some ugly things

I think it’s funny how y’all don’t even try to hide your ugly ass favoritism anymore. All of y’all rushed to make sure Vernon felt valid as a white-passing POC and praised the hell out of his looks whenever he mentioned getting bullied for being white mama mixed. Y’all marketed Somi on Produce 101 better than the show did and got her the #1 spot. She isn’t white-passing but she has Eurocentric features thanks to her white dad and her looks won her the show.

But nobody fought like that for Lee Michelle when she was on Kpop Star. Her dark skin, thick hair, and Afrocentric features were a turn-off for y’all so not only were judges n contestants rude/awkward with her but she was ignored as an artist up until she switched to performing hip-hop recently. And even now, y’all praise those crusty anti-black rappers over her.

Samuel is a Korean Latino with brown skin, a wide nose, and naturally non-straight hair. Y’all have literally ignored this child from the start of Produce 101. The only posts made in support of him were by other POC (mostly Black and/or Latinx). People on the show said he could never be a visual, making him upset for no reason, and nobody jumped to his defense like y’all did for Vernon and Somi. He mentioned himself that he felt viewers weren’t voting bcuz he isn’t fully Korean, which shows that he sees at least some of the ugly things said about him by colorist, xenophobic, anti-latinx ppl.

All of you white allies love making posts about colorism, appropriation, racism, and all that (while basically just repeating POC) but when you could have put your numbers to use and actually helped someone who is negatively impacted by all those things, y’all were nowhere to be found and some of you actively made jokes about Samuel thinking nobody would care. So fuck all of you.

Okay but when I say I want to romanticise things that are seen as ugly by society people always reply saying “no normalise it make it normal” and like sure but like also bitch I really just want to look at my flaws and see art like I want poetry to be written about the cellulite on my legs and the stretch marks on my stomach and the hair on my upper lip like bitch let me feel like a work of art when I’m laughing and unaware of my crooked teeth or my double chin and when my skin is oily and my acne is bad. Like let ugly girls feel more than normal let us feel beautiful and extraordinary sometimes please

Ultra Dungarees Girls

Requested Otayuri prompt

Prompt: “Will your parents be proud of your gold medal?“
Pairing: Otayuri
Warnings: Yuri’s bratty mouth, hurt/comfort, sfw
Word count: 1,756

Another season, another year. Another competition in another city and a new gold medal hanging around his neck. It’s so new that his name isn’t even engraved on its backside yet. It weights against Yuri’s chest like he was born to win it, reflects the golden shimmer from his hair like they are one. Meant to be.

Yuri is proud, satisfied. The hunger inside him gone for the moment because all his efforts, all his hard work paid off. He’s no longer the Russian Fairy, the wonder child, the next Viktor Nikiforov. He’s Yuri Plisetsky - the ice tiger of Russia and his stripes are golden. The world knows that by now.

And everyone wants a piece of him. Including the press.

Yuri just turned 18. He’s blond and handsome, tall and athletic. His eyes are the colour of the stormy sea on a sunny day and his mysterious charisma is sexy and unpredictable.
At least that is the kinda bullshit they write in teen-magazines about him after they slapped his moody face on the front cover. Pissed of and rude is apparently the new interesting and desirable.
Which is only one of the reasons why Yuri hates dealing with the media.
Of cause he’s also grateful for the opportunities it gets him: Brand deals, sponsoring, advertising and modeling - a shit ton of money he can send home to his grandpa and spend on whatever the fuck he wants.

It’s the interviews he dreads. The personal stuff he can’t deal with.

He isn’t like Viktor. Viktor can happily chat with the media for hours without revealing the tiniest bit of his private life if he doesn’t want to. He can endlessly chatter and has everyone giggling and nodding in agreement. He’s a master of distraction and in the end half the spread is about Makkachin and every poodle in Russia gets adopted.

He isn’t like Chris who turns the tables around and makes the press-people blush and stutter. He can’t charm and flirt his way through every interview, making everyone drool until they forgot their original question.

And he certainly isn’t like Otabek who always keeps a pokerface, no matter how intrusive and rude the questions get. He couldn’t keep calm and cool like him. Otabek simply told the people if it was none of their business, that he wanted to protect his privacy. In a polite way of cause.

No, Yuri isn’t like them but he tries to be better. Tries to not snap and curse, to not throw a tamper tantrum anymore whenever he’s pissed of. He tries to act like a professional or like a grown up at least.

