[juricel]

May I request some eternal sugar x reader she needs some love

a/n: after seven months of absence, I am finally back. I apologize for my long hiatus and how long this took, anon. I'll get back my crk obsession one day...

— eternal sugar cookie x reader headcanons

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: heavy possessive and obssessive behavior, unhealthy relationship, implied forced established relationship, implied imprisonment, implied emotional abuse, lovebombing, potential ooc.

𖦁 eternal sugar adores all cookies—each with their quaint curls and candy smiles, their clumsy frolics and sugar-crusted laughter! but oh... how she worshipped yours. yours was the smile that made her fingertips ache with tenderness, the one she would trap in a sugar globe if she could, to watch it glimmer under refracted sun. at every hour of day or dusk, she pressed herself near you—always near you. she insisted you rest, darling, against the velvet swell of her lap, or let your weary head nestle against the silk of her shoulder. she’d wind her arms around you like fondant vines, not to trap, no, never to trap—only to tether. to remind you, gently, that this was your heaven. that you needn’t look beyond the sugar-pearl gates. you wouldn’t mind, would you, her little morsel? her little delight? she only wished to see that smile—your smile—again and again and again, as if each curl of your lips could stave off the end of sweetness itself. after all.... how cruel it would be to let joy rot unloved in the garden.

𖦁 with you nestled at her side, the garden falls into place—as if the stars had at last found their sockets in the sky, as if the sugarglass air could sigh in relief. she need not speak it aloud; the soil knows, the wind knows: you are the piece that was missing, the final note in her candied sonata. so long as you stay—so long as your warmth graces her side—there will be no sorrow here, no rust, no rot, only laughter preserved in amber, smiles caught mid-bloom, moments stitched in spun sugar and tied with ribbon. you will be happy. you are happy. anyhow, what could the world beyond offer that she hasn’t already placed at your feet? stay with her. and eternity will never end.

𖦁 in the garden, you will find eternal delight, she tells herself, again and again, as if repetition could make it true. in the garden, you will be at peace, for eternal, untouched by sorrow, unspoiled by time. it’s a thought she cradles too often, too tightly, until it bruises beneath her fingers. she repeats it in her sleep, hums it into the soil, weaves it into the petals. it becomes more than comfort—it becomes law. she believes it so deeply, so feverishly, that even she can no longer tell if it was ever a lie. and yet, deep within the sugared silence, there’s a shiver—an unspoken fear that someday you might want more. that someday you might walk past the lilies and not return. she doesn’t want you to leave. she couldn’t bear it. the garden is only paradise because you are in it.

𖦁 her love is sweet, at first—achingly so. she feeds you cake in delicate spoonfuls, each bite a promise, each smile a lullaby. one after another, soft and slow, the slices grow. larger, heavier, more insistent. she watches with shining eyes as you swallow, praises you for every bite, tells you how good you are, how loved. but the sweetness dulls. the frosting clings to your tongue like glue. the flavor begins to blur—no longer sugar, just weight. still, she feeds you. still, she smiles. more, and more, and more. her affection does not pause to ask if you are full. it spills over, constant and consuming, until you forget what hunger even felt like. until the cake makes you sick. but she does not see. or perhaps she refuses to see. in her eyes, love is nourishment, and if it hurts, it simply means you haven’t had enough. so open your mouth, darling. just one more bite. one more. for her.

𖦁 she pampered you as one might coddle a coveted doll—porcelain-pale, perilously brittle—her every touch a hesitant tremolo, afraid that even a sigh might splinter you into a hundred iridescent shards. you became, under her gaze, less a person than a delicate curio behind glass; a butterfly pinned to the wall, wings frozen in a brief, delicate dance, admired, untouchable, impossibly intact.

𖦁 she doesn't mean to be so controlling, darling. never her intent! It's simply that... beyond the sanctuary of her garden, the world is but a chaotic blur—a cruel tangle of noise, confusion, and ruin. why, why would you ever step a foot out there? surely, you knew better, didn’t you? In here, everything is peace, harmony, and perfect order. the air is always sweet, the flowers always bloom, and the sun always shines just so. It is a paradise, untouched by the dissonance of the outside world. but it doesn’t matter, no—it’s all well. she could teach her dearest darling once more, as she always has been, as she always will... for you are her sweet little sylph.

𖦁 she keeps you pinned under her gaze, as though you were a rare butterfly caught in the web of her eyes, trembling, fragile. she fears that if she releases you, even for an instant, the world will swallow you whole, and you’ll slip away like a fleeting shadow, never to return. the mere thought shreds her, splitting her open, even a flicker of it in her mind ignites a desperate madness that seizes her veins, frantic and blistering. you won’t leave, darling, will you? no, she knows you won’t—how could you? not after you’ve tasted her sweetness, not after she had woven herself into your bones. you can’t bear to imagine a life without her, did you? she is your softness, your warmth, the only balm for your frayed edges. she’ll stay with you, always, as long as you stay with her, as long as you keep feeding her, keep holding her close. it’s simple, really—she needs you, and you need her, too. you’ve already let her in, let her shape you with the gentleness of her touch, the sweetness of her words. she will keep you safe, darling, safe in the way only she can, as long as you promise to stay by her side.

[juricel]

Headcanon request for Beast Cookies x reader who gets convinced by them to join them so he won't have to suffer the pain of their life and had became an entity so they will be together with them forever?

a/n: I didn't include silent salt, for this is heavily centered around their character, and they have yet come out, I hope you don't mind but then again, I have stated it before that I do not write for them.

— mystic flour cookie x reader, burning spice cookie x reader, shadow milk cookie x reader, eternal sugar cookie x reader.

