#but disgusting stuff from that commentator

[juricel]

heyyy its me again

I have a silly request for you which you can ignore if you want to, since I think your ask box is piling up haha!

basically,

Yandere reader x pre corrupt shadow milk cookie turns to reader x Yandere shadow milk cookie

Reader, at first is super obsessed and does a lot of stuff for pre-corrupted shadow milk cookie and hes like super disgusted by how they’re acting. And suddenly, reader disappears one day, and hes fine with it

beasts get corrupted then get jailed,,

while in jail shadow milk cookie misses how loving y/n was, and realised that he has taken them for granted </33 And now he wants them back because of how love deprived he became

when hes out of the silver tree he see’s y/n again and at first hes all hip hip hooray !! until he sees that y/ns clinging onto the THIEF!!!

he goes batshit crazy, you can be creative with this if you want or just give your little ideas/comments I just really want more food wahah

so sorry if this doesn’t make much sense, it’s 2am :’)

tysm for reading oh great one!! you don’t have to do this right away dont worry love ur work already

—💤non

a/n: it's okay, i understand what you were aimimg for! I focused on the other requests before this one and had some church duties to do, so I apologize for having you need to wait for so long.

— yandere! shadow milk cookie x past yandere! reader (ft. the bus driver, pure vanilla cookie.)

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: manipulation, physical abuse, heavy possessive and obssessive behavior, unhealthy relationship, implied forced established relationship, implied mindbreak, corruption, objectification, stalking, pure vanilla cookie needs a fucking break, one of these warnings is not like the rest, potential ooc.

𖦁 blueberry milk cookie was a heaven sent gift from the witches above, he was a celestial jewel, an angel's whisper brought down to earth, the very breath of seraphim—an impossible, transcendental blessing cradled in the tender arms of witches' own grace. he was a splendid confection, kneaded from divine essence, destined to scatter blessings upon the crumbed multitudes of earthbread—a being way out of your league, you, an ordinary cookie who could crumble and wither into a flour with not a single eye batting to your direction.

𖦁 ah, but how radiant he was, you couldn't help yourself from your love, your dear, your luminous, immortal darling. does he even know? does he grasp the way his mind glows, the way his thoughts spill like molten gold onto the parchment of your very soul? he was your everything, your love—your guiding star, your perfect darling, your sole, necessary breath. and yet, the world, the pitiful, ignorant world, could not comprehend his brilliance, like a mere toy, they had molded him, and cast him aside once their utilitarian need had been served; they did not deserve him. no, the world could not deserve him—those who fail to recognize the sacredness of his mind, who treat his wisdom as commonplace, who look upon him without the reverence of a disciple at the feet of a god—it sickens you, stirs a fury deep within your chest. in the hollowed, gleaming corridors of his towering spire, you would see them—fawning, indulging in their miserable, blind inanities, lost in the sick lies they prefer over the sublime truth he alone could offer. and mind you, it was he—he—who spent his invaluable time, his precious moments, entangled with these dull, odious fools, these imbecilic cookies just for them to throw it away! he should not have to share his divine self with such paltry, uninspired creatures. no, no, no. you could not abide it. you would sever every connection, carve away every distraction, erase every tether that pulled him from you. and if it were required to cloak him in the softest, most unrelenting shadow, to shield him from the world that could never grasp his greatness, to hide him where only your gaze could drink in the luminous glow of his mind—so be it. you would protect him, cherish him, and keep him safe from those who could never understand him as you do.

𖦁 yet, he couldn't seem to understand it all; with every embrace, a look of disdain was given to you, as if you were a taint smeared upon heavens, can't he understand? these cookies were the one that were evil! they will defile him, corrupt his very name with degeneracy! you were merely shielding him away from the evil, how could he not comprehend that? he must've been brainwashed. yes, surely, or so that was what you wanted to believe, however, all his actions proved otherwise: with every touch, he recoiled, like a skittish moth repelled by the flame it once sought. with every affectionate word, he replied in clipped, mechanical syllables, blunt and cold, each one landing with the weight of a slammed door. there was no love in them—no warmth, no hesitance, no trace of a feeling that might, by some miracle, have softened the harsh lines of his indifference. you learned quickly that tenderness was a language he neither spoke nor cared to decipher. a hand reaching for his own was met with a perfunctory pat, a touch devoid of meaning, as if acknowledging, rather than returning, the gesture. you could pour all your warmth into him, let it trickle down the cracks in his facade, but he would not absorb it. He remained, steadfast in his distance, near enough to torment, far enough to elude. you tried to believe in the silences, in the space between his words, in the possibility that somewhere beneath that marble exterior, there was something that resembled love. but hope, much like affection, was wasted on him. you tried, really! to continue loving him, you truly did, but, ah, your feelings leisurely diminished into grains of flour until your love turned into rust and dust.

