#ahaha was this even good?

[yourangle-yuordevil]

(Sweet Orangerie Part.1) Headcanon that during the ✨Bridgerton times ✨ Aziraphale was intensely (but secretly!!) flirting with Crowley...  Crowley, on the other hand, was completely clueless ¯\_ (ツ)_/¯

[paperibbon]

ink stained hand (will you hold it?)

chapter i: bookstore girls pairing: poly!feysand x reader series sum. A bookseller’s simple life turns upside down when she becomes fast companions of the Night Court’s Inner Circle. When she develops feelings for the most powerful couple in Prythian, how will she get over the golden thread of fate that pulls them ever so far apart?

The sun was high in the sky, and the sweat stuck to the back of your shirt with a vengeance, plastering the material to you like a second skin. As forgiving and endearing as summer was, children laughing in the streets, people bustling about in sheer, bright colors, the heat could be killer.

Especially waiting in lines like these. 

The queue snaked around the block, everyone from fae that lived on farmland outside of Velaris, to shopkeepers, to families of all shapes and sizes. You’d thought the heat might thin it out a bit, maybe send some people to find shelter and shade, to stand in front of an icebox maybe; but alas. It was just as long as it was a few hours ago. You clutched the papers you’d written up months prior to your chest, lifting your hair from your neck in an attempt to elicit some sort of cooling effect.

You, like many, many others were grateful to your High Lord, and newly minted High Lady for these meetings. Even if not everything was fixed, most people walked out with a respect you were sure you couldn’t say other courts held for their rulers. And the papers you’d slaved over, finding just the right words to propose your idea, well, you hoped they’d hear you out, if nothing else.

Smoothing down the front of your skirts, you surveyed the people in front of you. Three bodies. Three people. Three more appointments to suffer in the heat until you were face-to-face with people who could grant your dreams, or crush them kindly in their fists. Your heart stuttered, thick, humid air winding its way through your nose, and out. Two. Then, the curly haired fae with a sour expression on her pale blue face that had stood before you for the past three hours marched into the heavy open doors, and you were twisting your fingers in flighty anticipation. You couldn’t hear her voice, even at your proximity, and it relieved something in you to know that this wouldn’t leave this room. Your sorry request, your whimsical fantasy would stay stuck in the air between your High Lady, High Lord, and you.

The guard positioned at the gate gave you a wry smile, a rosy hue to her cheeks, the sweat slicking her orange hair to her brow. You were sure you looked similar, frazzled and sweaty, sickeningly anxious and delighted all at the same time.

“You’ll be fine.” Her voice was accented lightly, like nothing you’d ever heard before. You grew up here, in the Night Court, barely a child when Amarantha terrorized the land, now, a fully grown female with stars in her eyes.

You nodded your thanks. She simply smiled wider.

When the doors opened again and the fae from before walked out, a wind flirted across your cheeks curling in your hair. A greeting.

“First door on your left. Can’t miss it.” A smooth wink, and the door thumped shut behind you. 

The marble tiling was smooth, dark, and flecked with silver. How Night Court. You couldn’t stop your head from swiveling as you traversed the hall, ornate art hung on either side, a show of wealth, of power. You recognized some of the scenes, the High Lady fearlessly facing off against Hybern’s forces at the Rainbow, the Night Court’s general sweeping low onto the battlefield, the Lady’s sister, fearsome, cloaked in silver flames like a phoenix. Your eyes shifted towards the open doorway, thick wooden carvings of an animal you couldn’t place, scales expertly carved, fangs and talons almost as sharp as you’d imagine the creature carried in real life. Absently, your hand curled around a claw jutting from the frame, the stable wood almost warm beneath your fingers.

“Admiring the woodworking?” A soft voice cut through the silence, and you turned, abruptly, eyes wide. 