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: themes of nihilism as per usual mystic flour cookie, emotional despair, existential dread, self-harm imagery, manipulation, love bombing, coercion, and potential ooc.

pointless. MYSTIC FLOUR COOKIE could not comprehend the rationality of your persistence—your endless prattling, your stubborn resolve; it was all for naught, a futile exertion in the face of the inevitable. did you not understand? all of it would fade—irrelevant, unnoticed, as if it had never been. there would be no mark upon history, no legacy to preserve the fight. every effort, every defiance, would dissolve into nothingness. and yet, still, you fought. why? the path to salvation lay not in this endless struggle, but in surrender. take her hand, and step into the void, where all things had long since ceased, and in that stillness, grace would bestow eternal peace.

no matter how fiercely cookies flourish, how far they reach, how deeply they love, it all drifts to dust—soft and weightless, like flour borne on the wind. the cycle endures: rise, fall, forget. she cannot unmake it, cannot wipe the slate clean. but she can offer something else. not erasure, no—eternity. come with her, step beyond the world’s decay, and become untouchable. transcend, not vanish. remain, always.

oh, you poor little crumpled cherub! look at you—covered in your own crimson jam, eyes like broken glass, heart swollen with pain and heavy with sorrow. if you persist—if you drag those feet another inch along the jagged path—you shall diverge irreparably from that divine avenue, the gilded promenade of happiness! no, no, no. that would be a blasphemy—a sacrilege against delight itself! ETERNAL SUGAR COOKIE cannot—will not—permit such a tragic misfolding of fate. you were meant to glisten, not to grieve.

come, won’t you, to her garden? that clandestine eden where sorrow dares not tread, where even the ghosts hush their moans and the air shimmers with a perfume too ancient to name. you shall not be alone there—no, never alone. if a tear escapes your eye, the vines will lean in and weep with you, green tendrils coiling gently, whispering leaf-lullabies. if your soul is fractured, fret not—the garden, with its blooms and murmuring roots, will stitch it whole with the deftness of an old dream. ah, but if you hesitate, if some last flicker of will resists—fear not. she will find a way. she always finds a way. you see, she adores the broken ones, the little cookies crumbling at the edges. so tired, so terribly tired—tormented by those gnawing, spidery thoughts. let her help. let her hush them. let her do the thinking for you. why strain, sweet wafer of woe, when she can cradle you forever in petals and shadow, in silk and silence?

hope; a pitiful paper crown worn by the naïve, the desperate, the deluded. a banquet of baloney, stuffed with saccharine dreams and stale promises, paraded about as if it were virtue incarnate. rubbish—glittered, gift-wrapped, and passed down like heirloom poison from one wide-eyed generation to the next. a trick of the psyche. a sparkling hallucination meant to distract from the gnashing teeth just beyond the velvet proscenium. and the world? oh, don’t make him laugh. the world is no stage—it is a pitiless cabaret, a carnival of grotesques. the curtains are stitched from flayed dreams, the spotlights are slow-burning gas fires. every act ends in collapse, every round of applause is but a dirge. the audience has long since abandoned their seats, but the performers—poor, wretched things—still stagger through their routines. mouthing the words. hitting their marks. bleeding on cue. and you—you dear, fluttering marionette—you still believe! you still prattle! still tie ribbons around your grief and call it poetry. still sing lullabies to your pain, mistaking it for a wounded bird rather than the vulture it truly is. you cling to hope like a drunk to his last coin, spinning it in the gutter and whispering, “maybe this time.” ah, such dainty noise—like spoons chiming in a dollhouse—will perish, in time. it must. the fools, ever enamored with their toybox paradise, will cradle it like something sacred, mistaking the humdrum balm of ignorance for grace. but fret not, fret not! his sweet little dear, do not despair—applaud, even! for SHADOW MILK COOKIE has not just one, but many dazzling entrances prepared for you. each one a doorway, each one a revelation. not with force—how vulgar—but with flair, with wonder! so come, his darling—step through the curtain, shed your skin of sorrow, and be reborn in the only truth that matters: to be his.

cookies. they rose, they cracked, they rose again, and cracked. same old story. he’d seen it too many times—dough stretching like blind roots toward some fake sun, puffing up with hot little dreams, then sinking, splitting, crumbling into nothing. always the same end. always that brittle, pathetic hope. there was something sickly sweet about it all, like a smile left out too long. the cycle droned on, dull as dust and just as stubborn. life, with its sugar-coated promises, never gave him anything new—just the same tired tune, the same broken record, spinning in the dark. he’d tried to fix it, patch the cracks, hold the thing together with floury hands and good intentions. useless. it always fell apart. everything. even the trying. in the end, he searched and strained and still found nothing that fit, nothing that stayed—until you. you were the only thing that didn’t flicker out, the only one he could hold onto without bracing for the break. the one thing he could care for without fear of it crumbling. the one thing that didn’t wilt. and BURNING SPICE COOKIE intends to keep it till the end.

those pathetic cookies—faint, crumbly grotesques of valor—cracked and disintegrated at the mere suggestion of his axe. not a whisper of resistance, not a flicker of defiance. they vanished like brittle dreams at daybreak, a thwart species... you mustn’t consort with such ornamental failures; their loyalty is as shallow as the sugar crust they flake beneath. you ought, instead, to come to him—yes, you, as though drawn by some perfumed gravity stitched into the hem of dusk—for he alone knows what is deserved for you.

a/n: it's me and my dearest em dash (including my extremely complicated imagery) against the world, also isn't it obvious I struggled with shadow milk cookie's part?

[juricel]

i am back (⁠ ⁠◜⁠‿⁠◝⁠ ⁠)⁠♡ the eternal sugar leak rose me up the graves, i started gnawing at my phone when i saw jer oh my god.

[juricel]

Oh my!!

I was not expecting your thoughts on my little request, and it’s entirely fine! I understand some things are quite difficult to write if you can’t get ideas.

Nevertheless, I was reading over all of those writings of yours, and here’s the ones that stuck out to me the most: Shadow Milk managing to manipulate the reader’s nymphs, the reader managing to threaten him by using turning him into a pig as one of them — forcing them into the Spire of Deceit.

My oh my, that was an entire rollercoaster I need more of. I feel like I just got the best case of vertigo!