He still grits his teeth as the lady in the chair across from him asks one personal question after another. She’s not interested in his training or diet, doesn’t want to know what his next goals are and how he will surpass his own achievements. No, she’s very intrusive.
Yuri takes a deep breath, feels the medal move against his sternum. He can’t stand her, from her bright pink lipstick that stick to her teeth to her fake laugh, the look in her eyes reminds him of a shark he saw in a horror movie a while ago.

The journalist asks about Viktor and Yuri’s private life, which triggers something similar to protection inside of Yuri. She asks if he ever had a crush on Mila or maybe one of the hockey players at his home-rink. He huffs. She asks about his relationship with Otabek and wiggles her drawn-on eyebrows, looking over her shoulder at Otabek who is leaning against the wall just a few feet away from him. He’s playing with his phone while waiting for Yuri to finish up so they can go and grab something to eat.

Yuri glares at her, it’s getting harder for him to act like he doesn’t despite her and her cheep perfume that starts to hurt his head. But still, he tries to stay calm, grinding his fingers painfully into the armrest of his chair and giving her vague answers that she doesn’t want to hear.

Then she goes one step too far. "Will your parents be proud of your gold medal?“

Yuri’s blood runs cold. No. „Next question.“ He hisses out but now her eyes are gleaming and she won’t let die topic slide. Hot angers starts forming inside Yuri’s stomach at every new question she fires at him that is relating to his family. She wants to be the one to write the reveal of the Plisetsky-family-secret so, so badly.

She’s gonna be disappointed because Yuri is no idiot. He’s been skating alongside superstar Viktor Nikiforov for half his life, was a child prodigy to his home country that grew into another Russian athletic legend, he’s used to press and media. To be constantly watched and photographed.
His first kiss with a random girl was on the front cover of every Russian newspaper hours after it happened. The internet knows how much his cloths cost, which club he leaves with who and how he drinks his coffee. There are theories and gossip about his parents but he has never said anything to anyone besides Yakov and Viktor, Yuri doesn’t know if anyone guessed right yet.

The reporter doesn’t get her scandal story because Yuri snaps 20 seconds after she asked the question. Will your parents be proud of your gold medal? It’s echoing through his ears. What follows isn’t pretty. Yuri screams and says some ugly things, kicks his chair over and pours a cup of coffee over the notes the journalist had scribbled down during her interrogation. It’s probably all gossip and conspiracy theories anyways, this has nothing to do with figure skating!

Then Yuri storms out, his eyes starting to burn dangerously. Otabek follows after him, having watched his outburst.

He finds Yuri back at the ice-rink, sitting on the bleachers that are completely empty by now. They are alone, spare for a janitor that cleans up at the other side of the rink. Yuri has managed to swallow his tears but his expression is still grim, jaw clenched tightly. Otabek sits down next to him.

„I’m sorry you had to see that.“ Yuri says bitterly, not looking at him but staring at the ice.

„I’ve seen worse from you.“ Otabek shrugs and it’s true. Not that it bothers him, that’s what best friends are for. Right?

Yuri doesn’t laugh like Otabek had hoped. „That Bitch asked about my parents. If they’re proud of me.“ His voice is stained.

Otabek and Yuri are as close as they can get without becoming the updated version of Viktor and Katsudon and yet, Yuri had never mentioned his parents once to Otabek.

„I’m sorry.“ Otabek says honestly, not knowing what else to say.

„She wouldn’t stop prodding.“

„You don’t have to explain yourself, Yuri. Not to me.“

Finally he looks at him, his eyes full of anger and pain. „Don’t you want to know?“ He asks, almost as if he’s daring him.

Have I ever asked for more than you were willing to give? Instead Otabek answers: „I’ll listen if you wanna tell me, if you don’t then I won’t push you, Yura.“

Yuri swallows and looks like he struggles. Then he grabs Otabek’s wrist and unclasps the leather bracelet he gave him for his last birthday. He plays with it and doesn’t look at him when he starts talking.