“I’m so sorry.” You stuttered, the words falling out without a thought. The High Lady was standing, a stunning lilac dress tailored to her form, golden and silver stars stitched delicately in sporadic patterns. A golden circlet, plain, yet stately sat at her raised brows, warm sea blue eyes crinkled into a smile. You balked, face pinching into an expression that could only be described as shameful, hands twisting in your old linen skirt, the drab color sticking out like a sore thumb. The High Lord was absent, the chair next to hers empty, but you felt no relief from that. The High Lady was just as imposing.

“Don’t be.” A flick of her wrist towards the chair across from them sent you into action, and you lowered yourself into the plush seat. “Would you like anything to drink or eat? How long have you been out there?”

Her voice seemed too perfect, too hypnotic for your ears. You found yourself blinking, twice, three times before you registered her question.

“I’m okay, truly.” Food would make you barf, so bad move there. From the looks of this place, any glass they’d offer you was likely three times the sum of your rent, and your shaking hands would send it shattering across the floor. “And not long, my lady.”

“Hm.” The sound was low, like the rumble of the ground beneath your feet, and your head felt inclined to dip. The High Lord was just as intimidating as you’d expected; dressed in all black, a matching circlet to his mate’s glinted in the faelight, his hands folded neatly into his pockets. “We don’t take kindly to liars.”

The expression that flickered across your face must have been comically scared, from the way the Lady’s eyes hardened to sheer ice.

“Rhys.” The lovely voice, the bells you would follow to the ends of the earth, possibly, shot out like a crop. 

The High Lord leveled you with a look that would have sent males twice your age running for the hills, and you thought about it. You considered hiking your skirts up, tucking your pitiful tail between your legs, and dashing out of here as fast as your legs could carry you. Instead, you smoothed out the papers in your hands, lowered your gaze, and began to read from the page.

“Thank you for your audience.” You began, eyes tracking your scribbling. “I wanted to first extend my gratitude for not only this moment, but the neverending support that you both have shown your people. I thank you for that.” A glance up, and your eyes connected with the starflecked violet gaze of your High Lord. Something in your gut twisted violently at his lowered brow, and your hand passed briefly over where your heart titered in your chest. “I here to ask for something that may be small to you, but is quite big to me.”

The rest of the words bleed together on the page in front of you, and with a sigh, you fold the paper along the edges, and cover the square with your palms. You know what you want, it swirls in your gut, tugs on your heart. It’s hanging from the biggest and brightest star, and this is the only chance you might have to dream for it, to hope that it might, one day, be real, might be a whisper of fruition eddying towards your open arms. 

“I’ve dreamed for my whole life that one day, I might make a difference. That someday, something might make me matter to someone.” Your voice teetered on breaking. “My mother and father are long gone. I have no brothers, no sisters. I don’t have many friends to speak of, and I’m sure I speak of them more than they speak of me. What I’m asking for is stupid, but to me, it’s a dream.” A saccharine smile aimed at your twisting hands, before your head pulls back to finally look at the two most powerful people you’ve ever known. “Have you ever had stupid dreams?”

The question hangs in the air like a feather. Your fingers flex, like you might reach out and snatch it back.

“No dream is stupid.” The High Lord’s eyes blink with stars. It’s mesmerizing. It’s terrifying. His gaze doesn’t stray from you, and it spreads a heat across the tip of your nose, peaking your ears. 

You pick at the edge of the paper neatly pressed to your thighs, peeling a corner back, folding it on the edge, and ripping along the seam as you swish your thoughts around in your head.

“This one might be.” Your smile is wistful, if not sad, like a flower blowing in the cold wind of winter, the laughter of a grown child. 

The scrape of a chair, and your High Lady has inched ever so close to you, her knees almost touching yours, the hazy purple gauze flirting against the skin of her legs as she shifts. It makes your heart beat that much quicker, her beauty, her close proximity, the power you feel rolling off her. You’ve been caught in storms before, but she’s like lightning itself. Soft, strong hands cup yours, and you almost jerk back out of sheer surprise, but the quirk of her lips makes your own soften into a smile.

