commissions open babey

an attempt at a writing blog. original and fanworks included. writing suggestions or ideas always welcome. DNI if under 18, a TWEF/SWERF, or a blank blog.

[skooffuskaild]

hi

mónika/29/DNI if you're a minor or terf/swerf.

i no longer write HP fic

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fanfic / tom riddle 

(more tags will be added on later)

[moya-zaichik]

some more sketches inspired by the cinderella retelling i've been writing. when you change the color of the light, some of the inks from the pens i use turn invisible. science!

you can read the story on AO3

[moya-zaichik]

The Ugly Stepsister looks back at Ashwallower and gazes upon thousands of the most miserable pairs of eyes she’s ever seen.

i wrote a story, am writing a story. you should read it. it's about prince charming going crazy and pulling the ugly stepsister out of the story with him.

[skooffuskaild]

some art i drew for Like Clockwork. I stopped updated/uploading to tumblr because...laziness, maybe. but i still post to AO3, mostly.

[skooffuskaild]

something something, long time no see

[damnukids]

@shirtsthatgohard

[mothric]

ever have a blorbo live in your brain for so long they become their own blorbo variant that’s no longer fully attached to their source material and your original blorbo is still beloved and dear to you but now you also have a mutant blorbo clone who is dear to you in a different way? 

[prettyboykatsuki-moved]

“x reader is so cringe.” to YOU. im reading this shit and having a ball ‼️

[chickenparm]

[skooffuskaild]

curses

mild serpentine fanfiction, but mainly an exploration of whatever the fuck is going on with ximena and her family. think of it as a companion piece to serpentine, though I feel like I rambled for most of it.

-

Curses are contracts. There's requirements and clauses and fine print. Ways to complete the contract. Ways to break the contract. Violate it. Penalties for violating it.

Ximena finds it upsetting that she doesn't even know the rules of hers.

It can be summarized vaguely (badly): her memory is garbage. Thoughts do not hold in her head and memories fade away as easily as sand in the wind. It's a matter of amnesia. Of being foggy-headed. When people speak to her, she doesn't always notice. When she speaks to people, she doesn't always notice. Her body enjoys disconnected from her mind and going about its business while she's busy habitating that white fog that so plagues her.

She thinks maybe a part of the curse has to do with disconnection. From people. Society. She has no real desire to be a part of a community she does not like, but she knows that even if she tries it will bring...mixed results. People are just naturally...repellant towards her. She is something to be avoided. Studied. But not befriended. It used to bother her, when she was younger, but now she just accepts it as a truth: she's not friend material. Otherwise, wouldn't someone have come to claim her already?

Sometimes, she likes to fantasize about how different things would be (she would be) without her head being so...empty. Maybe she could be friendly. Remember all the names of all the people she meets and make them happy when she remembers them on sight. No distrust in her heart (in her instincts), and always a gentle smile on her face instead of the blank, bored look she carries that intimidates others.

And, of course, a family. Hers. She changes her mind day to day on whether or not her family is alive and misses her. Is out looking for her. Somedays, it is a comfort to have them alive, and others, it's tormenting. If they're alive, where are they? Why haven't they found her? Do they even want to?

Curses are contracts, but she doesn't remember ever signing anything. Perhaps, it would be better said that curses aren't contracts, they're...

But her brain can't come up with a suitable replacement.

[improveordie]

yes i abuse the symmetry tool

[lesmiserablol]

my dad is the funniest person in the world to make small talk with. we passed a taco bell and he was like “what’s your favorite thing to get there” and i said “the crunchwrap supreme” and he said “tell me about it” and i described it to him and he said “that sounds delicious. what’s your second favorite thing at taco bell”

[skooffuskaild]

Like Clockwork 6

read on AO3!

prev.

Prince Charming gets bored and changes the narrative. Then, he  goes a little mad about it. Yandere Prince Charming/Ugly Stepsister. Dark themes, dark comedy, stalking, manipulation, parody, mind games, Cinderella Critical, etc. Dead dove, do not eat. Minors DNI.