Nevertheless, I propose while using those ideas: what would Shadow Milk be like trying to get this Circe like reader under his clutches further? What about their nymphs — which they’d do anything for? I can see some vantage points, but I simply fell in love with your ideas and writing that I cannot get enough of it!!

Thank you very much for reading this, and for your time.

I’ll say again louder for the people in the back: WE LOVE YOU JURICELLLLLL ‼️‼️‼️ we ALLLL scream in unison.

- Amphora Anon 🏺

I'm glad !!! I was a tad bit worried since I thought you might be a little let down... it's rarely I do it for requests and the guilt, as expected, comes since it's unnatural to me to do ^^;

As for your ideas, I feel like shadow milk cookie would definitely hold their beloved nymphs as hostages, using it to threaten them to coming to him because well, he's a menace.

[juricel]

hello this is not a request or something but a small message to make your day a bit brighter. I seen some of your writing from the Cookie run Kingdom fandom and I have to say it’s beautiful itself.

I do question though I seen you write a lot of shadow milk fanfiction but have you ever wanted to write your kind of fanfiction like I’m curious if you could choose one of the cookies to write a fanfiction about who would it be? This is just a small question and I hope you’re doing amazing

aaaa,, thank you so much! I appreciate it <3

as for the inquiry, preferably a female cookie. this may sound surprising but I actually am not quite found of any of the male cookies with the exemption of shadow milk cookie and if shadow milk cookie had not been a jester I wouldn't like him whatsoever... the first female that comes to my mind is black forest cookie or eternal sugar! and if we're including ovenbreak characters, I'd say black swan cookie.

[juricel]

requesting precorrupt smc x reader x corrupt smc... 🙏🙏 do whatever!!

a/n: I apologize for the late reply! I have finally gotten artistic inspiration, but in exchange for my writing inspiration. there's not much content warning in this post aside from the slight canon divergence, because obviously, two versions of shadow milk cookie won't exist in a single universe, that would be, simply put, a destiny much horrifying than hell itself.

— corrupt! shadow milk cookie x reader x pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie

𖦁 pre! corrupt shadow milk cookie, in all his decadent rot, would not hesitate to part with a morsel, for after all, it isn’t cheating, is it? since it is still him, however, in an alternate universe. ah, but the latter on the other hand... corrupt! shadow milk cookie harbors a less benign disposition. even if it is an echo, a mere specter of his own self, the act of sharing you provokes discontent, nor was it in his in his written script; for you, in your ineffable singularity, are /his/. and his alone. It matters not if the proposed rascal being woven through your relationship was an alternate version of himself; the principle remains immutable — you are HIS. and no, you don't get to a say on this, who even are you to set such boundaries?

𖦁 It wasn't possessiveness, no, not at all! such word was not in his dictionary; it was simply put an unvarnished statement of what was blatantly true, and if pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie couldn’t handle such a reality, then let him return to where he came from and rot into ashes of flour, forgotten. he had no intention of sharing you with anyone—anyone—not even with a version of himself. If pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie desired you so intensely, why not settle for an alternate version of you, hmm? let him make do with that. and if he didn’t like it... well! that, my dear, was certainly not his problem, was it? let him stew in his discontent. the truth had been laid bare before him, as it was meant to be, and if it stung—well, that’s the nature of truths, isn’t it? not something to be coddled or softened for his fragile sensibilities. his discomfort was of no concern to you, nor to him. however, much to his displeasure, it was not as if pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie would simply leave. no, for after all, you were first his, and abandoning you to the clutches of greedy and possessive hands was not part of his modus operandi—not at all. he was not the sort to let go so easily, nor was he inclined to stand by while others claimed what was rightfully his.

𖦁 the two are like little rascals, always caught in some petty exchange, either passively-aggressively bickering or downright squabbling—yet, curiously, never once resorting to anything physical in spite of their frequent squabbles.

𖦁 neither of them intend to leave, so brace yourself for frequent invasions of privacy. pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie is the more polite of the two—if only slightly—but still finds amusement in your predicament, indulging in it much to your displeasure... corrupt! shadow milk cookie, on the other hand, has abandoned even the pretense of respect, constantly attempting to pry you away from pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie's "grubby" hands. very frankly, this arrangement could have worked—if corrupt! shadow milk cookie was the type to tolerate such things. but alas, sharing has never been his strong suit, and the very idea grates against him like an insult. a lingering glance, a presence too close—unforgivable, the mere thought of sharing isn’t just unwelcome—it’s absurd. for in the first place, there was never anyone else to begin with until now.

𖦁 pre-corrupt! shadow milk cookie tries, truly, he does... but his efforts are mostly futile. no matter the approach, the reasoning, or the circumstance, it’s simply a concept that refuses to take root in corrupt! shadow milk cookie’s mind. sharing is not something he does—not naturally. however, on the rarest of occasions, in moments few and far between, he does allow it. but make no mistake—such generosity is fleeting, and it is never without cost.

a/n: i genuinely forgot i had tumblr... anyway, the new cookie is so adorbs and she's so good in living abyss too!! i fear pumpkin pie cookie's place in my top 3 is getting taken...

[juricel]

would candy apple cookie be a supporter or a #hater to shadow milk cookie x reader

hater. if anything, she'd be seething with anger at it,, she would be the biggest non-sharing yumeshipper of shadow milk cookie... sorry guys..

[juricel]

hello, I just want to say I love the way you write Shadow Milk Cookie, that we have very similar views on his character and it feels very vindicating, and that I love Shadow Milk's tits no matter how flat, concave, and utterly pathetic they are

!?!?!??!?!

disregarding the last part... i’m so glad you enjoy how i write shadow milk cookie! it’s great to hear we have similar views on his character,, it’s always nice when you find someone who gets it... thank you for the kind feedback heart heart

[juricel]

HIHIII i'm the anon that requested the last piece you wrote, and i just wanted to say TYSMMM <33! you did an incredible job writing it :) also i hope you feel better soon, and get lots of rest :3!