“It’s okay to wish for silly things.” 

Years ago, you might have agreed with her.

Today, you aren’t so sure.

“High Lady, High Lord,” You say, eyes stuck on a freckle at the base of her thumb, tracing the lines of the jet black tattoo that curls up her wrist. “I want to find purpose.”

You could hear a pin drop.

The High Lady’s eyes glazed over, the stormy sea calming to a rolling fog. Daring a glance at the High Lord, you noticed a similar look in his eyes, the purple sky a calming shade of lilac, his eyes unfocused. You didn’t dare breathe, catching a gasp in your chest when they both finally resurfaced, a sharp snap in their gaze like you’d clicked your fingers for their attention. It was odd to have such resounding attention from two people who could crush the world around you with a blink, who could kill you without batting an eye. The thought sent a shiver down your spine, but you weren’t sure if it was terror, or great awe.

“That’s your wish?” The High Lord’s voice is startling all of a sudden, though you know it shouldn’t be. You blink, once, twice, and then nod, a simple strong shake of your head.

“That’s my wish.” You feel pitiful as you shrug your shoulders, but the High Lady squeezes your hands in hers. “I understand if you can’t grant it, I do. I greatly understand. In fact, I know you probably won’t be able to. And that’s alright with me. I’m just glad you’ve listened.”  It’s lighter than the rest of your conversation, the almost laughing tone your voice takes on. You pull back from the hands on top of yours, nodding gratefully. You hope you look sincere as you lower your head in a makeshift bow. “Thank you for that. For your hearts.”

You stood, not waiting for dismissal, which might have been a stupid decision. It might have cost you more than just pure embarrassment, the flush taking on a different, less welcome heat as it cloaked your shoulders and pressed into your chest. You did a poor curtsy, out of nothing more than a sorry excuse for respect to the two, and fled the room without a glance in either direction, even as something molten, something tight in your chest tugged away at you.

You didn’t even realize in your haste, the paper you’d meticulously, ever-so-carefully tended to for the last months had toppled to the floor, scrawled with sprawling words. 

Your wish.

-

The sun was still hot and high in the sky as you slunk into the shop, and the book you were using as a fan was doing nothing to combat the heat. Leaned against the entryway, holding the hair off the back of your neck and rapidly flapping the flimsy romance novel in your hand in hopes that even the smallest breeze would cool you down. The magic that typically kept the shop well ventilated was on the fritz, sending wayward gusts of air that ruffled through the pages on hand before stopping altogether, levitating teacups and coffee mugs in the air before dropping them and sending any liquid spilling onto the floor, opening and closing the curtains at will. 

“Hi, lovely!” The seamstress across the way waved at you with a lacy handkerchief, brown hair piled high on her head, a sheen of sweat dotted across her brow and smearing the silvery make-up she’d carefully used to decorate her eyes. 

“Hi, Dia.” You raised the book in greeting, letting your  hair drop from your hand. She sent you  a smile in greeting before escaping inside her shop, the wooden sign in her window swinging proudly from CLOSED to OPEN. 

With a great sigh, you tipped your head back and listened to the busy street with shut eyes. Children squealed on the street, couples tittered back and forth. Some called your name in greeting, and you waved lazily, eyes still shut, lulled into a sense of hazy drowsiness. Your flushed cheek pressed into the door sleepily, until a wet, cold object was shoved under your collar. 

Eyes flying open, the book fell to the floor, hands flinging to the back of your shirt, hopping from one foot to the next. Finally, the ice cube dropped from your dress to the floor, and you whirled on the culprit. 

“Sammy!” The accused giggled, eyes slit in amused mischief. “You pest!” 

Sammy was the delivery boy, and the bane of your existence. He was a child, only seventeen, with a boyish roundness to his cheeks and an inane personality that would make the sweetest person in Prythian think about bashing him on the head once or twice. It was his mission to make every day you lived harder than the last, but his mother, the owner of the neighboring bakery, thought it was because he fancied you a tad. You couldn’t tell if she was having a laugh, or had too much faith in her only child. You were much too old for him anyways.