I deny

They hear about the ball from a town crier. A celebration of the Prince’s coming of age. That all are invited to the ball, regardless of class, creed, or circumstances. That all eligible maidens are required by order of the King to show up. 

Unspoken are the words the Prince shall choose a maiden to be his bride and future queen.

Her heart leaps into her throat.

“Oh Mother, this is perfect!” Her sister holds her hands to her chest, smiling brightly, “A party! There hasn’t been one in ages! All the nobles there, the dukes and earls and viscounts! And the Prince!”

The Prince.

She knows what he looks like, obviously. Of course. His photograph hangs in the household of many in the kingdom, alongside proper photographs of the king and queen. She wagers there are more of them in the country than there are Bibles.

But something about the image in her head, of the stalwart prince who looks more swashbuckling hero than nobleman, feels wrong. Like a lie. Like the illustrations of faeries that litter the pages.s of children’s books. Were his eyes always green?

“Stepsister!”

Ashwallower holds her by her armpits, strong from the years of housework, yet still small enough to stumble under her weight. Dizzy spell. Just a dizzy spell. It’s the heat. The humidity. It was just getting to her. Her corset is too tight. Her…

What was she thinking about?

Mother scolds her for making a scene once seeing her straighten out and stand on her own two feet. Nothing like this’s ever happened before, right? She would know, she would remember. Maybe that’s why Mother looked so panicked and her sister so confused.

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” She bats Ashwallower away, fanning herself with her hand and blinking away the faint feeling of nausea. “I think I just didn’t eat enough at breakfast.” Her appetite was nonexistent to her mother’s delight.

“Do not fall ill.” Mother points a finger at her, but not to her. “The first night of the grand ball is this Friday and you will both need to be there every night.” The older woman pauses but the two of them know better than to think it was time for them to speak.

“There’s no reason one of you shouldn’t catch the eye of the Prince.” A firm nod, as if reassuring herself. “With the other being made a maid in waiting, why–It’s perfect. You’ll arrange a fine match with a governor or baron, or better!”

The Ugly Stepsister draws her mouth into a thin line.

Perfect.

Her sister is walking with a sway, a hop, a happy little bounce. Humming under her breath (a song she’s never heard before, or at least, does not remember). Mother is striding forward with purpose, leading them both away from their original goal towards a dressmaker. Where were they going originally again? She cannot remember, when she tries, it just makes her head hurt.

The Ugly Stepsister looks up ahead to where her Mother leads them.

There’s no name of the tailor or seamster who owns it on the sign out front, merely the word DRESSMAKER in all capital letters. Regardless, it is the store with the most detail, the most color. The most attractive shop by miles, the others around it fading into the background like dissolved ink. When she tries to turn her head to look at them, she finds they don’t hold her attention for very long. Any details about the places float away. Don’t stick in her mind. Even the words on the signs aren’t legible. Or they aren’t words at all. Like trying to read in a dream. In all the dreams she’s ever had. About dancing. About a prince. About a lone slipper abandoned on the stairs.

She doesn’t like thinking about this. She focuses on the dress shop.

A little bell rings when they enter. There are rows upon rows of vibrant dresses on display in the latest fashions, leg of mutton sleeves! Evening gowns that show off the shoulders! Everything an elegant maiden could need and want to capture the heart of a man with power. A prince. 

Dark eyes haunted her dreams.

Despite this, only dred lies in her stomach. She watches her sister giggle and run her hands on the fabrics while Mother speaks with the owner. She watches her sister pick out the most tacky, garish, eclectic dresses that have ever existed (surely) and admire them as if they were the frocks of queens. She watches her pull out one that is the most peculiar shade. A most familiar hue. A most entrancing tone. Where has she seen that color before…?

