#you're not entitled to how people color gingerbread
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Anyways since you cocks don't seem to remember how skin color can work,
Just because someone is colored with paler skin doesn't mean they're fucking white. You can literally be as pale as the fucking moon but then turn out to be asian or hispanic. It doesn't make them automatically white, it just means they can pass as white.
So stop bitching and moaning about how people color gingerbread cookies. They're not fucking people and even if it's their humanizations, people don't have to suck up your arbitrarty standards of how a poc should look.
#cookie run#cookie run ovenbreak#why are you people so goddamn entitled#you're not a fucking savior if you make bitchy posts about white washing#jfc at least that milquecookie asshole actually has the balls to be upfront with artists with their stupid standards#if you're not gonna tell someone their art isn't what you want it to look the shut the fuck up#anyways on a nicer note you can literally color the cookies however you want i don't care#just don't be a bitch when someone else's perspective of how they would look is different from yours#and yes it makes sense if they were to use the eyedropper tool if they were drawing them digitally but I'll say this again#you're not entitled to how people color gingerbread
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6 Fivan (Vampire ? Or any other actually)
6. "Kiss me and/or shut up."
It is the tenth Winter Fete since Fedyor Kaminsky came to the Little Palace at the age of nine, which means that it is also the tenth Winter Fete that he has spent with Ivan Sakharov glowering at him from the corner and looking as if he will personally murder the next poor fool who wishes him happy holidays. Fedyor has never entirely figured out what Ivan's problem is, aside from a pathological aversion to fun of all kinds, but if he is totally honest, their overheated teenage rivalry has recently acquired a decidedly different tenor. There was that whole episode at the snowed-in inn at Arkesk, for one, and the unwilling sharing of the bed. Fedyor is still thinking about that, in fact. Probably a lot more than he should.
He coughs, feeling his cheeks turn warm for more reasons than the spiced eggnog. He tries to distract himself, circulating through the crowd and chatting with his friends -- Fedyor, unlike some people, is plenty popular, and has other things to do at parties apart from skulk and sulk in the solitary shadows. When he looks around, Ivan is still watching him, arms crossed ferociously across the chest of his formal kefta. Both of them are entitled to wear the Heartrender colors, the mark of their accession to full Grisha, and Ivan looks as if he might start reminding everyone just why he joined that order with flying colors. In hopes of heading off a holiday massacre (and all right, other reasons), Fedyor turns around, plucks a cup of rum punch and a gingerbread cookie off a passing tray, and wades over to his miserable granite lump of a counterpart. "Happy Winter Fete, Ivan," he says genially. "Are you enjoying the celebrations?"
Ivan glares at him even harder, as if to ask what about any of this looked like he was. Then he looks at Fedyor's proffered offerings, and snorts disdainfully. "I'm not hungry."
"So what?" Fedyor leans against the wall, feeling agreeably lightheaded. "You just came here to make sure everyone knew that you weren't having a good time and couldn't wait to rush back to your cold dark room alone?"
Ivan's eyes flicker briefly. If he was about to say something, he doesn't. They stand there in continued total silence, staring out at the music and noise and lights and colored whirl of the crowd, keftas of red and blue and purple, the tsar and the tsarina sitting in ostentatious golden thrones and gracefully receiving homage from their subjects. Chandeliers twinkle and candles burn, and Fedyor almost starts to speak again. There are a lot of questions left unfinished from Arkesk. There are a lot of questions between them in general. As soon as he feels sure that he's figured it out, he doesn't. He's not normally shy, but with Ivan -- it's different. Saints alone know how.
At last, as Fedyor starts to step away, Ivan coughs. "Fine," he says gruffly. "Give me the damn cookie, Kaminsky."
"You're such a dick." Fedyor turns around and resists (barely) the urge to just stuff it in Ivan's grumpy face. "Here. Happy now?"
Ivan jerks his head, but does not deign to actually say thank you. He scoffs the cookie and swigs the rum like it's personally offended him, then shoves the dishes onto the nearest priceless endtable. Then at last, as if fortified by the application of liquid courage, he clears his throat. "About Arkesk," he starts. "That was -- I don't think you should draw any untoward conclusions about my -- "
"Ivan." Fedyor sighs deeply. He flicks his gaze up at the sprig of festive mistletoe that decorates the doorway over their head. "Ivan, Ivan, Ivan. Please listen to me when I tell you that you have never, not once in the history of the world, made anything better by attempting to talk. Here, I'll make this simple. Kiss me or shut up."
Ivan looks utterly gobsmacked. But for that matter, not entirely disapproving. He takes an unconscious step closer, and Fedyor (altogether consciously) does the same. Then Ivan starts, "This is not the correct way to go about -- "
"I said." Fedyor's lips are a breath away. "Shut up."
And with that, his hands fist in the front of that fancy kefta, and Ivan is grabbing at him, and -- they're off to the side, but hardly out of sight, and any one of their fellows could look over and see them -- it's jumbled and hasty and wet and hungry and not even what Fedyor actually came over here to do, but too late now -- they are, in fact, kissing. Kissing quite a lot, actually, and in far more violent a fashion that would be appropriate for a sedate, ceremonial peck. Indeed, Ivan grabs Fedyor under the armpits, swings him around, and slams his back against the elegantly gilded baroque wall, and this -- no, they definitely cannot ruin the Grand Palace's furnishings like this (not to mention their reputations). Feeling like he's grabbed an Inferni's fireball with both hands, and has no idea how to put it out before it scorches him to the bone, Fedyor finally manages to pull away. "Well," he wheezes. "That was.... certainly something."
Ivan doesn't answer. He just stares devouringly at Fedyor, his eyes black with want, absorbing the candlelight like Kirigan's shadows. He doesn't speak. Neither of them move. They can't.
"Well," Fedyor says again. There's something wrong with his voice, rusty and caught in his chest. "Happy... happy holidays. Yes. That. See you. Uh. See you soon."
And with that, leaving Ivan standing like a statue, he flees.
[fic prompts]
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