𖦁 it wasn't long until then your unfortunate sweet dear darling, the celestial beacon in your life was sullied into taint when you vanished into thin air. from graces, he fell, and into the bottom of the endless pit of corruption.

𖦁 and oh, how much he changed: in the cold, lonely cell, he reminisced the past, thought of you, thought of your oh so tender gentle caresses! and to say that it made him deprived of warmth, made him ache—hunger not for food, but for yours was an understatement. he sought and yearned for it, hunger gnawed, a sensation with fangs, sharp and insistent, curling inside his ribs like a starved serpent. he gwaned for you—not sweetly, not poetically, but in the way of a body denied water, of lips cracked and trembling at the edge of a mirage. oh, to be held, to be devoured, to be anything but this wretched hunger pressing against the ribs, licking at the throat, whispering: more, more, more... ah! he couldn't stop it! he promises to himself that he'd apologize to you and pamper you with affection once he gets out of this petulant little silver tree!

𖦁 and he'd definitely stick to his word; the moment he flees from the withering tree binding him and his allies, he had his priorities straight: to find his dear darling! he was beyond ectastic, thoughts filled of embracing you once more and kissing you, but, ah, none could prepare him for the sight that would unfold infront of his very gaze—his sweet puppet was linking arms with /him/. at first, he laughed, he chuckled and brushed it off, no, no, surely he was just presuming things! there was no way his dear would betray him and replace him with such a... ungracious caricature of a cookie, right? right? if you were, he'd definitely need to give you a better eyes as a replacement which was a no worries for him! he has a nice stock of replacement! surely, you wouldn't stoop down to that level of degeneracy. yet, you didn't approach him like he thought and dreamed of within the silved tree, you only took a cautious step back, away from him, away from your perfect celestial darling and to the burlesque version of himself, realization dawned and it made him seeth with anger.

𖦁 blasphemous! how dare you! you superseded his spot with this thing?! to betray him was one thing, but to replace him with this cheap copy of himself whom hadn't grown ever slightly intelligent despite wielding his own power?! you little pest! he'll make you pay for this. oh, and, don't worry your pretty little brain! he promises to be much, much more tender than he will be to him, it will be grand, a show that will mark itself in earthbread's history. so won't you be a good little dear and wait till he finishes his one last marionette show before tending to you?

𖦁 and as for the destiny of the silly little thief... ah, he vows to make him taste his own medicine and he'll make certain it will be a fate worse than crumbling away! he wasn't gonna kill him, no, no, death was far too gentle, he was gonna corrupt him, brainwash his mind with sweet, insidious poison, and distort his reality into a glistening hall of mirrors where every reflection was a lie, every whisper a trick of the light. he would unravel, unravel most grotesquely, as his reason frayed like moth-eaten silk, his thoughts dissolving into the same exquisite delirium that had once seized his own skull in its venomous embrace! and most importantly, he was gonna make him feel like what it felt like to be in his place! he stole his soul jam and now you, surely he doesn't think he can get away with that, can't he? no, no, if he wants to take from him so badly, he was gonna make him /him/.

𖦁 but ah, don't be so upset, dear. shouldn't you be exhilarated? he's giving you the attention you craved for, the attention you digged the sand and soils for until your fingers scarred and numbed for, the attention you yearned and sought for like a madman. so, why won't you clap, give your sweet jester an applause for his spectacular show? don't tell him you were still concerned of pure vanilla cookie! he simply put him in the right path, the road down to the deepest depths of hell, of course, but it was still a befitting destination!

𖦁 yet, still, still, you prattled on, fretting that lovely little head of yours over pure vanilla cookie—his name tumbling from your lips like some sacred incantation, a hymn to a god too distant to listen. and oh, how it curdled something deep inside him, how it set his very marrow alight with a fury so exquisite it was almost pleasure. could you not see? he was here. here, before you, in all his resplendent, fevered devotion, and yet you—blind, foolish, maddening thing—spoke of another. oh! perhaps a lesson was in order. yes, yes, that's right, a lesson. a gentle one, at first—he was, after all, a man of remarkable patience. a game, then, a little amusement, something to turn those wandering thoughts back where they belonged. he would not interrupt, no, never that. he would only guide, nudge, mold. and in the end, oh, you would see. you would understand. you would learn.