“Who said I even did anything?” His blue lips pulled into a pout, his ears flicked and his red eyes widened like that of a street dog. “Mean, mean girl.”

Setting your jaw and bending down to swipe the book from the floor and make your way into the shop, you shot him a mean glare, something to make flowers wither, and little boys cry. He was standing by the back door, a sure sign that a shipment was docked, tightening the string on the front of his sleeveless tunic. Sliding behind the counter, leaving the book on the top, you moved around him to peer at what he’d delivered. 

It was a small box, unusual, but not uncommon, with a dainty golden lock holding it shut. You tilted your head around the boy, trying to get a better look at the thing. It was probably a special edition for one of our wealthier clients, but you hadn’t seen any sort of order like that go through in months, hadn’t heard a whisper of what this could even be. Without thinking, you started towards it out of sheer curiosity, but Sammy stepped in front of it with a sharp toothed grin and held his hand out.

“Payment first, please.” 

You rolled your eyes so hard, the planet did another spin.

“Greedy.”

Shouldering around him, you made your way to the lockbox and shook out a few gold pieces. His palm was cold and damp when you passed them over to him, and with a smirk like an alley cat, he disappeared down the alley and left you with the mysterious package. 

The box was ornate and wooden, the lock glinting on the outside with the winking of the sun through the windows. Approaching it with cautious curiosity, you reached out and grasped the lock, feeling its cool metal under my fingertips. Giving it a good tug, your feet slid out from under you, sending you sprawling to the floor in an instant; the box was heavy - like it was filled with a million rocks, ten ton weights, and a heavy book. Stretching your leg out towards the thing, you nudged it with the tip of your toe, hoping for some kind of movement but, alas - nothing. Abandoning caution, your leg reeled back and kicked the thing as hard as you could, only to be met with searing pain that reverberated through the bones of your shin. With a resigned huff,  you stood, brushing off dust from your skirt, and left it behind the counter with another, less fierce, more defiant kick for good measure.

Stupid thing. 

The box seemed to respond, the smallest of noises —the faint shuffle of the lock settling into place. It wasn't laughter, of course, but in that moment, it might as well have been. 

The day was sluggish and hot into the afternoon. Little to no customers stopped in, and Elias, the owner of the store, had left me alone for the morning. You did your duties; swept the aisles aimlessly, fronted all the books in the history section, wiped the counters at the tea stand. You even ventured to organize the pillows and blankets in the reading section, which was a loathsome task due to the sheer number of them littered about. Finally, when the sun was high in the sky with no promise of a cloud, Reana, the only other worker at the shop, slunk into the shop. 

Her inky hair was pulled back into a loose bun, and the clothes she wore were thin and airy, a short cream top with no straps, and a loose matching skirt that showed off a fair bit of her long legs. Her tanned skin was flushed with the heat, and her glasses sat low on her nose, the chain that held them along her neck softly clinking against itself.  

“I am sweating through every layer of clothing.” Her voice was scratchy, like smoke on a foggy day.

“Elias needs to re-up these stupid wards before I try myself.” Crossing the room from the little nook you’d been tidying up, you offered her a smile as a greeting. 

“Oh, don’t do that to us.” She snorted. With a flick of her hand, the tea stand bustled to life. “The last time you tried, it set us back decades.”

She was exaggerating, of course. The last time you’d tried to enforce the feeble wards on the store, it’d knocked every book out of the shelves and broken almost every mug and cup in sight. Your magic was not strong, it wasn’t practiced, and it sure as the Mother wasn’t controlled.

“Can you make some cold drinks? Maybe?” You plopped yourself down on a rickety red stool, chipped and discolored from use. “Milk tea would be lovely.”

