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Nova you look so freaking cute!!!!

I was ummm not a happy child and as an adult I'm not as unhappy but still. So.

Open tag

Picrew tag game!- Create yourself now vs how you looked when you were a kid

Link

I was tagged by @cutebisexualmess for this but the chain was too long so I'm restarting!

If only that little girl could see me now (she'd probably think I was cool tbh)

uhm tagging: @b3achfagz (ik you dont do tag games so u can just ignore this but i though u might find it cool) @cassiecryptic @viktheviking1 @depressedgremlinbitch @ramencat12 @inkyslimee @the-horrifying-digital-circus @patipati @cute--thing @musicalsiphonophore @tastetherainbow290 @disenchantedwarlock @bookishcatcafe and anyone else who sees this and thinks it looks cool!!

#picrews #tagged #tagging games #img: picrew

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Baking: A short story

TWs: food mention, mentions of religious symbolism, mentions of killing, killers and crime.

---

The smell of brown sugar lingered in the air like a crime scene. Nothing that indicated chaos had ensued, nothing that could point out the strength of my arm as I had mixed eggs and flour, the angry tears that had threatened to drop into the dough and make it salty, a notion that would have only made me madder and angrier.

There was no flour scattered over the table, for I had already cleaned it up, and no butter on the counter softened and ready to be used as sacrifice anymore. My mother used to say that cleaning is almost as important as baking. Cleaning as one baked was another form of release, I found out. I also discovered in between the creativity of baking cookies, amid lemon pies with burnt merengue and in the heart of blueberry muffins, that baking meant order. It meant control. Something I desperately craved and looked for every time it escaped the reach of my fingers in an eternal chase.

When the victims of this therapeutic release finally left the oven (this time they were brownies, and the broken flaky surface with the rich and decadent look of the chocolate was containing my anger and frustration), I felt the knot inside my chest loosen up. I left the vessel of all my negative emotions over the kitchen counter, not even bothering to look at them except for stabbing the middle with a toothpick and seeing it come clean.

Baking felt like order and in some way, I was feeling a cold and detached stance, looking at my creation as it cooled as I think gods might look down on the mortals they create. It was also part of the baking process, the feeling of disgust after everything was over and done with, of repulsion at the idea of having twisted something so humanly sickening as anger was and transforming it into something sweet and sugary most people seemed to associate with happiness.

Someone would always eat these sacrifices. Someone would always thank me for bringing the cookies I made when I had failed an important test, the muffins I baked while I cried from the frustration and anger of fighting with my friends over a stupid thing. And I loved how easy it was for them to take the treats from my hands. How easy it was to get rid of my negative feelings and use it for something good.

I often wonder if baking while happy would make it all taste different. None of what I have made so far has tasted as bitter as I was, nothing has ever tasted disgusting and abhorrent, or, at least, no one had told me so already.

The story would never change, it was a cycle. I studied in class that serial killers had a small chunk of time between victims called the “cooling-off period”. They did not find another victim, not because they knew it was risky, but because they had the fantasy of the replayed murder to satisfy that craving. I did not bake senselessly, it would be a waste of ingredients and time.

Baking was a therapy I could never refuse to find myself without. To kneel at the altar of everything I believed tarnished my soul and change it for a time in the kitchen, for good smells and better tastes.

I looked at the brownies again, cooling off on the counter. Another victim of feelings so big they would weigh me down and make me choke.

#boop

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The Witch and the Beast | WIP Intro

Genre: fantasy retelling, romance, post-apocalyptic steampunk

Target: NA

Setting: our world, France; centuries in the future

POV: multi (mainly 2), 3rd person limited, past tense

Themes: family, guilt & forgiveness, trauma, oppression, power

Logline: In an attempt to save her father's life, 21-year-old Rosebelle offers herself as prisoner to the king of a forgotten realm, cursed to remain a half-human, half-wolf beast.

Literal logline: Disaster bisexual falls in love with sad wet dog (literally) while juggling his nosy siblings and practicing witchcraft.