𖦁 and to say the wait had been merely excellent would be a crime of understatement, a paltry insult to the fevered anticipation that had coiled and uncoiled within him for so long. no, the outcome was a marvel beyond the bounds of mere expectation. you were back, back as you had been, intact, whole—his darling, his own, still in possession of that precious, once-fractured self. giddy with triumph, he would fall against you, arms encircling the exquisite stillness of your form, his dear darling, still and unresponsive—your gaze, those glassy and depthless eyes, did not meet his but stretched past him, unfocused, fixed upon some distant and nameless horizon. there was no flicker of recognition, no gentle return of his embrace. and yet, he clung to you, triumphant, unbothered by your silence, unshaken by your vacancy. you were here. that was more than enough.

a/n: I've received like... so many requests featuring pure vanilla cookie with yandere shadow milk cookie after i made that one post... do you guys want him dead? anyways, i just lost my pity in the guaranteed banner to fucking sherbet cookie. i need frost queen to turn him into snow once again... can someone bless me their mystic flour luck, ill give you my burning spice who is currently 4 stars (f2p)

[captain-huggy-bear]

"How dare you talk about my future husband like that…"

Pairing: Clayton Keller x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Clayton is feeling self conscious about his eye since his injury, you are not having any of it.

Notes: I've been noticing that Clay's still got some bloodshot and damage to his eye and just wondered if he feels a little self conscious about it (even though he shouldn't because he's so handsome.)

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

Clayton is staring at himself in the hallway mirror when you get home from running some errands. Turning this way and that, long fingers pulling at the skin around his left eye where it’s still somewhat bruised and swollen. The eye that is still bloodshot and damaged from the puck he took to the face a few weeks ago. It’s been a slow to heal problem, one he seemed to not be bothered by, until now.

When he lets out a rough, heavy sigh and glances over at you with a frown, you know somethings wrong before he even starts to speak. It’s all in the set of his shoulders, in the downturn of his mouth, the way he’s not smiling at seeing you back home.

"I look fucking awful right now." 

The comment has you dropping your shopping bags to the floor, not caring too much about your shopping, hands falling to rest on your hips as you glare at your boyfriend. Your handsome, wonderful boyfriend who had just dared to call himself anything but. 

"Take that back right now." Clay rolls his eyes at you, at the harsh tone of your voice and the way you’re standing like a disapproving parent. He knows he looks awful and doesn’t want your pity, his eye looks like someone’s burst it and the skin around is all weird mottled colours, sickly yellows and greens. It’s ugly. Disgusting. He’s surprised you’ve been able to stand looking at him the past few weeks and he doesn’t want your pity, your false reassurances. 

"But, I do, my eye is so fucking messed up still...fucking ugly." The words are spat out, like they taste bad and they certainly leave a bad taste in your mouth as you close the short distance between the two of you, hands falling to his wrist, landing over his bracelets as you tug until he looks at you. Your thumb brushing against the delicate skin of his wrist. 

Some of your anger, your bite is gone the moment he looks at you because he’s so…so sad, you can tell that Clayton genuinely feels like his eye is ugly, like the bruising, the bloodshot nature of it all, makes him any less wonderful. You’re not used to him being self conscious or sad, he’s always so level headed. It’s usually you in his spot and him in yours.

"How dare you talk about my future husband like that…" Your voice doesn’t have any of the bite that it might have done a few minutes ago, in fact your voice is quiet and soft as you look up at him. Your hand slips from his wrist, fingers twining with his to hold his hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

"Y/N..." He groans low in his throat, deep and scratchy, head tilting and falling to his shoulder. He doesn’t believe you, you can tell, he thinks you’re just trying to make him feel better and that’s just not on. 

A strand of his hair falls forward from where it had been slicked back, you reach up with your free hand to push it back and out of the way, taking the opportunity to cup his face after, fingers rubbing at the skin around his eye gently. 

"I mean it. You're not ugly, it's not possible. The only thing I think when I see your eye is that I hope you're not in pain..." That’s all you’d been concerned about for the past 3 weeks, that Clay was comfortable, that every time you kissed him you weren’t causing him more pain. The idea that he wasn’t as handsome had never even crossed your mind. You’re not actually sure it’s possible for Clay to be anything but handsome.

“You don’t have to say stuff to make me feel better, baby…it’s okay, it’s ugly and it’s fine.” 

“Clayton John Keller.” You snap out, hand cupping his cheek more firmly and turning his eyes to look at you, really look at you as you step further into his personal space, “Stop assuming i’m lying. I have never lied to you, not once.” It’s something you’ve never felt the need to do around Clay, even when you first started dating…it didn’t matter how bad the situation, you knew that Clay wouldn’t judge you or yell at you, so you’d never felt that panic, that need to hide anything from him and you certainly weren’t going to lie about this. “You could lose an eye, you could have bruises across your entire face, a broken nose, split lip, and I would still think you’re the most handsome man on this planet, Clayton Keller and I am not lying about that.”