Reana works the tea and coffee portion of the shop. While you could make an adequate cup, she was versed in fancy drinks and conversation; two things you did not have the skillset for. Her head dipped as she moved towards the counter, working meticulously to pull together the things she needed. Each movement was a choreographed dance, as she deftly poured and mixed, her fingers moving with the precision of a seamstress. The glasses sitting on her nose fogged up as she leaned down to sniff the spiced pot of tea on her small stove. She set the milky drink in front of you, the icey glass heavenly against my hands as you sipped at it casually, lolling my head back and forth as you drank. As the both of you sat in silence, the ambient sounds of the bustling street outside drifted in through the open window, mingling with the soft clink of ice cubes in our glasses. 

Gratefully, she doesn’t ask about the meeting you had today. Gratefully, she keeps her eyes trained on her tasks. Gratefully, you don’t have to explain anything to her.

Until…

Until the bell on the front door rings, and in steps the High Lord, the paper you’d apparently forgotten pinched between his thumb and his forefinger, the smile of a jester playing across his lips.

“Hello,” Voice like smooth, rich coffee colors the air. “I believe you’ve forgotten something.”

[kyurochurro]

GOOD AFTERNOON!! TODAYS UNI SKETCH IS : a redraw/study/doodle/whateva you wanna call it of this very dapper image of Picard and Data!! first time drawing Picard so I struggled a lil but otherwise I had so much fun drawing Data! :Pc og pic under the cut!

picard you smoke too tough... your swag too different ...

[milkweedman]

Wanted to see how flax spinning on a supported spindle was. Went with the mini spindle cause why not, and uh... have achieved a Thinness

[seagull-scribbles]

By unpopular demand, 💕 Val

[ichthyorelationships]

an idea i invite anyone else to write about / run with lol....

the premise that The Change gets all messed up for alberto, say it's something that can happen from stress, &/or happens rarely and you just have to wait for it to resolve itself....used as some parallel to struggling through some emotional turbulence / upheaval / questioning / Realizing Things, etc etc

[aurorangen]

Hey, can I speak with you for a sec?

[pheoflame]

Damn bro give me some

[kirbyliker12]

This is the deepest I can delve into how I view them n their implications through imagery before it bcomes incomprehensibl 😙😙😙😙maybe I’ll do a tiny bit of elaborating in tags idk(this was mostly an excuse to practice drawing dranzas head)

[sapphic-storm69]

Shoutout to that one wolfwren fic on AO3 that’s single-handedly keeping me obsessed with SW

[anxiously-sidequesting]

My Personal Shadow Magic Headcanons - "Shadow Sickness"

I'm so autistic and lazy so here's another weirdly-worded headcanons post from me at 4 AM (lmk if I need to tag this as anything specific btw

What I'm personally calling "Shadow Sickness" is the official, prolonged version of Backlash - adverse effects that target the practitioner even outside of the duel circle and in their everyday lives. While "Backlash" refers to the immediate and spontaneous barrage of attacks that takes place after a Shadow spell, "Shadow Sickness" is the gradual deterioration of the practitioner's mind, body, and soul. True to the name, this effect likens more to an illness, a virus; something that's alive and slowly takes over until there is nothing healthy left behind. The symptoms are emotional, physical, mental, and even spiritual.

While regular Magic has life force within it, Shadow Magic is the only type of magic that can be considered "sentient". Not a thinking being with goals and plans, but something living and breathing with the most basic instincts. It's what's considered "Chaotic" and dangerous about it - the Wizard bends and controls regular Magic, but Shadow Magic can bend and control the Wizard. It is the only type of magic that can "fight back" in its own way.

This sentience is what allows for Shadow Sickness and Backlash to happen - these are purely just the results of it "fighting back". The Shadow Magic is reacting to the practitioner. It's acting by its nature by rearing its head back and snapping the hand that controls it. If the practitioner is NOT sound and secure in their mental, physical, and spiritual health, then Backlash and Shadow Sickness can cause even more adverse effects within the Wizard and as a result can suffer more severely.