Featuring: one-sided enemies to friends to lovers | Arabic bisexual FMC | mixed black-white family | siblings dynamics | vampires, werewolves & witches | Italian pirates | side f/f & m/m pairings

Inspiration: various iterations of Beauty and the Beast and other fairytales

CW: violence, gore, death, descriptions of corpses, blood drinking, trauma & depression, sexual harassment, self-hate & implied self-harm (no physical injuries)

Hi, folks! After ages, I'm finally introducing this project I've been mentioning for months! It really shouldn't have taken me this long to post this, but I'm a busy perfectionist.

The best way I can describe TWATB is if Once Upon a Time and The Vampire Diaries had a child. Hopefully a better written one. It's mainly a Beauty and the Beast retelling, but in book 1 you can see hints of other fairytale characters and, in book 2, all new characters come from different stories. Yes, it is a series, it seems I'm physically unable to write standalones.

Plot

After a nuclear war set technology back and filled Earth's atmosphere with gas clouds that black out the sun, vampires came out of the shadows and subjugated the humans.

Rosebelle Fortier wishes to escape the small French village where she lives, unable to pursue her thirst for knowledge and tormented by a vampire who wants to make her his. Ro's wish comes true with a catch when she offers herself as prisoner to a half-human, half-wolf Beast and his siblings to save her father's life.

Before he angered the wrong witch, Adam ruled the Kingdom of Alsace. Now, he's a monster trapped in his own castle and by a curse that will only break if he learns to love and be loved back. Time is ticking by and, even when a girl stumbles on his path, Adam knows there's no hope: no one will ever love a beast.

As a hidden threat forms, Ro and Adam must come into their own power and fall in love, all before time runs out.

Characters

(* means a character appears in book 2)

Rosebelle Fortier

she/her

the Beauty

bookworm with a thirst for knowledge

curiosity killed the cat etc. etc.

may or may not become a witch

disaster bisexual

Adam d'Alsace

he/him

the Beast

a literal sad wet dog

(he's a werewolf)

(he's also depressed)

currently stuck in a hybrid form

François Guérin

he/him

the Avenant/Gaston

nasty musty crusty dusty

old as fuck vampire

spends his days harassing Ro

Delphine d'Alsace

she/her

eldest sister syndrome

forever plagued by guilt

Ro & Adam's matchmaker

this || close to losing it at all times

Julien d'Alsace

he/him

wishes his family did something to fix the situation

be gay do crime

grumpy but there's no sunshine (yet)

perpetually on the verge of spilling all the tea to Ro

Véronique d'Alsace

she/her

moody teenager

trans & aromantic

wants to be left alone with her garden and books

she and Adam connect on a depression level

Charlotte d'Alsace

she/her

definitely undiagnosed ADHDer

aromantic

a ball of sunshine

loves running around the castle gardens in wolf form

Bianca Chen Hildebrandt*

she/her

the Snow White

princess of the Kingdom of Germany

lesbian

her stepmother turned her into a vampire against her will

is now leading a rebellion

Astrid Morgenstern*

she/her

the Sleeping Beauty

Bianca's loyal knight (in a totally heterosexual way)

pansexual

is currently. you guessed it. asleep

Sebastiano Falconieri*

he/him

the Captain Hook

unsurprisingly, a pirate

bisexual

Italian pride let's gooo

stuck on a magical prison island

Setting

Like I mentioned in the plot, TWATB is set in an unspecified future, after a nuclear war. As a consequence, the planet is cocooned by a thick cover of gas clouds that block all sunlight. Vampires, who had previously been considered a myth, came out of hiding and started ruling over the humans. Besides that unfortunate implication, lack of sunlight also means the climate is colder and living conditions are dire. The story is set in France, but now it looks like Siberia.

The war also set technology back a couple centuries, before the discovery of electricity. There's gas lamps, railroads (not many, because, y'know, lots of ice and snow), zeppelins. And, of course, I couldn't resist the steampunk/Victorian aesthetic.

But that's not all! Even though I'm not sure how much will come across in book 1, since it's set at the castle for 90% of the time, there's more to the setting than "steampunk but cold". I've built a vampire-centric society with its own rules and spent a bunch of time researching what effects the absence of direct sunlight would have, to make everything as realistic as possible.