“C’mon, baby, you can’t seriously tell me that this,” Clay gestures to his eye, to the big red blood spot across his sclera, “is attractive?” 

“Why not? I…” He raises an eyebrow at you when you stop yourself short and you work up the bravery inside you to admit something you’ve kept quiet, “I actually think…this makes me a terrible person by the way and I'm sorry, but I actually think you look hotter injured.” You close your eyes tight, scrunching up your features, before opening one eye to check his reaction.

“What?” He’s stumped, looking at you like you just told him the president was an alien or that chocolate was actually made from insects. Clay’s mouth is open, jaw dropped just slightly, brows furrowed, blue eyes confused and it’s adorable, even if you feel embarrassed about your confession. 

“Look, I know it makes me a terrible person but there’s something about you covered in blood and bruises…” 

A smirk starts to grow on Clay’s face once your words sink in, the closest thing to a smile you’ve seen from him since walking through the front door. His blue eyes gleam with a sort of twisted delight, a mischief that makes your stomach buzz with butterflies, as his dimples start to show on one side of his mouth. 

“...Is that why you practically jumped me after the Winnipeg game, sweet girl?” You don’t even realise he’s corralling you, moving you until your back hits the hallway wall and he’s leaning over you, forearm pressed against the wall beside your head. 

“Shut up…” You murmur it, unable to do much more as your body fills with giddy, nervous energy (the good kind), as your face warms and your toes curl because of how he’s looking at you, all half-lidded eyes and a toothy smirk that makes you want to scream like a teenage girl. How he ever thought he was ugly you can’t comprehend when he makes you feel like you’re combusting right now.

“...You still think I'm handsome?” It’s teasing, mischievious as he leans ever closer, until your only response is a high pitched giggle that gives you away because fuck, he’s so hot…you’re not sure how you nabbed him, what made him pick you of all people, but you’re thankful for whatever convinced him you were the one.

“Baby? Do you think i’m handsome?” He asks again because apparently your giggles aren’t enough of an answer or more accurately because he hates you and wants to torture you even as he smiles down at you all dimples and teeth.

“I always think you're handsome…especially when you smile like that.” 

“C’mere,” It’s silly how he always says that, but he’s the one that moves towards you. Clay’s quick to close the distance between you, slanting his mouth over yours into a sweet but firm kiss, it lasts longer than you expect, long enough for your hands to make their way into his shoulder length strands, long enough for him to practically press you into the wall,  “Thanks for keeping me in check, baby,” He’s practically murmuring it against your lips, not pulling away any further than necessary and you consider this an achievement. That you’ve taken his mood from self conscious and dower, back to teasing and sweet, back to standard Clay. 

“You’re welcome.”

“Just know I'm never going to forget that you’re a little freak who thinks I'm hotter when I'm bloody.”

“Clay, I swear to God!”

[lottsoflanguages]

Not my usual post but I felt I needed to put this out there + it does relate to how Irish institutions refuse to promote our culture.

I don't know if anyone reading this was watching Eurosong tonight. It's the selection of Ireland's Eurovision entry. During it, after a folk and traditional inspired song, the panel basically lambasted it. The consensus was that because Ireland did poorly at Eurovision 2007 (18 years ago btw) with a culturally Irish song that Europe does not like Ireland or its culture and that we shouldn't send a culturally Irish song to Eurovision because we need to modernise (what they actually mean is pander) to their idea of modern European standards. These comments made me quite furious and devastated (clearly evident by the fact I'm posting this). RTE has always come across to me not actually caring about our language or culture when it comes to promoting it to a younger audience. They don't seem to realise that branding Gaeilge and its culture as "an old persons thing" is going to cause detrimental damage to our already endangered heritage, since young people should be the ones you focus on, they're the ones who would be able to bring it down to future generations. Now, back to Eurosong, the way those comments were delivered gave me a sense that we shouldn't even bother sending something remotely Irish to Eurovision. Our culture is clearly embarrassing and something we should be ashamed of because of one bad result 18 years ago and as a result we should hide our heritage and erase it, there can and will not be anything identifyably Irish. It goes without saying that this is a disgusting approach to a dying culture. We hate to admit it, but Gaeilge is dying and we can't even blame the Brits anymore for this. It is the Irish institutions, our government, our broadcaster, everything around us is doing nothing to preserve our heritage. Oh but don't worry guys because that road sign's in Irish so its fine. And don't worry RTE love trad just look at Samantha Mumba doing a lil jig (all that was /sarc btw). It really struck home especially when; 1. the identifiably Irish song finished last in the televote and 2. The Norwegian song that has nothing to do with Ireland (the artist only came to Ireland for the first time last week) won the whole thing and will represent us in Basel. Now, I'll clarify some things. I have all but respect for Emmy herself. She seems absolutely lovely and I will fully support her as our nation's representative. I also generally don't have an issue with artists from other countries representing their non-native lands (see: Celine Dion). My issue stems from the fact that this song was so clearly (at least in my opinion) originally written with the Norwegian national selection in mind. Norway must've rejected it and Emmy's team just went "hey ireland has their selection still open for applicants let's fob it onto them" (that happens much more than you think it does at Eurovision) That's just my theory. So, what RTE have decided to do is mock and put down anything that remotely feels too-Irish in favour of one of Norway's scraps. They would rather pretend to be Norway than appear too-Irish. Cultural folk inspired entries do well at Eurovision, Kalush Orchestra won the whole thing nearly 3 years ago with a folk-hip hop fusion, it got the highest televote ever seen in eurovision (and no, that was not all war pity votes, people do actually like this stuff).