-🕊️annon

hello to you as well!! I'm glad you liked it, I was a bit reluctant to post it as it didn't turn out the way I wanted...

[juricel]

Can I request yandere Pure Vanilla Cookie x reader please? Thank you so much! (๑>◡<๑)

greetings! I, unfortunately, do not write about any other cookies besides the beasts ^^;

[juricel]

yandere shadow milk x reader who's associated with pure vanilla? like an assistant or something?

thank youuu :3

a/n: apologies for the late reply! i didn't know what to do with this request and also because im in the hospital rn and recovering ^^; i'm supposed to rest but i wanted to write...

— yandere! shadow milk cookie x assistant! reader

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: surprisingly not much content warning, yanderes, heavy possessive and obssessive behavior, unhealthy relationship, implied forced established relationship, mentioned mindbreak, implied physical and emotional abuse, potential ooc.

𖦁 one of the knowledge that came greatly with being the assistant of pure vanilla cookie was one thing: the understanding of shadow milk cookie's wickedness. and with that knowledge came an inevitability—you would loathe him, despise him with every trembling fiber of your being. after all, how could you not, when he had inflicted upon your master a harm so insidious, so inhumane, that no visible wound could ever hope to rival it? his cruelty did not leave mere scars—it sculpted abysses in the soul, chasms of sorrow where light once dwelled.

𖦁 how faithful you were, a devoted shadow bound to your master’s light! for centuries, you trailed along pure vanilla cookie steps, as if orbiting him like a planet to its sun. and so, when he entered the spire, you followed after him—of course you did. shadow milk cookie was not surprised. no, he had long accounted for you, your loyalty, your inevitable arrival. you were as predictable as nightfall, as moths to flame, as a lamb led blindly to slaughter— just as he had planned. however, what gnawed at him, what curled like smoke in the marrow of his thoughts, was your devotion. what was so good about pure vanilla cookie? he didn't get you, nothing really was so brilliant about him. a brittle thing, so easy to prod and bend until he broke just right; that was one thing, yet, you—you—clung to him with such reverence, such maddening admiration for something else he could not see. for what? for who? what did he have that shadow milk did not? what pathetic, insipid warmth kept you so leashed to him? he could offer you so much more—more safety, more knowledge, more entertainment. he could carve out a space for you in his world, shield you from the soft, saccharine delusions you clung to so desperately. and yet, you still shied from him, still turned to that weak, flickering light. It almost made him laugh. almost. but laughter was for amusement, and he wasn't fond of this one.

𖦁 you should be /his/ instead. his dear, devoted follower, his ever-adoring shadow. why waste yourself on him—that brittle, trembling thing—when shadow milk could offer you so much more? oh, he would give you wonders, spectacles of illusion spun just for you, laughter so sweet it would rot you from the inside out. entertainment, delight, deceit. and surely, in time, you would learn. learn to savor the moment a mind snaps, to take fulfillment in the fragile shattering of conviction, in the exquisite collapse of sanity. it would be beautiful. it would be yours. you only had to let go of that fragile, flickering light, that feeble thing who could never keep you safe, him, who never understand you the way he could. pure vanilla cookie, with his trembling kindness and hollow reassurances, would never give you what you needed. not like shadow milk. no, never like shadow milk. he could strip away the illusions you clung to, peel back the layers of your mind until you saw the world for what it truly was—raw, malleable, his. he would guide you, shape you, cradle your thoughts in his hands until they became something beautiful. and oh, how beautiful you would be. how exquisite, how perfect once you learned to listen, to see, to believe. to hear the delicate, symphonic crack of another’s breaking mind and finally, finally understand the pleasure in it. he would teach you. he would love you. and one day, you would look at him not with fear, not with resistance, but with devotion.

𖦁 it’ll be fun, he promises, and you will see, oh, you’ll see, you’ll understand. the thrill, the ecstasy of unraveling a mind thread by thread, the art of peeling away resistance until nothing remains but pliant, trembling devotion. he will show you, guide you, remake you into something worthy. yet, when he asked—when he offered after graciously severing you away from those imbeciles—you declined. declined. his smile didn’t falter, no, but something inside him cracked. declined? declined? after everything he had done, after he had so graciously peeled back the veil, unraveled the world for you, made it so easy for you to step into the path made for you? and yet you still clung to that pathetic, fragile little light, that miserable excuse for safety, that wretched, wretched delusion? his fingers twitched. something inside him writhed. the shadows around you trembled, warped, twisted at the edges as if reflecting something he refused to put into words. you were testing him. pushing him. rejecting him. insulting him. but that was fine. oh, that was fine. he could be patient. he could wait. he could break you as slowly as he pleased. but make no mistake—he will break you.

𖦁 and the first step to that? through your master, pure vanilla cookie. he had always been the target, the delicate little thread shadow milk longed to snap, but now—now, there was more to it, more weight, more purpose. it was no longer just about breaking him, no longer just about watching that soft, trembling kindness crumble into despair. no, now it was about you. about making you watch, making you feel every fracture, every moment of his collapse, until the last of your useless devotion burned to ash. he would make you understand. he would make you beg. yes, yes, you will understand, you will see, you will learn the cost of your defiance, the price of your pathetic, meaningless loyalty. you think you can reject him, turn away from what he so graciously offered? no, no, no, it doesn’t work that way, not with him. you will pay for declining him, you will suffer for it. surely, you didn't think you could simply enjoy life as you go on after declining him, don't you?