„People think that there must be one big secret or scandal involving my family. That something tragic happened but the truth is much more sobering and uninteresting. I suppose it wouldn’t even make a good story or headline. Truth is that my father is an asshole and my mother a coward. I’m nothing like my Dad, he’s a big bulky Russian man with knuckle tattoos and a beer-belly. He’s very closed-minded and ignorant but my mother worshipped him for whatever reason. You can imagine his disappointment and disapproval when his only son turned into a prima ballerina, dancing around in glittery costumes and leaning alongside Viktor - king of the gays and shame to mother Russia - Nikiforov.
He practically disowned me. Now, I don’t know if my mother agreed with him or was simply scared of him, hell, I don’t even know if she wanted me in the first place.
I can’t remember either of them ever being very loving towards me or encouraging me. Fact is that they simply didn’t want me, they dropped me like a hot Pirozhki and left it to my grandpa to raise me. I can remember that my grandpa fought a lot with one of them on the phone but he couldn’t change their minds. I haven’t seen them in years. I thought they would come crawling back once I gained attention and made some money but nothing. I should be grateful that they are leaving me alone because no one needs people like that in their life but still … even now I’m not good enough.“ Yuri sniffs, angry that he still cares. Sad that he didn’t even had the chance to prove himself before they decided that he wasn’t worth sticking around for. „I don’t know if they keep an eye on me or even know what I’m doing but I know that they wouldn’t be proud, Beka. They don’t even care.“ His voice is small when he finally looks back up at Otabek and his eyes are wet.

„They are missing out, Yura. They threw away gold.“ Otabek says and doesn’t mean the medal and Yuri knows that, it causes his tears to silently fall from his lashes.

„I hate that sappy shit, Beka.“ Yuri says weakly.

Otabek ignores him. „You don’t need them. I’m proud of you instead. Your coaches are proud. Your skating family and rink mates are proud, so are your fans and thousand of strangers. Fuck them.“ He swears and wipes Yuri’s tears away.

This time Yuri does laugh because Otabek almost never swears and it’s delightful. „Yeah fuck them.“ He repeats and puts Otabek’s bracelet back onto his wrist. „I’m the motherfucking ice tiger and everyone wants a piece of me.“

„Do you know what I want a piece of?“ Otabek asks with mirth and Yuri shakes his head. „I want a piece of pizza. I’m starving.“

Yuri’s eyes go wide and the idea of the forbidden fast-food immediately cheers him up further. „Pizza.“ He moans and Otabek laughs.

„Come on then, golden boy. It’s my treat.“


Pairing: Dean x Reader 

Words: 973

A/N: As promised, part four in the ‘How To Love’ series. I really hope you all enjoy it! Let me know if you want a part five! Send in what you want to discuss about it, your comments, or if you want another part! Enjoy~ 

Part One – Part Two – Part Three

The next couple hours were spent with Dean pacing the room back and forth as he called and recalled different police departments and local news stations. It seemed surreal having to restart the entire case, as if from scratch. You looked over from the kitchen at Sam, still seated with his eyes glued to the laptop screen.

“I got an address!” Dean exclaimed as he shut his phone.

You exhaled and put down the beer you were about to open. “Let’s go.”

Next thing you knew, all you could see was asphalt. Dean sped down a few back roads that Sam said would lead to the witnesses’ home much faster than the local highway.

“Her name is Yafa Asher,” Dean began to say as he pulled up beside her driveway, “Last night, she said she was passing by the woods, when she saw something she claims wasn’t human. Three hours later, two murders were reported.”

You sighed, for some reason you felt partly responsible for those lives. Perhaps, had you let the brothers help execute the previously discussed plan, none of this would have happened.

When the brothers realized that you were so deep in your thoughts that you hadn’t responded to whatever question it was that they asked, Dean said: “It’s not your fault.” As if he could read your mind.

You held his gaze for a few seconds before opening the door and ducking out of your seat, your hand gripping the door tightly before you slammed it shut.

Dean’s eyes wandered over you as he walked to the front of the house, a few steps behind you. As you approached the witnesses’ door, your regret turned to anger, and you lifted your chin while straightening your back; something that Dean noticed immediately.

“Take it easy.” His hand met your back lightly, a type of contact you weren’t used to from him, and you exhaled.

“Not tonight.” You replied with three curt knocks to her door.

As it swung open, a young woman revealed herself. You noticed how her black curls bounced beautifully as she moved.

“Can I help you?” She asked.

Sam stepped forward, “We spoke on the phone earlier, I’m Agent Smith,” then he motioned towards you and Dean, “And these are my partners, Agent Jones and Fletcher.”

“Oh.” The woman said and began to step back to let the three of you in. As you looked at her, you saw that she couldn’t have been over thirty. You noticed how she shut the door rather quickly, and then utilized all four of the locks that she had on it.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” She offered, motioning loosely to the kitchen.

“No, thanks.” Dean said politely and took a seat on her couch. You sat next to him, while Sam opted for the small armchair on the other side.