RTE and other Irish institutions are curating this idea that Irish culture and language is something to be ashamed of, something thats cringe or something thats a novelty. It is particular BS in the context of Eurosong and the whole "we can't do good with something cultural" as Ireland's biggest music acts at the moment are those who embrace their heritage within their music (e.g. Hozier, Kneecap, Fontaines DC) and if Irish culture does end up making a comeback, it'll be because of these guys, not our institutions. We've been a (mostly) independent nation for over 100 years, yet Irish still declines. We can't blame the Brits anymore for this lads. In however many years time when Irish culture is nothing more than a distant memory, we'll look back and know exactly who to blame

Apologies if this is all completely incoherent, it's 1am, i'm on a sleeping tablet but autism brain is going. anyways, oíche mhaith a chairde <3

[chaifootsteps]

Hello, Chai! A few weeks ago, I mentioned coming into your inbox to ask you several questions about your allegations and just getting your side of the story. I will be honest, when I read the call out(s) about you.

I overall thought “yeah, I don’t blame anyone for being uncomfortable regarding your interests.” I personally don’t think you are a zoophile especially with looking at your art and your likes.

1. Are you a proshipper (many think you are that’s why I’m asking)?

2. When I searched your name on Tumblr, I noticed a few people being disgusted and weirded out you found Valentino attractive and liked ValAngel, using it as a “gotcha moment” against you and I think that’s dumb. I personally don’t ship it but I do find the ship interesting. I never cared if adults shipped Valentino/Angel Dust.

3. Thoughts on this? Is this No NSFW outdated for the Dutch angel dragon community? If you have screenshots I would love to see them.

4. Thoughts on this?

5. Thoughts on this?

6. Anonymous user accused you of being creepy towards other critics and talking about non pro shipper’s abrasively. In my comment section you mentioned criticizing pro-shippers, do you have any screenshots of that.

7. Context behind this? The user who made this post mentioned you apologized to them.

(I’ll come back cuz with more stuff).

I don't blame anyone for being uncomfortable with my interests either! You like what you like and you don't like what you don't like, and I'm a die hard monsterfucker and horror aficionado with a very firm policy on fiction vs. reality. If that's not to anyone's comfort level, no hard feelings.

That said!

1. I don't call myself a proshipper anymore because proshipper means wildly different things to different people and I was tired of fighting for a term instead of the concept that people should be allowed to explore things they wouldn't be okay with in real life in the safety of their imaginations. That being the case, I've got people who call themselves antis in my audience and in my server. My blog's open to anyone and everyone who wants to be here and talk about these things.

2. Of course I used to like Valentino and ValAngel, it was a fascinating ship and some of the fandubs for Valentino were hot as hell! Shipping something doesn't necessarily mean I want them to be together forever, just that I found their dynamic worth exploring.

It used to be that everyone was unanimous in their agreement that Val was the scum of the earth, and ever since that's changed and the fandom has started blaming Angel for "being ungrateful," I've fallen out of love with them, but my problem still isn't with anyone who likes ValAngel -- it's with the way Viv herself treats the ship and the way she Trojan Horsed it into the show and belittled survivors who were uncomfortable.

3. This one's especially funny because I guarantee you the Viv standom, who never heard of Dutch Angel Dragons before they learned about mine, care more about this than the actual mods do. NSFW Dutches actually are disallowed, and it will get you banned from Dutch spaces, but that's all. My little group has actually talked to Ino herself about it; one of the rules of my Dutch Rebel server is that you're allowed to do whatever you like with your own character, but absolutely no NSFW of OCs whose owners have said they're not comfortable with that.

