierced the din of battle. It was a sound unlike any other, a primal, fearsome bellow that seemed to come from the depths of the earth itself. Aemond's eyes widened as he turned, his gaze snapping towards the source of the sound. A shadow, darker and more menacing than Vhagar's, blotted out the sky above him.

It was Cannibal, the wild and untamed dragon of legend, feared even by other dragons. A dragon so fierce and untamable that it had never been ridden, until now. The massive beast swooped down, its black scales glistening in the dim light. Its eyes, a piercing green, locked onto Aemond's niece with an almost sentient awareness. Cannibal roared again, a challenge and a warning, as it positioned itself between her and Vhagar.

Aemond hesitated, momentarily taken aback by the sudden appearance of Cannibal. He had heard tales of the wild dragon, but seeing it in the flesh was a different matter entirely. Vhagar, too, seemed unsettled, growling low in her throat. For the first time, Aemond felt a flicker of doubt. Cannibal was an unknown quantity, a wild force of nature that could not be predicted or controlled.

On the ground, his niece watched in awe and confusion as Cannibal landed before her, its great wings stirring the air into a frenzy. She had always admired dragons from a distance, respecting their power and majesty, but she had never imagined encountering Cannibal, the most dangerous of them all, in such a way. Yet, as she stood there, staring into the dragon's eyes, she felt a strange, inexplicable connection. It was as if the beast recognized something in her, something kindred and ancient.

Cannibal lowered its massive head, and she hesitantly reached out, her hand trembling. The dragon did not recoil or growl; instead, it seemed to accept her presence, leaning into her touch. A surge of emotion welled up within her—fear, awe, and a strange sense of belonging. It was as if the dragon had chosen her, recognized her as its rider.

Aemond, seeing this interaction, felt a surge of anger and fear. He knew what was happening—Cannibal was bonding with his niece, a wild dragon choosing a rider for the first time. He couldn't let this happen; it would be a significant advantage for Rhaenyra's side. He urged Vhagar forward, intending to stop this bond before it could fully form.

But Cannibal was faster. With a roar that shook the very ground, the wild dragon reared up, its wings spreading wide to shield its new rider. Flames erupted from its maw, creating a barrier of fire between them and Vhagar. Aemond was forced to pull back, shielding his eyes from the intense heat. Vhagar snarled, frustrated and enraged, but even she seemed hesitant to challenge Cannibal directly.

On the ground, his niece climbed onto Cannibal's back, her heart racing. She had never imagined riding a dragon, let alone the legendary Cannibal. Yet, as she settled into place, it felt natural, as if she had been meant to do this all along. The bond between dragon and rider was forged in that moment, strong and unbreakable.

Aemond watched in frustration and disbelief as Cannibal took to the skies, his niece safely astride the dragon. He had lost his chance, and worse, his enemy had gained a powerful new ally. As Cannibal ascended, Aemond knew the tides of the war might very well be turning. The wild dragon and its rider would be a force to be reckoned with.

But as Cannibal and his niece disappeared into the clouds, Aemond felt a cold determination settle in his chest. The war was far from over, and he would not be bested so easily. He urged Vhagar to follow, but the wild dragon had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, leaving him to seethe with frustration and anger.

For his niece, the bond with Cannibal marked a turning point. As they flew together, she felt the wild, untamed power of the dragon beneath her, a power that was now hers to command. She knew the war was not over, and that there were difficult battles ahead. But with Cannibal by her side, she felt a renewed sense of purpose and strength. She would fight for her family, for her mother, and for the future of the realm.

And as they soared through the skies, the once-wild dragon and his new rider, it became clear that the Dance of the Dragons had taken on a new and unpredictable dimension. The flames of war would burn hotter, and the outcome was now more uncertain than ever. But one thing was certain: the Targaryen princess, bonded with Cannibal, would be a force to be reckoned with, a beacon of fire and fury in the cold, uncertain times to come.

[bebs-art-gallery]

The Knight of the Flowers (1894)

— by Georges Rochegrosse