𖦁 piece by piece, he peeled pure vanilla cookie apart. not carefully, not gently, but with a slow, creeping malice, like hands pressing too tightly around a fragile thing just to feel it strain before it snaps. he could have played his games longer, toyed with the unraveling of a mind with the same amusement as one might pluck the legs off an insect, but you had declined him. and for that, he would make you suffer. he dug into your master’s mind, not just to break him, but to strip him bare, to leave behind something unrecognizable, something that would make you wince just to look at. he did not speak softly, did not coax him into doubt—he let it crawl, let it sink, let it fester until every thought became a sickness. shadow milk made sure he saw, made sure he felt the weight of it, made sure he could not look away. he watched the light drain from his eyes, the tremor settle in his hands, the last of his certainty rot away into something limp, something pitiful. and you—you were forced to watch. to stand there, silent, frozen, as your master, your beloved light, withered into something small, something helpless, something that would never be able to save you. you could scream, you could cry, you could beg for it to stop, but the moment you declined him, you had sealed your fate. this was not a lesson, not a punishment—this was personal. he would take everything, carve out every illusion, pull apart every piece of you until you were empty, hollow, weightless in his hands, until there was nothing left but him. and then—then you would finally be his.

𖦁 yes, yes— yes! you were his, his, his, his, not by chance, not by fate, but because it could be no other way. the key was in his fist, his fist was in his pocket, pressed so tightly against his palm that the metal left little crescents in his skin, a secret little brand of devotion, of longing, of possession. you were his, weren’t you? not yet, not fully, but oh, you would be, you had to be. how could you not see it? how could you not feel it, the way your very existence was carved to fit into his hands? every breath you took without him was a mistake, a terrible, agonizing mistake that he would fix, because he loved you, because he needed you, because the world was wrong—wrong—when you were not his. you could fight, you could sob, you could spit those little refusals like a wounded thing too foolish to realize it had already been caught, but what did it matter? there was no world beyond him anymore, no future that did not end with you folded into him, safe, perfect, ruined beyond recognition. oh, he would break you so gently, so sweetly, so thoroughly that when you finally crumbled, you would do so with his name on your tongue and relief in your heart. because you were his, you had always been his, and soon—soon—you would understand that too.

𖦁 an odious cookie, a caricature of unrelenting cruelty, turpid in spirit, despicable in deed. he was cruel, yes—mean beyond measure, despicable in every conceivable way—but it was all for you. for the twisted devotion he felt for you, a love so suffocating, so sickly sweet, it made the very air around him thick with poison. he already had his devoted followers—his poor, mindless slaves who fawned and worshipped at his feet, their hearts hollow and weak. but none of them, none of them, were enough. not until you were beside him. you, with your innocence, with your indifference. you, the one thing that both tore him apart and made him feel whole. did you not feel it? the pull? the way his gaze devoured you, consumed you, as though you were the last breath of air he would ever taste? oh, sweet darling, how he longed for you. how he burned for you. had you not turned away, had you not rejected him, you would have been his, completely. and he would have been yours, bound in chains of obsession so tight that neither of you could breathe, and only pure vanilla cookie would've heen hurt. and yet... cradling your face in his trembling hands, he let his breath linger on yours, lips brushing against the fading warmth of your skin. your eyes—hollow and lifeless—held no spark, but he didn’t pull away. you were his now, no longer the person you once were, but a broken version of what he had longed for. still, he loved you more for it, for you were his creation, shaped by his devotion. his kiss was not of tenderness, but of possession, absorbing the last traces of your humanity with every stolen breath. no longer yourself, but still his. you were not the person he once desired, but you were his, twisted and remade, and forever—forever—his love would suffocate you, even as you faded into nothingness. your emptiness, the final proof of his devotion, was his greatest prize.

a/n: i got both pv and smc's costumes!! i'm so happy... i only spent 32k for them surprisingly,, they're both so adorbs!!

[juricel]

SILLY LITTLE REQUEST BUT LISTEN PLS 🙏🙏

fem!reader telling the beasts their tits are bigger than them 🤏🤏

a/n: ????? anon... sigh. anyway, content warnings are only suggestive themes, clothed flondling, strip tease & flirty banter—no actual nsfw content.

— shadow milk cookie x fem!reader, burning spice cookie x fem!reader, mystic flour cookie x fem!reader, eternal sugar cookie x fem!reader, silent salt cookie x fem!reader

at your words, a smug little smile curves its way onto SHADOW MILK COOKIE's lips, his gaze sharp and mischievous. "oh? are they now? like what you see?" he drawls, the tone dripping with arrogance and humor, like he's found the perfect opportunity to show off, "well—" you trail off, and he laughs: with a slow, deliberate grace, he begins to toy with the edge of his bodysuit's sleeve, peeling off the fabric slowly. each movement drawn out, agonizingly slow, until, with what seems like a painstakingly dramatic flourish, he pulls it down—just enough to expose his bare shoulder, a slight glimpse of his chest poking through.

you freeze, your mind scrambling to catch up with the scene unfolding before you. It’s not until that moment—when the sight settles into your senses—that the full absurdity of what’s happening hits you, oh. oh.

next goes his other sleeve.

It wasn’t that you meant to stare—no, not at all, not in any deliberate, perverse way—but when, before you, BURNING SPICE COOKIE's chest lay exposed, no barrier, no modesty, and that size, impossible to ignore. It was a sight that seized your attention; "I guess you'd be hard-pressed to find bigger than those. must be nice to brag about." you weren’t seducing, not exactly—but when he loomed over you, broad chest casting its shadow, you faltered. "a bigger body just means a stronger shield. nothing more to it than that. would you have that same attitude once you've been smothered beneath them? keep mouthing off, and I might just test it." he threatens. his presence presses on you, relentless, suffocating, yet curiously magnetic. you can hear the promise in his words, the challenge wrapped in those syllables. you shouldn't, of course. you shouldn't entertain the thought of it—but, to be entirely truthful... it wasn't like you were opposed to that idea...