Symptoms of Shadow Sickness

Symptoms of Shadow Sickness can vary between physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual. The "virus" affects every single aspect of the being, down to their very life. The severity of these symptoms can also vary depending on certain variables. Unlike a true virus, Shadow Sickness has no "incubation period" and can flare up at any time during which the Wizard is practicing Shadow Magic. These symptoms include:

Physical scarring (physical, emotional, mental, spiritual) - one of the only symptoms that comprise of all four categories. Scars may appear on the Wizard's body that take various shapes and forms: most commonly taken after that individual's unsolved trauma. This includes old grudges, previous serious injuries that have not healed correctly, repressed memories, obsessions and delusions, etc. No two scars look the same (i.e. two different wizards who have a fear of spiders will have scars that look entirely different from the other). Depending on the severity these scars can cause physical discomfort (tingling, numbness, pain, leathery skin, decay/cellular deterioration) and can greatly impact how the Wizard looks to others to how the Wizard can move around.

Involuntary movements (physical, mental, spiritual) - the Wizard may begin suffering from accidental and spontaneous gestures and movement that is either randomized or triggered. This can include loss of coordination, disorientation, mini seizures, jerks and spasms, etc. Other than being physically affected, the Wizard is not suffering from any medical emergencies. The individual is fully conscious and aware when this happens and depending on the severity, can recover seconds after. This is one of the only symptoms where others could be harmed due to a wayward hand that comes flying out by accident. There is also a magical version of this, where involuntary spells or bursts of magic can be cast spontaneously (hence the 'spiritual' aspects of this symptom as mana comes from the soul). Usually these magical bursts are Shadow Magic and not the Wizard's primary or secondary Magic abilities. (Another involuntary trait recorded is the Wizard suddenly switching to an ancient "Shadow Language" in mid-speech.)

Hallucinations (physical, mental) - the Wizard may begin to experience things that cannot be detected by any other individual. Usually these hallucinations start out as smells or taste first, but there are reports of the Wizard hearing, sensing, and even seeing things to start out with. Contrary to popular belief not all hallucinations are violent or even turn out to be that way, some reports even describe them as pleasant. Hallucinations vary from each Wizard even with those who share the same traumas or fears. Depending on the severity of the symptoms, the Wizard can either be fully aware or completely immersed within them. Since these are only hallucinations they cannot harm the Wizard but can cause further deterioration to the mind.

Depleted energy/"Mana Loss" (physical, spiritual) - as the Shadow Sickness takes hold, eventually the Wizard will be slowly sapped of strength and magical energy. THIS IS DIFFERENT FROM IF THE WIZARD IS SKILLED IN SHADOW MAGIC. A Wizard can practice Shadow Magic and still NOT be affected by this. Since Shadow Magic "takes", Shadow Sickness does the same and gradually depletes the Wizard's energy. Like how Backlash takes health in a duel, Shadow Sickness takes your life. This is the only symptom that is constant in all cases of Shadow Sickness. Not only will the ability to cast spells be taken away, but overall physical health will suffer as well and the individual is more susceptible to regular diseases due to a compromised immune system. This symptom only appears in the very last stages of Shadow Sickness and is the last symptom of the individual experiences in their lifetime.

Tulpas (emotional, mental, spiritual) - contrasting hallucinations, Tulpas are the Wizard's visions made real. A Tulpa (from Shadow Sickness) is a physical and magical manifestation of the Wizard suffering from the Shadow "virus". Although it is born from the subconscious of another being, it is a separate entity all its own and has the ability to make decisions and have feelings and desires. However, these feelings and desires are not really of their own and reflect the Wizard's subconscious fears and threat responses. (i.e. our Azteca Tulpa in Khrysalis that formed due to unresolved survivor's guilt. Its "goal" was to destroy us and fully consume us within itself, similar to how guilt behaves in reality). Tulpas can either be created from visions, nightmares, intense and obsessive thoughts, or even previous hallucinations.