She turns away, her head buzzing. No need to faint again, no need to cause a stir. No need to make Mother shout at her. Not again. She turns away and she watches her step-sister instead, by the windows where the sunlight spreads over her hair like a halo.

She watches Ashwallower shyly make her way toward a mannequin with a powder blue dress on display. It is the only blue dress in the entire store. How she knows this, she doesn’t know, but somehow watching Ashwallower yearn for the garment creates bile in her gut.

There’s an insult in her throat, ready to launch, but it dies before it can get out. Isn’t Ashwallower pitiful? Graceless and ugly and orphaned. Talentless and stupid and inferior. She can’t help it, one supposes. One is either born common or born like she and her sister. Born unlucky or great. How easily it could have been her in Ashwallower’s shoes. If it was her mother who died instead of Ashwallower’s. If the one who survived was her stepsister’s mother, the pale blonde woman she remembers seeing in portraits (before Mother had them all sold).

How easily it could have been Ashwallower calling her Cinderwench. Or any other number of insulting monikers. What sort of cruelty would that woman, that other mother, have brought onto her? Onto her sister?

In front of her, Ashwallower’s eyes water.

Fine, she won’t say anything. Mother will say it for her once she notices Ashwallower’s gaze. As if she would be allowed to come to the ball. The girl must be out of her mind! Even if she could find something that looks good on her figure, even if she could afford it, even if she finished all her chores, even if Mother allowed it. Even if she and her sister were capable of sharing the spotlight, even if she had a chance. All those cinders must have ended up in her brain because there is no way on this earth, in this life, under God’s eyes that Ashwallower will ever step foot in the palace.

…Odd. Why had she emphasized that sentiment so much?

[skooffuskaild]

i'm discontinuing serpentine. i can't. even if it was important to me, even if it would have been the first time i completed a long fic. i can't. i don't ever want to be a part of this fandom. or scene. or anything. joanne is a monster, i've hit my ultimate limit. i've already been wanting to turn it into something original, and the words have been flowing. the world building, the characterization, i'm happy. i'm out of a funk.

trans rights are human rights. the holocaust happened. NEVER AGAIN.

[skooffuskaild]

ok so since tumblr is just.....like that:

my pillowfort

and my cohost

i'll see what's up with these and will be posting my art and writing and yeah.

[nemfrog]

The butterflies of the British Isles. 1906. Cover detail.

Internet Archive

[taiyoufu-deactivated20230521]

This man can't be fixed. I can fuck him though. Maybe that will calm him down.

[mexicoayerhoyysiempre]

México (1940)

México, de mar a mar te viví, traspasado por tu férreo color, trepando montes sobre los que aparecen monasterios llenos de espinas, el ruido venenoso de la ciudad, los dientes solapados del pululante poetiso, y sobre las hojas de los muertos y las gradas que construyó el silencio irreductible, como muñones de un amor leproso, el esplendor mojado de las ruinas. Pero del acre campamento, huraño sudor, lanzas de granos amarillos, sube la agricultura colectiva repartiendo los panes de la patria. Otras veces calcáreas cordilleras interrumpieron mi camino, formas de los ametrallados ventisqueros que despedazan la corteza oscura de la piel mexicana, y los caballos que cruzan como el beso de la pólvora bajo las patriarcales arboledas. Aquellos que borraron bravamente la frontera del predio y entregaron la tierra conquistada por la sangre entre los olvidados herederos, también aquellos dedos dolorosos anudados al sur de las raíces la minuciosa máscara tejieron, poblaron de floral juguetería y de fuego textil el territorio. No supe qué amé más, si la excavada antigüedad de rostros que guardaron la intensidad de piedras implacables, o la rosa creciente, construida por una mano ayer ensangrentada. Y así de tierra a tierra fui tocando el barro americano, mi estatura, y subió por mis venas el olvido recostado en el tiempo, hasta que un día estremeció mi boca su lenguaje.

México (1940)  -  Pablo Neruda 

[macrolit]

Morning Worship and Other Poems, Mark Van Doren