As for "they all have the intelligence of children!" that's ridiculous. The mods themselves have Dutches who curse, wield guns, and like Satellite, grapple with their war trauma. This differs from character to character depending on preference, and Satellite's a fully grown adult with the mind of a grown adult.

4. This one's a patented DJ Blitz Crazy Take! It's a South Park reference.

5. I maintain that "drawn CP" shouldn't be a term because CP is a real, absolutely reprehensible crime, which is why the word has such a gutpunch visceral effect. I think it's absolutely crucial that it keep that gutpunch effect; alarm fatigue is a real and extremely dangerous thing. Drawings of say, Gravity Falls characters, whatever your stance on that, are their own thing and we need to talk about them as their own thing.

6. Sure do! I know I've talked quite about about how the Twitter proship community is a completely different animal, and absolutely batshit insane. People were coming over with horror stories and because I'm mostly on tumblr, I had no idea.

I've also called out people for shipping ships I actually like in ways that I consider dangerous. One notable example is some rando who defended a ship by saying "14 is on the cusp of womanhood" and yeah, someone check that guy's hard drive, please.

7. Yeah, anyone claiming Andre and Stella's dynamic (read: making repeated sexual comments to your sibling, unwanted touching) is normal sibling banter raises ten kinds of alarm bells, but it wasn't my intention to genuinely freak this person out and I actually did apologize in private.

If you've got any more questions, feel free to send them and I'd be happy to answer!

[quandledlngle69]

"FINE, KEEP MAKING CONVERSATION...I GUESS."

☆ CONTENT: Your a troubled student, kicked out of your prestigious private school for beating one of your bully's. Your settled into your horrible local high school where your fighting almost everyday, yet when your reputation pokes at a certain persons bubble, he takes interest in you. ☆ GENRE/THEMES/WARNING: Trouble maker reader, reader gets bullied in the first half, mentions of snapping, fighting, beating, hair pulling, reader being nonchalant, Shidou being interested in reader, reader having a sick mother, reader is female, reader is implied to have braids, mentions of past discrimiation and racism, classism, implying that Shidou and the reader are both black, Shidou also being a problem student and fighting. ☆ PAIRING: Trouble!Maker!Reader x Trouble!MakerShidou ☆ W.C. 1.8K

It starts with insults, and it ends with fists.

That's the way of thinking you subconsciously drilled into your head from middle school. You realised quickly that having good grades or being kind just wasn’t enough to smoothly get through the once prestigious private school you attended. 

Bullying was something you absorbed, that swirled like a disgusting parasite around you. Maybe it was something about you not having the latest phone, the newest shoes–or it was a micro aggressive comment about the deep colour of your skin or your hair being the opposite of pin straight. You didn’t ever talk back or defend yourself, hoping the less reactions given, the less satisfaction would be gained and a next sorry target would be found. Unfortunately, that never happened.

You remember the day you finally snapped.

It was a regular tuesday, and although the past few months had been nothing but dread, you felt eerily calm, like you subconsciously knew what was going to happen and had already accepted it. It was sunny for such a day in march, and you appreciated the breeze, considering it was rare to be interrupted during your lunch breaks.

Today was not one of those days.

It was the same group most of the time, a handful of girls and two boys. A cycle usually occurred, it was first grabbing your attention, then insults, maybe some physical contact, knocking some stuff out of your hands, more insults, and repeat. 

You didn’t wait until the insult part.

When your mind decides to black out on you while beating on someone, one finds it quite hard to remember all the details. It was the sound of your backpack dropping to the ground at first, then the slightly panicked tone of insults, questioning what you were doing, and then your first impact of knuckles to flesh. You're sure you and the girl both tripped on each other's feet at some point, scrapping your knees, you both hit the ground accidentally tackling her. You remember how the strands of her blonde hair that had found its way to wrap itself around your fingers felt–coarse. Ears ringing, you ignored her high pitched banshee shrieks of pain while you pulled on the strands, hard. You felt them snap at the scalp. You could feel how with each collision of your closed fist to the soft tissues of her face, her sobbing grew more and more heavy. It took the two boys of the group to pry you off her. 

Later you sat in the principal's office, the extra chair for one of your guardians empty. It always was when you got in trouble. You knew it would add stress on your already ill mother. The surface skin of your knuckles were raw and the scratches on your knee began to sting as the adrenaline faded away, the soothing cream the nurse had applied weak against the pain.