Can Shadow Sickness be reversed, or cured?

Shadow Sickness can be reversed, yes, or more commonly halted. Unless the Wizard is fully submersed in their mental and spiritual anguish ((Malistaire even though he wasn't using shadow magic; Morganthe even though that wasn't what killed her)) Shadow Sickness can be stopped. The road to recovery varies wildly from each person so there is no set "recovery time" in which you are expected to be fully healed. It is your own journey and it is ultimately your say whether or not you are better. Clinically, recovery can be sorted between these categories

HALTED: In which the Shadow Sickness is no longer infecting the individual but the symptoms may still persist. These symptoms do not get worse or better, but the Wizard's mind is clear and their soul is at peace. Wizards may either learn to live comfortably and adapt with their Halted condition or could continue to strive for partial or full recovery.

PARTIAL RECOVERY: In which the Shadow Sickness is reversed slightly or moderately. The effects are not all the way gone but are measured to be better than when the Wizard was still infected. In this state any severe symptoms the Wizard is experiencing are now moderate or slight, or less frequent. Just like in the Halted category, the Wizard is sound of mind, body, and soul.

FULL RECOVERY: In which Shadow Sickness is totally reversed and there are no more symptoms that persist. Full, 100% recovery is actually quite rare in the Spiral and a lot of scholars consider the Full Recovery to count as "70% or more reduced" - meaning the symptoms are very slight and few and far in between. Technically this is still a Partial Recovery but due to the above fact and how difficult it is to reverse Shadow Sickness, 'Full Recovery' is an umbrella term. Some individuals even claim Full Recovery even if their symptoms are moderate, because their mind and soul are no longer diseased.

ONE LAST FACT TO LEAVE OFF WITH: Not every Wizard who practices Shadow Magic suffers from Shadow Sickness, and alternatively even the most skilled Shadowmage can develop Shadow Sickness.

okay this took days. bye hope you liked this

[toxooz]

just had a dream tony hawk gave me a cool life advice one liner but i caint rememBER THE EXACT WORDS NOW NOOO

[bogkeep]

watched berserk (97) on a whim after reading someone's tags on a writing advice post on how to justify Big Fucking Swords in stories. have started reading the manga. there's a lot of triggering visuals to me so i imagine this is what it's like to be lactose intolerant and decide to eat so so so much ice cream

[labyrynth]

ok so your first problem was assuming mdzs is a story where Good People are Rewarded and Bad People are Punished.

your second problem was assuming that MXTX—who goes out of her way to showcase unresolved, tragic, undeserved endings in all of her works—would ever write a story with such a shallow notion of “deserving.”

the only reason wangxian makes it out unscathed is because they’re literally the protagonists. authorial intent and plot armor ensure their happy ending. that’s it.

[despairforme]

Why have iced coffee when you can have milkshake??

[weareuniqueandimportant]

YOU SHOULD JUST COMMIT SSSSCIDE... YOU'RE WORTHLESS... YOU VIEW US THIS WAY YOU'RE AN ABUSER A KILLER A MURDERER... TRULY... YOU WOULDN'T EVEN LISTEN TO US YOUR HANDS THEY'RE ON OUR THROAT... YOU'RE WORTHLESS AS RESULT... GO AHEAD... YOUR VALUE IS COMPLETE 0...

THIS POST IS ABOUT LESBIAN FOOD... NOTHING MATURE ABOUT THAT... I LOVE EATING SSSSIDE... THAT IS A TYPE OF FISH WE WOMAN TEND TO EAT TOGETHER... WHY DO THIS TO US 😢...

DAMN... I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS COMPLETELY SHADOWBANNED POST WAS CHECKED BY THE SITE... THAT'S CRAZY... WHO EVEN FOUND THIS...? OH WHATEVER... HA.