This is all for now. Hope this "new" project piqued your interest!

— Rose

Taglist: (lmk to be added)

#i am om my knees begging to be slapped into that taglist rose #ON MY KNEES OH MY GOD

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first 5 faceless emojis are how your summers gonna go

#🍀💖✨👑🍫 #nicee

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Baking: A short story

TWs: food mention, mentions of religious symbolism, mentions of killing, killers and crime.

---

The smell of brown sugar lingered in the air like a crime scene. Nothing that indicated chaos had ensued, nothing that could point out the strength of my arm as I had mixed eggs and flour, the angry tears that had threatened to drop into the dough and make it salty, a notion that would have only made me madder and angrier.

There was no flour scattered over the table, for I had already cleaned it up, and no butter on the counter softened and ready to be used as sacrifice anymore. My mother used to say that cleaning is almost as important as baking. Cleaning as one baked was another form of release, I found out. I also discovered in between the creativity of baking cookies, amid lemon pies with burnt merengue and in the heart of blueberry muffins, that baking meant order. It meant control. Something I desperately craved and looked for every time it escaped the reach of my fingers in an eternal chase.

When the victims of this therapeutic release finally left the oven (this time they were brownies, and the broken flaky surface with the rich and decadent look of the chocolate was containing my anger and frustration), I felt the knot inside my chest loosen up. I left the vessel of all my negative emotions over the kitchen counter, not even bothering to look at them except for stabbing the middle with a toothpick and seeing it come clean.

Baking felt like order and in some way, I was feeling a cold and detached stance, looking at my creation as it cooled as I think gods might look down on the mortals they create. It was also part of the baking process, the feeling of disgust after everything was over and done with, of repulsion at the idea of having twisted something so humanly sickening as anger was and transforming it into something sweet and sugary most people seemed to associate with happiness.

Someone would always eat these sacrifices. Someone would always thank me for bringing the cookies I made when I had failed an important test, the muffins I baked while I cried from the frustration and anger of fighting with my friends over a stupid thing. And I loved how easy it was for them to take the treats from my hands. How easy it was to get rid of my negative feelings and use it for something good.

I often wonder if baking while happy would make it all taste different. None of what I have made so far has tasted as bitter as I was, nothing has ever tasted disgusting and abhorrent, or, at least, no one had told me so already.

The story would never change, it was a cycle. I studied in class that serial killers had a small chunk of time between victims called the “cooling-off period”. They did not find another victim, not because they knew it was risky, but because they had the fantasy of the replayed murder to satisfy that craving. I did not bake senselessly, it would be a waste of ingredients and time.

Baking was a therapy I could never refuse to find myself without. To kneel at the altar of everything I believed tarnished my soul and change it for a time in the kitchen, for good smells and better tastes.

I looked at the brownies again, cooling off on the counter. Another victim of feelings so big they would weigh me down and make me choke.

#boop

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ID in alt text

#THE ANAPHORA #THE ALLITERATION #honestly poems i would love to analyse as I did back in hs #other writers

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Baking: A short story

TWs: food mention, mentions of religious symbolism, mentions of killing, killers and crime.

---

The smell of brown sugar lingered in the air like a crime scene. Nothing that indicated chaos had ensued, nothing that could point out the strength of my arm as I had mixed eggs and flour, the angry tears that had threatened to drop into the dough and make it salty, a notion that would have only made me madder and angrier.

There was no flour scattered over the table, for I had already cleaned it up, and no butter on the counter softened and ready to be used as sacrifice anymore. My mother used to say that cleaning is almost as important as baking. Cleaning as one baked was another form of release, I found out. I also discovered in between the creativity of baking cookies, amid lemon pies with burnt merengue and in the heart of blueberry muffins, that baking meant order. It meant control. Something I desperately craved and looked for every time it escaped the reach of my fingers in an eternal chase.