A broken nose, one chipped tooth, two black eyes, and a few tension caused bald spots. 

You were told–no, screamed at by the beaten girl's mother, that you were lucky the police weren’t called, and the only consequence you were getting was that you would be expelled. 

You should've been angry, maybe distraught at the fact you were being kicked out for defending yourself, of being kicked out of the most prestigious school in the district, especially since you were on a scholarship. But–nothing. There was a sense of indifference that surrounded you like a protective bubble, even as you were screamed at, even as you were given a formal letter of expulsion you were supposed to give to your mother, even as you were escorted off school grounds.

It almost scared you, how you really didn’t care anymore.

It had been four years since that event.

Now you were in some shitty local school that you honestly could give less of a dime about. 

It had been another cycle of detentions, fights, wounds, stings, sores, aches and a whole calypso of sorts. And they couldn’t expel you, with you having nowhere else to go.

Again, you were in after school detention for slamming a locker door shut on a girl's head. Not your fault she decided it would be a perfectly plausible idea to spit on your sneakers. 

Here you are now. It was a rundown classroom in the back of the school, like the staff was trying to hide the bad kids away to avoid staining the school's decent reputation. Not like you cared. The desks had symbols carved out with sharp objects and permanent sharpies, graffiti on the walls, floors and ceiling and a foul smell coming from somewhere you couldn’t pinpoint. You had been in there so many times to the point you had gotten comfortable enough to just nap for the hour you were stuck there. It was the usual placement of connecting your head to the desk, turning away, and ignoring the others that were usually there for the same reasons just like you. 

But you also did it to ignore the fact there was always an intense stare piercing the side of your head as soon as you put your head on the table. But you let it roll off you, after all, staring towards you was just another familiar wave of negativity. The guy was notoriously known for his fights and appearance, sure, but it's not like you truly cared who he was or the feared reputation he built for himself.

For the first time, Shidou is intrigued. He watches as your slumped form in the corner back of the detention room, not talking, not even looking at anyone. No arrogance, no puffed chest—just you, head on the desk, tapping your fingers in a rhythm against the wooden leg of the desk like you were waiting for something.

So he tests you. A few direct comments out loud, a smirk, a challenge. And when you finally look at him—dark eyes, unreadable expression—he knows you're different just from the look in your eyes.

And for the first time, Shidou may have found himself someone who might just be as reckless as him.

The clock ticks slowly, each second dragging like a slow–burning cigarette.

Shidou Ryusei slouches in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, his lip still split from the fight that landed him here. He smirks at the memory—some senior had mouthed off, and Shidou, never one to back down, tracked him down and made sure a knuckle sandwich was given–something like that, anyway. You don't acknowledge his poking words, just pulling the drawstrings of your hoodie up further (an item of clothing that didn’t comply with the school rules either), shoving your hands into your pockets. From where he sits, Shidou can see the bruises along your knuckles, a fresh scrape along your cheekbone.

He knew you got into fights, but seeing the damage up close? It makes something in him spark. 

The room is silent except for the scribbling of a teacher grading papers at the front desk. Shidou drums his fingers on his desk, gaze flicking between the clock and you–who hasn’t looked up once.

“Who was it?” he finally asks, his eyes fixed on the clock, but you know he’s addressing you.

You don’t move. Don’t even react.

Shidou leans back, stretching his legs out, the wooden chair creaking beneath him. “Who’d you fight?” he tries again, smirking slightly. “Gotta be bad if they stuck you in here with me.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“You talk too much.”

Your voice is quiet, but sharp enough to cut. Shidou raises a brow, interested. Most people flinch or get defensive when he pushes. You didn't.

“I’m just curious,” he says, tilting his head towards your general direction. “A girl like you throwing punches? Gotta be a juicy story. Right?”

This time, you do glance at him—just for a second. Dark eyes, unreadable, sizing him up like he’s just another fight waiting to happen. 

“No story,” you mutter bitterly. “Just a bad day.”

Shidou studies you, almost like how a tiger looks at its prey, almost like he wasn’t deterred by the bad mood radiating off you. “Yeah? Guess we both had one.” He gestures vaguely to his busted lip, almost smug. “Wasn’t really my fault, though. The guy was fucking begging for it.”

You huff, barely a laugh, more like an exhale of disbelief. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

He leans in slightly, elbows on the desk, and you're able to see the quiet–but explosive glow of his pink eyes. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

His question hits you like a light slap to the face, managing to surprise you. For the first time, something flickers in your eyes—something he recognizes. A mix of exhaustion and defiance. 