“I don’t know what to tell you.” She sat down looked down at the carpet. “I mean, I told the police and they just didn’t believe me.” When she looked back up, her worried eyes met yours. The woman was understandably shaken.

You gave her a tight smile, “We’ve seen some ugly things out there, and we just want to help. Would you be able to recall exactly what you saw?”

She inhaled and began to describe what a wendigo looks like, perfectly. The brothers looked at each other and sighed.

“This…thing,” You referred to it as she did, “Was by the woods?”

“Yeah.” She took out her smartphone and opened up something. “Here.” She handed you her phone with a map of the area displayed brightly on the screen. “I don’t know how I was the only one who saw it.” She continued. “There are usually people in that area.”

“Other people may have seen it, but not spoken up.” Sam grabbed her attention, “We’re glad that you did.”

She nodded in silent agreement, then took the phone back from you. “So, you believe me?”

Dean gave her a soft smile, the same smile you were so used to seeing, yet every time it still warmed your heart.

“We do.” He said. “And, the second we take care of it, we’ll call to let you know.”

“Thank you all so much.” She smiled, her berry stained lips curling up at the edges. A dimple formed itself in her tanned skin.

For some reason her eyes remained glued to Dean’s, and for the first time you felt a pang of jealousy that someone else took a liking to him. Before he told you how he felt, you never envisioned yourself with him. Now, with both of your feelings for each other just swimming at the surface, jealousy overtook you. Plus, it wasn’t helping that she was absolutely beautiful.

“Alright, well that’s all.” You stood up and began walking to her front door.

“Thank you.” She responded and opened the four locks, one by one. “Oh,” She walked over to a small side table and wrote something down on a notepad, “Here’s my number so that you can contact me again.”

Her hand was outstretched, aiming for Dean to take it.

He took it from her hand and let himself out of the door while Sam thanked her once again for talking to the three of you. You followed close behind the boys.

When Dean strayed from the path of the car, you watched his movement. He crumpled up the paper with her number on it, and tossed it in the garbage receptacle by the curb.

He must have been thinking of you when he did it, because as he opened the driver’s door of the car his eyes locked on yours.

He didn’t know that you were awake when he told you he’d fix what he had done, but you knew now, that he meant it.


i am so much quieter these days. that need to disrupt, to create chaos still lives here, still has impulses i struggle to fight and some ugly things to say. but i am quicker to silence it, to calm it, to preserve the peace and the steady nature of who i have since become. though let it not be taken for granted that this peace is always pleasant, that there aren’t times i am close to catatonic and want deeply to go wild in rebellion. there would be more pleasure in doing the crazed and ill-advised thing than there is in taking the deep breath. i am not always interested in being calm, but equally, i must be good to myself. i must be good to myself. i must go cautiously. i have done more than my fair share of damage. to myself and unto others. i am not an innocent party. but i am better now. i have learned, haven’t i? i am quieter these days. even when the aching thing, the violent and destructive thing within me, would like a platform from which to be better heard. i refuse to hand it the microphone.

  • the darkling: is v interested in mass murder and world domination
  • also the darkling: likes puddings and pies

People asking about proper reference sheets and uf/us versions of these two were just woah! So overwhelming! Thank you so much I didn’t expect so much interest! :D



fact: when working on a film or a drama, the person hired does not work under the group’s name but as an actor, as an individual person. this is not only the case with yixing, but also with chanyeol and kyungsoo. where was the outrage then? or is it only bad when it’s a Chinese member?

March 6

A quick little Wayhaught drabble for @haughtbreaker. Happy Birthday Nic! 

It happened suddenly on a nondescript day in March.

March 6, to be exact, when the frozen terrain of Purgatory was finally beginning to show signs of thaw after a long and harsh winter, the temperature ticking slowly up from bone-numbing hypothermia to a less threatening bite of frost.

It was the day Nicole Haught knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that she was gonna marry Waverly Earp.

The thought came unbidden to Nicole while she stood in the middle of the Earps’ living room on an uneventful Monday afternoon, her emotions zipping sharp and fast as she watched an adorable blush creep up Waverly’s neck.

“It’s, uh, the one you gave me,” Waverly explained, awkwardly gesturing toward the thin piece of card stock between Nicole’s fingers. “You know, when we first met.”

Of course Nicole knew. Even though it had been almost two years since that moment, she still remembered that day like it was yesterday. Flattered, Nicole traced a finger along a crease that ran down her old business card, off center, a white crinkle separating the words Purgatory and Sheriff. She had found it when Waverly asked her to grab a few dollars out of her purse to tip the delivery driver when he arrived. The small rectangle was tucked securely behind a picture they had taken at a carnival photo booth last summer, both making silly faces, tongues sticking out, so obviously happy and in love.