SILENT SALT COOKIE with an air of quiet contemplation, regards you. you, naturally, interpret the stillness as a polite dismissal of your words—an imperceptible brushing aside of your rather inconsequential utterances. however, much to your bewilderment, your words are not disregarded. instead, they are misinterpreted, embraced even, as an invitation. the cookie reluctantly reaches out, hand gently squeezing your chest and in an swift motion, quicker than you could possibly perceive, immediately pulls away as if its touch were a mere whisper against your chest; fleeting, and subtle, that it might as well have been a figment of your imagination—the only remnant sign of the occurrence being the voice that rasps from them, hoarse and hushed from no use since centuries, yet it is clear enough to pass off as a murmur, “It’s not too bad.”

you blink, utterly baffled, your mind scrambling to make sense of the absurdity of it all. and then, without warning, a burst of laughter erupts from you—a deep, uncontrollable fit of giggles. sometimes you really forget how little they were experienced about these things.

ETERNAL SUGAR COOKIE, her soft rosy curls tumbling in gentle waves over her delicate shoulders, withdrew her head from the chest upon which it had been resting, and she tilts her head to the side—her eyes sparkled with mischief, and her lips curled into a teasing smile that promised trouble. “well, isn’t that a little perverse?” she purred, her voice light but edged with playful reproach. with a breathy laugh, she leaned closer, her voice dropping just low enough to make the air feel charged. “might i have require to punish you for being so crude?” In spite of her words, she made no move to push you away, instead, she interlocked her fingers with yours, drawing your hand towards her. with a slow, deliberate motion, she placed it gently upon her chest.

"better, mmh?" she tips her head to the side.

you might as well caress a wall if you want to touch MYSTIC FLOUR COOKIE's chest.

a/n: I feel as though this request was specifically asked for burning spice considering his mantits are literally out in the open and i fear hes the only one i get... i don't really think shadow milk cookie has mantits and silent salt is enby to me and as for mystic... cmon.

[juricel]

hi.... 💔💔 its been weeks since i sent an ask n was js wondering if my ask got declined or was sent during this hiatus tijng you spoke of in your last post

greetings! I usually don't decline asks and I don't know which one is your request but if you had sent an ask after the post I linked in the obsessive! reader author's note, it most likely have been deleted by the second owner! other than that, it could also be: a request solely involving pre-corrupt shadow milk cookie or it's a request that I cannot formulate an idea to and is being left to rot until I manage to muster one up.

[juricel]

OML I got this idea stuck in my damn brain like-

Reader aka us, being the ruler of the cookie kingdom (the kingdom we currently own as the player), and Shadow Milk Cookie begging to be let in the kingdom because he wanted to cause silly danger and more mischief (in his corruption), to only fall in love with us (could potentially become a yandere but up to you) after a few days/weeks of meeting.

Like - reader as very sweet, calm and cool that made SMC fall hard in love for them ? 💙🩵

a/n: don't know about everyone else, but me, personally, if I see shadow milk cookie begging to be let in my kingdom, I'd be more than willing to take him in... need to promote him to 2 stars...

— yandere! jester! shadow milk cookie x ruler! reader

໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა ۪ ׂ CONTENT WARNING: yandere themes, psychological and emotional manipulation, gaslighting, coercion, toxic relationships, extreme possessiveness, obsession, mind-breaking, corruption, shadow milk cookie is a cunt, slow-burn destruction, degradation, despair, entrapment, dependency, unhealthy power dynamics, existential horror, and dark romanticization of suffering, its written in shadow milk perspective so it's romanticized, potential ooc.

𖦁 above the high tower—so pristine, so sickeningly pure—a utopia. a kingdom balanced on the trembling fulcrum of equality, on the polished illusion of prosperity, on that laughable dream of heaven. when first he heard of it, he scoffed, a knowing little chuckle curling at the edge of his lips. a kingdom so spotless was a kingdom awaiting its first stain. a place so righteous, so unbearably good, was nothing more than a stage trembling in anticipation of its first act of sin. and if corruption was its fate—oh, the sweet, inexorable pull of ruin—then why not be the hand that guides it? the first dark filament woven into its tapestry, the first exquisite crack in its porcelain? for after all, what greater pleasure was there than watching a kingdom of splendor crumble? to witness the slow unraveling, the first fractures lacing through their golden foundations, the hesitant, horrified realization dawning in their wide, unspoiled eyes? a bliss; the way grandeur rots from within, the way righteousness sours into desperation. It was always such fun, never failing to elicit a laughter from his lips—to watch their heaven buckle under the weight of its own impossible promises, to see their shining citadel collapse into the very ruin they swore could never touch them.

𖦁 at first, that was his sole plan—a swift, merciless tainting, a single decisive stroke to mar their pristine dream. but ah, immediate corruption lacked artistry, lacked finesse, and it was certainly not his modus operandi. no, no, he was not some blunt force of ruin, some crude agent of chaos. his was a subtler touch, a patient, insidious creeping of decay. surely, it wouldn’t hurt to let the rot seep in slowly, to let the kingdom sip its own poison drop by drop? after all, a thing does not truly break unless it first believes itself unbroken. and what was the first step to that, but to endear the ruler? to weave himself into their favor, to become the whispered counsel at their ear, the trusted shadow at their side? a kingdom so pure, so blissfully naïve, would never suspect the serpent if it spoke in honeyed tones, if it coiled itself in silken loyalty. let them trust him, let them open their gates, their hearts, their very souls. corruption was sweetest when it was invited in. and so he did; draped himself in the garb of mirth, painted his deception in bright, foolish colors. a performer, a jester—a harmless thing, a trinket for amusement, a creature of capers and laughter. how naturally it all fell into place, how perfectly the pieces clicked. he acted, he jested, he spun his illusions like golden thread, and just as he had anticipated—just as he had orchestrated—one day, you finally took notice. one day, you plucked him from the streets and placed him at your side: as your personal jester.