You didn’t answer. Instead, you shifted in your seat, the metal legs groaning under your weight. Tilting your head toward him, your eyes met his, tense. “Why do you care?”

Both of your expressions mirrored each other, nonchalant, unreadable.

There was another long beat of silence as your eyes darted around his face, his blonde hair with pink tips that was definitely the reason he had a ‘delinquent’ title, you think. His nails are sloppily painted black, and you could imagine how his punches hurt like a bitch with how many rings adorned his fingers. His blazer was nowhere to be found, his jumper sleeves rolled up to his forearms. His sneakers were scruffy, his buttoned collar undone.

Shidou himself seemed as if he was deep in thought looking at you himself, as well as considering your words. He doesn’t know the answer yet. Maybe because you're different. Maybe because you're quiet, a silent but deadly type. Maybe it’s because you're the same as him, a foreign presence in an unfamiliar environment. Maybe it’s because rather than seeing a sea of pin straight black hair, it was the neat ocean of mahogany brown braids that skimmed your lower back. Maybe it was because of the fresh manicured set of nails that you got every other week, something he observed more than the normal person should. Or maybe because, for the first time, someone isn’t playing his game, and you peaked his rare curiosity.

He gives a lopsided grin, tilting his chair back until the front legs hovered above the floor. “I don’t. Just making conversation.”

You don't respond at first, ripping your eyes away from the intense staring competition–just turning your gaze back to the window, as if he’s already forgotten. But Shidou? He’s still watching you, still curious.

And it takes a lot to get his attention. 

He focused on your glossy pout, and how it seemed to soften slightly with your next words.

“Fine. Keep making conversation…i guess.”

When you meant keep the conversation going, you never implied for him to thrust his desk right next to yours, almost bumping shoulders with you. He ignored the weak yelling of the teacher telling him to go back to his place. You were amused by his actions, not even telling him to back off like you would to anyone else.

Maybe you’ll let him talk your ear off a bit more.

Quandaledlngle69 © 2025

[formulavroom]

hope that the commentator who made those racist remarks about lamine loses his job asap

[luck-of-the-drawings]

ANCIENT wip that i finally got around to splashin color onto. NO idea where this colorin style came from n it WONT happen again!! anyway i LOOOVE the general dynamic between arthur n emizel. both are so cool and so awesome and yet SO silly...

[starrysharks]

every art critic, teacher or tutorial maker who tells you that your character designs must be conventionally attractive or appealing is a big fat liar

[lemonynuggets]

makes me so insane when I see people bullying others for existing like. Does this person’s existence hurt you this much. Do you really have the primordial need of shaming anyone that’s slightly different from you. Do you feel that much rage seeing someone else be happy.

[cunninghamchrissie]

depression so bad nothing even bothers you anymore and you don’t even want to get better

[ghostace]

your swtor characters are so cool.... idk if you play anymore but if you do please post more of them if you have time c:

ahh thank you, i don't feel like my characters are really at all interesting lmao but i am still playing i just don't always have screenshots i feel like sharing (whether due to effort/energy or just vibes and also the combo of programs i use for it has been more Troublesome of late) but have some wip copero stronghold because i thoroughly bounced off the gw2 homestead decorating for some reason

[persephoneflouwers]

There's this one account on here who keeps saying liam deserved it because "he was an abuser who made no attmepts to be better. this is proven by his last act of not paying the sex workers"

and now it is in records that his money was withheld. the hookers are issues warrants because apparently they're not disclosing who actually called them.

all else aside, i hope that so called rational fan burns in hell.

The fact that people believed the early, messy informations tells a lot about their critical thinking skills.

The fact that they believe anything coming from media/web sites tells a lot about their critical thinking skills.

Send me their @ so I can block, please.

[enjolraspermettendo]

Northern Italians realise that you also speak in dialect and not "correct Italian" and stop shitting on other Italians, especially southern Italians challenge: failed

[dreamertrilogys]

going into instagram comments is crazy it’s like seeing into a (much MUCH) worse alternate reality like You ppl live such unfathomably terrible lives to me….

[mcyt-confession-room]

Oh hey! I guess I'll be your first confession I guess

I keep wanting to interact with other parts of the mcyt community but because I'm a dteam fan I keep being super anxious that someone will be mad at me for just... existing. Or for interacting with them

I feel like that might be unfair, but even tho I really want the communities to be at least friendly again a ton of past events left me with a bad view of them :[

First confession!!!

[dimiclaudeblaigan]

i still love this pic so much bc it's literally the embodiment of all official artwork of the lords

claude is just being friendly and nice and dimi is staring at him like wow i love him so much and edelgard is just SO DONE with third wheeling their kissy bullshit