When the victims of this therapeutic release finally left the oven (this time they were brownies, and the broken flaky surface with the rich and decadent look of the chocolate was containing my anger and frustration), I felt the knot inside my chest loosen up. I left the vessel of all my negative emotions over the kitchen counter, not even bothering to look at them except for stabbing the middle with a toothpick and seeing it come clean.

Baking felt like order and in some way, I was feeling a cold and detached stance, looking at my creation as it cooled as I think gods might look down on the mortals they create. It was also part of the baking process, the feeling of disgust after everything was over and done with, of repulsion at the idea of having twisted something so humanly sickening as anger was and transforming it into something sweet and sugary most people seemed to associate with happiness.

Someone would always eat these sacrifices. Someone would always thank me for bringing the cookies I made when I had failed an important test, the muffins I baked while I cried from the frustration and anger of fighting with my friends over a stupid thing. And I loved how easy it was for them to take the treats from my hands. How easy it was to get rid of my negative feelings and use it for something good.

I often wonder if baking while happy would make it all taste different. None of what I have made so far has tasted as bitter as I was, nothing has ever tasted disgusting and abhorrent, or, at least, no one had told me so already.

The story would never change, it was a cycle. I studied in class that serial killers had a small chunk of time between victims called the “cooling-off period”. They did not find another victim, not because they knew it was risky, but because they had the fantasy of the replayed murder to satisfy that craving. I did not bake senselessly, it would be a waste of ingredients and time.

Baking was a therapy I could never refuse to find myself without. To kneel at the altar of everything I believed tarnished my soul and change it for a time in the kitchen, for good smells and better tastes.

I looked at the brownies again, cooling off on the counter. Another victim of feelings so big they would weigh me down and make me choke.

#my writing #short story: baking #writing #am writing #writers of tumblr #writeblr #anywya have this after my radio silence rip

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wearing a white shirt wide leg jeans and leather jacket not in a basic way but in a distinctly dykefag way

#laugh right back bc how sad must you be to find funny someone being human

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Why is it that I sometimes struggle to get more than 300 words on paper some days, and then write a 2000 word backstory for my ffxiv character within the hour??

#what a question #every piece of writing from you is always welcomed #obviously

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"if you have time there's sth I want to talk to you about" texts should be illegal

thanks

#carmen.txt #not writing

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Tomorrow's my first day of internship and I am anxious about it heh

#not writing #its been... not sketchy but weird #the place my uni said it was the ngo apparently is not where it is #like faaaar from it #and nobody from there has contacted me #idk maybe is just me not liking not having control #but tomorrow im going on an adventure to reach this place and i dont even know if they expect me or not #kinda had a small panic moment there

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people who watch/have been exposed to social media lifestyle/makeup/fashion influencers (specifically youtube or another video-based platform): pls give me any ideas you have on how they format their videos.

i'm trying to write an influencer posting an unGRWM video update while accusing her (ex-)boyfriend of cheating and attacking the girl he 'cheated' with and am slowly realizing i don't actually know how a video like that would be formatted or the typical things that would be included.

#imo but take it with a grain of salt it could be either a really calm emotional serious video #or a completely unhinged raging one like that Matías Galetto one #either way id say there would be no flashy editing like sparkles or transitions #the serious one would be edited in the sense that thwy would take off the parts where she might be more emotional or not saying anything?? #the unhinged one is simply recorded and uploaded raw

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New OC Intro: Cardea

—A low-level Southern spy who defected to the North when she was caught

—She’s the head of Livia’s domestic spy ring. Known around the court as an invisible force who knows your secrets, she’s earned the nickname Mistress of Silence

—Her role as a spy is almost a secret identity, with no one knowing exactly who she is. She’s more effective that way

—This does mean she doesn’t have time for close relationships outside of her job

—She knows something about everyone, and if she doesn’t like you, she’ll find a reason

—She’s in love with Livia

#JOY HOW DO YOU MANAGE TO MAKE OCS AND MOODBOARDS SO WOW #mistress of silence is such a cool nickname ngl #also hiii how are you?? missed you<3

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Marble and Magic taglist! (ask to be +/-)

@enchanted-lightning-aes, @zonnemaagd, @alexwritesfiction, @euphoniouspandemonium, @fiercely-raging-writer, @dontcrywrite, @47crayons, @the-writing-moon, @writing-is-a-martial-art, @diphthongsfordays, @shamblingthing, @generalblizzarddreamer, @chayscribbles, @rose-bookblood

Hello again!