𖦁 Calm, composed, tender—a ruler carved from the finest marble, whose very breath seemed to hold the delicate rhythm of a perfect, untroubled reign. An embodiment of a perfect ruler, both to his twisted sense of definition and in the term followers coined; a sovereign that ruled with grace and collection, one who will choose peace of their own kingdom rather than theirs, and most importantly, a sovereign exquisite to break, a monarch to watch crumble apart at the seams. With an oh-so-frail hands, he slowly fed you poison, feeding you sweet lullabies lies with every single time he invited himself to your court, yet with such gentleness, such tender adoration, you hardly noticed the slow, treacherous drip of it into your veins. His touch was light, his voice a soothing lullaby, his eyes a mirror to your own desires, reflecting the very world he had already begun to fracture. You laughed in his presence, you adored him as a child adores the fool who dances for their amusement, never suspecting the subtle malice woven beneath the laughter. You were the imperator, crowned and naive, and he—oh, he was no more than a jester, a trickster, a soft-spoken destroyer. He seeped in, unnoticed, beneath the cloak of love, until the kingdom you ruled had turned to ash. Every moment he spent by your side, every gentle word he whispered, drew you closer to the inevitable end. He was not the harbinger of doom, merely its messenger, and you, sweet sovereign, had already embraced the fall—he wasn't cruel! no, far from it, he was simply speeding up the process of your fate.

𖦁 Piece by piece, the delicate order of your kingdom crumbled, the carefully woven threads of control slipping, unraveling into the quiet chaos that waited with open arms. It was such a quiet delight, watching your face—watching the once-imperious set of your features soften, grow fragile. His sweet darling, his imperator—did you enjoy his performance? His quiet theatrics? The way he danced so close to your frail soul, each movement a deliberate stroke in the masterpiece of your undoing? Your laughter—so exquisite, so heartbreakingly tender—spilled into the air like the final note of a dying melody, trembling before fading into something unrecognizable. No longer the regal, composed mirth of a ruler, but something frayed at the edges, something raw, something slipping through your fingers before you could grasp what had changed. And he watched, oh, how he watched, as each delicate layer of your serenity cracked, one by one. And just as he had foreseen, you sought refuge in him—clinging, desperate, drawn to the very hands that had undone you. You needed him, craved the sweet poisons he fed you, each drop a fleeting reprieve from the reality gnawing at the edges of your soul and who was he but a sweet jester, a silken-tongued fool draped in motley mirth? After all, you were his dearest majesty, sovereign of his affections, and if such a luminous crown sought more of his quaint little revels, if those imperial fingers curled, ever so faintly, in silent demand—ah, how could he deny you? You were his to break, and break you he did—so gently, so tenderly, so exquisitely.

𖦁 And ah, how utterly darling you were like that—weren’t you meant to be the perfect ruler, the unshaken sovereign, the very pillar upon which your kingdom stood? But worry not! For he, your ever-faithful jester, would always be there to lift your spirits, to coo and fawn and wrap you in the silken embrace of his honeyed falsehoods. Sweetly, tenderly, he guided your gaze away from the creeping decay, his fingers featherlight as they covered your eyes, his touch a gentle shroud over the truth he was so lovingly unraveling. He was your jester, your fool, a puppet crafted for your amusement, a plaything meant to make you laugh—yet, oh, how beautifully the strings had tangled. For here you were, trembling beneath him, his sweet little sovereign, his fragile darling, lost and despairing, just as you were always meant to be. He yearned to keep you just like this—to clutch the dying breath of your laughter, to sink his fingers into it and squeeze until nothing remained but the broken echoes of something once bright. But joy was meaningless, a trinket easily shattered; no, the true rapture, the thing that set his soul alight, was your despair, your ruin, the exquisite tremor in your breath as realization crawled through your mind like a slow, cold hand. Oh, how he adored the way your smile faltered, how he savored the flicker of fear in those celestial eyes, the way your very soul seemed to wither beneath his touch. You were his masterpiece, your suffering a symphony, each fragile crack in your spirit a note in the melody he had composed with such tender cruelty. Your radiant smile, your trembling gaze—how divine they were, poised at the very edge of oblivion. And oh, how perfect you would be, entombed in eternity, frozen forever in that exquisite moment of collapse. Never whole again, never beyond his reach, never anything but his—his to twist, his to shatter, his to own. No one else could have you. No one else would understand. No one else deserved to witness the fragile, broken thing he had so carefully sculpted. You were his—his ruin, his darling, his little sovereign—forever and only his.

𖦁 Oh, but do not misunderstand him! He loved you, loved you wholly, the way a flame loves the fragile moth that it lures, the way a poet loves the ink that stains his trembling hands. Your gentleness, your calm, your measured poise—these he cherished, yes, these he cradled in the hollow of his palms like something sacred. But oh, his love, what he adored—no, what he worshipped—was that part of you which most repulsed yourself. The cracks, the stains, the lovely little rot that clung to your soul like mold upon marble. Your cruddy, your ruin, the decay that softened your edges into something closer—ah, so much closer—to his own. It was in that wretchedness that he found divinity; it was in your unbecoming that he saw you, at last, becoming his, a reflection of himself. He wanted you broken, petrified, stripped of all that made you whole. But don’t be so upset, won’t you? This was your fate, after all—etched into the marrow of your bones long before you could protest. You were blinded, drunk on the illusions of heaven and prosperity, stumbling through the gilded halls of your own self-deceit. And being the good little jester that he was, ever so devoted to his craft, he helped you out—by corrupting you, warping you, twisting your kingdom into a grotesque parody of its former glory. A kindness, really. A mercy.

a/n: one thing that you can always trust me to do is that if it is possible to include yandere! shadow milk cookie, i WILL include him but i do feel like its starting to get repetitive. also, just woke up after finishing writing this in the middle of the night and i just realized how far this was from the requester's request but... the damage is already done, somebody kill me NOW.

[juricel]

hihi.. im a big fan of your works and your characterization of smc and i was just wondering if you would ever breakdown your view of his character like an analysis! its a weird request but ive always been wanting to hear your general understanding of him not as a character but as a person

greetings! I was initially gonna ignore this as it didn't fall under my usual requests, however, thank you for your compliments! I love shadow milk cookie a lot and the way he is written by devsisters, albeit I have grown a bit reluctant to write him after episode 8 as I feel I might be mischaracterizing him.

to me, shadow milk cookie's actions are mostly derived from his desire to be understood.

however, I do not believe he is only motivated by the desire to be understood; his actions are also derived from his desire to gain control.

