#hell flower

[rineedagger]

Here you have all the pics I've used, since I've been unable to find the source of some of them.

[jue-viole]

Even if I end up broken, if I can protect everyone else, I will do it. If I can do that, it doesn't matter if I break one day. I lost my reason to live anyway.

[diaryofaleo]

when the weather is warm, my heart feels warm too. 🤍🧸💐

[artistmarchalius]

I had this dumb idea going ‘round in my head so I let it out as a quick comic.

NEXT

[malusokay]

little things to enjoy in spring

exploring cute little new cafés with friends and rating the drinks and treats

rereading your favourite books outside in the sun

cleaning your room and suddenly feeling like a new person

long walks with no destination

staying out longer because it finally stays bright past 6pm

admiring wildflowers on the side of the road

fruit starting to taste like fruit again

spring rain—and the air right after

overhearing someone say “it actually smells like spring”

cafés putting tables outside again

taking more photos because everything looks so pretty and alive

sunlight through the curtains in the morning

actually being in the mood to make plans

finding new perfumes or body sprays that feel seasonal

the first picnic of the year

shopping for new closet staples

listening to old summer playlists and pretending it’s July already

sitting on a bench alone with headphones and people-watching

the collective seasonal delusion that we’re all going to fall in love now

insta: @ malusokay

[fromdove]

YOU'VE WRECKED JASON TODD ! j.todd x reader

"God, you're stubborn. It's annoying as hell—and kind of turning me on."

— gn!reader

© fromdove— All rights reserved. Reposting, translation, or modification of these works is strictly prohibited, regardless of whether credit is given.

∿　 　 . `💭` ㆍ

"He is not a gentle man", your Jason likes to think. A feral thing dressed in leather and gunmetal, too used to being both the weapon and the wound.

And yet.

In the half-light of your room, with the curtains whispering against cracked windows, he forgets how to be anything but yours.

You touch him like you’re painting something back into existence—soft, reverent, slow. Fingers mapping the jagged topography of a body rebuilt by fire and fury. Lips pressing promises into old scars like lullabies meant only for him.

He trembles. Not from fear. From you.

Because you see him. Not the symbol. Not the shadow. Him. The boy who clawed out of a grave with rage in his ribs and your name etched in the space where his soul should’ve burned away.

He doesn’t speak when you cradle his face in your palms—language feels too heavy, too clumsy to carry what he feels for you. But his breath catches like worship, like prayer, like poetry that never made it to the page.

You’ve undone him.

With your quiet. With your stubborn care. With the way you look at him like he’s something holy, not haunted.

Now he can’t sleep unless your leg is tangled with his. Can’t exhale without the shape of you in his lungs. You are the rhythm beneath his chaos, the anchor he never knew he needed until he met you.

You’ve wrecked Jason Todd.

Utterly. Irrevocably.

And he would die a thousand more deaths if it meant finding you again in the after.

[drawsmaddy]

[ID: A page of digital drawings of Orym from Critical Role. There are three drawings of him, the largest is on the left, showing Orym from the chest up smiling slightly with a large blue flower in his hair. A tiny and simple drawing of Orym in the upper middle of the page shows him smiling and saying "Dorian and I fuck on a daily basis :)". In the bottom right of the page Orym's staring straight forward with massive eyes and his pupils blown wide. Glowing blue and pink jellyfish float in the air around him and he's saying "ohh I'm completely off my tits". End description.]

He's doing great :D

[tiredofyoutiedtome]

♡♱ : I will control myself

[shittybundaskenyer]

will you halt this eclipse in............... MEEEEEEE???

[xxursweetsacrificexx]

ARROWS OF ROSES SHOOT ME DEAD AGAIN

[floweycidal]

i keep thinking about how flowey had to construct the very concept of cruelty from the ground up.

not from watching anyone else, not by osmosis, but by cobbling it together himself in the garden where he woke up. alone.

this was a child who fell asleep to his mother's stories, who knew every inflection of his father's laugh. who spent endless golden afternoons with his sibling, both of them doubled over with giggles as they filmed their silly videos, messing up on purpose just to hear each other laugh. again. and again. and again.

so warm. so safe. where the gravest offense imaginable was maybe tracking mud on the carpet.

the worst fear, disappointing people who would love you anyway.

where could he even begin?

save. say these words that once meant comfort, but twist them just so. watch their eyes dim as something inside them breaks. load.

save. make a promise—you remember those, how snug they once made you feel—then shatter it. document exactly how hope crumbles. load.

save. try another combination. another betrayal. watch what splinters differently this time. load.

the world's loneliest science experiment.

look at the cruelty he creates, it's all so personal, specific. so devastatingly asriel.

watch how often he comes back to the idea of being replaced. of being forgotten. how he taunts you with the possibility that none of your relationships matter, that everyone will move on without you. that none of your choices mean anything in the end.

your fault. your responsibility.

if only he you hadn't made anyone love him you. If only he you hadn't loved them back.

of course he'd fixate on all that. how could he not? his mother, who used to speak his name like it was sacred, those tender words she reserved for him—for THEM—are now handed out indiscriminately, like candy to anyone who asks.

all he can do is take note: see how easily love transfers? see how simple it is to fade away?

so, he sneers. taunts you with the thought that it's all dust. you're just another passing face in the crowd. nothing lasts. nothing is worth the weight of caring. but even as he pushes that narrative, as his voice drips with contempt, he is still out there. in the ruins. checking on her.

observing from a distance, like maybe if he watches long enough, his past will solidify into something he can hold again.

flowey develops his cruelty like he's trying to solve an equation. if this word plus this action equals pain, then surely there must be some formula that yields not caring anymore.

if he'd just gotten it right. if he'd just kept everyone at a distance. if he could just be flowey. save. load. the answer has to be here somewhere.

but how do you quantify the sting of hearing her say "my child" to someone else? how do you account for the absence left in the places where joy once thrived? how do you document, in clinical terms, why you keep watching over people you swear don't matter anymore?

you don't devote yourself to perfecting devastation unless you remember, with searing clarity, what it felt like to be whole.

you don't give so much of yourself mastering the art of ridiculing attachment unless you're terrified of how much you still have left to give.

unless every attempt to prove love meaningless just confirms how much meaning it still has for you.

...point IS! flowey did an interesting job creating his own idea of a bully. it's all pathological. so crudely stemmed from his own sorrows and fears. he's created his own textbook definition of meanness...but then every chapter's just him screaming in a mirror.

[silentpatient]

one day i will disappear and youll wish youd been kinder

[benbowmasonpage]

[kenchann]

|| 🤖🐺♠️ Heart Event? ||

[dollsdigitaldiary]

౨ৎ flowers bloom where I walk

[bonemarshal]

"Flowey is not a good life coach" Chapter 1, p1/6

( I did not write this comic, I just illustrated it. You can read the original work here! )

Part 2 here!