It's been.... wow a lot of time since I was last here, huh? I had finals sooo it's been a really difficult two months for me, but I'm back!

And not even empty-handed! Have some words from (yet another) AU of Marble and Magic because they have been rotting in my mind lately and I wanted to get back into writing!

Transcription under the cut!

Agatha looked quizzically at the vacant eyes of the statue before her. The young man sculpted looked as if frozen in time and space, his gesture… Off. Agatha was no expert in sculpting, but why would anyone depict someone who was supposed to exude confidence and regalness with a grimace of uncertainty? Of fear? He was supposed to be a crown prince after all.

Wouldn’t a marble statue of him atop a horse or something more chivalrous be more fitting?

The girl was about to inch closer, in a desperate attempt to satiate the nagging feeling on the back of her head telling her that there was something quite wrong with the statue, but steps coming her way at full speed made her stop.

“Ags, what are you doing?” Kit hissed, his breath labored as she was suddenly blinded by his flashlight. “If you want to visit this place, it is not the right time!”

Her best friend was not wrong, perhaps staring at the artwork of the museum they had just broken into for revenge was not, in fact, the brightest of ideas as of now.

The statue’s eyes stared back at her with a silent plea of sorrow and fear for one more second before she lowered her flashlight from its carved face and shook her head, trying to clear her mind. Not the time, not the time at all!

#taglist rb

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Hello again!

It's been.... wow a lot of time since I was last here, huh? I had finals sooo it's been a really difficult two months for me, but I'm back!

And not even empty-handed! Have some words from (yet another) AU of Marble and Magic because they have been rotting in my mind lately and I wanted to get back into writing!

Transcription under the cut!

Agatha looked quizzically at the vacant eyes of the statue before her. The young man sculpted looked as if frozen in time and space, his gesture… Off. Agatha was no expert in sculpting, but why would anyone depict someone who was supposed to exude confidence and regalness with a grimace of uncertainty? Of fear? He was supposed to be a crown prince after all.

Wouldn’t a marble statue of him atop a horse or something more chivalrous be more fitting?

The girl was about to inch closer, in a desperate attempt to satiate the nagging feeling on the back of her head telling her that there was something quite wrong with the statue, but steps coming her way at full speed made her stop.

“Ags, what are you doing?” Kit hissed, his breath labored as she was suddenly blinded by his flashlight. “If you want to visit this place, it is not the right time!”

Her best friend was not wrong, perhaps staring at the artwork of the museum they had just broken into for revenge was not, in fact, the brightest of ideas as of now.

The statue’s eyes stared back at her with a silent plea of sorrow and fear for one more second before she lowered her flashlight from its carved face and shook her head, trying to clear her mind. Not the time, not the time at all!

#wip: m&m #wip: marble and magic #i'm back for good this time!! #and i passed all my seven finals! #and I got an internship! #it's been all crazy honestly

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Thank you so much Nova!!! you look great!

I'm leaving this tag open since I am not on Tumblr so much atm hehe so hop in!!!

Hopping on the open tag from @jezifster to make myself in this picrew. Also hope you're doing well jezifster!

I tag: @fearofahumanplanet @outpost51 @liv-is @the-void-writes @aether-wasteland-s @cryptid-s-wips (Only if you want of course! Open tag too!)

#tag games #tagged #not writing #picrew

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I’m curious, you guys tell me how you distinguish between your two sets of grandparents when speaking (or how you did it as a kid). Was it always Grandma [Lastname] or Grandpa [Firstname], or did one or both sets of grandparents have nicknames? (Like Nana or Papa.)

#my mother's father passed before i was born so thats there haha she was 20 soooo not a chance #my father's father passed when i was in second grade sooo there's another #my mother's mother was grandma bc she raised my sister and i up until i was 12 #my father's mother is the only one left now so i guess she is grandma