He seeks validation not out of insecurity, but as a means to absolve himself of responsibility. If someone can justify his actions, then his isolation is not his fault—it is the world's failure to understand him. His cruelty is both a test and a performance; by provoking hatred or fear, he ensures that others respond in a way that reinforces his worldview (treating others horribly so he can be treated terribly back) Whether they despise him or cower before him, he bends them to his will, using their reactions as both proof of his power and fuel for his own twisted sadistic amusement. for him, there is no respect that comes with being understood.

And this is where I'd like to bring up the relationship betwene him and truthless recluse, or so, corrupted pure vanilla for it plays a lot of part in his character.

The reason why Shadow Milk Cookie did not kill him as what most of the beast cookies did to the ancients is also from his desire to be understood.

Shadow Milk Cookie is not content with mere ruin and his appetite demands something far more exquisite. To unseat the Truthless Recluse from grace was an indulgence, a meticulous orchestration of despair, yet even as his victim lay in the wreckage of his own unspooled faith, it was not enough. Dissatisfaction lingers, a quiet yet insistent dissonance. And so, he prods, he teases, he dismantles, pressing against every last remnant of defiance with a sadist’s precision, savoring the gradual erosion of resistance. Only when the Recluse surrenders—not merely in body, but in the marrow of his being—does Shadow Milk Cookie begin to entertain the notion of “us.” It is not affection but possession, not camaraderie but consumption. The moment of true capitulation comes when the Recluse accepts the obliteration of choice, when he understands that he has no destiny, that his life is not his own, that he is owned. And though Shadow Milk Cookie treasures him, it is not in the way one cherishes a person. No, the Recluse is an artifact, a masterpiece of ruin, an object molded by his hands—beautiful in its defilement, valuable only in its submission.

And this is also why Shadow Milk Cookie cannot abide the thought of being deceived—not by the Truthless Recluse, not by the very thing he has sculpted from ruin. That the Recluse might hold some secret, some flicker of will not yet extinguished, is an insult to the meticulous artistry of his destruction. After all, he was made to be remade, stripped of destiny and rewritten as something less. To Shadow Milk Cookie, he is not a counterpart, not even a disciple, but a possession, a thing molded to fit within the perfect architecture of his dominion. Understanding is a need that gnaws at him, but not in the way of ordinary souls who seek connection. No, Shadow Milk Cookie’s hunger for understanding is a hunger for control. He does not crave an equal, does not desire recognition from something separate from himself. He wants a mirror, a reflection that does not distort, a mind that does not exist beyond the confines of his own design. Until Pure Vanilla has been stripped of even the capacity to deceive, he will never be seen as anything more than an echo, a lesser fragment of the whole.

That was his weakness. That was the fracture beneath all his grandeur, the flaw that made him incapable of taking Pure Vanilla’s hand when it was offered. He could weave illusions as intricate as constellations, construct labyrinths of deception so vast that even their maker might forget the exit—but truth was something he could not stomach. To accept Pure Vanilla back would mean acknowledging that he, too, was flawed. That he was not some immutable force, not a being beyond imperfection, but fallible, weak, capable of error. And that was unthinkable. He clung to the notion that he was something greater, something sculpted by the witches as a divine instrument, a creation set apart from the common masses of Cookies who stumbled through existence in their fragile ignorance. To admit weakness would be to shatter that distinction, to strip away the layers of self-fashioned divinity and reveal the raw, trembling reality beneath: that he was no different from those he manipulated, that he was just as bound by the cruel absurdity of fate as the rest of them. And so he rejected truth. He rejected Pure Vanilla. Because to accept either would mean confronting what he truly was—and that, more than anything, was a reality he refused to face.

Regarding his past, I do believe I have written my understanding of it already in the request in which the reader was a previous yandere; Shadow Milk Cookie’s fall was not a moment, but a slow unraveling, a quiet, insidious corruption born from the realization that truth was irrelevant. He had once spoken to enlighten, to illuminate, to guide, but he came to understand that it did not matter what he said—people would listen regardless. They did not crave truth; they craved *him*, his voice, his presence, the way his words could shape the world into something easier to swallow. They did not seek understanding but comfort, clinging to his wisdom not as an answer but as an escape. And so, piece by piece, he lost belief in his own purpose. He had long struggled with being misunderstood, not as a person but as a symbol, an idol for the desperate to worship without truly seeing him. But instead of seeking to reclaim himself, he turned outward, lashing against the world that had failed him. If no one cared for truth, then he would make truth meaningless. If his words were only ever a salve for the weak, then he would twist them into weapons. It was a self-destruction turned outward, a choice to rot not in solitude but in dominion, to bring ruin as proof of his own suffering. This is what set him and Pure Vanilla apart. They both knew what it was to be unseen, to have their existence reshaped by the expectations of others. But where Pure Vanilla chose to heal, to extend kindness even in the face of his own pain, Shadow Milk Cookie chose cruelty. And though his descent is understandable, even tragic, he is no gentle victim of fate. He is vicious, theatrical in his sadism, delighting in the slow, deliberate unraveling of others—because if he must suffer, then so must they.

[juricel]

I like your pfp Inthought it was Jack from TWST at first but it s very cutesy and pretty!

thank you!! i love my girl isolde a lot... i dont know who that is though

[juricel]

https://www.tumblr.com/juricel/775549627753709568/httpswwwtumblrcomjuricel774735696940367872i?source=share

Wait just saw earlier post and read it and loved it and scrolled to the bottom and saw something about a...hiatus? Did I accidently send this during the hiatus or no? If so, I apologize...if not then apologies for cluttering up your ask box with my overthinking and I'll send you another...hopefully better request later!

hii!! noo,, I just didn't write it out since It didn't make much difference to the original one for me! and because I didn't really have much ideas with it. it's no worries!