Waverly bit her lip. “What are you thinking?”

Marry me, Nicole’s mind whispered as her heart surged with unexpected, overwhelming affection. “I’m thinking–”

“Takeout’s here!” Wynonna interrupted, strolling in from the kitchen and chucking a thumb toward the front door. She glanced at Nicole’s hand. “What the hell, Haught? I need money, not your damn business card.”

Nicole bit her tongue, for once grateful for Wynonna’s poor timing. If she was going to propose, she was going to do it the right way. Waverly deserved that and so much more.

“I’m thinking…I can’t believe you kept it,” Nicole deflected, ignoring Wynonna.

“Of course I did.” Waverly smiled and stepped closer. “I keep everything you give me.”


“Ugh, yes, really.” Wynonna walked between them. “She’s got a box upstairs with all sorts of junk related to you.” She snatched the wallet from Nicole’s hands and pulled out a handful of bills before tossing it back. “Some ugly unicorn thing, ticket stubs, pictures, a stained coffee cup sleeve, which,” she screwed up her face, “gross.”

“It’s not gross,” Waverly protested, her entire face now flushed.

 “I think it’s adorable,” Nicole reassured her.

“Adorably psycho maybe.” Wynonna said with an affectionate roll of her eyes. “Don’t make out too long okay? I don’t want my Gong Bao chicken to go cold,” she said over her shoulder as she went outside to get their food.

“Don’t listen to her,” Nicole said, leaning down to give Waverly a quick kiss, soft and sweet.

“Mmm, I never do.” Waverly beamed as she pulled away. “Help me set the table?”

“Sure.” Nicole carefully tucked the card back into its spot behind the photo and placed the wallet back in Waverly’s purse. She followed her girlfriend to the kitchen, stealing another kiss before Wynonna got back, all the while thinking about the next thing she’d give to Waverly; something she hoped Waverly would keep forever.

Caffeine Challenge #6

Whoo, good job everyone! That was a fun challenge :) You can read all past challenges and today’s HERE on this doc! It also has other’s who participated.

Here’s also mine below!

[END TIME lol I actually finished a contained short story for once!]

You sign the contract in crayon and pray that you haven’t already made a mess of things. The demon in front of you doesn’t see anything amiss, doesn’t question your choice of writing implements, doesn’t do anything but what she’s been doing for the past hour; smiling.

“There we go,” she coos and pets your hair like a mother would. “Easy, easy and so much time life, darling. You made a good deal.”

“…Thanks,” you say, trying not to lean into her touch. It’s been weeks since anyone but a nurse has touched you, even longer since anyone has touched you with something approaching the amount of affection this demon is showing you.

It’s a lie, you think, staring down at your hands. They’re thin and brushed with purple and blue, your skin nearly translucent under the weight of your medications. Your fingers knot in your flimsy hospital gown.

“Take care, kid,” the demon says and brings the contract to her lips. She kisses the crackling paper and smiles wickedly at you. “I’ll be seeing you soon enough.”

She disappears in smoke and fire, a vortex of light and sound in the sterile hospital room that sends all the machines hooked up to you shrieking. She takes with her the sense of peace she’d brought, probably something artificial too.

You sigh and begin to pull the IVs and patches from your body.

“Stop!” Nurse Blanchett rushes into your room, eyes wide. She’s wearing pastel pink scrubs today, the brightest color in the hospital. She grabs your wrist as you go for the heart monitor, pinning it to your side. “Lavina, you can’t pull the–”

She breaks off as, slowly, you lift your arms, forcing hers up. You’re strong, so much stronger than her, and she loses the concern in her eyes to fear.

“I’m checking out,” you say and she lets go, stepping back from you. You swing your legs over the side of the bed, your bare feet still thin, still sickly, but filled with so much strength that your knees don’t buckle when you stand. “Goodbye, Nurse Blanchett.”

You don’t have any normal clothes at the hospital, but that’s fine. You need to go shopping before your final destination anyway.

Keep reading


Testing out my new scanner on a couple of 4komas. It works great on the edge panels, but the ones on the book binding side took a couple of tries before they weren’t too ugly. 

Some relevant things: Nagito creeping and Hajime overestimating his protagonist powers. Sore wa chigau yo, Hinata-kun.

Both taken from Vol. 2 of the Super Dangan Ronpa 2 Yonkoma.